Love from Reggie

To tell this story you have to know two things.
One, Regulus Black disappeared on December 31st, 1979, nobody found his body.
Two, Harry Potter visited Grimuald place for the first time after the defeat of Voldemort, when he was twenty-two.
The large house in London was almost exactly as he remembered it, it had the same dark shadows and the same creeping staircases. He tiptoed through the hall as to not awake the portraits, aware of the curtains that obscured Walburga Blacks face.
He treaded up the stairs to the rooms he had stayed in with the order, the summer of fifth year. There were little things that caught his eye. The cabinet of elf heads, the dark oak cupboard Ron stubbed his toe on in the middle of the night, empty photo frames, the people possibly away for a while or gone forever, just a blank canvas in their memory.
The living room was the same, cushions strewn over the floor from where Hermione had arranged them in a bed shape before the chaos had started. There were still ashes in the fireplace, but a significant amount less of House of Black silverware that had once been displayed on the mantel. Dust coated every surface, a couple of bedsheets hung over furniture to preserve them. The piano sat silently in its corner by the window.
The kitchen was the same, all the pots and pans still hanging on the walls, surfaces low so everything was accessible for the elves. A couple rickety chairs lay on the floor, the cold, stone, slab floor cracked in places.
He lit the chandeliers, he doesn’t think he had ever seen them on. He could imagine how extravagant balls here would have been, with the shining marble floor and the glistening furniture, waiters in waistcoats and company in dress robes and dresses, dancers and singers, possibly an Orchestra. It was strange to think that this had been Sirius’ life.
He went up another floor, dragging his fingers along the balcony, allowing himself to take in the intricate wallpaper, the swirling greens and the gold foil. There were more portraits here too, all with gaunt faces and sharp cheekbones, unsmiling with dark hair.
They had eavesdropped on the order meetings from here, Fred and George and Ginny.
Another floor, even more slowly this time, long glances at tapestries, taking in each bend of the carpet, each nick in the railing.
Sirius’ room was on this floor. His Godfather, his dad’s best friend. One of the men who had died protecting him. His hand hesitated on the handle, his shaking fingers stopping mid twist.
He couldn’t do it, not yet.
A glint of Gold caught his eye. A name plate. R.A.B.
The person who had the locket. Sirius’ brother.
Sirius’ words echoed in his mind.
“He was murdered by Voldemort, or on Voldemort’s orders. I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person. From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Weill you just don’t hand in your resignation. It’s a lifetime of service or death.”
He vaguely remembers Hermione trying to get in, but the door being locked or something. He found his feet moving forward and his voice chanting spells, he couldn’t even remember the meaning of. And then there was a click.
Harry found himself in front of an unlocked door, and as it was in Harry’s nature, he went in.
It was decorated differently to Sirius.’ Dead plants in pots on bookshelves, green undertones on quilted blankets, ornate rugs, and heavy curtains. There was a strange feeling to it, like someone had gone shopping and just not come back. That the person who lived here might return at any moment. The walls were covered. There were pictures, smiling faces, one which looked shockingly similar to Lunas. There were parties and singing, soundless snippets of movement, lost in time. A shot of Regulus and his father, arms wrapped around each other. A cat, a grey one. The same faces, a blonde girl with startling eyes, a messy brunette who seemed constantly overdressed, a dirty blonde with eyes like daggers and a smirk, a girl with a laughing face and paint covered hands. and a boy who he assumed was Regulus.
He seemed happy in a lot of them, smiling, laughing, dancing.
Their names were written on some of them.
Dorcas Meadowes.
Pandora Lovegood.
Evan Rosier.
Barty Crouch Jr.
He knew those names. He’d met one. Not that he looked at that memory fondly. The other three are dead. He knew Rosier for being an infamous death eater, a skilled one at that. Dorcas had been killed by Voldemort herself, proving a too dangerous opponent. Pandora he assumed was Luna’s mother, died in an explosion from a spell.
