Dumbledore's Request
June, 1981 - Grimmauld Place
Midway through putting his blazer on, Regulus turns swiftly at the sound of tapping on his bedroom window, his heart leaping into his throat for a moment. He’s always paranoid these days. He supposes the war does that to people - though, he reflects darkly, defecting in secret from the service of the Dark Lord hasn’t exactly done much to soothe his nerves, either.
To his relief, though, the source of the tapping on the window turns out to be nothing but his majestic snowy owl, Persephone, tilting her head at him imperiously as she waits on the windowsill. Shaking his head at his own moment of foolishness, Regulus crosses the room to let her in.
As soon as he opens the window, Persephone soars in, dropping the newspaper she was carrying delicately onto his bed and landing with perfect grace and ease, as always, on his oak chest of drawers. He takes a moment to go over and greet her. She ruffles her feathers, looking up at him with a familiar haughty expression that makes him grin a little, putting him strongly in mind of the way Minerva McGonagall had looked at him when he’d run into her on his visit to Hogwarts three days ago.
Shaking himself a little, Regulus turns back to the bed to look at the newspaper Persephone had delivered, as the owl flies off to the top of the wardrobe.
The fact that he is still living with his mother in his childhood home is not exactly ideal - but as he does, he has recently taken to reading his news in the privacy of his bedroom, rather than down in the living room or at the dining table. He never really knows what he might read from day to day - and, especially given the strange and frankly traitorous position he’s recently put himself in, Regulus feels much more comfortable being able to process things without being constantly subjected to his mother’s scrutiny.
He unfolds this latest edition of The Daily Prophet, and can’t help but feel a quiver of unease in his stomach as he reads the headline.
ANOTHER VICTORY FOR CROUCH - MORE DEATH EATER ARRESTS MADE.
The list of names is rather short to be declared a ‘victory’, Regulus thinks as he skims through it - but then, he supposes, the Ministry is likely clinging to any scrap of good news they can at the moment. And he can’t help but notice that, for all of Crouch’s so-called ‘victories’, he still doesn’t appear to have cottoned on to the allegiance of his own son. But then, Barty had always been rather an astonishing actor, ever since Regulus had met him at the age of eleven - more sadistic even than the likes of Mulciber, but as far as Regulus knows, he’d never gotten even a single detention.
Should he be alerting Dumbledore to people like his old classmate? It occurs to him that that’s probably what the old man would expect from him, now that he’s defected, it’s probably the ‘honourable’ thing to do. But…he’s already alerted Dumbledore to the existence of the locket, hasn’t he? He’s already put himself in plenty of danger by going behind the Dark Lord’s back. If he starts informing Dumbledore about every Death Eater who hasn’t been caught by the Ministry yet, he may as well just sign up with the Aurors. Regulus isn’t in the business of being a snitch, and his audience with Dumbledore the other day hasn’t magically caused him to trust the old man any more than he did before - he’s simply the best option available.
It would be more than a little hypocritical of him to go telling tales about other Death Eaters, he reasons. Besides, he has a personal rule: never make more enemies than convenient.
Mulciber’s name is on the list though, he sees. Karkaroff. Travers, too.
Regulus can’t say he’s particularly surprised those three had got themselves caught - none of them had ever struck him as especially bright. Or subtle.
He feels a small twinge of guilt as he sees that all those on the list have been sentenced to Azkaban indefinitely - and likely without a proper trial, knowing Crouch. Not that these particular men would look very innocent, even with a trial.
It’s true that Regulus himself is nowhere near as sadistic as he knows these men to be - he’s seen Mulciber cackle with glee while casting Crucio, for instance, while the idea of the Unforgivables makes him feel sick, and somehow he’s managed - so far - to avoid using any of them. Still he can’t help but wonder if it’s just the luck of the draw that he hasn’t been caught yet, and they have. Dumbledore had promised to protect him the other day - but had he just meant he’d protect Regulus from the Dark Lord? Or did that promise extend to protection from the Ministry, as well?
