Mortal Once More

PART THREE - FIVE MONTHS LATER

Devon - August, 1983

“Hey,” whispers a deep, familiar voice in Regulus’s ear.

Feeling warm, sturdy arms wrapping around his waist from behind, Regulus lets out a small sigh. He can already feel some of the tension seeping out of his shoulders as he turns slightly to see Fabian’s beautiful freckled face, barely an inch from his own and full of gentle concern. 

“Hi,” he murmurs in reply, instinctively leaning back into the taller man’s chest a little. 

“You were worrying again. I could sense it from the other end of the flat.” 

Regulus grimaces a little. 

“Am I ever not?” 

“Well, I would have hoped my astonishing sexual prowess would have distracted you at least a little bit, Reg,” Fabian replies, in a tone full of mock sorrow. “That was the aim, at least. Or am I just getting too big for my boots?” 

Regulus is fairly certain he flushes across his entire body. Alright, so maybe he is momentarily distracted by that. Especially when Fabian decides to skim his lips ever so lightly across the patch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder, more the ghost of a touch than an actual kiss, which, predictably, sends a shiver of heat down his spine. He’s reminded vividly of all the times over the past few weeks when Fabian’s mouth was gliding across other parts of his body, Regulus’s skin flushed a dusky rose as they curled around each other under the warmth of the blankets…

Focus, he tells himself sternly. Honestly, he’s getting almost as hopeless as his brother is about Remus. 

“Shut up,” he huffs, attempting to sound stern. The crack in his voice doesn’t sound all that convincing, though; and judging by the grin he can feel briefly pressed against his shoulder, Fabian isn’t fooled. “You know you’re distracting; you don’t need me to say it just to stroke your ego.” 

“Oh, it’s my ego you’re stroking now, is it?” Regulus casually elbows him in the stomach, his face burning again, and Fabian winces slightly even as he laughs. “Okay, yeah, probably deserved that.” 

The two of them lapse into silence for a moment, Regulus’s attention returning to the sealed envelope in his hands, and when Fabian speaks again, there’s no trace of teasing amusement in his voice anymore. 

“Apparently I’m not quite distracting enough, though, am I?” Regulus makes a small, noncommittal noise in response, and Fabian lets out a sigh. “So? Who’s the letter from? Your cousin? Did she finallywrite back, then?” 

“Nope,” Regulus replies. “This is just the last letter I sent to her. Narcissa returned it, without even opening it, from the looks of it. Again.” 

He tries to sound casual, as though this doesn’t much matter to him; but judging by the way Fabian’s arms instantly tighten around his waist, he’s well and truly failed in that. Honestly, he’s not sure why he even bothers any more; this infuriating, beautiful man has been able to see through him since the first time they met, somehow. Regulus has no idea how Fabian does it, especially when he’s spent so much of his life building walls to protect himself from other people’s scrutiny. 

“How many returned letters does that make now?” the taller man asks quietly. 

“I don’t know - five, six?” Regulus replies bitterly. “But who’s counting?” he adds, with a hollow laugh. 

“I’m sorry, Reg,” Fabian murmurs into his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he replies, with a sigh. “Yeah, me too.”

The news about Lucius Malfoy’s murder had come as a harsher shock than Regulus had expected. Even Sirius had seemed somewhat stunned by the news - and Regulus suspects there was the slightest tinge of guilt mingled with his shock, given that it was his comments to Skeeter which had ensured Lord Voldemort discovered what Malfoy had done with the diary - although he had still stubbornly maintained that ‘the bastard had it coming.’ That reaction had hardly been surprising; nobody who threatened Remus Lupin, or even put him in the slightest hint of danger, could ever expect the slightest hint of pity from Sirius Black, even in death. 

Fabian had kept uncharacteristically quiet about the whole thing, seemingly more focused on taking care of Regulus in his shock, but Regulus is fairly certain that his boyfriend completely agrees with Sirius about Lucius having deserved his fate. 

Regulus, for his part, can’t in good conscience claim that Sirius and Fabian are wrong in their judgement; nor can he really pretend to feel much grief at the loss of Lucius. Regulus had known the man since he was ten years old, and never once in all those years had Lucius Malfoy done anything to endear himself to him, even slightly. 

But Narcissa. Narcissa, Regulus does care about. She was one of the only people, in the grim and claustrophobic world in which he grew up, who ever tried to shield and protect him, who was consistently kind to him rather than trying to shape him into a soldier, a tool to be used in the Dark Lord’s war. Narcissa had never tried to engrain in him the belief that emotions made you weak and foolish, despite - or perhaps because of - the fact that she had been raised to believe it herself. Apart from Sirius - and his relationship with his brother was complicated, to say the least - Narcissa was one of the only people in Regulus’s world who had ever bothered to treat him as a human being with his own rights and thoughts and feelings, rather than just the heir to the Noble and Most Pure House of Black. 

Yet, despite the fact that Narcissa was one of the only halfway decent people in his family, she had been genuinely devoted to Lucius. Their marriage had been arranged, of course - like every approved Black family marriage - but still, Narcissa’s love for her utter bastard of a husband had always seemed entirely genuine, which had never failed to baffle Regulus. Perhaps that fact alone makes Narcissa a bad person, or at the very least morally compromised, but that doesn’t stop Regulus from feeling lingering affection for the cousin who had always been kind to him. After all, he himself is hardly in much of a position to judge anyone else for their morals, is he? 

He can scarcely even imagine how his favourite cousin must be feeling now, left alone to take care of her small son, in the wake of her husband’s murder. He doesn’t know how Narcissa is coping, in her grief, in her rage. Perhaps she isn’t coping at all.

“I just…I want to help her, you know?” Regulus murmurs. “But I don’t bloody know how.” He feels stupid, perhaps a little pathetic, even, for voicing the thought aloud.

“I know,” Fabian replies, his voice low and soothing. “And you’ve been trying your best to help her, Reg. Anyone can see that. But there’s only so much you can do for someone who doesn’t want to accept help. You might be reaching out to them, but they also have to take that risk, and accept your hand.” 

There’s something significant in those beautiful blue eyes as he says it. Something that makes Regulus flush a little. 

“I…” his voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat and tries again. “I don’t know if I’ve been saying remotely the right things to her. I’m not exactly good with…affection. Expressing it, I mean.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fabian whispers, a teasing glint in his bright eyes as he gently raises Regulus’s wrist to his mouth, brushing his lips over his pulse point. “I’d say you’ve definitely been improving, recently.” 

He feels his face heating again immediately, and curses himself. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, slipping his wrist out of Fabian’s loose grip and elbowing him gently again, “you know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Okay, that’s fair,” Fabian replies, his grin fading slightly. “Genuinely, though, Reg; you have been doing better with that. I mean, you and your brother have definitely been making progress over the past few months, haven’t you?”

Regulus grimaces a little. He and Sirius had been doing quite well, by their standards at least, although lately Sirius has been too anxious - and guilty - about Remus’s situation to speak to Regulus much. Sometimes it feels like, for every step forward he takes with his brother, he takes two steps back. And Regulus absolutely refuses to admit that he’s been missing him. Fabian already knows that anyway, he’s not going to give him the satisfaction of voicing it and proving him right. 

“Sirius ran away from home when he was sixteen, though - and he barely spent any time with our family before that, anyway, because of the whole Gryffindor thing,” he says instead, skirting around Fabian’s question. 

“Your point being?” Fabian asks, his brow furrowed in confusion in a way that makes Regulus sorely tempted to kiss it smooth again. 

