James
His heart was pounding slightly faster than usual, as he approached the Lestrange Estate's iron gates - before, this had been the 'safe place' per se (despite the manor being as creepy as they came), since they'd been working for its patrons. But now, it seemed like wherever they went, James and Remus were not safe. Both sides were the enemy, on some degree, now, since they didn't truly know who the true suspects were, or if there were any at all. He'd been considering that, perhaps, no one was guilty of foul play in the deaths of Orion and Walburga, and they had just been really unlucky. Remus didn't agree with this pacifist theory of his. He thought that the Black family was all too suspicious as a whole, and that there was no way that no one was responsible for some crime in this entire situation.
Now, pushed by some inherent desire to know everything, to understand the complexities of the situation, a need to know if they were being deceived by either of the sides - or, as Remus thought was the most likely, both sides - their mission had increased in difficulty. Any other pair of detectives, James knew, would have limited themselves to finding any piece of evidence, vague as it was, to try to get the case closed, and gain some sort of recognition. Perhaps they truly were just very shitty at their jobs, not knowing when to stop digging, not knowing what was in their best interest.
But this was it, right? James had always wanted, always craved some sort of mystery, of adventure, something to give his life meaning. Something that would wake him the fuck up, screaming you're alive, James, you're alive, you're alive, you're alive. He thought, years later when he remembered this particular story, the only story he'd ever be able to think about until the day he died, if his self-righteousness, his desire for something more had been one of the exact reasons for which everything else had happened so swiftly. He had never known how to stop.
Now, as they cordially greeted their patrons, informing them of how they'd been gaining the brother's trust and were expecting to acquire some solid evidence or a confession soon, James excused himself to the bathroom, seizing the gift of time Remus had given him. They had agreed that he'd try to hold their patrons off for as long as he could, whilst James quickly tried to find evidence of, well, anything in Rodolphus' study, or the couple's bedroom.
The manor was less of a maze than the brother's home, probably due to the fact that the Lestranges had built their home around a century after the Blacks had - despite trying very hard to, they had never been able to emulate the clear legacy, the history Black Manor breathed. Which didn't mean that the Lestrange's home wasn't fucking huge , and very confusing and frustrating to navigate. James borderline ran, scanning the doors and rooms, trying to find a study, a bedroom, anything. Tic, tac, tic, tac, James, a voice vaguely similar to Regulus' whispered in his head, urging him on. Time was running out, and if he got caught, what the fuck would he say? 'Oh, sorry Mr. Lestrange, I just thought I should take a piss in your hallway, yeah, the one on the other fucking side of the house!'
Just as he began to break into a cold sweat, fearing that he might actually fail at his task, James pushed open a set of double doors, and there it was - Rodolphus' study. The sombre lighting, bookcases creeping up to the ceiling, and the most telling feature, the massive, dark wood desk, that quite literally had a plaque saying "Mr. Lestrange" catching the dim light. There was something almost comical about it, the way Rodolphus seemed to need to assert his authority even in his own private space. But the humour quickly faded as James' eyes scanned the surface of the desk, searching for anything out of place.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady his hands as he approached the desk. The dark wood seemed almost alive under his touch, the grain swirling like something out of a nightmare. This room, it felt like it held its breath along with him. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the curtains seemed magnified, making him hyper-aware of the ticking clock in his head - tic, tac, tic, tac - like a countdown to something inevitable.
James yanked open the drawers with a sense of urgency, rifling through papers that were mostly mundane - ledgers, correspondences, and the occasional bank statement. His hands moved with a kind of frantic efficiency, rifling through papers, opening drawers, looking for... what ? He wasn't even sure.
Then, beneath a stack of seemingly unimportant letters, he found it - an envelope, its contents bulging slightly. James' heart skipped a beat as he pulled it out, his fingers trembling as he opened it. James flipped it open, eyes narrowing as he scanned the text. Financial records, dating back a year, detailing the Lestranges' steep decline. They were on the brink of ruin, he realized, the numbers telling a story of desperation. This alone was enough to raise questions, but it was the second set of papers that made his blood run cold.
