take on me (for this tenured position with adequate benefits and diplomatic immunity)
He gave himself over a week's reprieve.
Indulgent? Maybe… but just the thought of returning to 12 Grimmauld Place had bile rising to his throat.
Six years.
Six whole years and now he can only go home to an empty house.
He told himself he wouldn't drink, and then proceeded to neck a whole bottle of cheap prosecco on New Years Eve. He needed it really, needed something to just take the edge of panic off. It worked a bit, he managed to ring the New Year in with a (slightly lopsided) smile and (slurring) cheer.
Of course, this cursed him to uneasy alcohol dreams and a stunning hangover on the next day.
In the end, he only manages to recover his nerve and stomach by the evening of the 1st.
He doesn’t tend to Apparate much anymore, trying to avoid any magical attention. It's just because of that inexperience and the need to concentrate on the spell that he closes his eyes. At least that's what he tells himself.
In truth he cannot bear to think what the house will look like. Will it have changed? Would it be worse if it hadn't? His dreams have circled round to his mother per day after day in the sitting room with no one to
His worries don’t get space to exist though. The second that he Apparates into 12 Grimmauld Place’s kitchen, a sharp impact rocks his knees. Bony fingers and elbows joining to grasp his legs so tight he almost topples over.
“Hello Kreacher.”
A not insubstantial portion of the fear Regulus had held about returning home was related to Kreacher. He had thought the house-elf would be angry.
Regulus had abandoned him after all.
In a rather bloody, dramatic, and half-drowned way.
After Kreacher had performed an (unplanned and unasked) rescue of him, he had promptly stumbled out the house and never returned. He still wasn’t quite sure how Kreacher had managed to circumvent his orders to leave him in the cave. Everything was a dreaded, despairing blur from after he had begun drinking the potion.
Ultimately though, he owed his like to Kreacher.
Perhaps it was a blessing that he had not stayed in the house afterwards. He wasn’t sure he wouldn't have said something terrible. Certainly he hadn’t been in a thankful mood.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus eventually tried, feeling the emptiness of the words. “I am sorry… for everything”.
There was no distinct response from the creature, but instead a wailing chant continued from below his knees. Slowly, Regulus began to understand it.
“Kreacher is sorry. Kreacher was a bad elf. Kreacher disobeyed, Kreacher had to follow Mistresses’ orders. Kreacher is sorry…” and on and on ad infinitem.
Somewhat awkwardly and with more emotion than he expected, Regulus placed his right hand on Kreacher’s shoulder.
“Don’t - it's alright… you did nothing wrong. You did perfectly well, Kreacher.”
Somehow this only made Kreacher cry harder and cling on tighter. Tears began to prick in Regulus’ own eyes.
The kitchen at Grimmauld looked much the same as it had when he would come down here as a child. Dark slate flagstones crowded into the space by the open hearth; burnished copper pots that seemed to reflect the shadows more than the light. A tiny basement window half obscured by the bundles of herbs that hung beside it.
When Sirius was grounded to his room, and their parents were threatening to hex Regulus if he got underfoot any more, this was the place he would tuck himself away. He would sit upon a house-elf sized stool and watch as Kreacher worked the fire and cooked their meals. One day, when he had grown too big to comfortably sit on the stool, he crept down the stone stairs to find a new larger seat magicked up by the house-elf.
Now, Regulus found himself facing into the corner where that chair still stood, an old set of newspapers resting under the one wobbly leg.
Christ, it had been so long since he had been home.
He bent down so he could embrace the house-elf back.
“I’m sorry for leaving.”
By the time Kreacher could be convinced to release him, Regulus felt wrung out like an old tea-towel. His eyes are irritated and red-rimmed and he can barely sip down a couple of spoons of the broth Kreacher thrusts upon him.
It feels a little like being babied, but he is infinitely grateful when Kreacher chose to Side-Along Apparate him up to his bedroom.
He doesn’t even bother to undress, just collapses into his bed (coughing at the fine layer of dust on top of the blanket) and pulling the top-sheet over himself.
For once his dreams are entirely dreamless.
Morning comes entirely too soon and with it the dread of his upcoming meeting.
The first thing he spots when he wakes up feels like an omen. He had forgotten his choice of room decor as a teenager. Dozens of newspaper cut outs are pasted to the walls, all detailing the rise of the Dark Lord.
Some of them are longer journalistic think-pieces trying to chart Voldermort’s rise to power and motivations. There are pencil marks where Regulus had circled particular sentences and quotes. He can see some scribbles in the margins that he remembers making on the more negative articles, counterarguments of his own making. The handwriting is untidy, smudged, and very undeniably his.
