Mortal Once More

Godric’s Hollow - August, 1982

“Oh my god,” says Lily Potter, staring wide-eyed at the latest edition of The Evening Prophet, which is open on her lap as she clutches her mug of tea, curled up in an armchair by the fireplace. 

The others all turn to look at her in alarm.

“What?” Fabian demands, from his position on the carpet, where he and Sirius have been playing with James and Lily’s toddler - the very child that the Dark Lord is so intent on finding. 

It still seems very strange, Regulus muses, watching as the toddler giggles and squirms as Sirius tickles him. Harry Potter seems like a pretty normal two-year-old, to him. But then, what does he know? He’s far more comfortable having the Potters’ large, fluffy ginger cat on his lap instead, purring loudly as he absentmindedly strokes it.

“Not more bad news?” Fabian adds.

Regulus winces. He knows the redhead hadn’t meant that to sound like an attack - but still, he determinedly avoids Sirius’s judgemental stare. 

“No no, it’s not bad!” Lily clarifies hastily, evidently sensing the tension in the tiny living room. “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have led with ‘oh my god,’” she adds, with a sheepish, apologetic grin at Fabian. “It just surprised me, I suppose - apparently Slughorn is finally retiring!”

“Really?” Regulus and James ask simultaneously, both staring at her in shock. 

“I always figured old Sluggy had been teaching at Hogwarts for so long that he couldn’t stop teaching there, even if he wanted to,” James remarks. “Like, I figured he was basically just a part of the castle now. Like Dumbledore. Or Flitwick. Or McGonagall.” 

“Or Binns?” Fabian chimes in, grinning slightly now. 

“I mean, Binns’s case is a little different, isn’t it, Fab?” James replies, grinning back at him. 

“Well yes, idiotic as that idea might be, James”, says Lily, before Fabian can respond - Potter clutches a hand to his chest dramatically in mock devastation, and Lily rolls her eyes at him even as an affectionate smile gives her away - “I have to admit that I sort of thought the same. That’s why I was so surprised, I guess.” She turns back to the newspaper spread across her lap, scanning further down the article. “He’s quoted here: ‘It has been a great honour to teach so many students that have passed through Hogwarts, both as Potions Master and as Head of the noble Slytherin house. But the fact remains that I have been teaching at Hogwarts for over forty years now, and sadly I am starting to feel my age. A feeble old man like me is entitled to a few creature comforts in his old age, is he not?’” 

Sirius lets out a derisive snort at this, and they all turn to him curiously. 

“That old git,” he mutters. “Bloody predictable…he never changes, does he? He’s not ‘feeling his age’ -  if he’s a ‘feeble old man’, then I’m in love with Severus Snape.” 

He grimaces for a moment, sticking his tongue out and making a retching noise, as though trying to get rid of the taste of those words. Sitting in the armchair behind him, Lupin rolls his eyes, despite the grin that flickers briefly across his face at his boyfriend’s antics. 

“Point is,” Sirius continues, “I’m sure he’s every bit as talented and clever and wily as he ever has been. He’s just worried that if he keeps teaching at Hogwarts, the Death Eaters will take it as a given that he’s on Dumbledore’s side.”

The others all stare at him uneasily. It’s not just the fact that Sirius is almost certainly right that’s causing the sudden edge of tension in the room. It’s also the implications of that fact. 

If Slughorn has indeed made the decision to retire so he won’t be seen as siding with Dumbledore, that suggests that the Dark Lord has gained enough ground in this war that the old Potions master is no longer willing to rely on the protection that Dumbledore can offer him at Hogwarts. There’s more than a little truth in Slughorn’s reading of the situation, in fact, though of course nobody in this room has been particularly keen to acknowledge that. 

His head of house was always a shrewdly intelligent man, Regulus muses, even if he’d often pretended otherwise. Slughorn would be right not to count on Dumbledore’s ‘protection’ - if anyone knows that, he does, he reminds himself bitterly. 

“You don’t think he would join them, do you?” Lily asks anxiously, interrupting Regulus’s thoughts. She looks more upset by this notion than he would have expected. 

Sirius snorts again.

“I don’t think he’d be all that welcome, Lils, do you?” he replies. “Given how much he used to fawn over you and Dirk Cresswell?” 

Oh, of course, Regulus realises. He’d forgotten that Lily Potter - or Evans, as she was at the time - used to be a favourite of Slughorn’s back at school, too, a fellow member of what he used to call his ‘Slug Club.’ Now he thinks of it, he remembers there had been a fair few of his fellow Slytherins muttering darkly about how Slughorn must have been going senile, letting in a jumped-up little Mudblood like her. He’d been more than a little baffled by it himself, in fact - not that he would ever admit that now, especially not to her face. 

Mudblood (Muggle-born, he reminds himself sternly), she might be, but Lily is still a prodigiously talented witch, and despite the fact that she’s had to withdraw largely from the war effort and has spent much of the last year stuck in this tiny cottage with her husband and small child, she’s still surprisingly scary for such a petite woman. 

“Besides,” Sirius continues, “if he wanted to join the Death Eaters, he’s had plenty of opportunities. But I can’t see old Sluggy running around in a mask blowing up buildings, can you? Too much exertion, not enough crystallised pineapple,” he reasons, voice dripping with scorn. 

Sirius had been invited to join the Slug Club too, once upon a time, Regulus remembers - before he had been disowned, when he was still the heir to the House of Black. Potter, too. But the pair of them had kept disrupting the Slug Club parties with increasingly ridiculous and chaotic pranks, as though determined to be banned - and soon enough, Slughorn had reluctantly acquiesced. 

“Nah, I reckon he’ll be doing his best to keep his head down and stay completely out of it,” Sirius concludes. “He always was a massive coward.” 

They all sit in silence for a moment, digesting his words. 

“Wonder who Dumbledore will replace him with,” Lupin muses. “I might have guessed Snape, he was always annoyingly good at Potions, as I recall. Only…bit difficult to teach classes from Azkaban.” 

“Good bloody riddance,” Sirius growls.

“Padfoot,” says Potter reproachfully. “Look, I agree with you, Snivellus is and always was a slimy, bigoted git…but Lils used to be friends with him, remember? So maybe we could try for a little more tact…”

“I’d prefer you didn’t remind me of that, thanks, Potter,” Lily interrupts. “Sirius might not be being very kind, but…he’s right. Severus had plenty of opportunities to change. It’s horrible what’s happened to him, but…he really did bring this on himself.”