Invoices, receipts, records of transactions - insulin, purchased in large quantities from a private laboratory. James stared at the words, feeling the pieces of a puzzle fall into place, yet not quite fitting. Why insulin ? Neither of the Lestranges were diabetic, and even if they were, why would they buy it from a private laboratory, seemingly in secret? Did it even play a role in the investigation? His mind raced, trying to connect the dots, but the picture remained blurred, frustratingly out of focus.
James clenched his jaw, stuffing the documents back into the folder, and made his way to the door. His hand hesitated on the knob, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. This place was suffocating, its walls closing in on him as if the house itself was aware of his transgression.
He couldn't linger. With a final glance around the room, James pushed the door open and slipped back into the hallway, his heart pounding in time with his footsteps as he retraced his path. But the farther he got from the study, the more the weight of those documents pressed on him. Insulin. Financial ruin. What did it all mean?
As he hurried back to where Remus was keeping Bellatrix occupied, his mind was a whirl of confusion. Every interaction, every conversation, replayed in his head with a new, darker tint. He didn't know who to trust, who to believe. But more than that, he didn't know what the hell was going on, and that terrified him more than anything else.
He rejoined Remus, who caught his eye with a quick, questioning glance. James nodded, but it was a strained gesture, the weight of what he carried nearly buckling him. They exchanged a few more pleasantries with Bellatrix, who was a vision of barely concealed irritation - her marital woes making her temper shorter than usual. Her mask of civility slipped now and then, revealing the cracks beneath. James saw it, the way her eyes flashed with resentment whenever Rodolphus' name was mentioned, the way her hand trembled ever so slightly when she poured herself a drink.
But there was no time to dwell on her struggles now. The documents stuffed in his jacket felt like a ticking bomb, and James needed to get out, to breathe, to figure out what the hell was happening. They made their excuses, quickly exiting the estate, leaving behind the oppressive air of the Lestrange mansion.
As they walked away, the chill of the night air bit at James' skin, but it did nothing to clear the fog in his mind. The documents, the insulin - it all felt like a riddle with no answer, and with every step he took, James felt himself sinking deeper into the quicksand of uncertainty. He knew one thing for sure: this was far from over, and whatever game was being played, they were just pawns in something much larger and much darker than they had imagined.
"We need to talk," he said to Remus as soon as they were out of earshot. "I found something. But I don't know what it means."
Remus looked at him, concern etched on his face, and not for the first time, James wondered if they were truly in over their heads.
James' heart was still pounding as he stared at the documents, feeling a deep unease. The pieces were there, but they were fragments of different puzzles, forced to fit into a picture that didn't make sense. It gnawed at him, the knowledge that something crucial was still eluding them.
Remus re-entered the dining room, his face etched with the same tension James felt as he sat by the table. "So, what is it?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably.
"I found these," James said, handing over the documents. Remus scanned them quickly, his frown deepening.
"Insulin? Financial struggles? Why would they even…?" Remus trailed off, glancing up at James with confusion. "This doesn't add up . It doesn't connect with anything we've uncovered so far."
James shook his head, frustrated. "I don't know . I really don't. And then there's the fact that Rodolphus is clearly unstable. You saw it too, didn't you?"
Remus nodded grimly. "Yeah. They were tense as hell tonight. But it wasn't just the usual tension from the entire investigation, was it? It felt… personal. Like they were barely holding it together in front of us."
"Exactly," James muttered. "Rodolphus hitting Bellatrix the other night - it's not just about stress. There's something deeper going on between them, something toxic. And that tension, that volatility, it's seeping into everything around them. But how does that tie into all of this?"
