The Beach
“This doesn’t feel like the right way,” Snape hisses, practically melting into the wall of the alley as a haggard looking witch passes by.
Regulus swallows, doing his best not to meet her eyes as she stares them down. “The specialist should be right down here.”
“Can we hurry up, then?” Snape shifts, pushing away from the wall.
Regulus nods. Knockturn Alley was no good on the best of days, but in the middle of this abysmal rain it looks like something straight out of a horror story. “Come on.”
They make their way down the cobbled streets, ducking around blankets layed out on the ground and carts filled with mystery merchandise. Regulus somehow manages to step on two lumps that turn out to be people asleep under rags, and Snape has to keep dodging the attempts of women who melt out of the shadows to smile coyly and tug on his arm. By the time they reach the address on the little piece of paper Bellatrix gave them, they’re both ready to go home.
“Just knock,” Regulus whispers, staring at the old wood door.
“Why me?”
“I went first last time.”
“Last time? As in the shack? When you immediately collapsed upon touching the door?”
“Exactly,” Regulus says, taking a step back. “I have a bad track record with doors. It’s your turn.”
Snape rolls his eyes but steps forward, glancing back at Regulus hesitantly before raising his fist and knocking.
Immediately a brass plate in the middle of the door slides to the left, revealing a pair of sharp yellow eyes. They peer out, flicking between Regulus and Snape. “Who are you?” The woman rasps, voice like gravel scraping on pavement.
Regulus steps forward, elbowing Snape and rolling up his sleeve. Snape does the same next to him. “We have business,” Regulus says cooly. “I advise you let us in.”
The eyes flick down to examine the marks on their arms before the lock clicks and the door swings open. The woman waits on the other side, slightly hunched over as if her spine never quite learned how to stand up right. His long black hair hangs down around her shoulders, matching the faint mustache that seems to dust her upper lip. “What do you want?”
Snape clears his throat. “We have orders from the Dark Lord. We require your expertise.”
“I got no warning you were coming,” The woman grouses.
“We are the warning,” Regulus says and pushes forward, crossing the threshold into her home. “Are you Antha Howler?”
She eyes them suspiciously, shuffling back to make room. “...Yes. Who’s asking?”
Snape shrugs and lifts his forearm again. “I thought we told you.”
“What d’ya want from me? I didn’t do anything.”
Regulus stares at her, reaching into his bag and pulling out a fang. “We heard you might be able to extract the poison from this.”
The woman shuffles forward, yellow eyes fixing on the tooth in his hand. “Is that what I think it is? Where the hell did you get a Basilisk fang?”
Snape ignores her. “Can you or can’t you? The Dark Lord says it's urgent.”
She tucks her hair behind her ears. “What do I get for my trouble?”
“You wake up tomorrow,” Snape sneers. “Now do what we ask.”
“Fine.” She reaches out thin fingers for the fang in Regulus’s hand. He instantly takes a few steps back. He’s never let anyone else touch any of the fangs- he felt slightly territorial simply showing Snape. He supposes, though, he might have to make an exception this time.
Cautiously he hands the fang to her, narrowing his eyes when she snatches it greedily. “Careful. There aren’t too many of those floating around.”
“You must think I’m new at this,” Antha hums, scurrying back into the rowhouse. Regulus and Snape exchange a glance before following her through the thin hallway into what looks like an apothecary. Dried herbs hang in bundles from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the warm steam rising from the bubbling cauldrons under them. She sets the fang down on her main table and shuffles around the room, gathering materials and mumbling to herself.
“How long have you been doing this?” Snape asks from the doorway.
“Seventy years, give or take,” she mutters. Regulus blinks in surprise- she doesn't look a day over fifty. That being said, he imagines the talents needed for alchemy lend themselves well to youth potions. “I’d offer you tea,” She starts. When it becomes clear she isn’t going to finish, Regulus sighs.
“Can you at least describe your process?”
She chuckles lightly. “I suppose the Dark Lord would much prefer his personal cronies have the skills to do this themselves rather than seek outside talent. Well. I charge extra for teaching.”
“Good thing you aren’t charging a cent, then, isn’t it?” Regulus grits.
“Fine.” She sends him a shooting glare across the room before lifting the fang and crossing to one of the boiling cauldrons and lowering it in.
“What is that?” Snape asks, leaning forward with interest. “What kind of broth?”
She smirks. “Water.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Why?”
“I need to melt the acid inside the bone. Otherwise I’d be extracting power.”
Regulus remembers wormwood, white and crystallized, sticking beneath his fingers. He shudders a little, imagining how destructive Basilisk venom in that form would be. How deadly. “Maybe a good idea,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
“I can’t over-boil it, of course,” Antha adds conversationally. “The fumes would kill us all instantly.”
Both Regulus and Snape take a step back instantly. “Oh,” Snape says again.
She chuckles at their expressions, poking at the fang with a spoon. “Well. Really it would take around five minutes. We’d have some time.”
“Enough to make a cure?”
“Oh, no. Our limbs would give up about two minutes in. Besides, there is no cure. You of all people should know that.”
Regulus raises a brow. “Me of all people?”
“You brought this here- and judging by the way you flinched when I reached for it, you obviously know how valuable it is. You seem like the type to do your research.”
“I was wondering if you’d discovered something in your time as an alchemist.”
She shrugs. “I know very little about basilisks.”
When Regulus takes an instinctual step forward, ready to stop her, she looks up and laughs. “I know enough to do this. Relax.”
Snape gives him a long look. “It’ll be fine. One day you’ll have to tell me where you got them.”
“No.”
“Regu-”
“Don’t.”
Antha fishes the fang out with some wooden tongs, tapping it lightly and hissing through her teeth. “About ready,” She mutters, turning to them. “You don’t happen to have the right knife on ya? I have one, but I’m worried it’ll chip the bone.”
“No-” Snape starts at the same time Regulus says “yes,” and reaches into his pocket.
He ignores the expression on Snape’s face and hands the witch the small knife his mother gave him, doing his best not to look at it. “I brought it just in case you weren't prepared.”
She rolls her eyes but takes it just the same, tutting and turning back to the fang. “Forgive me if I wasn’t exactly given prior notice.” She flicks open the blade, humming appreciatively. “Sharp. Wow.” She scratches at the metal with a too-long fingernail, raising a brow. “Still bloody, eh? Never bothered to clean it after your last kill?”
Truthfully, Regulus hadn’t even bothered to look at it before he’d tossed it in his trunk and done his best to forget the whole affair. “I guess not.”
She mutters something he can’t hear and places the blade against the tip of the fang, baring down. The bone parts beneath the tip of the knife, maulable and soft to a metal so sharp.
“Boy, hand me that vial,” Antha says hurriedly, snapping her fingers and pointing to a small glass bottle on the table across from her. Snape starts and hurries to do what she asked, setting it in front of her gingerly. She lifts the fang, tipping it till a smooth green liquid begins to drip from the hole she cut into the bone. Drop after drop the vial fills before she caps it and snaps for another. Two vials later she sets the drained fang down and stoppers the bottles. Regulus blinks at her.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I could’ve done that.”
“I guarantee you could not.”
Regulus huffs but reaches out to take the vials, setting them gently in his now empty bag. Their contents shimmer murky green, swirling within the glass. “Thank you.”
She eyes the both of them. “What’s this for?”
“Official business.” Snape answers tersely. “You’d do well not to question the Dark Lord.”
“What are your names?”
“You don’t need to know.” Snape says. He digs around in his pockets for a moment before pulling out a few galleons and dropping them onto the table. “For your trouble.”
She smiles, corners of her mouth ticking up. “Let me walk you to the door,” she says, ushering them towards the hallway. Regulus notices her sweep the coins into a pocket as she passes.
They pause at the threshold to her small town house, opening the door. Regulus turns back, something nagging at him. A loose end. “You know you aren’t to repeat a word of this to anyone?”
She presses her lips together. “What if they have the same mark on their arm?”
“No one. This mission is to be kept entirely private. Only the people closest to the Dark Lord know about it.”
“Fine.”
He can’t resist pulling his wand from his pocket, murmuring “ nonloqui ” before she has time to react. Her mouth seals shut and then reopens a second later, a look of shock and fury flashing across her face. “After the favor I just did for you?” She hisses, outraged.
“Which was?”
She opens her mouth but all that comes out is a sort of jumbled gibberish. Eyes going wide, she presses a hand to her lips. “You lot are demons,” She grumbles, shuffling back into her house and grabbing the doorknob. She nods towards the bag on Regulus’s hip. “Try to keep my name out of the papers when they report on the murders.” With that, she slams the door shut.
Snape turns to look at him. “Did you have to curse her?”
“Oh, would you rather explain to the Dark Lord how you stole some of his basilisk fangs and took them, unauthorized, to extract their deadly venom?”
Snape rolls his eyes and turns around, heading back up the small alley. “It’s shocking how easily cursing innocent people comes to you.”
