In Case I Die
Regulus Arcturus Black
December, 1979
For a moment, Regulus wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or closed, that’s how dark it was. And cold, too, colder than his room in winter when Mother doused the fireplace as punishment.
His hand touched something hard and slick, and he tried to grab onto it as memory rushed back to him. He was suddenly unsure which way was up.
Regulus closed his eyes (they were open, it turned out) and tried not to panic, taking stock of what he could remember. The cave, the locket, the potion— thirsty, so thirsty, water, please, pleasewaterplease —the lake and the pale, white, grasping, dead hands and oh. Alright.
How long had he been in the lake? It didn’t matter. He’d be there a bit longer.
He moved as slowly as he could, untangling his limbs, eyes shut tightly as he tried to feel for any sense of gravity that could lead him to the surface. And, yes, there! He was facing downwards.
Carefully, cautiously, Regulus pushed downwards on the thin black water and felt himself drift ever-so-slightly in the direction he hoped was up. It was all he could do not to start thrashing when he suddenly felt air, somehow even colder than the water, across his shoulder blades, but he retained his concentration to manoeuvre his head above water.
When his lips broke the surface, he couldn't quite stop himself from gasping, sucking in air like ambrosia, and the noise was like a thundercrack in the silence. Once he no longer felt like he was actively dying, Regulus waited as still as possible for the hands to return, cursing himself for letting go of his wand at some point.
The silence was shattered again as, about ten feet away, a bony white hand shot through the glassy surface of the pool. Regulus inhaled sharply, wracking his brain for an incantation or a curse or something . Another hand shot up, closer this time, and began dragging itself towards him. Nothing had worked before, the only spell that had seemed to do something was Incendio . Fire, maybe? He needed more fire… Fiendfyre ? No, that was far too dangerous.
What was he thinking? Too dangerous ? That was not his biggest concern right now.
Something had grabbed Regulus’s ankle and he couldn’t get his hands above the water. His head dipped under as he thrashed desperately.
One more breath—
devoratores voco,
—just enough to get the words out—
flamas—
fla—
flamas dimmitam.
Regulus closed his eyes, exhaled something hot.
He opened his eyes to a room full of fire.
—🜂—
Sirius Orion Black
January, 1982
It had been over two years since his brother died and Sirius still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
In the first few months after it happened, he had been resolute in his mission to not think about it. He still wasn’t sure if that had helped, honestly. In the beginning, the numbness had just been his natural reaction, but then he’d decided that he rather preferred not feeling anything about it.
After that he’d mostly managed to—well, it sounded bad, but with everything else going on and the war in full swing, he’d managed to forget.
Of course, since then there had been the Fidelius disaster, the (thankfully) failed attack on Godric’s Hollow and Peter’s betrayal, and that was all far more fresh. James was still limping, and the cub had a barely-healed curse scar. They were all shaken, but—aside from Wormy’s residential change into Azkaban—no worse for wear, and now that everything was as settled as it was ever going to be, Sirius found that Regulus had drifted back into his mind.
He barely remembered the day he found out. It was the winter of 1979, that much he remembered, and he was staying with the Weasleys, can’t remember why. They hosted the bimonthly Order meetings sometimes, so he didn’t even have to go anywhere, and when they made the traditional announcements of wins and losses he was suddenly pinned in far too many pitying stares as someone explained carefully that Regulus Arcturus Black had been killed at the Dark Lord’s hands last week.
Sirius hadn’t had it in him to ask how or why, but James had, so he learned that they didn’t know. The Order’s infamous double agent spy (Remus knew who they were, but wouldn’t tell anyone) had only learned that much: dead, last week, You-Know-Who’s doing.
Regulus was eighteen. Barely.
Sirius tried not to wonder what he might have done to piss off his boss enough to get killed.
“—Another one—” someone had said, somewhere in their muttering and concern and careful, efficient mourning.
That had been when Sirius got up and left.
