Listen Before I go
If you need me
Wanna see me
Better hurry
'Cause I'm leaving soon
Late May, 1977
And, as it tends to do, time continues to pass. April bleeds into May, leaving only a month before school ends and summer begins. Exams are closer, the Quidditch cup is around the corner, and students are getting restless with the taste of freedom on their tongues, eager for three months of warm, lazy days.
Regulus can’t relate. He’s allowed himself more stolen and secret days (or rather, nights) with James than he planned, but well, he’s human. It’s not the same as it was before, but it’s close. To his amazement, it's made things quite a bit easier so long as he ignores the part of his brain that is practically screaming every time James slips through the door of the Room of Requirement.
To him, summer means a number of things, and none of them include beach days or lie-ins. It means the dark mark, spending three months with his parents, seeing Voldemort again, the list goes on. The most miserable part though, is that it means no James.
Regulus has already warned him—no contact in the summer. No post, no mirror, no nothing. James had been surprisingly agreeable. Then again, Regulus hasn’t missed the way James looks at him in those moments they hide away together—it’s as if he thinks he’s going to wake up from a dream and find that Regulus was never really there to begin with. Selfishly, Regulus enjoys it. He likes being in James’ orbit. Most of all, he likes being the one James chooses to shine his light on.
Aside from James, things remain the same. Class, quidditch, Dumbledore, Slughorn, and that damned watch burning holes in his pockets and fingertips.
“You've grown so much since we first met this summer, Regulus.”
Regulus blinks, surprised, as he’s pulled out of his thoughts. He’s been doing that more often—losing himself in his own head. Whether it’s in class, or mid-conversation with his friends, or even with James, he finds himself getting pulled further and further away, even when he doesn’t want to be.
“I suppose I have—grown, that is,” Regulus stares at the headmaster, daring him to argue. “Killing things and almost killing yourself ages you. I guess I've grown up in that sense.”
Dumbledore tilts his head as he studies Regulus. He clasps his weathered hands together before speaking.
“You have done only what is necessary, Regulus,” Dumbledore says, softly. “I hope you do not lose yourself in the guilt of it all.”
The soft, golden light from the floating candles illuminates the surprisingly cosy, cluttered study of the headmaster. Sometimes, Regulus finds some comfort in being here, even though the majority of his time spent in the room is miserable. There’s just something about it. Something warm and familiar, after all the nights he’s spent sitting in this very chair, or studying and training alongside Dumbledore and Moody. Regulus also loves to watch Fawkes, and has wondered for a long time now how Dumbledore managed to charm a creature like that.
Regulus’ eyes track Dumbledore’s hand as it pushes a small, silver dish toward him . “Please help yourself. Sherbet Lemons are said to be good for the soul, or at the very least, a delightful distraction.”
Regulus shakes his head, his eyes locking on Dumbledore. “No, thank you. Why did you call me here tonight?”
Dumbledore’s eyes flash, the usual twinkle replaced with something more solemn. “Summer grows closer, as does the next step in the task at hand. You have already met Voldemort, but we both know that was not the end of this. It was barely the beginning, I’d venture to say.”
Regulus nods, his face expressionless.
Dumbledore leans forward, his tone taking on a sense of gravity that he seems to reserve for moments like this—moments where he’s reminding Regulus of the danger he faces. “Picture, if you will, a grand tapestry. Each thread is a choice, a consequence, a step towards destiny. You, Regulus, have been selected to weave a particularly crucial thread. The prophecy, you know, has chosen you, and it is in this very tapestry that your role will become most significant.”
“What are you trying to insinuate, Professor?”
“It is, as I’ve always said, one of those things that is clear only in retrospect,” Dumbledore says, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “But you, Regulus, must become the unseen thread, the one that moves quietly behind the scenes, altering the patterns just enough to change the final design.”
Regulus’s frowns. “That won’t be easy—going unnoticed, this is. Not when I have the family I do—not when I’ve already met him. You know what he said. I—I told you what he said. He’s taken an interest in me.”
Dumbledore nods. “To go unseen does not mean to be invisible, Regulus. It just means you must be able to hide your intentions, your beliefs, your values. They must stay hidden under the surface. You must learn not just to observe, but to be unassuming, to be as unnoticeable as a whisper in the wind. In other words, if you’re to be the unseen thread, you must master the art of being not merely invisible, but inscrutable.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Regulus assures him, his voice firm though his hands are trembling slightly. He begins to pick at the burns that are scabbing over on the pads of his fingers.