“Innocent?” Regulus asks, joining him. “She willingly helped two death eaters secure a notoriously horrible substance.”
“What choice did she have?”
Regulus shrugs. “We were never going to kill her.”
“She didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, but-”
They both pull up short, staring ahead of them. Remus Lupin and James Potter stand at the mouth of the alley, wearing twin expressions of shock.
“Shit,” Snape whispers.
Regulus stares at James. He looks good. Well- healthy. He looks healthy, which is good. He got new glasses. Regulus isn’t sure how he feels about them. It’s a change, certainly. These frames are a bit more square, no longer perfect circles. They make him look older. It would be imposing if his eyes didn’t glint and crinkle behind them in the same way they always have.
Then he snaps back to reality, and mutters a curse of his own. If they were any other death eaters and if Remus and James were any other Order members, all of them would have their wands out by now, shooting curses. But they’re all- mostly- the same age, and in this singular moment the idea of actually fighting each other seems preposterous.
“Should we disapparate?” Regulus hisses, but it’s too late. Remus and James have started towards them, walking quickly.
“Black, Snivellus,” Remus says, stopping short in front of them. “Funny seeing you two here. On official business?”
“No,” Regulus says cooly, refusing to look in James’s direction. “You?”
Remus shrugs, glancing at the bag on Regulus’s hip. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing important.”
“I see. I do actually need to talk to you, so I suppose this is good timing.”
“Absolutely not.”
Remus stares at him. “Would you rather me go to Dumbledore and tell him there’s something funny happening on Knockturn alley? Or should we just pull our wands out now and get it over with?”
Regulus rolls his eyes but sighs. “Fine.”
Remus glances guilty at James. “Not… here.”
A muscle in James’s jaw twitches but he nods and looks away. “It’s fine. Go.”
Regulus tears his eyes away from him and looks back to Remus who’s already walking a little ways away. Leaving James and Snape to have a little chat, Regulus turns and follows, rounding the
corner and finding Remus leaning up against the wall. “What?”
Remus rolls his eyes. “You should really work on your bluffing face, you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You look at James like a wounded deer everytime you’re around him.”
Regulus scoffs. “That’s a bit of a stretch.” And then: “I see even the Order is keeping secrets from each other now.”
“James knows what he needs to know.”
“And how does he feel about that?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I’m just saying, surely Dumbledore values a strong honesty policy.”
“Dumbledore values keeping private information private. He’s learned not to trust just everyone.”
Regulus studies him, thinking about all the hints that have pointed to there being a spy in the Order. “Maybe not a bad idea.”
Remus’s eyes flash. “What does that mean? What do you know?”
“What do you want, Lupin?” Regulus asks, crossing his arms and leaning his back against the bricks.
Remus’s lips press together like he’s struggling to find the words. “I… I need information.”
“What makes you think I’ll give it to you?”
Remus fixes him with a long look. “We both know your heart doesn’t lie with Voldemort.”
Regulus narrows his eyes, indignant. “Cut to the chase.”
“I need to know about Voldemort’s plans surrounding the werewolves.”
“What was your plan if you didn’t run into me in a random alley?”
---
Remus stares at Regulus, already frustrated. The other boy is watching him with that bored sort of determination that’s difficult to get passed. Remus has no idea how James did it.
“I have other projects as well,” Remus says carefully. “This is just a happy coincidence.”
Dumbledore’s only sent him on a few missions with the werewolves. Each one leaves him more drained and disheartened. The epidemic, as he calls it, seems to be getting worse- werewolves are starting to simply not change back. It scares him more than he’d like to admit, watching them lose themselves to the curse he feels press against the edge of his soul every month.
Regulus raises a single brow. “You aren’t the traitor, are you?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Remus stares at him. “So? What do you know?”
Regulus sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Yet here you are.”
Regulus looks conflicted, glancing away.
Remus leans forward off the wall, anger and confusion bubbling into an undescernable mass in his stomach. “I can’t for the life of me figure you out. You aren’t with Voldemort. You wouldn’t even be entertaining this. But you are a known and reported Death Eater. You have the Mark. We know you’ve been doing his dirty business. So was it really only James?” At the name, Regulus flinches, almost imperceptibly. “Was that really the only thing between you and Voldemort’s cause? Surely not.”
Regulus doesn’t respond, and Remus wants to grab his shoulders and shake , demanding to know whose side he’s on.
“Fine. Forget it.”
“Fenrir Greyback is still at the head of everything,” Regulus murmurs.
Remus hates that name.
Hates it with everything in him.
Sometimes he worries he’d let Voldemort walk free if it meant he could see Fenrir burn.
“I know that,” Remus starts.
“They tell them it’s the only safe place for werewolves right now.” Regulus gives a halfhearted shrug. “From what I can tell, they bite the desired subject then leave them alone for a few months. During that time they watch their kin get murdered and tortured, and by the time Fenrir and his pack come back and offer sanctuary, they’re ready to join immediately.”
Remus takes a measured breath. “So who’s doing the murdering and torturing?”
Regulus snorts bitterly. “Who do you think? Greyback, obviously. But as long as the culprit never gets out and the killings are blamed on the ministry or the order, he loses no trust.”
“How…” Remus swallows past the dryness in his throat. “How does he even justify that? Murdering one of his own kind? Why not recruit them rather than kill them?”
Regulus looks down, shifting. “I suppose he sees it as a worthy price. If one werewolf dies to convince three others to join, it’s still a net gain.”
“But. But-” Remus presses his hands over his eyes. “But when they’re turned they aren’t aware of themselves. I’ve talked to a lot of them- they understand they’re dangerous. They understand their kin are dangerous. I don’t think killing what’s- essentially- an animalistic beast would be that misunderstood. They- I- no one blames the people that do what they have to do while you’re changed. It isn’t you. It’s just a monster. Without wolfsbane, that is.”
“So you don’t think the murder of one of the few people like you would be enough to seek out sanctuary?”
“It’s not like that, though. The ministry has never been averse to killing in the name of self defense. When they’re turned- almost all… people like me recognize the rules are different during the full moon. What’s different about this?”
Regulus watches him cooly, eyes glittering. “It isn’t the full moon.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t kill them when they’re changed. Never. That’s when they’re most valuable to him. No, he saves his bloodthirst for the middle of the month, when they’re living life as their normal selves. That’s what does it. Werewolves all over the country are seeing their brethren be slain in broad daylight, when they’re still innocent civilians. As far as they know, the ministry is taking what they call “preventative action”. That, in their eyes, is non-excusable. Why wouldn’t they take the first offer of protection they receive?” Regulus shrugs. “These days, a pack is always safer, and they all know it.”
“They aren’t changed?” Remus whispers.
“No.”
“Regulus- those- those are children - I met some younger than thirteen- I-”
“Lupin, focus. I know .”
“No, you don’t.” He takes a hurried breath and tries to calm the storm inside. “It’s- merlin. I’ve spent my whole life thanking god that it’s only one night. I’m only a monster for one night. It doesn’t matter what happens outside of that, because at least I’m human. I’m not a werewolf- just Remus. But this-” His words hitch and break and he sinks into a squat in the middle of the alley.
He looks up at Regulus. “You have no idea how awful it would be to watch people like you die for the sin of being alive. Greyback is using their worst fears against them. To think… to think you’re only a monster one night each month and then to be killed for it on a random day-” He’s rambling, he knows, and definitely not making any sense, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know how to make Regulus understand. How to make him see.
“Lupin,” Regulus says, sinking down across from him. “I don’t know. I have no idea. But what Fenrir’s doing? It’s working. The werewolves are with him now. You can’t do anything about their mental state, or whatever. That’s their business. You need to address the larger problem.”
“Which is?”
“Werewolves are turning and staying turned. That’s his main weapon. If they were thinking clearly… I imagine it’d be a different story.”
“I know.” Remus hangs his head. “I know that.”
“Right.” Regulus tilts his head. “You asked me about it once, didn’t you. Back at school.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your plan then?”
Remus just gives him a look and Regulus nods in submission. “Fair enough.”
“I need to talk to Snape,” Remus sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I have information I need cross-checked.”
“I don’t know how agreeable he’ll be,” Regulus says. “But you can certainly try.”
Remus sighs, taking stock of his emotions. Regulus didn’t particularly tell him anything helpful- though he was previously unaware of Greyback’s conversion strategy. “How are you doing?” He asks, looking up at Regulus.
Regulus blinks in surprise. “What?”
There are dark circles under his eyes, but that’s nothing new. He looks, to Remus’s surprise, mostly fine. “I just haven’t seen you in a while,” Remus says after a moment.
Regulus stares at him. “... I suppose not.”
Remus straightens, holding out a hand to Regulus on the ground and pulling him upright when he cautiously accepts it. “We might need to go supervise Snape and James.”
“Oh, I guarantee they’re both dead already.”