Honestly, now, he wasn’t sure he remembered what Regulus looked like—he probably wouldn’t have recognized him even when he was alive, come to think of it. By the time he’d gone and gotten himself killed, the dumb git , Sirius hadn’t seen his darling brother since he’d graduated Hogwarts, or talked to him in even longer. Just goes to show, really. No use mourning someone you didn’t miss when they were alive.
Sirius kicked the covers off of his legs and lifted up a corner of the curtains to let in grey light. It was drizzling. Lovely.
He was staying in Alphard’s right now. He still found it hard to think of the flat as his, even though it was by all rights, but even if he hadn’t bothered to redecorate, it was a damn sight nicer than Grimmauld Place, so he wasn’t complaining.
Sirius got up and stretched, casting a quick Tempus . James would be over soon, since it was their weekly Padfoot-And-Prongs day, a tradition started to force them to see each other more and make sure they were each shaken out of whatever funks they would inevitably fall into by the other. It usually involved one taking over the other’s flat or kidnapping them to go on some outing.
And, speak of the devil, there was the knock on the door—followed immediately by the sound of it opening and footsteps inside, as the knock was really just a formality—and James’s voice ringing out down the hall.
Sirius ran his hands through his hair and stumbled into the kitchen, where James was reflexively tidying already. As usual, James looked sprightly and far too cheerful for arse-o-clock in the morning, in a Gryffindor-colored Muggle letterman’s jacket Lily had charmed for him in seventh year.
“There’s the man!” he exclaimed the moment Sirius entered, causing Sirius to wince slightly at the sound. “C’mon, then, I’ll make some tea while you go get dressed. Muggle gear,” he added, gesturing down at his own outfit. “We’re going out.”
Sirius pulled out his wand as he was supposed to, but held it loosely. James looked confused for a moment, but copied him automatically.
“Why is my nickname Padfoot?” Sirius asked.
“Your Animagus form. Sorry, I almost forgot the questions. And why’s mine Prongs?”
“Fork,” Sirius declared simply, and James broke into a grin.
“Alright! Now, dress! We’ve got some Muggle shops to explore.”
Sirius stuck out his tongue, but slunk back to his room to dig out a band shirt or something. He collected a low-effort outfit (t-shirt and jeans; bite him, he was feeling lazy), and put on the closest pair of earrings (dangly and silver) because it always felt weird to not be wearing any. Then he tucked his wand behind his ear and stomped back to James, who was now stirring two cups of tea.
Sirius grabbed one and perched on the counter. “So, Muggle shopping?”
“Yep,” James replied, popping the “p.” Sirius took a very long sip of his tea. “Oh, don’t give me that, I know you’ve been wanting to try the new café down the street.”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fine, but that’s not going to last us all day.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got other things planned.”
They finished their tea together, chatting and catching each other up on their week’s activities, before Sirius pulled on his boots and they headed out.
The two of them wandered the area, James leading the way, occasionally stepping into alleys to apparate once they’d explored a few streets. James knew Sirius well enough to deftly navigate them into a series of tiny, obscure outlets that he knew Sirius would enjoy—a small, badly-lit record store with a girl with bright green hair manning the counter; a secondhand boutique in which James dug out and shoved the ugliest shirts he could find at Sirius, who shoved them right back and then discreetly purchased a very soft jumper for Remus and some chunky earrings for himself; and, notably, an ancient-looking bookshop owned by an oddly dressed but friendly older man with an enormous black snake wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl. Sirius had been delighted by that one, and the man had even let him pet the snake (whose name seemed to be Anthony).
Hours later saw the two of them settled nicely in a small cafe, having a late lunch of sandwiches. James was doing that thing he used to do back at Hogwarts where he would point out a stranger on the street or in the cafe and speculate about them, making up whole life stories.
“Those two,” he said, gesturing discreetly to two giggly teens sitting a couple tables over from them, “are sixth formers. They’re going clothing shopping. The blonde one is in love with the redhead’s boyfriend but she hasn’t said anything because she values their friendship too much.”