Dumbledore’s eyes sharpen ever so slightly. “Ah, ‘whatever it takes.’ Such a weighty phrase. You see, the path you are about to walk will not only test your bravery but also your morals and your capacity for understanding. It is a road paved with choices, each one more daunting than the last. And I do believe, in your case, there might be a particular decision that has already been made, perhaps even more decisively than anticipated.”
Regulus swallows. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing more than a fleeting thought. Sometimes, in the grand mosaic of our lives, certain pieces are already in place. One must simply navigate around them with a delicate touch. For instance, I trust you are aware of how even the smallest actions can have ripple effects? An unfortunate accident, for example, might leave an unexpected stain on the tapestry.”
Regulus stiffens, his eyes flying to Dumbledore’s
“Percy Parkinson,” Dumbledore says, his voice low. “We have not discussed it—I did not think it would benefit you for me to question you further about it, but it is a choice you made. One that will stay with you for the rest of your life, Regulus. Life, as they say, is full of such unfortunate twists. But as I mentioned before, every thread has its purpose, even those we wish had never been woven. The important thing is to move forward with the wisdom of what has come before.”
Regulus’ heart pounds in his chest. Not just because of the confrontation of his actions, but because Dumbledore knows. He shouldn’t know. “I—I had no choice.”
“Of course, Regulus,” Dumbledore agrees, his voice soothing. “And now, you must choose once more. Choose to be the unseen thread, the shadowy influence that shapes the world without taking ownership of the glory of it all. The fate of many rests on how you handle the choices yet to come.”
Dumbledore’s gaze softens as he continues, a touch of regret in his voice. “It’s also worth noting that, while you are treading this difficult path, the safety of others weighs heavily on our hearts. James and Sirius, for instance, are not just names but lives intertwined with yours. They, too, have their own roles to play, and while I can’t pretend to know the specifics of their individual choices, I trust they are aware of the profound responsibilities they carry. It’s a delicate balance, isn’t it? Protecting those we care about while embarking on our own perilous quests.”
Regulus’ stomach drops. “He mentioned them. Voldemort did. He mentioned them by name when he met with me. ”
“Yes, I’m sure he did,” Dumbledore nods, grimly. “It is a tangled web, Regulus. One where even the most carefully spun threads can have unforeseen entanglements. Just as your path has intersected with theirs, so too does the Dark Mark you will soon carry.”
Regulus’ hand instinctively moves to his forearm, where the Dark Mark is bound to be etched into his skin. “Things won’t be the same once I have it. I won’t be able to have them at all, will I?”
Dumbledore studies Regulus for a moment, his face lined with pity. For once, it doesn’t make Regulus burn with shame or anger. He craves it—wishes that he’d pity Regulus so much that he’d drag him out of this, take on the task as his own, but he won’t. Regulus knows that. It has to be him. When Dumbledore finally speaks, his tone is measured. “The Dark Mark signifies a choice made, a moment of desperation forged in darkness in order to grasp the light. I believe, also, that it signifies the potential for redemption. You are not defined solely by the Mark you will bear but by the choices you make in light of it. The power to change your own destiny—and perhaps the destinies of those around you—rests within your grasp. You are not getting the Mark because you want to, you are getting it because you must.”
Regulus takes a deep breath. None of this is new. It doesn’t shock him, but it still stings. He wants his mum, strangely enough. Even though she’d probably do the opposite of bring him comfort.
The weight of Dumbledore’s words hang heavily in the air, mingling with the soft, sweet scent of the Sherbet Lemons. In the corner, Fawkes shuffled his feathers before curling his head under his wing again.
“I think it’s time we test your abilities, Regulus,” Dumbledore breaks the silence. “Voldemort is sure to do so, and you must be prepared. I have limited time with you before you leave. There is no room to wait, not any longer.”
“What is it you want to do?” Regulus questions, suspiciously.
“I believe that we must push the limits of your Occlumency. This is something Voldemort is sure to do, and we must keep him away from memories such as this one. You’ve been practicing in between our sessions, yes? You know how to conceal them?”
“Practicing?” Regulus laughs, humourlessly. “There’s rarely a moment I exist without having my Occlumency shields up.”
“Then this should be quick,” Dumbledore dips his head. “But still necessary.”
“Go on with it, then,” Regulus nods. He stands, placing his wand in the pocket of his robes. “I have a Quidditch game tomorrow.”
Dumbledore chuckles slightly, rising and walking around the corner of his desk to stand directly toward Regulus. He stares up at the headmaster, meeting his icy blue eyes. The headmaster scans his face, searching for something he never seems to find. Regulus doesn’t blink.
“Legilimens.”
Dumbledore’s magic is typically gentle, advanced with a finesse rarely found. His magic floats—it’s almost whimsical, the way it feels and presents. So, when he thrusts himself into Regulus’ mind with a force that puts Walburga to shame, he can’t help but let out a choked gasp, the wind knocked out of him immediately.