Perhaps if he was a bit more honourable, Regulus muses, he would consider turning himself in, protesting that it’s unjust for Crouch to lock the others up while he remains free. But he certainly doesn’t feel that guilty. That kind of ‘honour’ is closer to stupidity, in Regulus’s opinion. After all, what use could he be to Dumbledore - or anyone - if he was locked up in a cell in Azkaban for Crouch’s satisfaction? Besides, he’s not an idiot - he’s fully aware that not a single one of them would do it for him, if they were in his position. There’s a reason his brother was sorted into Gryffindor and he wasn’t.
He pauses for a moment, staring at another name on the list.
Severus Snape.
Now that one is a bit of a shock, Regulus concedes, his brow furrowed as he stares at Snape’s name. Mulciber and Travers are one thing - but he would have assumed that Snape, of all people, would be able to keep himself out of trouble.
Greasy-haired, sour-faced and unfortunate-looking Snape may be - not to mention, coming from rather a questionable background, if the rumours are to be believed - but all of those things meant that Snape had always had to fight for acceptance amongst the elite purebloods who formed the majority of the Dark Lord’s ranks. If Regulus had to use one word to describe him, it would be cautious.
As long as Regulus has known him, ever since they were school students, Snape has never once seemed to do or say anything without thinking carefully about it first…well, apart from that time he had suddenly shouted at Lily Evans that she was a ‘filthy little Mudblood’ in front of practically the entire school.
Regulus remembers all the mutterings about Snape’s strange friendship with a Mudblood, which used to make him hang his head in shame, make him even more wary around the other Slytherins. Perhaps, for some reason, Evans was his only blind spot.
But she couldn’t have anything to do with Snape getting himself arrested all of a sudden, could she? For one thing, the two of them haven’t spoken a word to each other since Snape’s uncharacteristic outburst that day, to the best of his knowledge - unsurprisingly, he supposes. And Snape would probably be the last person in the world to be on speaking terms with Evans these days, given that she had started dating James Potter in their last year of school. The last Regulus had heard, Potter and Evans - though given he’s heard they’re now married, he supposes it’s technically now ‘the Potters’ - are, along with Sirius of course, among the most prominent members of Dumbledore’s Order nowadays.
No, Snape must have just gotten careless for some reason, Regulus concludes, or perhaps just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There’s certainly something strange about it, though. In fact, now he comes to think of it, he had barely seen Snape on any missions recently - yet suddenly, he’s got himself arrested?
He takes a moment to ponder what Lily Potter-nee-Evans might be thinking, reading this same article. Might she feel a twinge of regret at the fate of a man who had once been one of her closest friends? Or had Snape, as far as she was concerned, long ago forfeited the right to her sympathy?
And what about Sirius?
There had always been a strangely bitter hatred between Snape on one side, and his brother and Potter on the other - they all seemed to have spent their entire lives at school hurling taunts and hexes at each other, much to Evans’s annoyance, and Sirius and Potter had always seemed able to get a rise out of Snape even while he was cold, cautious and calculating with everyone else. As for Sirius, he’d never exactly made any secret of his disdain for all Slytherins - but he’d always seemed to reserve a special kind of loathing for Snape.
Regulus wonders how his brother feels now, reading that Snape is due to be handed over to the Dementors. Might he regret some of the more callous things he’d done as an arrogant, hotheaded teenager? Or is it the opposite - perhaps Snape’s arrest has made Sirius feel vindicated in his actions?
God, I hope not, Regulus muses, smirking slightly despite himself. He was insufferable enough in his self-righteousness as it was.
He’s facing away from the window, still lost in his thoughts - so Regulus almost cries out in alarm as, without any warning, something large and bright silver comes soaring into his bedroom. Persephone, still perched atop the wardrobe, lets out a loud, indignant shriek, as the Daily Prophet slips from Regulus’s fingers onto the carpet.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his chest slightly, willing his heart rate to go back to normal, and feeling very thankful that nobody other than his owl was around to witness that reaction. Especially as the bright silver something, on closer inspection, doesn’t appear to be anything ominous - it seems to be a Patronus, in the shape of a phoenix.
Dumbledore, he thinks, remembering the majestic red and gold bird he had seen perched in his office the other day. Trust the old man to have a pet bird that looked at you as if it knew more than you did.
The phoenix Patronus opens its mouth and speaks in a familiar, deep and infuriatingly calm voice that immediately confirms Regulus’s conclusion.