Sirius snorted. “Sounds like a bad TV drama.” The blonde girl’s eyes flicked to Sirius and he caught her stare. Mostly out of force of habit, he winked.
“Ooh,” James crooned, smirking. “Look who’s trying to help her get over him!”
Sirius kicked him under the table. In his steel toed boots. James squeaked.
“Sorry,” James conceded. “I know that’s not your deal.”
Sirius huffed. Too right it wasn’t—not anymore, at least. He’d finally gotten his head out of his arse and realised he was gone for Remus, but things between them were complicated right now. The instinctive flirting was more like a habit he was trying to break.
He picked up his drink and took a long sip, watching idly as the redhead leaned across the table to whisper something into her companion’s ear. Her eyes widened and they both began to giggle. Then, to Sirius’s mild horror, the redhead stood and made her way over to their table, dragging the blonde behind her by the wrist. Oh Merlin, they were going to ask for his number or something, weren’t they?
“Hi!” the redhead said brightly as she pulled up at the table.
“Hi,” Sirius replied, somewhat less brightly. “If you or your lovely friend there want my number, sorry to disappoint, but I don't have a phone.” He liked this excuse; it wasn’t even a lie.
The girl stifled another giggle, going a bit pink. “No need to worry, that’s not what we came for! Though Sarah wouldn’t say no to you,” she added through a pointed (and in Sirius’s mind, slightly scary) smile. “Sarah here has a bit of an obsession—” the blonde, Sarah, elbowed her in the gut with an exclamation of “ Emma! ” through gritted teeth. Emma shoved her right back— “with this one fashion model, and you look almost just like him.”
“Not just like him!” Sarah protested. Emma gave her a slightly incredulous look. “He’s shorter,” she grumbled. “And his hair’s longer. Lighter eyes.”
“Sure,” Emma said. “Anyways, we were wondering if you happened to know him?”
Sirius blinked. “I—er, who? I don’t really keep up with Mu— the fashion scene.”
“Ah, then probably not. Well, he is quite a good model, I guess.”
Emma nodded emphatically.
“And, well,” Sarah gave Sirius a rather more judgemental once-over, eyeing his current outfit. “Honestly I think you might like some of his stuff. His name is Aster An, if you want to give him a look.”
Sirius just stared blankly for a while. When James gave him a nudge, he blinked again, then grinned. “Sure, sounds brilliant, thanks for the tip. Sorry to disappoint on both the number and the celebrity friend fronts. I’m Sirius, by the way,” he added, sticking out a hand.
Emma shook it. Her grip was surprisingly firm. “It’s no problem,” she assured him. “Thanks for humouring us.”
—🜂—
Regulus Arcturus Black
December, 1979
Regulus lay on his back on the wet stone, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks to his left and the roar and crackle of the still-burning caves to his right. He had sealed off the caves, so the Fiendfyre creatures couldn’t escape, but it would be hours yet before they dissipated. Regulus spared only a few moments to cast a weak drying charm on his clothes and a warming charm on the rest of himself, and let the noises of the sea and flames lull him into shallow sleep.
Hours later, he picked himself up off the rocks and dragged his aching body through the waves to shore. The sleep had done him some good, but not nearly enough, and he needed food and water and—ideally—a shower to get him back in fighting form.
He couldn’t— wouldn’t —go back to his parents. They’d welcome him at first, sure, they probably thought he was dead, but as soon as the Dark Lord came calling he would be thrown to the dogs. Labelled a traitor and left for dead. That was the trouble with Slytherin loyalty: it was only as strong as the pride of your betters.
There was one, however, who was still loyal to him.
“Kreacher,” Regulus gasped, and the house elf appeared immediately at the sound of his name.
