In the Library
It’s a few days before he slips out of bed again. He has a destination this time. Aimlessly searching had proved pointless. He could always write home asking for specifics, but one doesn't simply write to the Dark Lord and Regulus would rather chew off his own arm than reach out to his mother voluntarily. So he, naturally, goes to the library.
The door squeaks as he enters, but years of Grimmauld Place’s loud staircases have taught Regulus how to move silently. He creeps over to the library catalog as quietly as possible. He begins to flip through it, searching for... something. Anything relevant, really. Eventually, he finds it. “The Dungeons and Chambers of Hogwarts'' by Bartholemew Hoggins. Regulus rereads the title once, then closes the catalog. The book is in the restricted section. Regulus can guess why.
When he’s successfully unlocked the gate, Regulus creeps in. The shelves of the restricted section tower above him, like a dusty maze. He crosses, scanning for authors' names that begin with H. He thinks he hears a sound from a few stacks over, but dismisses it. All sorts of things live in these shelves.
When he finally finds the book, he pulls it out and examines it. The cover’s dark and musty and he has to blow the dust off to read the words. He opens it, flipping through until he finds what he was looking for. A chapter titled: “The Chamber, Hogwarts Deadliest Secret.”
He sighs.
Regulus scans the page quickly. It says nothing about where the chamber’s located, but it does contain a list of all the beasts that it’s been theorized to contain. Regulus glances over the list quickly, cross checking with what little information the Dark Lord has given him. The beast he’s looking for has fangs. That’s his only clue, really. Unfortunately- or fortunately, depending on how you look at it- that makes it quite a short process. Trolls don’t have fangs, nor do ghouls, so that leaves… basilisks.
Regulus can’t help the small rueful smile that makes its way onto his lips. Of course. He should’ve assumed. That was why the task was assigned to Regulus, instead of another like Mulciber or Barty. The Dark Lord needed a Parselmouth, someone who could talk to the snake itself. It’s a shame though- he knows nothing about basilisks. At least he’s in a library. He creeps towards the section on magical beasts, then pauses.
There’s that sound again. A small creak, a huff of breath. Regulus tucks the book under his arm and moves forward, slowly peeking around the corner.
There, scanning the shelves, is Remus Lupin.
The majority of his body’s invisible, only his head and arms and a little bit of his chest peaking out. It had to have been the invisibility cloak from last night, Regulus thinks. He should probably make his exit now. But he's... curious. Lupin’s eyebrows are furrowed as he reads over the titles. Regulus watches as he pulls a book from the shelves, carefully glancing around. Lupin opens the book to the table of contents, scanning quickly. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he flips through it until it opened to the right page.
Immediately, a loud howl rings out from the book. More human than wolf, but more savage than a dog. It’s obnoxiously loud, splitting Regulus’s ears. Lupin panics, dropping the book quickly. Regulus waits for Lupin to do something, anything, but the other boy's frozen, staring at the book like he’s seen a ghost. Regulus grits his teeth. His cover could be blown. Unlike Lupin, he doesn’t have a magical cloak he can hide under. He ducks out from behind his stack, pulling out his wand.
“Silencio!” He sends the spell at the book, effectively shutting it up. Lupin glances up, surprised.
“What were you thinking?” Regulus hisses, crossing the floor. “Why didn’t you do anything?”
Lupin scrambles to scoop up the book from the floor. “I- I panicked- I don’t- I didn’t know it would do that-”
“Obviously. What are you doing here?” Regulus whispers. Lupin swallows, grip tightening on his cloak. Regulus cocks his head.
“Does my brother just let everyone use that thing?”
Lupin blinks. “This isn’t Sirius’, it’s James’. And yes, we all use it.”
Regulus raises his eyebrows. “That’s Potter’s? How did he manage to get his hands on that?”
Lupin looks him over and then glances around, seeming to remember where they were. “I- wait. Why are you here? I could report you for this.”
Oh. Right. Lupin was a prefect this year. “And I could tell them I was going to the bathroom and heard a noise, awfully similar to a howl, and just felt the need to check it out.”
“They wouldn’t believe you. I’m a prefect.”