“My point being,” he responds with an impatient huff, “Sirius was actually taught how to express emotion and vulnerability, in a way the rest of us just...weren’t. He’s not scared to make an idiot of himself - well, obviously, anyone who’s spent two seconds in his presence can see that. He can actually be comforting when he wants to be, astonishing as that might seem. But Narcissa and I are both emotionally stunted, I suppose, because we didn’t manage to break away from the family like he did. Neither of us really know how to ask for help. But knowing our absolute nightmare of a so-called ‘family,’ I wouldn’t be surprised if nobody else has lifted a finger to help Narcissa, even in her situation, even if she has asked.” He heaves a sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I have no idea how to help her, or whether she’s already getting help from someone else, because she won’t bloody answer any of my letters.” 

“I know,” Fabian murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “I know how frustrating it is.”

“She’s angry with me,” Regulus says. 

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Something leaden seems to settle in his stomach as he says it, because he’s been trying so hard to avoid saying it, or even thinking it. He didn’t want to face the truth of it, because Narcissa has never been angry with him before, and, stupidly, the weight of it hurts more than he would have expected it to. 

“She has no right to be,” Fabian says, bristling a little.

“Maybe not,” Regulus concedes, “but it makes sense, doesn’t it? She doesn’t know I’ve defected. As far as Narcissa knows, I’m still happily following the man who murdered her husband. For all she knows, I’m glad he killed him. She doesn’t know that I told Lucius to run, given she won’t read any of my letters.” He sighs again. “Ridiculous stubbornness is another family trait, unfortunately.” 

“Well, that’s certainly true,” Fabian concedes, grinning at him, clearly attempting to cheer him up. 

Fabian’s smile always makes him feel warmer, of course, but Regulus doesn’t want to give in that easily; so he arches an eyebrow at him, fighting to remain stony-faced, fully aware that he’s only further proving the point.

“Alright, alright, I can see you’re not going to let me win this,” Fabian says with a sigh. “Would you at least be willing to listen to a suggestion, though?”

“Hmm…depends,” he replies, turning properly in his arms so he can look the taller man up and down properly. “What sort of suggestion?” 

“Merlin, Regulus Black, get your mind out of the gutter,” Fabian says in a tone of mock indignation, though his grin widens, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I didn’t mean that sort of suggestion - well, not yet, at least.” 

“What, then?” 

Fabian hesitates for a moment.

“I was just going to say…I think you’ve done enough, Reg. You’ve tried to show your cousin that you care, that you want to help her; like you said, you must have sent her at least six letters by now. You’re offering your help and your support - if she’s not ready to accept it, then that’s on her. The Quaffle is in her court. You’ve done everything that you can, and you’re getting hurt every time she pulls back and refuses to let you help her. Maybe she’ll accept your help some day soon. When she’s ready.”

“Or maybe not,” he mutters.

“Or maybe not,” Fabian agrees. “But like I said, you’ve done everything you can.” 

Regulus falls silent for a moment, pondering these words; then, defeated, he lets out a sigh.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You’re right. I’ll leave Narcissa alone, I’ll stop writing to her.” Reluctantly, he places the unopened letter down on the desk in front of him, turning to face the taller man and making an exaggerated show of raising both hands, so Fabian can see he’s not about to pick it up again. “And I’ll stop dwelling on it. Or…I’ll try not to dwell on it, anyway.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Fabian replies, beaming at him again; this time, Regulus smiles slightly in return before he can stop himself. “And hey, it’s hardly as if everyone’s ignoring you, is it? I’m certainly not ignoring you. Remus and Sirius have been replying to your letters, haven’t they? And Dumbledore, too -” 

Regulus snorts. 

“Yes, Dumbledore’s letters have been so helpful and informative recently,” he says, his tone positively dripping with sarcasm. 

The headmaster had mentioned, just before the end of the school year, that he was planning to do some Horcrux hunting of his own. Regulus had asked if Dumbledore had any particular ideas, and his response had been predictably and infuriatingly vague. ‘Oh, one or two,’ he had murmured, before falling silent again. 

It’s been weeks now, and despite the fact that the headmaster has indeed replied to every letter Regulus has sent him, he hasn’t been any more forthcoming about anything than he was back at Hogwarts. Regulus still knows barely anything about what he’s up to, or whether he’s actually managed to find anything useful; for Salazar’s sake, he doesn’t even have any clue where the bloody man is. It’s truly remarkable how Dumbledore can write so much, and yet say so little. 

I cannot say too much in a letter, Regulus, as you well know…I think I may have found something worth pursuing, but I shall tell you more about it when I see you at Hogwarts…I have been very busy, it is a thrilling tale and I wish to do it justice when I see you in person…

“He’s fucking insufferable,” Regulus mutters, and it’s only when Fabian snorts that he realises he’d said it aloud. 

“Don’t hold back, Reg,” he says wryly, his grin widening, “tell me how you really feel.” 

“Oh, shut up,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes, trying and failing to hold back his answering grin. 

“Hmm, well, you do seem like you could do with a distraction,” Fabian muses, in a mock thoughtful tone. “I suppose I could be convinced to shut up and find better uses for my mouth - purely for your benefit, of course.” 

He steps closer so that the distance between them is practically nonexistent, a smirk curling at the edge of his lovely mouth - and at that precise moment, Regulus freezes, feeling a familiar, searing hot pain.

“Reg?” Fabian asks uncertainly, all traces of teasing heat vanishing abruptly from his face as he looks at him in concern. “I was just teasing - well, no, alright, I wasn’t just teasing, you know I’m always very happy to snog you, but if you’re not in the mood or you just don’t want to be touched right now, then that’s more than fine and I completely understand, you know I would never pressure you into -”

“It’s not that,” Regulus whispers, his voice choked. “It’s nothing to do with that.” 

Fabian frowns at him, looking bewildered. 

“Then…what…?” 

Regulus takes a deep breath - he really hates having to remind Fabian of this - and slowly rolls up his left sleeve. He holds his forearm out, showing the other man. His Mark has just turned a vivid jet black, standing out starkly against his alabaster skin. 

For a moment, Fabian just stares at it, his face rapidly draining of colour. 

“He…” His voice comes out hoarse; he clears his throat and tries again. “He’s calling you to him? Right now?” 

“Looks like it,” Regulus replies, trying desperately not to let his fear seep into his voice. “At least he communicates more clearly than Dumbledore does,” he adds, with an attempt at a grin. Fabian just glares at him. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t…joke about it.” 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“What do you think he wants?” the taller man croaks, looking terrified. 

“No idea,” Regulus answers, his mind flooding with all the worst possibilities. “Suppose I won’t know until I go to him, will I?” 

His heart is pounding violently against his ribcage, as if it’s trying to escape.

Silence falls between them for a moment, a silence heavy with fear. It’s hard to believe that Fabian was casually flirting with him and teasing him, scarcely two minutes ago.

“Reg,” Fabian whispers finally, gazing at him with perhaps the most frightened, earnest expression Regulus has ever seen on his face. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.” 

Regulus stares at him, feeling a lump constricting his throat.

“I have to, Fabian. You know I do.”

“But it’s so dangerous,” he whispers.

“Is it? Really? I hadn’t realised,” Regulus snarks before he can stop himself.

Fabian glares at him so fiercely that he almost takes a step back. 

“Don’t you try your ‘I’m so distant and sarcastic’ act with me, Regulus Black. Not now. Not with me.” 

“Sorry,” he mutters, chastened. 

He knows he’s being a prick; it’s just that he’s frightened, and Fabian is looking at him with tears glistening in his eyes, which is making him feel even more overwhelmed. And it so happens that being a sarcastic prick is one of Regulus’s most reliable defence mechanisms when he’s feeling frightened and overwhelmed. He’s working on it. Well…he’s trying to, at least. 

“Can’t you ignore him? Just this once?” Fabian asks. “Just…just stay here with me instead? We can put protective enchantments around the place - or hell, we can Apparate to Hogsmeade right now, just get you back to Hogwarts, it’s only about a week until the new term starts anyway, right?” 

He sounds desperate, and oh, Regulus can’t bear that. 