“Young Master!” he cried, rushing to Regulus’s side. “Oh, Kreacher was sure the young Master was dead!” The house elf began fussing with Regulus’s clothes checking for wounds, tutting over his ripped robes and gaunt appearance.
Kreacher snapped his fingers and Regulus was hit squarely behind the knees with something soft. Unable to truly resist, he let them bend, and found himself sitting on the end of his own bed, in his room in Grimmauld Place.
“Kreacher has the young Master’s locket. He kept it safe!” Kreacher exclaimed, and suddenly he was clutching the locket and holding it up to Regulus.
Regulus took it, holding it up to the light. The engraved “S” caught the light from the fireplace and shone red for a moment.
“We can't stay here. I can't stay here,” Regulus said, shoving the locket into his pocket. Somehow he knew that only trouble would come of wearing it around his neck.
Kreacher nodded frantically. “The Dark Lord will be after the young Master, to be sure! It is best he leaves immediately. But where shall Master Regulus go?”
Regulus was busily packing a trunk, items of clothing and books floating from all corners of the room into the smart black-and-silver case. “Diagon Alley. I have an idea of what I can do after that. You, though...” He paused and turned to the elf. “If anyone asks, you don't know where I went. You'll serve the House as normal unless I call you to me, but I am no longer your “young Master.’ Alright?”
“But, young Master--”
“Please,” Regulus said firmly. “This is my mess; I don't want to have your life on my hands, too. Now, I'm going to stop by my brother’s room for a moment, then I'd like you to Apparate me to Gringotts.”
He left his room swiftly and quietly. It had been years since Regulus had first learned how to make no noise on the creaky floorboards of his home, and the skill served him well now as it had then.
Sirius’s door was locked, but not warded, so an alohomora did the trick. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The room looked just as Regulus remembered it, down to the faint smell of cigarette smoke and glue. The walls were coated almost entirely in posters, mostly Muggle, of musicians and motorcycles and… modern art? It was honestly hard to tell. Somebody, at some point, had made the bed, and for once the floor wasn't completely covered in clothes.
Clothes —that was what he’d come for. Regulus yanked the closet open and began rifling through Sirius’s old things, in search of some Muggle clothing that might fit him. To be honest he had no idea how Muggles dressed, or what bits went together with which, but Sirius seemed to have very specific taste, so he doubted he could go too far astray.
With a stack of possibilities over his arm, Regulus made his way back to his own room, where Kreacher waited anxiously next to his half-full trunk. Regulus shoved the clothing unceremoniously on top of the rest of the trunk’s contents, latched it, and shrunk it small enough to fit into his pocket right next to the locket. He sighed. “Alright, Kreacher,” he said, clapping his hands together. “To Diagon Alley!”
Kreacher nodded solemnly and grabbed his arm, and with a loud crack , they were gone.
—🜂—
Sirius Orion Black
January, 1982
Sirius and James were sitting together on the counter in Sirius’s kitchen again, laying out their spoils of war for admiration.
“It is quite a nice jumper,” James admitted. “And definitely Remus’s style.”
“Well, I do like to think I know him a bit,” Sirius noted somewhat sarcastically.
James hummed, fingering the sleeve of the jumper. He snorted at some private joke, and Sirius looked up from where he was playing with his new earrings.
“What’s so funny, mate? Let me in on the joke.”
“Well, it’s just… I just realised how much of an ego boost it must be to be told you look like a fashion model . Don’t let it get to your head,” James joked.
“Oh, shut it, I already know I’m beautiful enough to make it in the beauty industry.”
“Sure, Pads. What was his name? Some flower, right? Uh, Edelweiss? No, Aster. Aster… An , that’s it.” He paused when Sirius visibly twitched. “What?”
“Er, nothing. Just had a… thought.”
“Yeah, the name does seem kind of familiar, doesn’t it?” James said, nodding along.
Sirius hummed. “‘ An ’ could be the Chinese word for ‘dark.’” He picked absently at his nails, not looking up at James.
“Wait, isn’t that your family’s original name?”
