The Prodigal Brother

30^th July 1977

Regulus Black. Future Death Eater, currently asleep.

Regulus is winning the Quidditch World Cup for the House of Black, he can hear Sirius on the opposing team behind him shouting as he tries to keep up, but Regulus is too fast and leans forward. His fingertips are mere centimetres away from grasping the snitch when he is ripped awake by what feels like his face being beaten into a pulp. He throws himself out of bed, scrambling to grab his wand, when he hears laughter. He realises that he’s drenched and turns around defeatedly.

Lucius Malfoy’s white hair is unmistakable, even behind the mask, he’s leaning leisurely against Regulus’ bed laughing as he twirls Regulus’ want around in his hands. Behind him Crabbe (obvious from his stature) and Mulciber (Regulus is familiar with his particular strain of high-pitched laughter) stand laughing with him, all three of them are in their Death Eater robes, masks already locked into place.

“You should work on your defences Black; you slept through our arrival.” Crabbe sneers in that thick, clunky voice of his.

Mulciber clearly finds this hilarious as well as he doubles over laughing again, “Lickle baby Black peacefully asleep, not a frown on that pretty little face.” Crabbe carries on, pleased with Mulciber’s continued laughter.

“Everything looks little to you; I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be that half-breed groundskeeper’s long-lost brother, you stupid oaf.” Regulus snipes back, angry at being caught on his unawares.

Crabbe flushes red with anger, and he moves to get closer to Regulus when Lucius raises a hand, stopping his lap dog. “There, there, Regulus, nobody likes a sore loser.” He murmurs in a silkily cold voice before throwing Regulus’ wand to Crabbe, who catches it with a palpable smugness.

Regulus bites down on his apprehension and says nothing.

He says nothing when Lucius grabs his arm and apparates them away, he simply grits his teeth and tries to ignore the harsh grip on his arm, the nails breaking his skin.

They land and Regulus doubles over uncontrollably, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lucius had made the journey extra uncomfortable, just for Regulus’ benefit. As the familiar cracks of Crabbe and Mulciber arriving fills the otherwise silent night, Regulus stands up straight, looking around his surroundings and trying to figure out where they are. He’s been taken to an unfamiliar place, a grassy clearing with a handful of trees spread out. On either side of their group are mountainsides, stretching up so high that Regulus has to crane his neck to see the top. Regulus has never been here; the realisation fills him with dread.

Regulus tries not to show how unsettled he is, a neutral expression masking his face. “What are we doing here?” He asks casually, trying to make it almost sound like an afterthought. 

Next to him, Lucius laughs and the sound makes Regulus’ heart drop, he’s been doing a lot of that tonight - and Lucius does not have a sense of humour. “Not we, Black, what am I doing here? That’s what you should have asked.” 

Regulus doesn’t ask again; he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Clearly, the others aren’t happy with his silence as Mulciber makes a sound of annoyance, a deep guttural sound that almost sounds like a growl. Quick as a flash, he whips his wand in Regulus’ direction. “Incendio!” 

Regulus doesn’t flinch as the stream of fire rushes past him, he can feel the heat on his face and it’s unbearably hot. It feels like he could get burnt from the close contact, but if he reacts, then they’ll do it again. 

Huffing Mulciber lets his wand drop, annoyed about the lack of a reaction and Regulus can finally blink. He can smell the familiar scent of burning wood, his eyes follow the beckoning call of the smoke, following the path in the air that leads to the burning oak tree a little to his left. He feels a pang of… something… the tree had been alive before they had been born. Stretching its canopy across the now smoke-filled sky. Soon its roots, which had curled around the soil for centuries, would rot and decay within the ground. It had been fine before they had come, but it would be dead after they had left.

Regulus is about to let his curiosity win over his power struggle and ask where they are and what they’re doing when he stills, as a werewolf howls in the distance. 

And then another howl and another one join the grim chorus, it is sort of beautiful, in a haunting way. But as more howls pierce the night, any positive feelings are swiftly eclipsed by fear. They still have his wand, and Regulus doesn’t think it’s an accident. 

One thought slowly creeps into his head until it’s all he can think about. They wouldn’t… leave him here, would they?

The mounting horror Regulus is currently feeling must show on his face because the three Death Eaters start to laugh obnoxiously loudly, with no fear about the werewolves hearing them. And they must have heard because the call of the wolves increases in volume and agitation… before silencing all together. 

Regulus thinks they’re coming. 

“Why have you brought me here?” He hisses frantically, eyes locked onto his own wand still grasped in Crabbe’s thick fist. 

