Mortal Once More

June, 1981 - Grimmauld Place, London 

The firelight casts flickering shadows across the high-ceilinged room, cold and unwelcoming in aspect despite its grandeur. The elf heads mounted on the walls glint eerily in the gloom as the firelight catches them. The only sounds, other than the crackling of the fire, are the relentless ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the centre of the room, and the pacing footsteps of the slight, pale young man who keeps darting glances at the clock, his aristocratic good looks marred at this moment by an expression of anxiety. 

Where is he? Regulus Black wonders to himself, for what feels like the thousandth time that evening. 

It’s nearing midnight now - he was expecting his old house elf, Kreacher, to have been back from this mysterious mission by nine thirty at the latest. He still has no idea why the Dark Lord had wanted to use his family house elf, of all things, and he can’t deny that he’d been more than a little uneasy about the whole idea - but then, he hadn’t really seen any option to refuse. 

Of course, the Dark Lord had framed it as a simple request - but Regulus isn’t stupid. He’s fully aware that the Dark Lord does not do ‘requests’. He gives orders, and people like Regulus, people who had allowed themselves to be branded with the jet-black skull and snake on their forearm almost the moment they had left Hogwarts, do not have any real choice other than to obey those orders. 

Desperate to somehow distract himself from his worries as he paces, Regulus picks up that morning’s edition of the Daily Prophet, lying abandoned on the coffee table which is engraved, like everything else in his family home, with serpents. But a glance at the front page does nothing to alleviate his concern  - rather, he feels a worryingly familiar, sickening lurch of guilt in his stomach, realising that he recognises a few names on the latest list of war casualties. 

Edgar Bones - a few years above him, a Hufflepuff Prefect who he had frequently seen taking care of younger students, particularly frightened Mudbloods. 

The entire McKinnon family had apparently been found dead, too. There’s a large photo of their house, with that familiar symbol set above it - Regulus’s hand goes unconsciously to his left forearm as he looks at it. He remembers Marlene McKinnon very well - small, blonde, quiet, yet a surprising force to be reckoned with on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Regulus had been forced to duck many a well-aimed Bludger she had sent his way over the years, while he’d searched for the Snitch - she had always seemed to work in perfect tandem with the other Gryffindor Beater. Him. Sirius. 

Regulus feels even sicker as he imagines Sirius - wherever he is now - gazing at this same edition of the Prophet , reading the news of his friend’s murder, the murder of that quiet yet fierce girl with whom he’d always seemed able to communicate without words. Or perhaps Sirius had even found out before the people at the Prophet , working in close proximity with Dumbledore as he does - or at least, Regulus assumes he still does. He hasn’t seen his brother, or had any kind of contact with him, for three years now. He’s surprised all over again, every time he thinks of that simple fact. Surprised at how strange it feels. Surprised at how much it still hurts. 

He, Regulus, had not been at all involved in the death of the McKinnons - he hadn’t even known the Dark Lord had been planning it. Perhaps he hadn’t been - perhaps it had simply been an independent, spur-of-the-moment decision by some of his comrades, in their perpetual endeavour to eliminate the blood traitors helping Dumbledore and getting in the Dark Lord’s way.

But Sirius wouldn’t know that. For all Sirius knows, Regulus had been one of those who had gone to the McKinnons’ house and killed them all. 

He flinches, sternly telling himself that he no longer has any reason to care what his brother thinks of him, hasn’t had any reason to since Sirius made the decision to run away and cut himself off, six years ago. But he can’t quite manage to convince himself he doesn’t care. He’s never been able to convince himself of that. 

As always when he thinks of Sirius, Regulus finds himself wondering what his older brother is doing, what he’s thinking. Whether he’s safe. Whether he’s as exhausted and terrified as Regulus is all the time, as sick of this war. But then, he reminds himself, Sirius had always been certain that he was on the right side, convinced that simply being a Gryffindor meant that he was among the heroes. Perhaps it was apt, after all, that Sirius had been placed in that house at the age of eleven, instead of Slytherin where everyone had expected him to go. After all, his brother had always been the brave one. 

Perhaps , Regulus tells himself scathingly, if you could manage to be a little braver, you would not be in this position right now. Perhaps you might have been able to work up the courage to tell the Dark Lord that you would rather he did not take Kreacher, that you would rather he found someone else to do this mysterious task for him. Or at least, you might have had the guts to ask what this task even entailed . Why a house elf? Why my house elf? 

But then again, he supposes he’s in rather too deep now to be refusing the Dark Lord. Sirius had long ago rejected their family, and so he, Regulus, has done his best to fulfil the role of the dutiful son, to make his parents proud by taking up the family motto of Toujours Pur. He’s tried to live his life by that motto. It’s an honour to serve, he reminds himself sternly, to fight for the survival of the wizarding world, of families like his, to save wizards and witches from persecution and corruption.

