Chapter Text
James Potter is dead.
Regulus Black hasn't slept in three days.
James Potter is dead, and somehow, the sun is still shining. It's a cruel thing; almost a divine sort of punishment that shouldn't be possible—not now that James is gone—yet it still hangs there, hot in the sky, like a burning comet suspended in time.
Regulus can't stand to look at it.
He stood now in front of the small, cracked mirror in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place, staring at a reflection he barely recognized.
His body was severely weakened by the dark magic left behind after each repeated ritual. Everything hurt—a deep, constant ache in his muscles that wasn’t ever improved with rest. From the two times he had successfully reset the timeline, the curse had dug itself further into him, taking parts of him he knew he would never get back.
He lifted a trembling hand toward the glass, fingertips hovering over the reflection as though he could trace the damage back to its source. The veins beneath his skin pulsed with a faint, sickly shimmer—ancient magic biting at him from the inside, marking him like burn scars. His magic, once sharp and bright and viciously alive, now guttered inside him.
A third attempt. That was all he had left.
And lately, his magic sputtered from his wand like a flame starved of air. How much longer could he keep going? Six months, maybe? Perhaps less.
He didn’t want to go back to Dumbledore, but he had no choice. Not anymore.
He had failed, and then he had failed again. And each loop, each desperate attempt to save James Potter from some terrifying end, had brought him closer and closer to the brink of destruction.
The first reset was supposed to work. It hadn’t. The second was supposed to fix what the first missed. It didn’t. Both times, James had died. And both times, it was Regulus who had had to watch it happen, powerless to stop it.
The last reset had gutted him. His magic—once instinctive, effortless—now slipped through him like dry sand through open fingers, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly he tried to hold on. Now, even the simplest of spells faltered. His wand responded sluggishly, as if it no longer recognized him as its master, but as something lesser, something broken.
But he had to try, didn’t he?
There was no alternative, no clean escape from it. Giving up wasn’t an option; it had never been an option. Not with everything at stake, not with the weight of it all bearing down on him. So he would try again.
But trying meant going back to Dumbledore.
“Help,” Dumbledore called it. As if the word hadn’t long since lost its meaning.
Regulus hated needing him. Hated the thought of going back, pride stripped down to the bone. But what choice did he have? There was no one else. If Dumbledore’s “help” was all that remained to him—if it was the only path forward, however warped it had become—then he would have to take it.
Regulus clenched his jaw and snatched his cloak from the bed. He didn’t want to see Dumbledore again. Not ever.
For a while now, a quiet, festering resentment for him had built up for what he had done. For what he’d permitted Regulus do to himself. The old man had promised answers, a way to untangle the mess Regulus had created by choosing the wrong side.
But every time Regulus had gotten close—every time he felt like he could almost see the end of it, almost reach it—Dumbledore had only pulled back, demanding more, nudging him deeper and deeper into the labyrinth.
Because that was the game, wasn’t it? To keep Regulus moving. To keep him useful. To keep him just desperate enough to follow whatever thread Dumbledore placed in front of him, no matter how thin, no matter how frayed.
Of course, he was sure Dumbledore would greet him again with that same calm composure, those same knowing eyes, as if they were still standing on equal ground. As if this wasn’t exactly what he wanted—Regulus trapped in the cycle, with nowhere else to turn but to him.
With a sharp breath, Regulus disapparated. The familiar crack of magic split the air, and then he was standing in the Scottish Highlands. Mist clung to the rolling hills, and the stone estate where Dumbledore spent his summers rose ahead of him, half-swallowed by towering pines. Regulus’s heart pounded from the bitter anticipation clawing at his chest.
He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to face him again. But he knew—knew with a painful, unshakable certainty—that he had no other choice.
If he was going to end this, if he was going to save James—if he was going to end this war—he needed Dumbledore. Whether he liked it or not.
He drew in a steadying breath and forced himself forward. The evening air bit at his skin, sharper than it should’ve been, but he barely felt it. His mind churned, cycling through scenarios, outcomes, contingencies. He tightened his mental shields, preparing for the possibility—no, the inevitability—of Dumbledore probing where he had no right to look.