They round the corner and find them, not dead, but glaring at each other, obviously heated. “Okay,” Remus says, sideling up. “Snape, your turn. Care to walk with me?”
“Fuck you,” Snape spits, and Remus rolls his eyes.
“I’ll pass, thanks. Or should I put in an anonymous tip among the werewolves that you think they don’t deserve to work for the Dark Lord? Or maybe I should tell them how good you are at brewing wolfsbane. Alternatively, you could just have a chat with me now and be done with it.”
“...This is extortion.”
“Hardly.”
“Fine.”
“Okay,” Remus calls, watching Regulus’s expression grow panicked. “You two have fun. I’ll be right back.”
“No, Lupin -”
“You’ll be fine,” Remus hisses, before walking away and assuming Snape’s following.
---
Regulus hates Remus Lupin, he decides. Truly, truly hates him. He considers switching back to Voldemort’s side if only to antagonize him specifically.
“Hey Reg,” James says behind him, and Regulus sighs, turning.
“Potter.”
“It’s been a bit, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you since…” James trails off as they both seem to remember. “Oh. Wow. It really has been a while.”
Regulus watches him carefully, resigning himself to his fate. “I’m… sorry, about your father.”
James winces, but only a little. “It’s alright. I heard you went to the funeral.”
“Sirius,” Regulus grits.
James winks. “Who else?” He takes a step closer. “You should’ve said hi.”
“That would’ve felt… improper.”
“Why?”
“Considering our last conversation.”
“That was hardly- I mean.” James frowns.
Regulus shrugs. “I just wanted to pay my respects. I’m sorry.”
“There was nothing anyone could’ve done,” James says, holding his gaze. “ Anyone , Reg.”
Regulus shifts, and the need to tell James just how wrong he is burns hot in the back of his throat. “I don’t…”
“I shouldn’t have asked you for your help so many times. You were right.”
“Are you getting sick?” Regulus blurts, because he has to say something , and he’s genuinely wondering. He hadn’t considered exactly how contagious dragon pox is till now.
Something flashes across James’s face before he shakes his head, laughing lightly. “I’m fine. I’m honored you’re worried, though.”
“Worried is a stretch.”
James takes another step forward and he really, really needs to stop doing that. “Are you saying you wouldn’t miss me if I died?”
Regulus distantly remarks this topic shouldn’t feel as much like flirting as it does. “You wish, Potter.”
“Maybe I do.” James studies him, gaze warm. “What about you? How are you doing?”
“Why does everyone keep asking? Do I look that bad?”
“I think you look just fine.”
“Stop.”
“Sorry- well, no. I’m not. But, either way, you aren’t using glamour. That’s good.”
Regulus is about to respond before his common sense catches up and he pauses. “How do you know about my glamour?”
James’s eyes go fuzzy, face falling. He looks surprised, then confused, then just… blank. “I don’t…”
“It’s fine,” Regulus says quickly, heartbeat picking up. “Just- it’s fine. How was your chat with Snape?”
James’s expression darkens. “I hate him. Why did you leave us alone?”
Regulus bites back a smile. “Well. I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I? Lupin certainly has a way with blackmail.”
“It’s alright, I guess.” James fake-sighs. “Means I get to talk to you, so I suppose it’s excusable.”
Everything in Regulus heats with a familiar warmth as he relaxes into the ease of the conversation. It’s natural. It’s… good. For a long drawn out second, he wants to stay in this perfect bubble where neither of them have to hold back.
And then he remembers why he obliviated James in the first place, and the warmth quickly gets drowned out by fear, icy and coursing.
Regulus snaps his head up, watching Remus and Snape turn and start to walk toward them. “James,” He says hurriedly, reaching out and grabbing his arm as he makes a potentially stupid last minute decision. “James. I need to tell you.” James’s eyes fix on his, widening. “The bases, in Dartmouth,” Regulus manages. “He knows. He’s planning an attack. It’s not- you have to stay away. You can’t try and stop him, you have to promise me, because I know you won’t remember this but there’s very much still a hit on your head, and it isn’t safe.”
James’s lips part as his eyebrows pinch, taking another step forward. “When?” he rasps, making no move to pull his arm from Regulus’s grasp. “What-”
“I don’t know.” Regulus bites his lip. The damage is already done, but he’s said too much. “I have no idea. Soon. But James, listen to me. You can’t be there. You can’t get near the fight. If they see you…”
“How do you know?” James asks, expression deathly serious.
Regulus just shakes his head. “Don’t- don’t go, James. Promise me. Please. I can’t… I can’t watch you-”
James cuts him off with a small choking sound, eyes locked on his face. For a long second, neither of them speak. And then: “Who’s side are you on?” James whispers, lips barely parting.
Remus and Snape pull up short next to them, and without looking at either, Regulus grabs Snape’s arm and disapperates instantly, leaving Remus and James standing alone and confused in the middle of Knockturn alley.
“What-” Snape says when they land on the doorstep of Number twelve, swaying slightly. “Why the hurry?”
“Would you rather we stayed?”
“No, but-”
“I might’ve messed up,” Regulus swallows, running his hands over his face. “I just- ugh. Ugh. Forget it. Just. The potions are due tomorrow. We should- we should do that.”
And after giving him a weird look, Snape steps inside.
---
For the first time in a long time, Evan and Barty have the entire dorm room to themselves. As 8th years, they don’t need a fourth and Slughorn decided not to fill the absence Regulus left behind. His bed sits empty in the corner, bare and slightly depressing. Both Barty and Evan refuse to use it.
“I’m gonna miss the sullen bastard,” Barty says as he dumps the contents of his trunk into the first drawer he finds.
“Me too,” Evan sighs, staring at the empty bed. “Well. Mostly.”
“True. he had a sort of sad air about him, didn’t he? Brought down the mood.”
“We’re talking like he’s dead.”
Barty heaves an over dramatic sigh. “He might as well be.”
“He’s fine.” Evan slams the lid of his trunk, falling back onto his bed. “He seems happier recently.”
“Happy? Regulus?”
“Yeah, but there was that one like really bad phase back towards the end of last year. Remember that?”
“Yeah. That was… rough.”
“Right. I think we can at least say he’s recovered from that. He’s got that potion to work on now. I think he does well with a project.”
Barty pulls a face. “Yeah, but he has to do it with Snape.”
“But they're done, right? So I guess he's free of him now.”
“True.” Barty glances at the empty bed again. “What if Snape was our new dormmate?”
“I’d throw myself off the astronomy tower.”
Barty grins. “I might join you.”
Evan groans, resting his hand on his stomach and staring at the dungeon ceilings. “I’m so full from dinner. I always forget not to eat too much at the feast.”
Barty’s eyes twinkle and thats all the warning Evan gets before he jumps forward, landing on top of him. Evan lets out a huffing-grunting sound as the wind gets knocked out of him, pushing Barty off. “You bastard.”
Barty chuckles, pressing his thigh into Evan’s. Evan tips his head on his pillow to stare at Barty’s profile, humming softly and summoning his courage. “You’re pretty.”
He watches as Barty’s eyes widen and he swallows. Normally he would shut him down. Normally he’d tell Evan to keep that shit inside, because regular people don’t talk like that. Today, though, he just goes quiet, and they both let the words hang in the air around them.
Evan rolls completely on his side, yawning in the night air. The heat of the fire from the common room has cut through the usual cold of the dungeons, warming him comfortably. He rests his head against Barty’s shoulder and closes his eyes, sighing contentedly.
“Don’t tell me you’re already falling asleep,” Barty complains, but his voice has a soft sort of quality to it Evan’s learned to interpret as affection.
Evan lets out a muffled whine and buries his head further into the crook between Barty’s neck and shoulder, rolling over until he’s mostly laying on top of him. “I had a long train ride,” he grouses.
Barty snorts, but a hand drops onto Evan’s back, gently rubbing up and down. “Weak,” He murmurs.
“No chance you aren’t even a little sleepy.”
“We just got here, how could I be?” Barty’s hand trails up his back and into his hair, running his fingers through Evan’s short strands. “We have so much to do still.”
“Like what?” Evan manages to ask, fighting off the sleep that tries to eat at the edges of his consciousness and melting under Barty’s gentle touch.
“Well, we have that spell Reg gave us. We still have to test if that will work.”
“We can’t do that without a lockdown,” Evan hums, keeping his eyes closed. “There’ll be one tomorrow, remember?”
“And we need to find a way to get Mulciber and the others to take the mark.”
Evan frowns at that, sighing a little. “Barty.” They don’t talk about it. They’ve never talked about it. Evan gets the sense Barty knows his heart isn’t in this fully, but that’s always seems to be a problem for another day.
Barty’s hand stills in his hair. “Don’t.”
So Evan doesn’t.
“Do you think that attack will happen soon?” Barty asks, fingers resuming their motion. “The one the Dark Lord told us about?”
