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Regulus had never thought he would be a person who was guided by his intuition; he always agonised over every decision he made, going through all his plans meticulously until he had them memorised in his head.
"Your way of giving yourself some form of choice," Severus had said, more than once.
Regulus closed his eyes, feeling a headache approaching. He refused to contact anyone, refused to think— it would be all too easy to be swayed, to go back to being a Death Eater who cared for no one but himself. And yet it hurt, that he couldn't confide in his friend, that only him and a lone house-elf knew of the Dark Lord's deepest secret.
(He supposed he could contact Sirius, but that bridge had crumbled a long time ago, and neither of them had tried very hard to repair it.)
What he was planning was suicidal at best, but it wasn't as if there was anything else he could do. Regulus had never been a Gryffindor, and he had never claimed to be. Maybe there was something Slytherin about forging your own path, about realising that there were options available to you years later after you've tripped and fallen across the path that had been laid out for you.
He sighed, and started penning his letter. Hopefully, he could put the letter in the basin with the fake locket before the Inferi got to him first.
For the Dark Lord…
Regulus, miraculously, made it out alive. And it all was thanks to Kreacher, who had deliberately disobeyed his orders to get him out of the pool of Inferi. His continual survival was great, of course, but Regulus had never actually expected to get out of there alive—he supposed living through a war really did drive up your suicidal ideation by quite a few notches.
(He had never regretted taking the Mark until the Dark Lord had harmed Kreacher, and he had realised the lengths the Dark Lord would go towards preserving his immortality. What did it say about him that his entire world came crashing down at that moment, leaving the rest of the Dark Lord's actions in stark, harsh light?
Sometimes—most of the time, nowadays—he wished he’d left with Sirius. Maybe he could feel proud of his actions, then, instead of this horrific self-loathing that threatened to choke him.)
Which left the question of what he should do with the Horcrux he had acquired. The locket positively reeked of Dark Magic, so the first thing he told Kreacher was to keep it locked as far away from the both of them as possible. The next thing he did was research, trying to find some way that he could destroy the Horcrux after realising that none of Kreacher's house-elf magic, or any of his own darker spell repertoire worked on the locket.
Regulus would have thought the library in Grimmauld Place library would have extensive knowledge on the subject he was researching, considering the Blacks' penchant for Dark magic, but there were barely any that even mentioned this form of Soul Magic, which left Regulus wondering, not for the first time, how the Dark Lord had even discovered the existence of Horcruxes. Regulus himself had only realised the artefact was a Horcrux because of sheer dumb luck—he remembered, suddenly, of reading an extract from Magick Most Foul of a container that hosted one's own soul to preserve your immortality.
A mystery for another day, perhaps, he thought, squinting at a book in the dim light. He should probably go to sleep; he was certain that it was closer to dawn than it was to midnight, and Kreacher had been getting more and more impatient at him, constantly falling asleep in the library.
He absently took the book and reached out behind him to put it back—which in hindsight, had been a horrible idea—before he felt the chair legs give away beneath him, crashing into the bookcase and causing a massive hourglass shaped object topple on to his body. Years of Seeker training made him catch it on instinct, breathing a sigh of relief.
Until he felt suddenly dizzy, like the first time his father had Apparated him somewhere and he hadn't known what to expect. It was that, but a thousand times worse. He felt a lurch beneath his feet, something dragging him through chalkboard, a cry—
"Master Regulus!"
Kreacher's voice was the last thing he heard before he opened his eyes.
When he woke up back in the library, it was to a figure that looked like James Potter, and a Grimmauld Place library that looked like it had seen better days.
"Is this hell?" Regulus couldn't help but ask, trying to ignore the wand held to his face for the moment. "Because I was certain that would have involved me getting tortured by the Dark Lord more."
The wand didn't budge. The man, however, finally opened his mouth. "Why are you in my house? And why do you look like Sirius?"
"Your house?" Regulus couldn't help the splutter that escaped him. "I've lived here for nineteen years. I'm Regulus Black."
The man blinked, taken aback. Regulus took a moment to assess him. He looked the same age as Regulus, and as tired as he currently felt, the bags underneath his eyes pronounced, though the eyes themselves held a gleam that Regulus couldn't help but appreciate. He couldn't get the uncanny resemblance to James Potter out of his head, though. A cousin, perhaps?