Consequences didn’t matter anymore. Only the solution did.
Regulus didn’t bother knocking. He pushed the wide, grand door open and stepped inside, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floors. The interior was unchanged: towering shelves of leather-bound books, a massive fireplace casting a warm, amber glow that contrasted sharply with the cold crawling up Regulus’s spine. The faint scent of parchment and old wood lingered in the air. Everything was still—unsettlingly so.
He moved down the long hall and shoved open the door to Dumbledore’s office.
And there he was.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his immense oak desk, hands folded neatly, silver beard spilling over his robes. He looked exactly as though he had been expecting this precise moment.
He didn’t flinch at Regulus’s abrupt entrance. He didn’t even blink. His pale blue eyes regarded him over the rim of his half-moon glasses—glittering, unreadable, impossibly calm.
“Mr. Black,” Dumbledore said, his voice smooth, cutting through the silence of the office. “It’s good to see you again.”
Once upon a time, Regulus might have felt it—that faint, insidious pull of comfort buried in Dumbledore’s voice. The illusion of safety. Of being understood.
But that had been a long time ago. He wasn’t a boy anymore.
He hated that voice now. He hated the way it carried the weight of some secret knowledge, the smug certainty of a man who believed he already knew the ending.
“I didn’t come here for pleasantries,” Regulus said flatly, the words clipped, stripped of anything polite. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
Dumbledore’s lips curved into that practiced, gentle smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“Straight to the point, then.”
“I’ve never been one to waste time.”
He swept across the room before he could think better of it. Approaching the desk, he braced his palms on its smooth surface, leaning slightly forward. “You already know why I’m here.”
If Dumbledore was surprised, he didn’t show it. He only lifted a hand, motioning with airy elegance toward the small chair opposite him. “Perhaps you’d like to sit. Tea?”
Regulus’s gaze flicked to the chair, then back up to Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, and his jaw tightened.
The thing is, Regulus has done all of this before. The Death Eater meetings—climbing up the ranks—tracking down Albus Dumbledore, begging him to set things right. When all is said and done, Regulus has watched James Potter and Sirius and all his friends die one by one, has held each of them in his arms until their final breath, until he was the only one left standing.
He has watched them make the same choices, the same mistakes over and over again, the magnitude of their situation somehow always lost on them all—every one of them except Regulus, who has screamed and wailed and burned at the expense of everyone he’s ever loved.
Yet, here he is again. Standing in the same room as the man not quite responsible for it all, but pretty fucking close.
Despite the violent urges thrumming along his spine, Regulus lowered himself into the chair, keeping his hands still on the arms.
Dumbledore gave a small flick of his wand, and a small gust of steam billowed from the two small cups that appeared on glass saucers between the two of them. Regulus kept his eyes glued to his expression, watching him closely as Dumbledore lifted his own cup to sip.
Regulus waited for the usual riddled speech he’d heard three times now, but this time, it didn’t come.
“I always expected greatness out of you, Mr. Black.”
Regulus blinked, caught off guard. His mind snapped into focus, scanning for traps, for hidden meaning, for any indication this was another test. He forced his face neutral, a sharp pulse thudding at his temple.
“And do you know what I’ve come to realize?” Dumbledore’s voice softened, drifting airy and contemplative. His gaze flicked briefly to Regulus’s untouched cup of tea. “Greatness does not always equal capability. It demands sacrifice. And, unless I am mistaken, all your sacrifices seem to lead you right back here—back to this moment. Your... never-ending story.”
“Perhaps you’ve not considered that this is a failure on your part.” Regulus quipped.
“I don’t believe I have, no,” Dumbledore replied, gentle, almost wistful. “I offered you a second chance at life, and somehow you’re here on your third—preparing to ask for a fourth.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t forced this upon me,” Regulus hissed. He leaned forward sharply, palms pressing against the desk, and his teacup rattled, a few droplets spilling onto the polished wood. “I didn’t want blood on my hands. That’s the only reason I’ve done this. The only reason I came to you.”
“Yet here you are again.”