He’s found that he has to remind himself of what he’s fighting for rather a lot lately, as the war worsens and the lines between right and wrong seem to become blurrier with each passing day and the weight of his family’s expectations keep closing in on him, so that at times Regulus feels he can scarcely breathe. 

Then again…the Dark Lord had promised him that he would not take a long time, doing whatever he was doing with Kreacher. But he certainly has been taking a long time, Regulus thinks, pausing his pacing to glance anxiously at the grandfather clock again. Surely, the elf should have been back home by now…

No, he cannot take this worry any more, Regulus decides, finally. He had given permission for Kreacher to be taken on this mission, despite his better judgement - and now he has a right to know what the hell is going on. 

“Kreacher?” he calls tentatively, into the empty gloom, not entirely surprised to find that his voice shakes a little. “Come home now!”

A familiar loud crack echoes through the quiet of the living room and, despite himself, Regulus almost jumps out of his skin as his old and wizened family house elf appears out of thin air directly next to him. 

He experiences only a split second of relief at Kreacher’s reappearance - but as soon as he looks at him properly, Regulus’s stomach seems to fall through the floor. 

He can see immediately that something is very, very wrong. The elf is paler than Regulus has ever seen him before, trembling all over and very unsteady on his feet. He takes a moment to catch his breath after his Apparition, and then begins to cry uncontrollably in huge, heaving sobs. 

“Kreacher?” he whispers uncertainly. 

Shivering violently, the little old elf opens his mouth - and promptly vomits on the carpet, one of the many treasured Black family heirlooms that he spends half his life cleaning. 

“Kreacher!” Regulus says again, more in shock and worry than reproach, jumping back slightly. Kreacher barely even seems to hear him; he moans quietly and curls up into a ball on a clean patch of carpet next to the sofa.

“No, no, no,” he mutters between heaving sobs, his deep bullfrog voice sounding croakier than ever. “Don’t make me…please don’t make me…never again… never …”

“ Scourgify,” Regulus mutters hastily, making the soiled carpet spotless again with one wave of his wand. No need for his mother to ever find out about that particular incident - he wouldn’t put it past her to give Kreacher clothes just for that one transgression. Kreacher doesn’t react at all, still sobbing uncontrollably, the sound wrenching at Regulus’s chest. 

He bends over and gently picks up the distraught elf, carrying him over to one of the best armchairs next to the fireplace. He knows full well that his parents, his old friends from school, and even Sirius would all look at him scornfully for treating a mere servant with such care - in fact, he’s fairly certain that Kreacher isn’t even allowed to sit on this furniture, according to his mother - but right at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a toss. 

Not really having any idea what to do next, Regulus mutters a quick Summoning spell so that a glass of water zooms into his hand. He offers the glass to Kreacher; to his surprise, the old elf flinches violently at the sight of it.

“Drink it, Kreacher,” he says gently, trying his best to hide his bewilderment at this strange reaction. “It will help you.”

Kreacher grimaces, looking up at him with wide eyes, and very reluctantly reaches out to take the glass, taking a tiny sip as though worried Regulus might have poisoned it. Too late, Regulus realises that that had been an order. 

“Kreacher?” he asks quietly, trying his best to sound like he’s giving a suggestion this time. Kreacher’s orb-like eyes focus on him, still swimming with tears. “Do you think…do you think you could tell me what happened?” The elf’s lower lip trembles. “Only when you feel ready, that is,” he adds hastily. 

Kreacher takes another small sip of water, still trembling all over. Regulus stares at him.

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” he asks quietly.

Kreacher gives a tremulous nod, not quite meeting his eyes this time. Regulus takes a deep, shaky breath, trying his best to keep his rage at bay. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “Please.” 

Kreacher takes a deep breath of his own, apparently trying to steady himself.

“There was a cave…”

Haltingly, still trying to catch his breath between sobs, Kreacher tells Regulus the whole story. 

He tells him how the Dark Lord had taken him to a dark cave, somewhere near the sea. He tells him how there had been a huge lake inside the vast cavern, a tiny island in the middle of the lake with a strange, phosphorescent green glow emitting from it.  He tells Regulus how there had been a little boat, glowing ghostly green with the light reflecting from the island, which had carried him, along with the Dark Lord, across the lake, with neither of them needing to steer. When they had reached the island and got out of the boat, Kreacher tells Regulus how he had finally realised where the strange green glow was coming from: there was a stone basin on the island, filled with a bright green potion. 