“Close, but no. It’s just… Aster is a flower, yeah, but it’s also—“
“— a star! ” James interrupted. “Alright, this is getting a bit weird now.”
“I’ll say,” Sirius replied. He was still for a moment and James was scared he’d said something wrong until it became obvious the look on Sirius’s face was his trying-not-to-laugh expression. In a moment, they were laughing so hard they were both gasping for air.
“Oh Merlin, it sounds like a bad parody of the Blacks. I need to meet this guy,” Sirius got out through his wheezing.
“ Hello, yes, my name is Constellation White, charmed I’m sure, ” James announced dramatically, affecting an exaggerated posh accent. Sirius let out a particularly loud snort.
“Oh, speaking of,” he added moments later, “I snagged a fashion magazine from that last shop since I saw they had a stack. Figured Mr. White might be in it, fancy taking a peek?” He pulled out the thin, shiny volume and dropped it on the counter with a very satisfying thwap .
James grinned and slid it towards himself. “ Vogue ,” he read aloud. The cover showed a beautiful young woman with red hair and a striking gaze staring straight out from the page. He flipped the magazine open.
The pages were filled with colourful images of beautiful people in strange clothing, mostly smaller one-off images but occasionally a one- or two-page spread. Sirius came around the table to look over James’s shoulder, every once in a while reaching across him to turn a page. They took perhaps longer than necessary going through the volume, both slightly fascinated with the clothing and the people wearing it.
Then, Sirius dropped the edge of the page and slammed his hand down on it to flatten it. “There!” he exclaimed a bit too loudly. And it was.
A one-page spread shone up at them, a scene of green and gold cut through the middle with a figure clad entirely in black. He was mostly turned to the side, one arm up and the other crossing over his torso, head turned to stare directly outwards at James and Sirius. No skin was shown in any of the usual places—his throat and hands were covered—but slivers were visible along his sides through odd laced-over cutouts. His stare was intense, unbroken except for a smokey wisp of hair falling from his updo and cutting through one eye.
“Huh,” said Sirius. “Guess it does look a bit like me.”
James said nothing. After a moment, Sirius turned to see why, and found James staring at him in some combination of shock and confusion.
“What?” Sirius asked.
James shook himself. “Er, nothing, mate. You’re right. It’s a pretty neat picture, and I can see how that girl—Emma, was it?—thought they looked like you.”
“Why, we could be the same person!” Sirius said dramatically, trying to mimic the model’s pose with his arms and pulling a sultry face. “Although I am obviously far more attractive.”
“Obviously,” James said with a slightly tight smile. He pretended not to notice how Sirius’s hands were shaking.
—🜂—
Regulus Arcturus Black
December 1979
Gringotts looked just as Regulus remembered it, tall and grand and thoroughly uninviting. He supposed that was probably intentional. The marble floors clicked under his heels as he approached the nearest desk, and the goblin behind it didn't look up.
“Hello,” Regulus tried. The goblin continued to scratch away in a huge volume, head bent barely inches from the page and quill zigzagging frantically. “Sir?”
“Name and business,” the goblin grunted, still writing.
“Regulus Arcturus Black. Withdrawal. Or rather, trade-in, I suppose. My request is a bit unusual.”
The goblin finally unbent and looked up, revealing an engraved metal tag on his breast. Arkrus, it said. “I highly, highly doubt you have anything that would be of value to us, if that's what you mean.”
Regulus blinked and shifted nervously. “Mr. Arkrus, sir, perhaps it would be best if we spoke somewhere more… private?”
Arkrus huffed, but stood and led Regulus back behind the desk and into a small discussion room. They each took a seat in one of the small, plush chairs, and the goblin folded his arms expectantly.
Regulus cleared his throat. "I have," he began, trying his best to channel his mother's ability to manifest her very will into his voice, "recently come into possession of the information needed in order to retrieve several items that I believe... belong in the hands of the goblins. I even have one such item in my immediate possession."