Evan just shuts his eyes again, burying himself further into the boy under him. “I don’t know. Let’s not talk about it.”
“So what do we talk about?”
Us, Evan thinks. This. What your hand is doing on my back and what my face is doing in your neck.
“Just shh,” he says instead.
Barty huffs quietly, but brings his other arm up and around, wrapping it around Evan’s torso and pulling him into him. “Big baby,” He says softly, and Evan could cry with happiness.
One day he’ll tell him.
One day he’ll whisper it in his ear and Barty won’t push him away but instead pull him closer; say it back.
I love you, he thinks as Barty murmurs something about the quidditch team and finals.
I love you, he thinks as he tries to melt into Barty’s skin, wanting nothing but to become one.
I love you, he thinks as Barty’s warmth lulls him away from the world and into the quiet gentleness of sleep.
One day.
But not tonight.
---
“Do you know where we’re going?”
“Sure.”
“...Do you?”
Sirius shrugs, flashing a grin. “Enough.”
James sighs, taking his arm and squeezing his eyes shut. “Just get it over with.”
Sirius twists and the world falls away, taking James’s stomach with it. They reappear with a pop on a windy bluff, the grasses swaying beneath their feet. James stumbles a little, groaning. “You’ve got to get better at that.”
“Can’t without practice,” Sirius says, placing both hands on his hips and staring off the cliff over the sea. “Wow. Look at that.”
James puts up a hand to block out the sun and follows his gaze, relishing in the crashing of the waves and the glittering water. A seagull swoops low over the ocean, its call echoing against the rock of the cliffs. “Where are we?”
“About a mile away from where we’re supposed to be, I’d reckon.” Sirius winces. “I’m… learning that tends to be my margin of error.”
“Great. I think we should make this next part on foot. Just for, you know, the sake of my breakfast.”
“Oi, I’m not that bad.”
“You are absolutely that bad.”
They set off, climbing across the grass towards the road. James sucks in a deep breath of salty air, feeling himself come back to life in the breeze. He wonders how Moody and Dumbledore are getting on back home.
As if reading his mind, Sirius says: “Do you think it’s okay we’re doing this? Now, I mean?”
“You told this muggle guy you’d be there today at four, right? I think it’s fine. We can always apparate away and besides- we don’t even know what day they’re planning to attack. We can’t very well put our lives on hold for a hypothetical.”
“It’s hardly a hypothetical,” Sirius frowns, but keeps walking. “If Regulus told you…”
“I wish he’d have given me more details,” James gripes. “Dumbledore wants me to recruit him or something.”
Sirius snorts. “For what? What purpose could he serve?”
“I guess he could get us information, but I can hardly picture him agreeing to be a spy for the cause.”
“Well, he’s something, if he’s telling you about Voldemort’s plans.”
James kicks at the rocks on the road, sending up a cloud of dust. “That’s a good point.”
“Did you hear Frank’s out of the hospital?”
James blinks, smiling. “Woah, already?”
“Well- it’s been nearly a month.”
“Yeah, but still. I thought- I mean, we all thought-”
“I know. I’m glad he pulled through.” Sirius squints up at the sky. “He wants to join the fight.”
“Which fight? This one? The upcoming one?”
“Yeah.”
James snorts. “That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“No one’s gonna let him, I don’t think.” Sirius shrugs. “You’ve got to admire his commitment.”
“Mhm.” James hasn’t told the Order about the other half of what Regulus said to him. He’ll be damned before he sits out on a fight. It doesn’t matter if there’s a hit out on him- he’d resent himself forever if he didn’t even show up.
“There.” Sirius points and James squints, following his finger.
“Oh. Huh.”
Further down the road there’s a little town, small old stone buildings clustered around the single street.
“That’s… special.”
“It’s charming.”
“Provincial, truly.”
“Quaint, one might say.”
James tips his head. “One might.”
“And we made sure I have enough money?”
“Did you convert it?”
Sirius shoves his hand in his pocket and nods. “I went to Gringotts yesterday.”
“Then you’re all good. As long as you don’t try and pay in knuts, I think we’ll figure it out.”
They make their way through the town, passing rundown houses and sheds. “Should we stop here?” Sirius asks, glancing from the paper in his hand to the townhouse in front of them.
“This isn’t it, is it?”
“No. But they might be able to give us directions.”
“Directions? Sirius, this is literally a one-street town.”
Sirius seems to think it over and then promptly decides to ignore him, skipping up to the door and knocking. James complains a bit but follows, smiling brightly when it finally opens. An older woman stands behind it, looking them up and down while sucking the life out of a cigarette. “Can I help you?”
Sirius, for all his bravery, goes silent. James steps up. “Hello! We’re wondering if you know where we can find a…” He grabs the paper out of Sirius’s hand and reads off it. “Mr. Brooks?”
“You want Bart?” She taps her cigarette on the door frame and leans out, pointing down the road a bit. “He’ll be down there, behind the garden. Please tell me you’re talking that blasted machine off him.”
“That’s the goal,” Sirius chimes in.
“Fucking finally,” She grumbles, taking a few steps back. “Well. Let it be known you have the whole neighborhood’s thanks.”
“Uh… sure. We appreciate the help.” James says, backing up and giving a little wave.
“Okay, so,” Sirius catches up with him on the road again. “A good idea after all.”
“I still think you’re gonna kill yourself.”
“Careful or you’ll sound like Moony.”
“There’s a reason he’s known as the sensible one.”
They find the small patch of garden the woman pointed out, and after sharing a cautious glance, make their way to the back. True to her word, there’s a shed at the end. Its tin metal roof covers old wood slats, barely containing all sorts of projects that seem to spill out at odd angles- a half built chair here, a forgotten motor engine there. A slightly older man with a pot belly and almost no hair sits outside, tinkering with some sort of small metal contraption.
Sirius steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest. “Er- are you Mr. Broo- Bert?”
The man looks up, squinting at them. “Maybe. Depends. Who are you?”
“Sirius,” says Sirius. He clears his throat. “I wrote about the bike?”
“Oh. It’s you.” The man looks distinctly unhappy to see him, grumbling and rising to his feet. His pants and tanktop are both covered in large oil stains. “I was hoping you weren't gonna show up.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Sirius says, but his eyes shine bright. “So, is she here?”
The man- Bert- huffs, but beckons them over all the same. “Of course she is. She should stay here, of course, but I’ve gotten one too many noise complaints and the missus is threatening to kick me out. She says the bike goes or I do. Of course,” Bert mutters as he leads them around the back of the shed. “Normally I’d give her a piece of my mind then take the bike and up and leave, but our kid’s expecting a kid, and I don’t have the funds for the solo lifestyle.”
“Right,” Sirius says, sharing a look with James over his shoulder.
“Course, I can only sell her to you if I know you’ll take good care of her.”
“Naturally,” Sirius says, bouncing on his heels. “Trust me, Bert, this is a dream come true.”
“As it should be,” Bert nods, leading them to a fabric covered lump somewhere behind the shed. “Here she is.” He rips the sheet off the bike, sending a plume of dust spiraling high into the air.
“Wow,” Sirius breathes. He reaches out and runs a hand over the sleek engine, whistling softly. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh god,” James groans, tipping his face into his hand. “You’re actually going to die.”
Sirius and Bert send him twin glares. “Does your friend have a problem with the bike?” Bert asks, crossing his arms over his wide chest.
“No,” Sirius says. “He’s being difficult. Please, ignore him.”
“And you’ve got the money?”
Sirius nods, digging around in his pockets and pulling out handfuls of crumpled bills and coins. “Is this enough?”
Bert stares at the money, taking it carefully and dumping it on a nearby table to unfold and count each bill. “Should do it,” he grumbles after a moment. “Fine. Let me get the keys.”
He bumbles off and Sirius turns back to the bike, humming happily. “This is perfect. Isn’t it?”
James comes up next to him, propping an elbow on his friend's shoulder. “It’s sexy. Remus is gonna lose his shit.”
“Good.”
“You’re going to have to invest in, like, ten leather jackets now.”
“Even better. I was already planning on it.”
“What are your thoughts as far as enchantments go?”
Sirius smirks. “You have to know what I’m going to say.”
James tries not to smile. “I wanna hear you say it anyway.”
Sirius thumps the engine of the bike, smirk turning into a shit-eating grin. “This baby’s going airborne.”
Bert rounds the corner, jingling a single set of silver keys. “Now, while she’s a beauty, me and the law enforcement have had a few… disagreements on whether she’s technically road-worthy. So. I’d maybe take it slow on the ride home.”
“Sure thing.” Sirius takes the keys from him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Say, Bert, do you think she can fit a sidecar?”
“Er…” Bert scratches the back of his head, studying the bike. “Yeah. probably. Just… screw it on.”
“Lovely.”
“I’m sad to see her go,” Bert says unhappily. “We had some nice times together.”
“I promise she’s in good hands,” Sirius reassures him, kicking the stand up and starting to walk the bike towards the road.