And then…Kreacher starts to cry and shudder anew as he recounts to Regulus how the Dark Lord had ordered him to drink that curious green potion, to empty the stone basin. Kreacher tells him how the potion had made his insides burn, how he had seen terrible things in his head, how it had made him so thirsty he was in agony. He had begged the Dark Lord to let him stop drinking it, to give him water instead, Kreacher said, he’d begged to return home to his mistress, to Master Regulus - but the Dark Lord had only laughed at him. 

Then, Kreacher tells him, when the basin was finally empty, the Dark Lord had dropped a locket into it. Curled up on the ground, Kreacher had begged once more for water - but the man had only laughed softly at him, and got back into the ghostly little boat alone. Desperate, Kreacher had dived towards the lake, trying to quench the agonising thirst. He tells Regulus about the icy cold hands that had gripped him, the pale corpses of men and women with their sunken, sightless eyes who had risen from the churning water all around him, slowly but surely pulling him down towards the depths of the lake, to join them in their underwater graveyard. The last thing Kreacher had seen, he tells Regulus, was the Dark Lord, still sailing calmly back to the other shore, back to safety. 

Regulus can see it in his mind’s eye - that pale, tall, haughty figure he has seen so many times, that snakelike gaze, that thin lipless mouth curling upwards in a merciless, self-satisfied smile as he watched the little elf thrashing in helpless terror, being dragged down to his doom. 

“He just…he just left you there?” he whispers. 

Kreacher gives a small, shaky nod. 

Regulus closes his eyes, surprised at the sheer strength of the burning rage building within him. He has never felt anything close to this before. 

Kreacher has been with him for as long as he can remember, protected him throughout his lonely childhood and adolescence, taken care of him every time he was sick. Sometimes he felt like the elf was the only one in the world he could rely on, when his parents were busy shouting and storming, when his brother was busy running away. The Dark Lord had promised Regulus that he was not going to let Kreacher come to any harm on this mysterious mission of his. Why had Regulus believed the man, even for a moment? How could he possibly have been so naive? 

“Kreacher,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I am so sorry.”

The elf finally stops sobbing as he frowns at him. “Sorry?” he echoes, his tone confused. 

“I should never have agreed to let you go with him,” he croaks hoarsely. “I understand if you can’t forgive me. I wouldn’t, if it was me.” 

“But…but Master Regulus…” Kreacher croaks. “You saved Kreacher’s life.” 

“I… what ?” Regulus asks, completely bewildered. 

“Master Regulus called Kreacher home,” the elf replies, giving Regulus a look of such grateful devotion that he can’t help but squirm a little. “Kreacher was being dragged down to the depths of the lake, he had given up struggling. They were so strong, and their grip was cold, so very cold.” He trembles violently again as though he can still feel the Inferi holding him, a haunted look in his huge eyes that Regulus can’t bear. “Kreacher knew he was going to die, he knew he would never see his mistress or his poor Master Regulus again, and he was sorry for this, but he could not see a way out. But then - Kreacher heard, in the depths of that lake, Master Regulus calling him home. A house elf’s highest bidding is his master’s word. And so Kreacher escaped from that lake and that cave, Kreacher escaped from death - because Master Regulus called him back home.” 

Regulus swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. He doesn’t really have any clue what to say to that. Kreacher subsides into silence again, staring into the depths of the fireplace as though he can see something that Regulus can’t.

“I’ll, um…let me get you a blanket,” he mutters - partially because the elf is still shivering, and partially because he’s just desperate to do something. 

There aren’t any blankets on any of the sofas in the living room, of course - Regulus supposes that huddling in a blanket does not reflect the high-bred, marble-cold propriety that must be shown by all Blacks at all times, according to his mother at least. Which is why he’s never brought his own blanket down into the living room.

He could have simply Summoned it from his room, of course - but he finds that he needs a moment to hide his face. To compose himself. Muttering that he’ll be right back, he dashes to the staircase. 

Walking into his childhood bedroom, Regulus quickly goes to his chest of drawers, opening the bottom drawer and taking out the thick, cosy blanket that he’s been hiding away for years. With the blanket in his arms, he tries his best to focus on the elf downstairs who needs him so desperately, and ignore the rush of memories the blanket provokes. 

He and Sirius, not even ten years old, spending hours in secret making that blanket together, and then countless more hours huddled under it in the middle of the night, when Regulus would wake from a nightmare and creep over to his older brother’s room so that Sirius could distract him from his fears by making him laugh, the thick blanket giving them both the illusion that nothing could come to hurt them. 