“Fabian,” he responds, his eyes sinking shut so he doesn’t have to see the terror on his face, “you know I can’t destroy my cover yet. If I ignored him, he would knowsomething was wrong. Think, Fabian. Think about what happened to Malfoy when he tried to run.” 

Fabian stares at him, looking absolutely devastated as his point sinks in, and oh how Regulus wishes he could kiss that look away. How he wishes he could stay with him. 

“But what if you’re in trouble?” he whispers. 

Regulus grimaces. Strangely enough, that thought had actually occurred to him too. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” he says, hoping he sounds far more confident than he feels - though judging by the other man’s sceptical grimace, he does not. “But if I don’t go and see what he wants, then I will be in trouble.” 

Fabian swallows.

“Where’s his base now, anyway?” he asks. “He’s not at Malfoy Manor anymore, I assume?” 

Regulus shakes his head.

“He’s moved to the Lestranges’ place.” 

“Your other cousin?” 

“Yep,” he sighs. “Delightful family I have, I know.” 

Fabian falls silent for a moment, and then;

“What if I came with you?” 

Regulus feels a sickening jolt of cold terror at the very thought.

“No.” The refusal tumbles out of his mouth before he even thinks about it. 

“I don’t necessarily have to come in with you,” he protests, “I could just, I don’t know, wait outside if that makes you feel better, but if I could just be on the scene at least -”

“No,” Regulus hisses at him.

“Why not?” the other man argues.

“Why not?” He lets out an incredulous laugh, though nothing about this situation is remotely funny. “Fabian, I’m scared enough as it is. Do you know how terrified I would be if you were there too? Never mind being able to lie to the Dark Lord, I wouldn’t even be able to bloody think straight! Do you think I would ever be able to forgive myself if something…” He winces, unable to complete that sentence. He can’t even have that thought. He refuses. “Look, I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it, we both know that. But I don’t want you anywhere near him, ever. Is that clear?” 

Fabian blinks at him. There’s shock written across his freckled face - but there’s something else, too. Something soft. Regulus realises, belatedly, that in his terrified outburst, he’s probably just let a little too much slip about his feelings. More than he normally would. But it’s too late to take any of it back now - and he doesn’t really want to, anyway. 

“I should hurry up, anyway,” Regulus mutters. “I’ve probably been keeping him waiting a bit too long already.” 

Fabian goes paler still at that.

“I just…I really hate that you have to do this,” the taller man whispers, tears glistening in his bright eyes again. 

“I know you do,” Regulus replies. “I’m not entirely thrilled about it myself, actually.”

Fabian lets out a small, choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He steps forwards, closing the distance between them, his hands coming up to cup Regulus’s face - but he hesitates. 

“Can I…?” 

“Yes,” Regulus whispers, and it comes out sounding desperate, like he’s pleading.

Perhaps at any other time he would feel embarrassed by that, but at this moment he doesn’t have time to - because Fabian is answering his plea, cupping his face in his warm, calloused hands and pressing their lips together, kissing him fiercely, desperately, as if both their lives depend on it. He kisses Regulus as if he’s drowning and Regulus is his oxygen, and Regulus can feel it echoing through his whole body. Fabian seems to be trying to tell him so many things in this moment without words, with only his lips, his hands tracing over his face, and Regulus tries his best to reply in kind, to let Fabian know that he understands. When they break apart, they’re both panting, foreheads pressed together. Regulus keeps his eyes closed, just breathing the other man in, some foolish part of him scared that as soon as he opens his eyes, this moment will be over.

“Regulus,” Fabian whispers.

“Hmm?” 

“I…” 

He hesitates, cutting himself off, and Regulus’s curiosity wins out. He opens his eyes to see something flickering in Fabian’s gaze as he looks at him, clearer than he’s ever seen it before.

“Yes?” Regulus prompts in a whisper. “You what?” 

Fabian hesitates for another moment, then blows out a long breath, which Regulus feels ghosting over his skin. It’s soothing, somehow. 

“I…I’ll be waiting,” he says. “That’s what I was going to say. I’ll be waiting here. So just…make sure you come back to me.” 

Regulus feels his heart swell. This time it’s him that leans in, hands reaching up to cradle the taller man’s face as he kisses him once more, short and sweet this time. 

“I’ll do my best,” he whispers against his lips. “I promise.” 

Fabian gives a shaky nod. Regulus squeezes his hand gently, hoping the touch is at least somewhat reassuring - then he turns away, Disapparating. 

Lestrange Manor 

It’s strange, how walking up to this man never fails to send a shudder down his spine. No matter how many times he sees him, no matter how much Regulus learns to loathe him, the things that he’s done and everything he stands for, he still feels the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end as that deathly pale face looms out of the darkness, those slit-pupilled eyes making cold, sharp fear coil in his stomach so that, no matter how clever and cunning Regulus might usually pride himself on being, he feels suddenly like a small, helpless child about to be punished. 

It doesn’t help, either, that there appears to be an enormous, diamond-patterned snake lounging next to the man on the carpet, a snake that looks easily big enough to devour Regulus, if it was in the mood. The Dark Lord is lazily stroking the serpent’s head as he approaches, the snake swaying slightly as though enjoying the attention. That’s new, Regulus muses. He can’t help but think of the teenage Riddle calling the Basilisk out from Slytherin’s statue - this, obviously, is not a Basilisk, but Regulus still can’t quite suppress his shudder.

“My Lord,” he murmurs, bowing. 

The huge snake lifts itself up slightly, hissing softly at the sight of him. Regulus tries and fails not to flinch, and the Dark Lord lets out a cold laugh that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  

“Ah, Regulus. Allow me to introduce you to Nagini. She and I have only recently found each other, but I think we seem to have bonded rather well already, wouldn’t you say?” 

Something about his self-satisfied smirk on the word ‘bonded’ makes Regulus feel even more uneasy. He remembers, suddenly, that the man knows already about the diary’s destruction. He had hunted down Lucius as vengeance, of course - but surely it couldn’t be possible that…? The very thought makes Regulus feel as though he’s about to be sick; with what feels like an enormous effort, he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to clear his head.

 “You wished to speak to me, my Lord?”

“I did, yes,” says the tall, pale man, twirling his wand absentmindedly between his long fingers. “And you are very nearly late, Regulus.” 

“I am sorry,” he mumbles, still staring down at the floor, wishing he didn’t feel so fucking small. “It won’t happen again.” 

“I am not so sure about that,” the man says quietly. He doesn’t sound angry, more as though he is making an observation - but still, something in his tone makes Regulus flinch. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about, in fact.” 

Regulus risks darting a quick glance up at him. Finding that merciless red gaze fixed on him intently, the snake’s eyes trained on him as well, he struggles not to twitch, feeling absurdly small and pathetic. One thing is for certain - he is not the predator here.

“My Lord?” he says again, trying to sound politely curious, and not as though his heart is scrabbling in a desperate panic to climb up out of his throat. 

“I have noticed, over the past few months, that it has become a bit of a pattern - me having to wait for you,” the Dark Lord muses, again sounding as though he is merely making an observation. He lets out a long, sibilant sigh, the quiet hissing sound lingering in the air, mingling with the snake’s. “And I grow weary of waiting for you, Regulus.” 

He notices, suddenly and as though from a distance, that his mouth is very dry. He had tried to reassure Fabian that he would be alright - but right now, he has the distinct feeling that he’s about to be proven wrong. He’s not even sure if he’s going to get the chance to admit that he was wrong. 

“I…I’m not sure what you mean, my Lord,” he manages to rasp. 

Voldemort makes a quiet, thoughtful humming sound, twirling his wand almost absentmindedly between his long fingers again. 

“The information you have given me on Albus Dumbledore over the past year has been useful, I admit - and I thank you for it. But circumstances have changed, Regulus.”

“Circumstances?” he echoes hoarsely.