He felt a slight thrill as the goblin before him displayed a series of intense facial expressions, landing finally on keen interest. Regulus continued carefully. "However, all of these items have, since they left goblin hands, been tampered with. In fact, they have been subject to a very Dark, very evil curse, which I myself have no way of lifting safely. I was hoping that goblin expertise might be able to lend a hand in this dilemma. In exchange for your help in undoing the spellwork, as well as another favour of much smaller magnitude, I would be more than willing to hand the items back into your care."
Arkrus was scratching his chin with a pointy finger. "I see," he said after a moment. "I think this proposal will need to be discussed in greater detail, but I must say that, if nothing else, your tale intrigues me."
Regulus resisted beaming outright, instead inclining his head in agreement. "I assume you want to hear about the curse?"
"And the 'favour of less magnitude,' yes," Arkrus replied with a raised eyebrow.
Regulus huffed out something like a laugh. Of course. "Do you need to contact anyone before I bring out the locket?"
Arkrus shook his head, standing and leading Regulus further back into the room to a huge dark-wood desk. "I will contact my superiors shortly, but just myself should be sufficient for the time being. Locket, is it? I imagine there's many a goblin-made locket floating around in Wizard hands."
"This one is rather more famous, from what I understand," Regulus corrected quickly. "Ah, is it alright to summon a house-elf in here?"
Arkrus waved a dismissive hand, and Kreacher appeared with a crack. The elf didn't speak a word as he handed the locket to Regulus and immediately disapparated. Regulus laid the chain and pendant down on the smooth surface of the desk. "Slytherin's locket," he announced, like a christening.
Arkrus's eyes narrowed. He hummed softly, and then retrieved a small, engraved monocle from his breast pocket. With much adjustment, he got it settled under his right brow, and bent over the locket to examine it.
“So it is,” Arkrus said finally. “And, as you said, cursed.” He pulled out a pair of fine gloves and pulled them on before he picked the locket up by the chain. “A horcrux, is it? How horrible.”
Regulus nodded. “I know of one or two methods of destroying a horcrux, but none that do not destroy the host object as well. This one seems far too fine to ruin.”
Arkrus’s gaze turned from the locket to Regulus’s face, and he seemed to give him an appraising look. “We might have something. I will be back in a moment.”
He left silently through a door on the opposite side from the one they entered through, and Regulus was left alone. He meant to take the time to collect his thoughts, settling deeper into the plush armchair he had claimed, but he closed his eyes for just a moment and then opened them to the sound of the door opening. He must have been more tired than he thought.
Arkrus was walking in with three more goblins in tow. Two were wearing name tags like him, identifying them as Flathook and Adnoff, and the third was dressed more finely and appeared to be the one they were escorting.
Regulus stood hurriedly and came to join them around the desk. The leader came forward and offered a hand.
“I am Fimlast,” he introduced as they shook hands. Regulus was viscerally aware of how sweaty his own hand was. “I am in charge of cataloguing the non-money assets held in Gringotts, and am fairly knowledgeable about ancient and valuable artefacts, both Wizard and Goblin. I was called in to take a look at this locket, to identify whether it is in fact that of Salazar Slytherin’s, as you say. May I?”
Regulus, a bit surprised at this uncharacteristic politeness, hurried to hand him the locket, which he began his examination of immediately.
Almost as soon as he’d stepped back, Adnoff stepped forward. “I’m here because I am Gringotts’s resident expert in the Dark Arts. Arkrus told me the locket has been made into a horcrux?”
“That’s correct, yes. By the Dark Lord. I… retrieved the locket in hopes someone would be able to destroy it. I didn’t expect to survive, and now that I’m here I’ve found it’ll take a bit more effort to stay alive. Hence,” Regulus gave Arkrus a look, “the favour.”
“The favour,” Arkrus echoed. “That’s what Flathook is here for. He is the exchange accountant, and can likely tell us if your proposal is in fact a fair trade, at least as well as anyone could.”