The man didn't say anything for a long moment. Then he raised his wand, uttering a deep sigh that Regulus felt in his very bones. "You know what? I'm too tired for this. I'll just ask Hermione to bring in the Veritaserum," he muttered, seemingly to himself, before Stunning Regulus with one flick of his wand.
Even if he hated being stunned in his own house, Regulus had to admire the man's skill with his wand.
He couldn't help but think he was part of some kind of cosmic joke, when he woke up to hushed whisperings, his hands and feet bound to a chair.
"Harry, I can't just acquire Veritaserum on command—"
"'Mione, I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit—"
"He called himself Regulus, and he looks like he's nineteen—"
"Maybe he's gone barmy, then."
"I mean… he didn't seem like he was lying?"
"I'm not lying," Regulus said, finally making himself known after getting tired of listening to the same conversation going in circles. The trio—two boys and one girl huddled in front of him—jumped, almost as if they had forgotten he was here. Regulus rolled his eyes. At least he now knew he hadn't been kidnapped by the Dark Lord's supporters. They were more likely to torture him first and ask questions later. And if what he had overheard made any kind of sense… "And if you want, I can prove it to you."
"How?" The girl's eyes narrowed, her hand gripping her wand as if she was preparing for a fight. He had to hand it to them; all of them looked tired, weary, all too used to becoming vigilant for a threat at a moment's notice. He had recognised that look in too many people his age, too many times.
"Kreacher," he called out, hoping desperately that it worked. If he had come to the future somehow—
"Master Regulus?!"
Regulus breathed a sigh of relief, taking stock of the elf in front of him. Like everything else in Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had aged, the wrinkles going deep into his face, though he looked as if he had been treated well, wearing a cloth with the Hogwarts crest that Regulus resolved to ask Kreacher about later. Kreacher, who was currently sobbing and throwing himself down on the floor, too overcome with emotion to even speak.
The trio exchanged a look. "Kreacher?" the man—the man with black hair, Regulus really needed to know there names—asked gently, bringing himself eye-level to Kreacher. "How do you know it's Regulus? Just his appearance, or…"
Kreacher shook his head violently. "No Master Harry!" he wailed. "Kreacher be recognising Master Regulus's magic, Kreacher recognises Black magic, Kreacher does…"
"I guess that explains it," Harry said, standing up. "Apparently we can't have a normal day, huh?"
"Harry," the girl said, looking like she had aged five years through this entire conversation. "That explains nothing. Dead men just don't suddenly appear." At that, she turned her attention to Regulus, her glare threatening.
Regulus smiled sardonically. "From the state of this house, I'm guessing I've time travelled to the future," and despite his better judgement he asked, somewhat desperately: "Please tell me you destroyed the Dark Lord's Horcrux somehow?"
For some reason, that made them all relax. "Blimey," the redhead said. "It really is Regulus Black, isn't it?"
"Apparently so," Regulus said. "Now can I please be let out of these bindings?"
It didn't long for Regulus to coax the whole story out of the three, all looking as if they had recounted it a hundred times before. Regulus listened, slack-jawed, as Harry—Regulus couldn't believe James Potter had a son— Hermione and Ron, in turn, explained how they had looked for the Dark Lord's remaining Horcruxes, the fact that he had made more than one, almost making the bile rise in Regulus's throat, and how they had traced Dumbledore's clues back to Hogwarts, where Voldemort had finally died.
("You can look for yourself," Ron had said, looking at his left forearm meaningfully. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.
Regulus had never been more surprised to see an almost faded tattoo in his life. Somehow, the fact that it was over, had been over a week ago, hadn't sunk in yet.)
"What year is it?" he asked, resisting the urge to sigh in frustration as the three exchanged a glance yet again. "No need to worry about shocking me, I've gathered that it's been more than a decade since… my time." And most of the people I know are probably dead, he thought, biting back the pang that passed through him at that.
"It's 1998," Harry said, a bit hesitant.
Regulus forced a smile into his face, and was grateful that none of them commented on how fake it looked. They all lapsed into silence after that, too engrossed in their own thoughts to really keep the conversation going.