“Indeed,” the pale man says quietly, his gaze still fixed intently on Regulus as he continues to stroke his long fingers over the serpent’s head. “Our side is winning this war, Regulus. I believe I am now at the stage where, with careful planning - and assuming none of my Death Eaters make any foolish mistakes - the Ministry may very well be within my hands, before the year is over. And I must tell you, I have more than enough information on Dumbledore. I have come to a decision. I need to have Albus Dumbledore out of my way. For good. He is one of the last remaining obstacles in my path.” 

For a moment Regulus just stares at him, feeling the blood rushing in his ears, certain that he can’t have heard him right. He must have misunderstood something, surely, and he doesn’t know why he’s so slow today because he normally picks things up quickly, but he can’t quite connect the dots here, can’t understand why the Dark Lord needs to speak to him particularly about this, unless…Oh god. 

“Do you…do you mean…?” he croaks, unable to finish the sentence. 

“Yes, Regulus,” Lord Voldemort answers, his lipless mouth curling into a satisfied smirk, apparently pleased that Regulus has got the message. “I need you to take advantage of your position at Hogwarts. I am giving you the task of disposing of Albus Dumbledore. Preferably sooner rather than later.” 

He feels as though his stomach has fallen through the floor, his breath frozen in his throat as the Dark Lord’s words keep ringing in his ears. He’s not exactly fond of Dumbledore, but…this? He can’t do this. Perhaps this is the test, the one he thought he had been given when the Chamber was opened. If it is, he’s fairly certain he’s going to fail. 

“But…my Lord,” Regulus stammers, desperately searching for an excuse through the fog of panic in his mind, before his brain finally alights on an obvious one.  “Surely, if I were to kill Dumbledore, I would no longer be able to pass you information on the Order? Nothing would destroy my cover as a spy so completely! How…how could I possibly persuade my brother to tell me where the Potters are hiding, if he knew that I had killed his hero?” 

The Dark Lord tilts his head slightly, considering him with a look of cold, condescending amusement on his face, as though he is missing something very obvious, and suddenly Regulus feels not only like a small child, but a stupid one too. 

“Come, Regulus,” Voldemort says, with a soft tutting noise that makes his blood run cold, “I know that you are more intelligent than this. Of course you will have to rejoin us openly, after you have disposed of the old fool - so, obviously, you will have to convince your brother to confide the Potters’ hiding place to you, before you kill Dumbledore. Do you not understand what I am doing? I am giving you a deadline, Regulus. I expect both of these tasks - disposing of the old man, and finding the Potters - to be completed within the year. The sooner the better.”

Regulus stares at him, feeling numb and cold. Perhaps he isn’t as intelligent as he’d always thought he was - how could he possibly have thought he could keep the Potters safe indefinitely? No, his mind whispers brokenly. No, no, no. 

“I admit, I greatly appreciated the valuable information that you gave me on the Order, before you began teaching at Hogwarts, at least,” the pale man says, with another small sigh which melds with Nagini’s hiss. “But I must confess, I grow rapidly more weary of waiting for you to give me valuable information on the Potter boy and where he is hidden. You promised me, Regulus - almost two years ago now - that you would not fail me in this. And yet, I am no closer to finding the three of them now than I was then. My patience has worn thin enough, Regulus, so this is the crux of the matter - you will find out precisely where they are hiding that child, and deliver that information to me, and then you will dispose of Albus Dumbledore. And -” he pauses, apparently for the pure pleasure of taking in Regulus’s fear, a malicious smirk curling on his lipless mouth again - “I trust that you will keep Lucius Malfoy in mind, as an example of what happens to those Death Eaters who are foolish enough to fail me?” 

He strokes his fingers over Nagini’s head again as he mentions Malfoy, almost absentmindedly. 

Regulus looks from the man to the snake and back again. He doesn’t trust himself to speak; he thinks he might start sobbing if he opens his mouth, or perhaps just be sick. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite this trapped in his life - and given the things that have happened to him, that’s saying a lot. His heart is pounding so violently that it’s almost painful. 

“Am I understood, Regulus Black?” Again, the sibilant hiss of his words mingles with the serpent’s, both of them staring at him with equally slit-pupiled eyes. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Regulus manages to choke out.

“Good.” That lipless mouth curling again. “I expect both of these tasks to be completed, Regulus.” 

“Yes, my Lord,” he whispers again.

“Very well. You may go.” 

The Dark Lord waves an impatient hand at him, as though suddenly bored by the sight of him. Regulus nods, trembling as he rapidly backs out of the room - he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He only barely manages to hold himself together until he’s out of the room - and then he’s practically running, desperate to get out. 

“Why, if it isn’t my baby cousin!” Bellatrix crows, suddenly walking out of the shadows when he reaches the entrance hall. He jumps, flinching, before reminding himself harshly that he shouldn’t be so alarmed by her appearance - this is, after all, herhouse. 

“Did you have fun in there, little cousin?” Bellatrix continues, in that horrible mock baby voice she had always used to taunt both him and Sirius when they were children. 

She looks positively gleeful, Regulus notices, her smirk widening when she registers how pale and shaky he looks - and if anything could make him feel even more like there’s a large rock sitting on his chest, like he can’t breathe, it’s that look on his cousin’s face. He knows full well how envious Bellatrix is, that she’s constantly paranoid about him threatening her position as the Dark Lord’s favourite - so there’s no reason for her to look so happy at the sight of him. Not unless she’s picked up on the fact that he’s on thin ice at the moment. 

Regulus absolutely does not have the mental or emotional energy for a confrontation with Bellatrix at the moment. He feels like he’s about two seconds from shattering as it is. He needs to just walk away. He can’t do this. He can’t - 

“How’s Narcissa?” 

The words are tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them, entirely without his permission - he hadn’t even realised he was about to say them. 

What the fuck are you doing? he hisses at himself, as Bellatrix stares at him, arching an eyebrow, seeming just as taken aback by his question as he is. But he doesn’t take it back - he just juts his chin out defiantly, waiting for her answer. 

“I don’t see that it is any of your business how my sister is doing, little cousin,” Bellatrix says haughtily, drawing herself up to her full height. “But if you must know, she’s doing about as well as can be expected. She was besotted with Lucius, even though he was a stupid fool and a traitor, even though I’ve reminded her that he was no great loss.” 

Tact has never been his oldest cousin’s strong suit - to say the least. Neither, for that matter, has basic empathy. 

“Anyway, she told me to get out, and I haven’t heard a word from her since. Not that she would have anything of use to tell me,” Bellatrix adds with a sneer. “The last I saw of her, she was shutting herself away in her room, barely speaking, barely eating anything. Which is hardly going to help us win this war, of course - but then my little sister has never really had the stomach for these things. She’s always been weak. Pathetic, even. She and your dear brother have that in common, I suppose -” 

Regulus has his wand out before he even realises it; the next thing he knows, there’s a loud bang, and Bellatrix has been blasted halfway across the room from the force of the silent Stinging Jinx he’d thrown. 

Shit. That was reckless of him. And stupid. He didn’t need to give Bellatrix any more reasons to think of him as an enemy. He’s not usually this stupid, surely? He was already fraying at the edges before she approached him, he supposes; now he notices, distantly, as though he’s watching it happen to somebody else, that he’s starting to lose control of his breathing, which is steadily creeping closer to hyperventilation. If he was going to attack her, he should probably have committed to it fully, at least Stunned her; she’s slowly sitting up now, her hands clutching at her face, which is already swelling at an alarming rate. 

Regulus stumbles out the front door into the night, his legs trembling so much that he can barely stand. He feels like his brain is scattered all over the place, fractured into little shards of glass, but he focuses as hard as he can, knowing that he has to make it back home, and turns on the spot. 