 There’s a burning anger in her bright green eyes - but the hurt and betrayal is clear, too, simmering underneath. For a moment, she seems to revert to that fiercely compassionate sixteen-year-old girl that Regulus had watched leaping to Snape’s defence on the riverbank at Hogwarts, only to be publicly humiliated in return for her trouble. Apparently, Dumbledore had never seen fit to inform her that her ex-friend had defected to the Order before his arrest. 

Potter’s face falls suddenly into weary melancholy. It’s a strange look to see on the face of a boy who used to make red and gold streamers burst from his wand every time the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall on the day of a Quidditch match, who never seemed able to resist the temptation to write Gryffindor Rulz on every single blackboard he came across, complete with a drawing of a lion he’d enchanted so that it roared loudly. Lily’s comment about Snape must have reminded him again of Pettigrew, Regulus realises. 

Sirius catches James’s melancholy look - judging by the way his own face immediately darkens, he knows exactly who his best friend is thinking of. 

In the armchair behind Sirius, Lupin winces and grimaces, reaching one hand up to rub impatiently at the back of his neck.

“You okay, Rem?” Lily asks him gently, looking worried and a little guilty, apparently having noticed the effect her words had had on her husband and Sirius. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, looking, as usual, embarrassed by the attention as everyone turns to look at him. “Just…the usual. Bit sore.” 

Looking closer, Regulus sees the dark, weary shadows under the scarred man’s eyes. He knows Lupin well enough now to know that when he claims to be ‘a bit sore’, it usually translates roughly to ‘in a hell of a lot of pain.’

“Full moon two nights ago,” he reminds Lily. “Guess I’m still recovering, a bit. Doesn’t really help that I was sent to spend it with that pack. Again.” 

“Dumbledore’s still making you do that?” Fabian asks, sounding outraged.

“Yup.” 

“God, sorry, Moony,” says Potter, looking far more guilty than he has any reason to. “I didn’t realise. I mean, I know he won’t let me join you for full moons anymore, obviously, he’s not letting me leave the bloody house at all - but I thought you were still spending them with Pads?”

Lupin shakes his head.

“Dumbledore won’t let him come,” he explains, looking warily at his boyfriend, whose face has darkened again, mouth tightening into a thin line - evidently, neither of them are thrilled about the headmaster’s instructions. “He keeps telling me how important it is for me to gain the other werewolves’ trust. He wants a spy - and here I am, ready made,” he finishes bitterly. 

“It’s bullshit,” Sirius pipes up angrily, apparently unable to contain himself. “He knows I’m an Animagus now, I could go with you as Padfoot and -”

“No you couldn’t, Pads,” Lupin interrupts him, evidently trying his best not to sound impatient. “I’ve told you - even as a dog, they’d still be able to smell the human on you. It wouldn’t be safe for you - and I will not have you in danger.” 

Sirius doesn’t seem to have a response to that; he opens his mouth, but then closes it again, looking defeated as he crosses his arms like a petulant child. 

“Well, I still don’t bloody like it,” he mutters. 

Lupin’s face softens as he looks at his boyfriend’s scowl, a soft smile flickering across his face, apparently despite himself. 

“I know you don’t,” he responds quietly. “I don’t like it either, you idiot.” 

The two of them look at each other for a moment, in that way that makes it seem as though the rest of the world has melted away around them. Sirius reaches out for his hand wordlessly, and Lupin takes it, twining their fingers together and squeezing gently. 

“Pafoo!” the two-year-old, Harry, exclaims loudly, evidently indignant about his godfather’s attention being distracted from him. 

Sirius laughs, reaching out to lift the toddler onto his lap one-handed, without taking his other hand away from Lupin’s. 

“Sorry, Prongslet,” he tells him solemnly, as his boyfriend smiles softly at the pair of them. “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about you - as if I ever could.” 

“Sorry, Lils,” says Lupin sheepishly, turning back to her, though his grin hasn’t quite faded. “I didn’t mean to distract everyone with a whole ‘woe is me’ story.”

Sirius tuts loudly as Lily looks at him sternly.

“Moony, we’ve talked about this,” Potter starts, using his Head Boy voice, despite the fact he’d finished at Hogwarts four years ago, “you’re allowed to be in pain, and you’re allowed to tell us about -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lupin interjects impatiently, waving a careless hand at his best friend, who looks rather affronted. “Anyway - what other news, Lils?”

Lily frowns at him reproachfully for a moment before turning a page of the Evening Prophet. She groans loudly. 

“Let me guess,” says Fabian sardonically. “You-Know-Who’s decided to call an end to the war, and he’s announced he’ll be handing out an unlimited supply of chocolate frogs to wizarding Britain to apologise for all the hassle he’s caused?”

“Funnily enough, Fab, no, it’s not that,” she replies. 

“Ah well. Worth a guess.”

“So what is it then?” Regulus asks quietly.

She looks up at him, narrowing her bright green eyes slightly, and he tries not to flinch. He knows full well that she’s still not very comfortable having him in her house, even after everything Potter had told her about the confrontation with Pettigrew. Regulus supposes, given the vast differences in their backgrounds, he can hardly blame her. 

“The Ministry is passing some new laws, apparently,” she answers finally, heaving a sigh. “Crouch has granted the Aurors permission to use the Unforgivables on any Death Eater - or even anyone suspected of Death Eater activity.”

“What?!” Potter and Fabian exclaim simultaneously, both looking stunned.

“But…but the Ministry can’t do that!” James protests. “If they start using Unforgivables, they won’t be any better than the Death Eaters, will they?” 

“Oh, Prongs,” says Sirius, with a grim expression on his face. “You really think they’ll give a shit about that?” 

“Sirius,” Lily warns him through gritted teeth, nodding towards her toddler, still sitting on his lap and glancing curiously between the adults, but Sirius ignores her completely.

“We all know they’re getting desperate,” he continues. “God forbid the public should think that they’re losing this war, or worse, that they’re incompetent. I’m betting that, at this point, they’re prepared to do practically anything, as long as it gets them the results they want. Especially Crouch. Bastard.” 