As usual on his way back downstairs, he hurries past Sirius’s deserted childhood bedroom, forcing his eyes to move past that door as though it’s not there, trying to resist the urge to open it and look inside. Everyone has steered well clear of that room since his brother’s unceremonious departure six years ago - Kreacher doesn’t even go in there to clean any more, so Regulus knows that the room will be full of dust and cobwebs. He’s always keenly aware of his brother’s absence wherever he goes in this house, but Regulus feels that that room, more than anywhere else, is haunted by Sirius’s ghost. 

Stupid idea , he chides himself, as he makes his way back towards Kreacher. Don’t think that. But then, with everything he’s learnt tonight, he doesn’t know what to think any more. 

“Here,” he mutters as he enters the living room again, approaching the little elf still sitting on the sofa and tucking the blanket gently around him.

“Thank you, Master Regulus,” Kreacher murmurs, looking up at him with far more adoration than Regulus feels he deserves. The elf seems a bit calmer now, at least. 

Regulus looks at him, thinking hard. 

“When the basin was empty,” he asks quietly, apologetically, “did you say that the Dark Lord placed some kind of locket inside it?” 

The elf flinches, but nods.

“It was golden, oval-shaped,” Kreacher answers in his bullfrog croak. “There was a pattern of emeralds on it, coiled in an ‘S’, almost like a snake…”

“Slytherin’s mark?” Regulus interjects. 

Kreacher hesitates a moment, and then nods again, tentatively this time. 

“Kreacher cannot be sure, Master Regulus,” he says. “But Kreacher thinks so.” 

“So the rumours are true, then,” Regulus murmurs. “He does have at least one of Slytherin’s heirlooms. But then…why go to such trouble to hide it away…?” 

He stares absentmindedly into the fireplace behind Kreacher, the cogs in his mind suddenly whirring so fast he feels that he can barely keep up. 

A true Slytherin heirloom - if this locket is indeed that - would not only be priceless, it would be a huge boost to the Dark Lord’s standing and reputation. It would be an invaluable asset for lending him more validity in his claims that he alone was a deserving leader of the wizarding nobility in this war - particularly as there have been bitter murmurings from more than one pureblood family that the Dark Lord’s own heritage is not quite as pure and noble as he claims. Surely, it would make sense for him to flaunt this locket around as much as possible? 

And yet, it seems that he has set up this elaborate system to hide it away and protect it, including this mysterious potion that causes agony in whoever tries to drink it, and what sounds like a veritable army of aggressive Inferi. 

Regulus had been bewildered as to why the Dark Lord had required him to ‘volunteer’ his family house elf - but it’s clear now, he thinks with a fresh surge of boiling rage, that he had wanted Kreacher not only to test the defences around Slytherin’s locket, but specifically because he, like so many other wizards, viewed house elves as completely dispensable. The fact that he had sailed back across the lake alone, leaving Kreacher at the mercy of the Inferi he had no doubt created, points Regulus to the clear conclusion that the Dark Lord had never intended Kreacher to remain alive to bear witness to any of it. In fact, as far as he’s concerned, Kreacher is at this very moment already starting to rot at the bottom of the lake in that strange cave, Slytherin’s locket lying in that stone basin with the defences secure around it, with nobody but the Dark Lord himself any the wiser that the locket even exists. 

So the question is…why? Why take such a significant heirloom and hide it from everyone, putting such powerful protections around it and killing - or at least, doing his best to kill - the only other witness to its very existence? 

Regulus pictures again that image he had conjured up in his mind’s eye as Kreacher had told him the story, the Dark Lord’s familiar pitiless smirk as he sailed away, with those terrifying red eyes, those snakelike slits for nostrils - and he freezes. 

Certainly, the Dark Lord’s features alone, even before taking his formidable magical skills into consideration, are enough to terrify most people, Regulus included. Because those features are not natural. Not entirely human. Regulus had always just taken it for granted that that was just the way the man looked…how had he never considered this before? 

He remembers, distantly, something that his mother had once mentioned to him, back when he was a teenager fascinated with the Dark Lord and the strange ominous glamour of the myths surrounding him, cutting out newspaper clippings about him. 

He was only a few years ahead of me at school, you know, Walburga had said. He was Head Boy, back before Dumbledore was put in charge and Hogwarts was taken over by scum. The Dark Lord went by a different name, when he was young - and in those days, he was the handsomest young man any of us had ever seen…

Perhaps, too besotted with following the latest news surrounding the man, Regulus had not properly listened to his mother’s words at the time - but her memories of him as a school boy can only mean one thing, Regulus realises now. Somehow, the Dark Lord had willingly caused these distortions to himself. 

Regulus stands up abruptly, barely even aware of what he’s doing. Kreacher starts a little at the sudden movement. 