Fabian is pacing up and down on the lawn outside the little cottage, looking more terrified than Regulus has ever seen him, and Regulus nearly sinks to his knees at the sight of him. The redhead turns around sharply when he hears the telltale crack sound of Apparition. For a moment, pure relief suffuses the other man’s freckled face, as he rushes towards him with a choked sound.

“Oh, thank god, thank god,” he whispers, his voice cracked with tears as he reaches for him - and then he pauses, concern flickering in his eyes as he takes Regulus in properly. God, he must look a state. 

“Reg?” he whispers. “You okay?” 

He can’t seem to get words out very easily at the moment - it still feels like there’s a large rock sitting on his chest, and breathing steadily is becoming more difficult by the second. So he just shakes his head.

“Was it…was it bad?” Fabian asks, eyes wide. 

“Yeah,” Regulus croaks. “Yeah, it was bad.” 

Fabian makes a small, pained noise. He reaches out towards him, hesitating for a second again.

“Can I touch -?” 

Regulus gives a small, shaky nod, and apparently that’s all Fabian needs, because the next second his strong, warm arms are wrapped around him. Regulus feels as though he would crumble to the ground without this. 

“Breathe, Reg,” Fabian whispers in his ear, one hand stroking up and down his back gently, and it’s not until that moment that Regulus registers he isn’t breathing. “Do it with me, okay?” 

Fabian makes an exaggerated show of breathing slowly and deeply, and Regulus tries his best to match it. In, out. Why is it so difficult? 

“Just like that,” the taller man murmurs. “You’ll be alright, Regulus. It’s going to be alright.” 

“I don’t think it is, though,” he croaks, his face buried in Fabian’s shoulder. The other man doesn’t respond, just squeezing him tighter. “I…I don’t know what to do, Fabian. I have no idea what to do.” 

August 30th, 1983

As it turns out, Fabian doesn’t know what to do, either. Regulus hardly blames him for not having any advice to offer; this seems like the very definition of an impossible situation, after all. 

Of course Fabian had held him tight as Regulus had tried to explain everything through his sobs, and of course he had tried his best to soothe him, tell him that they would be able to figure out a solution - but Regulus can see through Fabian just as well as the other man can see through him. No matter what he might say, Fabian has never been particularly good at hiding his feelings; he never had to learn to mask them to protect himself, the way that Regulus did. 

Ever since Regulus told him about his last conversation with the Dark Lord, he’s been able to clearly see the worry, the pure fear in his boyfriend’s eyes, staring at him when he thinks Regulus isn’t looking. He’s noticed that Fabian hasn’t been teasing him or flirting with him any more, although he has been asking if he can just…hold him. Regulus does need to be held at the moment, but he can tell that it’s for the other man’s benefit too, because every time, Fabian wraps him up in his arms, breathing him in, clinging to him wordlessly as though he never wants to let him go, and Regulus buries his face in the taller man’s shoulder and tries with everything in him not to break down in his arms. Merlin, he’s done enough crying already; it’s not as though crying is going to help anything. 

But still, Regulus could hardly fail to notice that Fabian has barely been eating since he gave him the news. He’s not used to being the one trying to encourage his boyfriend to eat, usually it’s the other way around. He certainly hasn’t needed reminding to drink, though; Regulus keeps feeling a strange sinking sensation whenever he sees Fabian reaching for the Firewhiskey before bed. It’s not as though he can’t handle his liquor; it’s just that it feels too familiar to Regulus. He remembers seeing the other man doing this, in those first few weeks and months after Gideon’s death. 

Of course, Regulus wasn’t living with him back then, so he doesn’t know what his sleeping habits were like in the immediate aftermath of that; but he certainly isn’t sleeping now. Over the past week, Regulus has frequently woken up to find that Fabian is no longer lying in bed beside him; it had made his heart clench with terror the first time he’d found him missing, but he had soon discovered him downstairs, pacing up and down. Regulus can’t usually get him back to bed, but he can coax him to sit down on the sofa, trying to subtly take his glass of Firewhiskey away and provide him with tea instead before curling up against him; but even then, he’s fairly sure that Fabian doesn’t sleep. 

Regulus can’t suppress the thought that, no matter what Fabian says, he’s grieving again. Grieving preemptively. Grieving for him. Because he knows that if Regulus doesn’t obey the Dark Lord’s orders, he’s as good as dead, but if he does follow those orders to save his own life… he’ll be lost to Fabian. He’ll forfeit Fabian’s…well, whatever they have at the moment, they won’t have it anymore. 

Salazar, Regulus really doesn’t want to think about this. 

The problem, of course, is that it seems his only option at the moment, other than worrying about the state of his boyfriend, is to worry about Dumbledore. 

Regulus positively shudders at the thought of having to tell Dumbledore about this latest mission. Of course, he’s going to have to explain it to him sooner rather than later - the new Hogwarts term begins in only two days, after all, so he won’t have any choice other than to face the headmaster - but Regulus has been desperately trying to put off telling him for as long as possible. He knows full well that he’s spent much of the past month complaining to Fabian about Dumbledore’s evasiveness - the irony of his change in circumstances is not lost on him. But…what the hell does he even say in this situation? “Sorry, old man, I’ve been ordered to murder you, or else ‘face the consequences’ myself, and I can’t see any way that we both come out of this alive, but…no hard feelings, right? It’s for the ‘greater good,’ after all. 

But…is it for the greater good, though? Regulus may have his issues with the headmaster, but he’s pretty certain that Dumbledore, with his wisdom and his experience and his prodigious magical skill, is the greatest hope the Order has - hell, that wizarding Britain as a whole has - for winning this war. Hence why the Dark Lord wants him out of the way in the first place. Whereas he, Regulus Black…well, he’s pretty dispensable, isn’t he? Yes, his inside information on Lord Voldemort and the Death Eaters has been of value to Dumbledore and the Order - but it’s not as if his loss will destroy their chances of winning, is it? Especially now he’s shared the most important secret he knew. At the end of the day, Dumbledore is essential in a way that Regulus just isn’t. He knows that. 

But…Regulus doesn’t want to die. He really doesn’t want to die. He was a little surprised to realise, upon being forced to think about the prospect of his own death, just how much he wants to stay alive - because, for many years, his life had been so bleak that whenever he had thought, in the abstract, about death, he had teetered between indifferent on his ‘good’ days, morbidly curious most days and, on his very worst days, almost longing. But his life is so very different now to what it was. He has a best friend. He has a man he’s fallen in love with - even if he hasn’t actually managed to admit it to him yet - who is sweeter and more caring than anything he deserves. And there are some days when Regulus almost believes that he has his brother back. Sometimes, when Sirius looks at him, Regulus almost dares to hope that he is earning back his older brother’s trust, perhaps even his love - and that possibility means more to him than he could ever admit. 

Regulus will happily admit that he has the urge to fight for his own life, tooth and claw, even though he knows full well that it’s the more selfish option, in the grand scheme of this war - once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin, he supposes. He’s not ready to give up the things - or, more accurately, the people - which have so unexpectedly made his life one that’s worth living. The unfortunate irony, though, is that if he does what’s required to save his own life - killing Dumbledore, betraying the Potters - then he’s fairly certain he’s going to lose everyone he loves anyway. 

Merlin, life really is a bitch sometimes. 

He and Fabian are sitting together on the sofa, Fabian gently carding his fingers through Regulus’s hair with one hand, a glass of Firewhiskey in his other hand; Regulus is pretending to be focused on his book, but in actuality he’s just staring blankly at the wall, feeling the leaden weight of dread and fear that sits between them like an invisible extra presence. Given that the two of them are sitting in complete silence, perhaps it’s not surprising that the Patronus which flies suddenly through the window makes them both cry out in alarm, Fabian dropping his glass of Firewhiskey, which instantly shatters on the floor. 

“Oh, fuck,” Regulus whispers, as he registers the shape of the silvery form. A fucking phoenix. He should have known. 