Remus sighed, rubbing his temples. "It could explain why Rodolphus is cracking, but it doesn't explain the insulin, or the financial documents. There's still a piece missing - something we haven't considered," James nodded absent-mindedly, but perked up at the next statement, "We need to check Regulus' lab. It's the one place we haven't really looked into yet, and if anyone's got something to hide, it's him. He's the most guarded of the lot."
And here was the thing. James knew they had to. They were detectives, for fuck's sake. But at the same time, he really, really didn't want to consider the idea of Regulus actually plotting any of this, of having any incriminating evidence - which was stupid, and hypocritical, because that had been what they'd been doing the entire time, wasn't it? But he had this gnawing feeling, this tug in his chest, when he remembered Regulus clinging to him in the lake, Regulus looking up at him through his eyelashes in Sirius' room, Regulus' private glances. Deep in his mind, he truly wanted the brothers to be innocent, for all of it to be a ploy, of sorts. He shook his head, trying to get a hold of himself, "You're right. We've got the warrant already, don't we?" at this, Remus nodded. "Good, then. Whatever's going on, we're getting close to something , but we need to get the whole picture before any of them realises it."
"Alright. Let's go," Remus said, getting up and grabbing the necessary papers from a drawer, alongside his jacket.
"Now?"
"Well, yes. The university doesn't close up until ten, so we've got about three hours to get there and search the lab - besides, Regulus' isn't supposed to be there today."
Uneasy, James nodded. The case was getting under their skin, digging deeper than either had anticipated. And as they stepped out of their house, calling a cab, the night air cold against their skin, both men knew one thing for certain: they were in too deep to back out now.
Regulus
He found himself in a familiar nightmare, one that had haunted him for years. The scene was always the same: the cold, unyielding grasp of water closing over his head, the muffled roar in his ears as he fought for breath. His mother's voice echoed through the haze, a harsh litany of prayers and accusations. "You must be cleansed, Regulus," she intoned, her voice as cold as the water that surrounded him. "Your sins must be washed away. "
He thrashed in the water, his lungs burning, his heart pounding with desperate fear. Just as the darkness began to close in, he felt a hand gripping his arm, pulling him to safety. Gasping for air, he looked up to see James' face, concern etched into his beautiful features. "I've got you, Reg," James said softly. "You're safe now."
Regulus woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, the memory of James' rescue lingering in his mind. The canoe had tipped over during their excursion, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he had been plunged back into his childhood nightmare. But James had been there, pulling him from the water, grounding him in the present.
He sat up in bed, running a hand through his damp hair, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. The house was silent, the stillness only broken by the distant ticking of a clock. Regulus felt a familiar weight in his chest, a gnawing guilt that no amount of prayer could alleviate.
Unable to remain in bed, he rose and pulled on his robe, moving silently through the dark corridors of Black Manor. The walls seemed to close in around him, the shadows playing tricks on his mind. He made his way to the family chapel, seeking solace in the one place where he could confront his demons.
The chapel was a sombre sanctuary, filled with the faint scent of incense and the glow of candlelight. Regulus knelt before the altar, the cold stone floor biting into his knees. He clasped his hands together, the gesture automatic, a habit ingrained from years of forced piety.
He closed his eyes, trying to find the peace that always eluded him. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, a relentless whisper of condemnation. "Recite the Lord's Prayer," she had commanded, her tone brooking no disobedience. He could still feel the sting of her hand when he faltered, the sharp reprimand for every mistake.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he murmured, the words hollow and devoid of meaning. He opened his eyes, staring up at the crucifix that dominated the altar. Christ's tortured visage looked down upon him, a reminder of suffering and sacrifice. But Regulus felt no solace in the sight, only a deep, abiding guilt that festered within him.
He remembered the day Walburga had nearly drowned him, holding his head underwater in the opulent bathtub until he was sure he would die. The memory was as vivid as the nightmare, a scar on his soul that no amount of prayer could heal.