“Sorry, Kreacher,” he says to the elf. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, almost as though somebody else is speaking the words. “I just…I need to check something.” Kreacher stares at him in shock, and he comes back to himself a little. “That is,” he adds hastily, “if that’s alright? Is…is there anything else I can do to help you?”

The old elf shakes his head vehemently. 

“Kreacher owes Master Regulus his life,” he replies. “He would not be so ungrateful as to ask him for anything else.”

“Uh…right,” Regulus says lamely, deciding not to mention that he doesn’t really deserve any gratitude. 

Kreacher shifts the blanket more fully over himself and tilts his head a little, looking at Regulus strangely, as though he’s worried about him. Or as though he’s seeing him properly for the very first time. 

“Is Master Regulus quite alright?” the elf asks quietly. 

“Oh yes,” Regulus answers quickly, scarcely even aware of what he’s saying. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, Kreacher. Don’t worry about me.” He’s already on his way out of the room. “Make sure you get some rest, please,” he calls to the house elf over his shoulder as he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

Once he reaches the family library - always his sanctuary in this dark house - he absentmindedly flicks his wand in the direction of the fireplace, so that a fire springs up out of nowhere, crackling merrily as though it’s been burning for hours. The light flickers across the bookshelves that tower to the ceiling, illuminating the hundreds of leatherbound spines. Regulus knows exactly which book he’s looking for, though it’s been a few years since he last flicked through it, and he’s able to locate it quickly. He pulls it off the shelf, and immediately sinks down in his favourite armchair next to the fire, the light catching the glinting title on the front cover. 

Secrets of the Darkest Art. 

He remembers well which section had fascinated him most when he’d first picked this book up at the age of fifteen, the topic which none of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers at Hogwarts had ever so much as mentioned. He remembers searching for the book at school to continue reading, even combing through the entire Restricted Section, but to no avail - this copy in the Grimmauld Place library is the only one he’s ever found. He opens the contents, flicks directly to the chapter he’s remembering, and immediately begins to read. 

Regulus isn’t sure how much time passes before he closes the book - perhaps three hours, perhaps closer to six. The world is completely silent around him, and he thinks he can see a hint of dawn light beginning to spill through the gap in the curtains, and his eyes are burning from reading for so long - but none of that matters, because he knows now, he feels surer than he’s felt about anything for years, that the suspicion that had come to him after Kreacher had told him his tale was correct. 

He had expected it to be something of a relief, having his theory confirmed. But instead, he feels as though he’s sitting here with the world as he had known it crashing down around him, feeling sick and cold as the implications of his revelation hit him in waves. 

Growing up, Regulus’s parents had always taught him that the Dark Lord gathering more power and followers was the most desirable thing for wizarding Britain. Regulus had spent his teenage years fascinated by this man and his agenda - he was going to reform the Ministry, protect families like his, make life better for wizards and witches so that they didn’t have to spend their lives in hiding from the Muggles any more. As the war had intensified over the years, more people had started to go missing, to get hurt, to die - Regulus thinks again of that article about the McKinnons, feeling sicker than ever. 

He himself had been growing increasingly uneasy and guilty as the attacks mounted, but the people around him had always reminded him that those casualties were simply sacrifices that the Dark Lord, regretfully, had to make, for the greater good. That was always what the Dark Lord himself had emphasised above all. For the greater good. No matter how uneasy he became, Regulus’s parents had reminded him that he was a hero, doing a noble thing, helping to protect his fellow wizards and witches from those who wanted to tear their way of life apart. 

Of course he had thought about Sirius all the time, the reasons that Sirius had run away - but he had always been told that his brother was not only a blood traitor for joining Dumbledore’s fight, but a naively idealistic fool as well. 

But now, after everything he’s learnt, the truth finally, finally comes crashing down on Regulus with a force he can’t deny. It was never Sirius who was the naive fool. It was him, all along. 

All these years, the Dark Lord has never cared in the slightest about ‘the greater good’, or protecting other witches and wizards - all he has ever cared about is his own power, his own desperate search for immortality. If the locket that he had hidden is what Regulus thinks it is - and he’s sure he’s right - then it is proof that the man is trying to make himself invincible at any cost. If Regulus is right about that locket…then that suggests the Dark Lord considers, not just Kreacher’s life, but all lives, other than his own, to be completely disposable.

And he, Regulus, has been helping this man. 

I’m on the wrong side of this war, he thinks, the realisation making him feel cold and clammy all over, as though it was him and not Kreacher who had been clutched in the icy grip of the Inferi. I’ve been on the wrong side, all along. 

Regulus sits there for a moment, frozen to the spot with shock and self-loathing. 