The remaining majority of the cutout are articles detailing events of the war. The images featured range from grimacing mugshots, to high-contrast action shots of fights, to somber pictures of devastation. Most of the columns are about battles between Death Eaters and Aurors. Some, though, are about the massacres committed.
One headline sticks out to him, “Muggle family found murdered in Maidenhead home; Dark Mark present”.
A sharp spear of self-loathing sticks through him.
This was you , he thinks, forcing himself to look at the newspaper cuttings. This was you and this was the harm that you supported.
There is no time to take them down before he leaves. He briefly considers asking Kreacher to do so, before deciding he must do it himself. He cut those pieces out, he annotated them, he stuck them on his walls.
He can’t kill the person he was at sixteen.
He can’t undo all the things he did or unthink the hatred he had held.
That is unchangeable and the weight of his own guilt.
But he can burn those fucking cuttings.
There was no appointment time on the note from Dumbledore, so Regulus decides that earlier is probably best. He Apparates just outside of Hogsmeade and walks towards the school grounds on the old weekend route.
He finds himself sweating despite the Highland December chill and the snow on the ground. He’s not sure what his status is amongst wider society, and the thought of running into someone sets anxiety racing up and down his spine.
Still when he first sees the grey spires of the school appear beyond the rise, he finds his breath catching. He did not think he would ever see Hogwarts again and now it is hard to keep his eyes from the ancient stone and tiles of the castle.
The School Gates are open when he approaches, which he takes to mean he is expected.
It is Christmas break still, so most of the children are missing thankfully. Those that have stayed, apparently do not want to wake up before 9am.
The school grounds feel eerily quiet. When he enters the castle itself, the corridors too are empty. The only noises are his brogues on the stone floors and the occasional whispers from the painting who seem to be darting from canvas to canvas to follow his progress.
When, eventually, he reaches Dumbledore’s office, he stands outside feeling awkward.
The last password he remembered had been “Strawberry Laces” but no door opens for him. He’s considering listing off all the different types of sweets he knows, when he hears a gentle hum.
“Good morning, Regulus Black.”
Behind him, his white beard just a little longer than Regulus remembers, stands his old Headmaster. “I am glad to see you this morning. Shall we go inside now?”
Regulus cannot deny, sitting in a comfortable old armchair across from Dumbledore’s desk, that he feels a little shell shocked.
As a student, he had very rarely gotten into trouble. His parents, while very much encouraging of his Dark Lord obsession, did not want him sullying the Black name through delinquency like his prank-prone brother. Regulus thinks he had only been called into this office once, near the end of his school career when he was only inches away from becoming a full-fledged Death Eater.
On the other hand, Barty, who had been implicated in several duels and thus received multiple meetings, had an especial spite for Dumbledore.
“He lets you talk yourself into circles, wants you to trip yourself up,” Barty spat once after a particularly long meeting with the Headmaster. “He just sits there silent, judging. He always tries to act like a father - all patronising and smug, when he knows nothing. Nothing.”
Regulus did not think that Dumbledore acted much like a father. Certainly Orion had never given him a peppermint and asked him about his Transfiguration homework.
But then again, Regulus was also pretty sure from the stories that Barty shared about his homelife, that Barty himself had little idea how a father should act.
“... the position would only begin in September 1986. We can arrange some sessions with Irma during the remainder of this year, to ensure the handover is smooth.”
Regulus still wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He felt very out of place, wearing slightly moth-bitten robes from six years ago that he had found in his childhood bedroom’s wardrobe.
“Why… why are you offering me a job?”
“Irma Pince gave me a list of former students she believed would be the most careful with the books.” Dumbledore chuckled slightly, like he was sharing a joke, “It was not a very long list.”
Regulus can imagine that. One reason Barty had been sent to Dumbledore had been after he had enchanted an overfull inkpot to fly around the library, dangerously tipping near every shelf. Regulus had felt a little sorry then, watching her dash around trying to secure the inkpot before it damaged any tomes. He had ended up helping her catch it, not unlike a snitch, once Bary had been carted off for punishment.
It hadn’t been the books fault that Madam Pince had scolded Barty for trying to perform a dramatic monologue next to the Muggle Studies section.
(It also, he understands now, hadn’t been her fault that Madam Pince had a Muggle grandmother.)
Still none of this is relevant really, Regulus had been…
“I was a Death Eater,” Regulus blurts out.
He knows Dumbledore already knows, but he cannot understand how they can have this conversation without saying the words.