“Really, Black, I thought you were the smart brother… This is a test, clearly.” Lucius drawls unimpressed, he doesn’t even look Regulus’ way, he’s checking the time on his watch. “Crabbe, give him his wand, it’s our cue to leave.” 

Regulus feels his heart drop, do they seriously expect him to fight off a pack of werewolves alone, he’ll get murdered instantly. Regulus knows he’s smart, smarter than most, but that intelligence makes him more aware of his own limitations than most people, and a pack of ravenous wolves is too big of a match for Regulus. 

Whilst Regulus is frozen with panic, Crabbe is speaking. He twirls Regulus’ wand in his stubby hands, a thoughtful expression on his face, one that is disconcerting to see on Crabbe to say the least. “I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s new.” Regulus snorts, unable to help himself. He feels the icy sting of regret instantly, ashamed of his self-sabotage.

Crabbe’s eyes narrow dangerously, his face growing red and blotchy with anger. “I think the Dark Lord would be more impressed with Baby Black here if he survived without a wand.”

Mulciber considers, “He is young… he should prove he won’t be a hindrance to the cause.” 

Regulus turns to look at Lucius. They’re technically family now, surely Lucius wouldn’t want his cousin-in-law to be ripped apart by werewolves, would he. 

Lucius seems to deliberate for a moment and checks his watch again, Regulus lets himself hope a little bit when another howl is heard. It’s much closer this time. And Lucius gets this look of… not fear, but unease on his face. It’s hidden instantly, but Regulus sees it in his eyes. And just like that, all hopes are lost. 

“I don't care, let’s just go,” Lucius says in a neutral tone. His eyes flick briefly to Regulus. “You can make your own way back.” He apparates away without so much as a second glance in Regulus’ direction. 

The other two shoot triumphant looks at Regulus before waving goodbye and apparating away, waving Regulus’ wand as they vanish. Soon it’s just Regulus alone standing beside a towering, burning tree.

“BASTARDS!” Regulus shouts after them, his rage and fear eclipsing reason. Once again, he despairs at his own impulsivity, probably making the werewolves speed faster. he realises he's mirroring Sirius too closely tonight, leaving an unpleasant knot in his gut… although it might just be the crippling panic. He stands, not moving, for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides, his breathing erratic. This is it. He’s going to die tonight.

All he can think about is the unfairness of it all - to die for a cause he wants no part of, to die without speaking to Sirius one last time, without apologising. And then he realises that if Regulus weren’t in this situation, then Sirius certainly would. And then all Regulus can feel is relief. 

Another howl.

It’s not far off now. 

Something snaps inside Regulus. 

He doesn’t want to die.

So, he’s not going to. 

Lucius had been right about one thing earlier. Regulus is smart. So smart, in fact that he can cast some wordless charms, he’s never tried this one before, with or without a wand, but he thinks the pressure will help. It has to. Otherwise, he’s dead.

Hurriedly he sprints over to the burning tree, coughing and eyes streaming with burning hot tears as the smoke thickens the closer he gets. It surrounds the tree like a force field. Hopefully, it will mask his scent. Regulus holds his palms up to the fire, ignoring both the shaking and the heat he can feel, “Prurientes ignis.” He whispers, he doesn’t know a lot about the fire-freezing spell, only that some witch in the Middle Ages loved the sensation, but Regulus doesn’t feel anything different. He can still feel the heat from the flames dancing on his upturned palms. Slowly, he points a finger and moves it inside the flame. Immediately he feels the burning pain and quickly snatches it back, cursing under his breath.

He doesn’t have time to mope, the werewolves will be here any second, Regulus is sure of it. Taking a deep breath, Regulus grounds himself, drawing up all of his magic and power. He reaches inside of himself and feels it, his centre, his core, his magic. And he pulls, he pulls and pulls until his skin vibrates with magic, and then he tries once more.

The heat tickles.

That’s what he notices first, how the heat bounces off his skin and his open palms. The tendrils of warmth brush against him, teasing and playful. He can see why Wendelin the Weird had loved it so much.

It tickles.

He doesn’t give himself time to relax or admire how his hand weaves through the flames without pain.

He allows himself one calming breath, and then he steps into the flames. And he climbs, and he waits with bated breath.

He can hear the pack of wolves tumble down the mountain. Over the roar of the flames, he can hear their heavy breaths and the loud pad of their paws against the ground.

Sometimes the flames leave a gap, only a small, fluctuating window into the unburning world. There are at least twenty of them, from the small visual that Regulus gets. He watches unblinkingly as they circle around the fire, skittish but with bloodthirst in their eyes.