Still in a horrified daze, he stands up and hurries over to the writing desk in the corner of the library, his feet seeming to carry him there on autopilot without any conscious instruction. 

He sits at the writing desk, dips his quill in the ink, and slowly begins writing a letter, a letter he had never in a thousand years imagined he would write. 

A letter to Albus Dumbledore. 

Three Days Later - Hogwarts 

 It feels utterly surreal being back here, Regulus muses. 

The familiarity of it all brings memories reeling back to him - attending those silly parties Slughorn used to throw in his magically enlarged office, trying to pretend he wasn’t overwhelmed by it all. Being the last one sitting by the fire in the Slytherin common room, pretending he had some essay for Slughorn or McGonagall he hadn’t finished yet, when actually he’d just wanted to write a letter to Narcissa or Kreacher in peace, without being mocked. Stealing glances across at the Gryffindor table where Sirius was holding court with James Potter, willing Sirius to at least look back at him and acknowledge his existence, trying to ignore the surge of jealousy he always felt whenever Potter made his brother laugh loudly, whenever Sirius threw an arm around the other boy as though he was his brother.

Being back in this place that he had called home for so many years causes Regulus a strange, bittersweet wave of nostalgia. Nothing had really been simple back then, he supposes - but looking back on it, it certainly seems simpler and easier than his life now. 

Much as he might wish to go back to those times, it’s clear that everything is different these days - he’s already seen proof that the baggage he carries, the whispers that have spread about him since his graduation, ensure that he is not guaranteed a warm welcome. And Kreacher, muttering suspiciously to himself at Regulus’s side (Dumbledore had insisted that he bring the elf along too) is hardly helping matters. 

“Mr Black!”  Minerva McGonagall had exclaimed scarcely five minutes ago when he had bumped into her in the corridor. “The younger Mr Black!”

“Professor,” he had murmured, inclining his head awkwardly, fighting to keep his expression neutral, not wanting her to see how affected he was by the allusion to Sirius. 

“And may I ask what brings you back to the castle?” she had asked bluntly, coldly raising her eyebrows and giving him a withering look that, even now, brought to mind the prospect of imminent detention. “I must confess I am somewhat surprised you have found the time to come back and visit your old school. I had heard that you have been somewhat, ah… busy , since graduating.” 

“Blood traitors and Mudbloods everywhere around us,” Kreacher had helpfully chosen to croak loudly at that moment, apparently convinced he was speaking in an undertone. “Oh my poor mistress, if you could see what they have done to your old school…” 

Regulus had elbowed the old elf slightly, and Kreacher had dutifully lapsed into a resentful silence again.

“Kreacher and I have an appointment with Professor Dumbledore,” he had told McGonagall, attempting to make his tone bright, hoping his guilt was not written too plainly on his face. 

“I see,” she had responded, not making any attempt to hide her astonishment. “Ah…is Professor Dumbledore aware of this appointment, or is this an impromptu meeting?” 

“He has agreed to see me, yes,” Regulus had snapped, not quite as successful now at keeping the coldness out of his tone. At her indignant expression, he had taken a breath to compose himself. “It is lucky I ran into you,” he continued, his tone calmer now. “Perhaps you might be able to point me in the direction of his office? It has been a while.”

She had raised her eyebrows again, but to his relief she had cooperated without any more pointed comments, showing him the way and informing him of Dumbledore’s current password. 

“Fizzing Whizzbee,” he says now to the golden gryphon statue, glaring down at him almost as imperiously as McGonagall had done. The statue leaps to life at once, revealing a slowly rotating set of tightly coiled stairs. Regulus climbs onto them, Kreacher right behind him, still muttering to himself. 

Once he’s facing the gryphon knocker on Dumbledore’s door, he’s surprised to find just how hard his heart is pounding. Will the man even believe Kreacher’s story? Will he listen to what Regulus has to say? He supposes there is only one way to find out. 

He glances briefly down at Kreacher, then takes a deep breath, steels himself, lifts the gryphon knocker and knocks three times. 

“Come in,” calls the slow, soothing voice that Regulus remembers so well. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering his strength, before opening the door and walking into Albus Dumbledore’s office, Kreacher at his heels. 

Regulus only has a brief moment to look around at the curious whirring silver instruments on almost every surface, the various portraits of Hogwarts’s past headmasters and headmistresses - including his own great-grandfather Phineas Nigellus Black, whose sardonic presence is already very familiar to him, because of his other portrait in Grimmauld Place - before Dumbledore himself is rising to greet him.

“Ah. Mr Black. And Kreacher, too. Right on time.” 