It makes him think, what drove these people to such insane ends, what made them fall to opposite sides? How close could his friends have come to turning to the dark side.
There’s a couple newspaper clippings too, black and white. There’s one, three separate pictures, three similar faces. One girl is being captured twirling, her skirts splayed out around her, the hand of a forgotten man above her head. Harry recognizes the eyes, the dark demented eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange stare back. Another girl in a cocktail dress is standing upright, her partners arms wrapped around her waist, glass of champagne moving upwards in a toast. Her hairs light and straight, a similar shade to the man beside her. He takes in the jewels around her neck, the one large ring on her finger, the black lettering of the caption, Narcissa Malfoy winks at him. The last picture is equally elegant, Regulus Black, caught extending his arm to a possible dance partner, he’s looking ahead, dark smudges of eyeliner on his face, a widening smirk. He isn’t in usual dress robes but a tight waistcoat and a floaty shirt and shiny shoes, rings glint on his fingers.
Sirius was never mentioned.
There are couple pictures with him in them, even a couple with someone he recognizes as a young Remus Lupin. They slip easily off the walls and he collects them in his hand, he doesn’t know why but he feels a strange possessiveness towards them. A smile from his mum and Pandora, a group picture of a party, his dad with a cat on a broom, two pictures of young Longbottoms, a baby Nymphadora Tonks with blue hair, swaddled in her uncles arms. Landscapes of the Hogwarts grounds, still and grainy, taken by a muggle camera.
He finally allows himself to step back.
He grips the pictures tight in his hand as he walks to a massive oak desk by two French windows. He pulls the curtains open, letting the light fall in the room for the first time in what he assumed was years.
He slid the chair open and sat.
It was covered in many things, expensive quills, and spilled ink pots, miny canvases with paintings of flowers, classic books, and torn Shakespeare plays.
There were more newspaper clippings, this time about the war.
A little black leather notebook.
The number of killings counted as a tally spread over four pages.
Three books in an old English verse.
Two in Latin.
One study on dark magic.
One common factor.
Horcruxes.
The word was everywhere, on pages, scribbled in margins, capitalized as headings, he could hear it being whispered around his mind.
Regulus Arcturus Black had found the locket.
He had planned to take down the dark lord. A man his family had glorified, a man his family had turned to and was planning his demise.
Nothing was adding up in his mind.
He leafed through the books, tried desperately to understand the highlighted words and verses, pages were in the air and there was ink on his hands. Letters in vanilla envelopes, parchment, pens? Why did he have a pen in his hand? Muggle newspapers, wizard newspapers, more pictures, snippets of poetry, a code, What for? Morse and more underlined words, watches and silver trinkets, quills, and feathers. A few spare galleons. A key, scrunched up paper, the designs for a house, the architecture of the ministry, more Latin, a box with a keyhole, an embroidered handkerchief, and a receipt. A couple vinyl records and a poster advocating for women’s rights.
His eyes landed back on the box, he had seen a key he swore it, more pages were in the air.
Everything seemed to settle after he turned the key into its hole.
It felt strange in his hands, smooth and soft, stars carve into the lid, names of constellations flooded his head, he couldn’t quite tell though, he had failed his Astronomy O.W.L. after all.
It opened smoothly, it had been well made then, and the inside was lined with a dark velvet. Inside was a cream envelope, a familiar name written in slanted handwriting
Sirius Black.
Harry hesitated, his Godfather had never managed to open it and he doubted that it was his place to read it. But what harm could it do? A letter? Addressed from a dead man to another dead man? They wouldn’t be offended. Sirius would probably applaud him for stealing his brothers stuff.
The back of the envelope was detailed with flowers, and a wax seal with an ornate R on it. Harry hooked his nail under it and gently pulled up. The letter paper, and Harry noted it was paper rather than the usual parchment, was the same colour as the envelope, probably from a writing set then.
He pulled out the chair from the desk, hurriedly and moved stuff out of his way so the box and the letter were stationed in front of him, letting his back hunch over, he began to read.