Like restless predators, they prowl around Regulus' fiery sanctuary, stirring his sense of time until it becomes a blur. Suddenly, he jerks awake, still enfolded within the scorching tree. Disoriented at first, panic grips him, mistaking the towering flames for his childhood room ablaze. Then realization dawns—the flames do not scorch; they tickle. And the memory of his purpose floods back.

Anger surges within him, furious at his momentary lapse, his foolishness. What if his charm had faltered, subjecting him to the mercy of flames in his sleep? But fury quickly gives way as he’s pushed out of the tree and onto the ground by what feels like fifteen stunners to the chest. Spluttering and spitting water out from where he’s collapsed on the floor Regulus distantly realises that somebody had conjured water to stop the fire and extinguished the flames with such force that it forced him from the tree.

“Can I get my wand back now?” He questions angrily, still furious at Lucius for letting them keep his wand. He shakes the water out of his hair before freezing as somebody who most definitely is not Lucius Malfoy or any of his viciously idiotic cronies replies.

“I don’t have your wand.” Answers a bewildered-looking Remus Lupin.

Regulus curses immediately.

Remus Lupin. Werewolf recovering from the full moon.

              Remus wakes up moaning in pain. It's what wakes him up, the soft sound of his own cries of pain. As usual, he doesn’t remember anything from last night, he doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. He’s bleeding. The red runs in front of Remus’ eyes. It’s a new cut on his face. He can feel the sting and the dull ache of his face makes Remus think its bad. He’s still curled up on the floor. He hasn’t been able to move. A tear hits the grass, and Remus blinks the rest of them away. He absentmindedly thinks of saltwater. The sea and the tears. We are all seafoam in the end. Like in The Little Mermaid. Remus’ whole body feels like pins are sticking into each inch of skin. His mum used to read him the book, it used to scare him, his dad eventually banned the book after too many baths were avoided. We’re all seafoam in the end.

Allowing delirium to overtake him momentarily, Remus drifts into a haze until a flicker of lucidity makes him to find his wand. He barely has enough energy to look up, but still, he croaks out an accio for his wand.

It hits him squarely in the eye. “Fucking hell” he hisses in pain.

After managing to not snap his wand in half in anger Remus drags himself into a sitting position and manages to employ his shoddy healing spells, groaning in pain and exhaustion as he does. The constant thrum of anger and bitterness isn’t a new feeling, it consumes Remus whole, it's not fair. Why does he have to be Remus Lupin the Werewolf. Why did his dad have to anger Greyback, a flash of anger towards his dad shoots through him before Remus feels guilty. His dad had no way of knowing the consequences for his remarks. Remus had forgiven his dad when he was young, after he had heard his dad sobbing alone at the kitchen table each night for a week.

The smell of smoke, harsh yet sweet, invades Remus’ senses. He can only smell the distinct smell of a tree on fire. He runs. Typical Gryffindor. He follows the twirling ribbons of dark grey smoke as it spreads through the air. As it grows harder to see through the smoke Remus starts to hear the hissing of the fire as it dances and spits. The cracking, and he can see embers in the air, like a phoenix’ fire.

“Aguamenti!” Remus shouts, hoping to avoid a forest fire.

A powerful stream of water bursts from his wand, it does stop the fire, the flames dying quickly in a snakelike hiss, however, by that point Remus has stopped paying attention. No, his attentions are solely focused on the figure that fell from the burning tree.

He’s coughing, retching water up, which Remus supposes is good. He hopes they're not one of the pack, they had been cold and suspicious of him as soon as he had arrived. Fat lot of good were Dumbledore’s connections. Remus had the right to be wary. By the pain he’s still in, Remus thinks the pack had set on him instantly, he had never been safe, he doubts they’d be happy to see him now.

The figure is a he Remus realises, and he looks small, he can’t be an adult. And then he’s looking at Regulus Black whilst he asks for his wand. Remus is frozen in fear, he can smell it oozing off of him. They’re in the middle of nowhere and Remus is covered in injuries. Black is smart, Sirius always used to brag about his high scores, and Sirius himself is gifted – when he tries. It doesn’t take a smart man to work it out. But Remus is baffled as to why Black’s here, seemingly sitting inside a burning tree.

Remus asks him.

He gets ignored.

[Lupin?] Remus hears over the buzzing in his head. His eardrums feel as if they could burst at any second, and the sensation makes him feel sick. – Black is waving a hand in front of his face, but Remus can’t hear anything but the noise in his head. The pressure starts from his left ear and ripples across his head in bursts of stinging pain, like an electric shock along his brain.

The bastard hexed him!

Remus recoils in pain. “What the hell is that for you, pillock?”