Regulus swallows, his throat suddenly dry. Even anyone suspected of Death Eater activity. 

So apparently he’s now facing, not just a strong possibility of being murdered by the Dark Lord if he fails to hand him the Potters before his patience wears thin, but also a substantial chance of being executed by Aurors if he ever gets caught on a mission the Dark Lord has sent him on - or perhaps even just if somebody happens to start spreading rumours about him. And he’s not stupid enough to believe, now, that Dumbledore will sprain any muscles trying to keep him safe. Wonderful. Why had he ever got himself into this mess, again? 

He can feel the others looking at him, and he looks determinedly down at the floor, feeling the flush of shame in his cheeks. Are they all thinking exactly what he’s thinking? Are they, like Dumbledore, just going to shrug and tell him that he’s made his own bed? 

“There’s more,” Lily pipes up, sounding awkwardly apologetic, as though the bad news is somehow her fault, just because she’s reading it out. “Crouch has also passed a new law cracking down on Dark artefacts.”

“What?” Potter asks, staring at his wife blankly. 

“The Aurors have been given permission to do random searches of peoples’ homes, without needing a warrant or paperwork or anything,” she clarifies. “Apparently, anyone’s house can legally be searched without warning now - even members of the Ministry.” 

“Fuck,” Lupin says suddenly, with real feeling. 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Lily huffs, glancing towards her small son again, still sitting on his godfather’s lap and now staring at Lupin with wide green eyes. “Anyway, Rem, why are youso upset about that? It’s not going to affect you, surely?” 

Everyone is staring at him in bewilderment now - everyone except Regulus, who realises with a sinking feeling exactly what he’s about to say.

“It bloody well is,” Lupin replies, grimacing. 

“But how?” asks Potter, frowning at him blankly again. 

“The Horcrux,” Regulus explains, staring at Lupin. “The locket we stole from the cave. There’s no way we’ll be able to keep it stored away in their flat anymore, not if the Ministry are doing random raids. Even if they don’t have a clue that it’s a Horcrux - I don’t think there’s a chance that anybody trained as an Auror would miss the Dark magic radiating off that thing.” 

“Exactly,” Lupin agrees grimly. 

“Fuck,” Sirius and Fabian announce simultaneously.

“Yep,” Regulus and Lupin answer, as Lily sighs and wordlessly throws up her hands in defeat. 

Obviously, they still haven’t managed to destroy the stupid thing - as it turns out, Fiendfyre and Basilisk venom are both inconveniently difficult substances to come by. Sometimes, while staying up for hours into the night trying to research a viable alternative, Regulus has wondered whether there was even any bloody point in them going to that awful cave and risking their lives to retrieve it - after all, it’s been over a year now, and they still haven’t even managed to make a dent. 

After a few months of passing the accursed locket back and forth between them like some ominous, twisted version of pass the parcel, where the reward was twelve hours of increased fear and suspicion and anxiety, Lupin had pointed out that it was ridiculous to keep putting themselves through that, given how much they already had to deal with on a daily basis. They would figure out how to get rid of it eventually - and in the meantime, it was decided, it would simply be kept locked firmly away in Lupin’s study, with protective enchantments around it. 

But Regulus has to admit that, if a group of highly trained Aurors come calling at Sirius and Lupin’s flat without warning, their own enchantments are unlikely to be strong enough to keep the Horcrux concealed for long. He can’t see what option they have, then, other than to go back to their previous system of taking it in turns to wear the damned thing, no matter how awful that makes them all feel. 

Could Dumbledore be persuaded to keep it hidden somewhere in his office, perhaps? But…if the Aurors found it there… is Crouch paranoid and power-crazed enough by this point to have Dumbledore arrested?

“But…no…come on…” Fabian protests, with the air of a man desperately clutching at straws. 

Regulus can see the fear in his eyes at the prospect of having to put the locket back on - for a moment his heart clenches painfully in his chest, wondering just what exactly the Horcrux forces Fabian to think about when it gets him in its grip.

“Crouch knows that both of you are in the Order, right?” the redhead continues, the expression on his face almost pleading. “You really think he’d tell the Aurors to search the homes of Order members?” 

“I wouldn’t put it past the bastard for a second,” Sirius replies. “Anyway, being in the Order doesn’t necessarily prove that you’re not helping them at the same time, does it? I mean, look at Pete, for god’s sake!” he exclaims, his expression darkening so that, for a moment, he looks positively dangerous. “Hell, look at -”

Sirius stops talking abruptly as his gaze lands on Regulus. Everyone in the room freezes. 

Regulus feels as though his breath has solidified in his chest. As he stares back at his older brother, it seems as though the air in the Potters’ living room has suddenly frozen into delicate, fragile ice. 

Sirius still hasn’t looked away from him. He can see the hint of awkwardness in his expression, but he’s also jutting out his chin determinedly as their gaze meets - a gesture so very familiar to Regulus that it’s almost like looking in a mirror - and his brother’s grey eyes are, once again, ablaze with anger and hurt as they look at each other.

He’s seen Sirius looking at him like this many times over the past year, and even more so over the past few weeks - and he knows exactly why. One or both of them has always looked away, though, seeking a distraction, pretending that if they both refuse to acknowledge the fight that’s been brewing, they can keep a lid on it, prevent it from happening. For a while, Sirius had been so grateful to Regulus for exposing Pettigrew as the spy - and so guilty about his own misinterpretations - that he had made an effort not to argue or storm, he had tried his best to bite his tongue, difficult as Regulus knew that was for him. 

But clearly, Sirius’s patience has well and truly worn thin now, and there isn’t going to be any more pretending at a truce between them. They’re past the point of no return now; apparently, they’re about to finally have this fight, whether they like it or not. Regulus knows it, Sirius knows it - and apparently, judging by the uncomfortable glances, so does everybody else in this tiny room.

“James,” says Lily suddenly, darting a nervous glance between the two brothers, “I’ve just remembered, there was a blanket I wanted to get for Harry from the storage cupboard, but I need your help, because I…um…I can’t reach it properly,” she finishes awkwardly. 

“Oh…right, yep, I can help with that!” Potter replies quickly in a tone of forced brightness, jumping up. “Uhh…Moony, you’re a bit taller than me, you wanna lend a hand?” 

