And running to nowhere, pity that tomorrow all life will be a day shorter

In the next instant, four wands are pointed at him in menace. And don't care at this point about them trying not to use magic, don't care about trying to hide. If right now they have a Death Eater in front of them all these problems are of no importance in the face of a scythe-wielding guest.

The man looks at them tiredly and seemingly even defeated, but any sympathy pales before the horror that has reared its ugly head. There's no way a Death Eater can be friendly, not now that they're close to where the Horcrux was kept. Slowly Finley raises his hands, which won't stop shaking, as if trying to calm the wild animals that the four feel they are now.

It would seem that it is the old man who is outnumbered, his hands shaking and wandless, but he is not the one locked in the cage. He doesn't feel threatened, doesn't look frightened.

“Let me explain myself, my dears," Finley says calmly, looking at them with wise eyes.

“Don't you dare call us that, you rat," Barty growls, his eyes wide. He stands in front of the others, wanting to cover them with his body like a bear protecting her cubs.

“I assure you, I know how it looks," Gorn continues, however, "but think for a moment how many opportunities I had to kill or hand you over to the Dark Lord.”

“Playing the long game!”

“Not at all. Moreover, do you not notice my worsening condition? The way that vile mark looks on me? Would you say it looks like the attribute of a dedicated Death Eater? One who would do anything for his master?” The man persisted and smiled softly as he noticed the doubt on the young faces, “I understand your horror, my dears, but sit down and let me tell you how fate brought me here.”

“I thought you were a sculptor, not a poet, grandpa," Pandora smiled uncertainly, stepping back.

“I am a creator, miss, no matter what form my thought takes.”

With the atmosphere humming with tension, they sit down: the travellers huddled closer together while Finley watches them from his seat.

“It's not hard to guess that I went to Hogwarts," he smiles melancholically, "it just so happens that I was in Slytherin with my ambition to excel amongst the other sculptors. I was, I will also admit, quite selfish in my youth. My family was well off and it just so happened that such a position blinded me. And I found myself in a company with a young man whose plans were great. His ambitions were amazing.”

For a moment Finley even falls silent, shuddering at the memory.

“I wasn't directly in their company, more on the periphery, but there was no one in Slytherin who didn't know of an incredible student, intelligent, handsome and promising, Tom Riddle. Truly marvellous. And most importantly, standing up against the Muggles that were polluting our magic.”

“Tom Riddle…” Evan hushed by the end, tensing up.

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Regulus flinches and sees a shiver run through his family. Giving a name to a monster so human and endowed with a soul seems somewhat surreal. At the same time, it makes their situation more serious, as if making a nightmare come true.

A possible future flashes before our eyes: how, without Regulus' current connections, he could blindly follow a humanised monster that, like a guilty dog, would whip him with a whip, only occasionally throwing a dried-up carrot soaked in someone else's blood.

“Yes, that's what they call Tom now. His willingness to do anything to achieve his goals at the time truly fascinated me. I looked up to him as something divine, as many of us did back then. And I went after him, of course. I was weak, and Muggles weren't that important to me, so I was on the plus side, right?” The man smiles self-deprecatingly, sighing.

A woman's laughter and a child's squeal, a loud "Mum!" rings out from behind the closed door. It seems like a different world out there. Muggle, gentle and quiet. It's hard, even impossible to imagine how this man, a decent father and, as it turns out, a mage, could follow the Dark Lord.

“Once I met a girl who was like a blossoming flower or a bright sun that made my eyes hurt even through my glasses," Gorn looked in the direction of the voices, his eyes shining with tenderness, "Miriam quickly became my muse. First passion, and then deep love, filled every cell in my body until I couldn't imagine my life without her. I breathed her and wanted to live with her, so I told her about magic.”

Their faces must be full of shock because the man laughs softly while looking at them.

“You can't believe it? I still can't, but... my lovely wife believed me and then and marvelled at every little spell. When was an ordinary "Vengardium leviosa" enchantment for us? To her it is still something extraordinary. How could I not propose to this marvellous girl? She was my magic. I would have given up everything for a moment with her. There was no price I wouldn't pay. And then she told me she was pregnant.”

Even now, with her son almost grown, Finley laughs softly, and youth returns to the tired face, lighting it up.

“It didn't matter if I was killed or not, but no longer could I stay with Tom, who hated Muggles. I ran away, of course. Foolishly? Perhaps. But the mere chance of being with her.”

“You ran straight to her? Right after you betrayed the Dark Lord? Even young, he would never forgive that!” Regulus jumps up and the very thought of it startles him.

“Of course he wouldn't! For a long, agonising time I've been in hiding, every day preparing for death and saying goodbye to my family, to my unborn sunshine, to my wife, I still sometimes can't believe she's my wife!” He seems to be a second away from wiggling his legs like a child before getting serious again," however, I have never been able to get rid of the mark, after all, it means chopping off a hand... and I am a creator.”

Gorn looks at them and scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

“You must think it's pathetic, don't you? To prefer freedom to creativity, but creativity is my life. It's what I feed my family and breathe. Unfortunately, every time the Dark Lord tried to summon me - the mark stung and burned with fire, and when I didn't respond... it took strength. It took strength, but thank goodness Tom couldn't sense if I was alive, so eventually I came back.”

“What about the Horcruxes?”

Thinking of the dark magic they'd been searching for, Finley shuddered, his face contorted in disgust.

“I wasn't in Tom's group, as I've said before, but I came close enough to know that Tom... was wary of death, hardly afraid of it. And he did want to rule, so sometimes, when he was sure of his surroundings, he would mention that he would live a long time, almost forever... I didn't give it much thought, after all, suddenly he was voicing his dreams? I should have known Tom would go beyond dreams. And he was always a smart guy, always had backup plans, multiple options. Why not have multiple Horcruxes if he was that powerful?”

Finley then falls grimly silent, staring out the window, to where a sharp rock can be seen in the distance, its peak glinting in the blazing sun.

Everything is back to the way it was, in a way. They are still cautious around the man, especially when the latter, now somewhat more relaxed, rolls up his sleeves, but gradually their bodies lose some of their former tension. They don't drop their wands, however, not once.

They spend a lot of time with Henry, who with renewed determination demands attention to himself. This time it is not only Regulus who is in the crosshairs, but the rest of his company as well, forced to cater to the needs of a child whose mother is watching them with a keen eye.

“Mum, look what Barty's done!” shouts, beckoning, the child to show a particularly tall tower of stones that is held up only with God's help, but stands nonetheless.

Miriam looks at the structure appraisingly, and Crouch can feel himself tensing up in anticipation of the verdict.

“It's really not bad," the woman nods and smiles.

Later, Barty will boast tirelessly about being the first to get Mama Bear to agree with him.

“My husband has told you about his past," Miriam says confidently as she approaches them.

Her determined eyes glint assessingly at Pandora, who is standing closest to them.

“He has,” they confirm.

“Don't make the mistake of thinking we're weak because we're so-called Muggles. My husband may not be as strong years later and his magic weakened because of your dictator, but that is why he has me and I have weapons," the woman straightens up resolutely and crosses her arms over her chest, "so please be kind enough to show proper respect to him, who has welcomed you into our home, and our village, even if they are different from you.”

“Have we insulted him?” Pandora asks softly.

“No, he is soft, however I am not, even if it may have seemed that way at first. And I am very serious about keeping my husband safe," her red hair is like fire burning in deep eyes full of fierce defence.

“Madam, we know you won't have time to do anything against magic, right?” Barty stretches the question, leaning on Evan's shoulder.

“Do you want to test which will be faster, your magic or a gun bullet?” The woman arched an eyebrow, squinting her eyes, "You don't need to argue with me, young man.”

“We understand," Pandora says soothingly, "I'm sorry, please. But you understand us too…”

“I have understood your world enough!” Miriam barks sternly, “Finley suffered from that pathetic Hitler just as much as you did! Only now he's older and that bastard is still alive, and I'd rather it stopped. I want to be able to spend quality time with my family without the fear that my husband could die at any time from a tattoo on his arm.”

“And we're trying, okay?” Regulus replies just as harshly, "but don't take it out on us either. We're children!”

And in the same instant Miriam deflates, holding her hand to her mouth, looking at each of them with such pain that it echoes in her chest.

“Oh, my God. How old are you?” She whispers in a low whisper, hesitantly stepping closer.

It wasn't quite the effect Regulus was trying to achieve. Besides, he'd only spoken in the heat of emotion and had actually assumed they were old enough for a rather suicidal mission, and had only wanted to get Miriam to leave them alone. A bit of a miscalculation.

“Okay, maybe he was a little hasty with the kids," Barty shrugged, "we're graduating soon. So take it easy, madam.”

“Answer my question, young man," she says sternly, ignoring her trembling voice.

“Seventeen," Crouch answers glumly, averting his gaze as if he didn't hear the sharp intake of breath.

“Dora and I are eighteen each," Regulus inserts.

Miriam looks at them, tenderly and so sadly that they can't hold their gaze for long. It's unusual to see a woman who might as well be their foster mother temporarily, given their unknown length of time in the village. And it's worth noting, none of their group actually remembers or knows how a truly loving mother should behave, so receiving care from a nearly unknown woman seems... excessive.

“It's not that bad…”

“It's bad!” she interrupts, "First of all, you're still children! Secondly, for some reason you have to decide military matters! And thirdly, I was going to yell at you for that, but you're..”

“Lady!” Evan interrupts, "I know you're a Muggle and all, but we're muggles. We live in a more violent environment. Even without the impending war, we'd grow up faster. It is what it is. We're basically an aristocracy, we don't have childhoods.”

“And that's wrong! You should be having fun! You're supposed to enjoy childhood. God, you're supposed to be children!” She whispers and gently, slowly takes Pandora's hand in hers.

They stand awkwardly while the woman's quiet sobs break the lowered silence.

It gets easier afterwards, in a way.

Miriam is gentle with them, careful in a way she hasn't been before. She gently asks if Pandora will let her braid her hair, and takes her into the bedroom. Afterwards, Dora returns with a neat braid and a wide smile that is sure to make my cheeks ache.

“I've learnt the most embarrassing moments from Finley's dates,” she laughs, but doesn't share much, no matter how much they ask.

“The first time I went on a date with Finley, I think he couldn't shut his mouth for the first couple of minutes for sure," Miriam smiles softly, twisting a strand of hair around her finger in embarrassment, "I dressed as beautifully as I ever had. I asked my friends to dress me up and put on my make-up, and then I directly watched as hearts appeared in his eyes.”

“You were the same, my love," Gorn interrupts her as he enters the room. He walks over to the woman and kisses the top of her head tenderly, "but you seem to have forgotten to mention that you turned as red as a beetroot when you saw me.”

“Finley!” she laughs indignantly, "I have to look serious in their eyes!”

“You?" he marvelled feignedly, "oh dear, they just didn't see you when you were playing in the mud with Henry after the rain last night. I remember..”

“Finley, stop!” Miriam laughs, covering his mouth, but he keeps running away, "Don't you dare!”

“Don't I dare tell our guests how you finished playing while completely covered in mud and then came to me?”

“You were clean!”

“Not after that!”

And if they had any doubts before, they were dispelled after this.

Finley and Miriam's love is pure, like newly bloomed flowers, like the beginning after the end, like the smell of spring just arriving. Like hope.

“Should we go back?” Evan voiced the question that had been on all of their minds one day or another.

“To Hogwarts?” Barty asks.

“Where else?”

“I'm against it!” he immediately replies then.

For moments, silence crackles in the air between them, fuelling the growing tension. Everyone takes their eyes off their own business to look at the others. Everyone frowns and sinks into thought.

“But it would be beneficial,” Pandora pondered, biting her lip, “after all, there are a lot of students out there spreading rumours, and sometimes the truth slips in”.

“It would be risky," Barty objected, frowning, "there's a lot of Eaters out there.”

“A lot of them?” she grinned.

“Among the final year students, definitely.”

“It would be nice to at least talk to Dumbledore," Evan mutters.

“Ew, Rosier! Watch your mouth!” Regulus shouts mockingly, pushing the boy away.

“I know it makes you want to vomit, but listen to this: Dumble…”

“No!”

“Dor…”

“Mercy!”

“Maybe he can help.”

“Now you're just telling tales!”

They pause for a moment, just to laugh heartily, almost rolling on the floor, before the laughter becomes completely silent and all that's left is fish gulping for air at the ridiculousness of everything that's going on (and perhaps quite a bit of hysteria (for the most part)).

It takes a while for each of them to calm down (a few times one or two of them have calmed down, only to then laugh with the laughter of the others).

"But he really could help us if he found out that we didn't have tags and were on the side of," Evan makes a theatrical gagging sound before continuing, "light.”

“And that we'd want to get out alive, right?”

“We'd have to figure out why we weren't, then," Pandora suggests, "We won't tell him about the Horcruxes, will we?”

“Not right away, at least. Let's see if he's even worthy of our trust," Regulus nods, "will he believe us if we say we were scared?”

They are silent for a moment, pondering the old wizard's reaction. On the one hand, he's a typical do-gooder, but...

“He's clever, you have to hand it to him. He had to beat Grindewald somehow," Barty frowned.

“If we play the act right, even he should believe it," Black shrugs, "We'll be dumb kids who are scared to death, not that we're not.”

“All the more reason we can throw in bits of truth and it will make us more honest," Pandora nods and clarifies when attentive eyes turn to her, "we started to communicate more closely at some point, and then, on a dark night, Regulus comes running to us and says that he was promised a meeting with the Dark Lord, an initiation into his ranks, and we knew it was a guaranteed death, so we ran until we realised we could turn to him! To our luminary! Our God!”

“We'll definitely leave that last part out," Evan laughs, but nods thoughtfully.

“It sounds plausible. Can we?”

“Of course.”

They watch Finley's previously shaky hands calm down as if on cue, becoming steady as the jigsaw appears in his hands. Gradually the rough wood takes on the silhouettes of the future figure, rough and stale for now, but there is still painstaking work ahead of him.

The man's eyes also relax the longer his occupation continues. Slowly he begins to hum a tune vaguely reminiscent of a lullaby.

His gaze seems to stare into the distance, but his hands confidently continue their work until a goblet with two thin handles appears in his hands.

“Gramps?” Barty frowns, looking round at the figures around him, most of which are animals, "I don't mean to be rude...”

“He really does," Evan inserts confidently from his seat on the couch, lazily flipping through the pages of another dilapidated book.

“Shut up, Ev. Anyway, Grandpa, a bit out of your speciality, don't you think?” He critically examines the rather crude-looking goblet, which takes on a distinct badger pattern with every movement of the knife on the wood.

“Oh young man, specifically this work is not for pleasure,” the man replies somewhat vaguely, blinking a couple of times before the veil in his eyes clears a little, bringing back some of the focus, “it's... a vision.”

The attention of the room turns to him with the confusion reigning around him.

“I am a seer, to an extent, and my visions come while I work.”

“And why didn't you say something?” Barty was immediately enthusiastic, grinning broadly, “Look into the future and see what awaits us, how to destroy Horcruxes and all that!”

Gorn looks at him appraisingly for a moment before shaking his head in annoyance, averting his gaze to the goblet in his hands.

“The future is fluid, little one. One sideways movement, one variable and my vision no longer means anything, a useless dream. Besides, it's never anything more than vague silhouettes.”

“But you see something, don't you? And parse it enough to translate it into statues," Pandora joins in, rising impatiently, her eyes sparkling with a thirst for knowledge.

“Yes," Finley replies, looking closely at her, "you're gifted too, aren't you, sweetheart?”

They share a moment of panic before taking a careful breath and deciding that perhaps they can let that grain of trust settle at the man's feet.

“Yes.”

Gorn is silent and it seems like the next second the door will be kicked in with a particularly powerful spell, hundreds of Death Eaters will rush in and take them down, satisfied that they now have two seers in their ranks.

But that doesn't happen. The man smiles carefully, understandingly.

“I can't say I'm strong in my own abilities, but I'll help in any way I can.”

The sun sinks to the horizon, leaving the earth bathed in fiery colours, the beauty of which makes my heart race and my breath spiral in my chest.

Captivating music sounds in the village square. The beat of drums, the strings of guitars and the melody of flutes create an enchanting composition, which makes the feet, which had been rhythmically tapping on the ground, unable to stand still and start dancing.

So can not resist for a long time before the magical enchantment of the happiness of the inhabitants of Pandora. The girl stands aside with the boys for a while, not daring to approach the festivities, but she is the first to give in. A smile lights up her face, making her eyes shine with happiness, and then, inspired by the laughter around her, she runs forward, almost immediately finding herself in Henry's strong arms. Pandora laughs and spins the boy round, making him chuckle happily, throwing his head back to the setting sunlight.

Evan, Barty, and Regulus are in no hurry to join them. Their mood is more sombre than celebratory. The threat of Voldemort hangs heavy over their heads.

“We don't have much time left," Rosier reminds them grimly, as if any of them are letting themselves forget that tiny detail for a moment.

“And Finley's books are remarkably useless," Regulus adds, sighing heavily.

Their faces are solemn in their tension, their lips tightly pressed together in indignation. Their hearts are heavy in their chests, until suddenly Miriam appears in front of them like an abruptly lit flame, her smile fading for a split second when she sees the boys' faces. Just as quickly, she regains her mood and grabs Barty's arm, pulling him to her, causing a surprised shriek.

“This is no time to stand around with sour faces, young men!“ she laughs cheerfully, as the tune being played by the musicians in the square becomes even more active,” now is the time to put away all your sorrows and sorrows and dance!”

And, without giving them time to get a word in edgewise, grabs Evan under his other arm, also pulling him out sharply. Rosier, unfortunately for Regulus, had time to prepare for this move, so he drags the remaining Slytherin behind him.

And so the three of them find themselves in the centre of the square along with the laughing lady. Pandora is off to the side already dancing with the residents, her hair fluttering in the cool evening breeze. Miriam quickly takes Barty aside, making her twirl with her in a wild dance.

Regulus is about to retreat back into the shelter of the shadows of one of the houses, but Evan proves to have a different opinion as he grabs his friend's hand firmly and drags him into the thick of the dancing residents.

“No, no way, Evan!” Black growls, but resists, not so much by his standards.

Imitating the people around them, they begin to twirl in a round dance, jumping and galloping until their clothes are soaked with sweat, but despite this, their souls become lighter and a smile stretches their faces.

And before they know it, the sun has long since set, the wind has grown colder, and the animal world has gone to a well-deserved rest, but their feet continue their marvellous dance, and the strings of their souls are firmly woven into a single picture with the villagers who succeed each other.

Regulus dances with Evan, grabs Barty, and the next thing he knows, the old woman in the colourful bonnet is barely keeping up with him, the grandfather is on stiff legs trying to keep up with the young people, Henry is kicking all his legs, and Finley is twirling Miriam around so that her wide skirts are fluttering like the flames of a bonfire.

Regulus can't even remember the last time he smiled so broadly.

“Yes, dear, you're doing well," Finley whispers softly, not letting his voice get any louder so as not to distract Pandora from her immersion in her vision, "just a little more.”

Her eyes become glassy, milky white, shrouded in the shroud of the future, her mouth folds into words, but no sound leaves her lips. Her hands clutch tightly the book that was to create Pandora's link to the vision.

Watching it is enchanting...and frightening.

“What do you see, Pandora?” Finley mutters, looking into her unseeing eyes.

“A village.” she answers, after a moment, "This one. It's cold here, not like this.”

“All right, go ahead, keep your eyes open," the man encourages.

Pandora's head tilts slightly, her mouth clenched tightly together.

Seconds pass, but she doesn't speak, only grows darker and darker. Whatever she sees is not good.

“What do you see, Pandora?” Finley repeats.

Regulus leans forward from his seat in excitement and sees, somehow, what Evan and Barty are doing. The silence becomes tense, the anticipation of the worst electrically humming in the air between them, so much so that their palms sweat.

“Dora?” Evan whispers uncertainly, rising.

“I thought the ground here was wet after the rain," Pandora finally exhales, raising her head to the ceiling as if trying to see something, but her eyes are still clouded by the vision, "I was wrong.”

Seconds neither of them speaks, waiting for the girl to continue, but the girl is in no hurry. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, if it weren't for the bright sun shining through the window, a tear rolls down her cheek.

“But it's not rain?” Finley nudges her.

“It isn't.”

She licks her lips, tentatively and quickly.

“It's blood.”

Pandora comes out of her trance and takes some time to recover from what she has seen.

A frowning Miriam brings the girl a hot chocolate, and after a second's reflection with a heavy sigh goes to make tea for the others.

“She really doesn't like predictions and the danger they hold,” Finley laughs, shaking her head, “don't take it personally.”

After a couple of sips of the scalding drink, Pandora finally exhales heavily and relaxes into the soft, worn chair.

“How are you, my dear?” Gorn asks softly.

“Terrible,” the girl pulls, “when I see things for myself, I don't feel so wrung out.”

They spend a couple of minutes in silence. During this time Miriam brings cups of tea and leans over to give Finley a soft kiss on the top of his head (a second before she gave him a slap on the back and called him an idiot for making "the poor girl suffer like that") and hurries away, lest "Henry trash half the village with his mates".

“Now you feel so tired because you yourself stepped into the waters of time and it was some important, extremely significant event. When a vision catches up with you on its own, they are, more often than not, insignificant and short, so they don't stress you much. If a vision in ordinary life also caught you suddenly and carried the same meaning as you saw now, it would hit you even harder.”

“Have you ever had one of these?” Barty asks, flashing her eyes in curiosity.

“I have.I Finley answers suddenly grimly, averting his gaze, “If you'll excuse me, I won't share it. What I saw was not pleasant.”

For a moment they agree not to press the old man, but..

“Does this have something to do with the war?” Regulus can't resist asking, tapping his foot nervously on the floor.

Heavy eyes, full of unknown sorrow, turn to him.

“Yes.”

The silence stretches on for a long time, until they are uncomfortable. Pandora alone is in relative comfort, and that is only because she is incredibly tired. Despite this, she sighs heavily and is the first to break the silence.

“Grandpa, how do I know what the vision means? It's not hard to guess this particular one, but how do I dig deeper?” She asks quietly and uncertainly.

Finley's answer, unfortunately, satisfies neither of them.

“You answered your own question while you were asking, dear,” he smiles sympathetically, “keep digging. Go deeper in your vision, but hold on to the thread that brought you here. Take notes and memorise, think and ponder. Time doesn't give you straight answers.”

On one of the days when the sun is shining brightly, so brightly that they can't breathe, and the only thing they want to do is hide away from the scorching heat, Regulus and Barty are on an unpleasant mission to go to the forest to get some herbs for the local witch doctor.

Unfortunately for them and fortunately for Pandora and Evan, the latter two remain in the house to help Miriam prepare a celebratory dinner for one of the residents' upcoming anniversary.

“Why now, when the sun is baking so hot?” Barty howled in despair, but obediently took the basket handed to him by the witch.

“Because, young man, it is at noon that the Sun-Mother gives the plants the strength they must carry for the ointments to work effectively! To pluck them at this moment is to imprint the most energy into them. Now go away, go quickly, before the snake gets you!” wheezes the old woman, prodding them with a gnarled stick that almost hits Regulus in the head.

And so they walk into the forest under the blazing sun, which makes them want to hide in the shade after a few minutes.

The forest is not far from the village, so it's not a big effort to avoid the direct rays and stand in the shade. Unfortunately for them, plants still need to be found.

“Sun-Mother?” Barty grins, stretching, "Why don't we just give her some ordinary grass? The Sun-Mother will energise her, too.”

Regulus allows himself a chuckle, but nudges his friend with his elbow.

“Don't be mean," he begins, but is interrupted.

“Mean? Is that what I'm hearing from you?” Barty laughs, "Star, I'm not the one who's evil!”