Regulus nodded. “It’s rather simple, really. I need my family, and anyone else it may concern, to think I’m dead. I need them to know nothing of the locket or any other artefacts I mention. And I need to withdraw some funds, and convert the currency, also secretly if possible.” He sighed lightly. “Perhaps a staged robbery would be possible? Though that would ruin Gringotts’s reputation, so perhaps not. If you have ideas, I am more than willing to hear them.”
Flathook hummed, rubbing his chin. “Likely the easiest way to cover up withdrawals, especially small ones—small to the Blacks, that is—would be simply not to mention it. Fake the numbers initially, and then slowly warp them back to the truth as other withdrawals are made. I doubt they would often bother to check the maths.”
Regulus laughed internally. A little bit of gaslighting always goes a long way with the Blacks. “Sounds perfect. And much easier than a fake robbery.”
Flathook’s mouth twisted into something approximating a smile. “It is most certainly cheaper, yes. Faking your death and converting the currency should be similarly easy, and goblins can keep secrets, don’t worry about that. Depending on how all of that,” he gestured vaguely at where Fimlast and Adnoff were fussing over the locket, “works out, and if you can get us another item or items, I think that sounds like an equal exchange. Shall I go ask to get some documents written up?”
“Yes, of course. That would be lovely.” Regulus stood awkwardly still as Flathook left the room, and then decided to check on the other two goblins. He stepped over and cleared his throat. “Any progress?”
Adnoff looked almost cheerful. Or, as close as a goblin could get. “Nearly,” he said. “The current thought is that the best way to deal with the issue would be to transfer the… ah, bit of soul, into another object which could be destroyed. There will be more research required to achieve that, but it is a considerably better option than trying to dissolve the curse altogether or some such nonsense. Horcruxes are meant to be permanent, after all.”
Regulus considered this. It did make quite a bit of sense, when he thought about it. There was probably a way to move the horcrux-ness from the relic to something more disposable, which could then be subject to… Fiendfyre, or basilisk venom, or Gryffindor’s sword, or whatever. Speaking of…
“Would you like me to give the information I have on the other objects to someone?”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Adnoff produced a parchment from within his coat.
Once he had filled it out in as much detail as he could, he returned it to Adnoff who tucked it back away in presumably the same hidden pocket. “I’ll get this to the right people. And,” here, Regulus was surprised to experience full eye contact from the goblin, “thank you for your service to the Goblins in returning these relics to our hands.”
Regulus practically grinned, thanking Adnoff as he led him to the door, where another uniformed goblin was waiting. In another room Regulus completed the rest of his required paperwork and was told he would be kept updated on the horcrux situation. At his exclamation of doubt he was assured–rather ominously–that Gringotts would have no trouble contacting him safely and discreetly anywhere he went, “insofar as he didn’t begin messing with his soul, like a certain Dark Lord.” After that it was short work to withdraw a significant sum from his Black family vault, and he was hardly even given any looks when he immediately asked to convert almost all of it into Muggle money.
Two stops later (Knockturn Alley had a lovely woman who did magnificent forgeries, and the wandmaker nextdoor barely batted an eye at Regulus’s admittedly very odd hidden-wand request), Regulus gave himself barely a few minutes to mentally prepare before he slipped quietly out of Diagon Alley, and the Wizarding world, with no plans to return any time soon.
—🜂—
Sirius Orion Black
February, 1982
Remus was over.
This was, all in all, a good thing. Sirius had missed him, of course, and the fact that he could be over more these days was as good a sign as anything for how the clean up efforts for the end of the war were going. But Sirius’s excitement (and inevitable belly-residential butterflies) were tainted with the ever-growing discomfort and anxiety that came from not knowing exactly where they stood.