Dumbledore moves quickly, dashing in and out of hallways and corners, tearing at bookcases and rummaging through shelves. Regulus has things hidden, concealed, and locked away, but the pace at which Dumbledore assaults his protections leave his head spinning, the feeling of nausea making it to him even as he exists solely within his subconscious.
Suddenly, Dumbledore approaches a bookshelf, an unassuming one, and panic grips Regulus like a vice. He responds quickly—too quickly—and Dumbledore is alerted to the importance of this shelf and the memories it holds. He pushes Regulus magic aside with ease and dives in, opening the first book he sees. Distantly, Regulus can feel the heat of tears trailing down his cheeks.
“You’re leaving?”
Sirius stiffens, pausing a moment before he turns to face Regulus. He shifts uncomfortable, guilt setting lines into his face. Regulus’ heart drops.
“I have to, Reggie,” Sirius tells him, and his voice is so pained and desperate that Regulus feels his heart break again.
Regulus shakes his head, feeling his cheeks flush hot and red. “No. No, you don’t have to. I’ll change—I’ll be better. I’ll tell them stop next time, okay? I’ll make them treat you better and then you won’t have to leave.”
“Reggie,” Sirius whispers, his voice sad. “It’s not going to work—nothing is going to work. I can’t stay here. I’m going to go mad or—or they’ll make sure I do leave, but not in a way I can come back from.”
“You don’t know that,” Regulus denies, but he can feel his chest twist at the lie. “They might change. It might get easier.”
“I can’t be what they want me to,” Sirius steps closer to Regulus. He places his hands tentatively on Regulus’ shoulders. “You don’t have to be it either. You could come with me, you know. We could leave together.”
“Where are you going?” Regulus questions, brows furrowing. “Andromeda’s?”
“No,” Sirius’ eyes dart away. “I’m going to the Potter’s.”
Instinctively, Regulus pulls back. His face contorts, bitterness and disgust taking over the sadness that was there only moments before. “You’re going to live with Potter?”
“His mum and dad said I can,” Sirius explains, quickly. “They said they’d protect me—they said they’d protect you too. Come with me, Regulus. Things can be different. We can have a life that we want to live if we leave. Please, Regulus, come with me.”
Regulus laughs, meanly. “Oh, it’s quite clear you wanted me to leave with you, seeing as you only brought it up as I caught you tiptoeing out the door. You weren’t even going to say goodbye were you? Just leave me to clean up your mess in the morning while you’re off gallivanting with Potter?”
“Reggie—”
“Go,” Regulus spits. His voices raises without intention. “Leave then! Leave me behind just like you planned!”
“Regulus, wait—”
“Get out of here, Sirius, before I call Kreacher to wake mother and father.”
“You wouldn’t,” Sirius eyes widen, darting to check the hallway behind Regulus.
“Wouldn’t I?” Regulus questions, his voice cruel. “I never thought you’d leave me behind, but here you are, doing your best to sneak off with your tail in between your legs without a willing goodbye.”
Sirius’ face twists into a look of grief and guilt. He hesitates, and for a moment, Regulus thinks he might hug him, or maybe even grab his arm and drag him out of the house. He wishes he would.
Instead, Sirius hoists his bag over his shoulder and runs down the staircase toward the front door. Regulus stands there motionless, looking as if he just saw a ghost.
Just as the memory fades, Regulus stiffens at the sound of voices from downstairs. They were supposed to be asleep.
“Mother, no, please,” Sirius pleads.
The screaming starts just as the scene changes.
James stands across the hall from him, one foot up on the bench, a hand over his chest as he speaks to Lily Evans. From above him, confetti falls, small paper mache flowers in soft purples and cool blue tones.
James grins at Lily, leaning closer to her, and Regulus’ grip on his fork tightens, his knuckles going bloodless.
“Regulus, mate,” Barty whines. “I know you’re stressed about the essay, but if you make it rain one more time, I’m going to strangle you. You can only cast those drying charms so many times before our jumpers start to pill.”
Regulus is snapped back to reality, tearing his gaze away from James’ glowing face and up to the sky, where a small rain cloud has begun to form, crackling with the electricity of an imminent thunder and lightning storm.
Regulus pinks immediately, grumbling, “Sorry.”
“Just cut it out and I don’t give a shit,” Barty shrugs, not noticing Regulus’ embarrassment.
When Regulus allows himself to look back at James, he finds Potter watching him already, quickly diverting his gaze back to Lupin and Sirius when their eyes meet.
