driving home for christmas
The day after he returns to England, Regulus is given a reminder as to exactly why he had stayed away for so long.
He had taken precautions, of course. His hair was presently charmed to be a dirty straw blond and he was wearing the most muggle appropriate outfit he could muster. That is, a pair of jeans and a rather ugly Christmas jumper. The cold winter weather had given him cause to bundle up with a scarf and further obscure his face.
It also, quite thankfully, allowed him to wear gloves.
Still, he was about two hours out from his destination, sitting in a half empty National Express Coach, when he noticed the man in the seat across from him.
The man was dark-skinned and probably in his early thirties. He had a briefcase resting on his lap. Notably he was not dressed for comfort, unlike most of the coach’s occupants. Instead, he was sharply done up in a dark suit and tiny knot shaped cufflinks.
The most notable thing about him, however, was the fact that he had not been present until a minute ago.
Christ, thought Regulus, what an awful day to get caught.
The man was clearly a wizard. Whether he turned out to be an Auror (hunting remaining Death Eaters) or a Dark Lord loyalist (hunting historic traitors) was almost entirely by-the-by at this point. There were not many reasons that a wizard would choose to Apparate onto a shitty Muggle bus as it passed the outskirts of Coventry.
However, Regulus, a defected Death Eater presumed dead and on the run, was a very good reason.
Honestly, he’d sort of started thinking that he might have got away with it. He’d made it a good six years since his supposed death. All the way to the 21st December 1985 - he looked down to check his watch… at quarter to ten in the evening.
It didn’t really seem fair that his last meal had been a petrol station sandwich. Perhaps he could convince his visitor that an arrest and/or murder would better occur tomorrow morning, after a hearty breakfast.
And maybe a full bottle of wine.
Inadvertently, he caught eyes with the man. The stranger offered him a full smile with a few too many teeth. Regulus wasn’t sure if it was meant to be friendly.; but it was oddly familiar and a little painful to look at.
Regulus decided now would be a good time to look very determinedly at the grey countryside passing outside. Just in case the wizard was actually here for completely non-justice/vengeance related reasons. Some wizards were fans of Muggle forms of transport. Maybe, just, maybe, this one was a big fan of coa-
“Good evening, Mr Black. I trust I find you well?”
Yeah, no such luck.
Regulus looked towards the front of the coach. The man had a firm, authoritative voice that had cut over the rumbling of the wheels on tarmac. No one in the seats ahead else looked up or even stirred at the noise. A silencing spell. Fuck.
“My name is Grant Nanger. I believe you knew one of my cousins at school.”
Regulus’ stomach began to turn. The person he had been at Hogwarts… he doubted association with his teenage self would win him any points. Especially, if that past tense knew carried deeper meaning.
“Ah… um who…”
He was almost grateful when the man interrupted
“Don’t worry. My business today is professional, not personal.”
Regulus did not feel reassured in the slightest. Almost subconsciously, he moved his hand to gently hold the wrist of his prosthetic.
“My employer, Entick & Sons, has had a longstanding relationship with your family, particularly in regard to inheritance and testamentary arrangements. I, therefore, do regret to inform you that your mother, Walburga, sadly died last Tuesday.”
This was not news to Regulus. For the last few years he had taken the time to, even when on the opposite side of the world, acquire Magical newspapers wherever possible. He had seen the entry at breakfast on the ferry from Croatia.
Walburga Euphrosyne Black had passed away “peacefully” ( he very much doubted ) after a short illness on the 17th December 1985 at the age of 60. He was somewhat surprised to find that she had died in St Mungo’s. As far as he had known before, she had refused to leave the house for about six years. The obituary side-stepped this, by noting that she had stepped down from social activities and her worthy occupation of lineage tracing, in her later years. No mention was made of the fact that she had been utterly detached from reality since her husband’s death.
It had been very easy to pretend, during the time that he had been away, that everything was okay. The obituary was a stark reminder of all his failings. He had left her alone. Bad son.
Still the nauseous guilt he had felt had not overpowered his relief at the final sentences:
She was predeceased by her husband Orion Phaethon Black and her son Regulus Arcturus Black.
In the absence of a direct heir, her estate is to be managed and distributed by the family’s advocates, Entick & Sons.
It had been so reassuring at the time to know that his fatal ruse was still holding up strong. He’d even celebrated by spending the rest of the boat ride in his cabin completely wellie-booted on whisky.
Now it just raised questions as to why anyone had been looking for him. Let alone how Grant Nanger had found him.
“Your mother was particularly concerned that her estate go to the correct person. As such she paid for our most accurate inheritance service. Of course, with the disownment of your brother, the heir was you…”
Grant had kept an easy but insincere smile on his face throughout the entire conversation. His expression had changed not an inch when mentioning Regulus’ secret Death Eater, Muggle-murdering, Azkaban-bound brother.
So far Regulus had receive no clues as to Grant’s allegiance. The uncertainty only helped make him feel more and more trapped with each second the man spoke. He had no clue how the situation would resolve itself. He felt like a rabbit cornered, with no clear direction to run.