"Yeah, we'll see." Regulus turns and shoves the book that had been under his arm into a random place on the shelf. Shit. His hand is shaking again. It’s been doing this on and off for the past week. He’s hardly been able to get through a full scale on his violin. He can practically see the fine white powder under his nails. The adrenaline rush from Lupin and the book had started it off again. Regulus can hear his mother’s voice, hissing at him to get it under control. He clenches his hand into a fist at his side until it goes still. Better. Now, he needs Lupin to leave. But when he glances up, the older boy’s staring at him. Or, more accurately, staring at his hand. He’d noticed.
Regulus sends him a sidelong glance. “Do you need something?”
Lupin's gaze sharpens, almost imperceptibly. “Sirius’s hand used to do the same thing. After- After he went home.” Regulus keeps his face neutral, careful. Bored. Lupin swallows. “If you needed- I mean- he might…”
This is not a conversation Regulus wants to be having. At all. Even a little. “What makes you think I need anything from him?”
Lupin narrows his eyes. “I’ve seen Sirius’s scars.”
Regulus gut twists. “I’m not Sirius.” He turns away. I know how to keep my mouth shut.
“No. No, you definitely aren't.”
Regulus can feel Lupin's eyes on his back. It makes him deeply uncomfortable. He doesn’t need his pity. Doesn’t want it. It feels itchy on his skin, like a suffocating blanket he needs to throw off and cast aside. He needs it gone. You don't know me, he wants to snap. You have no idea what you're talking about.
“What book is that?” Regulus says instead, pointing at the book on the floor. He bends down and scoops it up before Lupin can answer, running his eyes over the page. Understanding Werewolves is scrolled across the top. That explained the howls. Something catches in his mind, an inconsistency, a question- but he dismisses it. He’ll worry about Lupin’s secrets later. He flips the book closed, reading the cover. Werewolves, Basilisks, Ghouls, and Other Creatures of the Night by Romaniah Bettrude. His breath stutters. It's exactly what he’d been looking for; and it was practically handed to him. Maybe his luck was turning around. He doesn't bother looking at Lupin. “I need this.”
Lupin watches him cautiously. “So do I. Besides, you can’t leave with it. The second you leave the restricted section with a book that hasn’t been checked out for you, alarms will sound and Filch will be notified.”
There were two options, then. He could leave the book here, try his best to find a teacher signature the next day, and come back. There were a few issues with that plan. Namely Lupin, who as a prefect didn’t need a teacher’s signature and would most likely just leave with the book as soon as Regulus left. Of course that begged the question: what was Lupin doing sneaking around in the middle of the night looking at a book he could easily check out the next day? Either way, that just left option two.
Regulus sighs and promptly sits down, crossing his legs in front of him and leaning against the shelves. Lupin stares at him a moment, then proceeds to sink down across from him. “What are you doing?”
Regulus ignores him, flipping through the book till he gets to the chapter on Basilisks. He pauses. This was odd. All the words on the page have been scribbled out, harsh jagged black lines tearing through the sentences. It’s unreadable. The only thing left untouched is a drawing of the basilisk in the center, coiling and writhing on the page. Its mouth is open, but no sounds are coming out. Regulus frowns. Right- the silencing charm. He glances around, trying to judge how loud the basilisk's hiss would be. Do basilisks even hiss? Do they scream? He actually doesn’t know. But being a parselmouth has to count for something. On the off chance he can understand the ugly snake, he has to try. Then there was the matter of Lupin, who was leaning forward a bit to see the book.
“I don’t suppose I could make you leave.” Regulus asks, already resigned.
“Nope.”
Regulus studies him. “Do my brother and your friends know you’re here?”
Lupin pinks a bit. “They- they wouldn’t mind, but… no.”
Regulus nods. “So why then?"
“I- I was just doing research for some– you know what? I should be asking you the same thing.”
“Okay, so we don’t ask each other questions.”
Lupin eyes him suspiciously. “…Okay?”
“And we don't speak of this. To anyone.”
"I don't like keeping secrets."
Regulus wants to roll his eyes. "If that was true, you wouldn't be here at two am."
Lupin considers him for a moment, then nods. “Fine. No questions, and I won’t tell.”
That isn’t good enough. It might've been, and for anyone else it probably was, but Regulus is a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. He doesn't come with trust built in. He pulls out his wand, pointing it at Remus. “Nonloqui.”