Regulus watches as the Great Hall morphs into the Room of Requirement, dark shadows shifting into golden hues and warm light. Dumbledore remains still in his mind, watching and waiting.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” James whispers, brushing a curl behind Regulus’ ear. “I never have. I never will. I love you, Regulus. You’re a very good person, who bad things have happened to. The things that have chosen you don’t define you. You never wanted any of this.”
“But,” Regulus swallows the lump in his throat. “But if they chose me, they must have had reason, don’t you think? There has to be a reason why I attract everything bad. There has to be something I’ve done to deserve this.”
“I don’t think so, love,” James smiles, sadly. He kisses Regulus’ temple. “I don’t think the universe is that fair and just. If it was, none of this would be happening to you. To us.”
The memory begins to fade just as Regulus leans in to kiss James, and Dumbledore is quick to move on, going to the next.
Regulus sits on his bed, staring at his hands. The dorm is empty. The burns are bad to the point he can hardly wrap them around his wand properly. Despite this, they remain unhealed. Regulus sighs, shaking his hair out of his face before standing and walking slowly to the mirror on the wall.
He stares at himself, and despite looking a bit vacant in the eyes, he looks normal. Well-fed and well-rested. Not a hair out of place.
He raises his wand to his head and he can feel Dumbledore tense within his mind, unsure of what he’s about to do.
“Revelio”
The glamours drop, and Regulus’ reflection changes drastically. His cheeks are pale, his skin sallow. His cheeks have deep hallows in them and his lips are cracked and dry. Purple bruises marr his undereyes from lack of sleep. Even his dark, curly hair looks duller and more limp. Regulus continues to stare at himself, his face expressionless before he moves suddenly, punching the mirror with such force that it shatters, glass flying across the room.
Regulus cries out, blood spilling immediately. He grips his hand close to his chest and begins to cry—deep, painful heaving sobs—as he sinks to the floor, rocking back and forth once he’s sitting. In between his sobs, a word can be made out as it’s repeated over and over again.
“Why?”
Dumbledore pulls himself out of Regulus’ mind abruptly. Regulus is on the floor, breathing heavily, when he opens his eyes to meet the headmaster’s gaze. Regulus narrows his eyes through his tears, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he raises his chin to sneer at Dumbledore.
“Happy now?” Regulus spits. “To see how miserable and pathetic I am?”
“Regulus—” Dumbledore begins, pain in his eyes.
“Those were supposed to be mine,” Regulus whispers, tears falling hot and heavy from his eyes. “No one was supposed to see them. I barely have anything anymore. They were supposed to be mine.”
“They still are,” Dumbeldore says, gently. He approaches Regulus slowly, setting his wand down on his desk. The care in his steps remind Regulus of the way he used to approach stray cats in the back garden as a child, scared they would run away or lash out. “I’m sorry, Regulus. I did not intend to strip you of the only feeling of autonomy you had left.”
Regulus sniffles, avoiding Dumbledore’s eyes. Gently, he places his aged hand on Regulus shoulder.
“It’s okay, Regulus, to feel the weight of your actions. It makes you human. In the end, the pain makes you better. For you have remained yourself in the face of it all. All those emotions are proof of the love you have for those in your life—the yearning you feel for safety and stability and the intimacy it. Do not feel ashamed, Regulus, and do not feel stripped of yourself.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Regulus admits, his voice cracking.
“One seldom does,” Dumbledore murmurs. “You will come to understand it one day.”
Regulus nods, shame coursing through his veins.
“James was correct in his statement, as I hope you are aware,” Dumbledore tells him, quietly. “You are not a bad person, Regulus. I would say the opposite, in fact.”
Regulus furrows his brows, raising his head to look at Dumbledore once again.
“I believe that you will survive this, Regulus,” The Headmaster continues, “You were chosen by the fates for a reason, but it’s not because you are being punished. It’s because you are capable. It’s because you are strong and noble that the universe conspired to give you this task. Do not lose sight of that notion.”
Regulus nods, hugging himself as he remains sitting with his knees up on the cold, hard stones of Dumbledore’s study. Silence permeates the room again, months of pain spilling into it. It’s only fractured by the sound of Fawkes waking.
Regulus looks up to see Fawkes, flying gently toward him. He lands with a soft thud on his shoulder and nuzzles into Regulus’ head. The Phoenix’s face feels wet against his own. When Regulus strokes a trembling hand against his head, the creature lets of a soft noise of contentment and Regulus begins to cry. He can feel Dumbledore's gaze on him as he does, but it doesn't stop him. The tears fall, even when he thinks it shouldn't be possible anymore. There's something that feels very final about all of this, even after Dumbledore's encouragement.