In his mind, the image of James appeared again, his brown eyes filled with a concern that Regulus found disarming. James had pulled him from the water, had been there when Regulus thought he would drown. There was something about James that stirred feelings Regulus couldn't fully understand. A challenge, a puzzle, a dangerous temptation.
James Potter was an enigma. Despite the animosity and manipulation, there were moments of genuine connection that Regulus couldn't ignore. That day by the lake, James had seen him at his most vulnerable, gasping for breath, clawing at the water's surface. In that instant, Regulus had felt something break inside him, a crack in the icy facade he had meticulously constructed.
We wondered, fleetingly, if he was just doomed to be the person that he was. If in his life, because there was a lot of time left before he died, he would be capable of loving somebody. Because he did love Sirius - as much as he was able of loving anyone, anyway. And to this, he felt his chest ache. Would it ever be enough?
Would he ever escape this? Would he ever escape this manor, his past, the way he felt like God himself permanently loomed over him, watchful, judgemental? Sirius would - he knew this, even if his older brother didn't. He had a way of letting things go, a will to live so immense, so powerful, that Regulus knew that he'd fight for himself. He would be happy, find a way to meet somebody, fall in love, forgive himself for his past and move forward. And it was because Sirius was so alive, brimming with strength, with passion. Regulus wasn't. His strength was born in the shadows, in his mind.
He had suspected, for a long time, that he had been born dead.
Regulus' thoughts drifted back to the nightmare, the visceral terror of being submerged, the cold grip of death. He had tried to drown his guilt in cruelty, to mask his fear with calculated coldness. But the memories clung to him, a relentless reminder of his sins. Of the possibility that he was too far gone, that he had been doomed from the beginning to this - to crawling back, miserably, towards divine forgiveness, when he didn't deserve any.
The chapel, with its cold silence, became a mirror reflecting his inner turmoil. Each flickering candle seemed to whisper of his failings, each shadow a spectre of his guilt. He could almost hear the echoes of his mother's sermons, the fire and brimstone that had been a constant backdrop to his childhood. "God sees everything, Regulus. He knows your every sin, your every thought. You cannot hide from Him."
But where was God now? In this house of horrors, amidst the cruel games and the calculated deceit, Regulus felt abandoned, adrift in a sea of his own making. The rituals, the prayers, the penance - it all felt hollow, a mockery of the faith that had been beaten into him.
The image of James' concerned face lingered in his mind. What would James think if he knew the truth? If he saw the darkness that Regulus tried so desperately to hide? Would he still look at him with those kind eyes, or would he turn away in disgust?
Regulus shook his head, banishing the thought. It didn't matter what James thought. He was a tool, a pawn in the greater game. And yet, the memory of James pulling him from the water, the genuine worry in his eyes, gnawed at Regulus' resolve.
As he left the chapel, he cast one last glance at the altar. "Forgive me, Father," he whispered, his voice barely audible. But even as he spoke the words, he knew there would be no forgiveness, no absolution. His sins were too great, his guilt too deep.
He stepped back into the shadows, his mind already plotting his next move. He would keep James close, use his feelings against him, exploit his trust. It was a dangerous game, but Regulus had learned long ago that survival required ruthlessness.
The memories of his childhood, the punishments disguised as piety, had taught him well. He had learned to mask his fear with cruelty, to hide his guilt behind a veneer of cold calculation. But the cracks were beginning to show, the facade starting to crumble.
As he walked through the silent halls, he felt a cold satisfaction creeping in, fighting with his underlying sadness, in knowing that he held the power of life and death in his hands. His mother's teachings had not been in vain; they had forged him into a weapon, honed by guilt and sharpened by cruelty.
And with that, he prepared to face whatever lay ahead, his heart a fortress of ice, his mind a labyrinth of dark intentions. The memory of James' touch, the warmth of his concern, was a fleeting distraction, a weakness he could ill afford.