Black allows himself to cast a deeply offended look at Crouch, even as he feels his lips treacherously quivering, wanting to stretch into a wide grin.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Crouch, I'm charming!” he exclaims furiously.

“Who would confirm that?” laughs the man.

“Anybody!”

“I'm pretty sure they're all dead, because the next second after you were "the charming" they did something to piss you off!” screams in delight because he knows he's right, Barty.

“Fuck you!" Regulus finally can't help himself and laughs.

“Oh no, you jerk, fuck you!”

The two of them hadn't picked much in the way of herbs. They'd picked a couple of weeds that looked like the description, but they'd obviously picked the wrong people for such an important mission.

Barty and Regulus, who specialised more in attack magic, had never seen the allure of healing or similar magic, so to say they were pretty useless here was an understatement.

But, not wanting to return to the witch doctor with the stick before the proper time, the boys laid down on the soft grass in the shade.

Barty lay with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, while Regulus made himself comfortable on his friend's stomach, turning on his side to capture his features on the very retina of his eye (he did that with everyone, just... just in case).

“Hey, Barty?” whispers Regulus after the minutes they lay in silence.

“Yeah?" replies Crouch equally quietly.

The atmosphere between them thickens uncertainly, as if something bad is about to happen.

“Do you think we'll ever be able to break the time loop?” Regulus asks, and he notices with embarrassment how his voice breaks a little towards the end.

Barty's eyes open to meet his. Worry dances in their depths, warming something deep within Regulus' soul.

“Why such a question?”

Black swallows uncertainly. Barty is always so cheerful, so optimistic, asking him such a serious, such a heavy question seems like an idiotic idea, but... he's as much his friend as soft and gentle Pandora, as quiet and caring Evan. Just as much his brother as the others.

He inhales deeply and rams the shame deeper into the ground.

“It's just... it's never worked out before, not even close and. what if it's just not meant to be? What if I'm supposed to be imprisoned in a loop until something happens?”

“Like what?” Barty frowns, but not mockingly, but as if trying to genuinely understand what Regulus means.

“I don't know! Everything was fine before, wasn't it? And then I find myself in this stupid loop, at the same time, and no one but me! So I've done something wrong? What if this has nothing to do with the Dark Lord? What if the problem is me? How am I supposed to figure out what I need to do to get out of it? Should I defeat the Dark Lord, become a light wizard? A second Dumbledore? Make peace with Sirius? Or is it the other way round, that I shouldn't get better? What if I displeased someone and was cursed, just to punish them. What if the noose breaks when I kill myself? Suddenly, that's the whole point..”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Barty jumps up sharply, causing Regulus to rise just as sharply.

“What?" Black finally gasps for air, not even realising he'd been choking before.

“First of all, breathe, Regulus," Barty holds him firmly by the shoulders, as if trying to tie him to the ground (he's certainly doing a good job of it), "secondly... And listen to me carefully now, do you understand?”

Crouch waits until their eyes meet, and Regulus nods uncertainly, petulantly. Only then does he continue.

”Secondly, it doesn't matter what you have to do to get out of this loop. We'll figure it out together: you, me, Dora and Ev. We'll figure out what you need to do, and we'll help make it happen. You won't be stuck here. This is one of your last loops, if not your last. And if someone cursed you, cursed you to realise your mistakes…”

Barty's voice falls silent, like the calm before a storm, like a brewing tornado, like something particularly dangerous. He continues in a whisper that sends shivers down Regulus's spine.

“If someone cursed you so that you would eventually want to die. Reggie, I will find that person and make sure they lift the curse from you and then kill themselves. I promise you that.”

And Regulus believes him.

There is a blissful silence in the house as every member, be it family or travellers, has dispersed for business, leaving only Evan and Miriam in the building. The woman occasionally rattles the dishes before she leaves the vegetables simmering on the cooker, once again allowing silence to envelope the house. The boy has collapsed on the couch after being refused the offered help and is reading a book.

“How are you getting on?” Miriam asks after he angrily slams the cover down.

“Useless everything, nothing we really need,” growls Evan and picks up a new one.

The woman's attentive eyes watch him, only distracting him. The guy rereads one sentence over and over again, but the information doesn't sink in when he feels he's under someone's scrutiny.

“What?" he finally barks, and then cringes when Miriam gives him an expressive look that shows the depth of her judgement without words, "I'm sorry.”

“I think you should relax, darling," the woman says calmly and gently.

“I don't think I have time for that," this time also calmly replies the guy.

But having decided something, Miriam is not going to back down, so Evan's opinion in the matter of her own relaxation is not important to her. Confidently, the woman stands up and grabs the guy's hand, lifting him towards her.

“We'll try something I usually do for recreation, see if you like it," she declares with a wide smile.

“I'll tell you straight away, if it's any kind of sewing or knitting, I'll say no now.”

It's not sewing. Not even close.

They're facing each other a little away from the village, the sun shining down on them and the breeze blowing pleasantly against their faces.

Miriam's feet are wide and confident at her sides, her hands are clenched into fists and bent at the elbows, a wide smile lighting up her face.

“Excuse me, Mrs Gorn, I think I'll…”

“Come on, kid," the woman laughed, "fist-fighting is never an extra skill on a young man's list of skills!”

“I'm good with a magic wand!” Evan shivered, backing away as Miriam strode towards him, confidence and glee dancing in her eyes.

“What are you going to do when they take it away from you? Do they teach you wizards to fight?” she asks and takes a swing.

Rosier backs away again, but his hands clench into fists and rise.

“Better! But still tentative!” laughs the woman and advances again.

This time Evan isn't given enough time to retreat, so he doesn't realise he's already lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the crystal blue sky.

“Again," Miriam reaches out and lifts him confidently to his feet.

She stands again with satisfaction as she watches the boy try to imitate her.

“Another thing," she smiles and rushes forward.

Eventually, sweaty and tired to the bone, Evan lay breathing heavily on the ground, but feeling full of energy at the same time.

“Merlin, Mrs Gorn, if we'd known you were so fierce," he wheezed, unable even to open his eyes, but his lips formed a broad smile.

He is answered by the woman's resounding laughter and a bottle of blissfully cool water that falls beside him.

“You got pretty good towards the end, kid," Miriam says softly.

“Oh, don't lie, you squashed me like a flea," he remarks.

“I never said you were better than a flea.”

“How rude, madam!” exclaims Evan.

For a moment they sit in silence while the boy drinks the water greedily.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he says when he's finally drunk, "I don't mean to insult you, but Muggles don't really need fighting skills?”

“Not really, but it's never unnecessary,” Miriam answers him, her voice becoming solemn as she continues, “but the world is a cruel place, kid, not just for wizards. It is for us, too. Including women, especially women. And I refused to be defenseless.”

Deep eyes stare into his very soul.

“And you refuse to be defenseless, Evan. You are not defenseless, even if it sometimes feels that way. Take matters into your own hands, and get rid of this damned dictator. You are your own power. Learn to use it. If you don't have power, get it the same way I did.”

Miriam grins widely, showing victory, strength, and confidence. She is the queen at this moment. She knows what she is strong in. Knows she is not defenseless.

“You think before I met Finley, the wizard, I was weak? That's funny. Maybe to you who have magic, we're gnats, ants under your feet, but to us mere mortals, sometimes something as simple as being able to defend ourselves is worth a lot. Knowing that I can protect myself, that I can protect others, makes me feel no weaker than you.”

Evan takes a deep breath and nods.

“Same time tomorrow?” He asks a little shyly and feels a warmth spread in his chest when he sees Miriam smile, wide and proud.

Eventually they can't put off their departure any longer. Almost all the books they could find at Gorn's are read, only the most decrepit ones the man left behind to carefully check, but nothing useful is found. Despite this the four were able to relax and rest to some extent (something they probably won't be able to do for a long, long time), so it was time to say goodbye.

The weather, as if sensing their mood, turned bad. The sun is hidden behind clouds that float threateningly over their heads. Thunder rumbles in the distance, heralding a storm. The wind ruffles their clothes, biting their skin coldly.

The Horn family stands at the very edge of the village and hugs each of them tightly, nearly crying.

Pandora's eyes are standing in the wet and the boys are not far behind, yet all of them are stubbornly holding back.

“Don't forget to visit the old Muggles, okay?” Finley smiles tearfully.

“Not for you to say, old man!” Laughs Barty, but they make a promise to visit the family.

Lastly, as they are about to go, Miriam whispers softly: "Be safe, my children."

And after all, they hadn't planned on crying (it didn't work out).

Hogwarts opens its doors to them again, no less ominous than their surroundings now that they feel the threat of death looming over them.

Attentive eyes narrowed with suspicion turn on them. The whispers of swirling rumours remain behind their backs, but despite the tension reigning throughout their bodies, they walk forward as calmly as possible, hoping to finish off Dumbledore at once and gain his support.

On their way to the Headmaster's office, they are unfortunately met by the four Gryffindors that managed to catch their retreat.

Regulus sees Sirius bristle, already ready to attack, not physically so much as verbally, and accuse them of everything possible. They don't have time for that, however, the weight of an entire Horcrux pressing a deadly weight on their shoulders.

“Not now, little brother!” Regulus sings cheerfully and obviously falsely as he hurries past them, barely managing to dodge the hand that is grabbing him, "Business, you know!”

“Death Eaters business?” growls Sirius, but goes unanswered, even as Regulus' heart clenches in betrayal.

Regulus is sure the grimace that contorted his face for a second before he hurriedly regains his casual look has not gone unnoticed, but no one says a word, even though they probably want to.

“Don't listen to him, let's see how he sings when we kill the Dark Lord," Barty whispers quietly in his ear, hurrying after him.

The Gryffindors stare after them, furious but partly lost, and Regulus doesn't feel an ounce of pity (he's lying, but maybe if he says it often enough he'll start to believe it).

The Gryffindors stare after them, furious but also partly lost, and Regulus doesn't feel an ounce of pity (he's lying, but maybe if he says it often enough he'll start to believe it).

After all, even if Sirius thinks he's a traitor, the important people in his life don't. The trio around him are always there for him, and Regulus knows that if they need him, Finley will be ready to open his doors for them, let them in and give them sweet tea while Henry recounts all the gossip of the village under Miriam's stern gaze as she hurries to make sure he isn't swearing.

“How shall we get in to see him?” Evan asked after a while, frowning.

They hadn't thought of that, to be honest. The gargoyle guarding the stairs to the Headmaster's office certainly wouldn't let them in with a simple 'please' (especially since they probably wouldn't even say 'please').

“I've got an idea,” Regulus replies, once they've stopped in thought.

“Surprise us.”

“Let's just catch him after dinner. He'll definitely be there and before he leaves we'll grab him. The main thing is to catch one and the others will follow," Regulus smirks and sees the others share his malicious satisfaction.

Regulus stubbornly ignores the stare Sirius feels on him. He doesn't look up, deliberately slowly cutting off a piece of potato and savouring it in a way that seems to be his life's purpose.

“I think he's about to explode with anger,” Evan laughs, who can cast glances at the Gryffindor and not turn round, “eat even slower, star.”

“If I eat even slower, the people around me will wonder if I'm okay," he replies leisurely.

“Even if Sirius explodes?” Rosier grumbles.

Regulus casts a frown at him, but slows down more, holding back a smile at Evan's loud laughter and Barty's clucking buns.

“Well, well, well, well!" squeals Barty, jumping up from the table, "the bird is leaving the perch, I'm running, hurry up and finish it, but don't choke it, Reg!”

Evan laughs even harder as Regulus throws a frown at Crouch's back.

“Go after him, dickhead,” he scowls.

“Understood, Captain!” he smirks, jumping up to follow.

Regulus can't help but turn to look at Barty, who is running as if his life depends on it (not far from the truth, perhaps). Even though he's not full yet, he can't get any more potatoes in him, but he decides to wait a little longer, meeting Dora's gaze.

Dumbledore is the epitome of calm when two guys whose faculty he doesn't like are standing next to him, but Regulus thinks his body must be hiding the tension.

Finally the Headmaster nods slowly and answers the guys before withdrawing alone. Grinning widely, Barty and Evan walk back over to Regulus, nearly bouncing in place.

“We have the password!” they laugh, eyes shining with delight, “you won't believe it!”

“I'm waiting," Regulus arches an eyebrow, and that's the only signal the boys need, because they grab Black by both arms, lifting him to his feet in a sudden movement, "come, come, come, come!”

“Don't pull me, you idiots!” He bellowed, but obediently followed, casting an unhappy glance at Pandora.

She must have seen his humiliating rise, because the girl smiles broadly at him, slowly getting up from the table.

With Dora behind them, they leave the Great Hall, walking towards the wall until the girl joins them.

“So?” She smiles.

“Cockroach moustache!” they whisper in excitement, “that's the password!”

Pandora laughs merrily, joining the cackling Slytherins, only Regulus shakes his head in annoyance.

“You're saying it.”

“We'll even sing it!”

“Cockroach moustaches!” Barty and Evan smile evilly at the gargoyle, but they don't sing as promised, the way to the stairs finally opening up in front of them.

Climbing up the many steps to the headmaster's office as if those led to God himself, so many were there, the foursome are almost breathing heavily, but their hearts are pounding in excitement.

“Okay, everyone," Regulus stops abruptly, lowering his voice to barely audible before they enter the office, "do excited..”

Crouch grins widely.

“...Out of fear, the species and follow the legend, our success depends on it.”

“We remember, Reg, we need him, especially his defence, unfortunately, so we'll do the right thing," Evan reassures him, sighing deeply, "we'll be fine.”

The rest of them follow suit, holding their breath for a few seconds. When they exhale, Evan steps forward and knocks on the door, opening it after a muffled "Come in."

“Professor Dumbledore,” Evan mutters quietly, sounding embarrassed, nodding, “thank you for sharing the password, we really need to talk about this... out of earshot.”

Barty coughs, hiding an awkward chuckle. Regulus shifts from foot to foot and stubbornly averts his gaze when the Headmaster tries to catch him.

“So what was it you wanted to discuss, Mr Rosier, Mr Crouch?” Dumbledore lets a small pause hang in the silence between them, “I assume it has something to do with Mr Black and Miss Lestrange?”

“Yes. yes, you would be right, Professor," Rosier replies quickly, "more with Reg.. Regulus, yes, you would have guessed what we're talking about, wouldn't you?”

“I can guess many things, Mr Rosier, the old man's imagination is vast, so I'll let you have your say.”

Nasty old geezer, Regulus scolded, biting the inside of his cheek. He knows how things are and still makes his hotly disliked Slytherins sweat trying to earn a modicum of trust.

“Yeah, yeah, right. Fair enough... well," Evan looks awkwardly at the others, as if in a plea to continue.

“Regulus's family, well, you probably know what they're like," Barty picks up, "especially his mother... she's just, here we are wizards, and she's straight up a witch and...”

“And at some point," Pandora continues sharply, stepping on Barty's foot as he veers off topic in favour of insulting the wicked mother, "Regulus and I became closer, and he confided in us...”

The girl smiles softly at him, to which Black shrugs awkwardly in response.

“And at some point he said that–" Pandora falls silent as her voice trails off.

"I was promised a meeting with the Dark Lord and a place in his ranks," Regulus continues coldly and aloofly, “she said it proudly and clearly wouldn't take no for an answer, but meeting him is certain death, even as a Slytherin I know that. And I don't want to die, you'll have to excuse me.”

“Is that why you ran?” Dumbledore asked, not missing the disappearance of his school's students.

“That's why we ran," Barty shrugs, "It's not every day you hear your significant other say that he'll probably die soon if he doesn't listen to his parents.”

They fall silent, waiting for the director to say something, but the man doesn't answer, hesitating.

“And well... we didn't immediately remember that we could ask for your help, but... You're not called a great wizard for nothing, so…” Evan looks at the director hopefully, and they all feel the same, despair fluttering in their chests, because if the man doesn't help them, the task will become much harder.

“And what do you expect me to do, Mr Rosier?” Dumbledore glares over his glasses.

Fury boils in Regulus, but he hides his hands behind his back and only then clenches them into fists.

“We…" Barty shuts up awkwardly, turning round in a panic.

They can't tell about the Horcrux now, it's too suspicious. Regulus isn't in the ranks, he can't know about them and it's unknown how aware Dumbledore himself is.

“We would like to be assured that we will be safe if anything happens to the Dark Lord, that you will help us, mentally and physically, if we are forced to join him. We would want to live," Pandora replies zealously, taking a step forward, "will you help us survive, director? Will you save us from perishing at the hands of the enemy?”

“Miss Lestrange, you must realise that I cannot protect you always," Dumbledore begins, flashing curious eyes in Black's direction.

“We don't need to be protected always!” she bellowed, blocking Regulus from the Headmaster's glare, "We need an assurance that you won't abandon us when we need help! That you won't acquiesce when we're labelled spies and traitors! That you will help heal our wounds if necessary!”

“However, you may be spies,” Dumbledore intervenes, “but I give you my word, Miss Lestrange, you will find help in my office.”

“Give your word not only to me! Give your word to them as well!”

The director sighs, as if pandering to small children.

”As you say. I'll give my word to Mr Rosier, Mr Crouch and Mr Black.”

“Very well. Thank you, director," the girl hissed in displeasure.

“Everyone will be helped within the walls of this school, Miss Lestrange”' Dumbledore replies calmly.

“But we have to beg you for your word?” Regulus objected.

“You know your family's reputation, Mr Black, and while your brother has distinguished himself remarkably..”

“So we're judging everyone?” he sneers.

“Mr Black…”

“Mr Dumbledore!” he growls, “You don't hear me, you stand by your judgement. You say that help will be given to all, and then you talk about my family's reputation? That only my brother is worthy of salvation? What about me? Do I have to die? Because I'm just like my family, aren't I?”

“Mr Black, calm down,” Dumbledore interrupts him tensely, “that's not what I said.”

“Well, that's what I heard!”

“Reggie, be quiet," Evan hisses under his breath, nudging him with his elbow.

“Shut up, Evan, I want to know. Tell me, director, what's in store for me then?” He doesn't look away, "What did you mean? Maybe being a Slytherin makes me evil? Like Voldemort, eh?”

“Regulus!” Barty barks tensely.

He bites his tongue, but doesn't apologise.

“I understand your emotions, Mr Black..”

“I doubt that very much.”

“But you must also realise that your family has held one viewpoint, one side, for generations, and while I consider myself a fair-minded man, I have misgivings in me about each new man…”

“If he's a Black.”

“Mr..." Dumbledore wrinkled his nose at the last name awkwardly, as if it wouldn't help his argument, "Regulus, please, listen to me. You came to me with a request for help and I accepted it, but also, like any human being, you need to prove yourself trustworthy.”

“I…”

“And how will he prove his trustworthiness, Director?” Pandora whispers tensely, “when he joins the ranks of the Death Eaters and his life hangs in the balance, or when he dies for your ideals?”

Barty and Evan's backs straighten in tension and their eyes grow cold and hard. Regulus is barely breathing.

“No," Dumbledore shakes his head, "Mr Black, Regulus, I know this may seem absurd to you, but if you could talk to your brother, I would consider it a victory. I can't tell you that you are safe from Death Eaters, you understand, but you will get help from me when you need it.”

Regulus feels tired, so tired, as if he could just lie here on the floor and die. He's not ready to face his brother, but they need a great wizard on their side.

“Director," he sighs, "I'll talk to my brother, but don't expect love between us, okay?”

“A tryst is all I ask of you.”

They leave the director's office, seemingly only more aggravated.

“Is this a victory or a defeat?” Evan whispers tiredly.

“I think we came out at zero,” mutters Barty as he crunches his neck.

“Are you really going to talk to Sirius?” Pandora wonders, and three pairs of attentive eyes turn to Regulus, sighing heavily.

”An insult is also a conversation of sorts.”

Because what else would he talk to his brother about?

"Oh hey, heard our family has been dark wizards for centuries, right? So, I'm to be given into slavery to the darkest wizard of our generation, who will probably torture me and most likely I'll end up dead, maybe even in a war against you. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I'm stuck in a time loop, forgive me?"

Yeah, no way in hell.

They sit on the grass, sheltered from the blazing sun in the shade of one of the trees. Evan is stretched out on the ground, like a cat basking in the warmth while the rest of them are busy reading (Regulus), doing their homework (Pandora), or admiring him (Barty).

Evan opens one eye unhappily as a shadow appears over his face, blocking out the warm rays.

“Lupin,” he pulls grudgingly, drawing the attention of the others, “what did you want?”

“Permission to sit down?” asks the Gryffindor, after a moment.

“Not allowed," Barty replies, frowning.

Lupin sighs, as if they're guilty of something, but no one backs down.

“Look," he says in a soft, quiet voice, "we just wanted to see if you were okay?”

“Fine, now go away," Regulus cuts Regulus off, lowering his eyes into his book again.

“We've never socialised, I'm not arguing, but I'm worried, considering the setting we saw each other in before your... absence.”

“Good for you, keep worrying from a distance,” Barty grins, “we'll be sure to rejoice.”

Regulus sighs, raising his eyes and looking around the school grounds until he finds the rest of the Gryffindor trio.

“Tell Sirius he screwed up when he sent you here.”

“I'm afraid I want an answer. Skip the details of why you ran, just tell me if you're safe?” He smiles softly.

This only makes Regulus angrier.

“We're perfectly safe, but you're going to be questionable if you don't leave us alone right now.”

“That was good!” Barty laughs, flashing a wide grin, "Run-run, boy, before we beat you up!”

Lupit sighs, turns and walks away, ignoring their shrill laughter behind them.

“He won't let up, will he?” Evan groans when he notices the stares of the other Gryffindors.

“Probably,” Regulus frowns and leaves a bookmark in his book.

They only get a brief moment of calm after that. Apparently the foursome aren't going to get a moment to breathe, because as soon as they send Lupin away, Pettigrew is sent in to replace him.

He stands there uncertainly and crumples in a way that makes him pathetic, but he stubbornly won't leave.

“Look... we're just worried that something might happen to you," he mumbles, raising his glittering eyes to them.

“You're just worried about your own skin!” Barty bellowed as his patience wore thin.

He'd been sitting still, leaning against Evan and obediently silent, only occasionally snorting in derision, but the thin thread holding him in place had finally broken, and now the wild dog was off the chain, dodging the hands of his friends trying to put him back down.

“All you care about is if we don't have a bloody mark!” he growls, nearly spitting, "but guess what, Pettigrew? We're not fucking traitors! Our hands are clean, but if you don't leave now, I'll strangle the hell out of you.”

“Tell your mates it's time to leave us alone," Evan adds, "Dumbledore let us back in and he knows everything is fine. If you're not happy with anything, go straight to him and get off our backs at last.”

Pettigrew stands there for a second, writhing in place, but finally leaves hurriedly.

“If Potter and Sirius come over, I think I'll go straight to the Dark Lord and ask him to kill me," Regulus mutters from his place on the grass, which gets three slaps, "there's no offence in telling the truth!”

When their free time allows, the four continue to sort through the books Finley has given them with them, but even those don't contain the answers they need. One of their last options is to go directly to Dumbledore, but their trust in him is still woefully low, so Regulus is tearing his burrs off more and more often, anxiety becoming his usual state of mind as the answers continue to elude him and time grows short.

At the same time, the school year is drawing to a close, the hands of the clock running rapidly each day, pushing Regulus closer and closer to the moment he can go home. The moment when he knows he will have to meet his mother and face the inevitable fact that he has run away.

This event makes a cold sweat stand out on his forehead and a bad feeling of foreboding pierces every bone.

Regulus fears he won't come out of this alive.

Then again, he's not used to dying.

Without conspiring, they pay much more attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts class. After all, what, if not this subject, will they need most in the near future?

Pandora attends Divination together, but it turns out to be surprisingly useless, so soon the guys are left to listen to the girl's angry tirades about ineffective methods of seeing the future. As they later learn from one book (which Pandora was forced to read as homework), not all methods are suitable for every seer, so Leistreige was just plain unlucky. That didn't stop her from complaining.