“God, yes,” Lupin replies, leaping up from his armchair quicker than Regulus has ever seen him move before. “Though I am actually a lot taller than you, Prongs,” he adds in an undertone, apparently unable to resist. Potter shoots him a dark look.

“Fab?” he asks, turning to the redhead as Lily swoops in to pluck the toddler, Harry, off of Sirius’s lap, ignoring the child’s loud wail of protest. “You’re pretty tall, too, want to come help us out?” 

“No thanks, James,” Fabian replies, surprising Regulus. “Think I’ll just stay put; looks like you’ve got enough of a crowd to fetch one blanket already.”

“But…!” says Potter desperately, raising his eyebrows in a meaningful way at Fabian. Regulus struggles to refrain from rolling his eyes, and his brother doesn’t bother to refrain; James Potter really isn’t quite as smooth as he thinks he is. 

“I said,” Fabian repeats, his voice quiet but firm, “I’m staying put. I’m sure you lot can manage without me for a few minutes.” 

He shifts closer to Regulus, ever so slightly, and Regulus feels a sudden rush of affection for the stubborn redheaded idiot. 

Potter opens his mouth for a second, gaping at him, before closing it abruptly.

“Fine,” he huffs, and as he shunts Lily and Lupin out of the room ahead of him, Regulus distinctly hears him mutter under his breath, “On your own head, Prewett.” 

“Well?” Regulus asks as soon as they’re out of the room, standing up - the Potters’ large ginger cat leaps off his lap with a loud and affronted meow, taking refuge under the nearest armchair, and for a foolish moment Regulus regrets losing the comforting weight of him. 

He crosses his arms across his chest, jutting his own chin out. He knows the posture might look aggressive to a bystander - like Fabian, for instance - but he feels like he’s shielding himself in advance, hoping Sirius can’t tell that his stomach is writhing with anxiety.

“Whatever it is you have to say to me - don’t be shy, Sirius, spit it out.”

Sirius glares at him.

“Fine, I’ll ‘spit it out,’” he replies, grey eyes glittering with malice. “It’s honestly kind of hard for me to believe that you have the audacity to just sit here in James and Lily’s living room, pretending like nothing’s wrong.” 

He turns, abruptly picking up the copy of the Evening Prophet that Lily had left open and abandoned on her armchair in her hurry to flee the room. 

“Hmm…looks like Lils forgot to read out the obituaries column. Didn’t want to bring the mood down too much, I suppose…”

Regulus feels as though his brother has punched him savagely in the stomach. Sirius begins to read aloud mercilessly. 

“‘We regret to inform the publicthat, following the murders of junior Ministry member Emmeline Vance and famed Auror Alastor ‘Mad-Eye Moody’ two months ago, the organisation calling itself ‘The Order of the Phoenix’ has now reported the deaths of two more of its members; Frank Longbottom, a promising young Auror, and Muggle-born Ted Tonks. Both men are presumed to have been killed at the hands of those calling themselves the ‘Death Eaters.’”

Sirius lowers the paper again, glaring at Regulus with fury and pain written across his face.

“Well? Any thoughts about that, Reg? Anything you’d like to share?”

He feels trapped, grief and guilt rising up inside him like freezing cold water. It’s almost like he’s back in that terrible cave again.

“Moody’s death was beyond anybody’s control,” he whispers miserably. “Even Dumbledore didn’t see it coming. He was just outnumbered; you know that.”

“Oh, so one out of four of those deaths wasn’t planned in advance?” Sirius retorts, his face twisting with cold rage. “Well, that’s just fine and dandy then, isn’t it? Don’t know what I was worried about!”

“Sirius,” says Fabian quietly, in a warning tone - but Sirius completely ignores him.

“What about Em? She was my age! And as for Frank and Ted - they had kids, Reg! They had families! I mean, have you spoken to Andromeda recently? Have you any idea how alone she feels? How broken? How furious she is? Oh wait, my mistake, of course you haven’t spoken to Andromeda; she’s a blood traitor, isn’t she? Who cares what happens to her, right?”

“That’s out of order, Sirius,” Fabian pipes up angrily, his ears turning almost as red as his hair. 

“Oh fuck off, Fab,” Sirius snaps at him. “I’m pretty sure my little brother is perfectly capable of speaking for himself. Aren’t you, Reg?” 

Regulus stands across from him, shaking, eyes burning with tears, throat clogged with guilt, trying to gather himself enough to speak.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers hoarsely. “I didn’t know it was going to be them, Sirius, I swear! Dumbledore and I were just discussing what I could pass on to the Dark Lord, and what had to be kept secret. You know that we’ve been feeding him fake intelligence wherever we can, obviously we’ve been trying to minimise casualties - but I can’t always feed him the wrong information, or he’d conclude that I was completely incompetent and disposable. Or worse, he’d figure out that I was lying and connect the dots between me and Dumbledore!”

“You know, Reg, you’re always trying to shift the blame for everything onto Dumbledore,” Sirius replies, breathing hard. “Gotta say, it’s getting kind of old. Not to mention, it’s not a great look for someone who’s supposedly loyal to him and the Order.”

Regulus glares at him through the tears burning his eyes.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean, ‘supposedly?’”

“Why can’t you just bloody admit it, Reg?” his brother replies, grey eyes narrow, burrowing into him. “You actually enjoy these manipulative, cold-hearted, double agent power trips. You’re good at this shit. So what does that say about you?”

Regulus reels back as though Sirius had struck him, only distantly registering Fabian placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sirius, for god’s sake,” Fabian growls through gritted teeth, but Sirius doesn’t even look at him, his eyes still fixed on Regulus with an expression of mingled disgust, fury and hurt.

Regulus takes a deep, shaky breath, willing himself not to break down.

“I do not ‘enjoy’ it,” he croaks, trying to sound furious - though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way his voice is shaking with barely repressed tears.

He doesn’t deny his brother’s other accusation, though. He can’t deny it, - because it’s so painfully true that it feels as though Sirius has just reached into the most vulnerable part of his chest, grabbed hold and twisted viciously, the way that only he can.

He is good at this. He knows it. How else has he kept the Dark Lord fooled for almost a full year now? Strategically giving him little tidbits of information, some things useful, some not, always careful not to let anything slip that he doesn’t mean to. 