He had died that day, in this timeline. No one had mourned him other than Kreacher, who had been slowly driven mad by the Dark Magic within the locket. The thought hurt more than he expected it to. Regulus had never been known for making reckless decisions, and he had not seen any choice other than to retrieve the locket as soon as possible, but the guilt of leaving Kreacher alone with the locket weighed too heavily on his mind. He closed his eyes and laid his head in his hands, uncaring of the audience in front of him.
That wasn't even counting his possible… Time travel? Dimension travel? He supposed he could stay, but a longer part of him yearned to go back, to prevent another generation of children being subjected to a madman with too many grandiose delusions. But could he even go back?
(Fate was a cruel thing. Regulus knew, deep in his heart, that he had never been meant to survive the retrieval of the Horcrux. Being ejected from his dimension to another, he supposed, was less violent than being attacked by a hoard of Inferi.)
The scraping of a chair against the floorboards made him look up. Hermione had stood up, and her expression was grim. "Regulus?" she said, meeting his eyes head on. Months ago, he would have bristled at a Mudblood having the audacity to look him in the eyes, much less speak to him. But now, he was tired, and unnecessary prejudice seemed just that. Unnecessary.
If only Sirius could see me now, Regulus thought to himself bitterly.
"I don't think we can help you go back," Hermione said, and there was honest regret in her words. Regulus had already expected to hear it, and from the state of the current wizarding community, it didn't seem as if they could do without Harry or his friends at the moment. Or Hermione and her friends, to be more accurate. "And I know you want to argue Harry—"
Surprised, he looked over at Harry, who, true to her words, opened his mouth. "Obviously I'm going to argue, it's mental to think I won't help someone—"
Ron coughed, sounding suspiciously like he was saying "Saving people thing."
Harry rounded on him, betrayed. "But—but, don't you understand?"
Ron closed his eyes, looking as if he would like to be anywhere except where he was right now. "Harry, I know. I just—"
"I understand," Regulus interrupted the both of them before the conversation could spiral any further. Harry, despite how tired he looked, looked as if he was ready to start a fight, while Hermione was watching them disapprovingly from the sidelines. That seemed like an accurate description of their relationship dynamic, Regulus supposed. "The public needs your help more than me, right now. And you can always help me when things have calmed down on your end. It's not like I can leave, is it?" He was proud of himself for masking the bitterness in his voice. Mostly. He felt the sideways glance that Harry threw at him, and refused to meet his eye.
Harry leaned back angrily against the chair, the motion exposing his neck to Regulus's gaze. He scowled over at them all, righteous fury still evident in his face. It had been a long time—and Regulus couldn't recall the last time—that such a gaze had been aimed at others on his behalf. And wasn't it ironic that a complete stranger would be the one to take his breath away? "It's not like you can stop me from helping, can you?"
"I would strongly advise against it," Regulus replied, fighting to keep his voice even. "How do you even know I want to go back?" How do you know that I'm not a coward?
"I just know," Harry snapped back. "I don't peg someone who left a note to fucking Lord Voldemort as a coward."
At that, Regulus snapped. He supposed that was a long time coming, and even he did not have unlimited patience. "I was never meant to live," he said, his words coming as a sharp hiss. The room descended into silence, the light flickering through the emotions on Harry's face. To Regulus's eyes, he looked like an avenging angel, though not one that could ever save him. "Don't you see? I was thrown here for a reason. I was never meant to change anything, and it would be foolish of me to even try."
"Oh, Regulus…" Hermione breathed, her voice sounding choked.
Regulus slapped a hand over his mouth, suddenly realising that he had said more than he had wanted to say. Everyone in the room was looking at him with different gazes, now, as if he was something broken that they were determined to fix.
He couldn't stand it.
He stood up from the table, the chair almost toppling over in his haste to get away from this conversation. "If you'll excuse me," he said, voice distant to his own ears, and fled from the dining room into his old bedroom, ignoring the three of them calling out his name.
What is it about Harry Potter? He wandered back in his bed. His room was still carefully preserved in its original condition due to Kreacher. That makes you want to be incredibly sincere?
He fell into a fitful sleep, and dreamt of green eyes, gleaming with an intensity that Regulus wanted desperately to match.