Regulus and Evan attended the study of the ancient runes, hoping that perhaps there might be some clue there. There wasn't. But the classes were at least useful.

Barty sought help among the knowledge of arithmetic, but his search was not successful either.

That was how they ended up in their current situation: lying outside Hogwarts in the shade of one of the trees and every now and then one or more of them would moan pitifully to express all their displeasure and contempt for the situation.

At some point Evan had a brilliant idea, as the others surmised, as he jumped up abruptly and looked at them with a wide grin.

Never before had they been so wrong and betrayed.

Regulus, Pandora and Barty looked at Evan with bored curiosity from their seats on the grass and saw the exact moment that he had his wand in his hand, from which a powerful and very precise jet of cool water flew out the next second, rushing straight at their unsuspecting faces.

“Evan, you prick!” shrieked Barty, trying to jump to his feet only to be doused again with a fierce laughter more akin to that of a hyena.

Regulus and Pandora, unfortunately for them, were subjected to the same fate. The former cursed his friend and threatened to disown him, while the latter laughed lasciviously as she tried to catch up with the attacking boy.

When they realised that it was impossible to physically get Evan, they remembered that they were wizards, and their weapons were primarily wands, which they had with them all along.

So it didn't take long for Evan to be the only one dry, he soon stopped feeling victorious when cold water poured down on him from three sides, forcing him to defend himself.

This was the sight from the outside: three Slytherins and one Ravenclaw girl, about to graduate from Hogwarts, standing in the street of the most prestigious wizarding school, splashing each other with water like little children.

The break from the Gryffindors, which doesn't surprise them in the slightest, couldn't have been long enough, so no one is particularly shocked when Potter appears on the horizon as they relax in the sunshine in glorious weather, marred only by the boy's arrival.

“And I thought this day would be quiet,” Pandora sulked, but didn't take her eyes off her knitting, “what do you want?”

“I guess there's no point in me asking if I can sit with you, is there?” he mumbles shyly.

“Good for you, learning from Lupin's mistakes,” Regulus drawls mockingly, settling himself comfortably near Evan's feet.

“It's a good thing I don't need permission," Potter continues cheerfully and drops to the ground, but a little further away from them.

Luckily for him, all four of them are feeling rather lazy in the sun, so they only cast venomous glances at him and stop talking.

Potter, however, is not at all embarrassed by this, because he is perfectly fine with his mission: “Talking to the air”, since no one answers him.

“Excellent!” he exclaims after about five minutes of meaningless conversation, “I understand when I'm not welcome, but don't make the mistake of thinking this is your victory, I'll be back.”

“Don't bother, we won't die from this loss," Barty waves his hand at him, yawning, "you don't have to come back.”

If only it were that simple.

Once again, they get a temporary respite.

They soon run out of books, lying in a useless heap. Certainly they have found enough useful spells as well as ugly descriptions of the thoughts of old wizards long dead. Not a word about Horcruxes.

Gradually they just lose hope, continuing to read more out of habit than in any real attempt to find anything.

When they have enough free time for a long journey, they visit the Gorn family.

Sometimes only Pandora goes there alone, because the Slytherins are busy keeping up the image of obedient 'villains'. She always comes back happier than she was before, with a beautifully braided braid and a couple of wildflowers woven into her hair, and along with new knowledge about the skill of foresight.

Barty and Evan didn't miss the chance to visit just the two of them. They return with wooden figurines that look shoddy, which is quickly explained by the fact that they made them themselves.

When Regulus finally gets the chance to visit the Muggle village, he's ready to admit at least to himself that he's been looking forward to it.

Finley greets him like a native son, hugging him tightly and not letting go for a long time (Regulus holds on just as tightly, but no one needs to know that anymore).

Miriam ruffles his hair gently and laughs when he looks at her angrily. The woman escorts him into the house, where fresh potato pies appear on the table, so tender they melt in your mouth.

Once Henry sees him, the child becomes as clingy as the most tenacious glue, not letting Regulus go for a moment. When he desperately asks the baby's parents for help, they only laugh in response.

“Don't worry,'” Miriam chuckles as she takes pictures, “he's also stuck to Pandora, Evan and Barty!”

“It's not helping! Unhook him!” with only a little struggle Regulus pulls, but helps Henry onto his back, where the baby is bouncing excitedly.

This day in a small Muggle village, far away from civilisation and magic, Regulus spends it as the best holiday ever. He helps cook, plays with Henry, and gets dirty in the mud (not willingly, it should be noted) when a torrential downpour hits them.

At the end of the day, tired but content with his whole being, Regulus hears Miriam whisper softly to Finley, "It's like we have four more children in the moment."

And it makes his heart feel warm. It's nice to have a loving family.

The Gryffindors give them some time off from their 'marvellous' company, but that doesn't mean the foursome can breathe easy, unfortunately.

In their place, they are now approached by none other than the director himself.

“My dears, may I invite you to keep me company over a cup of tea in my office,” he says softly, but they all realise that the foursome have only one option for a response.

None of the interrogation they were expecting follows this invitation.

On the contrary, Dumbledore chats sweetly enough with them about how their days at Hogwarts are going, not even mentioning the heavy topic hanging over them. Gradually, the students' backs lose some of their tension, only to return with redoubled vigour when the Headmaster finally speaks:

“So, Mr Black, the end of the school year is approaching..”

Part of his soul, the part that hasn't lost the rest of his childish, naive faith in the people around him, he hopes that right now Dumbledore will suggest that he stay at Hogwarts for the summer. Never to leave it and be safe here.

However, Regulus has long ago learnt to smother that silly child inside him that sometimes tries desperately to surface. This time he does the same: he pushes at that part of himself with such force that he feels a phantom pain in his chest, but hope obediently dies in his chest.

“Which means you're about to go home..”

“What's your point, Director?” he asks tiredly, preparing for the worst.

Evan and Pandora, sitting on either side of him, do not snuggle closer, as Regulus is sure they would like to, but place their hands in his lap, so that Dumbledore cannot see the gesture of comfort. It helps faintly, but at least it grounds him a little, encourages him to take a breath.

“Don't worry so much, Mr Black, I'm not a villain," the Headmaster replies gently, "I can't let you stay at Hogwarts because it would arouse the suspicions not only of your parents, but of the teachers and Voldemort himself, but I can promise you something else.”

Regulus looks up, something resembling a seed of hope springing to life in his chest with a faint trill. The glittering gaze hidden behind the crescent glasses turned back at him, a fierce wave of desire to help.

“I promise you that you will be as safe as I can make you," Dumbledore said and gave him a tiny smile.

“I'm sorry, Director, but you must realise that there will be no security in that house. Not after what I've done. I would also like to point out that you have promised us this before.”

For a moment there is silence between them, heavy and grim. Dumbledore nods grimly, instead Regulus' gut twists into a tight knot. Another second and he'll go vomit at the helplessness of his situation.

The mere thought of having to go home (which he doesn't even want to call home), meet his mother's gaze and... He knows as soon as the door slams behind him, he'll die. If not literally, he will crave it badly, desperately, with every cell of his body.

He will lie on the floor, the cold, wooden floor, so many times marred by his and Sirius's blood, and beg for forgiveness, but his mother will look down at him and frown. Just like she always does. Until she thinks he's been punished enough.

He will be cut off from the world and no Dumbledore, like a wizard from a silly children's fairy tale, will come and rescue him, idiot child deep in his heart be damned. If Dumbledore did come, it would only be to pick up his cold corpse.

On the other hand, no one would want him dead. So why would the Headmaster even bother? He didn't even care about Regulus now, and when he got back to the house.....

“Mr Black," he was brought back to reality by a sharp voice.

Only then does he realise that he's still sitting in the Headmaster's office, shaking.

What a shame.

He must not have answered for a while, because Dumbledore looks even a little alarmed.

Evan, Barty and Pandora show nothing on their faces, but Regulus knows from their body language that they are on edge, the sharp nails digging into his arm not helping to dispel that conclusion.

“Excuse me, Director, what were you saying?” Regulus asks innocently, even though his voice is cracking.

Dumbledore, bless his senile soul, doesn't comment on it, though he probably notices, and holds out a rather large jar, which proves heavy when Black takes it in his hand.

“It's a healing ointment. An unusual one given by Madam Pomfrey, of my own making," he adds, sighing heavily, "I realise I can't protect you from what goes on in the house, Mr Black…”

Except that he can.

Only if he wanted to.

He'd get Regulus out of there.

He'd save him.

God, shut up, you're not in a fairy tale! No-one's going to save you!

No-one wants to save you.

“..but I can help you deal with the aftermath," the Headmaster finishes gently, "if you need a refill. contact me, Mr Black.”

With that, the heavy, sombre topic is set aside. Dumbledore returns to the grey school routine and after a while even tells the foursome a few stories from his youth, which draw sharp chuckles out of them a couple of times.

Eventually tea time comes to an end and the Headmaster escorts them to the end of the stairs, gently stopping Regulus when the others have moved a little further away.

“Be careful, Mr Black,” the old man whispers.

“Yeah,” Regulus mutters, “I will.”

He jerks his hand away sharply when Dumbledore reaches for it, and hurriedly catches up with the others.

Regulus is sitting in the library, doing one of his many homework assignments, when Potter himself falls beside him with a heavy thud.

“Phew, what a transfiguration today, eh? McGonagall is a beast!” he laughed, and looked expectantly at the Slytherin like a little puppy.

He mumbles evasively in response, but even that pathetic response is enough for the Gryffindor as he continues talking with renewed vigour.

Unfortunately for him, happy talk isn't Regulus's speciality, it's just background noise, so before long (barely a couple of minutes have passed) he turns angrily to Potter and quietly barks at him to shut up. There should be silence in the library, after all.

“Wow, you're listening to me!” Potter is not discouraged and opens his mouth again, but Regulus hurriedly gathers his things and leaves.

“Go worry about your idiot friends and leave me and my friends alone, you prat.”

“I can feel you warming up to me!” He hears Potter's taunt flying back at him.

And if that was the end of the Gryffindor's silly pestering, life would be easier, but no such luck.

Potter has latched on like a very persistent leech and refuses to back off, so much so that he seems to follow the Slytherins everywhere: in class, outside, in the dining hall, it seems like he's everywhere.

They tried to curse him a couple of times, but soon enough they stopped trying because a) they didn't want to lose faculty points,

b) didn't want to get detention,

c) Potter's three idiot friends looked a step away from revenge.

And given that they had enough on their plate, they didn't want to put up with a war with four Gryffindors.

So the weeks went by, more and more of their nerve cells lost in the stress of the approaching X moment and the persistence of the Gryffindors. Eventually, however, they came up with an idea that made more sense than running away from Potter.

“Technically, we're on the same side as them now," Evan muttered thoughtfully, looking down at the floor with a frown.

“So? They still piss me off," Regulus drawls back, stretching out on the couch.

“They do, but," Pandora's eyes light up in delight, "if we gave the impression that we were befriending them, we'd get all sorts of perks! For example, faculty unity, which would help if we were attacked. Dumbledore would stop frowning at us as enemies of the people because we'd befriended not just Gryffindors, but Potter and, what's more, your brother, Reg!”

“And really, that could work!” laughs excitedly, "The old man would be more favourable to us because we've come over to the light side.”

“"Favoured," Barty? Do you know those words?” Regulus scoffs, for which he receives a powerful kick in the ribs that leaves him insulting the entirety of humanity in existence.

“And, well, given that we're working to ideally not just overthrow but kill the Dark Lord, having them on our side will be good for us," Pandora nods.

“At least they won't fuck with us in the process, because they'll know we're our own!” Barty smirks.

So they come to the decision that rather than running away from Potter, they can run towards (Merlin forbid) him.

It never rains but it pours, everyone always says.

This expression applies to the current situation: along with Potter comes Lupin, Pettigrew and Sirius.

Fortunately, so far only Potter has stuck to the four, but it is worth it to him to realise that he is now almost welcome in the company, the appearance of the other three will not be long in coming. At least now they can exhale with some semblance of calm.

“No curses?” Potter smiles when, worth his coming, he is not immediately chased away.

“I hope to never see you again,” Regulus offers him with great enthusiasm, flashing him a wide grin.

“Seeing you smiling is far more intimidating than seeing you serious,” the Gryffindor replies with dramatic consternation.

“Don't give him ideas!” Pandora immediately rebukes him, laughing.

Seeing little resistance, Potter sits down at the same table with him and, to his great surprise, even finds himself drawn into some discussion that, in its ridiculousness, could compete with the passwords to the old powerful wizard's office.

People come and go from the library. At some point Lupin joins them, but does not actively show himself, because he really came to study, unlike his unnamed and absolutely unknown friend, who has joined the company of Slytherins and a Ravenclaw girl.

Pandora and Evan are busy distracting Potter, which is starting to be satisfying for themselves as well, while Regulus (who is about as far from wanting to get close to Potter as possible) and Barty (who is just plain mean) are busy looking for information in the books that the school library offers in the public domain (and considering they're looking for a connection to very dark magic, that number is woefully small).

Eventually, with a heavy sigh, Barty sets the book aside and throws his head back. A little while later, Regulus does the same, absolutely furious at the lack of results.

“Honestly, if I don't find something useful in those bastard books, I'm going straight to the dickhead Damb..." in a fit of anger, he even forgot that there were two Gryffindors sitting at the table with them before he cut himself off abruptly.

“Since you're in a good mood, do you mind if I ask,” Potter begins delicately when Lupin also takes a break from his reading and looks interested, “what are you looking for anyway? As I don't see you, you're in books.”

“Objection," Evan replies simply and calmly, "maybe one day we'll tell you, but for now it's private.”

For a moment the Gryffindors look at them, squinting, as if hoping to read the answers in their eyes, but to no avail. Finally they nod meekly, accepting what they've been told, and go back to their business.

In Potter's case, it's to harass not two but four people now (Regulus sighs heavily, but eventually perks up when it comes to Quidditch. And if Potter looks like a winner at this point, he's just lucky because Black is in a good mood today.

That's all.

Nothing more.)

Dumbledore keeps a close eye on them, but once Potter was actively involved in the team, the attention became less intense (although at first it became even more intense. Where had he ever seen a Gryffindor hanging out with a Slytherin?)

Gradually, the rest of Potter's gang joined them. At first Lupin joins them in the library more and more often, until his presence outside the library becomes familiar enough that he isn't met with glares of disbelief.

Pettigrew and Sirius, like a thunderclap, appear together unexpectedly one day and just... don't leave.

Regulus actively pretends that his brother isn't around, which, he must admit, is the most beneficial pattern of behaviour for all members of this unlikely collective.

Sirius must not have picked up on the clue, because he seeks to talk to the younger man, even if it is done only to hurt and tease, to which Regulus refuses to respond in any way.

In parallel, the time to go home is getting closer and it's actively affecting the Black brothers. Sirius doesn't seem to care much: he's long since run away and is happily spending his time away from school with the Potters, not worrying about anything. Regulus, on the other hand, is increasingly shut down. He reads to escape from reality and not to remember the cold walls of the house and the curses approaching his body. His voice is barely louder than a whisper, but that doesn't stop him from being continuously angry and prickly, eager to strike at all the painful places of others, just so that he isn't the only one suffering.

Only Evan, Barty and Pandora have escaped this fate, because Regulus would rather kill himself than hurt them and, to his deep shame, the four (more like three, because he ignores Sirius even more than he did before) Gryffindors, because Pandora won't let him be too mean to the people he's close to (and that hapless trio has unfortunately become close enough to them. At least physically.)

A little relaxation now and then is helped by Regulus' visits to the Gorn family, but those are becoming less and less frequent as the guy tends not to snap at them.

“Is it so bad to come home?” Henry asks innocently and childishly one day.

And Regulus doesn't know how to explain to the happy, favourite child that not all parents are like his.

“Do you need to come home?” Finley clarifies a little too seriously a little later, before he leaves.

“Of course it's my home," Regulus lies shamelessly.

He realises from the look in the man's eyes that he wasn't fooled.

“I can't be suspected," he replies in a whisper, "If I run away and then have to join… him, it'll be harder.”

“You don't have to join him.”

Finley's voice is shaking, breaking like broken glass, and it makes Regulus's heart ache, but he shakes his head stubbornly, even if his head has to be lowered so his tears can't be seen.

“I'm Black," the Slytherin replies quietly, "I'll be the easiest to join his ranks.”

“You'll have a hard time," Gorn shakes his head and smiles sadly as incredulous, tear-filled eyes turn to him.

The man comes closer, and in the light of the setting sun he looks like a guardian angel, determined to help the hapless, desperate boy.

“You're a good man, Regulus. That's why, no matter who your family is, it's going to be hard for you," they whisper to him in a fatherly gentle whisper, "I can't talk you out of it, because it's your decision, but…”

Strong hands that, despite everything, almost never stop shaking, fall on his shoulders, squeezing briefly, giving him much needed support. It makes him want to cry even more.

Regulus couldn't imagine how he would live through those miserable months of summer without it: without unconditional love, without warm touches that were not intended to hurt the next moment, without tender words of encouragement. How will he then have to get used to eyes again that are not like blocks of ice, that look at him with a parental love never before known to a lonely heart?

“But if you decide to throw this plan in the dustbin, if it gets so hard that you can't take any more strength, don't push yourself, baby,' the man whispers softly, 'put yourself first and come to us. We'll give you the home and the love you deserve.”

A home?

His heart sinks, a little more and he will die, not either from shock or excitement, abruptly taking over his whole pathetic being in an instant.

A warm home where he is also loved?

Sounds like the unfulfilled dream of a small, naive child.

But...

He doesn't deserve that.

“We're not leaving you, Regulus.”

Finley stares at the Slytherin doggedly, stubbornly. His eyes sparkle with determination and some deep pain. Like he's hurting for Regulus. Absurd.

“Promise, kid.”

“I will. I promise," Regulus lies with a heart-deadening longing and watches Finley exhale in relief.

The weather outside is surprisingly pleasant, so the students crawl out of the building at break time, cosy in the sunshine, blown by the cool breeze.

Regulus is doing an astronomy assignment when he notices Potter and Pettigrew approaching, sans the other two vermin.

“Where are the lovebirds?” Barty smirks, leaning on Evan's shoulders to actively draw the boy's attention to himself instead of his homework.

He succeeds, because Rosier drops the runes book and lunges at Crouch with his fists (ultimately it was only a threat, but Barty is subjected to a brutal act of torture by tickling).

Regulus notices the stragglers Lupin and Sirius off to the side, furiously discussing something amongst themselves. His brother looks on glumly, his face twisted in displeasure, contorting into something more agreeable when the other squeezes his shoulder in a seeming attempt to comfort him.

Finally, after a few more minutes of vigorous argument about the topic that's troubling them, Sirius reluctantly nods and glowers as Lupin gives him a soft, proud smile, after which, side by side, they approach the rest of the group.

Regulus hurriedly returns to his homework.

“Hey, Reg?” Sirius whispers to him once the Slytherin is finally fully immersed in the process, distracting him again.

“What?" he replies more angrily than usual (which is a fair indicator, because Regulus is already angry).

“Could you help me? With these runes?” asks his brother uncertainly, holding out the parchment in front of him.

“Are you kidding me?”

Sirius is even a little taken aback, looking back at Lupin uncertainly.

“You can go to him, you idiot, and leave me alone," Regulus wanted to say something like "traitor," but he held back.

“Remus doesn't go to runes, and I know for a fact you've read a year's worth of books," he frowned, but added quietly, "little brother.”

At this, Regulus' limit of patience runs out, and he stands up hastily. If Sirius thinks he will tolerate this humiliation, he is sorely mistaken. The flames of his rage in his chest only flare up stronger when his brother looks as if the younger man is the one to blame.

“Ask Potter for help then," he spits and shakes his head as the rest of his group rises to follow, "sit down.”

Regulus hurriedly walks away, scowling and cursing. How dare Sirius who abandoned him, Sirius who ran off to Potter, Sirius who thinks he's superior, call him brother now? Nothing had stopped him before, but should they have seen each other more often just because their friends had somehow bonded and now they were brothers again? No, they're not.

“Reg!” He heard him follow and quickened his step, "Oh Merlin, Regulus!”

Heavy, quick footsteps catch up with him and a hand grabs his wrist, which he hastily snatches away. The hurt on Sirius's face is worthless.

“What do you want?” Regulus growls, bristling. He feels like a bare wire, the touch of which could kill. It would be nice if Sirius realised that too and left him alone.

“I want to talk," his brother replies, suspiciously vulnerable, but thankfully he doesn't try to touch again, "really, no jokes, nothing!”

Regulus looks at him carefully and squints. He doesn't believe it for a second, even though deep down he desperately, wildly wants to take a step towards his brother.

“Did Lupin put you up to this?” he asks.

“Well.. yeah, but..” Sirius mutters, but Regulus interrupts him.

“Don't worry, he'll like you without this pity party for your little brother,” the Slytherin scoffs, “tell him I'm an abominable, horrible, like my faculty, and that's the end of it.”

“No, you don't!” growls the older man and comes closer in desperation, "yes, he nudges me, but that's it! I-I miss you, Regulus.”

“Lie more.”

He turns away and ignores the call at his back.

“What did Sirius want?” Barty asks before going to bed, stretching out on the bed with his head hanging off it.

“To talk," Regulus replies with expression and inverted commas, "after Lupin convinced him to.”

Black straight-up feels his friends' judgement from the sidelines.

“And you just chased him away?” Evan clarifies.

“Yeah.”

“I don't want to say it, Reg," Barty pulls suspiciously.

“Then don't say it," Black bellowed back, pressing down the guilt that immediately reared its ugly head when both of his friends cringed at the rudeness.

Wanting not to hurt them, but he can't help himself. Fighting like a caged wild animal, attacking those closest to him. He knows they won't fight back. That only makes it worse.

“Reg, stop it," Evan said, but Regulus's patience was short on the best of days, and the weight of the impending meeting with his mother was weighing on him more and more.

“Evan, Barty," he sighs, deeply and hopefully soothingly, and then continues quietly, "please stop. This is just some idiotic joke from Sirius, end of story.”

“That's the problem," Evan continued softly, "I hate to say it, but Lupin's the most logical one in the bunch, which means…”

“I hate to say it," Regulus teased wryly, "but Lupin hangs out with them, the ones who did all those cruel jokes all through school, which means he's no better, even if he is quieter.”

Moments of silence are interrupted by a tired sigh.

“Do as you wish, Reg, but I'm just saying that Sirius looked really worried when he got back.”

“Well, congratulations to him. Is that what you want to hear?” He growls and gets no response.

It makes him feel incredibly sick.

He's so disgusted with himself that he wants to vomit, but the problem is that there's nothing he can do. Fear, animal terror squeezed his throat so tightly that nothing but rage comes out of it. After all, the best thing the Black family teaches him is not to show weakness.

And he is his mother's son.

Nasty, evil, and deserving.

A train rumbles by, rushing to get the students to the platform.

Sitting amongst his friends, Regulus still feels uncomfortable. He knows he has been unfairly rude to them lately. He has been rude to everyone, but he is only worried about their feelings. His heart clenches and gives off a dull ache in his chest from the idiotic feeling of helplessness that makes his limbs feel like they are filled with lead.

It was getting harder to breathe. His throat squeezes as if someone has stepped on him in iron boots, cutting off his oxygen supply. He breathes because he has to, because he's forcing himself to, but it's getting harder every moment.

The train is in a hurry. It doesn't stop because Regulus needs it to. The world keeps moving, even though Black wishes it would stop.

Outside the compartment door there is an explosion of laughter, the clatter of boots, the noise of a rolling sweets trolley. All this noise presses on his ears. The walls close in closer and closer, until he's suffocating because there isn't enough room.

Someone touches him.

It doesn't matter because he can't breathe.