Remus shoves himself away from Regulus, clutching his throat. “What the fuck was that?” He gasps.
Regulus puts his wand away. “Just needed to be sure.”
“Did you just bloody curse me?”
“It shouldn't hurt.”
“What the fuck Regulus? What was that?” Lupin rubs his neck, eyes wide.
Regulus ignores him, turning back to the book. Quickly, before he can regret it and before Lupin can interject, he withdraws the silencing charm. Immediately, hissing fills the air. It’s soft and just loud enough to be clearly heard. Just loud enough to be understood.
Find me, the basilisk was hissing. Its words coil around Regulus’s brain. It's different then when he’s heard the Dark Lord speak in parseltongue. This was more… natural. Less clinical and practiced.
Regulus sends one final glance up at Lupin who's staring at the book. He might not trust him, but he trusts himself. He trusts his spell to hold. Lupin wouldn’t say anything even if he wanted to.
Where? Regulus speaks back, quietly as possible. Where are you hidden?
Across from him, Lupin rears back as if he’d been burned. He stares at Regulus in shock. Regulus pointedly does not meet his gaze, focusing on the basilisk in front of him.
In the chamber, underground. I need to eat. I need to breathe.
Regulus pauses before he remembers Lupin can't understand him. He can ask for specifics.
Where’s the chamber?
Beneath the pipes. Where the girl rests. I killed her quickly. Find me. I’ll make your death just as quick.
Regulus swallows. What does beneath the pipes mean? Where is that?
The basilisk coils around the page. Water. Gushes. My friend, my boy, he says third sink from the door.
So a bathroom then. Ok. But the basilisk isn't done.
Only the heir. Only my master's heir can find me.
Right. Salazar's heir. The Salazars, later the Gaunts, had gotten tangled up somewhere along the line with the Blacks. That's what Regulus assumed anyway. He’d asked the Dark Lord, once. Why he was the one that could open the chamber, why it was him alone that could talk to snakes. The Dark Lord had snapped at him for his unwarranted curiosity, and his mother had taken him home and spoken to him about his insolence. He hadn’t asked again.
I’ll find you. He hisses to the snake on the page. He instantly feels a bit sheepish. The basilisk in front of him isn't the one he's looking for.
He shuts the book, holding it out to Lupin, who's still staring at him. Regulus’s hand is shaking again. “All yours,” he mutters, but his voice is slightly crackly.
“You’re a parselmouth.”
Regulus says nothing.
“Does Sirius know?”
Sirius did in fact know. They’d found out when they were kids, staring at their front door. Their mother had locked them out for the night after Regulus had forgotten to tidy under his bed and Sirius had trashed his own room in solidarity. The metal snakes that were coiled around the handles to their homes were starting to stir. They only moved at night, only when watched. Now they were tightly wrapped around both handles, locking both the brothers out.
Sirius had been angry, banging on the snakes with both fists. Regulus had been close to tears, practically begging the doors to open. And then, miraculously, one of his pleas seemed to get through. The snake paused, and Regulus repeated whatever he’d just said. When the snakes obeyed and slithered back, unlocking the door, Regulus had felt a rush of unknown power flow through him. For the first time in his life, someone had listened to him. Had followed his directions.
After that, Sirius had drifted a little further away, the gap between them growing a bit more. Regulus had assumed he was angry, maybe jealous that for once Regulus had been the one to get them out of trouble instead of him. Then Regulus confronted him about it. “You looked like them, Reg.” Sirius had whispered sadly. “You looked exactly like the rest of them.”
Here, in the library, he just shrugs.
“Does Dumbledore know?”
“Does it matter?”
“What did it say? What did you say?”
“I thought we’d agreed no questions.”
“Just one more. What the fuck did you curse me with?”
Regulus says nothing, flipping the book open quickly till he finds the page Lupin had been on. Immediately howls filled the air, loud and demanding and terrifying. Lupin shoves himself away from the book as if he’s been punched, but Regulus leans over and calmly places it on the other boy's lap. He stands up quickly, nods to the terrified Lupin, and leaves the library. He can still hear the howling as he shuts the door behind him.
---
When he slips back into the common room that night, Dorcas is waiting. She's sitting in one of the green stuffed arm chairs in front of the fire, reading. She looks up when he enters.