Dear Sirius,
If you’re reading this, then I’m probably dead. Or I’ve disappeared and been assumed dead.
I don’t really know how to start a death letter.
We can start from the beginning, I guess. Well not the beginning but the beginning of this. This whole mess. The night you left was a rough one. Father couldn’t have cared less and mother was angry, you had been a piece of hope, at least to begin with. Now I was the one left, all their eyes turned on me. She questioned me, assuming I had helped you leave, assuming I would disappear to. She made me make an unbreakable vow. Saying I wouldn’t leave. I wanted too, all those times you begged me to join you at the Potter’s and I told you I would be killed? That was literal.
I think about the last time I saw you. Me slumped in the corridor, the sound of the door shutting between us. The rain and the wind and the storm. And the wretched silence that filled the space. I imagine you taking a bus to the Potters, collapsed against your bags by a window. I could imagine you being hugged by Effie, and James already having a room ready for you. I could imagine you smiling. Your reality I don’t know. But I do know that I sat on that floor for a while, I know that I was still there when Mother came home. I know that when she got her wand out, I didn’t even feel it until it was over. I remember your silent room. I remember nothing and that’s what means everything.
You weren’t home often before, but you were home enough to make me miss you. It’s stupid. I missed the little things, like how we would race up the stairs when we were seven. How we used to shout at each other in French, how we would play pranks on the portraits and house elves. I missed duets on piano and violin and the London rain and the way your hair stuck up in all the wrong places at a family dinner. I missed tapping to each other through the walls, I missed stupid birthday presents and Christmas morning. I missed laughing, I missed smiling. I missed you.
It hurt but made sense that you smiled more with them, I did too. The Potters are a beautiful family. And you deserve the life you got. I deserved this one. You were the brave one, you were the one who took the blame even when you shouldn’t have. I bet there are hundreds of scars on you that should have been on me. This has been me repaying that favour.
I took the dark mark two weeks after you left, Narcissa and Bella were there, they hugged me afterwards, it felt strange. But it wasn’t me watching you, which could have damn well been a possibility. But I am tired of you taking the blame, in your words I am the golden boy, I am a product, I am what they made me, and I forever admire you for breaking that mould. I knew from that moment there was no turning back.
Barty and Evan were there too, they were accepted later, not being from a family like ours meant they needed to prove themselves more. Every night I think of his face.
Voldemort.
That wicked smirk and the aura of unimportance, you could smell the power coming off him.
Dumbledore called me into his office three days after. I don’t know how much he told you, but he needed a spy, multiple preferably. I gave him snippets of information where I could without it being suspicious, not all the muggles could be saved. I wish I could have done more.
You’ve always been good with people; I don’t know whether you realised I was good too. I made it into Voldemort’s circle within a couple months. I knew his plans, how he supposedly was going to stay alive this long, and if you are reading this before he is dead, there is more information in my top desk drawer, and Pandora knows everything.
So, I hatched a plan. I begged Dumbledore for help, but he refused, called me stupid. So I did it myself, I’m hunting him down Sirius, piece by piece. It’s exhilarating, I was always good at destroying things.
Not many people know.
Dorcas cut me off because political views don’t align, or in her words ‘you’ve signed yourself up to a fucking cult, that goes around killing people for fun and pleasure and for themselves and if that’s what you’ve chosen have fun, but I’m not your friend anymore.’
I couldn’t tell her that it’s not fun. I couldn’t tell her that I cast protection spells on every muggle that walks past me on the street. I couldn’t tell her that I don’t sleep because I can see the eyes of the people I’ve killed in the night. The darkness is when it comes for you, I’m sure you’re the same. Mothers words will pound in my head and their empty stares will scar my brain as much as her curses, and its all my fault. It’s not fun, it’s not for me, but it is me so maybe its better that you left when you did, because I’m a little bit too good at destroying things.
Not that anyone thought that but me. All the Death Eaters thought it was great, they revered it. Dumbledore thought it was an excellent disguise. I mean you thought so, didn’t you?