He knows he could wheeze from the outside, but he knows just as well that even in a panic he wouldn't dare do that.

Act quietly.

Don't let yourself be heard.

His heart beats harder, thumps against his chest, rushing to get out at its own wild pace, but fails. His hands go numb.

He lowers his gaze: they're shaking, but he can't feel them. He tries to swallow, but there is a lump in his throat, preventing him from doing so.

His chest hurts, his eyes hurt, everything hurts.

Everything hurts and goes numb at the same time.

He's sick, sick, sick.

Distantly, he hears recommendations to regulate his breathing, but what's the point of it all?

He's dead. Or he will be.

It's hard to breathe.

He is told, through the veil covering his ears, to focus on them. He is told to breathe, to follow their lead. He is told...

He comes to, cradled against someone else's chest. His head is turned to the side, so he has access to air that isn't as hard to get out.

Regulus inhales.

“Welcome back,” Pandora greets him with a huge, almost palpable relief, holding him tightly against her.

He moo's and covers his eyes.

“We're almost there... you missed it all," Barty teases uncertainly.

“How are you?” Evan pushes under Crouch's side.

Regulus mumbles. He has nothing to reply to that.

A platform looms up ahead.

The farewell to his friends comes out short. On Regulus' part the words are dry, on their part they are concerned and full of worry. Regulus has no strength to respond to it, barely the strength to hug back.

He sees the silhouette of his mother. On unsteady legs he moves towards her through a crowd of people whose casual touches cause worms to feel on his skin.

He is abruptly grabbed by the arm and pulled to the side, hiding in the throng. Regulus doesn't struggle, but it turns out he didn't have to - the person grabbing him turns out to be Sirius.

“Merlin, Regulus, I'm so sorry, I swear to you," his brother whispers raggedly but fiercely, looking around fearfully for his mother, as if she would willingly walk into a crowd of people for her son, "I promise I didn't do anything as a joke that time, but even if I wasn't then, I'm completely serious now, Regulus, drop it all, come with me to the Potters.”

Sirius falls silent and waits for a response, but Regulus can't offer anything in response. It's like he's numb.

“The Potters... won't accept me," he finally replies, barely audible through the noise of the people.

“They will! The Potters are good, much better than our family. I've talked, I swear they're willing to take you in, no conditions, no bargaining. The opportunity to just keep you comfortable and safe is enough for them. Let's go right now Regulus, I swear it'll be fine!”

Regulus looks up and sees his big brother.

Not the shell, prickly and rough he had seen all the years before, after his brother's escape. Not dressed in the mask of the joker and the funny, the perfect Gryffindor. But his brother: in cracks and splinters and wounds. Just as wounded as Regulus, but standing with a stiff back, hope in his eyes and a hand outstretched. The perfect way out, his salvation.

But... Regulus swallows roughly.

“I can't.”

He whispers in a broken voice and nearly shakes. If he allowed himself a moment of weakness, he would cry at all. But Regulus holds tightly to his remaining self-control, which is only enough to keep the tears locked up as a small shiver runs through his body.

“How can you not, Regulus? Take my hand and let's go," Sirius insists and takes his brother's weak, trembling hand in his own, "bloody hell, you're shaking all over, Reg, come on.”

“I can't, Siri," the childish nickname slips out without him realising, "I can't.”

He can't move, he can't breathe, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't, he can't do anything.

“I get it," Sirius nodded and squeezed his brother's hand, pulling him with him.

A strong, sharp hand came down on Regulus's shoulder.

“What's going on here?” His mother's cold, harsh voice fills his ears like a ringing before death.

“Mum," Regulus whispers, lowering his head.

Sirius's hand is still holding his. He pulls it away, but his brother's grip is firm.

“I just want to talk to my brother," Sirius replies sharply.

“He hasn't been your brother since you ran away, like the coward and traitor you are. Let go of my son's hand, now.”

Regulus feels his eyes fill with tears, it is worth it for his brother, his brother no matter what, to let go of his hand. When he looks up, he meets Sirius' eyes full of longing and regret.

“Hang in there, Reg," he mutters and walks away.

“What a disappointment,” his mother remarks and raises an eyebrow, her eyes on her son, “and that's me talking about you, Regulus. You should have known better than to mess around with blood traitors. And in front of all these people, what a shame.”

Regulus says nothing.

What could he say?

He's alone again.

Grimmo Place is as cold as ever. Some of the floorboards creak underfoot and it sounds like a howl of agony. Perhaps Regulus is projecting.

His father doesn't greet him, but he didn't expect him to.

The house elf, on the other hand, appears in front of him.

“Welcome home, Master Regulus,” Kreacher bows and looks like it's a holiday.

Regulus is about to reply to the only friend in this cursed house, but his mother precedes him.

“Get out of sight, elf," and, albeit reluctantly, Kreacher complies, "go to your room. Don't appear until after dinner.”

Regulus is happy to comply. At least it means he'll be safe and sound until dinner.

Unfortunately, it also means Kreacher is busy cooking, so Regulus is forced to spend time alone in the room. On the other hand, it's better than any alternative offered by the house.

Fate, it would become, had ceased to be favourable to the younger Black. She must have decided to throw him into the cruel clutches of his parents altogether, because the door to Regulus' room creaks open. Father stands on the threshold.

“Welcome home, son," Orion begins.

The words are kind, but the tone of voice is cold in a way that makes it clear nothing good will come of it.

“Thank you, Father," Regulus replies, jumping to his feet. He continues, because it will only get worse if he doesn't, "It is good to be home.”

“Indeed," Father's eyes stay fixed on Regulus, "Mother and I were worried.”

Have they?

“I'm sorry,' is the only thing Regulus has to offer. He doesn't want to keep talking.”

His heart is beating harder and harder.

“There was talk of our son supposedly running away," his father throws in as if reluctantly.

And Regulus's heart sinks in his chest.

Fuck.

“As you can see, Father, I'm here," he says, barely able to breathe.

“Indeed, how lucky we are.”

Father walks into the room and closes the door behind him. Regulus feels his whole body go cold. And so he stands helplessly again as Orion steps closer, and the feeling of the walls shrinking around him returns.

“You made your mother worry," Walburga was the only one worrying now.

Her throat is constricted. His father looks at him coldly, but does nothing. yet.

“I'll apologise to her," Regulus whispers.

“When your mother is worried, she really can't leave me alone,” Orion remarks with annoyance, “and I so, so love silence. And peace, son.”

Regulus is afraid to answer.

If he apologises, will it go away? But Father said he likes silence. If he answers, will he break the silence? What should he do?

It's getting harder to breathe, there's a tightness in his chest. If his heart would stop beating right now, it would be a great relief. But unfortunately it keeps pumping blood with redoubled vigour, and his breathing, instead of stopping altogether, becomes faster, heavier.

The chest rises and falls rapidly, and the body does not obey commands, it does not move.

“Can't you say anything?” Father asks.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I'm sorry," the leaden lips finally move, allowing a reply, "I didn't mean to be an inconvenience, Father.”

Orion chuckles.

Is that a good thing? Is it a bad thing?

Did he get lucky? Has he been blown through? Is he safe? Can he breathe?

Please let him breathe.

He can't breathe.

He can't...

“I was going to teach you a lesson, but," Father shakes his head, "I think your mother will do a pretty good job of it. Doubly so, in that case.”

Oh Merlin, he'd rather have him killed right now.

Father's punishments are cold, they are detached, just to do.

Mother is painstaking in her work, clearly making sure to make sure Regulus is sorry. If she applies double force, she will hit, wound, torture harder. harder than usual. harder than usual. Regulus doubted he could survive it.

“I will not be attending dinner. Bon appetit, son.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Merlin save him.

“Did you have fun?” asks his mother as soon as he sits down at the table, "Did you enjoy your freedom, Regulus?”

The question does not require an answer. So Regulus doesn't offer one, only swallows hard, deafeningly loud in the silence.

“You must think you're the smartest," the fork clinked on the plate, the sound hurting his ears, "you think that because you're not at home, you can do anything?”

He doesn't say anything. If he breathes too loudly, a curse will fly at him.

“I'm waiting for an answer to my question.”

“No, Mum, I don't think so," he whispers with numb lips.

Minutes of silence seem like an eternity while his mother eats. Regulus can't get a bite down his throat. He hasn't eaten anything since last night, when Pandora and Barty forced him to eat, but he wants to vomit, even if he can't. He sits staring at his plate.

“You've embarrassed us, embarrassed us very badly,” his mother says almost softly, but Regulus knows it's all a very good act to get him to relax.

If he's relaxed, it hurts more to hit him later.

“I'm sorry.”

The mother's grey eyes gleam with the promise of pain. Regulus freezes, not daring to even breathe.

“You're not. But don't worry, you will be.”

He doesn't eat, but there's no one around who cares enough about him to ask to eat even a little.

Kreacher is close to it, but doesn't dare show up while Walburga is around.

As his mother finishes her meal, Regulus' heart sinks. Terror shackles his body with iron fetters. He is about to faint.

“Come," his mother orders coldly, and he hurries to obey.

His heels clack on the wood. Each tap sounds like a countdown to execution. Regulus lowers his head and follows the rustling hem of his mother's dress, which is his only reference point when consciousness fades into the background. It hurts less this way.

He stops when the dress stops moving, which means they've come.

“Raise your head, what a shame, not being able to look your parents in the eye.”

Regulus swallows with difficulty and, barely breathing, lifts his head. His mother and father are standing side by side, for what must be the first time in a long time, but only his mother has her wand in her hand. Indeed, why would Orion get his hands dirty when his lovely wife would make it better and more painful?

The father drops into his favourite chair and pulls out a newspaper. As if the suffering of his own child didn't matter to him. Regulus's heart has long since stopped aching over it, but the wounds continue to bleed from time to time.

His mother's grey eyes catch his attention. Her predatory gaze is directed into his very soul, her finger lovingly tapping out a rhythm familiar only to her.

“You've really, really upset me, Regulus," his name sounded like a spit.

Would Mum have been happier if Sirius hadn't left? What good would Regulus be, a replacement? After all, he was never a favourite child. The first child.

“I'm sorry, Mum," he whispers, and it seems that in the twenty-four hours he's been at home, the other words have lost all meaning.

His lips know only bloody, tearful apologies. Nothing else will even be heard from him. Not that they are listening to him even now.

“First the blood traitor you've been yakking with not only in front of me, but the entire platform?” Mother's words cut painfully.

In the end, it doesn't matter that both her sons were consorting with each other. As long as one is a traitor and the other a disappointment. Their happiness, their closeness was never an option. And now the remaining child is an embarrassment to her.

“And then we find out you ran away from Hogwarts? I thought more than you did, you couldn't disappoint me.”

Regulus wants to lower his head, to hide from the cold, stabbing stare, but he doesn't. He tries to salvage what little semblance of pride he still has left. He's sure a few more minutes and she'll be trampled to dust at her mother's feet. All we have to do is wait.

“You can't run away, Regulus, don't you know that?” The mother's voice becomes quieter, almost seeming soft, and she comes closer and touches her hand to her son's cheek, sharp nails scratching the skin, "You are my only son. You are my legacy and my pride.”

Regulus takes a deep breath and holds his breath as he feels the tip of his wand touch his stomach.

“The Dark Lord asked for my heir, son. How was I supposed to tell him that both my heirs had escaped?“

He closes his eyes.

“Crucio.”

Fire, incredible in its intensity, coursed through his body, touching every cell in his body. The breath Regulus was trying to take in that second freezes in his chest. His legs felt as if they had been severed, making it unbearably hard to stand. His throat is dry and it hurts to swallow, but he stands.

He opens his eyes.

His mother is looking at him, arching an eyebrow.

“You're still standing," she says in surprise.

The bad feeling only grows stronger in his chest. Fire surges through his body without stopping. Regulus bites his lip to keep the sound from leaving him.

“You may not be a complete disgrace," she mutters thoughtfully, "crucio.”

My knees bend sharply and touch the floor with a loud thud. There is no pain from the landing because the body is overtaken by the pain of the curse, sharp and acute. It pierces every nerve ending and ignites it so that the muscles contract, making Regulus shiver and twitch like a horror in a frying pan. Tears come to his eyes from the pain, but he bites his lip so hard on the inside that they don't spill.

His chest is spiralling, breathing is impossible, so all he does is gulp air like a dying man (he feels like one). His fingernails scratch, wanting to tear the soft, pale skin that Blacks are so proud of, to pull muscles apart and rip out bones, reaching for organs, through his stomach to his heart, to feel with every cell in his body the way. It might even be less painful than what's happening now.

There are no new spells, but the old one rages with the same force, as if a pianist, or rather a violinist, is playing on the strings of his nerves, igniting each one individually so that Regulus can't even take a small breath. He thinks he's going to die from that alone, but slowly the pain subsides to something more bearable, so that he gulps air with a full chest, immediately dissolving into a cough.

All this time his mother has been silent, letting time flow at its own rhythm in a way that Regulus would almost forget her presence. The silence, broken only by his gasping breaths, was interrupted by a heavy voice: "Crucio."

Father took offence at being left out, he must have been. Decided to join in.

The pain of the two curses overlapping made dots of amazing colours flicker before his eyes. They could have formed into the shapes of beasts that leap before his gaze, but Regulus can't concentrate long enough to make them out, even if he does.

His limbs shake non-stop. Regulus doesn't realise he's lying there until his head starts shaking too, so much so that it hits the wooden floor. He presses his knees to his chest because the pain is strongest there, piercing his heart and choking, choking, choking.

He hears, distantly, as if under a layer of water, his own wheezing, almost turning into a cough. His hands desperately clutch his shirt at his chest area, but when that brings no relief, Regulus reaches for his neck, clutching it in hope. If he can't breathe, he'll die. And he can't.

One part of him desperately craves the sweetness of death, its peace. Where no one else can take advantage of him and hurt him, where he could rest. The other part of him squeals sharply in his head, protesting. It is the part that reminds him of reasons to live, forgotten in a fit of excruciating pain: Pandora, Barty, Evan. very few Gryffindors. a brother, after all.

He tries, a distant part of his inflamed mind, to massage his neck, as if that might help, but panic is quickly back in charge and now he can think of nothing else and scratches at the tender skin of his neck, trying to get through. Perhaps if he makes a hole in it, breathing will be easier?

He scratches, scratches, scratches.

Remotely he notices that his hands, which he can barely feel, are getting damp, but it must just seem that way, because his face is suspiciously damp too.

He continues scratching until he loses track of time altogether.

No one saves him.

He jumps up sharply as the pain erupts in a new wave throughout his body.

“I'm not finished," he hears the sound of the waves through the howl of death sailing towards him.

His eyes are open only slightly. He can't move, can't even scream anymore, only whimper pitifully, like a mutt abandoned in the street. He thinks the association is a good fit. He will be thrown scraps at best and then forgotten, the people around him will look at him with pity, and the owners who were supposed to give him love will break him with iron boots until he breathes his last breath.

“Don't you dare faint again, Regulus," she barked as his eyes closed.

The sea was always beautiful in Regulus' opinion. The waves churned and the sound of them was the best cradle for the soul, inviting peace into the heart. Now the sea is fierce and bitter. It beat with a special force so that anyone who dared to swim deeper would die. And Regulus had swum as far as he could and was now drowning. He swam in a boat with his parents, who threw him overboard and lowered his surfacing head back under the water.

His lungs fill with fluid and he takes a breath, wishing he couldn't take the next one.

When he comes to, the fire in the room is no longer lit. It's dark outside the window. And he's cold.

He tries to get up, but barely moves from his seat before he falls back down heavily. As the position allows he looks around: his parents are gone.

A heavy sigh. An exhale. Slowly he closes his eyes. His chest hurts, but not from cursing, though a residual shiver pierces his body, no. It hurts that the parents who, as the books say, as the people around you say, should be your closest supporters, are doing this. It hurts for the child deep down that dreams of parental affection, of a mother's warm, proud words, of a father's attention, of tender words of love. It hurts that some get this with ease, while some must struggle to survive. To survive in a parent's home where there should be an atmosphere of safety and warmth. In the books, it's as simple as that. Walburga, the mother, never sees him as anything more than a replacement for Sirius, and even then he screws up the role and is nothing more than a lowlife, a disgrace to the family who doesn't get kicked out simply because there is no other son. Orion, the father, doesn't even look at him. Wants nothing to do with his son or his wife and stays simply because tradition dictates it. It's sickening. And it hurts. Mostly it hurts. To the core.

He cries. Quietly and brokenly.

And no one comforts him.

Much later, Kreacher comes in and helps him up. His body aches and breaks, it's hard to control, his legs are buckling, and the house elf can't catch a host two or even three times his size.

So Regulus stays on the floor, only moving with Kreacher's help into a sitting position. He rests his head against the wall as the elf scoots around, eager to help but unable to do so.

“Kreacher," Regulus wheezes. His throat hurts, so he assumes he was still screaming at some point, "There should be some ointment in my room, in my suitcase... Upstairs somewhere… bring it, please.”

He hopes that Dumbledore didn't trick him and the ointment will actually help.

At the thought of the Headmaster, Regulus involuntarily thinks of Pandora, Evan, and Barty. His chest ached. It pierces even more at the memory of saying goodbye to them, of chatting with them all the week before. If he dies...

Kreacher returns with the salve, shimmering slightly in the meagre moonlight from the window.

If he dies, will they miss him?

The ointment, which shouldn't be surprising, helps.

Regulus wants to write a letter. Doesn't know if it's to Pandora, Dumbledore, or someone else. For a moment he wants to write to Sirius in a plea to take him away from here, to take him away from this hell for real, where he will surely die by the end of the summer, but his hands are still weak and the words appearing on the parchment are impossible to make out, so he puts it off.

Walburga sits at the table as he struggles to get down to dinner. Blessedly, he has done so long that his mother has almost finished the meal.

“It's not polite to be late," she remarks briefly.

“I'm sorry, Mum," Regulus replies gruffly, not daring to lower his head.

He tries not to fall back in his chair in relief, but it's difficult. The fork in his hand trembles as he picks it up and weakly rolls the food across his plate, picking out small pieces.

He's just about to make his first snack in probably two twenty-four hours when his mother's harsh phrase makes him freeze in horror.

“The Dark Lord wants to meet with you.”

No. No, please, kill him now.

Can't get anything else down throat.

Want to vomit.

It's hard to breathe.

It's even harder to live.

“I told him you're sick right now," a look of contempt examines him from head to toe, "I can't send you to the Dark Lord like this, can I?”

For a moment Regulus wants to ask, whose fault is this? Who made him like this? But he bites his tongue in time and avoids a premature demise.

“Thank you, Mum," he replies, because survival instincts demand it, "when did you tell him I'd be ready?”

He needs and simultaneously doesn't want to know that.

“Soon," his mother's eyes glisten.

There is no more time, that's something Regulus knows for sure.

As soon as his mother leaves the dining room and the clatter of her heels is hushed, he jumps up from his chair and runs to his room, ignoring the pain flaring throughout his body, even if he has to pause a couple of times to regain his breath and avoid falling. Things on top of the bedside table fly to the floor, landing with a clatter, but a quickly thrown “Silencio” saves him from being killed.

No clean parchment turns up on the nightstand, so the things in the top drawer suffer the same fate. Unsent letters are crumpled and fly to the ground in their haste, until finally Regulus finds a sheet clean enough to send to the Headmaster.

With trembling hands, not daring to even sit down, Black inscribes the letter in galloping letters.

"Must swear an oath to the dark lord.
What must I do, director? Help
Regulus Black."

He calls out to Kreacher in a broken voice.

“Master Regulus?” The elf asks uncertainly when he sees the state of his master and his room.

Regulus drops to his knees, not caring about the flaring pain, and looks the intelligent, loyal creature in the eye.

“Kreacher, this is important. Very important, do you hear me? Find Dumbledore. Don't be seen, but you must find Professor Albus Dumbledore, do you understand? Do it as soon as possible, and give him this letter. This is an order, don't let anyone else touch this letter but him. Do you understand?”

“Kreacher understands, Master Regulus,” the elf obediently takes the folded parchment and clutches it tightly in his small hands.

“Then go, right now!”

Once Kreacher disappears, it's as if the rest of Regulus' strength disappeared with him. Thankfully, he was already sitting on his knees, or he would surely have fallen. Instead, he sits there, exhausted, with nothing left to do but wait and hope.

And he doesn't have much hope left.

The next day he doesn't see Kreacher and saying his name doesn't help.

His hands tremble every time his mother's gaze turns to him. Is he ready yet? Is he now? Has the pain in his body travelled enough in her opinion to send him to certain death?

But his mother is silent. And Regulus, if only for a moment, exhales.

The atmosphere grows increasingly tense, but clearly only for him. His father does not appear, but when he is seen, he does not pay much attention to the family members as before. The mother is just as cold as ever, only her gaze has become more attentive, monitoring any ailment in her son that would make him weaker in the eyes of the Dark Lord.

Kreacher was still gone, and the effects of the crucio were rapidly passing, not without the help of Dumbledore's ointment. Although Regulus had stopped using it now, knowing that he would have to visit Voldemort soon, the effects were still there.

“Just a little more," he heard his mother mutter, making his heart sink into his chest.

A little more, how much? His hands start to shake again, so he hides them behind his back.

Lunch is served, so the house elf has at least appeared in the house, but no word on the status of the letter. It doesn't bode well for Regulus when time is rapidly running out. There's not a piece in his throat, but he forces himself to eat at least something to fill his stomach.

“You will see the Dark Lord tomorrow," his mother says proudly and firmly.

Less than twenty-four hours to receive a letter whose contents he dares not even guess at. Hope smoulders sluggishly in his chest, fading.

The building in front of him is tall and imposing, making the cold rushing into his body seem only stronger. At the top are sharp peaks, seemingly perfect for particularly perverse torture. The sun has hidden behind the building, leaving Regulus in shadow.

He swallows nervously, though it feels like even saliva can't get through the huge lump in his throat. No sound is heard, only the wind howling ominously. The sharp sound of the apparatus scares the hell out of him, for it could be anyone. Luckily for Regulus, it turns out to be Kreacher with a blessed letter in his hand.

“Sorry Master Regulus, Professor Dumbledore was away from Hogwarts school for a while so it took Kreacher longer to find him," the elf whispers resentfully, "Master Regulus can punish Kreacher for the delay...”

“Kreacher, get out now, it's not safe for you here!” Regulus mutters quietly, barely audibly, clutching the letter tightly, “Go back home and stay out of sight!”

The house elf hastily apparates away and Black is left alone, cold and full of terror. He quickly steps aside so that no windows overlook him, and tears open the letter, hoping to see his way to salvation.

"Dear Mr Black,

I sincerely apologise to you for the delay of this letter, but I must point out - your house elf is nothing if not persistent. Having found me almost on the other side of the world, it is a marvellous little creature, but I'm afraid I've gone off topic.

I am deeply saddened by the situation and I must say that I sincerely sympathise with you. But I am afraid what I say next will not please you, my dear boy. I remember that I promised to keep you as safe as I could, but... I need you on the other side, Mr Black, you're my only hope.

I think I should be more precise. I ask, I beg you, Mr Black, to join the ranks of the Death Eaters, to become my eyes in the ranks of Voldemort's followers. It is a terrible request on my part, but I cannot refuse it. I'm sorry, dear boy. If ever you could forgive me, I would admire the goodness of your heart.

Be strong, Mr Black.

Yours, deeply sorry,

Albus Dumbledore."

Regulus didn't even notice the tears gathering in his eyes.

Of course. Of course that's the way it's going to be...

He bites his lip and burns the letter. Straightens his back and walks straight into the villain's lair, to his certain death.

He tries to remember his last moments of freedom, but even now it is coloured only by longing, pain and betrayal. There's been too much betrayal lately.