“Reg?”
“Dorcas.”
“Where’d you go?”
He doesn't look at her. “Out for a walk.”
She sighs. Closes her book. “You know, at first, I thought Pandora was being… well, Pandora. She kept insisting that you were different this year. None of us really believed her. But I was thinking about it, and she might be right. You do seem… a bit off, Reg.”
“What does that mean?”
Dorcas looks up at him. She, too, understood. No extra emotions, no sappy sugar coating. She knew when not to press a point. “Nothing. If you need help, I’m here. You know that. If you need help and don’t want it, I wish you the best. If you don’t need help at all, carry on.”
He stares at her for a moment, a rush of gratitude flashing through him. Two offers of help in one night, he thinks. Must be some kind of record. But this one didn’t make him want to peel his skin off. He likes this one better.
He offers her a small nod, walking past. “Night, Cas. See you tomorrow. Get some sleep.” He leaves her by the fire, and goes to bed.
---
The next day, at breakfast, Barty sits himself next to Regulus with a newspaper in his hand. “Are you seeing this?” He asks in a lowered voice. Regulus glances over. Death Eaters poisons 10 Muggles on Street Corner, all in St. Mungos For Treatment. In the picture, the dark mark blazes high above the scene. Regulus closes his eyes for a moment. He keeps reading.
All muggles were found to have an unidentified substance in their lungs, says investigating Auror. A gas released in the vicinity, likely a Death Eater product. All victims are in comas at St. Mungos hospital. Experts are working on waking them up, but so far there’s been no successes.
Regulus doesn’t need to read anymore.
He looks up, across the hall. Lupin, Potter, and Sirius are all crowded over the newspaper, no doubt reading the same article. There's no air of hushed excitement emanating from them as there is from most of the Slytherins. At the Gryffindor table, faces are solemn and words are exchanged in serious whispers.
For some unattainable reason, Potter looks up and locks eyes with Regulus. His expression remains neutral, but Regulus can see the quiet fury blazing behind his eyes. Regulus looks away first, ignoring the roiling feeling in his stomach.
He gets up quickly, ignoring Evan and Barty’s questions. He walks out as quickly as possible, trying to clear his mind. He can feel himself spiraling, circling closer and closer to a cliff he's bound to fall off. He needs to get somewhere private before he does.
The newspaper's still clutched in his fist. He doesn’t allow himself to run as he leaves. He keeps his paces long, efficient, but steady. He finds an alcove, the closest one, and sinks down behind the statue inside it.
He lets himself fall off the cliff.
Regulus bends over slightly, trying to steady his frantic breaths. The realization, the guilt, is curling around his stomach. He wants to gag.
Of course, he knew this was going to happen. He knows who did it. Rabastian and Dolohov had planned it in his kitchen over a cup of tea. Rabastian had taken his black with two sugars.
Regulus made the gas that did it in the basement below them.
At first, he didn’t know what it was going to be used for. The Dark Lord had stormed in one day, requesting a private word with Regulus. They’d met in his potion lab, the house above them eerily quiet. Regulus had waited behind the table, eyes fixed on the Dark Lord on the other side of the room. He could feel each heartbeat. He didn’t speak.
“I need a sleep potion. In a large quantity.”
Regulus nodded. He could do that. “Of course.” He reached for the ingredients.
“I need you to add powdered wormwood.”
Regulus’s hand stilled. “That would- that would be deadly to the drinker.”
“Add a large amount, then.”
“My Lord… a single taste and you’d never wake up.” Everything in Regulus was tight, coiled, ready to run.
“Good. Is there anything else you need… clarified ?”
“No. Of course not.”
Regulus went through the motions of the sleeping potion, pulling a few sprigs of lavender right off the plant. He dropped in the flobberworm mucus, heating the cauldron gently. He grabbed the bottle of crushed Valerian from the shelf, measuring and then adding.
He stirred, once, twice, seven times.
He paused, unable to look away from the swirling potion. He could feel the Dark Lord's eyes on him. There was no point asking what the potion would be used for- there was no question there. But he couldn’t help wondering why. Why a sleeping potion? Why not a draught of living death?
He didn’t risk asking.