“Good morning, Regulus. I would be very much obliged if you would meet me in the same place we met last time. At your earliest convenience, please - I have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you.”
The silver phoenix vanishes into thin air as soon as it finishes speaking the message.
Regulus stares at the place where it had been, feeling more than a little irritated. He’s taking a huge risk, agreeing to work with Dumbledore - it seems to him that, if the headmaster is going to start summoning him without a moment’s notice, the least he might do is give him a hint of what the hell he wants.
For a brief moment, he considers not going, sending a message back to Dumbledore that he’s going to need more than that before he just comes running. But he’s never seen messages being delivered by Patronus like that before, and has no idea how the incantation works - besides which, he’s never been especially good at summoning happy thoughts or memories at the best of times.
And if he’s honest with himself, his curiosity outweighs his irritated pettiness.
With a sigh, he Disapparates to Hogsmeade.
“Come in,” calls that familiar voice, as soon as Regulus raps the gryphon knocker.
He enters the beautiful round office with the gently whirring silver instruments, looking around and seeing that many of the painted headmasters and headmistresses are still dozing in their frames - it’s still quite early, after all. Dumbledore’s phoenix tilts its head and blinks slowly and imperiously at him from its perch.
Dumbledore himself, he sees, is in deep purple robes today, seated at his desk and frowning slightly over his half-moon spectacles as he gazes at the same edition of The Daily Prophet that Regulus had just been reading.
“Ah, Regulus. You received my message, I presume?”
“What do you want?” Regulus asks warily. “Sir,” he adds unwillingly, as Dumbledore delicately raises one eyebrow.
“I think we can be civilised and discuss the matter over tea,” Dumbledore replies, as usual infuriatingly unflustered as he waves an airy wand in the direction of the kettle on his desk, which clicks on immediately. Two cups and saucers soar through the air towards them from the cabinet behind him. “Now, how do you take your tea, Regulus? Two sugars, or three?”
“I…what?” Regulus asks, bewildered now.
“Are you partial to two or three sugars?” Dumbledore repeats politely, as though it had been the words themselves escaping his comprehension.
“I…I don’t take any sugar with my tea,” he says blankly.
“Ah,” says Dumbledore, chuckling to himself. “Perhaps I should have foreseen that. And what biscuit would you like? A Ginger Newt?”
“What biscuit?” Regulus echoes indignantly.
“Or perhaps you would prefer a sherbet lemon?” the headmaster says calmly. “I must say, I have found they pair most excellently with peppermint tea.”
Regulus opens his mouth, with half a mind to swear at him - but Dumbledore looks at him sternly again over his half-moon glasses, and Regulus sees that he won’t take no for an answer.
“I…fine,” he mutters. “I’ll have a Ginger Newt. Please,” he adds resentfully, and more than a little sarcastically, as Dumbledore raises an eyebrow again.
He can’t help but glare at the old man as he busies himself with pouring tea and Summoning the biscuit tin, humming to himself a little as he does so. Dumbledore had almost given him a heart attack with that Patronus, commanding him to come at his earliest convenience because there was an urgent matter to discuss - and yet, here Regulus is, being forced to sit and wait patiently as the headmaster messes around boiling the kettle at his leisure.
“Here you are,” Dumbledore announces, smiling at him as he presents him with his tea. “I hope it will still be sweet enough, with no sugar.”
“Thanks,” Regulus mutters, unable to shake the feeling that some kind of subtle joke is being made at his expense. “So, you had something to tell me?” he asks pointedly. “It’s urgent, apparently?”
“I see you will not be deterred,” Dumbledore replies with a small sigh, putting his teacup down slowly, “and quite right too. Very well, Regulus, I shall come to the point. I have rather a dilemma.”
“A dilemma?” Regulus echoes, frowning.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore confirms, with a little nod. “The thing is - I had a spy, among the Death Eaters. But he has just been arrested.”
“Snape,” says Regulus. It comes out as a statement, rather than a question.
He’s not even quite sure what had made him say it so baldly - except that it feels like a missing puzzle piece clicking in.