The first thing he notices when he gets inside is that it's cold. Colder than outside, even standing in the shadows. Here he feels as if he's entered the domain of Death, the smell for a moment only confirming his guess. No one is there, and for a few seconds there is a terrifying silence in which you can hear the persistence of his heart beating.

The next instant there is a shrill scream further down the corridor, followed by an explosion of laughter. That's where he's going, then.

His stiff legs lead Regulus forward until he finds himself in front of a huge, stately door that he is afraid to touch. But there is no choice. Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open and steps inside.

No candles are burning, but there's no need for that yet. A huge, long table stands slightly off to the side, leaving more space in the centre of the room, where people in long cloaks with their faces hidden behind masks have gathered. Instantly, everyone freezes and turns to look at him. They step aside, revealing a high chair decorated in a way that leaves one guessing - a throne. The throne on which Voldemort sits in all his horrifying flesh.

Looking at him, you can't tell that the beautiful man is one of the strongest wizards. The aura of death hovering around him and the cold, icy stare directed at Regulus is spooky. He doesn't dare meet the Dark Lord's eyes, preferring to look at his cheek.

“Welcome, Mr Black," he whispers softly, waving his hand invitingly, "come on, join us, there's no need to be embarrassed.”

“Thank you," Regulus replies just as quietly, stepping cautiously closer.

“My lord," the man standing next to him whispers to him in a barely audible whisper.

“My lord," he nods his head and sees the frown wrinkle between the Dark Lord's eyebrows smooth out.

Regulus does not dare turn to the man beside him, but he hopes the man will realise the immeasurable gratitude he feels right now.

The cloaked men, the Death Eaters, stand in a semicircle, with the Dark Lord on the throne on the other side, and in the centre lies a boy, young and deathly pale, rolling from one side to the other in signs of pain but not making a sound.

“Take him away," the Dark Lord spits contemptuously, pointing at the lad, "we have a guest!”

The poor man is lifted into the air with a simple spell, but clearly carelessly, as he is twisted around. He disappears out the door with the two attendants with a loud pop.

“Mr Black,” the Dark Lord finally whispers as the doors close, “how long I have waited for you.”

“My apologies, my lord," Regulus replies after a moment's pause, "I'm afraid circumstances were such that, against my wishes, I was unable to visit you sooner.”

At this point he is glad he was born into a pureblood family where he was taught manners of behaviour at the very least so that he would not be a disgrace, so now he can try to politely extricate himself from the situation.

That doesn't stop the terror from gripping his entire body.

“Yes, I've heard about that. Most recently you were ill, and before that,” oh no, Regulus prays for salvation but it doesn't come, “it was said that you had run away from Hogwarts?”

The Dark Lord doesn't mention any of the other three that were with him, so Regulus hopes that no one has mentioned it, at least of Voldemort's minions.

“They did,” because there's no point in denying something that's so easy to verify. His hands shake, but his voice remains firm, somehow miraculously, ”I knew I was to meet you and at the same time Dumbledore became overly active. His attention fell too closely on me…”

“So you decided that the best way to escape his attention was to run away?” Hisses the Dark Lord and rises from his throne.

The rest of the followers move away. Regulus is forced to stay where he is. It's now or never. He can play the situation in his favour or die.

“I ran away to put on a show for Dumbledore. I acted as the frightened boy whose family intimidated him into meeting the Dark Lord. I would ask Dumbledore for help, gain his trust and then you, my lord, would have the opportunity to be informed of your enemy's condition and actions," he is out of breath, but standing firm.

Merlin, let it work.

For long, agonising moments, the Dark Lord doesn't say a word, staring intently at Regulus. He dares not take his eyes off his cheek, or this whole game will be a failure.

His heart beats out a rhythm that Regulus hopes will not be his requiem. He can feel the breath of death in the back of his neck. The way it circles around him, snarling viciously as its master passes judgement. Phantom teeth touching his neck, feeling the beat of blood.

“And how are the results?” The Dark Lord asks at last, but it does nothing.

“To my shame, he doesn't trust me yet," Regulus bows his head mournfully, "my surname and my relationship with my blood traitor brother have not tipped the scales in my favour.”

“What about your brother?” Voldemort persisted, as if he didn't know. As if he hadn't done everything he could to check out the Death Eater contender.

“After he ran away and I finally established a clear view of the world, we didn't get along. It doesn't help that he's a Gryffindor," Regulus tries to spit out the last word like a parasite, "and I'm a Slytherin, which Dumbledore hates.”

Once again, the Dark Lord is silent. Long, long moments that feel like a new form of torture. Regulus dares not lift his gaze, afraid of what he might see there.

“Indeed,” the Dark Lord finally exhales, “well, I hope you will not disappoint me in the future, Mr Black.”

“I will not, my lord," Regulus whispers with some desperation.

“Then come here.”

On stiff legs, Black obeys the order (because there is no other way) in dead silence. His sole touching the floor is the loudest sound in the room.

“Left wrist.”

Regulus swallows and wraps up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his wrist. He stares at it intently, still clean and untouched (bright, so bright) and hopes to memorise it, burn the image into his retinas while he can.

The Dark Lord's wand touches his wrist. First it circles the skin, as if tracing the outline of a future mark, and then it whispers words in a language unknown to man. The language of snakes.

His hand burns with hellfire, a flame so strong it pierces his entire being.

But he's been through this before. Been here before, several times, in several lifetimes. And died at the hands of the Dark Lord. Compared to this, the mark is a miserable bite. It still causes unbearable pain that threatens to bring him to his knees. Unfortunately for Regulus, in the quiet time he's spent in this noose, he's grown accustomed to the pain enough to not be able to survive the mark entirely.

His legs buckle, but he spreads them wide and stands.

“How interesting, Mr Black,” the Dark Lord whispers intrigued, “very interesting.”

The mark finally gets its place on his wrist, wriggling as if taunting him. The fire beneath his skin burns out.

Regulus stands, holding his hand, and bows subserviently.

“Thank you, my lord," the words are ash on his tongue.

There is no turning back. There never was.

"The Director,

I'm his now. HE thinks I'm trying to gain your trust so I can become his informant.

R.A.B."

"Pandora,

I apologise for the way I behaved in the last few days before I left. You are understanding, but I still feel the need to apologise. You are very important to me and I won't forgive myself if you think otherwise. If I could, I'd give you the whole world. I'm sorry.

Love,

R.A.B."

"Barty,

I'm sorry about our last conversation before we left, too much has piled up, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you, I'm sorry. If I could I would poison all your enemies for you and then escape from being tortured by a dementor just to make you happy.

I hope your holidays are going better than mine. Feel free to write a whole letter of complaints about every person you pass by.

With my everlasting love for you alone,

R.A.B."

"Evan,

I'm sorry about the way our last few conversations went. I know you know why I'm like this, but that doesn't give me the right to take my emotions out on you. I'm sorry.

I hope you can take some time off this summer. Try not to make too much fun of Barty if you see him. Be sure to remember your loyal and overly mean friend.

Love,

R.A.B."

Do all these letters sound like goodbyes? Perhaps, but...

Regulus looks at the crawling, writhing snake on his wrist, the sinister skull, and lowers his sleeve. It makes himself sick to his stomach.

His mother's gaze is proud for the first time in a long time.

Moments, just occasionally, his hand, now rarely ever stopping trembling, reaches for the quill and parchment, eager to write his brother's name there, but Regulus pulls himself back.

He wants to tell Pandora, Evan, and Barty about the branding that has forever marred his clear skin. Wants to sob in his family's arms, wants comfort, but it's not something that can be told in a letter. Feet yearn to step outside the house, but he dare not do so.

“Did the Dark Lord call you?” his mother asks him one day.

She doesn't want to know more, not now that her son is a Death Eater.

“No," he answers briefly, and he sees the displeasure dancing in her eyes.

Letters from friends come, but Dumbledore is silent.

When the loneliness becomes unbearable and the mark on his arm feels like a chain that is tighter than usual, Regulus runs out of the house.

The fresh air blows against his face, but it doesn't matter when he rushes out in a whistle of apparition and sees in his mind only Pandora's house, near where he finds himself.

He hopes that none of the other members of the girl's family will come out. She is the only ray of light amongst the rest of the dark realm. A quick knock on the metal door, minutes of silence, until finally it slowly, creakingly, opens, revealing his favourite blonde-haired girl.

“Reggie?” Dora exclaimed in surprise only to wrinkle her nose in concern a moment later, "Is everything all right?”

And that one phrase, filled with such care and warmth and love that Regulus hadn't felt in what seemed like centuries, made his eyes water and his heart sink with longing.

“Dora," he whispers brokenly, breaking into a pathetic sob that he can't contain.

“Oh Merlin," the girl mumbles and pulls him into the house, looking around worriedly.

Holding him tightly, almost to the point of pain, Pandora leads him up the stairs until she slams the door to her room behind them and Regulus slides down the wall to the floor.

“What happened?” Afraid to break what semblance of control he still has, the girl asks barely audibly.

He can't speak. Trembling hands reach for the button on the cuff that allows him to roll up his sleeve, revealing to the world the ugliness that obscures his wrist. Regulus dares not take his eyes away from the branding, unable to look at his friend who was so protective of him, who helped him as much as she could, and he betrayed her like that, betrayed everyone who was on his side.

“Regulus," the girl's voice is squeezed, shaking with tears that aren't even visible.

He lifts his eyes, uncertain and fearful, and stares at Pandora for just a moment before she lunges at him and smothers him in an embrace so tight it could kill.

“Oh Regulus,” she whispers into his ear, but even so it's barely more than an exhale, “I'm so sorry, Reggie, oh Merlin...'”

“Yeah... now do you understand?” he laughs disparagingly, grasping weakly at his friend's t-shirt, “what am I going to do, Dora?”

The girl doesn't answer, only pulling him tighter against her. She sobs in his ear. Regulus holds onto her just as tightly, and bites his tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

“I don't want to die," he whispers all the same, after a few minutes of their pathetic sniffling.

“You're not going to die. We'll make sure of that.”

Learning that Evan and Bathy are also unaware of the mark, Pandora slaps Regulus on the back and together they write a letter each. The boy's hands are shaking, so the girl takes the quill in hers.

“How long have you had it?”

Regulus swallows and looks away, though Pandora doesn't look at him. It's still embarrassing.

“For a while…”

“Reggie.”

“A month, maybe? I. haven't really been keeping track of time.”

Pandora sighs heavily and covers her eyes with her hand.

“What a fucked up life we lead, huh?”

The summer passes slowly and painfully. Regulus doesn't count the days, but his body itself crosses out the past on the calendar, so the return to Hogwarts is coming, he knows. Either that, or he has sunk so deep into madness that he has built a world around himself and nothing outside the cursed house really exists and he is destined to be locked here forever, waiting for a return to his favourite place that will never happen.

He meets up with his friends a couple of times, but each time they seem more and more worried, so he just... stops. So as not to scare them even more, because every day he gets worse and nothing helps. Exchanging letters eases the pain, just a little, but it's only mental.

The physical never goes away. And it won't go away as long as he is branded the Dark Lord. Regulus finds it amusing that he sees Death Eaters more often than his favourite friends. The only upside to this whole situation is that his mother stops tormenting him, because the Dark Lord will not tolerate having weak followers. Unless he forces them to be weak through his own punishments.

And it's worth saying that the Dark Lord's crucio cannot be compared to his mother's. Those were cold and painful, but Voldemort's spells... they're especially painful, as they ooze with their master's sadism, their goal is to make you deeply regret, beg for mercy with every cell of your pathetic body that's writhing at his feet. Every molecule will be tortured until all that is left behind is a shell of the man you once were. All goals, likes and dislikes will fade into oblivion and only one thing will remain: your lord. Your God.

Regulus sometimes forgets if there is a world beyond the Dark Lord and Grimmo Square. Sometimes it's hard to gather himself back into a breathing being that must continue to live somehow, even though his hands are stained with blood, the ghosts of the dead men he's killed sit heavily on his shoulders, and his Death Eater's cloak and mask hangs proudly in his wardrobe.

He writes a letter to Sirius only once.

"I'm sorry," it says there. Nothing more.

That's all he can say.

The day before returning to Hogwarts, Regulus spends much of his time just sitting on his bed and staring at the peeling paint on the walls, trying to piece himself back together. He is picking up every shard of himself that Voldemort kindly ripped off every time they met, every piece of himself that his mother mercilessly ripped out, every once warm part of his soul now icy with every paternal glance. Slowly he remembers what he was like before he came home and builds his mask, a new one, now more alien than that of the killer. He pushes the torn, bloody parts of himself as deep as he can and yet he knows they will bleed through the crevices of his being.

Regulus stands by the family tapestry and examines it as if seeing it for the first time. With light touches, he runs his hands over the scorched spot where Sirius once was. The brother who tried to save him. Distantly, Regulus wonders if he will continue trying to save him now. There isn't much left to save, look, there won't be a shred of Regulus left in today. He can't hold back a pathetic, broken chuckle.

His hand moves from Sirius to Andromeda. Involuntarily, bitter envy bites at his heart, for his cousin, like his brother, was able to escape the cursed house. She chose love for a Muggle man and paid for it by losing her family. For a moment, I want to rush out to find her, to ask what it was like to be happy. Was it worth it? Is it possible for Regulus to stay with her in her little Muggle world of happiness and well-being. He shakes off these thoughts and goes to lunch.

A beautiful constellation shimmers brightly in his mind.

He stands on the platform and finally inhales the air with his full chest, tasting freedom, the taste of happiness on his lips, the best sweetness, luscious and fake.

Her eyes cling to the students scurrying around until she catches a splash of snow-white hair in the crowd. A second and his feet carry him forward, faster and faster, pushing the people around him until he clings in a tight embrace to Pandora, who gasps in surprise but grabs onto him in return, not letting go for what seems like an eternity.

And so they stand as if fused together, breathing from the same chest and their hearts entwined, finally finding their way home. Only one thing is aggravating - there are still two empty spaces.

However, it doesn't take long to fill those as well.

They don't find Barty and Evan on the platform, but they do in one of the compartments. And finally they are reunited.

And Regulus feels at home.

There's only one problem left that Black worries about more than anything else.

Sirius and, by extension, his interactions with him.

The mere thought of his brother makes his heart go into a wild, anxious dance and his breath catch. Is the brother offended? Is he angry? Will he mock? Sarcastic? Ignore? There are so many options, I don't have enough imagination. Or rather, there is plenty of imagination, but even then it seems impossible to cover every possible way Sirius might behave.

Regulus dreads the moment when he will be forced to speak to his brother and, more unfortunately than fortunately, that moment comes unbearably quickly.

Sirius literally snatches Regulus from the peaceful atmosphere of his friends, and those traitors don't even try to save him.

“How are you?” Sirius asks his brother, as soon as they've retreated to a secluded spot.

“Fine," Regulus exhales, not daring to say more.

But Sirius has known him all his life, even if that has changed slightly in recent years, but he still remembers the basics and, unfortunately, can read his brother's body language, so he doesn't need words. The older man runs his sharp eyes over every part of the younger man's body, looking for any signs of malaise and pain, but other than general discomfort at being in this situation, he finds nothing. Regulus sees the younger man deflate in relief.

“Thank the gods you're alright, Reg.”

It's a good thing he hasn't learnt to see through his clothes to spot the mark.

Let it stay that way.

Sirius' embrace is like a missing piece of the puzzle, a perfectly fitting piece of the puzzle, completing the picture. They surround Regulus with warmth and love so completely that he feels his eyes involuntarily fill with tears.

For a long time they just stand like that, holding each other, and if Regulus allows himself silent tears, he knows - Sirius won't tell anyone.

The sun is beating down outside, and the wind feels warm rather than cool, so it doesn't bring any relief. The schoolyard is then, unsurprisingly, deserted. Hardly a single living soul wants to visit the street on such a sweltering day. Not even the eye-catching sight of the lake glistening in the sun can tempt anyone to step out of the shade's salvation.

Regardless, this is one of the days Regulus feels comfortable in his own skin for the first time in a long time. There is no need to wear the intimidating wooden mask that hides his face from people. No cloak weighing down his shoulders and no trembling fingers hiding behind the tenacious grip on his wand. He removed the assassin's mask and it felt lighter in his chest, even the air seemed to clear somewhat.

The library is particularly lively at the beginning of the school year: the students are not yet tired from the mountain of homework and endless cramming, just back from home, plump and happy, motivated to study.

The company only miraculously managed to occupy their favourite table, which can barely hold so many people, used to only three or four.

Regulus leans back happily on the back of the sofa, enjoying the atmosphere around them: the students around them are trying to be quiet, but here and there there are loud whoops, particularly from the company coming in, but, for the first time in a long time, it is not annoying, becoming more of a pleasant buzz.

Barty is sitting to one side of Regulus, arguing vigorously with Sirius about the meaning of one particular rune, so excited that he is forced to stand up and lean two hands on the table, a stance soon copied by the elder Black. A little more spittle mixed with spells flies in all directions from their discussion.

Evan was sprawled next to Barty, majestically and lazily, elegantly mimicking a woozy cat about to fall asleep on the spot. But Rosier was awake, calmly and measuredly discussing with Remus a book he had recently read. From the outside looking in: two intellectuals, if you don't know that the book is a particularly trashy love affair, which they started reading on a bet, who, they say, would give up the absurdity of the whole thing faster and quit, but the competitive effect played a cruel trick on the guys, so now they're both furiously discussing who the main character should have stayed with in the end. Sometimes Regulus regrets that he keeps in touch with both of them.

On the other side of Black sits Pandora, rearranging chess pieces with Peter, biting her lip with tension. On the other side of the table, Pettigrew is equally focused, barely taking his eyes off the board. He only does so when Sirius threatens to bring down not only himself, but the entire table in the process of an argument. At one point, however, their match with Pandora becomes more of a friendly one, filled with lightness and laughter (then when Pandora is left with only one rook, which she keeps trying to save the king with) and they gradually move from the game to discussing an upcoming meeting where they are going to exchange their art. What kind, Regulus doesn't really get into.

And so it remains that James is a tenacious leech glued to himself. It was certainly not an ideal development, but it was not the worst. Besides, only to himself and no one else, but Regulus can admit that he has developed a certain weakness for the pesky Potter. At what point, God only knows, but these are the facts: Regulus Black, Death Eater, doesn't mind the company of James Potter, the Gryffindor prankster. At first it had been forced company, but gradually, step by step, like a particularly professional hunter, Potter had trapped him in his charms, and now Regulus didn't mind discussing with him the latest Quidditch match that had stirred his soul. And word by word, here they are already talking about what a poor choice of juice was for dinner, and that pumpkin is just torture on students (Potter strongly disagrees, but Regulus chooses to ignore an opinion that disagrees with his, therefore wrong).

He's just about to remind James once again to stick to the immortal classics in juices and not mock consumers, which his little brain obviously can't grasp, when his wrist, hidden by a long sleeve even in hot, sweltering weather is pierced by a sharp, unbearable pain that makes him hiss involuntarily. There's no doubt about the cause of the ailment, and he realises from the looks on the faces of his friends (specifically those not listed as Gryffindors, who somehow he's come to think of as friends too, God forgive him) that they've guessed.

“I promised Tom," he spat out the first name that came up, which of course was the Dark Lord's real name, "to meet up and explain the last spell. I completely forgot, I'm sorry, I'm leaving you.”

His wrist stung more and more, as if he had worms under his skin that had decided to feast on his flesh. Knowing (or rather unable to imagine) the scope of the Dark Lord's imagination, this may well be true, so Regulus is not about to play with fate and test his luck.

Hastily he retreats, with each step away from his friends his arm hurts more and more. It seems that if the pain increases again, he may well end up with a scar. However, instead of a scar, there is already something worse there.

Unfortunately for him, apparating is forbidden at Hogwarts, meaning that the extra time he has to spend leaving it through secret loopholes without being seen. Only then can he take a deep breath - the last one for any period of time that is given to him with ease - and apparate. To the Dark Lord. To his lord.

What he has to do is perhaps even worse than meeting Voldemort.

The dry grass crunches beneath his feet. The sound it makes is like the cracking of bones. The forest, which had always seemed to be living, breathing, was silent. The animals, as if sensing the approaching trouble, fled and hid from human eyes. A cemetery, no other way. The smell of death lingering behind the two men lingers in the air. After all, perhaps it is they who are death.

The trees are thinning, revealing wooden houses. In the distance, barely audible, the waves of the sea crash against the rocks, creating anxiety in the depths of the soul. The howling wind sounds like a witch's laughter, like the screams of her victims.

The village in the middle of nowhere is inhabited by Muggles. Children run among the cottages, play in the meagre playground, their hearts open to the world. Men are lightly dressed with axes to their foreheads, women carry buckets filled with water. Old men are cosy on benches, watching the young people.

Bellatrix smiles, her wand bearing an almost physically tangible grief, resting affectionately in her gentle, cruel hand. Wild curls flutter in the song of the wind, revealing a sharp, pale face. A frozen grin shows its teeth, eyes glittering with madness, flaring only stronger every day, the flame never waning.

“Oh, little Reggie," she whispers in a voice full of delight, "can you feel it? Can you feel their screams, the blood on your hands? Huh, Reggie?”

Regulus freezes under the girl's gaze. Standing behind his cousin, he couldn't hide the bitterness on his face, the despair and pain all the way, but his feet kept going, splitting the bones beneath his feet like a relative. It was only now, as attention turned to him, that Regulus forced himself to straighten up and smile with mute lips. The saliva in his mouth was viscous, looking like blood.

“I feel it, Bella," he replies just as quietly and the wand in his hands feels like a thorny branch that has been plucked from its native bush by unkind people.

The presence of strangers in the village is noticed at once, which makes Bella feel more cheerful. She didn't put on the mask and cloak familiar to every wizard - there was no need, the Muggles wouldn't recognise it. And there would be no one to tell - they're not going to leave the living.

“Come on, let's play with them, Reg," she laughed.

They greet them warmly. A sturdily built, healthy-looking man approaches the two strangers, whose appearance is unmistakable, and extends his hand in a friendly manner, a smile forming on his plump lips.

A wave of the woman's hand - and the body flies apart as if a bomb had been hidden inside it.

“Oh, no!” Bella shrieks, her snow-white face stained with splashes of red, - I’m so…”

A wave of her hand, a childish cry of "Mum!".

“...sorry!”

Sharp eyes turn to Regulus, face crooked in a frown.

“Hurry up, little brother, or you'll get nothing!”

And, waving the hem of her black lace dress, Bellatrix dashes into the village, laughing like a little child who has received a welcome gift as people scurry away from her.

Regulus peels his unsteady feet from the forest floor and strides forward, each time he does so he feels himself getting more and more bogged down.

The forest is not happy about the presence of ill-wishers, not happy about the deaths that are being carried at too early a time. That village is not destined to perish, not now, but the stately trees cannot do more than thicken the shadows. The crows cry out, mourning for lost souls and scatter. The wind rustles, ruffling the children's hair in an attempt to comfort, but all for nothing as innocent, tear-filled eyes fade to shrill laughter.

Regulus looks at Bellatrix's back disappearing behind the building and grabs the fallen people in front of him under the arms. Those are trying to break free, as if he couldn't have killed them a moment ago. The guy lifts them up and pushes them forwards, into the forest.

“Run, you fools!” he hisses, glancing round fearfully as they stand frozen, "Run if life is dear!”

He grabs some and kills others. His hands are scratched by the men he tried to save, stained with the blood of the dead. His feet bog down to free himself and get stuck again, he spins in a vicious circle of life and death, where he blackens his soul and frees it with the rescued immediately after.

Bellatrix laughs seeing him and whizzes past.

He grabs the girl, a toddler barely learning to walk, and pushes her into the arms of her dumbfounded father. They run, hiding in the trees that shelter them from the keen gaze as best they can.

As time passes, the terror settles in his bones ever tighter, making its home in his flesh, devouring every part of him until all that remains is the animal fear that forces him to fight for his life.