The next few days were tense, Regulus drifting through Grimmauld Place like a shadow, alternating between looking through books in the library as to any explanation of what had happened to him, and making awkward conversation with whoever was present in Grimmauld Place at the time. Ron and Hermione continued treating him as if he was strangely fragile, preferring to keep conversation limited to what they were doing during the day, tip-toeing around what he was really feeling.
("The ministry is a bit of a mess," Hermione explained, and Regulus was surprised that he was even given this much information. "There are a lot of Death Eaters who are getting their trials, and we still don't know exactly how many ministry employees truly believed in the cause or complied because they had no other choice.")
("We're making funeral plans," Ron had said, when Regulus had dared to ask, and didn't elaborate. Regulus didn't press, the look of pain in his eyes too heavy for him to do anything except to nod.)
Conversations with Harry were easier. From what Regulus had gathered, Harry spent most of his time helping rebuild Hogwarts after the battle, helping imbue the stones with magic and researching on how they could fortify the castle more. He, out of all of them, seemed to understand that Regulus didn't need to be treated like he was brittle, and never once commented when he found Regulus fallen asleep in the library more than once, instead ushering him into his bedroom and making sure he got into his bed. It was a strange intimacy that Regulus loathed to let go of—which is why he never mentioned it to Harry, too scared to break the bond forming between them.
("I understand how it feels," Harry had said. "I love Ron and Hermione, but—I don't think they understand how you need to come to terms on your own." When Harry had said he wanted to help, he had meant it , occasionally coming to help Regulus in his research, adding in contributions of his own to Regulus's theories.
Regulus didn't ask Harry if he thought he could go back. Out of all of them, despite the fact that he had grown up with Muggles, Harry seemed to have the most intuition about magic, like how it took him barely a thought to cast a spell, making him shiver at the sheer raw power in his hands. He didn't doubt that Harry would answer him sincerely.
He just didn't want to know the answer, as of yet.)
So Regulus took to wandering the house like a ghost, only emerging from the library when he was coaxed by Harry or Kreacher for his meals, or when he was frustrated at his research and he felt the panic climbing through the back of his throat. He hadn't come even close to finding any material on the subject or the object that had dropped on him back in his timeline. He had only found books that warned of how foolish it would be to mess with time, or, in the case of The Secrets of Space, Time, and Magic, a book on various, very illegal and very Dark experiments with time, and how none of them had yielded any tangible results.
Other books he read talked about experiments the Unspeakables had done to make time turners, written by a retired Unspeakable with only five copies in existence—Regulus would never not be amazed by the vastness of the Black Library—and how they had so far only been able to move backwards in time, and only with specific conditions. There had been next to no materials about dimension travel, and all of the accounts sounded like half-baked fiction at best.
In a desperate bid, he had looked at books about Divination, and that had just made him want to rip his hair out. He and Hermione agreed on one thing at least.
Sometimes, he dearly wished he could leave Grimmauld Place, to look through the massive Hogwarts library, or even to just go outside so he could feel the sun land on his flesh.
(Every time he had thought of asking, he had talked himself out of it. The risk of being recognised, the risk of the others coming to harm, was too great.)
It was two weeks after Regulus had landed in the future that the tension somewhat eased. He had been observant enough to notice the fact that the three had taken to discussing something important, furiously hissing at each other until they descended into silence whenever he appeared in the room. They may be smart enough to win a war, but none of them were subtle.
Regulus had been laying in bed, looking through some photos, when he heard a knock on his door. It was a sharp, insistent sound that made him jump out of his thoughts, making him realise he had been staring at one picture of him and Sirius when they were children for far too long.
"Come in," he called out, relieved that his voice didn't shake. Regulus wasn't surprised to find out that it was Harry who entered. What he was surprised at was the palpable excitement in his face, his eyes looking brighter than they had in days. It was unfairly attractive.
"We're going out," Harry said, without preamble. Regulus blinked. What?
"What?" he asked aloud, barely restraining crumpling up the photo held between his fingers.
"We're going to Hogwarts tomorrow," Harry explained, taking a seat next to Regulus on the bed. "I don't know if you've noticed us talking—"
"Harry, you're about as subtle as a Hippogriff," Regulus said, huffing out a laugh. "I knew you were talking about something. I didn't realise it was about me, though."