He seems to be having private meetings with the headmaster almost every week these days, meetings in which they discuss what the Dark Lord can be permitted to know about, what bait he might feasibly swallow without getting suspicious, and what things Regulus will have to keep lying about because the information is simply too valuable to pass on. It’s a careful balancing act - in fact, Regulus feels as though he’s walking a delicate tightrope every day of his life. He hates it, hates being used like this - but he hasn’t fallen off the tightrope yet. It takes skill - exactly the sort of skill, it turns out, that Regulus seems to have.

He hadn’t been lying to Sirius; Dumbledore tells him what he’s permitted to pass on to the Dark Lord, where the Death Eaters should be told to lie in wait, but the headmaster never tells him who they’ll be lying in wait for, which members of the Order he’s decided to use as pawns for the front line. Regulus doesn’t know if he could cope if he was given all of the agonising details. 

But clearly, Dumbledore knows what he’s capable of. Regulus isn’t stupid, and the headmaster knows that full well; even if he’s never told the specifics in advance, Regulus can always tell which information will lead the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters in the wrong direction, and which pieces of information are going to put someone’s life at risk. But he doesn’t ask questions, he never tries to figure out which Order member Dumbledore has decided to sacrifice for the greater good this time - he can’t bear to. Instead, he compartmentalises, he tries to push away the burning, sickening guilt, he uses the Occlumency skills he taught himself to empty his mind, lying to himself just as much - or perhaps more - as he’s lying to the Dark Lord. It has to be done, Regulus tells himself. It’s the only way he knows how to keep going, and he’s sure Dumbledore knows he’s doing it.

But maybe it’s not working so well after all - because he can only lie to himself for so long. Eventually, the deaths are reported, he finds out exactly whose murder he’d helped to facilitate - hearing about Andromeda’s husband had hit him particularly hard - and then the guilt and self-loathing return in full force, overwhelming him, making him feel like he’s drowning. Making him almost wish that he had drowned, back in that cave, that Fabian had never come back for him.

Still, the fact of the matter is that Sirius is right, at least in part - he is good at this. So…what does that say about him?

“Have you told Prongs and Lily what you promised Voldemort last year?” Sirius asks pointedly.

Regulus glares at him again, knowing full well that his brother already knows the answer to that. He just wants the satisfaction of being proved right.

“No,” he says shortly.

“And why not?” Sirius demands, looking just as triumphant as he’d expected him to. “Don’t you think that seems like something they might need to know?”

“No,” he replies again. “I haven’t told them because I don’t want to panic them for no reason.”

“No reason?” Sirius echoes indignantly.

“This is my problem, alright, Sirius?” Regulus snaps. “I’ll…keep him distracted, I’ll figure out a solution so that it doesn’t ever need to become their problem.” 

God knows how. The Dark Lord has already dropped a few hints about the Potters over the past few months, asking him if he thinks he’s getting close to discovering their hiding place - without the slightest clue that he’s already a visitor there, of course. But Regulus knows full well that he won’t just keep patiently waiting for that information forever. Sometimes he thinks he can almost feel his time running out. 

“Look,” he says, taking a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. “No matter what happens, I’m never going to tell him where the Potters are. I promise.”

Sirius crosses his arms defiantly, his gaze tracing over Regulus’s face as though looking for a telltale sign that he’s lying.

“Well, you seem to tell him every other bloody thing,” he mutters.

Something seems to shatter inside him at that. He hadn’t even realised there was any part of him left that hadn’t broken yet. 

Fabian makes an angry move towards Sirius, raising his wand arm slightly, but Regulus holds him back with a hand on his arm, the other man’s smooth skin warm under his palm.

“God, Sirius, I thought you said you were going to try and trust me!” he exclaims, praying that he sounds furious, rather than small and hurt. “I mean, bloody hell, you three would never have even known about Pettigrew, if it wasn’t for me!”

Sirius’s fists clench at that, his expression darkening even more so that he looks almost murderous, just as he always does whenever anybody dares to mention his ex-friend.  

“Traded one spy for another, didn’t we?” he hisses. 

Regulus stares at him, aghast. 

“I…it’s not the same, Sirius! You know it isn’t!”

His face softens the tiniest bit as Regulus glares at him, a hint of guilt marring his furious expression. 

Silence for a moment; then Sirius heaves a weary sigh, his body relaxing out of its attack stance as he rubs a hand across his forehead. 

“Alright, fine - I know it’s not the same. I am grateful to you for the things you’ve done to help us, Reg - really, I am. And I know that things aren’t exactly a picnic for you at the moment, either. But still…you really don’t make it easy to trust you. You understand that, right?” 

Regulus closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and willing himself to keep it together. He can’t cry in front of his brother; he just can’t. 

“Yeah,” he answers quietly. “I understand.”

“Yeah, well…good,” says Sirius. 

Silence falls between them again - there doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. Regulus looks away, afraid that his brother will see the tears in his eyes; Sirius looks down, awkwardly scuffing at the carpet with the toe of his boot. 

“Right,” Fabian breaks the billowing silence. “I’m fairly certain you’ve had your say now, Sirius. So how about you piss off for a bit and help the others find that bloody ‘blanket’, since they appear to have gotten a bit lost?” 

Sirius opens his mouth indignantly to retort, but Fabian just glares back at him, crossing his arms across his chest and raising himself to his full height - he’s considerably taller than both brothers. Wordlessly, he raises one eyebrow, as if to say, Try me, Black. 

Apparently recognising defeat, Sirius closes his mouth, letting out a loud huff of frustration as he stomps over to the living room door, slamming it shut behind him as he leaves. 

The moment his brother is out of earshot, Regulus sinks slowly to the floor, burying his head in his arms. 

Tentatively, Fabian kneels down beside him. 

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice much gentler now, hesitantly placing a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t have to just stand there and take all of that shit, you know. He was being a dick. He’s just angry.”

“No,” Regulus replies, shaking his head as he scrubs at his eyes  - god, how embarrassing. “Well, I mean yes, he was being a dick, what else is new” - Fabian grins slightly at that - “but he wasn’t ‘just angry.’ He was also right, Fabian.”

The redhead falls silent at that, apparently unable to think of an appropriate response. Which tells Regulus that, whatever he might say, he doesn’t entirely disagree with Sirius. 