He looks into the crystal blue eyes of the girl on her knees, sobbing. Regulus feels himself about to reach out to help her up, muscles already tensed in readiness when a familiar hand falls on his shoulder. There is only one other person he knows in this village.

“Oh, what a lovely little girl you've found here, cousin,” Bellatrix drawls woozily, “I'd love to play with her…”

The girl in front of them is shaking, a look of horror on her face so intense that it looks as if her heart will stop beating.

“...but since you found her first," the cousin pouts her lips resentfully, expecting and demanding Regulus to share the spoils.

But knowing her, the girl would suffer long and agonisingly until Bellatrix had had enough. The mercy of a quick death is out of the question.

“Please," whispers a soft, broken girl's voice, trembling with fear.

But they are deaf to her pleas.

Regulus raises his wand at the girl's eye level, the tip shaking faintly.

“Avada kedavra," the dry lips whisper.

There is a flash of green light, and the light in the girl's eyes, which had once shone with life, fades forever. And in the house opposite, a child's eyes, glistening with tears, stare out of the basement window before an adult hand can close them.

Regulus nearly breaks down right there.

Somewhere in the distance, just a few miles from the new graveyard, stands another village. It smells of fresh baked goods, wood carvings, and home.

He washes the blood away in a nearby river. He washed away the blood in the nearby river. The river did not slow down, as if there had been no bloodshed near it, as if people were not running to it in despair, begging all the gods for salvation. It did not matter what religion was preached, they cried out to all known gods and goddesses, their children and the righteous, hoping that at least someone would answer the call. But the gods are deaf to human pleas, it is alien to them to interfere with the natural course of things.

His hands are as clean as he thinks, but the viscous feeling is still there, his skin burns, and he rubs and rubs, but the feeling of blood does not disappear, even if the glimmers of red hues have long since run off with the river water. Along with his pride and humanity, leaving behind only a pathetic creature, able to hold pieces of his flesh together in the hope of preserving a sanity long since gone.

Regulus bows his head, but the tears won't come. He wants to sob into his knees, but instead he feels sick, sick of himself, sick of blood, sick of existence. His throat aches, his body aches, and there is no longer a world where anything could help him.

There's no need to go back to the Dark Lord - the mad relative will hand everything over, and he's not wearing his cloak and mask anyway. He stands up and runs his trembling hands over his face, hoping that maybe it will help him look a little more human. The reflection of his face in the river is pale and ugly, not human - murderous. It was worth getting used to all this time.

The body splits into pieces during the apparition, scattered across the boundaries of the universe and reassembled remarkably coherently, not at all matching the mental anguish of the host. Hogwarts looms, impregnable and majestic. Pure, light that is about to be polluted by it.

The unsteady feet lead onwards, towards the familiar passage, clawing at the dusty walls, leaving bruises on a weak body, only to the delight of a soul dying, longing to be tormented for its deeds.

Nothing has changed since he left. The students scurry around, scattering after class like cockroaches, laughing and chatting, their eyes burning with life and their hands gesticulating emotionally.

Walls change to bookshelves, unknown company to the familiar, habitually bustling. Regulus alone doesn't seem to fit in, assembled from the parts of a pathetic creature just to be like those around him. The mask of humanity is cracking at the seams, shards cutting deeper into his heart, wounding his soul. Childish naivety, small as it was, is crumbling into ashes, hope trampled into the ground by sharp boots.

“Oh, Reggie!” Barty laughed, and his shout echoed through Regulus's body.

His head aches. His throat constricts, whether in impending sobs or sickness.

He's not sure what he looks like, but Barty falls silent and the smile falls from his face as Regulus quickly approaches and grabs him by the edge of his shirt. Tension hums in the air. Whether they think a fight is about to break out is irrelevant. A panic attack, breakdown, or other synonymous words for the disgusting state that pierces both mind and body is about to happen.

Regulus pulls his arm, silently demanding the boy stand up, which he obediently does. The grip from his shirt moves to his wrist and freezes iron. He turns away and walks so fast he almost runs. Barty is surprisingly quiet behind him, not trying to break free.

He must be shivering. It can't be otherwise. Slowly Barty's hand shifts so that their arms are entwined, causing certainly more comfort. Regulus' hands are stained with blood or sweat, which is more likely, and the grip is tight in a way that must surely hurt, but not a word is spoken in the space between them, only Barty's equally tenacious grip.

He regains consciousness as he lies down in Barty's soft, unmade bed. His master climbs in after him, fluffing the pillow more comfortably so that Regulus almost disappears into it. His shoes fall to the floor with a clatter, and he is pulled impossibly close to another man's chest. His breath hitches.

“Now you can," they whisper softly into his hair, as if knowing all the secrets and needs of his broken soul, "now you can…”

He opens his mouth to object or explain, he doesn't know when the door swings wide open and they both freeze. But not to anything, then Evan and Pandora - how the girl managed to sneak not just into the Slytherin living room but into the boys' bedroom is unknown, and that's not what's important right now. They cast careless but confident spells of silence and 'do not disturb' at the door and hurry towards them. The canopy draws shut, supported by another spell of silence. Barty remains in his seat, holding Regulus. Pandora settles behind him, kneeing Crouch's side, for which she gets a share of scolding, and Evan remains sitting at his feet - there is no more room on the bed. And amongst all his friends, closer to his family, something in Regulus that had been cracking at the seams before finally breaks with a loud crack that reverberates throughout his body.

A tear rolls down her cheek, which is quickly absorbed into Barty's shirt. Then another and there is no longer any barrier to them. Hands clutch Crouch's suffering clothes and can't let go while Regulus sobs, filthy and ugly in a way that can only be done during the most violent hysterics.

The hands touching him in comfort are gentle and familiar. Running a light feather over him, fearing to break him harder, but there is nothing else about him to break.

Through sobs, interrupted by meaningless, trifling assurances that everything will be alright, Regulus explains what has happened. His voice is hoarse, his throat hurts, resonating in his heart, but he continues to speak. His hands freeze for a moment, but continue a succession of comforting touches. He slows down when he talks about the girl with the blue eyes. Mentions how she was his first victim in each of the previous loops, and now one of many. However, she wasn't the last then either.

They are silent for a long, agonising moment as they search for something to answer.

“I think if she knew the whole situation, all the magic, Voldemort, the necessity, the bastard Dumbledore, she'd understand," Barty finally says, "not forgive, of course, unless she's a complete idiot, but she'd understand. It doesn't matter to us, it's either you or her, Reg, and you know what?”

Hands grab his cheeks and pull him away from the shelter of his ruined shirt to look into Crouch's fierce eyes, burning with confidence.

“We're glad, damn glad it was her. Because to us it's you, always and forever, Regulus, you come first, the rest doesn't matter, no one else matters.”

Pandora's hands tightening on him, Evan's focused frown confirming his words enough to make Regulus nearly sob again.

His heart sinks and stops beating when Evan and Barty announce the next day that they are joining the Death Eaters. Their faces are solemn and sombre, but their eyes are completely serious, leaving no hint that this could have been a completely idiotic prank. One that would tear Regulus' heart to shreds, but leave them safe from the Dark Lord in close proximity.

“No way” Black bellowed, backing away from their outstretched hands, which were intended to calm but only made them angrier, "Are you idiots or are you completely finished? Are you trying to kill yourselves?”

“At least you won't be alone in this shithole!” shouts Barty, continuing to advance, “you won't be surrounded by enemies, you'll have us!”

In desperation the words can't leave his mouth, he's shaken, but his friends either don't notice it or choose to ignore it for the moment.

“I don't care if one, you can't do this! I don't need you there!”

A hand grabs at the collar of his shirt, clutching and pulling away the fabric that fits tightly against his skin, only creating a bigger obstacle to the already hard to access air.

“He's going to kill you!” The voice trembles.

“And you're not?” Evan asks painfully, but finally stops coming over and grabs Barty's arm, forcing him to do the same.

“Don't you understand?” Regulus wheezes, feeling their deaths approaching.

He tries to look into the eyes that have become closer to his blood family, to find understanding, or at least unwillingness to go along with it. Then he could persuade them, appeal to the parts of them that wish to be safe. Both guys, however, are on fire with their idea. And it seems that even though it's deadly, suicidal in its stupidity, they won't back down.

“It will kill you! That's where your hope of salvation ends! The war will end and no one will think twice about the purpose for which you found yourself in his followers, you will never be free. You will be forced to obey his every order like pathetic mutts on a chain and you will also die!”

Regulus is breathing heavily, he doesn't realise at what point the tears have left a trail down his cheeks, but those don't even think about stopping. He looks at his friends, at his brothers, and with every pathetic part of his soul he hopes that he has managed, that they will refuse, but he finds himself disappointed when he sees only their determined looks.

Evan and Barty approach him, but there is no more strength to retreat. They don't touch him, but you can see that they are only holding on by sheer force of will, for his sake and not their own.

“We realise that, Regulus," Rosier says gravely, "don't you think we've thought this through a hundred thousand times? Every worst-case scenario of us dying and living like this has been run through and doubled, and yet here we are, standing in front of you and saying this to you, not running behind your back to swear an oath, do you know why?”

Regulus doesn't answer. He doesn't even want to look at them, but he doesn't dare look away, as if if he does they'll be killed right here and now, as if his gaze is the only thing keeping them alive.

“Because it's important that you understand that this is our conscious decision," Barty picks him up and finally takes his hand, squeezing it tightly, "we don't want you to suffer alone and if it takes standing with you shoulder to shoulder in front of a murderous tyrant to ease your burden, we'll do it. Why?”

“Because you are family," they declare firmly and confidently, fervently loving, "you are our brother in everything but blood, and if we are to die, we will do so on our own terms.”

“We will die together or not die at all.”

Regulus looks at them, not realising how he can hold so much emotion, so much love for the people in front of him. The only thing missing is Pandora, but he still has plenty of love for her. He is shaking finely, the sobs only intensified as they speak and it seems that if there is the most loved person in the world, it is him right now.

The tenderness for these two guys that are willing to put their freedom and lives on the line for him fills every cell in his body and he doesn't know how to control it. Can a man deserve such unconditional trust? He has no idea, but he hopes he will justify it.

His heart aches for them, but the pain is so sweet he's willing to endure it.

Voldemort, stretched out on his throne, is majestic, eyes sharply moving from person to person so that they barely dare to breathe. Their backs straighten in horror, threatening to break in half from the swiftness of this action. Sweat has soaked the clothes, but the terror has not subsided.

Masked, Regulus cannot breathe. The cloak restrains his movements, pressing a heavy weight on his shoulders, unbearable and deadly. Barty and Evan are standing side by side in front of him, looking dignified, their faces calm but solemn, expressing no extraneous emotion.

Sirius sits beside him by the Black Lake. There is a scorching warmth emanating from his brother, and the silence between them, for the first time in a long time, is comfortable. Sirius turns to him, his face full of tenderness and love, and he lifts his hand and ruffles Regulus' hair, laughing. There is warmth in the shower.

The room is cold. The Dark Lord speaks, but Regulus can't make out the words over the noise in his ears, over the thundering pounding of his heart. Crouch comes first and pulls his naked hand out, bowing his head.

Sirius' face frowns and freezes. The hand returns to his lap. His gaze dips down, Regulus traces it - the mark is exposed and shifts ugly. Lifting his eyes, his heart doesn't beat - his brother's face is contorted with hatred.

Ink appears on his hand, travelling. The muscles of his body tense, he shakes, but a faint moan only bursts from his bitten lips at the very end, rather relieved when the pain recedes, if only briefly.

Mum stands in front of him, wand behind her on the dresser. Her hair is invariably perfectly arranged in a tight bundle, her face is pale, but for the first time in a long time there is an unfamiliar, surprising emotion on it: pride.

Evan takes the next seat at the throne. He is already trembling, and even from Regulus's seat you can see how pale he is, but the boy confidently raises his head higher and holds out his hand, palm clenched into a tight fist.

His mother's eyes squint and her lips fold into the familiar word 'shame' even though not a sound leaves her mouth. Her face creased in the familiar lifelong contempt.

Regulus inhales deeply and tries not to choke - the mask is short of air, but thankfully it covers his face so his expression is not visible, even as his fists clench so tightly it hurts. Biting her lip to keep from making a sound.

A wide grin glistens on Voldemort's face at such visible fear, so he drags out the process longer than he did with Barty or Regulus, lovingly running his wand over his skin until, at Evan's gasp, he whispers the curse words. Unexpectedly, the boy lets out a faint shriek. Regulus and, he could see clearly, Barty struggled to keep himself from rushing forward to his friend's aid, but had to cling tightly to the weakening threads of control. Evan's legs buckle and shake beneath him, but he stands still, willpower straightening him up, even if his face is slanted in a grimace.

When they are finally free of the need to be in the room (they will never be free again) and hide in the safety of their room, Regulus falls to his knees with a thud and grabs the trousers of their trousers.

"Sorry..."

Evan and Barty drop down to his level, touching his shoulders and muttering, assuring him that everything is fine, but Regulus only hears his own voice, muffled and whispering:

"I'm so sorry."

The next time they visit Finley the meeting is grim and sullen. The man looks at them concerned and questioning for a long time and eventually they give up. Slowly the buttons on the cuffs of one of them are undone and the long sleeves are reluctantly raised, exposing to the world an ugly mark, the same one that shimmers viciously on Finley's wrist with the only difference being that the boys have a bright, new one.

“Oh my God," Gorn whispers so sadly, but also humbly.

They'd considered it, but with every string of their pathetic souls they'd hoped that maybe they'd be the lucky ones, maybe they could win without siding with evil, without knowing the pain of being a Death Eater. Unfortunately, that was not the case, and fate was never on their side.

With equal regret, they all realise that there is nothing more they can do, unless they want to lose their hands and a useful, albeit dangerous, source of information. Dumbledore writes letters, but they are mostly useless until they are let into the narrow circle of confidants.

Back at the house, Miriam has made apple pie. The rich flavour spills over the tongue and the herbal tea adds a pleasant aftertaste of cherries. The wind beats against the closed window, ruffling the treetops. Henry snoops around and sneaks slices of cake before bombarding his favourite guests with a million questions.

After lunch, Miriam disappears with Evan, while Barty and Regulus stay with Finley and Henry. The child persistently demands to tell them about his school, and Regulus unashamedly gives him the runaround for a friend who can't even swear in the presence of a child.

“Come with me, little one," Finley whispers, meeting him with an aggravated look of thought.

Regulus follows the man and finds himself in a workshop that is a surprising mess for a Gorn. Sawdust and shavings cover every surface they can reach, unfinished and abandoned figurines lie in a pile that sprawls with the amount of work. Regulus walks over to them mesmerised and gazes closely: scorpions, spiders, eagles and ravens of various sizes, shapes and levels of detail, shards of what looks like snakes, but mostly bats.

“What's that?” Looking round, he asks Finley.

“Visions.”

Slowly, as if afraid, the man steps closer and takes each of the figures in his hands, one at a time, gently touching their corners.

“Ravens are intelligent creatures.. Saviours that speak of fear and magic, that bring war and battle, but at the same time they are often associated with divination.:

The outline of a raven faintly peeks through in this particular figure that ends up in Regulus' hands, but the man meanwhile continues to speak, mesmerised and misty-eyed.

“Eagles are marvellous birds truly. Nobility, keen eyesight, and most importantly, they were the ones who carried strength. The Celts even regarded them as guardians of healing waters.”

The majestic bird with its wings open is handed to the lad. Something makes my throat lump.

“Spiders... Yes, weavers and tricksters, they are often feared, but for nothing. They carry signs, warning of danger, but they also hold the threads of life in their clutches. Wise, divine creatures”.

Three figures stand in Regulus's arms, each marvellous in a sense not even seen before. Their eyes are barely an outline - a whole world of stories and predictions locked within them.

“Scorpions are feared, they symbolise revenge and betrayal in some religions, but... at the same time they are protectors and... victims.”

The little creature joins the other three, barely taking on some form peculiar to itself. Regulus waits for it to continue, but Finley remains silent. His eyes drift back to him, but the man stares motionless at the bat in his hands, perched on the tiger's shoulder. The figure is detailed, colourful in its beauty and breathtaking.

“Finley?” Regulus whispers, afraid to break the prevailing atmosphere around him.

On the one hand there seems to be tension, a sense of something bad about spiders and scorpions and ravens and eagles, but at the same time a strange expectation reigns in a halo over Finley.

“The bat..." he begins with a pause, "rebirth, facing fear, anxiety, and... ritual death. And the tiger is willpower, dignity, and fearlessness.”

His voice is deafening when talking about bats, but flourishes when he talks about the tiger. There seems to be more behind it than Regulus realises right now.

“What is this vision about?” He asks uncertainly.

Finley's eyes, still slightly misty, turn to Regulus. He looks into his very soul and smiles slowly, sadly, as if comforting a small child.

“Don't you get it yet?”

The snake lies in pieces at their feet, its jaws wide open, its venom oozing out into the floorboards, soaking so deeply that it can never be pulled out.

The next time they meet the Gryffindors, the trio of Slytherins are so pale they look more like dead people. Pandora scowls at them, but, knowing the situation, goes back to discussing with Peter a picture that particularly interests her. Pettigrew, however, along with the others, looks worriedly at the Slytherins, who have laid down tiredly on the grass and closed their eyes.

“Don't mind them," Pandora waved them away when the boys' questioning failed to produce any results and the attention shifted to her, "the boys are tired. Mind your own business, everything is under control.”

This is so far from the truth that Regulus involuntarily snorts with laughter, than earns a displeased look from the girl.

So the boys, thankfully, are left alone. They're each wearing long turtlenecks that fit tightly around their bodies so that their skin doesn't accidentally get bare, and jumpers on top to add style to the boredom (Barty manages to put a jacket on somehow, killing any travesty of style in his look).

James sits next to Regulus, returning to his usual monologues, and his voice, gentle and quiet, sounds like a bedtime story to Black. His eyes fall asleep, and he doesn't notice as he falls into a sweet dream, filled with a proud Quidditch victory.

“How are your studies going, Mr Black?” Dumbledore smiles and pops a strange looking candy into his mouth, “lollipop?”

His gaze drifted to the bowl of wrapped treats, and the appearance of them did not inspire confidence, and neither did their owner, who sat back in his seat in a stately but no less majestic manner.

“No, thank you, director," Regulus dismissed the offer and wrinkled his nose, "studying is fine, serving the Dark Lord is just fine too, thank you for asking.”

Dumbledore shakes his head affectionately, his crescent moon glasses glinting knowingly as he looks at Regulus as a particularly interesting object.

“I understand your predicament…”

“The problem is that you don't," Black denied firmly, "how can you understand me if you don't have a mark, if you don't serve the Dark Lord, and if your family, Merlin forbid, is nothing like mine? You don't understand me, so don't even start.”

“All right, you're right..”

“However, you are not an eighteen year old forced to serve your future, most likely a murderer and pretend to share his ideology, therefore forced to kill and torture people, and if anyone from school, work, or the world at large finds out about it, you will be sent to Azkaban at best and to a Dementor at worst. Or is there something I don't know about you, Director?”

Regulus is slightly out of breath by the end of his speech, but an angry feeling of satisfaction blossoms in his chest. It quickly melts away, too, because Dumbledore doesn't look too hurt, but rather knowing.

“Again, you're right, Mr Black, but that's why I'm so old and experienced, so I could put myself in your shoes and imagine what it's like for you. Of course, that doesn't diminish your experience in the slightest, but I hope you at least understand what I'm trying to convey. I am insanely sorry to have forced you to join such a horrible person, but rest assured, Mr Black, your help will be fully appreciated.”

“And when will it be appreciated, Director? When I'm three metres underground?” Regulus grins and stands up, "I have nothing more to say to you. The Dark Lord does not trust me yet and no compromising information will be shared in our presence, have a good day, Professor Dumbledore.”

He is just about to leave the office when he hears a call at his back. He doesn't want to turn round, but the Director is clearly not going to talk back to him.

“Tell the Dark Lord that Dumbledore will be at the wonderful place of Chadwell St Mary's this weekend, maybe that way he'll start to trust you more.”

“Will you really be there?” Regulus raises an eyebrow disbelievingly, gazing up at the Director, but he smiles habitually vaguely.

“Do I look like a liar, Mr Black?” chuckles the man, and before he can get an answer he continues, “I will indeed be there because an old wizard friend of mine lives there, but I've long felt it was time for him to move, and what better way to do that than with the good old threat of death hanging over his head, don't you think?”

Regulus realises in shock, his mouth slightly ajar. Dumbledore treats it so... so simple, so easy. He shakes his head.

“What am I going to tell the Dark Lord if he asks what you're going to do there?”

The old man smiles.

“Tell him my informant is there.”

Regulus swallows, goosebumps running through his body.

“Won't that put me in danger?”

“I have more than one informant, my young friend. If he also asks why I trusted you with this information, tell him that you lied about the fact that the Dark Lord, great and powerful as he is, would be prowling the north of England, so I thought it prudent to turn to my informant.”

Regulus is thinking and hoping to be right, believing that this plan might work.

It is unusual to leave the Director’s office with excitement that makes his heart beat faster. He has a good feeling about this.

Fuck his good feeling.

What's the Dark Lord's trust worth if he's sent on an "interesting, honourable mission" to test it?

The days are getting shorter, the sun is setting faster. Before Regulus knows it, darkness is falling, and he continues to sit with Potter and just... talk.

At first they were limited to a single common topic, Quidditch, but time passed, and now Regulus is talking about how he doesn't know what he's going to do in the future. And Potter replies confidently: "Knowing you, you'll stage a coup d'etat, but.. it'll be fine Reg, whatever you do, it'll be magical."

And Regulus looks away in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. His own mother doesn't believe in him the way the idiot Gryffindor does.

"I'm afraid I don't give enough love to the people close to me," James whispers, afraid to take his eyes off the floor.

"Are you an idiot, Potter?" Regulus replies harshly, but, "you're a man who gives love so completely and boundlessly that it lights up a room. People reach out to you, and your people know that Potter certainly appreciates them."

The days grow shorter and his touches with James longer. Another man's hand weightlessly runs his fingertips over his skin, sending an explosion of goosebumps.

They sit close, their thighs touching. The careful touch warms his skin and in a quick movement, before fear comes to his favourite spot, he clutches their hands together.

Under the starlight on the roof of one of the school's towers, he stares into the brown eyes burning with tenderness and his breath catches in his chest. The gaze of the lovely eyes descends to his lips, which slowly open. Hands reach for the stranger's shoulders, his waist is wrapped around and pulled closer so that they breathe the same air–

His chest aches and his side prickles as he runs, faster and faster. His body goes numb, but Regulus doesn't let himself stop. Branches slap at his face, the pain of which he ignores, preferring not to slow down. Falling leaves crunch beneath his feet, sticks cracking.

Terror grips his body, death breathes down his neck, but at last the village of Gorn comes into view. There is no time. His heart pounds in a wild rhythm, nearly flying out of his rib cage in its speed.

He opens a familiar door and bursts inside, searching for the owners with frantic eyes. Finley finds himself in the workshop and turns pale as he sees the guy, dishevelled and clearly frightened.

“What…”

“There's no time!” Regulus sees Miriam, who has come to the commotion, show herself, “You need to run. All of you. The whole village. Right now! The Death Eaters are coming!”

There's no need to say more. Finley jumps up and runs out of the house, leaving Miriam inside with Henry. The child looks at Regulus with innocent eyes, but there is no happiness on his face due to the pale state of the man who has come. Miriam, on the other hand, though roughly, understands the situation at hand, which means she realises the danger.

“How much time do we have?” The woman whispers, her gaze running round, desperately clinging to things around her.

“The sooner the better.”

Regulus rushes for the exit, noticing lastly how Miriam is hiding a sharp knife in her wide skirts. He grins.