Regulus has not laid eyes on the man for years now, but Albus Dumbledore is every bit as silver-haired, venerable and utterly inscrutable as he remembers. The only change he can detect is that Dumbledore looks a little older and wearier, a little more cautious. That mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes that Regulus remembers seems to have dulled. Perhaps, for him as for so many others, this war has sapped him of much of his liveliness and joy. 

Dumbledore moves forward to shake his hand, and Regulus hesitates a moment before taking it. The old man’s grip is firmer than he would have expected. He turns and offers his hand to Kreacher, too; but the elf shrinks back in horror, looking up at the Headmaster as though he is insane. 

“Ah…I’m afraid Kreacher can take quite a while to warm up to people,” Regulus mutters awkwardly. “And he has not exactly been taught to be on hand-shaking terms with any wizards.” 

“Quite understandable,” Dumbledore murmurs. “But I hope Kreacher will not object to being offered a seat, at least?” 

He pulls out the chair opposite his desk, smiling down at the old elf, who still looks rather mutinous. 

“Kreacher,” Regulus mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “Sit down, please.”

Reluctantly, Kreacher does as he’s told. Dumbledore twirls his wand and an extra cushy chintz armchair appears out of thin air, landing next to Kreacher’s. Trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste at the brightly flowered pattern Dumbledore has conjured up, Regulus warily sits down opposite Dumbledore’s desk.

The professor sits down too, regarding him closely over his half-moon spectacles. 

He can’t help but feel small and nervous, with the headmaster looking at him like that. He had forgotten that Albus Dumbledore had a habit of gazing at you with that bright blue, piercing stare as though he could see right through you, as though he could understand all your secrets and shames and the things you would rather keep hidden, while giving absolutely nothing of himself away, remaining almost infuriatingly mysterious. He would always carry that aura of the all-knowing teacher, Regulus supposes - meanwhile, here he sits, trying to resist the temptation to fidget, feeling suddenly about twelve years old again. 

“So,” Dumbledore begins, steepling his long fingers as he surveys him. His tone is cool, almost calculating, and Regulus can’t help but squirm in his seat a little, finding it very difficult to meet those bright blue eyes. The headmaster is being perfectly polite and civil - indeed, he can’t remember the man ever being anything else - and yet he can’t ignore the pointed frostiness in his tone, etched into every line of his face. “I must confess, I was rather surprised to receive your letter asking for an audience, Regulus.” 

He swallows.

“I was rather surprised to be sending it, sir,” he responds awkwardly, trying for a bit of humour to ease the tension, but missing the mark. Not exactly his area of expertise, he supposes.

“You mentioned that your house elf had rather a curious story to tell?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles. 

“Which is why I requested that you bring Kreacher along with you,” Dumbledore says smoothly. “I always think it a good thing to hear curious stories directly from eyewitnesses, wherever possible. I find that tends to make for more thrilling tales, as well as more reliable ones.” He turns his gaze to the house elf, giving him another encouraging smile even as Kreacher glowers. “In your own time, please, Kreacher, if you would not mind,” he says quietly. 

Kreacher’s breath hitches audibly in his throat, and he looks at Regulus in alarm.

“It’s alright, Kreacher,” Regulus murmurs, feeling another surge of protectiveness. “You can tell him.”

Kreacher takes a deep breath and, haltingly, begins to tell Dumbledore the same story he had told Regulus three days earlier. Regulus can see him trembling as he slowly recounts what had happened to him in the cave, and when he gets to the part about the Inferi dragging him underwater, he gives a little gasp and begins to cry again. Evidently, the memory is still much too recent for the elf to be able to recount it without reliving the terror he had felt. 

Regulus puts a gentle hand on the old elf’s bony arm, trying to soothe him, remind him that he is safe now. 

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Dumbledore says quietly. “It is alright, you do not need to speak any more. You have told us quite enough to be getting on with.” 

Kreacher hiccups himself into silence. As Regulus watches Dumbledore, the headmaster gets up from his chair and begins pacing back and forth, his long purple robes swishing in his wake. He is pale as a sheet, and Regulus can almost hear the cogs whirring in that astonishing brain, making him almost nervous to interrupt. But he has to.

“That locket,” he says quietly. “The one that the Dark Lord placed in the stone basin, after making Kreacher drink the potion. It’s…it’s a Horcrux, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore stops pacing and looks at him, a small furrow between his brows, as though he’s gazing at him from a great distance. 

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, it would certainly seem so.” 

Regulus nods. He’s not sure whether Dumbledore confirming his suspicions makes him feel better or worse. 

“But why have you come to me with this story, Regulus?” the headmaster asks suddenly, fixing him with his most piercing stare yet. 