The guilt and self-loathing twists more viciously inside him, and Regulus stares down at his knees, unable to meet the other man’s eyes. Then he’s speaking again, without even really meaning to say anything out loud. 

“Sometimes I just wonder…”

“What do you wonder?” Fabian prompts, matching his whisper.

Regulus hesitates for a moment - but he supposes he’ll have to say it, now. He takes a deep breath.

“I just wonder whether everyone would be better off if…if you had just left me alone, that night in the cave. If you hadn’t come back for me.”

Fabian takes a moment to process these words; then, the colour drains from his face, freckles standing out prominently against his pale skin. Before Regulus knows it, the other man is holding onto both his shoulders tightly, as though anchoring him in place.

“You listen to me, Regulus Black,” he whispers, gazing at him so intensely that Regulus feels as though those bright blue eyes are blazing, searing into him. “I never want to hear you saying that kind of shit about yourself again, alright? You are strong, and brave, and clever, and brilliant. I know you don’t think so, and I know you’re determined to hate yourself, but you have so much to give, and the people around you are lucky to have you in their life, whether they realise it or not - Sirius included, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it. And no matter how many hurtful things your brother says to you, Regulus - you need to understand that every bloody day, I thank my lucky stars that I went back for you in that cave. Every. Bloody. Day.” 

Regulus stares at the beautiful man in front of him, reeling. He doesn’t really have a clue how to respond to that.

“Really?” he whispers.

“Really.” 

Regulus draws another shaky breath, overwhelmed, feeling embarrassingly close to breaking down now.

“I just…don’t understand how you can still want to be friends with me,” he says slowly. Fabian’s expression twitches slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. “I mean…you heard Sirius just now. You know what Dumbledore and I have been doing these past few months. You can’t honestly tell me you don’t agree with a word my brother just said. I just…I don’t know how you can even look at me.”

“Oh, I find it very easy to look at you, Regulus,” the redhead answers, with a small smirk. He flushes, not really knowing how to respond to that. Fabian sighs, his grin vanishing. “And alright, I’ll admit that I’m certainly pretty far from comfortable with some of the things you’ve had to do” - Regulus swallows and looks down, suddenly finding it very difficult to look at him, but Fabian squeezes his shoulder gently, coaxing him to look up again - “but that’s the thing, I also understand that they’re things you have to do. I don’t agree with your brother for a second that you’re enjoying any of it; and I’m not convinced Sirius really believes that, either.” Fabian drops his voice to a whisper again. “I can see how miserable you are, Regulus, how much it’s hurting you to do these things. But you keep doing it anyway, because you’re brave and brilliant and you know that this war has to be won. Although…”

“What?” Regulus asks, looking up when he hears hesitation in the other man’s voice.

Fabian sighs.

“Like I said, I don’t believe you’re enjoying any of this - but I am a little worried that part of the reason you think you have to push through the pain is…because you think you deserve some kind of punishment. And I’m here to tell you that that’s not true. You don’t deserve to feel like this, Regulus.”

For a moment, Regulus finds himself just staring at the redhead again, stunned. Since when has this man been able to see him so clearly? Was it always like this? 

“Well…” he says slowly, trying to swallow against the lump in his throat, “it’s not just that…I have also been following Dumbledore’s instructions, you know.”

“That man,” Fabian grumbles, his face suddenly darkening. “I’m tempted to go and give him a piece of my mind, you know. I mean, for somebody so bloody wise and noble…he can be quite a bastard, can’t he?”

Regulus can’t help but laugh at that. 

“Tell me about it,” he mutters, before taking another deep, shaky breath. 

“Thank you, Fabian,” he says quietly. “Again.”

Fabian gives him a small, sad smile.

“Oh, Regulus,” he replies. “I should be the one thanking you, you idiot.”

“What?” he asks, baffled now. “Why?”

Something soft flickers in the other man’s eyes - for a moment, Regulus has the strange sensation that Fabian’s gaze is searing into him again, seeing some soft, vulnerable part of him that nobody else even believes in. 

“After Gid died…” he begins, clearly struggling to keep his tone even, “everyone started treating me like I was…fragile, like I might break any second, like I couldn’t really survive without him here. And I almost started to believe that I couldn’t. But then you came along, being sarcastic and rolling your eyes at me, talking to me like we were…friends, like we were before. You spoke to me in just the same way that you always had, like you still thought I was, I dunno…strong, and brave, and capable. So I started to think…well, if Regulus still thinks of me in that way, I guess I’d better live up to it. For his sake, for mine, for my new niece’s - and for Gid’s, too. I don’t reckon he’d have wanted me to go around being a grumpy, miserable git for the rest of my life, just because he’s not here any more. But…I think it might have taken me a while to realise that, if it hadn’t been for you.”

Regulus blinks rapidly, feeling tears threatening again. 

“Well…of course I know you’re not fragile, Fab” he murmurs. “I know that, more than anyone - I mean, you came back to save me, didn’t you? You…” He swallows, desperately trying to keep himself together. “You keep saving me.”

He can see tears shimmering in Fabian’s bright blue eyes now. 

“You keep saving me, too,” he whispers, not looking away from Regulus for a second. 

A strange, reckless urge seems to come over him in that moment, obliterating all rational thought. He’s not even sure what he wants - the only thing he’s sure of is that he wants - no, needs - to be closer to this beautiful, kind, wonderful man. 

Without conscious thought, he finds himself tentatively leaning closer to Fabian, their faces suddenly closer together than ever before. 

He sees Fabian’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment - but then his eyelids flutter gently closed and he lets out a slow, shaky breath - Regulus feels it ghosting over his face. 

He can see every tear clinging to the other man’s sandy eyelashes…he could count the freckles dusting his nose…

The living room door bangs open loudly, and Fabian and Regulus jump away from each other, their almost-moment, whatever it had been, vanishing abruptly.

“Still alive, I see, Regulus?” Potter asks, carrying his tiny son in his arms and grinning at them both, apparently completely unaware of what he’d just interrupted. 

The Potters’ cat abruptly darts out through the open door, apparently having had quite enough drama for one day; Regulus can’t really blame him.

“No tears?” Potter continues. “No scorch marks? No bloodstains we’ll have to get cleaned out of the carpet? Sorry about your brother being a wanker - I’ve just had words with him. Don’t mind him, he’s just being a git because he’s on edge.” He turns happily to Fabian. “Alright there, Fab?”