There's no telling what Finley told the residents, but they're running, or at least trying to. They don't have much motivation for a full-blown, panic-filled escape. A man nudges the women and children, asking them to speed up. Words fly about the military, a safe place and other things, Regulus doesn't listen. What refuge Finley has found for the Muggle village is an interesting question, but he doesn't delve into it.

The forest greets the half-naked branches of the trees, painted with the colours of late autumn. They almost make it into the forest all in time, but Regulus freezes.

Finley beside him curses, looking back in horror.

The sounds of apparating sound like thunder. Like the creaking of floorboards in the silence of an unfriendly house. Like a noose tightening around your neck, kindly put on by someone else's hands. Like the world coming to an abrupt halt.

Regulus is forced to turn around quickly as Gorn continues to chase his men away, panic clearly creeping into his voice. Those aren't picking up on it yet, but give a little time and heads will fly.

In all her crazed glory, against the sharp rocks and crashing waves, stands Bellatrix, unconcealed by her mask, surrounded by Death Eaters, wild and deadly. They look round and see no one, but a relative's gaze falls on him.

Fuck.

“Regulus.”

The wind carries the quiet, dangerous voice of her. There will be no mercy, there can be none.

Regulus swallows hard, the wand in his hands seeming both deadly and completely useless. His legs felt like lead, not allowing him to move. The pounding of his heart must be audible to the Death Eaters on the other end.

Finley stares at his wife, his gaze filled with so many emotions it's a wonder they haven't burst out of him in a tidal wave. He looks conflicted for a moment, but eventually runs to his family and hugs Miriam and Henry tightly.

Regulus looks back at them in doubt, the idiots standing still, but rushes forward at the same moment as a whirlwind of curses flies in their direction. Protego is a strong and basic curse, so it succeeds in protecting the Muggles, even if Regulus himself has to twirl around.

The child looks up incomprehensibly, and realisation slowly blossoms on the woman's face, lips forming an inaudible 'no'. She grabs her husband's hands and presses them to her chest, kisses them and touches them to her forehead, lips quivering in pleading. Henry blinks innocently but hugs his father's leg.

A blinding green curse causes his heart to freeze for a moment. No defence spell against the avada will work, no matter how hard you twist it. He crouches to the ground, feeling his breath hitch in his chest. A second one follows, so that Regulus flies off to the side like a stung man. He throws a light, tickling spell, which is repelled with disgust and a chuckle as a barely audible bombardment flies next, blowing up part of the village.

Finley looks at his family and smiles, small and shaky. He hugs his son, kisses his forehead, and draws closer to his wife. Their kiss is short but full of love, deep and tender. Finally Gorn shakes his head and pushes Miriam and her son into the arms of the village man.

“Henry, Mira, remember that I love you. And I never will stop.”

The wooden houses are ablaze with a bloody bonfire, crackling eerily. The smoke from the bombardment that has just been thrown is quickly dispersed by the wind, but Regulus has already hidden himself among the houses and is inhaling deeply.

The child bursts out and screams, finally suspecting something terrible. The shrill "Daddy" hits sharp forks in his heart, Miriam cries out but holds her son as they run. They don't look back, not at the dead men.

It seemed like an eternity, but it happened so fast.

Finley quickly joins Black, miraculously unseen. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, but the man stands.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Regulus growls.

The old man's smile is a heartbreaking sight. Mournful and somewhat hilarious.

“Helping the youngsters.”

The wand in Finley's hands is old, cracked, but: "The old girl has always served me well. She will now."

Regulus sees in the old man's eyes that he has accepted his death, accepted it long ago, but held on for his family, and now he will die a warrior. And he will not take no for an answer.

The boy sighs and throws a 'protego', summoning a shield in front of them, escaping the spell whose wielder has finally found them.

They begin to have a fight for survival, no other way, seven Death Eaters against the two of them is a death sentence, so they're only buying time for the others.

Regulus lunges at Bella, whose gaze is fixed on the forest. Impermissible.

Unfortunately, the relative immediately notices someone else's approach, so the effect of surprise is lost and Regulus is forced to fight her fair.

A spell flies, restraining his legs, which is heartlessly cast aside. A frightening purple-coloured curse-whose name is unspoken-is at her side. Regulus dodges and feels it almost touch the skin of his cheek.

“Playing dirty, sister?” He grins and throws the bombard.

Unfortunately, Bella dodges and is almost unharmed. Regulus gets a crucio from behind. Painful and particularly vicious, considering how hard it hits his nerves. The guy falls to the ground in surprise, throwing a weak "protego" at the last moment, which shatters on first contact with the stranger's spell.

He rolls away from the next one, by sheer force of will alone moving his body, which echoes pain in every cell and every nerve, making him groan. Bella laughs victoriously.

“Oh Reggie, how wrong I was to think you were finally part of our family," she drawls sweetly, "I thought he finally understood, finally saw! And you... you dirty, ugly traitor.”

The girl clutches the wand so tightly that her hand turns white. It's a wonder the wand doesn't break.

“You dare speak to the Dark Lord as if you know information about Dumbledore. You tried to gain His trust! And then you betrayed our family, betrayed Him! How dare you!” Bellatrix shrieks, her hair looking like it's been pierced by lightning that burns in her eyes, fury igniting strength, "So you won't die right away....”

The Death Eater next to her is bored with her whole appearance. Regulus wonders how Finley is holding up. He must be in a better position, because he can still hear the sounds of battle in the distance, so the old man is holding on.

His muscles have finally stopped burning from the crucio, but now they're woozy, which doesn't make the situation any better for Black. He tries to get up, but ultimately thinks he'll just take them with him. Just one strong, powerful bombardment and he'll take the two with him.

A spell sparks on the tip of his wand, lips forming into familiar words that are interrupted a second later by the sounds of apparitions. Regulus turns around abruptly and for a moment his heart completely stops until he can assess the situation.

Three figures had joined them: two masked and cloaked Death Eaters with Pandora between them.

Regulus has time to mentally bury him and Dora, thinking she's been captured, but then he peers in and realises that the girl doesn't look captured, on the contrary, she's standing too famously close to the Death Eaters, which means that Evan and Barty are hiding underneath the mask.

Bella, however, hasn't realised this yet.

“Idiots, why did you bring the girl here?” she shrieks, still furious after what she said to Regulus.

The arrivals don't bother saying anything. Before they are revealed, all three rush forwards sharply, Evan (or Barty, you can't tell for sure) and Pandora to the sounds of battle deep in the village, to Finley's aid as they find out a little later, and the remaining Eater, Barty (or Evan) to Regulus.

No extra words are spoken, not even a spell is cast - just a flash of light flies towards Bella, a moment later another towards the other. A hidden hand is held out to Regulus and he quickly grasps it, jumping up, wand trembling in his hand.

“What?" he wheezed, his voice altered by the mask.

"Crucio to the back," he mutters and sends an Avada Kedavra at Bella. It misses, which is a pity.

“Oh, rats," the voice growls, and in that case it's probably Barty.

“Barty?” He clarifies, though, and gets an approving pant in response.

Two green beams fly at them, beautiful in their mortality. They scatter in different directions and cast spells, barely able to make out where is their own and where is someone else's. Regulus feels the blood start to run down his face at some point, but as long as his eyes can see, nothing else matters.

He and Barty are standing back to back, but Bella, the wild bitch, is running and leaping, dissolving in bursts of apparition and being right next to them so that they only have time to defend themselves and occasionally throw something at her.

She's just about to throw another nasty curse when Regulus notices movement behind her.

Fuck.

The lovely and idiotically stupid Miriam steps so carefully that not a sound is heard. In her hands is a knife and a shiny Muggle pistol clutched securely to her chest.

Regulus hastily averts his gaze because otherwise Bella would notice the distraction and kill the woman. He sighs deeply and lunges forward. A step to the left, a spell flies past him, he continues to step and dodge spells, throws a "protego" when he fails and finds himself right in front of Bella's face.

“Crucio," he whispers.

“Confringo," she spits.

Not a moment passes as an explosion erupts in front of Regulus's face, repelling and blinding him. His face burns, he can't see anything, but he hears Bella's shriek amidst the ringing in his ears. Indeed, intent is most important in a spell, and they've both done a good job of it.

His hands drop his wand in unbearable pain and reach for his face. He's not sure if he's screaming, but everything is burning. Now his hands are burning as well. They grab his wrist and pull him away.

“You idiot!” They shout at him.

The shrieking and whistling of magic at his ear. For a moment it seemed like there were many times more people.

“Sanatio,” they whisper at his very face and slowly feelings other than deep pain enter his body, “abite ignus.”

The fire on his skin dissipates, and finally Regulus can breathe. Evan's face appears before his eyes, blessedly open at first in spots, then slowly but clearly. The mask has cracked in two and is lying around his neck.

“All right?” He asks and frowns, looking at his friend's face.

There's a lot of carnage going on around them, as Regulus can see now, Pandora and Finley joining them here, and Miriam is doing quite well, helping from the sidelines and bouncing off spells as if she's never complained about aching bones.

“All right," Black finally nods and jumps to his feet, Evan following.

And then they join the fight.

One Death Eater, praise all the Gods, lies rotting. Too bad it wasn't Bella.

A green flash flashes before his eyes, Regulus' back crunches from how quickly he's leaned back. His wand is quickly picked up off the ground as he remembers that he threw it away in pain.

He teams up with Barty and, grinning widely at the new plan, bombards the two Eaters with a mixture of bombardment and orbis. An explosion rumbles and the bodies are swallowed up by the sprawling earth. For a moment, Crouch and Black freeze, waiting to see if apparition will follow, but it was a mixture of painful shock and closed airways that killed the idiots.

There's no time for celebration. Miriam's out of ammo, so she dodges and tries to retreat, but she's being crowded. Finley looks around in panic but is busy with his battle, so the guys rush towards the hapless woman, allowing her to hastily hide among the houses.

Pandora and Evan struggle with Bella and two other eaters, trying not to back down, but they're barely hanging on.

Regulus, convinced that Barty can handle it, rushes towards them, casting her own spell on Bella. Another Eater under a mixture of two or three spells finally dies, the body flung roughly aside in a hurricane of curses flying around.

Regulus begins to think that perhaps they might be able to win. Victory feels like that, a pleasant weight in his chest, a heaviness in his arms, when Bella turns around sharply and smirks. His heart sinks.

He rushes forward, the spell already flying out of his wand, flashing brightly, but it's too late.

With a desperate, mournful shriek, Finley's body falls to the ground with a clatter.

For a moment, the world stands still. This couldn't be happening. Everything was going well, almost perfectly. Yes, they're beaten, tired and bleeding, but they were finally starting to win.

There's a flash of green light and Regulus ducks with an effort.

Evan rushes forward in a panic when he sees Miriam running out of the house. Her face is in tears, all other thoughts have left her head, one desire drives her - to make sure that this is all a fever dream, that her husband, that the father of her child is not dead, has not left her as he promised he never would.

Rosier grabs the distraught woman and hurriedly drags her away, ignoring the widow's sad howls.

“Oh poor thing," Bella drawls, though her lips are stretched in a smirk.

“You bitch," Regulus growls, unable to take his eyes off the cooling body.

"It's like we have four more children in the moment," echoed in his head.

The man who had become more family to him than his bastard father, who had helped Pandora, laughed with Barty and quenched Evan's thirst for knowledge. The one who believed in them, who suffered for them, with him, who comforted them and... loved them.

He is shaken.

Abruptly his arms are grabbed from behind and pulled back as the flash of a spell flies in front of his face.

“Let's go, now!” Barty shrieks in his ear.

“Where to, where to?” Bella laughs, "You're not going anywhere!”

She swings her wand, elegantly and quickly, deadly. The spells fly one by one. Barty swears foully, utterly without pause, and drags herself and Regulus into the whirlwinds of apparition. They land on a hill near Hogsmeade, joined a little later by a tired and dirty Pandora, who falls to her knees and doesn't get up, giving herself a chance to catch her breath.

“Finley..." she whispers, raising her lost eyes to the boys.

Barty lowers his eyes mournfully; Regulus didn't raise them. They allow themselves a moment of silence, a deep sadness settling in everyone's hearts. Pandora creeps closer to them and the three of them, before Evan returns, they embrace in silence, giving each other the much cherished comfort.

Finally the sounds of the apparatus break their semblance of peace and Evan crouches down beside them.

“Found the residents, asked them to take care of Miriam," he purses his lips and frowns.

That's how they spend another minute in silence.

“Bellatrix... mutilated the body," he closes his eyes and immediately opens them when the image of what he saw doesn't leave him.

Evan joins their embrace.

That's all the time they have for grieving.

“We've been exposed," Regulus states unceremoniously as soon as the Director’s office door closes behind them, "The Dark Lord knows we're traitors. And oh, coincidence, we know about the Horcruxes, we even have one, so you'd better start helping us better.”

Dumbledore blinks twice.

“And good morning to you too, Mr Black, Miss Lestrange, Mr Rosier, Mr Crouch.”

Barty laughs tensely behind his back.

“Is that how you dump everything on your grandfather, Reg?”

“Yes, yes, good morning to you too. The Dark Lord knows we have one Horcrux, what are we to do?”

“Let me ask you, my dears, do you think you are safe at Hogwarts?” asks the Director courteously, looking at them with twinkling, intelligent eyes, serious at last.

“With all due respect to you and your powers, no.”

“I can protect you,” Dumbledore says, but more as an assumption than a fact.

“Inside Hogwarts. And in Hogsmeade? And when we go home?” Evan clarifies.

“With all due respect, Director, but you'll protect us from Voldemort, his adult followers, fine, but what about the students? The ones who follow him and are still learning?” Leans forward Pandora, looking questioningly innocent (the boys know better, sly vixen).

“And what's the matter with them?”

“Are you kidding me?” Barty barks, taking a step forwards before he is grabbed by the arm and dragged backwards, “they will kill us, in our sleep, in our backs, whatever, as long as their lord wants them to!”

Dumbledore looks at them carefully and his lips stretch in a smile.

“Then run and hide,” he replies.

“Just what we were thinking, thank you, Captain Hindsight!” Barty mutters, and with a hidden cough of laughter, Regulus elbows him in the ribs.

“But it's not very convenient to pass letters through your elf or owl, is it, Mr Black?” The director squints his eyes.

It's clear the old man already knows the way out, but it's as if he's testing them or, more likely, just torturing them, watching them squirm in need of a direct answer, without games or long pauses.

“Well?” Barty barks at last.

“It's very simple, young people," he smiles quite serenely and with a deft movement of his wand he casts the spell, "expecto patronum.”

A glittering phoenix flies out of the wand, flying over the heads of those present and screaming inaudibly. Dumbledore's pet phoenix Fawkes, the real one, looks up interestedly.

“Braggart," Barty muttered.

“How's the patronus going to help us?” Evan frowns.

The director beckons to the magical bird, which lands right in front of the man's face.

“I like liquorice marmalade,” he smiles.

The Patronus, which had been bowing its head attentively until then, shakes its feathers and flies straight to Pandora and tells her in Dumbledore's voice, "I love liquorice marmalade."

“It's quite simple," the director smiles, as if he's not giving them a hard time.

“You will teach us how to summon the patronus yourself," Regulus says firmly, as if he can't tolerate anything but a positive answer.

Dumbledore laughs in response. Rude.

In the end all the Director manages to do, given that they are out of time, is give instructions on how to summon the oddball spell, which will be their way of sending messages.

Their escape doesn't go perfectly either, unfortunately or fortunately. As they run to their rooms to gather the things they need, they are met by their favourite and only four Gryffindors.

In their haste, Regulus is grabbed by the arm, thus stopping him. He turns around and looks into Potter's breathtaking brown eyes and doesn't even know where to start, how to possibly quickly explain what is happening to them right now. James meanwhile looks at him worriedly, his example followed by the rest of the Gryffindors.

Regulus looks back at his friends, along with them at his sides, and with a deep sigh, full of the lurking hope of not being abandoned and yet apprehension at the same time, he quickly flips back his sleeve, showing the four of them the hideous mark, creeping and viciously bright.

The reaction doesn't take long to come, coming instantly: faces contort in shock, betrayal and anger, each to their own. Their eyes rise up at him in shock, an ocean of pain, unexpected and deep.

“Listen carefully," he whispers quickly, lowering his sleeve again, "I know how this looks, but I swear we're on your side, okay? We were spies in the Dark Lord's ranks, but we've been spotted, so we're leaving, hiding to help from the sidelines in any way we can.”

He can see the hesitation creeping across their faces - positive or not, it's hard to tell. Sirius looks particularly conflicted, which makes his heart ache, his brother's doubts stabbing sharp blades into the already deep wounds of his soul.

James watches him carefully until the pain gives way to humility, sad but not lonely. Regulus grabs his hand, pulling him against his chest, and looks into the eyes that he has managed to love. Potter lets himself be grabbed.

“I swear I didn't betray. we didn't betray you or your people," Regulus whispers angrily and sees Barty gesturing from behind him to tell him to hurry up.

James is humiliatingly silent for a long time, so he begins to worry, until finally, quietly and uncertainly, he speaks:

“Our people, Reg.”

Potter looks at him for a moment, nods, and draws their hands to his lips, kissing them weightlessly, but it makes Regulus blush even more thickly than usual now that their friends are around them.

As much as he wants to, he can't stay longer - Barty abruptly grabs his arm and pulls him away, unable to wait any longer. Regulus casts one last mournful glance at James, shifts his gaze to his brother and sees that he's still crumpling, but Potter is nothing if not stubborn, so convincing Sirius and the rest of the Gryffindors will be easy for him.

At least that's what he hopes.

The move he hopes to pull off is risky, almost fatal, but necessary if they want to complete his loop.

Going home to Grimmo place seems almost a suicidal mission, but Regulus has survived there all his life. Which is why he arranges with the others to meet near the Gorn village while he himself heads to the sweet home.

The door does not creak, however the floor does. Thankfully, having lived with the need to be quiet all his life, he knows which floorboards creak, which sag gingerly underfoot, and which are the safe path. Quickly and quietly, miraculously meeting with only Kreacher, who would not rat him out, Regulus hides behind the door of his room.

He sweeps the necessary items and books into a huge bag and moves into his father's study, who, thank all the saints, is not here. In the room with the piano, just below the study, a fast melody begins to play, causing his heart to start a frantic rhythm. Trembling hands, carefully wrapped around the tablecloth pulled off the table, pick up books that are surely protected by dark magic. The presence of any dark spell would do them good in the boredom of the forest wilderness.

The music beneath accelerates just as the shelves are almost completely empty. The tablecloth is carelessly tossed into place and the bag levitates securely in the air nearby. Regulus holds his breath and descends back the same way.

The keys slow down, sounding strained, almost like a funeral march. He hurries to the door and is about to take a full breath of air when a long, melodious, "Well, well, well, well, who do we have here?" comes from behind him. Bella. Regulus turns around slowly.

His heart sinks in his chest instantly, a lump the size of a sharply increased terror rising in his throat. Bellatrix stands at the stairs, dishevelled and wilder than ever before. A fierce fire burns in her cousin's eyes, full of a madness so intense Regulus has never seen.

His mother emerges from the music room, her gaze habitually full of contempt, the only difference being that betrayal is now firmly planted there.

The flight of Bella's favourite toy and the mother's last son must have broken the women. Those look frazzled, but also very, very angry at the same time, which threatens imminent death for Regulus.

“Bella. Mum. It's good to see you in good health," he drawls, wand securely in his hand.

“Traitor!” They both shriek, but only the sister continues, "It's not enough to kill you for this! The Dark Lord will punish you severely, but first I will prepare you for the master.. lucky you, you will be the first to test Dolokhov's interesting new gizmo…”

The girl's voice is hushed, almost purring dangerously.

Regulus knows how to pick his battles, and this one is clearly not one where he could come out with at least a draw. So without another word, he abruptly turns around and runs out. A curse flies at his back and before he can duck out of the doorway, it grazes his shoulder, causing Regulus to almost fly off to the side. Pain flashes through his entire body in a sharp flash.

He hears the clomping of heels, so he wastes no time in useless squeals of pain and immediately apparates. Falling in a heap in an unknown place, which matched the right one only that it is also a forest. Once the sounds of the apparition have faded away, the body is pierced by pain redoubled in intensity, only whetted by the displacement. His legs cannot hold Regulus up and he falls to the thorny forest floor, looking around with blurred eyes.

The pine trees stand tightly together, barely letting the sun's rays in, making an uncomfortable feeling lodge deep inside. A throbbing shoulder, the pain from which spreads throughout his body, doesn't help.

Regulus only allows himself to sigh for a moment at the thought of being alone, but...

“Did you think I couldn't find you, brother?”

Bella's voice - quiet and dangerous - sounds loud in the dead silence of the forest. It is quiet from a distance, however, Regulus realises and tries to crawl away, unable to get his legs to support his body weight.

Saliva, heavy and viscous, accumulates in his mouth. It's impossible to swallow, it feels like it's pierced with sharp pitchforks. His eyes water as everything from his skin to his guts to his heels to his very heart aches unbearably, his breathing hitching. Regulus slows down for a moment and takes a deep, quiet breath, which, however, does nothing to ease the rapidly deteriorating condition.

His legs are numb, but the sensation feels more like he's resting them. Black gently pulls them up to his chest and moving on all fours becomes faster. It doesn't make breathing any easier, it just feels like it's getting hotter. Everything inside him is burning, and it feels like he won't survive another apparition. But he has to, or he'll die here.

There's no way out - either he apparates now, or he dies in the Dark Lord's throes. Again.

Regulus gathers his strength, but his breath is abruptly knocked out of his chest when a foot slams into his back with force.

“Gotcha.”

It's now or never.

Apparation tears him apart, into pieces in space and time, scattering him across different universes and picking him back up at the grave of Finley's village. The body aches. There isn't a cell that isn't in agony, but he's saved. For now.

“Regulus!” three painfully familiar, tearfully familiar voices call out to him, serious and worried as he falls to the ground, unable to stand, his insides tearing with pain so intense that Black bends over and gets rid of the already pitiful amount of food that was in his system.

He rolls to the side and falls onto his back, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Pandora asks, eyes examining him worriedly.

“My lovely family happened,” he answers on an exhale barely intelligible, “flew some kind of spell into my shoulder.”

They don't need much more than that. The poor shirt is brutally pushed back to bare his skin, which is covered in ominous black marks, creeping down his skin and burning as if Regulus had been sitting by a red-hot flame for a long time.

“God, poor man,” Evan whispers and, knowing more healing spells among them all, points his wand at Regulus, “Reparifors.”

Unfortunately, it doesn't work. Only makes Black hiss through his teeth. Rosier frowns.

“Sanatio,” he says then, but that doesn't work either, 'what's the spell?

“Dolohov's new one.”

“We'll have to go Muggle-style then, Reg, pleading and hoping.”

Regulus sighs and pushes his friend weakly.

They head to Finley's house, hoping to find something new now that none of the owners are likely to return. And there aren't many hosts left.

Life hasn't left this place yet. If the silence remains for a long time, it will seem that children's laughter still sounds in the walls and the smell of fresh baking fills the nose. It would take longer for the surfaces to get dusty, but even so they would look almost alive: recipe pages lay on the tables, wooden figures lay next to the jigsaw, never to be finished, children's toys lay on the floor, just a little longer before they would be picked up again and the sound of the wheels of a small car on the wooden floor would remind them of home.

They move on, to Finley's workshop, where he kept the magic books. At first they see nothing new: all the spines are familiar, reread several times and mostly labelled as useless. All but a couple that Gorn recognised as too decrepit to risk and one new one, a small notebook that particularly stands out amongst the abundance of the others.

Pandora walks over and picks it up, carefully unwrapping the old wizard's legacy. She runs her eyes over it and ahs.

"My dear children, I hope you will be able to find this message. I feel my time is approaching. Time for me to fly into the darkness now. And no one will follow me, that I know.