When he found the small box labeled as wormwood, he glanced up. “My Lord… even inhaling this can be dangerous. Do you have anything to breathe through?”
The Dark Lord retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully held it to his face, his eyes never leaving Regulus.
Regulus reached down and from under the table he pulled out a black mask and slipped it on. Just the smell of the wormwood made his eyes water as he pulled out the root and started to grind it in his mortar and pestle.
He wondered why the Dark Lord didn't just make him go out there and use Avada on who ever the potion was for. He wondered if that would relive some of the guilt, or make it worse.
With each circle of the pestle against the fraying root, he felt this was different. The killing curse was one word, one quick spell that took a persons life instantly. But this was a series of steps, each one intentional. With each addition he knew what he was doing. What the potion would be used for. And the quantity… he was condemning an unknown number of people to their deaths with each counterclockwise motion.
Because that was the thing. Regulus never cared about blood supremacy. He never cared about purebloods or muggles, or winning a made up war. He cared about surviving, about breathing, about staying afloat. He’d vowed a long time ago that he’d do anything he had to to make it out alive. That didn’t save him from having a conscience.
Staying alive was the sentiment he focused on as he raised the mortar, tipping its powdery contents into his palm. He lifted it over the dark potion, hesitating. Regulus glanced up. The Dark Lord nodded, raising his eyebrows. Regulus could feel the water rising in his lungs.
Just stay alive.
So Regulus opened his hand, watching as the powder instantly dissolved in the swirling liquid. He stopped before all the powder was gone, keeping his hand tilted away from the Dark Lord. He tried not to choke on the betrayal. He’d added just enough. Just enough to not be a regular sleeping draught, just enough to hurt.
Desperately, violently, he hoped it wasn’t enough to kill.
He made a show of wiping his hands off behind the table, thanking Merlin that the Dark Lord couldn’t see the excess powder dusting the floor at his feet. He stirred the potion two more times, then poured it into a large jar. He capped it, nearly numb, then crossed the room and handed it to the Dark Lord. He followed him up the stairs, sat himself at the kitchen table. Watched as Dolohov and Rabastian picked out a date. A street. He kept his hands clasped in his lap.
He ignored the white powder beneath his fingernails.
Here, in the alcove behind the statue, Regulus wants to pull those fingernails off. He bites his lip, desperately trying to focus on the words in front of him.
He understands now why the Dark Lord had wanted a sleeping draught and not a draught of death. It made sense. You couldn’t put the draught of death into a gaseous form. It would crystallize before it would vaporize. But a sleeping draught… well.
Regulus can feel the water rising again. He’d assumed the Dark Lord would only give the potion to two people, maybe three, but ten? That’s ten that might not wake up.
Because of Regulus. He almost laughs. What would Sirius think?
He didn’t have a choice, he reminds himself. He had to stay alive. Still does, actually. Still has to learn how to swim. So no, this wasn’t his fault. Those children no longer have mothers and fathers not because of him, but because they were at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was blameless.
So why can he still feel the powder under his nails?
Regulus resists the urge to scream, instead pressing a hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut. His chest shudders. He can’t breathe- at all. How can he when the water in his lungs is starting to crawl up his throat?
All muggles were reported to have damaged brain tissue from the inhaled gas. It’s believed powdered wormwood has had widespread damaging effects, including on the lungs and brain stems. Healers are working on a remedy, but so far there have been no breakthroughs.
The words swim up at him from the page, and something inside Regulus breaks.
He leans forward, scrubbing at his fingers furiously. He digs his nails into his cuticles, scrabbling at his nail beds. Rubbing his fingers against his trousers, desperately trying to get the powder off. Maybe, if he can just get it off- get it all off- he can find a way to sew himself back together. Maybe if he can contain the guilt, trap it inside himself, he won’t feel like he’s splitting at the seams.
He digs into his fingertips, trying to get everything under his nails out. A drop of blood lands on the paper beneath him. Two, three more drops join it. Oh well. What's a few drops of blood to someone who’s already choking on it? Covered in it?
Then someone’s grabbing at his wrists, wrenching his hands apart. He struggles for a second, eyes snapping open. Why are they stopping him? What they don’t understand?
And then his eyes meet someone else’s. Dark as chocolate, long black lashes. Gentle and full of concern. Glasses that glint slightly in the light.