Black has stood up, when did he stand up, and is waving Remus’ wand with a smug smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across his face, and he has tired red-rimmed eyes, no matter his expression. “You didn’t respond.”

"Well, pardon me for being a tad taken aback by your sudden appearance," Remus scoffs, extending his hand expectantly for his wand, which Black begrudgingly returns with a scowl. "So, what brings you all the way out here?" he queries, adopting a casual tone, hoping that the resemblance between Regulus and Sirius is enough to relax at his patented Sirius is defensive today voice.

“None of your business.” He snaps, his nose pointed in the air. Damn. “I suppose I don’t have to ask what you’re doing here… Moony.” Damn.

“Sirius always did say you were a smart one.” Remus says ruefully. Well Hogwarts was nice while it lasted. But a Slytherin blabbing he’s a werewolf, whilst Remus has already failed Dumbledore on his first mission – well there’s no way he can go back now.

“Oh, please, I was the one who told him.” Black snarks, before snapping his mouth shut, realising what he has just admitted to.

Remus' eyes widen in shock. If that’s true, Regulus would have worked out his secret while still in his first year. Anger surges through Remus, a sudden flare of resentment toward Sirius for keeping this knowledge from him. Why hadn't Sirius mentioned that his brother knew? What had stopped him from revealing the truth all this time, even after Sirius had run away? But as quickly as the anger arrives, it dissipates, replaced by a flicker of astonishment and gratitude. Miraculously, Regulus had kept his silence all these years, even after Sirius's departure.

Remus is reminded of earlier in the summer, on the last day of Hogwarts. They were standing behind Black in the line for the Floo Network, when Sirius was mouthing off as per, and Remus had caught a glimpse of Black’s reflection in the glass. Maybe his lack of tattling did come from some lingering feelings of affection towards his brother, the way Regulus’ face had crumpled in his reflection seems to suggest so.

“You kept it a secret.”

Black glances to the right, “s’not my secret to tell.” He mumbles, clearly very uncomfortable.

“Thanks.”

They lapse into an awkward silence, both unsure of what to do now. Remus is burning with curiosity. Why is Black here? Inside a burning tree?

“I was avoiding you and your friends,” Black says abruptly. His eyes widen after he says it as if he’s surprised he’s even speaking.

Remus must look as lost as he feels because Black soon clarifies the pack, how he had used a wandless fire-freezing charm all night.

Remus feels his mouth open and closing in silent disbelief, he looks like a goldfish. “What’s wrong with your wand?”

At this Black scowls, as if remembering who he’s talking to, refusing to answer.

Luckily for him, Remus is a stubborn Black whisperer who knows what to say. He hums. “I only ask because it's dangerous out here, without a wand. I’ll probably have to wait here with you until you open up… and I’ve been told I’m rather annoying.”

Black says nothing instead, sitting against the charred tree trunk, looking petulantly towards the sunrise.

Twenty minutes later and Remus has tried singing, screaming – still nothing. Black hasn’t even acknowledged him yet, so Remus changes tactics. He was trying to irritate him into speaking, Black is the exact antithesis of everything Remus is and stands for, he can just preach.

So that is what Remus does – he talks about werewolf rights, muggles, and progress, how the death eaters have got it all wrong, and how muggleborns are special, even more so than pure-bloods, because magic chose them. For some reason, magic chose them. He talks for what feels like an hour and Black still hasn’t replied. Remus looks over disheartened, he had expected the future death eater (Sirius says its only a matter of time) to snap out of anger – but instead, Black is staring at Remus, eyes wide and listening intently to each word.

This isn’t how Regulus Black is meant to respond – he looks like Sirius, wide eyes and pale, listening to the things he has never heard before with genuine interest. Not hate.

They meet eyes, both widening as they realise, they’ve been caught looking. Their eyes flick away. That sunrise is beautiful. Red sky in the morning sailors warning.

“They took my wand.” It’s so quiet that Remus has to rely on his heightened hearing. Regulus has drawn his knees up to his chest, and he’s staring resolutely off to the red haze of the sky. He looks so young.

He asks why they took his wand from him; he doesn’t ask who – too many questions will probably make Regulus retreat again, he has to play it smart.

Regulus doesn’t have shoes on, and he’s in his pyjamas. Remus notices it as he curls his toes into the ground, closing his eyes as he does. Neither of them have shoes on.

Remus copies him and focus on how the dirt and the grass feels underneath his feet. It tickles him and he lets out a chuckle at the sensation, Regulus doesn’t smile but he doesn’t frown at the sign either.