“Regulus.” The phoenix patronus opens its mouth, Albus Dumbledore’s voice echoing through Fabian’s little living room, sounding strangely slurred and faint. “My office. As soon as possible, please. I think I…need your help.” 

The silver form of Fawkes dissolves into thin air as quickly as it had appeared, leaving both of them staring at the spot where it had vanished, Dumbledore’s voice echoing in Regulus’s ears. 

“Did his voice sound sort of…weird, to you?” Fabian asks awkwardly.

“I don’t know…yeah, a bit, I suppose,” Regulus responds. He’s having difficulty focusing properly - it feels as though somebody is pressing down on his chest, hard. “Typical bloody Dumbledore,” he says, trying desperately to shake off his rising panic, “barely tells me anything for a month, and then demands I come running…fuck,” he hisses again, with feeling, bringing a shaking hand up to his chest, trying to alleviate the pressure. He looks up at Fabian, realising there’s no use in pretending he’s even remotely alright. “I don’t think I can…I’m not ready for this, Fabian.” 

Fabian stares down at him, and for a moment the fear in those beautiful eyes shifts, making way for something else. Something much softer. 

“I know you’re not,” he murmurs. “I don’t think you’re ever going to be, Reg.” 

Regulus lets out a small, pathetic sound, and Fabian immediately moves forwards, wrapping him up in his big, warm arms. 

“Can I come with you this time?” the taller man whispers against his hair. Regulus blinks, pulling back a little to look up at him. 

“Wait, no, scratch that,” Fabian says more loudly, his expression turning suddenly more determined than Regulus has seen it in weeks. “I am coming with you. It’s not a question.” 

Regulus feels his breath catch in his throat at that, his heart giving a little stutter,  despite everything. He could argue, he supposes - but really, what would be the point? Sometimes, Fabian can be unexpectedly stubborn - which, he muses as a sidenote, is all the more sexy for its rarity - but Regulus also has to admit that right at this moment, he needs him. And he doesn’t doubt that Fabian knows that. 

“I…yeah, alright,” he says, letting out a slow breath, leaning forwards to press their foreheads together momentarily. “You are coming with me this time.” 

For one tiny moment, Fabian buries his face in Regulus’s hair - Regulus thinks he hears the other man make a tiny sound, something like a sigh of relief. Then, clutching each other’s hands, the two of them Disapparate to Hogsmeade, answering Dumbledore’s call, together. 

Hogwarts Castle 

They’re both breathless and panting a little by the time they reach Dumbledore’s office, having practically sprinted all the way up from the castle gates, Regulus gasping out the password to the gryphon statue guarding the spiral staircase, his heart pounding violently all the way. He presumes, given the urgency of the headmaster’s message, that they don’t need to knock, so he simply bursts in, Fabian close on his heels.

Sitting in the centre of Dumbledore’s desk is an ancient-looking silver ring, set with a heavy black stone - a stone which has been cracked, completely shattered, directly down the middle. Next to this ring lies an enormous, ruby-encrusted silver sword, which Regulus recognises immediately as the Sword of Gryffindor, the same one that Remus had pulled from the Sorting Hat all those months ago. Well, it hardly takes a genius to put two and two together there.

“So, I take it you did find another Horcrux, then?” Regulus asks, trying desperately to sound calm, his eyes lingering on the ring with the cracked stone. “And we’re another one down? But that’s good, isn’t it? What could possibly be so -”

He cuts himself off abruptly as he looks up, the words drying up in his mouth as he registers the full picture in front of him.

“Merlin,” Fabian whispers. 

Dumbledore is slumped in the chair behind his desk, eyes closed, deathly pale. If it weren’t for his shallow breathing, Regulus might have thought the man was dead. Well, that would have saved you a problem, wouldn’t it? remarks a small, snide voice in his head, which he chooses to ignore. 

“Ah,” Dumbledore murmurs, his eyelids flickering a little, but not opening fully, as though that would take too much strength. “Evening, Regulus. And Fabian, too. Charmed.” His words sound even fainter and more slurred than his message had been.

“Reg,” Fabian mutters, and his voice is some strange combination of terrified and revolted. “His hand…”

Regulus glances down automatically, and nearly chokes on a wave of terror and nausea. Dumbledore’s entire hand is blackened, like something burned, rotted. Whatever the hell has happened to it, Regulus can tell immediately that it’s not an ordinary wound. That looks like the effects of a curse -  the darkest of magic. 

“Was that…the defences around the Horcrux?” he asks in a voice of determined calm, trying his best not to vomit as he remembers the Inferi in that cave. “Who did that to you, Dumbledore? What did that to you?” 

“There was…a curse…on the ring,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed again. “I put it on and it…it hurt me.” He sounds suddenly, for the first time that Regulus can remember, like a small child, a child frightened of being punished. For one awful moment, he’s reminded of Sirius, drinking that phosphorent green potion. “It was hard to get it off again.” 

“You…you just put it on?” Regulus echoes, staring at him, his heart beating a violent tattoo against his ribcage. Over the past few years, he has ascribed many character flaws to the old man - but admittedly, stupid was never one of them. “You willingly slipped that ring onto your finger, before destroying it, when you knew it was a Horcrux?” Admittedly, the indignant fury rising up in him is at least helpful for thinking more clearly past his own fear and guilt. “Why the fuck would you do that, old man?” 

“Reg,” Fabian mutters, “I’m sure he must have had a good reason for -” 

“No, Fabian,” Dumbledore interjects, his voice growing fainter by the moment, “I did not have a good reason. The reason was…I was a fool.” Regulus blinks, momentarily taken aback that the headmaster is admitting it so readily. “I was…sorely tempted. I saw the Peverell coat of arms on the stone and I thought…for just a moment…”

“Right,” says Regulus, exchanging a glance with Fabian, trying not to sound as bewildered as he feels, because he has about a thousand questions, but now is very much not the time to ask any of them. He knows the name Peverell, of course, but he can’t remember anything about them right now, other than the fact that they’d been one of the first pureblood families to die out in the male line - centuries ago, in fact. “So…after doing something monumentally stupid, you decided to summon me because….? You thought I would be reassuring?” 

Dumbledore lets out a small, weak chuckle at that.

“No, Regulus, I did not think you would be ‘reassuring,’” he mumbles, “I am not quite that foolish. But…there are not many people who can know about this and…and -” he’s struggling to speak clearly again - “you know more about… curses and Dark magic…than most people I know. I thought perhaps…you could help me.” Regulus just stares at him for a moment, his thoughts buzzing like frantic bees trapped in a glass. Dumbledore sighs. “But…if you don’t want to, suppose I can just…fix it myself…”

To his horror, Dumbledore suddenly raises his wand in his badly shaking left hand, pointing it at his right. Regulus feels a sharp flare of panic in his chest, realising that the old man might easily cause himself even more damage, in this state - hasn’t he already made enough stupid decisions for one evening?

“Expelliarmus!” Regulus shouts, blurting out the spell without even thinking about it. Dumbledore’s wand soars out of his shaking hand and over to Regulus, who catches it one-handed, thanks to his Seeker skills.

For a moment, Dumbledore simply stares at him - and then, without explanation or warning, he starts to laugh again. Only it’s not a tiny chuckle now - this laughter echoes loudly around the office as the headmaster rocks back and forth in his chair a little, borderline hysterical. He’s still weak, still fading, clearly still in pain - and yet, he continues to laugh, gasping for breath all the while. Regulus has never seen the old man like this - so completely undignified, so out of control. He exchanges a look with Fabian again, who looks every bit as bewildered and unnerved as he feels. Regulus doesn’t have a single clue what could be so bloody funny right now, but whatever Dumbledore is finding to laugh at in this situation, he needs to stop.

“What the…stop laughing!” Regulus says desperately. “Stop it!” Dumbledore ignores him, continuing to laugh hysterically - Regulus isn’t entirely sure he even heard him. “Salazar’s sake…Stupefy!” 