Regulus frowns back at him, a little perplexed by this question. 

“Well, it…it seemed rather important that somebody else should know. Besides me, I mean. And I could not think of any wizard better placed than you to do something about it.” 

“I appreciate you telling me,” Dumbledore replies. “Truly, I do. More than you can know. But…you do realise, don’t you, the great peril that you have put yourself in, by coming to me? You understand that Voldemort will almost certainly kill you, if he were ever to find out that you have told me about this?”

Regulus stares at him, his heart pounding. He has never heard anyone else referring to the Dark Lord so flippantly as ‘Voldemort.’ 

“I…I realise that,” he says hesitantly; although it’s not entirely true. 

He had had an overwhelming instinct to alert Dumbledore, born out of the guilty revelation that he had put himself on the wrong side of this war - but the immensely dangerous position he has put himself in is only just beginning to sink in. 

“But the thing is…he lied to me. He gave me his word that he would not hurt Kreacher - but he did. He just left him there to die.” At his side, Kreacher flinches again, and Regulus lays a gentle hand on his arm again. “And he has hurt so many people. I was always led to believe that when he hurt people, those were sacrifices that he regretfully had to make. For ‘the greater good.’” 

Dumbledore, he notices, flinches slightly at those words. He wonders briefly what that’s about, but decides not to comment, pressing on instead. 

“But now I know that that isn’t true at all. If he has done this, if he has made a Horcrux, then that just seems to me to be proof that he kills people for his own greed, his own personal gain. He even…I think he enjoys it.” 

He feels a fresh wave of nauseating guilt at the thought that he had ever trusted this man - not just trusted him, he had practically hero-worshipped him when he was a teenager. 

“The Dark Lord feels no remorse at all,” he finishes quietly. “For any of it.” 

“I am afraid to say that that’s true,” Dumbledore sighs. “And I am truly sorry, Regulus, that he - along with your parents, if you will permit me to say so - was ever given the opportunity to damage you as he did. And Kreacher, of course,” he adds, nodding courteously to the elf. 

Regulus frowns slightly. He has never really considered the fact that other people might look at him and consider him to be damaged. Is that what Sirius thinks of him, too? He shakes himself a little. He would rather not dwell on that idea, he decides, for the moment at least. 

Dumbledore sighs, looking at him once again as though he can tell exactly what he’s thinking. 

“Do I take it, then, that you have made the decision to switch allegiance in this war? That, because of what you have learnt, you are choosing now to ally yourself with me - and with your brother, of course - rather than with Voldemort?” 

Regulus stares at him for a moment, hesitating. 

With everything that has happened in the past three days, his entire worldview crashing down around him, he feels he has scarcely had space in his brain to properly consider Sirius, the possibility of seeing him again. He can’t deny that he feels a rush of childish excitement at the prospect of being reunited with the older brother he had looked up to, even adored, for so many years - but his apprehension is stronger. They hadn’t exactly parted from each other on the best of terms. There are going to be a lot of consequences from this visit to Dumbledore, Regulus realises now, many of them more awkward and painful than he had anticipated. 

But he thinks about everything he knows now about the Dark Lord, about that locket, about how he had hurt Kreacher, and god knows how many other defenceless innocents, without an ounce of remorse, and he feels again that burning rage, that desire to fight back, to do something about it. 

“I cannot help that man any longer,” he tells Dumbledore, lifting his chin defiantly and meeting that bright blue gaze. “He…he’s a monster. If destroying him means joining you, well then…” he takes a deep breath, hardly believing he is having this conversation. “Then that is what I’ll do.” 

Dumbledore simply gazes at him for a moment, his expression inscrutable as he appraises Regulus over his half-moon spectacles. Then he nods, satisfied, apparently having found whatever it was he was looking for. 

“Very well,” he says quietly. “I - not to mention every witch and wizard who is on the side of light in this war - am a great deal in your debt, and yours, Kreacher,” he adds, nodding courteously to the elf again, “for what the two of you have brought to my attention tonight.”

Regulus nods awkwardly, not really knowing what to say.

“As I’m sure you can imagine,” he continues, “there is a great deal of work to be done. But you have my word - both of you - that to repay your services, myself as well as the rest of the Order of the Phoenix will do everything within our power to keep you safe from Voldemort. 

Regulus swallows, feeling suddenly rather overwhelmed with anxiety. He appreciates the gesture - but will Dumbledore’s protection really be enough? 

“I…thank you,” he murmurs. Dumbledore simply nods again.

“Very well,” he replies, suddenly businesslike. He stands up, holding his hand out for the younger man to shake. “I shall be in touch shortly, Regulus.”