Snape certainly seemed to have been growing more distant from the others for a while - not that he’d ever exactly been friendly to anyone. He’s not sure what might have caused the taciturn man to turn to Dumbledore, though - perhaps he, like Regulus himself, had become disillusioned with the Dark Lord, sickened by the apparent bloodlust of their comrades. Or perhaps his old obsession with Lily now-Potter had reared its head again, after all. Some misguided attempt to gain back her trust, possibly? It was still strange, though - Regulus would have thought Snape was self-aware enough to realise that was a lost cause.
Dumbledore arches one eyebrow again - although apparently in surprise rather than disapproval this time.
“It seems that Severus did not manage to be quite as incognito as we might have hoped,” he says mildly. “But then, I suppose you have already proved yourself to be more than usually astute, haven’t you?”
He gives Regulus a smile over the rim of his teacup, evidently impressed. Regulus knows the headmaster is expecting him to be softened a little by the flattery, but he simply sits there looking back at him, stony-faced.
“So you don’t have a spy anymore,” he says bluntly.
“No,” Dumbledore sighs wearily. “It certainly seems that poor Severus will no longer be in an ideal position to give me much intelligence on Voldemort and his plans. However…it occurs to me that there is a rather convenient alternative, should he be willing.”
The old man fixes Regulus with a meaningful look.
“Oh god,” he groans, as the implication sinks in. “You’re not…you’re not seriously asking me?”
“And why not?” Dumbledore asks, steepling his fingers and looking at Regulus as though they’re merely discussing a flaw in a thought experiment. “You have given me some extremely valuable information already, and shown yourself more than capable.”
“Because I knew you would have the resources to help me tackle it,” Regulus shoots back at him. “I never promised I was going to make a habit of passing information to you.”
“But you did promise you were going to join our side, Regulus,” the headmaster counters sternly. “And I feel I must impress upon you that it is imperative - particularly at this moment - that the Order maintains a spy with access to the Death Eaters.”
Regulus stares at him, frowning as he tries to process what the old man is asking of him, trying to tamp down the anxiety threatening to overwhelm him.
“But I told you,” he says, taking a deep breath and trying to sound calm and reasonable, “I cannot help that man any longer.”
“And you will not be helping him, Regulus,” Dumbledore replies patiently. “At least, no more than is necessary to preserve your cover. You will be helping the Order. You will merely be pretending to help Voldemort.”
“But…if he ever found out…” Regulus protests, breathing hard, “do you realise how much danger you’re asking me to put myself in?”
“I feel I must remind you that you have already put yourself in a great deal of danger, Regulus, just by coming to me about the locket,” Dumbledore says sharply. “Certainly, it will be dangerous to return to him as a spy for the Order. But it will likely be even more dangerous if you do not return to him at all. He would know immediately that you had abandoned him - and we both know that Voldemort is not known for forgiving disloyalty.”
Regulus groans, putting his head in his hands, feeling as though the walls of Dumbledore’s office are closing in on him.
“We already know that, at the moment, Voldemort trusts you,” Dumbledore continues, his voice gentler now. “As much as he ever trusts anyone other than himself, at least. After all, it was you that he turned to when he was in need of a house elf.” Regulus flinches at the reminder of his own naivety. “And it was you who was able to discover his secret, based solely on Kreacher’s account. A secret which even I, with my - if you will permit me to say so - rather extraordinary brain power - had not fully realised until you came to tell me about the locket. You have already demonstrated that you are exceedingly cunning and intelligent, Regulus. A force to be reckoned with. Not unlike your brother, in fact.”
Regulus’s breath hitches. He stares at Dumbledore, disarmed by the mention of Sirius - which had probably been exactly the other man’s intention.
“I promised you, the last time we conversed, that I would do everything in my power to protect you from harm,” he continues quietly, as usual looking at him as though he can see right through him, as though he’s a transparent pane of glass. “I know that I am asking a great deal of you, Regulus - but that remains just as true as before.”
Regulus bites his lip, considering, trying to think clearly past the haze of anxiety.
“You have already shown an extraordinary amount of courage by telling me Voldemort’s secret, and by renouncing him,” the headmaster says soothingly.