Abruptly, Dumbledore’s laughter cuts off into silence, the headmaster slumping forward onto his desk, completely unconscious now. 

“Reg!” Fabian hisses.

“Well, I had to do something!” Regulus snaps back at him, his brain still whirring in useless panic. “You saw it, the old man’s gone insane! He’s finally cracked!” 

“And Stunning him is going to help?! He’s frail, Regulus!” 

“Yes, I can see that, thanks,” he retorts sharply. “Look, it was a panic response, alright? I disarmed him to stop him from hurting himself even more - and given that I’ve been ordered to murder the bastard, it seems to me that Stunning him won’t do quite so much damage, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Fabian shuts his mouth, staring at Regulus with a look of shock and pain in his eyes. Regulus can’t stand it. That look makes guilt and grief skitter across his bones. Merlin, he can’t lose this man. 

“I…sorry,” he whispers, looking away, cursing himself. “I shouldn’t have…that was…crass…” 

“No, it’s alright, Regulus,” Fabian says quietly, after a moment’s tense silence. “I mean, yeah, that was sort of…blunt. But it’s just the truth, so…”

Regulus closes his eyes. 

“I don’t think I can do this, Fabian.” 

At this point, he’s not even sure which ‘this’ he’s referring to. Curing Dumbledore’s wound? Killing him? Facing the consequences if he refuses to? Watching as Fabian - and, inevitably, Remus and Sirius as well - drift further and further away from him, until he can’t reach any of them any more? At the moment, he doesn’t think he can do any of it. 

Perhaps Fabian understands this, because there’s something soft in his gaze now, and he doesn’t ask Regulus to clarify further. 

“Let’s just…one step at a time, yeah?” he murmurs, and Regulus nods tremulously. 

Fabian exhales slowly. 

“If we just focus on right now…Dumbledore seemed pretty convinced you would be able to help him, right?” 

“I mean, he was also clearly delirious,” Regulus mutters, “so I’m not sure how much his opinion is worth right now.” Fabian raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay, okay,” Regulus folds with a small sigh.

Stowing the wand he’d just taken from Dumbledore in his belt, he tentatively approaches the unconscious man sitting in the chair. Silently, he waves his own wand, casting a wordless spell so that something resembling molten silver spreads over his own hand, encasing it like a protective glove - just in case Dumbledore’s wound can spread from person to person. He wouldn’t be surprised. Trying to swallow his own revulsion and fear, he bends down, taking the old man’s blackened, dead-looking hand in his own silver-gloved one. Behind him, Fabian stays patiently silent.

“I can’t tell exactly what curse it was on that ring,” he murmurs, after a few moments. “But whatever it was, it was clearly designed to kill. God only knows why he suddenly decided to be overcome with stupidity, and put the damn thing on.” 

“That wound…that wound is going to kill him?” Fabian asks, sounding stunned. 

Regulus nods, not quite able to believe it himself. 

“Yeah. Think so. Probably quite painfully, too. And look -” he points carefully, and Fabian reluctantly comes a little closer so he can see more clearly - “looks like the curse is starting to spread, see?” 

“Shit,” Fabian breathes - because the charred flesh on Dumbledore’s right hand is, indeed, beginning to creep up towards his wrist and beyond, the veins turning a vivid, putrid green. “So…if it spreads…what does that mean?”

“I’m fairly certain that, if that curse has a chance to spread, he’ll be dead within the next few hours,” Regulus announces - probably a bit too bluntly, but then he’s not sure how else he’s supposed to deliver this sort of information. “I don’t know how many hours it would take. Anywhere from two to six, I think.” 

Fabian stares at him, eyes wide and horrified, freckles standing out starkly as every trace of colour drains from his face.

“But…he…no. No, Reg, that can’t be right,” he says, with a humourless, slightly hysterical laugh, a laugh of pure shock. 

“I’m pretty sure it is right, though,” Regulus murmurs. 

Fabian swallows, tears in his eyes. 

“But…he thought you could fix him,” he says desperately. “You can fix him, right? I know you’ve been told to do the opposite, but…please.” 

Regulus has never heard Fabian sound quite like this. Like he’s begging. His heart riots, throwing itself violently against his ribcage as though it’s desperate to get to the other man. He really, truly doesn’t know if he can help Dumbledore, whether he even has the power to. 

“I…I don’t know, Fabian,” he murmurs. “But I’ll…I’ll do my best. Just let me…” 

Fabian steps back hastily. Regulus takes a deep breath, taking his wand out and getting to work. For Fabian Prewett, he would try anything. 

In all honesty, Regulus has never seen anything like this curse before. He has no idea what enchantment the Dark Lord put on the ring to make it poison Dumbledore’s flesh like that - and not knowing what curse it is makes it rather difficult to guess the counter-curse. But Regulus casts his mind back to the childhood that he and Sirius had shared, when they were living in constant fear at their parents’ house. He thinks of all the times that Sirius would stand up and do something brave and bold and stupid, defying their parents to make sure their attention was on him and not Regulus, and he thinks of the punishments Sirius would get in return. Sometimes it would be meal ‘privileges’ being revoked, sometimes stinging or burning jinxes, sometimes holding his hand against the stove. It had all culminated, of course, in their parents using the Cruciatus curse on Sirius, causing him to finally flee the house for good later that same night, leaving Regulus behind. The methods of ‘discipline’ used at Grimmauld Place meant that Regulus had spent much of his time as a teenager in the library doing research - if not studying Occlumency to protect his mind from being invaded, then looking up counter-curses to try and help his older brother in the wake of their parents’ twisted ideas of punishment. 

The curse on Dumbledore’s hand is undoubtedly even Darker magic than Walburga and Orion had been prone to using. Looking at the type of wound this curse seems to have caused, Regulus thinks he can judge well enough to know which spells he can cobble together, or at least which ones run the least risk of making it worse. The tension in the office is almost unbearable, he can feel the weight of Fabian’s gaze on him; but the other man stays patiently quiet, clearly aware that Regulus is trying his hardest. 

A murmured anti-inflammatory spell. A whispered stasis spell. A charm to draw toxins out of the blood. An incantation against the pain. He doesn’t know enough to counteract this level of Dark magic. But he’s fairly sure he’s buying the old man some time, at least. 

He draws back, finally exhaling properly, and turns to Fabian.

“You can speak now.”

The taller man lets out a long breath of his own - Regulus hadn’t realised he’d been holding it. 

“What did you do?” he asks quietly, shuffling a little closer.

“Just cobbled various spells together,” he murmurs. “Sirius and I…we had to teach ourselves quite a lot of defensive magic and counter-curses, in our house.”

Fabian makes a small sound, as though that image causes him pain, and reaches out for Regulus’s hand. Regulus stretches out, letting him twine their fingers together, realising only then that his hands are shaking. 

“So…he’s going to be alright, then? Fabian croaks. “For…for now?” 

Regulus hesitates, knowing he can’t give him the answer he wants to hear.

“For now, yes,” he says slowly. “I’m fairly certain I’ve managed to stop it from spreading. Or at least, it won’t spread nearly as fast. But that’s…that’s still a mortal wound, Fabian. He won’t die in the next few hours now. But…I think he’ll still be dead within a few months. Perhaps he’ll have a year, if he’s lucky.” 

Fabian stares at him, as if he doesn’t understand the words, as if he can’t comprehend why Regulus would say that. 

“Fabian, I…I did the best I could,” he says urgently, unable to bear that look in his eyes. “This isn’t me taking some excuse to…I tried, okay? I swear.” His voice cracks.

For a moment, Fabian just continues staring at him, silence billowing around them. 

“Please say something,” Regulus begs, feeling tears swelling in his eyes. 

“I know you tried, Reg,” Fabian whispers finally. “You always try your best. That’s why I love you.” 

Regulus freezes, staring at him. 