“We’re just fine, thanks, James,” Fabian replies, sounding uncharacteristically brusque and sarcastic. He still looks slightly stunned, darting glances at Regulus, who avoids his eyes, feeling a flush of heat creeping up his face as he wonders what the hell he was just doing. Not that Potter seems to register any of this. “You found that blanket then, I take it?”

“What…?” James asks, looking utterly bewildered for a moment before he remembers. “Oh - yep, found it!” he says, his overbright voice doing nothing to hide his guilty expression as he looks at Regulus. Regulus raises an eyebrow, and Potter quickly looks back to Fabian.

“Anyway,” he says, still determinedly cheerful, “if we’re all done in here, Lils told me to tell you she wants everyone in the dining room in five -“

“Oi, Prongs, I said I was sorry!” Sirius’s shout floats in through the open door. “Give me back my godson, you bastard!”

Camden - Mid-August, 1982

It’s only a few days later that Dumbledore asks Regulus to stay behind after the Order meeting for ‘a word.’

He stifles a groan - he’s already on edge as it is, what with Sirius stubbornly glaring in the opposite direction throughout the meeting, and Fabian, in contrast, darting glances at him every now and then, glances which make his heart pound and heat begin to creep across his face. 

There seems to Regulus to be a kind of question in Fabian’s expression; but it’s a question he doesn’t quite know how to answer. 

He still isn’t sure exactly what had come over him the other day, in the Potters’ living room. He had just been feeling so low and guilty and worn out after the argument with his brother, and Fabian Prewett was always so caring and kind and thoughtful and warm…he had almost forgotten himself. It isn’t like him, he knows, to be so foolish and reckless - that’s usually Sirius. He’s gone and confused the kindest, sweetest man he’s ever known, pushed his boundaries, made him uncomfortable, and quite possibly screwed up the closest, most important friendship he’s ever had - and he really needs a friend. 

Yet, even now, a part of him still feels disappointed that Potter had barged in and interrupted…something. 

And now, on top of everything, here’s Albus Bloody Dumbledore, asking him to hang back for ‘a word.’ Probably to organise the next pawn to be sacrificed from the Order, for the sake of ‘the greater good.’ 

Wonderful.

“What now?” Regulus snarls, as soon as they’re shut away in Lupin’s little library-cum-study.

The headmaster doesn’t seem at all fazed by his rudeness.

“‘What now’, indeed,” he murmurs wearily, sinking down into the flowery chintz armchair he’d just conjured for himself. As always, he had conjured up an identical one for Regulus; and, as always, he’d ignored it.

Regulus stands in front of him with his arms crossed, glaring at him impatiently. Dumbledore closes his eyes for a moment, sighing.

It occurs to Regulus, suddenly, just how tired and old Dumbledore looks. It feels like a foolish thing to notice. Of course, he already knows the headmaster is an old man; but somehow he never really thinks of him in that way. He’s never thought of Dumbledore as fragile before. For the first time it occurs to him that, despite his manipulative, ruthless streak, this seemingly never-ending war must be taking its toll on him, too.

“Fabian came to speak to me yesterday,” Dumbledore says suddenly, opening his eyes and surveying Regulus over his half-moon spectacles. “About you.”

“Fabian…what?” he exclaims, so shocked that for a moment he forgets to glare. “What…what did he say?”

“Well, I say he came to ‘speak to me’,” the headmaster amends, his eyes twinkling a little with amusement now. “Perhaps it would be a bit more accurate to say that he came to shout at me.”

Oh. Regulus remembers the redhead saying that he was tempted to give Dumbledore ‘a piece of his mind’ - but he’d never thought he’d go through with it.

“As far as I can tell,” the headmaster continues wearily, the amusement in his eyes vanishing, “he is not very happy at all with ‘the way I have been treating you.’ The missions I have been sending you on, the intelligence I have tasked you with reporting back to Lord Voldemort. I believe his exact words were ‘I know he’s useful to you, but find some other job for him that doesn’t involve hurting him all the bloody time.’” 

“Oh,” says Regulus again. 

He knows it’s not a very articulate response, but at the moment he’s feeling rather overwhelmed with a rush of gratitude and affection and…something else. 

“I do not wish to hurt you, Regulus,” Dumbledore says, fixing him with one of those piercing looks that makes him feel as though he’s a transparent pane of glass. “I have never wished for that. I am sorry for it, truly - and I do not wish to ignore the incredible courage and strength you have demonstrated over these past months.”

“Right,” he responds awkwardly.

“But of course, you know our dilemma as well as I do,” the headmaster continues, looking once again older and more tired than Regulus has ever seen him. “Voldemort has entrusted you with the task of spying on the Order, which means that we must, on occasion at least, pass him information that is of some value to him, in order to protect you and your cover. And, as you are well aware, that sometimes necessitates endangering the lives of people on our own side.”

“Yes, I know that, thanks,” Regulus responds through gritted teeth, much more comfortable and familiar with feeling anger at Dumbledore.

The old man nods.

“But I have been having a think, since Fabian came to speak to me - or, more accurately, rage at me,” he amends, with a small chuckle. “And I am glad to say it occurs to me that there is an alternative solution. I am sure you have heard by now that Horace Slughorn has retired from his position?”

“Yeah, I did hear,” Regulus responds cautiously. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Well,” the headmaster replies with a small smile, “Horace’s departure leaves the position of Hogwarts Potions master vacant. I was wondering whether you might be interested in taking the job.”

For a moment, Regulus stares at him, wondering whether he’d heard right.

“…What?” he asks, genuinely astonished. “Me? Teach Potions? At Hogwarts?”

“Why not?” Dumbledore asks, sounding much more cheerful now. “You were always rather a dab hand in the subject, as I recall. You achieved an ‘Outstanding’ in both your OWL and NEWT, did you not?”

He nods awkwardly; he had actually received an ‘Outstanding’ result in almost every subject for both his OWLs and his NEWTs, but he supposes that isn’t especially relevant to this discussion. 