“I am asking only that you show a little more. And if it makes any difference - although he is unlikely to admit it immediately, if at all - I know that it would make your brother very proud of you, Regulus.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling a lump well up in his throat.
Logically, he knows that Dumbledore is manipulating him, playing with his emotions and his vulnerabilities in order to receive the answer he wants to hear. And it’s not like he’s going to fool himself into believing this will magically fix everything between him and Sirius, he can’t fool himself into thinking that his brother will forgive him any time soon, or even trust him. He wouldn’t, if he was in his position.
But god, Regulus misses him.
He opens his eyes, looking back at Dumbledore.
“Alright,” he croaks resignedly. “I’ll do it.”
One Week Later
Regulus stares up at the ivy-covered facade of the big house as he walks up the garden path. The heady scent of roses in bloom, the quiet, peaceful murmuring of the bees amongst the petals, seems somehow at odds with the clamminess of his hands and the aggressive pounding of his heart.
He can’t believe he’s standing hereof all places, at the Potters’ family home. Why had he let Dumbledore talk him into this? Is he going insane? This is the last place that someone like him belongs. He has no right to be attending a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix - he knows it, and so will everybody in there.
His heart pounds even harder at the thought that his brother is likely somewhere inside this house right at this moment; in fact, his heart is beating so fast that it’s almost painful.
Regulus is extraordinarily tempted to turn around and Disapparate on the spot, to run, to go anywhere that isn’t here. But he remembers that Dumbledore is in there too, expecting him - and he certainly won’t let him get away with breaking his promise.
You’ve betrayed the Dark Lord himself, he reminds himself sternly. If you can do that, you can walk into a room full of people who hate you, with your head held high. Even if one of those people is him.
He takes a deep breath, and raises his hand, knocking tentatively on the front door.
Only a few moments pass, while Regulus focuses on breathing steadily in and out and doing his best not to have a heart attack, before the door opens, revealing the illustrious James Potter himself.
He looks exactly as Regulus remembers him from school - lanky, glasses slightly askew, black hair sticking up ridiculously every which way - apart from his awkward, anxious expression, which is certainly a far cry from the mischievous and more-than-slightly-smug grin which had seemed in his school days to be permanently affixed to his face.
“Regulus,” James greets him with a small nod, the lack of surprise in his voice telling him that Dumbledore had at least warned the others he was coming.
“Potter,” he replies, doing his best to sound sardonic and faintly bored, praying that Potter can’t tell how close he was to cutting and running just a moment ago.
James looks almost as uncomfortable as he feels right now.
“Ah…come in?” the bespectacled man says awkwardly, making it sound more like a suggestion than an invitation.
Regulus rolls his eyes but walks inside as Potter holds the door open for him, still trying desperately to look like he’s in control of the situation.
He can feel the other man’s suspicious gaze resting on him as he walks slightly in front of him, although Potter looks quickly away when Regulus glances back at him.
He distinctly remembers the last encounter he’d had with his brother’s best friend. Potter had stepped hastily between him and Sirius when they’d been on the verge of duelling each other, on the banks of the lake at Hogwarts, when Regulus had been in his sixth year and they’d been in their final one. Although he’s fairly certain Potter had intervened more for his brother’s benefit than his own.
He pulls himself back to the present as Potter leads him into a modest living room, with a brick fireplace in the middle surrounded by comfortable-looking sofas and armchairs, almost every single seat already taken. It would perhaps have been a rather cosy, inviting scene - were it not for the fact that, as Regulus walks in next to Potter, almost everyone in the room turns to stare at him, with expressions ranging from bewildered curiosity, to outright hostility and distrust. Before he had entered, Regulus had heard easy chatter going on, a little bit of laughter even; but now, as all eyes turn to him, there seems to be only a deafening silence, tension stretched taut across the room like a violin string about to snap.
He tries his best to look unaffected by this icy reception, refusing to look down, glancing around the room defiantly instead. As he does so, he recognises a few more familiar faces.