“God, sorry…probably shit timing to tell you that, isn’t it?” Fabian says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head with a nervous little laugh. “But I do, Reg. Love you, that is. I’ve been desperate to say that for ages, I guess it just…slipped out? You don’t have to say it back, or anything, but -” 

Regulus makes a small, choked sound, so overwhelmed that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Without even really meaning to, he steps forwards, throwing his arms around the taller man, tugging him down so he can claim his mouth. Fabian seems taken aback for a split second - it’s rare for Regulus to be the one who initiates - but then he’s wrapping his arms around him, kissing him back fiercely, desperately. The kiss tastes like love and salt and grief. 

“Thank you,” Regulus whispers. “For everything.” 

Regulus feels something soft, like a raindrop, fall on his head, and he realises that Fabian is crying. 

“Any time,” the redhead whispers, burying his face in his hair for a moment. 

Regulus could happily stay in Fabian’s arms forever, clinging to the happy illusion that if Fabian is holding him, if Fabian loves him, then nothing and nobody can hurt either of them. But that probably wouldn’t be the best way to keep himself from shattering - he feels like he’s hanging by a thread, as it is. And he has things to do. Reviving Dumbledore and breaking the news, for one thing. His stomach twists into knots at the very thought, and it takes every last ounce of resolve Regulus possesses to step away from Fabian, feeling immediately untethered the moment he’s out of his arms. 

“I should…” he gestures to the still-unconscious headmaster.

“Right. Yeah,” Fabian croaks, a look of utter devastation on his face, tear tracks running down his cheeks. Regulus looks away quickly, pretending he hadn’t noticed. 

“Rennervate,” he mutters, flicking his wand in Dumbledore’s direction, his heart thumping painfully again. 

The old man stirs, his eyes blinking slowly open. He stretches out his blackened hand, looking at in a curious, detached way as though it’s attached to someone else, before raising his head to look at Regulus and Fabian. He grins, as though enjoying some private joke. 

“You Stunned me,” Dumbledore observes, sounding mildly impressed. 

“I did, yes,” Regulus replies, completely unabashed. “It was necessary. You were sort of…hysterical.”

Dumbledore chuckles, his gaze flickering to his own wand, still tucked into Regulus’s belt. 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, I was rather, wasn’t I?” 

Regulus exchanges a brief glance with Fabian, before turning back to the headmaster.

“You remember what happened, then?” 

“Most of it,” Dumbledore answers cheerfully. “My hand?” he asks, holding it out, as though Regulus might be unsure which one he’s referring to. 

“I did what I could to contain it,” Regulus responds, his mouth dry. “But that is a cursed wound, Dumbledore. A mortal wound. It…it’s going to kill you, eventually. I’m sorry.”

“Ah,” says Dumbledore, with a small sigh. “Yes, I thought as much.”

Regulus and Fabian both stare at him. The old man doesn’t sound shocked or horrified in the slightest; rather, he sounds mildly disappointed, as though his prediction about the weather spoiling his plans has been proved right.

“How long would you say that I have left, Regulus?” he asks, as though they are discussing a Potions experiment.

“I…I couldn’t say for sure,” Regulus answers after a beat, still baffled by this reaction. “Perhaps a year, perhaps as little as three months. I wouldn’t think you’d be able to fight that curse off for much longer than a year, though.” 

“I see,” the headmaster replies, almost jovially. “I shall try not to get too optimistic, then.” 

“I tried my best, Dumbledore, I swear,” Regulus finds himself blurting out. He doesn’t know why it feels so important that the headmaster knows this - but it does. “I did everything I could to contain it, to try and save you, or at least buy you more time, even though that’s precisely the opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing!” 

The office goes very quiet in the wake of these words, Fabian stiffening at his side, Dumbledore raising one eyebrow. Regulus feels an awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, realising what he’d just admitted to. Fuck. 

“He…” He clears his throat, trying again. “The Dark Lord has asked me to…dispose of you, Dumbledore. Well, no, he didn’t ask me…” he lets out a hollow, slightly hysterical laugh, “the fact is, I wasn’t exactly given much of a choice.”

“Yes, I was rather wondering when Tom would hand you the responsibility of getting me out of his way,” the headmaster replies, almost conversationally. “I must confess, I was beginning to think he might have lost his touch.” 

Regulus stares at him. He heard the words, but it still takes his brain a moment to process them, to comprehend their meaning.

“Are you saying…you wouldn’t even be angry with…?” 

“Rather difficult to be angry, if I am dead,” Dumbledore says levelly. Regulus glares at him, and the old man has the audacity to chuckle quietly. “No, Regulus, it would be rather foolish of me to be angry or resentful, just because you have been given orders to get rid of me. After all, Voldemort has set you to spy on me for many months; if he now believes that he has all the information he needs, it is logical, as I said, that he would task the same person with my disposal. And it seems that my own act of ‘monumental stupidity’, as you so delicately put it before - well, that is rather a stroke of luck for you, is it not? Gives you a bit of a helping ‘hand’, if you will permit me that particular turn of phrase in this instance. Although I am, of course, very grateful to you for doing your best to grant me some extra time to set my affairs in order, Regulus - and those of the Order too, of course. The pain is substantially less, as well, so I thank you for that,” he finishes, with a courteous little dip of his head. 

Regulus turns to exchange a glance with Fabian - the taller man looks every bit as bewildered as he feels. Regulus feels like his head is pounding, his thoughts so tangled together that he doesn’t even know where to begin with unknotting and examining them. 

“Bloody hell,” says Fabian, finally breaking the silence. “I mean this with the greatest of respect, Professor, but…has anybody ever told you that, while brilliant, you are also completely and utterly insane?”

The old man merely chuckles again. 

“I believe that has been mentioned to me once or twice in my life, yes,” he says amicably. “And, while I don’t doubt that it is true, I am also an old man who has lived for a very long time, and I think I can recognise when my time to bow out gracefully is approaching, particularly when I have brought it entirely on myself. After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

Regulus just stares at him for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, “you actually sound far more sane now than you did before I Stunned you. You were laughing. You were hysterical.”

“It was sort of…unnerving,” Fabian pipes up awkwardly.

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle the two of you, of course.”

“But what the hell was so bloody funny?” Regulus demands.

Dumbledore looks at him over those half-moon spectacles, as though considering his answer. 

“Well, it was mostly the shock of it, I suppose,” he answers slowly. “I was rather delirious, I suspect. But it did strike me as amusing, given how many people have coveted it over the years, how many people have been desperate to outwit me so they could win it from me - and then you, Regulus, came along and took it from me effortlessly, on a whim, without even thinking about it!”

“What?” Regulus frowns at him, completely lost. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow at him, as though he’s missing something very obvious. 

“You Disarmed me, Regulus.”

“Well, yeah, you were delirious, you could have done yourself even more damage -”

“I appreciate that,” the headmaster responds, “and again, I thank you for saving me from my own idiocy. But still, the fact remains that you are the first person to successfully Disarm me in almost forty years, Regulus. I won that particular wand in a duel, in 1945.”

“1945?” Regulus echoes, comprehension finally beginning to dawn through the fog. “You don’t mean…?”

“I do mean,” Dumbledore contradicts him. “I won that wand from Gellert Grindelwald in 1945. For almost forty years, it has answered to me - but now you have conquered that wand, and unless and until somebody else conquers it, it will answer to you, and you alone. But that is not just any wand, Regulus. That there, stowed casually away in your belt, is the Elder Wand. The most powerful wand in wizarding history - and you are now its rightful master. I should treat it with caution, if I were you.”

The office goes silent again, as Dumbledore looks at him with a small smile on his face, Fabian staring at him with his mouth open. Regulus draws the Elder Wand carefully out of his belt, staring down at the mundane-looking stick as he struggles to wrap his mind around this latest revelation.

“....Oh.”