The back of Regulus’s throat was burning. Slowly, he withdrew his hands again, going quiet. He hated that it always played out like this—how Dumbledore knew just what to say to get under his skin, to get inside his head, to get him off track.
Regulus wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, curiosity glinting in the pale blue of his eyes. “That’s what you’ve come for, is it not? To throw all of it away, again? For—”
“Don’t say his name.” Regulus warned, voice low.
A pause. Then: “Mr. Black, I find that the more often we have this conversation, the less sympathy I have for your cause.”
Regulus lifted his head with a dark look, trying his best to keep his hands steady as they gripped the wooden arms of his chair. Every word came out in a bite.
“I’ve followed every single plan down to the last step that you’ve given me. If it truly surprises you I end up back here time and time again, maybe you should ask yourself why.”
“You overcomplicate my instructions.” Dumbledore said firmly, leaning forward. “Just as you’re always nearing the end of my task, you retreat—”
“I won’t let them die for you—I won’t let him die for you—”
“Everything comes at a cost, Mr. Black—”
“Then let me pay for it myself!” Regulus raised his voice, standing from his chair. The quickness with which he stood put him off balance, and his untouched cup of tea spilled as it clattered off its saucer. Regulus took in a sharp, rasping breath, eyes wild as he gripped the edge of the desk again.
Dumbledore’s expression returned to its neutral state as he glanced down at the pooling liquid. He lifted his wand, flicked it once, and the glass china vanished. When he stood from his own seat, Regulus felt rather small. Somehow, he always seemed to forget the way Dumbledore managed to tower above him.
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, the only sound in the room coming from Regulus’s panting. His gaze flickered briefly to Regulus’s hands, which trembled faintly before he stilled them. Then his eyes traveled to Regulus’s face, lingering on the dark circles beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.
“You’re dying.” Dumbledore stated plainly.
Regulus didn’t flinch. He met Dumbledore’s gaze head-on, his expression unreadable. “That’s none of your concern.”
For the first time since Regulus had entered the room, something in Dumbledore’s face shifted. Not pity—Regulus would have recognized that, and resented it—but a thinning of composure, a faint tremor of unease that cracked the mask of effortless omniscience.
“It is my concern,” Dumbledore said quietly. “Because the Vessel’s deterioration determines the reach of the Mortem Tempora.”
Regulus’s fingers curled inward, nails biting into his palms. “Is that hesitation, Headmaster?” He whispered. “After everything—after forcing me into this mess, into your grand design—you’re worried for my health?”
“I believe you know better than to accuse me of sentiment,” Dumbledore replied, though the words were softer than they ought to have been. He stepped away from the desk, hands clasped behind him as he paced a line across the room. “If I hesitate, it is because I must consider the cost of the next collapse. You have returned twice. Your Thread is thin. Mortem Tempora is merciless to those who traverse it too many times.”
Regulus hated the way that sent a chill through him. Hated even more that Dumbledore could see it. He straightened his spine, forcing steel into his voice. “It doesn’t matter what it does to me.”
“It matters,” Dumbledore corrected, turning sharply to face him. “Because if you die before finishing what must be done in the next iteration, the ritual cannot be attempted again. Time will not loop. It will only proceed in the direction it has already shown you.”
Regulus knew exactly what he meant. The future he had already seen, the future where his presence could shift the smallest things, but never the one thing that mattered.
“You don’t need to remind me.”
“No,” Dumbledore agreed, “I do not.” He studied him quietly, his eyes narrowed in thought. “I know what drives you. You forget—I am the Anchor. When the timelines collapse, their remnants collapse into me. Every attempt you made, every choice, every sacrifice you offered or refused… they do not disappear. They return. I see them all.”
Regulus looked away, a muscle near his eye twitching. He hated that even his failures were not private, that each collapse left a map of grief etched into someone else’s mind. He hated that Dumbledore could speak with authority on things Regulus had never spoken aloud.
Regulus steadied his breath. “You question my intentions.”
Dumbledore stepped closer, the lamplight flickering across the deep creases in his face. “I question your adherence to the plan. Not your motives.”