"Who else would it be about?" Harry teased, not looking as if he was about to leave anytime soon. Regulus would have been sad to see him go. "This might sound a bit insensitive but… we've all noticed how you're running yourself ragged trying to find out how to get back, and I don't really think Grimmauld Place is the best place to stay, considering the state of it."
"That's putting it mildly."
"Yeah… First, I wanted to take you to Muggle London for a daytrip or something, but Hermione convinced me it wasn't the best idea," Harry grimaced. "We talked to McGonagall about the entire situation, and she said it wouldn't be too hard to arrange for you to spend a month or so at Hogwarts until you've decided on what you wanted to do."
"Harry—I—" Regulus started, not sure if he could convey the depth of what he was feeling at the moment. How many times had he wondered what it would be like to be back at Hogwarts?
"If you're worried about being recognised, I trust everyone that's working on rebuilding, and—"
"I trust you," Regulus said, interrupting Harry before he could get into a nervous tangent. Harry looked over at him, green eyes alight. Regulus swallowed past the lump in his throat, meeting his gaze head on. "And, Harry, I don't know how to thank you—"
"You don't need to thank me," Harry said, his eyes crinkling up at the corners along with his smile. Regulus smiled back, though his felt more tenuous, more like it would break apart around the edges. "It's what anyone would have done."
Regulus laughed, his eyes unconsciously landing on the photo held in his hand. Sirius, in the picture, no more than ten-years-old, was laughing at the petulant look on Regulus's face, the actual joke lost to time. It was one of the good moments in a sea of bad memories, and Regulus couldn't help the nostalgia that rose to the surface. Sometimes, Harry reminded him so much of Sirius that it hurt.
Harry, too, was looking at the photo, fondness in his gaze when his eyes landed on Sirius.
"I noticed," Harry said. "That you never asked me about Sirius." His tone wasn't accusing. It was more… curious, somehow.
Regulus did not look at Harry's face as he shrugged in answer. A habit he had picked up from Harry. Mother would be rolling in her grave. "What is there to ask? Whatever else I don't know about my brother, I know that he isn't one to leave me alone."
Except when he was sixteen, Regulus couldn't help but think, but in hindsight, he couldn't begrudge Sirius's choices. Regulus had been beyond help by that time. He wished he didn't have to have so many regrets before he was even twenty to realise that Sirius had been right all along.
Besides, asking would be to acknowledge that this was real. That there was a world without his annoying brother who could never keep his mouth, a world without his best friend who wasn't as big of a Death Eater as Regulus had thought he was.
Harry's voice took him by surprise.
"You can't blame yourself for this, Regulus," he said, with more conviction than Regulus had in himself laced through his voice. "The fate of an entire nation shouldn't be on a nineteen-year-old's hands, and it definitely shouldn't have been on a seventeen-year-old, either."
Regulus smiled despite himself. "You sound like Granger."
"I've probably listened to too many of her impassioned speeches," Harry admitted, laughing a bit himself. When Regulus looked over, Harry's eyes were shining with too much understanding. "But please… at least try to forgive yourself?"
"I make no promises," Regulus said, his voice quiet. "But I can try."
Regulus hadn't realised how much he had Hogwarts until he was standing in front of the castle. The sight, no matter what happened, would always mean home to him; of late night conversations and pouring over library books until his eyes drooped. For now, Regulus could ignore the gaping hole at the side, and the rubble that hadn't been cleared yet. They had time, and for Harry, he could try.
"Never gets old, does it?" Regulus heard Harry ask, his expression soft. Regulus shook his head, unable to articulate what he was feeling at the moment. Harry seemed to understand, and lead the way, his feet crunching on the ground beneath.
At the moment, striding forward to catch up to Harry, Regulus allowed himself to revel in the feeling of simply being, for the moment. Of being alive, of having no responsibility on his shoulders, of Harry by his side as he tangled their fingers together and held on tight.
They had time, and Regulus knew, in his heart, the answer to the question he had been asking. He thought of green eyes filled with concern for a man he barely knew, of a man who had so much love to give but didn't feel as if he deserved it, of a man who understood Regulus; who didn't prod, didn't press.
It was Harry. Ever since he had come here, to this place—it had always been Harry.