The old man's face seemed to soften slightly. “I believed that to be the case. However, an… acquaintance of yours vouched for you. A member of the Order in fact.”
Regulus immediately regrets bringing anything up. He looks very firmly at the tweedy patch sewn onto the arm of his chair.
“It only came to light after they passed, of course. But they had taken pains to leave a document explaining your actions...”
The room suddenly becomes unbearable.
“... They asked me that some form of protection be offered to you after the war.”
For a second, Regulus feels like he is back underwater. Noise distorts around him like the air itself is thick, and his lungs start to itch and burn. HIs heartrate, already sped by anxiety, starts beating a full military tattoo against his ribcage.
He can't be here for this, he cannot listen to this. It's a voice beyond the grave and all the memories he forgot, remembered, and now wants to forget again. It’s a smile and cutting words and the most brilliant magic user he ever met. It's all the feelings and words he never said.
Most of all its guilt.
It takes all the strength he has for Regulus to stay in his seat.
He takes a deep breath in, closes his eyes, and finally says, “... the Horcrux.”
“Yes. It was a brave thing you did. I cannot expect that you thought you would survive long after defection.”
It feels like far too much praise. He had still been so blind and self-interested when he had gone to his intended death. He might not have supported Voldermort by the end, but he had still been so mired in blood purity and hatred. Looking back at the past six years, he does not recognise the person who entered the cave
“I didn’t understand even then… I still didn’t get it when I…”
Dumbledore lets him trail off, before speaking. “It was a start,” he says not unkindly, “and by surviving you have been given the chance to keep going.”
The old man settles back into his chair, Regulus had not realised he had leaned forward. “Your efforts cannot be known outside of this room of course. Speaking of the Horcrux and its destruction may only encourage copycats. However, if you are to reintegrate into Wizarding society, a job at Hogwarts -
(And the backing of Albus Dumbledore, Regulus thinks )
-will go a long way to helping you out”.
He takes the job. There doesn’t seem to be any other option.
And even though, he knows he does not deserve it, he wants to return to the Wizaridng world. He has missed it dearly during his exile. Returning even, just for a day, has felt like slipping into clean new clothes after a hot bath.
On his way out of the castle, he spots a dark figure down the corridor leading to the basement. Severus Snape, he recognises, dressed as a professor and somehow more grim-faced than he had looked as a teenager.
The last time Regulus had seen Severus, it had been at a Death Eater meeting. He notes that he still has both arms.
He wonders if Albus’ deal has extended to more than just himself.
When he returns home, he finds two surprises waiting for him.
The first almost gives him a heart-attack.
In the front hall, his mother sits. Her hair is greyer than it was when he last saw her, half covered in a black mourning cap. A silver brooch is the only spot of light on the outfit, affixed to the high collared neck and stamped with the Black coat of arms. Her dress, heavy bombazine with several folds and trims, hangs slightly too large on her shoulders.
Regulus remembers her wearing this dress on several occasions whenever distant members of the extended Black family shuffled off the mortal coil. It had always fit her then, and its stiff construction and structured layers of dark fabric would made her seem more imposing, like a Dementor made flesh and bone.
She was still a fearsome sight, but now his eyes were drawn to the gaps at the edge of her long sleeves where her wrists, fragile-looking and bony, peeked out like winter branches.
It seems that, at some point after his ‘death’ and despite his mother’s agoraphobia, Walburga had commissioned a lifesize and very life-like portrait of herself in mourning regalia for the front hall. He had only missed it last night, by virtue of Apparating straight into the kitchen, and then to his bedroom, bypassing her perch on the front hall.
The mood the painter had caught her in, seemed to be one of her most venomous. She had shrieked at Regulus when he entered for tracking mud on the (already) dusty floors and then began yelling at him about some long forgotten mess he had left in the study. Her portrait-self seems unable to differentiate between him, Sirius, and his father, and instead hurls insults aimed at all three with deep venom.
With a little amusement he realises, the insults meant for his brother - “Mugglelover”, “Bloodtraitor”, “Scheming and Disgraceful Blemish upon the Black Name” - now fit him better than they do Sirius.
He is sure the guilt the sight of his mother brings up would weigh more heavily on him if not for the second surprise.
There on the hall floor, dropped through the letterbox rather than via owl, lies an envelope elegantly addressed with cursive. The letter inside smells faintly of flowers, as if delicately perfumed.
Dear Regulus,
I was overjoyed, but most surprised, to hear that you are alive. I am sure we have many things to catch up on. Please send me an owl at your next convenience.
Affectionately,
Your cousin Cissy