So, unfortunately, Sirius was having a hard time keeping his full attention on the absolutely brilliant David Bowie record Remus had brought with him. Or, even, on their hands brushing against each other as they lay next to each other on Sirius’s carpet. Or—pity of pities—on the way Remus’s eyelashes were twitching as he mouthed along with closed eyes, ever shifting the perfect profile Sirius was treated to by their respective positions.
It took all of two and a half songs for Sirius to break. He sat up, disturbing their hands as he went, and stopped the record player. “Remus,” he said.
Remus sat up as well, and turned to him with a questioning look. “Yeah?” He asked, pulling at his shirt to stop it running up.
“You… Do you think the war’s really over?” Sirius asked, running a hand through his hair.
“I dunno,” Remus said. “I mean, it’ll take a little bit to get all the Death Eaters put away and all that, but Dumbledore seems pretty sure Voldemort’s dead. That’s just about good enough for me,” he replied. “Why?”
Sirius slouched back onto the carpet. “I just… I really…” Remus did that thing he did where he tilted his head like a bird. It meant he was confused, or waiting. It was really cute. “I really like you,” Sirius said lamely.
“Aww,” Remus said teasingly. “I really like you too. I thought that was established. I mean, we’ve done things generally reserved for people who really like each other. Or, hold on, have you been playing me? Deceiving me? Manipulating me?” He gasped and clutched at his shirt. “I don’t think my delicate constitution can take this betrayal!”
Sirius batted at his arm. “Shut up, don’t you go all ‘oh, the humanity’ on me, that’s my job! Now, back to my point: I like you!” Remus smiled at him, radiantly this time and without teasing. “I really like you, and I thought, now that the war is, uh…” He waved his hands in the air dismissively, “maybe sort of mostly over? Maybe we could be us. Like, officially officially. I’ve got a spare key to my flat, and, well, Wizards don’t generally mind us, outside of the old Pureblood families, mostly in Azkaban as they are. I want to— I want to hold hands in Diagon Alley. I want to call you my boyfriend. I wa—“
He was cut off abruptly by one hand on his collar and one around his shoulder which pulled him firmly onto Remus’s lap and into a kiss. Sirius melted, folding into Remus’s chest and wrapping his arms and legs around him like some sort of werewolf-hugging species of octopus.
“Is that what was making you so jittery earlier?” Remus asked once they had separated, because of course he had noticed. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Sirius nodded. “You know how I can get,” he said. “I think too much. About… stuff. I make myself anxious.”
Remus leaned against him, radiating warmth and comfort into one side of Sirius’s body. “And when that happens, you talk to me. Like you did just now.”
“Yeah, fine,” Sirius said, pouting slightly. He flopped backwards. “Hey, could you put the Bowie record back on?”
Remus grinned and stood up. “‘Course. Oh, hey, I heard that one model liked this next song.”
“That one— what?”
“Yeah, the one Muggle model, Aster An. Said they were a Bowie fan in that big radio interview. Apparently this song ‘inspired a look,’” he said, complete with air quotes.
“You,” Sirius said haltingly. He cleared his throat. “You follow Muggle fashion, do you?”
Remus gave him a flat look. “I follow the queer community in London.”
Sirius blinked back. “I know you do. That’s— how does that relate?”
“Oh, I dunno, Pads, how do you think it might?”
“Oh. Is he…?”
“I mean, probably. They haven’t come out and said it, but even someone in high fashion can only wear a dress to a photoshoot so many times before one suspects they might not be a man. Or at least not a straight one.”
Sirius coughed. “That’s,” he said, “cool. Uh, someone once told me I looked like them. So.”
Remus made a show of giving Sirius a once-over, humming thoughtfully and rubbing his chin. “They’re right, I think,” he declared finally, like a verdict. “Almost seems like they could be related to you or something. You could tell me you were twins or cousins and I’d believe it if I didn’t know all about your meticulously recorded family tree. Hey, maybe they’re a secret bastard Black.”
Sirius looked away sharply. “Yeah. Maybe.”