“... quite fortunately we had enough teeth so that our beneficiary tracing spell allowed us to find you -”
He could not help himself. “Teeth?”, he exclaimed, then felt a little embarrassed.
Trust himself to focus on absolutely the wrong thing in this situation. He ought to be figuring out how to get himself out of this situation; rather than just sitting dumbfounded in the face of imminent capture, just because he hadn’t thought being found was still in the cards after all the years.
“Yes. The spell works as long as the caster has access to a large enough portion of the recipient's body. Blood and hair can be used, though a much greater amount is needed. Tooth and bone are best. We were supplied with your juvenile teeth which fortunately were numerous enough for the spell to function”.
Regulus had a vague memory of Sirius trying to explain the Muggle concept of the Tooth Fairy monster as a child. Sirius had convinced him to put one of his fallen milk teeth under his pillow. In the morning it had disappeared and Regulus had been completely distraught. He’d refused to sleep in his own bed for a week, terrified that the Tooth Fairy would come back to take the rest of his teeth.
(Sirius’ version of the story had seemed to involve far more pliers and violence than the original Muggle myth.)
It made a bit more sense that his baby teeth had just been collected by his mother.
“This,” Grant produced a black iron key and pressed it into Regulus (real!) right hand, “the key to 12 Grimmauld Place. Your mother’s account at Gringotts has already been transferred into your name.”
The key - coldness biting through his gloves to his skin - was technically symbolic. Regulus could have Apparated into the house at any time in the past few years. He was almost certain his mother would not have had the presence of mind to remove him from the list of persons that the wards allowed.
Another swift shot of guilt stuck in his chest. Had anyone visited her in all her time? Maybe Cissy or Uncle Cygnus would have? But his cousin had found his mother unpleasant to deal with and Walburga had been exceedingly judgmental of her brother after the Andromeda business.
Abruptly, Grant cleared his throat. He waited for Regulus to look directly at him before speaking.
“And this,” he held out an envelope, “is also for you”.
It took a slight second for Regulus to open it, using his good hand to pick at the seal while his prosthetic held down the body of the envelope. In any other circumstance he would have used his teeth to rip the paper more efficiently, but here, under the judging eyes of a wizard, he felt on-guard and off-balance. He did not want to draw attention to his missing arm, though he was almost certain Grant had noticed it.
Inside the envelope was a small clipping from an educational journal. It noted the future retirement of the “much beloved” ( again Regulus very much doubted ) Hogwarts librarian Irma Price.
Regulus read it, about three times, utterly mystified. Grant cleared his throat again, reached out, and flipped the paper.
On the back was scrawled a note in a cursive that Regulus recognised with nostalgic discomfort.
Please attend at Hogwarts for an interview.
4pm, 2nd of January.
Albus
Regulus tried for a full minute to reconcile his current situation with the world he had previously believed himself to be living in. The countryside outside kept tumbling outside the window.
A job offer was not something he had anticipated this encounter ending with.
Next to him, Grant Nanger had begun to straighten out the remaining papers in his briefcase. Regulus realised that he was preparing to leave.
“You’re not… you haven’t turned me in”, he said faintly. He almost flinched after doing so. He half-expected that Grant would turn around, thank him for the reminder, and side-along him straight to the Wizengamot.
Instead, Grant continued to speak. “I believe you were left off the list for post-war trials. While you were implicated in certain incidents , wizarding society did not see the utility in prosecution. Due to your presumed death, of course.”
There was the first flicker of emotion in his expression when he spoke. It passed so suddenly, that Regulus could not pin the exact feeling down, but when Grant’s smile reformed itself there were somehow more gleaming white teeth on show.
It was definitely not a friendly smile, Regulus decided.
“However, given that the goblins have recently reinstated an account for a Regulus Black, I suspect that wider awareness of your… resurrection… will soon occur. I know a certain Ms Skeeter of the Quibbler tends to luncheon at the same spot that my colleagues do. Something might be… overheard.”
Very much not a friendly smile.
Regulus began to wonder if he wasn’t going to end this encounter by being hexed regardless.
The briefcase on Grant’s lap snapped shut.
He was not sure how to feel when Grant ignored his violent flinch at the noise. He could not tell if the wizard wanted him scared or not.
“I will take my leave of you now, Mr Black. I hope next time we meet it is in happier circumstances.”
Without warning the smile dropped entirely, and the man leaned in. Regulus fought the urge to recoil. If he was to be cursed, he would deserve it… he had finally realised who Grant Nanger’s cousin might have been.
“I strongly advise you take the job, Mr Black.”
The man Disapparated with a sharp crack.
For the first time in several minutes, Regulus found himself able to breathe deeply. The coach was still quiet but now in a sleepy, Muggle way, rather than due to a silencing spell.
Unable to look at them any longer, he put both the key and the papers into his backpack. His mind could not stop racing. Why now? Why the job offer? Why had Grant not brought Aurors with him?
He thumped his forehead against the cold glass of the coach’s window.
And why exactly, had anyone tried to locate a dead man in the first place?