“Take care of her!” Bert shouts as they go.
“Will do! Thanks Bert!” Sirius calls back. James sends Bert a little parting salute.
When they get to the main (and only) road, Sirius settles himself on the bike and turns it on. The engine roars to life with a horrible grating sound, and James suddenly finds himself empathizing with Bert’s neighbors. “Wow.”
“You can’t say she lacks spunk,” Sirius says, nearly shouting over the engine.
“No you cannot.”
“Get on!”
James swings his leg over behind Sirius, wrapping his arms around his waist and trying to get used to the feeling of some mechanical beast, larger than a broom, under him. “So what now?”
“Now, I think I…” Sirius does something James can’t see, and then the bike lurches forward and they’re moving, taking off down the road.
James shouts a laugh, squeezing Sirius tighter in surprise. Sirius, to James’s surprise, seems to figure out the mechanics fairly quickly and they manage to stay upright. As they go, two or three townspeople come out onto their front stoops to cheer them on. James swears he hears at least two “good riddance”s over the hum of the engine.
They leave the town in the dust behind them, sailing down the road faster than James thought possible. “This is awesome,” James shouts, leaning forward so Sirius can hear him. The wind whips through his hair, and James has to spit some of it out of his mouth after speaking.
“I know!” Sirius shouts back. “It’s like flying.”
James nods vigorously in agreement, though he soon remembers Sirius can’t see him. Neither of them are wearing helmets, he realizes distantly. He wonders what would happen if they fell off now. Oh well, he thinks. They’ll probably die in a few days anyway. Compared to that, this definitely wouldn’t be the worst way to go. “Do you want to charm it now?”
“No,” Sirius yells. “Not yet. I like this.”
Me too, James thinks, and holds Sirius tighter as they soar down the road.
---
“Sit.”
The sound of at least twenty chairs scraping on the floor reverberates around the stone room. The Dark Lord clasps his hands in front of him, resting them on the table. Regulus, seated to his left, stares straight ahead.
“Good. Thank you all for joining me today.” The Dark Lord’s snake twists up his body, wrapping around the chair.
Idiots , she hisses.
Regulus pointedly doesn’t look at her.
Quiet , the Dark Lord responds. They’re loyal.
Cowards.
“As many of you know, thanks to a discrete source, we have important information concerning a few enemy bases near Dartmouth, on the sea. We believe the Order is sending out its members to gather recruits and information from local towns, specifically concerning werewolves and magical animals.”
Lupin, Regulus thinks. They’re going after Lupin. At least the Order knows.
“We will most likely catch the traitors off guard. On the off chance they’re waiting for us, nothing will change. We still attack. Remember, we’ve the numbers.”
Regulus feels the people next to him shift nervously. He locks eyes with Snape across the table.
“However, this is not a suicide mission. If the situation becomes overwhelming, I expect you all to apparate back to Grimmauld place to regroup.” The Dark Lord pauses. “We’ll be calling those among us still at Hogwarts to join the fight. We need as many recruits as we can get.”
So Evan and Barty would be there, then. Good.
“Before we go, I want everyone here to take one of these potions. Black and Snape brewed them for us, so we’ll have to put our faith in their abilities.”
“What are they?” Dolohov asks suspiciously. Regulus sends him a cold look.
“Gas-protection. While I don’t recommend spending time in large clouds of poison, this should at least delay even the most serious effects.” The potions get passed out, sliding down the table. Regulus grabs his and uncorks it, pulling a face before tipping it back and swallowing it quickly.
He and Snape exchange a bitter glance. They should’ve made it taste better.
“Good.” The Dark Lord waves a hand. “You’re dismissed. We’ll meet on the stoop. Black, stay behind for a moment.”
Regulus resists the urge to scream and instead nods, staying in his seat while everyone else packs up and moves outside. Once they’re alone, the Dark Lord looks him up and down. “Are you alright?”
Regulus blinks in surprise. “...Yes?”
“I heard you had an issue with the potions lab that rendered you unconscious for some time.”
Oh.
Right.
“Um… yes, my Lord. I’m recovered now.”
Tom’s slit eyes don’t stray from his face. “You and I both know you’re too good with potions for that.”
A flash of icy fear runs through Regulus. “My- my Lord-”
“But rest easy. The power-” Voldemort pauses, seeming to gather his words. “The power I gave you, the one I took from that incessant man so long ago, probably had a flare up of some sort.”
Regulus sits up a little straighter. So they were finally talking about this. “How do you know?”
Voldemort’s face doesn’t change. “Call it an educated guess.”
“So what happened? What went wrong?”
“There are things I can’t tell you right now,” Tom says cooly, and Regulus resists the urge to bang his head on the table in disappointment.
“Alright, my Lord.”
“During this attack, Regulus, I need you to stay safe. It’s of the utmost importance you remain uninjured and well.”
Regulus stares at him. It’s the second time the Dark Lord has said something like this to him. “Of course.”
“Good. We’ll check in after everything. Go, join the others.”
With one last look over his shoulder, Regulus does.
“What did he want?” Snape hisses, leaning in.
“I… don’t know,” Regulus says carefully. “Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Just… just try and stay out of the way.”
Snape gives him a long look, dropping his voice to the barest of whispers. “After what you told Potter, there’s no chance the entire Order isn’t waiting for us.”
Regulus grimaces. “I didn’t tell them when. This still may be a surprise attack.”
Snape winces, not meeting his eyes. “I… might’ve written an anonymous letter yesterday.”
Pride lights up the inside of Regulus’s chest and he can't help smiling, at least a little. “Good.”
“I figured the damage was already done.”
Regulus opens his mouth to respond but gets cut off by Voldemort, slamming the door behind him and immediately sucking all the warmth out of the conversation. “We leave now.” He looks the crowd over, and Regulus can’t ignore the way his stomach begins to stir with nerves. “Good luck,” The Dark Lord says, and Regulus thinks he might actually mean it.
“Ready?” He asks Snape.
The other boy shakes his head, but Regulus just grits his teeth and slides on his mask, watching as those around him do the same. Snape shoves his own on as well, and they meet each other's eyes through the slits in the blackness. Popping rings out as the Death Eaters begin disapperating around them. For a minute, neither Snape nor Regulus move. And then Regulus sucks in a breath, gathering his courage, and grabs Snape’s arm. “Don’t die,” he hisses, and turns on the spot, disappearing into space.
The first thing Regulus sees is the waves in front of him. The dusk of the day has cast long purple shadows over the sea, turning the water nearly black.
The second thing he sees is a curse hitting him squarely in his chest. Regulus stumbles back instantly, letting out a huff as the air gets knocked out of him. A split second of agony ripples through him and he ducks out of the way before the sender can give it another go.
Regulus doesn’t know where Snape is. Maybe he let go during apparition. Regulus doesn’t have time to care. He takes in his surroundings, raising his wand in front of him. The beach, of course, is full of flashing spells and moving bodies.
In the single minute Snape and Regulus were talking back at Grimmauld place, the fight must’ve already started and was now in full swing. It was a battle, a real and true battle, both sides clashing in the middle.
Obviously Snape’s letter was well received.
A masked someone, by the sound of it Lucius, grabs his arm. “They knew we were coming,” he hisses. “They were prepared. They were waiting.”
The mark on his arm boils, sending shocks of pain and itchiness through his entire body. Regulus clamps a hand over it and pulls away from Lucius, looking around wildly. Above the beach, in the evening sky, a matching skull and snake twists in the air.
Lovely.
Regulus sends a curse off at random, trying not to hit anyone but also not wanting to appear useless. He has to find Evan and Barty. He’s certain they’ll be here, somehow.
He sees Moody in the distance, grinning widely as he draws out a masked Death-Eater in a duel. Remus fights behind him, backing up as he’s met with a wall of spells coming at him from multiple angles.
Regulus ducks as Lily Evans sends a curse at his head. He shoots a spell back, vaguely in her direction, hoping it doesn’t find its target. She’s a ferocious fighter, much faster than he would’ve thought. He does his best not to engage, moving further up the beach.
As he predicted, the fight must’ve dissolved into immediate chaos. Death Eaters have never been one for an airtight plan- the strategy so far seems to be blindly attacking anyone who’s not wearing a mask.
He hears a laugh that he knows all too well and runs over, trying not to trip in the sand. “Barty!”
“Reg!” The masked figure, who Regulus can only assume is Barty, claps him on the shoulder triumphantly and shimmies them a little ways away from the action. “Nice of you to join us, eh?”
“How’d you get here so fast? Weren't you in school?”
Another figure- Evan, if Regulus had to guess- jogs up next to them. “We were. Then the mark started, you know, doing its thing and we knew it was time.”
“So you just up and left? And no one stopped you?”
Barty shrugs. “There was no one to stop us.”
“What?”
“We were in a lockdown,” Evan explains. “Everyone was still trapped in their rooms so we just up and left.”