“Horace always raved about you,” the headmaster continues, smiling at him much more genuinely than usual.  “He had no doubt that you would go far. I am sure that you could help your own students along the path to success - perhaps even help them to make better choices than you did at their age,” he adds, rather pointedly. “And you would be provided with your own comfortable quarters at Hogwarts, as well as a salary, of course.”

Regulus stares at him, chewing his lip absentmindedly as he thinks. He’s never really considered teaching before - yet, now he thinks about it, he’s sorely tempted. And although he knows that Dumbledore had intended that last comment as a jab, he knows, in hindsight, that he certainly could have benefited from having a Slytherin teacher that he could trust, who could have helped to guide him away from the brainwashing and the ridiculous blood purity propaganda that he had grown up surrounded by. 

“Your brewing skills would be particularly appreciated, as I have just secured funding for the ingredients for a brand new potion,” Dumbledore continues. “This rather astonishing potion has only just been officially approved for public use by the Ministry, and I am told it is rather complex to make - though I should not think it is beyond the abilities of somebody such as yourself,” he adds, bowing his head courteously. “It represents a huge leap forwards for some in our community. It is called the Wolfsbane Potion.”

“Wait,” says Regulus, freezing. “You don’t mean…”

“Yes, Regulus,” the headmaster replies, with a sly smile, as though he can spot the edge of alarm in his expression, “you will have another familiar face with you at Hogwarts, should you accept the position. I have just offered Remus Lupin the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher for the coming school year - following a visit from your brother, not unlike the one that Fabian paid me in regards to you, in fact. Sirius told me, in no uncertain terms, that he would rather I stop sending Remus on ‘werewolf spy missions’, as it has been taking its toll on him. He also informed me that he was telling me this on Remus’s behalf, as Remus is apparently ‘too bloody stubborn to ask for help himself.’” Dumbledore grins a little. “I must say, it does seem as though that may be something that you and Remus have in common, Regulus.”

He frowns. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Needless to say,” the headmaster continues, “although Remus was apparently unaware that Sirius had paid a visit to, ah… speak to me, on his behalf, he certainly seemed keen to accept the teaching position when I offered it to him. Especially when I explained to him about the Wolfsbane potion, which I shall ensure is brewed for him monthly; he will no longer have to be smuggled into the Shrieking Shack through the Whomping Willow, as we had to do when he was a student. By taking this remarkable potion, he will instead be able to retain his human consciousness even through his transformation, and curl up inside the private quarters I have given him, a harmless wolf. And I need hardly add, he will no doubt be extremely grateful for your help with this, having, as I recall, dropped Potions himself at the earliest opportunity.”

Regulus hopes his anxiety isn’t showing too clearly on his face. 

He can’t deny that the prospect of spending a year - at least - in Lupin’s company, with neither Fabian nor Sirius as a buffer between them, is more than a little daunting. Lupin may be grateful to him for exposing Pettigrew and preventing Sirius from making the stupidest mistake of his life, and he may have apologised for his own behaviour towards Regulus - but still, it could hardly be said that the two of them have any kind of close relationship. Or even a comfortable one, really. The werewolf is too in love with Sirius, too loyal to him, to be particularly fond of Regulus. Besides, despite his apology, Regulus still hasn’t forgotten Lupin’s icy warning that night in the cave when Sirius had been unconscious, the hard fury in his face. He knows exactly how frightening the man can be, when he wants to. It would certainly feel strange, having Lupin relying on him for the Wolfsbane Potion.

“Regulus,” says Dumbledore quietly, leaning in a little, evidently noticing the hesitation on his face. “I know that there has been a great burden placed on your shoulders these past few months - being forced to compromise the safety of others around you, having to face your brother’s distrust once again, in order to ensure you do not jeopardise Lord Voldemort’s trust in you. I have watched you struggle with that burden, a burden which most people would crumple under, with no small measure of admiration.”

Regulus swallows at this, looking down at the carpet and blinking back tears. 

“Voldemort has ordered you to keep an eye on me, correct?” He nods. “Well then,” the headmaster continues, “just consider, if you accept my offer, how delighted he will be when you report back to him that I - trusting old fool that I am - have offered you a position at Hogwarts. Once he knows that you are comfortably ensconced with me at the school, no doubt he will acknowledge that you are unable to give him intelligence on the doings of the Order outside Hogwarts, while focused solely on me, reliably reporting back to him about my actions, my plans, my weaknesses - not to mention, giving him an insider account of Hogwarts’s defences. We need no longer put anybody in the Order in harm’s way - including the Potters - for at least a year, for I am sure that Voldemort will be more than satisfied, knowing that you have successfully gained my trust to such an extent, and that you are in such an ideal position to spy on me.”

Regulus stays silent for a moment, mulling it all over, and Dumbledore waits, silent and patient, still considering him over his steepled fingertips.

He’s right, he realises. This plan will buy him precious time, at least a year during which he won’t be forced to hurt anyone else, during which he can escape Sirius’s revolted, judgemental stares. Another year of guaranteed safety for the Potters. Perhaps he’ll even be able to escape - temporarily, at least - the crushing, constant weight of his own guilt and self-loathing. Perhaps he might even be able to help a few people, rather than feeling like he does nothing but hurt others.

Back to Hogwarts. Back to the castle where it had all begun, back to the school full of memories. Things had seemed somehow less complicated, back then - the war hadn’t seemed quite so deadly, so real, behind the castle’s walls. 

He’ll miss Fabian, of course, if he goes - god, he’ll miss him, more than he could ever admit. But then again…Fabian was the one who had gone to Dumbledore in the first place, apparently, demanding that he give Regulus another role, one that wouldn’t mean he had to keep hurting himself, as well as everyone around him. Surely, he would understand. And now that Regulus thinks about it…perhaps some time apart from Fabian Prewett would be for the best. Perhaps that would help Fabian to forget his reckless foolishness, perhaps this way they can put that strange awkwardness behind them and start their friendship afresh. 

Really, the more he thinks about it, the more it seems that there is only one logical answer to give. 

“Alright,” says Regulus shortly, with a small nod. “I accept your offer, Dumbledore.”

“Excellent,” says the headmaster, beaming at him. “Term begins in only a few weeks, on September 1st - as I’m sure you remember.”

He nods again.

“Well then,” says Dumbledore briskly, looking very satisfied as he stands up, holding out his hand, “I look forward to seeing both you and Remus back at Hogwarts, Regulus.”