On the sofa closest to the fireplace, his sandy brown curls swept out of his face so that Regulus can see not only his curious, thoughtful gaze but also the long diagonal scar running from the corner of his eye across his nose, is Remus Lupin - another member of Potter’s gang from school, who Regulus had rarely ever seen without Sirius seemingly attached to him at the hip. Just as he’d so often done at school, Lupin looks tired, almost a little fragile, pale with dark circles visible under his hazel eyes. Perhaps that look of fragility was part of the reason his brother had always seemed so weirdly protective of him, Regulus muses - although something tells him Lupin is not nearly as frail as he looks. Something about that thoughtful look the man is giving him makes him squirm a little - at least he would have a better idea how to respond, if it was just a straightforward hostile glare.
Like that, for instance, he thinks, his eyes moving to the young woman sitting next to Lupin, recognising her immediately. Mary McDonald, the Gryffindor Mudblood that Sirius had brazenly dated for a year or two, despite the constant taunts thrown her way by people like Mulciber and Snape. She looks just as beautiful and confident as ever, with her mane of glossy dark curls and flawless bronze skin - although the fierce glare she’s fixing him with would be enough to terrify anyone.
And there, sitting opposite Lupin and McDonald, is Potter’s new wife, Lily - the woman that Snape had been so strangely obsessed with. She, too, looks just as strikingly pretty as he remembers, with her dark red hair piled up in a messy bun secured by her wand - although she also looks a lot paler and more worried than Regulus had ever seen her, back in prefect meetings at Hogwarts. He notices, however, that her distinctive bright green eyes are fixed, not on him, like everyone else in the room, but on Potter, her face etched with concern. He gets the impression she’s ready to step in and protect her husband, should the need arise, at a moment’s notice.
Regulus realises suddenly, with a little jolt of shock, that Lily is clutching a tiny boy on her lap, a boy in a blue onesie patterned with Snitches. The child has a thatch of dark hair already as messy as his father’s, and he’s gazing curiously up at Regulus with eyes as bright a shade of green as his mother’s. It seems very strange that his brother’s best friends have become parents since the last time he saw them.
Babies, Regulus muses to himself sardonically. Fabulous. One more thing in this room I have absolutely no clue how to deal with.
This situation would certainly be a bit easier to handle if Dumbledore was actually here, introducing him properly and giving Regulus some kind of direction, so he didn’t just have to stand here awkwardly while everyone gaped at him. Evidently, he had given them only the bare minimum of information, leaving them with very little idea of why the hell the younger Black brother was suddenly in their midst. Typical.
Isn’t he supposed to be in charge of this thing? Regulus thinks, with another surge of irritation at the old man. Where the hell is he? This was his idea, not mine!
He realises then, with a sharp twinge of dread, that Dumbledore is not the only person missing from the room.
“Um…where is…” he begins to ask awkwardly, hating that he cares so much - but at that moment, an extremely familiar voice issues suddenly and very loudly from behind the closed door on the other side of the living room, rendering his question redundant.
“But why? Why would you just invite him here? You know what he is, you know what he’s done! He’s been helping Him, for Godric’s sake!”
“I am perfectly aware of that, thank you.” Dumbledore’s voice floats towards them now, sounding just as infuriatingly calm as ever - though perhaps a little wearier than usual. “But, as I have already explained to you, he came to me with some extraordinarily valuable information. I have, as a consequence, offered him the protection of the Order.”
“Without even asking me first?!”
“That is enough,” Dumbledore replies, raising his voice slightly, his tone uncharacteristically stern now. “I understand that your brother’s presence brings up a lot of complicated feelings for you - but this is not up to you. Regulus is here at my invitation, and I am requesting that you treat him, if not with kindness, then at least with civility.”
Regulus hears an all-too-familiar scornful noise, followed by loud stomping footsteps. A moment later, the door at the other end of the room slams aggressively open.
Regulus tries his best not to visibly react - but he can scarcely help himself.
The man who has just stormed into the crowded living room may be wearing a studded leather jacket, ripped jeans and heavy combat boots - ridiculous Muggle clothing of the kind that would instantly infuriate their mother - but he still has that haughty aristocratic expression on his face that always appears when he’s aggravated. He still tosses his long dark hair back and lifts his sharp chin defiantly in exactly the same way he always did - and for a moment, when Regulus catches sight of those familiar, stormy grey eyes, it’s like looking at his own reflection in a mirror.
Sirius is standing across the room from him.