No.
Fuck.
A sickly sort of dread begins to creep down Regulus’s spine. “How- how’d you get out of the lockdown?”
Barty tilts his head as if the answer’s obvious. “The spell you gave us. It worked.”
Regulus takes a few stumbling steps backwards as the world he knew turns inside out. Shit. He’d wasted so much time. “It worked?”
“Yeah.” Evan sounds slightly confused. “Why-”
“I have to go,” Regulus chokes, starting to back up quickly. “Don’t- er. Don’t die. Shit.”
Regulus turns back to the fight, ducking his head and starting into the fray. His heart pounds. Pettigrew. He needs to find Pettigrew. He looks around, maybe for his brother, maybe for Lupin. Peter always seems to be lurking near one of them.
Regulus spots him, finally, near the spot the waves meet the sand a little ways down the beach. He tears off his mask- probably a bad idea- but he needs Pettigrew to look him in the face when he confronts him.
A flash of anger burns hot through him.
“Pettigrew!” he shouts, tightening his grip around his wand and stalking forward.
Peter looks up, eyes going wide when they land on him. Regulus immediately flicks his wrist, hitting him with a muscle-jellifying curse and watching as Pettigrew tips backwards on the sand, melting into a limp pile of flesh. Regulus stands over him, chest heaving.
“You little fucking bitch,” he hisses, pressing a booted foot to Pettigrew’s stomach. “They trusted you-”
“Regulus?” Peter coughs, trying and failing to shove him off.
“How dare you?” Regulus spits, shoving down harder.
“James!” Peter cries out, and Regulus freezes.
James?
James?
Then he looks up and there he is, a little ways down the beach, narrowly avoiding a curse from Dolohov. Regulus’s blood runs cold. He’s not supposed to be here. Regulus told him not to be here.
The idiot.
James’s head immediately turns towards them at Peter's cry, eyes going wide at the sight in front of him. He starts over, kicking up sand in his haste.
Regulus looks back down at Peter, curling his lip. “He doesn’t know, does he? What a fucking rat you are?”
“So you finally used the spell,” Pettigrew coughs. “Why the aggression, then?”
Regulus kicks him once, then drops into a squat next to him, pressing his wand into his throat. “Because you chose the wrong Death Eater.”
Peter’s eyes go wide with understanding. “You traitor,” he breathes, as if it’s a foreign concept.
Regulus snarls. “Takes one to know one.”
“How could you?” Peter says, struggling limply like a fish on the deck of a boat.
Regulus presses the wand deeper into his throat. “Because, unlike you, I actually love the people I claim to care about. I should kill you right here.”
“You think James would ever forgive you for that?” Peter chokes. “You think Sirius would?”
“Don’t fucking say their names.”
“Peter!” James is getting closer, wand raised. “Regulus, get the fuck off him!”
“Nonloqui,” Regulus hisses, and watches with satisfaction as Peter’s mouth seals itself shut before reopening. Two uses of the same curse in one week may be a bit much, but now at least he can insure Peter will stay silent. He won’t be saying anything about Regulus’s allegiance anytime soon. “We aren’t done, Pettigrew.”
A curse hits Regulus square in the side, sending him tumbling away from Peter. It doesn’t do much more than toss him, just a means to an end. Peter, seemingly recovered from the muscle-jellification curse, struggles to his feet. James grabs his arm and yanks him the rest of the way up, leveling his wand at Regulus’s. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, confused and hurt.
“What are you doing?” James hisses.
“He just attacked me!” Peter cries.
“I told you not to be here,” Regulus growls.
“What- I can’t-”
Peter shrinks back dramatically. “James, we have to do something! He’s dangerous!”
Regulus can’t resist sending another curse squarely at Peter’s chest, taking care to make this one a little more painful than the last. Pettigrew cries out and doubles over, leaving James to jump between them.
“Regulus, bloody stop!”
Regulus stumbles to his feet, ignoring James and jinxing Peter again, watching with satisfaction as boils spread across his face. Then a spell hits him in the side, not from James but from somewhere else, and his attention diverts. Sturgis Podmore moves towards him quickly, wand raised. Regulus can feel his muscles start to weaken from whatever curse hit him, but luckily he knows this one. He casts the counter as quickly as he can and regains his balance.
“You need to leave,” he hisses at James. “It isn’t safe.” And then he stumbles up the beach, Podmore hot on his heels.
He needs to regroup. He needs to catch his breath. Unfortunately, Sturgis seems to have other ideas, made evident when a bright red curse shoots over Regulus’s shoulder. There are dunes at the top of the beach, low rising hills dotted with sparse grasses. Regulus points a stunning curse behind him blindly and scrambles up one of them, rolling down the other side.
He pushes himself to his hands and knees, gasping for air and spitting out sand. For a moment, everything’s okay. Then it isn’t.
“Shit.”
Regulus goes still at the voice, looking up slowly. Dorcas Meadows sits about two feet away from him, legs stretched out in front of her. Next to her, Marlene McKinnon is wrapping a cut on her thigh.
“Fuck,” Regulus whispers, hanging his head for a moment.
Across from him, McKinnon scrambles for her wand, mouth opening in shock. Regulus gets there first, sending a stunning curse directly at her chest. She goes stiff as a board, eyes wide as her wand falls from her fingers.
Dorcas raises her own instantly, aiming with one deathly-still hand. The other she keeps clamped on the wound on her thigh.
They lock eyes.
“So?” Regulus asks finally, voice hoarse. It's the first word he’s said to her since their fight at school. “What now, Meadows?”
Dorcas glances sideways at Marlene. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“She would’ve done worse to me.”
“And you would’ve deserved it.”
Regulus says nothing, still staring.
Dorcas screws up her face in frustration before cursing and dropping her wand. “Sorry Marlene,” She murmurs, before she shoves forward and tackles Regulus in a tight hug.
He wraps his arms around her, squeezing as tight as he can and shutting his eyes. She smells warm and familiar.
“I missed you,” She croaks.
“I missed you too,” He manages, only letting go when he has to. “Are you okay?”
“This stupid cut on my leg- Malfoy’s work, by the way- but other than that, yeah. You?”
Regulus nods, running a sandy hand through his hair and taking a deep breath as he tries to calm his nerves. “Fine. I have to- I have to figure out how to end this fucking thing.”
Dorcas grimaces, still holding on to his arm. He doesn’t want her to let go quite yet. “Neither side seems too intent on stopping,” She frowns. “I’m fairly certain Moody’s enjoying this, actually.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Regulus confesses.
“Go fight. Not- don’t hurt anyone. Please. Just do what you have to and then convince your Lord this isn’t a fight you’ll win.”
Regulus nods, opening his mouth to say something-
-when a singular, lone howl rips through the air.
They lock eyes.
“Fuck,” They hiss in unison.
The werewolves are here.
“It isn’t the full moon,” Dorcas whispers, horrified.
“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Regulus replies, already moving towards the edge of the dune. Some of the werewolves had already started staying turned, only going back to their human forms for a week or two at a time. He spares Dorcas one last long look. “Say sorry to your girlfriend for me,” he says, before he vaults over the top of the dune and takes off, back into the mess.
---
Remus wants to find Sirius. He actually desperately needs to find Sirius, because every inch of him is panicking in a way only he knows how to manage.
The werewolf in front of him howls again and Remus ducks to the side, tripping across the sand. He’d been here when the Death Eaters arrived, waiting in a silent mass of Order members, praying the anonymous tip they’d received was right.
Turns out it was.
Remus is no longer so sure that’s a good thing.
Of course, they’d suggested evacuating the bases conducting research near here and letting the Death Eaters greet an empty beach, but Moody had hated that idea, and Dumbledore usually let Moody take the lead on battle strategies. “Better to get it out of the way,” Moody had said. “Take them out while we still have the chance.”
Remus isn’t sure what he means by ‘take them out.’ He certainly isn’t planning on killing anyone tonight. This werewolf, though, may have other plans. It swings a hand after Remus, who just barely manages to dodge and raise his wand, shooting a stunning spell at its chest. Is this what I’m like? He wonders. Is this what they see?
It’s not the full moon, but if Remus had to guess he’d say this is one of the special wolves being affected by the slow change. Fenrir, of course, is nowhere to be found. The coward.
He can see two more further up the beach, but that seems to be the last of them. Good. He can get this over with in one fell swoop. If it doesn’t work, then…
Then they might start having to use more than stunning curses.
But he’s been planning this for a while. Of course, so it didn’t get out, he could only tell a select few. In this case, Sirius, Dumbledore, and Moody. He’d asked Snape if he thought it would work.
He’d been dismissive, but Remus could see the idea spark in his eyes. He didn’t know why he thought he could trust him. Maybe because some part of him trusted Regulus, and he knew the younger Black would keep Snape quiet if he had to. Maybe it was just plain stupid.