“It’s a test.” Regulus eventually says, he sounds exhausted, and Remus feels a spike of guilt for exploiting his obvious tiredness.

“A test for what?”

Regulus doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. Remus realises what the test is for instantly, no other group could be so cruel as to abandon a defenceless kid in the middle of a werewolf playground.

He doesn’t know what to say. “You must really want to join… if you’re willing to go through all that.” He eventually settles on, cringing as he says it. He should really escape while he still can, but he just looks so much like his brother, like Sirius, and Remus has never been able to leave Sirius well enough alone.

There’s a definite pause before Regulus responds, the seconds seem to stretch by in front of them, each second lasting double. “… yes, I am. It’s a great honour.”

His heartbeat skips as he speaks.

Remus can hear.

He tells him as much.

Regulus looks up startled by this admission, meeting Remus’ eyes for the second time in their lives. “Well I am, I don’t care what your half-breed senses tell you.”

Regulus Black is an awful liar. The realisation makes Remus laugh in disbelief. He avoided eye contact as he spoke, instead he stared resolutely to his left, with red cheeks and blinking eyes. If that isn’t enough to convince Remus, well the skipping heart supports his theory.

“Holy Shit!” Remus exclaims in shock, “you hate it. Jesus Christ, you really hate it.”

Regulus looks affronted, but his eyes have an undercurrent of panic. “No, I don’t. You’re wrong.” His heartbeat is erratic now. It sounds so loud Remus is afraid it will burst inside his chest.

Remus is loving this.

“I thought all purebloods were meant to be good liars?” He teases. “Even without my, how did you put it – half-bread senses – you have far too many tells.”

Regulus looks like he’s gearing up to argue but decides against it. A borderline desperate look appears on his face. Remus feels a little bad for laughing.

“My mother can just check to see if I’m lying, there’s no point in trying… there was never any opportunity to learn.” He admits with a shrug, yanking a stem of grass from the ground. “I’m alright at looking emotionless though.”

Neither of them know why Regulus is sharing this.

Remus tastes the iron of disgust on his tongue, “that’s awful.”

Regulus looks at him funny, but then shrugs and looks away, muttering about how he’s used to it now.

“Why are you joining… if you don’t want too then.” Remus asks, taking full advantage of the uncharacteristically chatty mood Regulus is suddenly in.

He scowls at the question, “wow, I had never thought of that before.” He mocks, a flush creeps up onto Remus’ face at his naivety, “it sounds so simple, you truly are a genius Lupin.”

“You only had to say it was complicated.” Remus grumbles sullenly, he draws his knees up to his chest like the other boy.

The crimson tendrils of the sunrise stretch across the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape. Remus and Regulus sit side by side, their gazes fixed upon the vibrant display in the sky.

"It's a beautiful morning," Remus remarks, breaking the silence between them.

Regulus glances at him, a hint of wariness in his eyes. "Yes, I suppose it is."

The sight of Regulus sitting there, so young and vulnerable, strikes a chord within Remus. He can't help but notice the resemblance to Sirius—the same uncertainty and longing for freedom. It stirs something inside him, an impulsive urge to reach out and help. But he has to be careful. Regulus is a Slytherin and a Black – he only knows transactions; Remus needs to make it sound mutually beneficial.

"You know, Black," Remus begins, choosing his words carefully, "I've been thinking. It doesn't have to be this way for you. You don't have to stay trapped in this web."

Regulus's brows furrow, curiosity mingled with apprehension. "What are you saying?"

A wry smile plays upon Remus's lips. "I propose a trade… of sorts. I can try and help you escape the grasp of the Death Eaters and the weight of your family's expectations. In return, you use your talents—intelligence and skill in potions—to create Wolfsbane for me."

He holds his breath, waiting for Regulus’ reaction.

His eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and cautious consideration. "Wolfsbane? You want me to brew Wolfsbane for you?"

Remus nods, manic determination gleaming in his eyes. "Yes. It's a small price to pay for your freedom, isn't it? And in doing so, you'll be helping me find a measure of peace in my own life."

Silence hangs in the air, pregnant with the weight of Remus's proposition. The sunrise continues its display, as if awaiting his response.

Finally, Regulus speaks, his voice thick with an unnameable emotion. "Alright, Lupin. You have yourself a deal. We'll find a way out of this darkness together."

Remus grins and sticks out his hand for Regulus to shake, “first things first,” he begins, as Regulus hesitantly shakes his hand, “I’ve got to teach you how to lie, or its game over for you.”

Regulus looks bewildered and already like he regrets agreeing to this stupid plan. But he listens and follows Remus’ advice without any complaints.

Skinning the children for a war drum – eat your young.