I know how he is doing it. Horcruxes. He’s literally selling his soul to live longer, tearing himself apart piece by piece. Its disgusting.
I want to go back in time. I know its absurd.
I miss how everything used to be and how the world was simple, how we used to go out drinking and not care that we could be killed for spilling a secret unknowingly. I could play board games without thinking it’s a metaphor for the greater good.
Our house has been overrun by them. I convinced mother to not use your room, as if they would have managed to get anything off the walls in the first place. Evan is in Germany and contact is limited so Barty is sulking a lot, in private of course, the Dark Lord sees love as weakness, marriage only an alliance for power. Mother is trying to get me engaged to Cordelia Yaxley again but something seems wrong in their end, not that I am complaining.
Bellatrix is absolutely devoted. I can’t see in her who she used to be. Only her laugh is the same. The same damn laugh that we always heard when one of us fell over or when we lost one of her games. Only now she’s laughing because there’s a dead body by her feet.
Narcissa has stayed out of it. She was always clever. She hasn’t taken the mark, her husband has. He’s a total stuck up arse, but I have a higher standing than him, so it doesn’t take a lot for him to shut up. They have this massive mansion in the middle of nowhere and it has the highest protection. She’ll do well there. She tells me they are trying for children.
I still remember her telling me that father has no emotions and that I should be allowed to cry. I remember how warm her arms were at seven and miss them at seventeen.
I haven’t heard anything directly from Andromeda. Nymphadora would be six by now.
I’ve told Voldemort that I don’t know where you are. That we had an argument in fifth year and haven’t spoken since. At least the argument part is true.
Marlene and Dorcas need to be careful. They are both actively advertising against him, and they are both on his watch list, he said he wants words with them personally.
He wants them dead Sirius.
He wants you all dead.
Don’t listen to Dumbledore. He’s doing everything for himself. He has James’ cloak and a fat leather notebook that he writes in every time I see him. I’ve seen what he writes, lets just say there’s a lot of I’s on the pages.
Tell Remus to watch out, I know Dumbledore has him underground with the other werewolves but Voldemort’s trying to rally them. He’s sending groups lead by Fenrir Greyback to do active recruitment. These guys have money, status and power in the ministry. If they came up to me, I would take the option in an instant. Be careful.
Snape still talks about Lily, less since I punched him in the face but still does. If they do come for you I doubt she will be harmed, I heard them make a pact about her safety but I can’t guarantee that for the rest of you. I wish I could. I wish I could do more.
I’ve heard from Dumbledore that Lily’s pregnant. Please do pass on my best wishes. That child will give McGonagall hell when they go to Hogwarts, I’m sure. Give my love to both of them. I hope I’ll get to meet the baby, just to spare them from the chaos and pain of being around you. I hope James is happy with Lily. I hope he can finally get the love he deserves. I hope Remus will not die from being in an enclosed space with you for too long. I hope he smiles more. I hope you finally get the family you deserve.
I need you to understand that. That I did this for me. It’s my fault this time. This time you don’t have to take the blame. This time the scars and bruises are on my body for fault of my own and I have not let anyone take the hits for me. I need you to understand that I knew what I was going into and the risks I was taking. I don’t want you looking for me. I don’t want you to go on a full out revenge campaign.
I want nothing from you than for you to know I was born to die. I accepted this fate.
I want nothing from you, apart from you distributing the rest of these letters.
I want nothing from you, apart from letting the Black family go through all the usual funeral proceedings.
I want nothing but you marking my name on a black slate and putting it somewhere near the sea, somewhere quiet and sandy. Somewhere where the sea rushes loudly on the shore, somewhere full of smiles and washed clean of blood. Somewhere there are missive sand dunes and clear night skies. Somewhere I would have loved. I trust you to make that choice.
I want nothing more than for you to go home afterwards, make Remus a cup of tea and live your life.
Live your life because you deserved it.
You fucking deserved it,
Love from Reggie