Either way, his trust must’ve paid off, because the wolf coming towards him isn’t deterred when Remus shoves a hand into the satchel around his waist and yanks out a large jar of brown potion. He unscrews it quickly, all while backing up into the ocean. Water soaks through his shoes but he can’t bring himself to care as he raises his wand, pointing it at the jar and whispering the spell he’s been practicing for at least four weeks.
He holds his breath as the potion in the jar immediately raises out and into the air, one solid blob of liquid. Higher and higher it raises, till it hovers above all their heads and shimmers in the moonlight. Please work, Remus prays, dropping the discarded jar into the ocean and staring upwards.
The wolf on the beach in front of him moves closer, curious yet hesitant about the crashing waves. If this doesn’t work, Remus thinks, I’m dead.
And then it happens. The brown mass of liquid busts and shoots outwards in tiny droplets that instantly vaporize, morphing into a dark cloud of gas that descends upon the entire beach.
Remus, used to the bitter taste of wolfsbane, only grimaces as he inhales. Across the sand there are cries of surprise from both Death Eaters and Order members alike. The waves splash against his ankles.
The wolf takes another step forward.
And then-
And then it stops. And sniffs. Sniffs again.
It canters back as its face twists in discomfort, shifting on the sand. Remus catches its eyes, watching the pupils dilate and then shrink to normal size.
He grins.
“Hello,” he says, taking a step forward. The wolf makes a wounded sort of sound as it begins to shrink, hair retreating and claws retracting. Remus watches with a sick fascination, elated with victory.
When it’s done, a boy of no more than fifteen lays shivering on the sand, eyes shut. Remus squats next to him, shaking his bare shoulder gently. The boy stirs in his sleep but doesn’t wake, thoroughly out. Remus looks up across the beach, watching one of the other two wolves shift into her human form as well, collapsing on the ground. The other wolf doesn’t change so easily, but the potion seems to have an effect of some kind. The wolf shifts back nervously, obviously regaining some human consciousness. After a moment of indecision it abandons the Order member in front of it and turns to the dunes, scampering off over the hills.
The gas around them dissipates little by little.
The potioneer he hired to brew the potions worked in a little sleeping powder upon his request, before brewing an additional batch of protection brews everyone in the Order took before meeting at the beach. What’s confusing Remus, however, is that none of the Death Eaters seem to be at all affected.
The powder in the potion obviously wasn’t defective, if the two sleeping wolves-turned-humans were anything to go by.
And then Sirius laughs somewhere further up the beach and suddenly Remus doesn’t really care about the gas or why the Death Eaters are resisting it, instead stepping over the boy on the sand and taking off towards the sound of his voice.
---
At first, the gas freaked Evan out. It was brown and thick, lingering in an odd way over the beach. But the Dark Lord had warned them about this tactic, even prepared them for it, instructing Carrow to give them two vials of protection potions Regulus brewed as soon as they landed on the beach.
Looking around, it seemed as if no one was affected. Everyone seemed to pause, staring at each other in apparent apprehension that morphed into bewilderment when nothing happened.
Huh.
And then Barty rested a hand on his shoulder, whispered, “A distraction,” and then whooped loudly and dashed into the fog.
And Evan, after a moment of indecision, did what he always seems to do when it comes to Barty. He followed.
Even as he moves through it, the cloud of gas seems to dissipate around them. The delay, though, allows Evan to duck under a faulty spell sent in his vague direction.
Get through this, he thinks. Just get through this and back to school and you can pretend this isn’t what you are now. This isn’t who you are now.
A curse hits him in the leg and he trips, falling as a shocking pain cuts across his shin. He pulls his mask off with one hand, gasping as he clams a hand over the smarting wound.
“Boy!”
Evan looks up, forcing himself to his feet and readying his wand. Moody stalks towards him, beady eyes fixed on him. Evan sends him a curse that he easily deflects, still moving forward.
“You’re the Rosier boy, aren’t ye?” Moody swipes at him with another hex that Evan stumbles to the side to avoid.
“Fuck off and die,” Evan responds, rather eloquently, if he does say so himself.
“Truly a poet,” Moody growls, and then they’re dueling.
They go hard and fast, trading spells quicker than Evan thought he was capable of. Anger burns through him, because even if he’s not fully committed to the Dark Lord, this is no alternative. For someone who preaches peace, there sure are a lot of bright green spells shooting from Moody’s wand.
“Is this how you plan to save humanity?” Evan spits, throwing up another shield charm. “With killing curses?”
“I plan to save humanity by exterminating its attackers,” Moody rasps in response, shooting out a sharp curse that hits Evan in the stomach and-
-and goes straight through. Evan lets out an awful torn sound as he feels the hole ripped through his stomach. It’s no bigger than a knut, and yet judging by the amount of blood that immediately gushes from the wound, it’s not to be underestimated. For the first time, Evan feels real, unadulterated fear stir in his stomach. Moody’s better than him, he realizes. Truly and substantially better. Unless he gets out now, this isn’t a fight he can win.
Another curse hits him across the hip.
Evan trips sideways, wishing he kept his mask on. He needs to get out of here. Sooner rather than later, preferably.
But he’s no quitter.
And Moody’s still advancing.
So he sends another hex.
Moody growls in surprise when it strikes him in the shoulder, sending him reeling backwards. “Son of a bitch-” he hisses.
Evan finds Barty with his eyes, fighting some anonymous attacker on the other side of the beach. He’s fine, he tells himself. He’s fine. “Don’t talk about my mother like that,” he smirks instead, ducking in closer to Moody.
The sudden shift in proximity seems to catch him off guard and he takes a step back, raising his wand again. “Ah. Yer mother. What would she think if she saw you here?” He tries to curse Evan but he throws himself to the side before he can. “I suppose she wouldn’t care much, as long as she’s not a part of the action.” Moody gives an ugly grin, baring his teeth. “She’s always been a coward- evidently, just like her son.”
Evan’s heart may not fully be with the Dark Lord, but he’s still a Death Eater and Slytherin at heart. He still knows how to make somebody hurt.
Which is why, before Moody gets the chance to close his mouth, Evan darts closer and punches him in the stomach.
This, naturally, catches the older man by surprise. He lets out a loud grunt followed by a sharp cry of pain when Evan follows that up with a punch to the face and a kick to the shin. He’s dimly aware of his own injuries, his body aching and begging for a rest. He can’t do this much longer, he thinks, as he feels the blood run down his stomach and hip and countless other places from Moody’s curses.
But then Moody goes down and Evan follows him, kneeling on either side of his torso and hitting him again and again. “I said,” he growls between blows, “Don’t talk about my mother like that.”
“Oh?” Moody croaks, rolling them over and shoving a knee into Evan’s rips. Evan chokes on blood (which, he thinks distantly, cannot be good), fighting desperately, uselessly. “What about your cunt of a boyfriend then? I saw you two together earlier. No one told me queers were allowed in Voldemort’s ranks.”
And Evan knows he’s just trying to piss him off, trying to get a rise out of him anyway he can. There’s no way he could’ve interpreted anything between him and Barty, because Barty would never let there be anything to interpret. Not in public. Never in public. Barely alone. No- Moody’s under the assumption that calling Barty his boyfriend will be more insulting than calling him a queer cunt.
That turns out to be a mistake.
Before he knows what he’s doing, Evan’s kneeing the man above him in the crotch and rolling him over with brute strength. Somehow he gets his wand in hand and without hesitation digs it into the place where Moody’s eyeball meets his eyelid, watching as the flesh parts and relishing in the resulting scream of pain from the thrashing man beneath him.
With the tip of the wand pressed under his eye, Evan whispers a cutting curse and watches with glee as the blood immediately spurts out of the socket. Evan reaches over, and with his bare fingers and a sick pop, takes out his eye.
There’s so much red.
Moody can do nothing but twist under him, mouth opening and closing in abstract horror. Evan sways dangerously over him, his own blood loss and exhaustion threatening to get the better of him. He pulls back, somehow, stumbling to his feet and reaching for his wand with bloody fingers.
Standing above Moody, he tries to get his head on straight. The wound in his stomach aches, and Evan knows, deep down, that he’s losing too much blood.
He presses one hand against his torso, taking in a choked little gasp that he decides to count as a breath. He raises his wand with his other hand, shaky and trembling, pointing it at the man on the ground in front of him. Behind them, the waves crash on the beach. They’d moved closer during the fight, Evan realizes blearily. He can feel water seeping through his socks.
He forces himself to refocus on his target in front of him.
Kill him, he thinks. Kill him and be done with it.
Distantly, he hears Barty cry out in pain. Instantly he looks over, focusing his shaky vision on the other side of the beach. He’d know that voice anywhere. He takes a wavering step towards its source.
“Watch out!” Someone shouts, and he knows that voice too. Regulus, he thinks distantly. Reg.
Then a spell hits him in the side of the head and he stumbles back, attention snapping to the man in front of him who has one arm raised, wand pointed directly at Evan’s face.