Regulus’s gaze snapped back to him, cold and sharp. “I told you, I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, twice, and it didn’t work—”
“And each of those times,” Dumbledore cut in, “you deviated at the end.”
Regulus’s fingers curled against the polished edge of the desk, steadying himself not because he feared Dumbledore, but because he feared what would happen if he didn’t hold the fury somewhere contained.
“I refuse to walk obediently down the path you’ve drawn when I already know where it ends.” His pulse thundered in his ears. “I won't accept a future where certain people die for your war.”
Dumbledore’s expression barely shifted. A tightening around the eyes, perhaps. A faint dip in his breath. But his voice remained almost tranquil. “It is not my war, Regulus.”
“Oh, but it is.” Regulus scoffed softly, clenching his teeth. “You sit here—” he gestured vaguely toward the countless shelves, the vantage point from which Dumbledore saw everything and risked nothing “—and the entire Order looks to you for direction, for purpose. James Potter trusts you. They all trust you.” He exhaled a bitter, tight breath. “They believe you’re the one person who sees the whole board. They would follow you into hell without asking why.”
He was disgusted at the way Dumbledore’s gaze softened at that, as if touched. It made something ugly twist in Regulus’s chest.
“So when your plans fall apart,” Regulus continued, “when they die—when he dies—how can you tell me it isn’t your war?”
“And what would you have me do?” Dumbledore asked, a thread of steel woven through the velvet tone. “Let the timeline progress unchallenged? Permit unspeakable horrors because you lack the fortitude to see the task through?” His eyes, bright and strangely cold, bore into Regulus. “You want the boy alive. I know that. I have seen it, again and again. But hear me, Regulus: he will not live unless Voldemort dies. No amount of evasion or improvisation will create a world that erases that.”
Regulus stared down at his lap, unable to look at him now.
James Potter has died three times. Regulus had gone back two of those times to prevent it, and both times, he had failed. By now, the shape of the grief, the precise moment the universe collapsed inward, was etched intimately and permanently into the fabric of who he was.
And Albus spoke of fortitude.
When he lifted his head again, his voice was steadier, and quieter. “I know what is required to end this war.” A pause. He let Dumbledore read whatever he wished in his face. “I know.”
What he did not say—what he would not dare say aloud—was that he would not be following Dumbledore’s plan this time. Not again. He had already mapped his own route, every divergence calculated, every risk weighed.
The horcruxes would fall because they needed to. James would live because Regulus would make it so. And the Anchor, for all his omniscience, would not see the paths Regulus had carved too carefully for anyone—even Dumbledore—to trace.
“No deviations,” Dumbledore reminded softly, as if the words alone could bind Regulus. “Not now. Not on this final Thread. You will destroy the horcruxes. All of them, as directed. No bargains. No rescues. No blind leaps toward a single life instead of the world.” His gaze sharpened further. “You will not attempt to rewrite what cannot be rewritten.”
Regulus kept his features still, but something deep inside him curled inward, coiling into a knot of defiance that warmed his blood.
“Your body will not endure another return,” Dumbledore added more quietly. “Understand this—the Mortem Tempora’s final stage is destructive. When it runs its course, your body will collapse. That outcome is fixed.” He closed the book with a soft snap. “There is no future cycle to consider.”
Regulus swallowed once, feeling the dryness of his throat, the static ache along his spine, the tremor that wanted to claw its way into his hands. He forced every trace of weakness down. “Then we don’t waste time,” he said. The steadiness surprised even him. “If this is the last chance, we take it.”
Dumbledore seemed to examine him, now—weighing, measuring, calculating where the boy ended and the instrument began. The knowledge that Regulus might not survive this return long enough to complete anything at all hung silently between them.
Still, he reached his conclusion.
“At dawn,” Dumbledore said at last. “We will prepare the Mortem Tempora.”
Regulus didn’t look at him again. Looking would reveal too much, and Dumbledore already saw too much. Instead he stared at the darkening window, imagining the horizon rolling backward into a past he’d already lived and broken twice. Imagining the moment he would step into the ritual, knowing it would burn the last of his lifespan out from under him.