I've found a way to destroy the Horcrux. Unfortunately, there are only two. And they're both unpleasant. The first suggests we find a basilisk and use its venom as a means of destroying the Horcrux. And the second.

Use the Fiendfyre spell. But be especially careful: the flame does not obey everyone. It is very violent and dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution.

I hope that when I leave you, you will be as great men as I saw you without the visions."

“So what if we get a few burns or two," Barty says uncertainly, and they all look at each other.

Regulus' shoulder continues to throb.

If they thought they would stop learning when they left school, they were sorely mistaken. Now they were only forced to learn more dangerous things.

It took a long time to find a place open enough without people on foot to practice a dangerous spell quite capable of killing them all. It also doesn't help that the Slytherins' mark is starting to slowly but surely rob them of their powers the longer they ignore the Dark Lord's calls. Regulus has a persistent pain in his shoulder spreading down his body on top of that. The ointment, courtesy of Dumbledore, helps only temporarily, easing the shooting lightning bolts of agony only for them to intensify later, as if sensing good intentions. Regulus stubbornly ignores his friends' increasingly concerned looks and their attempts to talk about it. Evan's healing spells don't help.

That doesn't stop Black from being the first to volunteer to try his hand at controlling the Fiendfyre before his hands shake so badly. He takes his wand aside and casts the spell.

The flames, bright and billowing, fly out of the wand and swirl around. Regulus is forced to grab it with both hands from the force of the dancing fire raging around him.

The sparks take the shapes of giant snakes, opening their jaws wide. They fly towards the others.

“Reg, cancel this bullshit!” shrieks Barty, bouncing out of harm's way.

“Yeah, there's a bit of a problem with that!” Regulus bellowed, bringing his wand sharply down to the ground.

The lights dimmed only slightly, but no new ones came out. The old ones, however, are still just as fiercely determined to kill them all.

“Well, the fire is yours, you'll have to try harder!” Evan slips away by sheer miracle, flinging water around.

Forever Regulus fights the blazing monster, actively lighting their clothes on fire and not killing them by the mere miracle of successfully dodging. To say that they are quickly exhausted is to say nothing: their skin is full of burns, and their strength runs out just as quickly as the infernal flames fly towards them with the intention of burning everything around them.

“Volo manducare!” Regulus finally shouts when, like a light bulb, the right spell pops into his head.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work. The only difference is that the flaming serpents come at him at breakneck speed, jaws wide open.

He bounces away, sliding across the grass, and the fire swiftly, unimpeded, unfolds in such a way that he has no time to dodge. Regulus squints, preparing to die, and in a last pathetic attempt to defend himself he shouts.

“Volo manducare!” his voice is joined by a new one: powerful, majestic.

With a wheeze, the fire dissolves into nothingness, only ash crumbling to the ground, and Regulus himself, suddenly completely weakened, slides down. He can hear the voices of his friends, but he can't take his eyes off Dumbledore, whose wide brimmed hat looks particularly ridiculous in the current setting.

“What a heatwave!” laughs the old man.

And the four of them moan pitifully.

After that, the Headmaster visits them periodically, when he has a spare moment, to "make sure they don't kill themselves" and to share new information, mostly about the Dark Lord and his actions.

But on days like this, when Regulus isn't in much pain and the weather is especially nice, Dumbledore sits with them completely relaxed, pulling candy from his wide pockets and issuing a sudden and abrupt, "Lindsey Bronsh is pregnant, by the way."

They cough, wheeze, and bulge their eyes as they stare at the principal.

“Excuse me?” Barty can't help but say.

Lindsay Bronsh is one of the Headmistresses of what seems to be Ravenclaw, a quiet girl and hardly interesting. Had this fact not been said by the Headmaster, they probably wouldn't have noticed at all, but in this situation it seems surreal.

“Why, did you think you youngsters were the only ones interested in gossip?” Smiles the old man serenely.

To say they can't take the principal completely seriously after that is to say nothing.

Towards evening, as the time approaches for Dumbledore to return to Hogwarts, Evan stops him abruptly in the middle of his speech.

“I wildly apologise, Directow, but you are the greatest wizard, aren't you?” he begins from a very distant place.

Regulus frowns, not knowing what his friend is getting at, but he realises from the looks on the others' faces that they must have grasped the point quickly.

“Suppose so," the old man laughed.

“Then you know healing spells too! Please, look at Regulus! Nothing I know or have tried works, and he's not getting any better. It's stressing us all out, and Regulus is an idiot who–”

“He's got it, Ev," Barty stops the boy before he can go on about Regulus's thinking skills.

“Of course. I'll do everything I can!” exclaims the Directow, "In the meantime, please tell me how this happened.”

As they each explain the events that brought them here, alternately interrupting each other to flesh out the story or insert their own comments, Regulus notices that Dumbledore looks suspiciously passive for the greatest wizard who has promised to do his best to cure him.

His hand doesn't grip his wand tightly, dubious, odd-looking spells fly, nothing much changes from the application of them.

“Director?” he whispers uncertainly.

The old man's eyes settle on him, glittering as if he knows something they don't, surely a plan of his own that would be good to share.

He doesn't, concluding only that a specific counterspell is needed here, which he unfortunately doesn't know.

Regulus is getting worse, and they can't create a patronus of more than a few sparks. The closest they get is Pandora, but he melts away faster than they can even rejoice in the mist.

They try to call out to Kreacher, but since Regulus has probably already been burned out of the family tapestry, he doesn't respond, so they are forced to try to summon the patronus as a matter of urgency.

Barty and his pair quickly give up trying, leaving Evan and Pandora to struggle. Regulus is getting more and more crippled, it isn't long before his wand falls from his weak hands. The food he is offered doesn't fit down his throat, but he tries, if only to avoid seeing the pitying, worry-filled looks.

The day Pandora manages to summon the patronus' pitiful but much desired mist becomes a miracle for them. Now at least they are not completely out of touch on days when Dumbledore cannot visit them.

Regulus, from his seat in the shade of a tree, claps softly, barely audibly, only a couple of times before he sighs tiredly and places his hands in his lap. Books dedicated to medicine and healing become eternal companions in Evan's hands. Pandora tries to get answers among her acquaintances, whom she is sure to trust, but all in vain. The spell invented by Dolokhov is good and very, very evil.

Barty trains with the fiendfyre more and more often, covered in sweat but grinning broadly as the huge burning snakes hiss and change shape but obey him.

At one point the director visits them again. The old man looks wrinkled as he explains that the Dark Lord is starting to rampage. They are sitting in the light of a brightly burning fire when finally and Dumbledore tells the story of Tom Riddle, the boy who was taken from a Muggle orphanage, the boy who had such high hopes but took such a brutal wrong turn, the boy who became the one whose name is feared to be mentioned.

“Tom has probably made a few Horcruxes, or he wouldn't be so smug. However, I've only come to one new one, the family ring, which I destroyed.”

“How will we find the others, if there are any at all?” Pandora asks uncertainly.

Silence reigns among them, grim and solemn, for then they have no answer to the question of where to look for the unknown number of Horcruxes. Crouch closed his eyes, his face tensely frowning before he abruptly cries out, looking at them dumbfounded.

“Gorn bloody knew it!” he bellowed, but was only met with surprised looks, staring at him without comprehension, “statue, arseholes, statue! One of them was a bowl with a silhouette of a badger on it!”

“And did this Gorn of yours know about the other Horcruxes?” The Director asked, looking at them intently.

Barty even shrinks under such intent, predatory eyes directed at him. He looks back at the others, but those didn't even remember more often.

“Fuck, I don't know," he admits sullenly, "I'll have to check.”

But none of them want to go back to that house, filled with buried memories, a hazy future that could have been happy, one day, in another universe, where they could be one, loving family.

Every couple of days, they meet up with the Marauders on the border of Hogsmeade and practice their fighting skills. Dumbledore must have told the Gryffindors something, if they were so willing to meet with them. But you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, so they fight so hard that the next day they're sore from muscles they didn't realise existed.

Barty's arms are increasingly covered in burns. Fiendfyre itself has taken up residence in his eyes, blazing brightly in the depths of his pupils. But his grin is pleased and proud of himself, so that the pain of the blisters seems a mere trifle.

Pandora tries to look into the future to find at least a silhouette of the Horcruxes, but comes out frowning every time she sees useless images that make no sense without forming something precise enough to be understood. For long minutes after her time walks, the girl sits, trying to decipher them.

Evan is constantly surrounded by the green glow of healing magic. He circles around Regulus like a hen and snaps back furiously when they try to chase him away.

Regulus tires faster during his training. Sweat accumulates on the back of his neck, more like blood the longer the guy tries to ignore the unpleasant sensation on his skin. His hands can't hold his wand at all, so soon he's forced to watch everything from the sidelines in relative peace of unceasing pain until he starts to feel his insides slowly melting, even though the guy himself wasn't doing anything.

At times like this, he hurriedly steps aside, hides his face and breathes, deep and slow until he comes to his senses.

And it works, for the time being. But soon his friends begin to notice something amiss.

His face wrinkles more and more, withers in a grimace of pain, silent curses are heard constantly. And the pain grows stronger, stronger and stronger, until it feels like the flames of hellfire have surrounded him and won't leave. His shoulder throbbing and shooting. His throat stops working.

He leans against a tree, touches his forehead to its trunk and tries to breathe. The concerned voices of his friends, a compilation of several faculties, sound like white noise in his ears. Regulus opens his mouth for a gulp of air, but it gets stuck halfway out and the boy gasps, sliding down.

It's getting stuffy. He tries to undo the top button on his shirt, but he's long since replaced it with a jumper that doesn't fit around his neck. Still, there's no room to breathe.

His insides tighten into a tight knot until he feels like he's not a living thing. Then they start to burn.

And then the mark starts to burn. It burns and itches just beneath his skin so that even the worms in his flesh squirm and die in agony. And it keeps burning, burning, burning, burning, burning, burning, burning everything it touches.

Regulus opens his mouth to try to get a breath of air, to scream or beg for mercy, he doesn't know, because when his lips part and he leans over the ground, Regulus vomits his guts out until he seems about to weep.

Death is breathing down the back of his neck, and Regulus is ready to welcome it if it means the agony will stop.

Regulus shouldn't be, but he's still surprised when his brother, hitherto aloof and detached, approaches him one day. His contemplation of what has happened must have finally ended and he has come to some sort of conclusion. From the look on his face, it's not as bad as it could have been. At least he looks only a little furious.

“Reg, will you give your big brother a moment?” He tosses it wryly, though both realise that the conversation will be far from a minute.

The younger brother shrugs and obediently steps aside with Sirius, settling down a little further away from the others, providing enough privacy that no one can hear them, but also that no one thinks they're killing each other (or at least could separate them).

They sit in silence for a while while each ponders what to say, how to start a dialogue after their last disappointing meeting in a rush. Regulus is more preoccupied with worry than really serious thoughts.

“So you and James, huh?” Sirius exhales uncertainly, apparently deciding to start with the least painful topic.

Regulus shrugs and sees his brother fade at that answer, so he bites his lip and looks away awkwardly.

“Something like that,” He mumbles, "Not that we've quite got it all figured out. Given the situation and stuff.”

Once again silence descends upon them, tense and sombre, especially now that Regulus has led them straight to the skeletons that have fallen out of the cupboard. Sirius is breathing heavily beside them, but he doesn't dare look up.

“Why didn't you say?” finally blurts out the older brother, shifting so that Regulus is forced to meet his eyes, "I know, damn it, I know I've been acting like an imbecile for a long time, but we seem to be getting closer! I thought you trusted me! Why didn't you tell me about the mark?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Regulus bellowed, barely finished listening, "How would you have reacted, eh, Sirius? Wouldn't you just blame me for becoming like my parents?”

His brother remains silent, looking at him surprised and dumbfounded. Finally exhales a quiet and unsure, "Is that what you think of me?"

Regulus even stammers, wincing. Is that really what he thinks of his older brother? About the one who selflessly defended him from his mother's attacks and took the full force of her anger on himself? That he abandoned him and ran away from home? He doesn't know the answer.

“Do you really think that after I finally got my little brother back, I would just turn my back on you like that? I wanted to take you back to the Potters, remember, Reg?” Sirius waits patiently for an answer and looks at him softly.

“I remember.”

“Do you realise what that means, little brother?”

“What?”

Sirius snorts a little bitterly, but even so there's a touch of humour in it as his eyes glisten, looking at his little brother.

“It means I was willing to go against mother, father, and our whole damn family to get you. If circumstances had turned out differently. if she hadn't shown up then, if you had been willing and if I. hadn't been scared at the last moment of what she might do to you, then you would have been happy.”

Regulus throws his head back and leans against the trunk of the tree. He sighs and looks up at Sirius, feeling his gaze grow warm. Tired of fighting his brother.

“And look where it got us," he smirks wickedly, "Whoever told me a couple of years ago that I would sit here with you and have a heart-to-heart chat, I would have cursed them.”

Sirius laughs and sits down next to him, grunting senilely along the way. In the distance, their friends shout and laugh as their sparring becomes more playful, and they use completely childish moves to fellate one another.

“I'm sorry for not picking you up. And for leaving then," his brother exhales.

Regulus looks back at him and catches a regretful, deeply remorseful look, but only shakes his head.

“It wasn't your fault. I realise that now and forgive you," he sees Sirius's shoulders relax, "I didn't realise it then, but you did the right thing. You have nothing to apologise for, I wasn't ready to listen to you at that moment either.”

The sun warms his skin, breaking through the leaves of the trees as if finally turning Regulus to light. The wind sounds like a tinkling laughter, a loving touch on the head and a parental hug.

“I'm glad the Potters have become family to you.”

Sirius sighs in surprise and almost coughs, used to Regulus being patient with the people who sheltered him, but deep in his heart something long painful and torn finally calms down, purring like a petted cat.

“And I'm glad you found your people," his brother smiles, watching Pandora wave at Regulus, Barty show his tongue, and Evan punch the latter in the shoulder, but he throws a quick smile, warm and loving, "love you, Reg.”

The younger boy coughs awkwardly as Sirius hugs him tightly, but grasps in return, snuggling against his own shoulder, breathing in the smell of home, habitually associated with childhood, hiding in their rooms and protective, boundless love in the midst of the evil world around them. The two of them against everyone else.

A couple of minutes later, Sirius grunts indignantly, pulling away, his gaze directed to Regulus over his shoulder.

“Seems someone else wants to steal my favourite little brother,” he glares, “hey Jamie, hands off!”

Potter smiles shyly but stands his ground, flashing puppy dog eyes at the younger Black as he shakes his head disbelievingly, but chases his brother away, habitually ignoring his indignation and protests.

“Drama queen," James smirked, taking a seat next to him. Their shoulders touch.

Regulus throws him a quick smirk, but doesn't say anything back. The silence between them is comfortable, reminiscent of the old, quiet times when the only problem hanging over his head was the need to hide long glances at Potter, both glistening in the radiant sunlight and preparing to wrestle with it in its brightness, and avoiding his runaway brother.

“How are you?” James whispers, nudging him lightly.

“Hanging in there. How are you?” Regulus replies in the same quiet tone and catches the laughing look in his eyes.

“Better now that you're around.”

Potter laughs when Black blushes and looks away, but his red ears give him away. Regulus pokes him under the rib.

“Jerk.”

James hides another chuckle, but that doesn't mean he'll escape another shove. Slowly and gently he touches the other's hand, their fingers interlocking. Regulus sighs and leans harder against Potter.

“Reg, I…”

“If this is in any way about feelings, you'd better keep quiet, Potter," Black cuts him off and watches the boy freeze.

A look of resentment appears on his face and he tries to pull his hand away, but Regulus holds it firmly, not letting go.

“Potter," he begins and wrinkles his nose, "James, please listen to me.”

The attentive brown eyes stare up at him, threatening to pull him into a world of their own secrets, hidden by broom cupboards, laughter and burnt sugar, sweet and spicy, loved but forbidden.

“I would love to hear you out and," he sighs deeply, "answer you, but it will only make it more painful for both of us later.”

I'm dying, he wants to say.

“I'm a Death Eater,” he says instead, but the meaning is pretty much the same either way, “you have to understand my chances.”

“You're strong, Reg, I know it, you know it…”

“Do you know who's stronger than me? The Dark Lord," he takes James' other hand in his and presses them against his chest, but continues to look into those much-loved eyes, "James.. if I survive, that's when you tell me what you wanted to tell me, okay?”

“I disagree," Regulus raises his head in idiotic stubbornness as he stays with his opinion, "Wouldn't it be better if you were motivated to come back to me?”

“Exactly," Regulus sees the moment when James is about to object that, in that case, he's right, but doesn't get the chance to speak because Black continues, "I'll be anxious to survive to hear you say those words. Until then, wait for me, okay?”

Doubt flickers across the beautiful face, hesitation distorts it into something not quite pleasant, sad and somewhat desperate, but finally Potter nods.

And in the next instant, Regulus feels his despair on his tongue and dissolves into it.

He sees his family growing stronger. Barty stands confidently, eyes burning with fiery determination, like a fierce spell ready to sweep away everything in his path. His words never waver, always true in their power.

Evan becomes an amazing healer and a true expert of runes, which even Dumbledore almost proudly confirms. Spell books are his faithful companions and potion vials, though rare in their situation, are nevertheless very effective. Both during and after the war, he will be taken hand and foot.

Pandora is magic. Her snow-white curls flutter in the fury of the raging wind, but she does not break away from the precise drafting of her visions. Her eyes are milky white, fog has covered them, but she confidently weaves through the web of time, carefully and precisely unravelling it to find what she needs. She returns tired to death, but unbearably proud of herself.

Regulus wished he could see what they would be like next. How their talents, already painfully obvious, would be revealed in all their glory, how they would be seen and recognised by the magical world. How they would become the heroes that would be talked about. Instead of 'Slytherins who are probably Death Eaters' they will be talked about as amazing wizards. Their names would be known.

Regulus wishes he could see it, wishes he could be there, but he can barely control his body now. Standing on his feet is a task of an impossible scale. When he eats, barely an hour passes and it all comes out. His bones stick out, pain stiffens his body and won't let go no matter what he's given.

Evan tries everything. Greenish healing magic constantly circles around Regulus, becoming a new familiar, but in useless chunks it bounces off the cursed body.

For now, however, the four lay in relative peace, even though anxiety had already settled steadily into their bones.

Regulus is nestled against the trunk of a tree, legs thrown over Barty's lap and his head resting on his shoulder, and someone's gentle hands, this time Evan's, are braiding his lightly grown hair into braids. A faint glow comes from them, but now it's more of an instinct than a real attempt at successful healing.

Crouch rests his head against the top of his head, breathing deeply. Pandora sits nearby, her hand slowing at the parchment as she turns back to them.

“Reg,” Barty's voice immediately cracks, but the boy makes an effort to speak calmly again, “you can't die, Reg…”

He swallows hard, and Evan behind him starts breathing a little faster. Other than that and a brief faltering movement of his hands - nothing to indicate his agitation.

“You can't leave us, Reg,” Barty continues, “we can't do this without you…”

Regulus whimpers pitifully, like a battered, dying dog desperate for its master's affection. Well, he gets plenty of affection. Especially now that Pandora has joined them and is blocking out the sun's already fading rays. He tries to squeeze his hands together, but it's a lousy way to go.

They're all feeling bad: the burns won't come off Barty's skin, Evan is buried so deeply in healing others that he doesn't notice himself fading, and time will one day drag Pandora down if she can't stop in time. The tags on the Slytherin's wrists don't help the situation, only adding to the weakness in his body, but the curse that has struck Regulus is taking him faster than the others.

“It would have been more merciful to kill me," he wheezed, barely opening his eyes to see the desperation settling on his friends' faces.

“No way!” they answered him sharply and loudly without delay.

“If we die, we all die together," Barty adds unnecessarily.

“Then I have bad news for you,” Regulus emphasises with a weak cough that seems to make the wheezing inside his lungs audible, “because then we don't all have long to live.”

Regulus doesn't believe in his salvation.

And he knows that slowly but surely, they are starting to do the same.

Day X comes faster than either of them could have expected. Surprisingly, it is Dumbledore who is with Regulus at this moment, hardly the last person Black would want with him at this moment.

The Director looks at him, motionless, deathly pale and desiccated right there and looks surprisingly sad. His eyes, though, are intelligent and perceptive.

“Do you know what awaits you, Mr Black?”

“I'm not an idiot,” he answers with a barely audible croak, “I know.”

Dumbledore sits down beside him and looks up into the enchanted sky. The sun still illuminates the expanse of the earth, but at the same time the moon can be seen just as brightly.

“Listen to me carefully, Regulus," the Director says quietly but clearly.

The use of the name catches his attention. Black even makes an effort to open his eyes, unknowingly closed.

“Tom's first Horcrux that we know of is Salazar Slytherin's locket. The first, because you knew about it long before I did. The second is Marvolo Gaunt's ring, be careful telling me about it...”

Regulus opens his mouth to interrupt, to clarify what the hell Dumbledore is talking about, but he doesn't have time.

“I was unable to find more, so I have to entrust it to you, Regulus, in the hope that such a thing would be within your power. Tom's choice of artefacts is amazing... Salazar Slytherin, the creator of the faculty, and his thing is so tainted. How do we know he didn't do the same to others? Mr Crouch mentioned a cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff, unfortunately I have not been able to find out where it is. In that case, that leaves finding Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor's artefacts, if there are any at all…”

“Professor, what the hell..”

“When you tell me about the ring, I'll know where it is, it'll take me a while, but I'll figure it out. Your job here is not to let me go alone, Regulus. The ring is not simple, the stone in it has amazing resurrection properties, but it is important to remember that it is a Horcrux nonetheless... It is not magical.”

“Why are you telling this to a dying man? Me?”

Dumbledore's gaze fixed on him, glittering with a knowledge unknown to anyone else. A wise smile stretches the old man's dry lips.

“Why should I, Regulus?” he asks, “for it is you who will have to endure another loop.”

“Where..” Black would freeze if he could, but that makes no sense now.

His heart slowly slows, and his breathing becomes deeper.

“I know many things, Mr Black, but I'm afraid we don't have time for an explanation, but it doesn't matter. Don't worry, nothing fatal... oh, bad expression at the moment, forgive me. Nevertheless, I want you to succeed in your next and hopefully last loop. Avoid your family as much as possible.”

“Not even Sirius?” comes out in an exhale rather than actually words, but the Director must be a masterful lip-reader.

”You realise what part of your family I mean,” Dumbledore laughs and the sound of his voice grows distant, “I will leave you now. There is someone here who needs you more than a silly old man. I hope you and I will meet again for a cup of tea, Mr Black, and until then… see you later.”

Time doesn't matter to him. He doesn't know if moments have passed, or perhaps hours, when his ears pick up the pleas of his friends instead of static noise, but even then they sound muffled, as if Regulus is floating underwater. Lips stretching into a smile, he had always loved swimming. It was just a shame that the depths scared him, its uncharted mysteries and creatures lurking in the darkness of the seas and oceans. He couldn't feel his body now, he must have gone deeper than he'd planned, and the current could be so strong that it swept you away before he could even try to surface.

Regulus was lucky. He managed to pop up above the surface of the water and heard the calls of his name, tearful and desperate.

“How... loud you are," he whispers.

“Reg, Reggie, Merlin…”

“Oh, Merlin, please.”

“Just hang on, okay? We're going to make a quick one..:

“Ev..” barely moving his lips.

They go silent when he takes a deep breath. His eyes don't open, but he knows what they look like without it.

“Love.. you…”

There is nothing more he can say, nor does he try. The pleading begins again, but before he stops hearing altogether, it turns to goodbyes. tearful and broken, but goodbyes.

The last thing he feels before he stops feeling altogether is a kiss on his forehead, one by one.