Evan can’t feel any part of his body. Distantly he realizes he dropped his wand. He should probably pick that up.
He can feel something warm and sticky spread down his hair from the point the spell hit him. The liquid runs over his ear and down his neck, and he knows exactly what it is. It’s like he said all those years ago- his love for Barty has always left him bloody.
Moody still has his wand raised, and Evan knows what’s about to happen exactly three seconds before it does. There’s blood on his head and his stomach and everywhere. He needs to move, he knows, every cell in his body screaming at him to get out of the way, but he stays rooted to the spot. His eyes, though, instinctually find Barty again.
There’s so much he needs to tell him. So much he has to say. He needs him to know he’s his own person. He needs him to know he’d kiss the scratches on his arms forever if it meant he’d understand there’s more to him than his flesh. He needs him to know that Evan never cared about blood supremacy, but he did care about him, and that was always enough.
He needs him to know he loves him.
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. Wait, Evan suddenly wants to beg. I never told him. He doesn’t know. Please, let me tell him.
But there’s no time.
There’s never been time.
He should’ve said it sooner.
The world goes still. He can hear the sea behind him. He likes the sound of the waves in the darkness. The deep grey reminds him of Regulus’s eyes.
On the other side of the beach, Barty looks up. Or maybe he’s always been looking, but either way, Evan notices, and then they’re looking at each other.
My love, Evan thinks, and wants Barty to somehow hear him from across the sand. It matters, suddenly and overwhelmingly, that he knows. Oh, my love. I’d follow you anywhere.
And then the spell hits him directly in the head, and nothing matters very much anymore.
---
It only takes a moment.
Just one.
Just a blink of an eye, a shift of the foot.
And Evan falls.
For one last second, there’s a world with Evan in it, and it’s still painful and horrible and disgusting, but it’s a little bit brighter because he’s there. Because for all the shit life has to offer, Evan Rosier is still a pinprick of light amongst the darkness.
And then in the next, there isn’t.
And everything goes dark again.
Regulus doesn’t think he can move. He stares at Evan, laying face down in the sea, and he wonders when he’s planning on getting up.
It’s a little rude, he thinks, to stay down when they so obviously need his help on the beach.
And his hair. His blonde hair. There’s something dark creeping down across it, dying it brown. Regulus needs to tell him to clean it off, because Pandora will be so mad.
“Our hair is the same color,” she used to say, winding her fingers through Evan’s strands and comparing them to hers. She was right. The shade match was exact- the same white blond that glistened in the sun. In another life, she always joked, they could’ve been siblings.
But now Evan’s hair is brown, reflecting oddly under the moon. The water around him starts to turn brown as well, cloudy and swirling with the sand he brought up when he fell.
Get up Evan, Regulus thinks. Get up and clean off your hair.
But Evan doesn’t move, and Regulus knows why. His hair stays brown, and Regulus understands that too.
His head catches up a minute before his feet do and then he’s tripping, stumbling, sprinting across the sand towards his friend. Someone crawls and then stumbles away from the body, but Regulus doesn’t get a good look at his face. He drops to his knees, dimly aware of the water soaking through his trousers. Barty falls down across from him, on the other side of Evan, his face torn apart by anguish.
Regulus doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this broken.
Barty fumbles with Evan’s shoulders, muttering something that Regulus can’t hear. He turns him over and Regulus chokes back vomit, staring at Evan’s wide unseeing eyes.
“Please,” Barty whimpers. “Evan. Evan. Baby.”
Evan’s arm falls limp from Barty’s grasp, splashing in the water with a horrible thump. Regulus stares at it, stares at the mark that coils and winds on his forearm, and thinks he might be sick. Even in death, it moves.
Regulus reaches out, closing a hand around Barty’s wrist. “Hey,” he manages. Everything in him starts to crumble. “Barty.”
“No, no-“
“Barty,” Regulus hisses, and there are tears on his cheeks and there’s spit on his lips and he can’t get a breath in that doesn’t catch, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“Please,” Barty whispers, a soft sound, so rare for him. “Please, darling.”
Regulus can’t feel his own heartbeat. Maybe it stopped when Evan’s did.
“Please,” Barty breathes again. A wave washes up and over Evan’s face.
Barty lets out a sound akin to a sob that gets cut off when a curse lands in the water next to them, sending a small spark through their bodies.
Because there’s still a war out there- and it refuses to wait for grief.
Give him a second, Regulus wants to scream. Give him a single goddamn second to mourn the boy he loves. So when Barty doesn’t move from Evan’s side, Regulus rises shakily, gripping his wand.
Planting his feet he grits his teeth, every inch of him trembling. He shoots a random curse in the direction the last one came from, not caring who or what it’s aimed at. Anger, righteous and crystal-clean, consumes him entirely. He sends out another hex, and then another, baring his teeth at the world as Barty cries behind him.
If it’s all he can do, he thinks, at least he can give them this moment. He might not get a chance to say goodbye, but if Barty does, then that’s enough.
He watches people notice, watches their eyes go wide, and thinks good. Good. Notice me. Notice him. This is what your war is doing. Look, look, look.
And then he sees Dorcas, and all he can do is hold her gaze as her eyes fill with tears and horror.
Barty ducks out of the way of another spell and then the two of them are on their feet over Evan’s body, wands drawn, backs together. Regulus shoots curse after curse, not caring who they hit or which side they do damage to.
There’s nothing good anymore, he thinks again. Nothing good. Nothing worth saving. Someone on this beach killed Evan, and if everyone here has to die for him to be avenged, so fucking be it.
It might’ve been Moody. It might not have been. It doesn’t matter.
He’s never felt rage this pure.
He was standing still.
Evan was standing still.
Neither of them speak, deathly focused. Regulus can feel Barty behind him, feel the way he’s trembling, but there’s nothing he can do.
“Who?” Barty asks, voice calm and just loud enough for Regulus to hear. Regulus turns his head, staring at him. Barty meets his gaze, perfectly collected. It reminds Regulus of the way the ocean recedes before a tsunami, water going still and birds disappearing, leaving behind nothing but an ominous, deadly silence.
He looks utterly and entirely dangerous.
And Regulus knows. He sees it in his eyes. The last thread of rationality has drifted away, snapped the second Evan fell.
You already had his heart, Regulus thinks. Did you have to take his sanity too?
“Moody,” He says, and Barty nods, just once. And then he’s gone, off into the darkness, wand high and target set.
A curse hits Regulus across the cheek, sending a flash of pain through his face and making him stumble backwards. In doing so he nearly trips on Evan’s body, stepping on his hand. The feel of flesh under his heel makes him gag.
But there are more curses coming his way, so with one last raggest sobbing breath he takes off up the beach, ducking around bodies. He’s soaking wet, and the cold of the night air seems to permeate his very bones.
He trips in the sand, falling to his hands and knees as he gasps. He starts crying then, or something like it, with tears on his cheeks and not enough air in his lungs. He’s right in the middle of everything, and yet he can’t bring himself to care.
Suddenly there’s a hand closing around his arm and he’s being yanked to the side just as a bright white light hits the exact spot he was kneeling seconds before.
Regulus looks up, choking on his spit, and lets out another harsh sob when he sees who it is. James, looking more serious than Regulus has ever seen him, crouches next to him. He has a shield charm up around them, one that will break any minute by the looks of it. James keeps one hand on Regulus’s arm, the other reaching up to quickly wipe the tears off his cheeks.
Regulus wants nothing more than to collapse into his arms.
He catches sight of Barty across the beach and the following wave of guilt that hits him is stronger than anything he’s experienced before. Because James might not remember him, might not love him, might not care, but at least he’s here. At least he’s next to him, with his hand on his arm.
Regulus can’t speak.
“Come on,” James urges, pulling him to his feet. “We need to get out of here.”
“No-” Regulus chokes. “I need to get Barty, and Evan-”
“Regulus,” James snaps, voice firm. “You can’t. We have to go. Now.”
So Regulus, naturally, shoves James away from him, taking multiple steps back and looking around. He can’t think, brain buzzing with some sort of shock-exhaustion combination that’s slowly driving him insane.
“Regulus!” Someone shouts, and Regulus forces himself to focus on the voice. It’s a masked figure- by the sound of it, Lucius- coming towards him quickly. “The Dark Lord is calling us back. We’re leaving!”
Regulus watches it happen. Watches his eyes fix on James, then go wide with realization.
And that's when he remembers the hit on James’s head and the instructions they were given.
Lucius, only five feet away now, starts to sprint towards James as Death Eaters across the beach begin to disapparate on the spot.
Regulus is about six feet away, and yet he moves as quickly as he can, world narrowing to the single focus of reaching James first.
In the end, they get there at the same time. Regulus grabs James’s wrist just as Malfoy gets his other arm, and then he can do nothing but let himself be yanked away as Lucius twists the three of them into space.