Fuck.
Not him.
Regulus yanks his wrists out of Potter’s grasp, shoving himself away from him. “Get out,” he spits. He puts as much violence as he can fit into the words. He feels concerningly feral. Potter doesn’t blink.
“Stop- stop. What are you doing? Regulus? Regulus- can you just- you need to breathe.” James's crouching, watching him with wide eyes. His eyes flick to the newspaper, the drops of blood. Regulus wants to crawl out of his skin.
"Leave.”
Potter clicks his tongue, still watching him. “Nicely,” he chides.
And- what the fuck? What the actual fuck?
For a moment, Regulus can’t respond, truly at a loss for words. James doesn’t seem to have that problem.
“What are you doing Regulus?”
Regulus thinks about just walking out. He’s actually considering it when he decides that his legs wouldn’t be able to carry him.
“I need you to… look at me, or talk to me, or tell me what's happening.” James looks consternated, glancing between the paper and Regulus’s bloody hands. “I don’t understand.”
Regulus keeps his voice cold and as face expressionless as he can manage. “Fuck off, Potter.”
For some unattainable reason, James’s eyes soften. “I’m trying to bloody help, you ungrateful prick.”
Regulus begins to dig at his nail beds again. If he can get the powder out before James notices, maybe he won’t tell Sirius. Regulus can still deal with this. He’s not helpless. He just needs to get his fingers clean.
“Regulus! Stop.” Again, James grabbed his hands, pulling them apart. Regulus hisses a curse instinctively, watching numbly as James releases his hands like he’d been shocked. “Fuck! Did you just curse me?”
He should probably stop cursing Sirius's friends.
Regulus glares at him. “What are you doing here, Potter?” He tucks his hands under his legs. If he can’t clean them, he’ll keep them hidden.
James glares right on back. “I saw you fucking gloating over that article in the great hall, and then you left and I- I don’t know. I followed. I wanted to confront you, or something. I was angry.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Then I found you, here. And you didn’t look like you were in the mood for confrontation.”
Regulus considers that. “What were you going to do when you found me? Punch me? Curse me?”
“I- maybe.” James looks sheepish. “I didn’t think about it.”
“I know thinking can be hard for you.”
“Fuck off. You’re getting me sidetracked.” James looks down at him with a slight frown. Regulus hates him. “What are you doing, Reg?”
“Regulus. Or Black.”
“Regulus. What are you doing, Regulus?”
Regulus stares back. With James here, he can shove down the water in his chest. He can take some breaths. He can compartmentalize, try to focus. His hatred serves as a nice beacon, guiding him straight to the older boy. He says nothing, trying to fit years of resentment into a single stare. He keeps the rest of his face cold and neutral. Potter has seen enough of his emotions for a lifetime.
“Did you… did your family have something to do with this?” James points at the newspaper. Regulus wants to be sick.
“What makes you think they did?”
“You read the article, leave the great hall with said article, then have a breakdown behind a statue in the hallway. But I don’t know any Slytherin that would have that kind of reaction to such a… happy event. You don’t seem as thrilled as the rest of your house.”
Regulus considers killing himself. Right here, right now. He shuts his eyes instead. “The bell’s going to ring soon. You should get to class.”
James sighs. “Are you always this rude to people trying to help?”
Yes. Maybe. To you.
“Help?” Regulus says instead. “You just came in here, intending to punch me, and accused me of… I don’t know, murdering ten people?”
“They aren’t dead-”
“They might as well be.”
“-and anyway, that's not right. I came in here and tried to stop you from hurting yourself. Because I don’t know what was happening but that wasn’t- that wasn’t good. I wanted to make sure you were ok.”
“Why?”
“Why? You’re Sirius’s little brother.”
“Am I?” Regulus watches as James pauses at that, obviously taken aback.
“I- yes. You are.”
“Maybe tell him that.”
“Regulus-” The bell cuts James off, and Regulus has never been more glad.
He raises a brow at James. “Best get going.”
James gets to his feet. He looks visibly frustrated at having to leave Regulus alone again. “Just don’t- just. I don’t know. Nevermind. Be careful.”
Regulus watches him, still on the floor. He says nothing. He waits till James leaves before he starts to crumble.