In the cold, silent depths of Black Manor, Regulus steeled himself for the battles to come, knowing that every move he made was a step further into the darkness. And yet, amidst the shadows, there was a small, flickering light - the memory of a hand reaching out, pulling him from the abyss. It was a light he could not extinguish, no matter how hard he tried. He could still feel the phantom touch of James' hand on his arm, the warmth of his breath as he whispered words of reassurance. It was a cruel irony that the one person who had shown him genuine kindness was also the one who was trying to get him caught.
His thoughts drifted to the Bible, to the tales of sinners and saints, of redemption and damnation. He thought of Judas, the betrayer, and wondered if he too was destined for such a fate. Could he be redeemed, or was he forever damned by his own actions?
He couldn't afford to be weak, couldn't let his guilt cripple him. His path was set, his fate sealed. He would continue to manipulate, to deceive, to maintain control at all costs. He numbed his chest, be quiet, beating heart, can't you see there hasn't been a good use for you since the wretched day you were born?
Remus
The university was a ghost town at this hour, its grand, ivy-clad buildings looming like dark sentinels against the night sky. The only sound as Remus and James walked briskly across the quad was the distant hum of street lights, their flickering bulbs casting long, eerie shadows across the cobblestones.
Remus' heart beat faster with each step, a low, anxious thrum that had settled in his chest the moment they'd decided to go after Regulus' lab. The thought of what they might find, of how deep Regulus' web might extend, gnawed at him. There was a reason they hadn't been able to piece this puzzle together: the missing piece was hiding in plain sight, guarded by a man whose intelligence was as sharp as it was unnerving.
The security guard eyed them suspiciously as they presented the search warrant. His hesitation was palpable, a moment of quiet tension stretching between them before he finally nodded, stepping aside. "I'll have to log this," he muttered, but James cut him off with a curt shake of his head.
"No alerts, no notifications. Regulus Black doesn't find out about this. Understood?" James' voice was low, almost dangerous, and it sent a shiver down Remus' spine. The guard swallowed hard and nodded again, less confident now.
They made their way through the deserted hallways, the sterile smell of the lab floors mixing with the dust of centuries-old academia. Everything about the place felt off - the way their footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence, the way each door they passed seemed to conceal a secret. It was a place where knowledge was power, and power was wielded with precision and care. They were intruders in this sanctum, and they both felt it.
The door to the lab was unassuming, a plain wooden door with a small plaque that read "R. A. Black - Research Laboratory" . The guard unlocked it with a set of keys that jingled in the quiet.
"Good luck," the guard muttered before retreating, leaving James and Remus standing at the threshold of Regulus' domain.
Remus' eyes flicked to James as they approached the lab door, noticing the set of his jaw, the way his hand hovered near his side as if ready to draw a weapon that wasn't there. They exchanged a look, a silent reassurance.
James pushed the door open, and they were met with the cold, antiseptic brightness of Regulus' lab. The dim, warm lights hummed above them, making shadows dance in the room, each object looking enticing, but creepy. The room was immaculate, each piece of equipment meticulously arranged, each note perfectly aligned on the desk. It was the kind of order that spoke of a mind always in control.
Remus' gaze landed on a series of file cabinets along one wall. "Let's start there," he suggested, trying to keep his voice steady.
They moved quickly but carefully, sifting through the files with the urgency of men who knew time was not on their side. Remus' unease deepened as they began their search, rifling through papers, examining vials and jars, their movements quick but methodical. The sense of intrusion was overwhelming, as if the very walls were watching them, judging them for daring to unravel what Regulus had so carefully concealed.
Finally, James froze, a file in his hand. "Remus, look at this," he said, his voice tight with a mix of disbelief and dread.
Remus leaned over to read the documents James had found. It was research - detailed, clinical, and chilling in its implications. The papers outlined experiments, notes, and calculations, all centred on inducing hypoglycaemia. As they read, the pieces began to click into place in a way that made Remus' blood run cold.
"James," he whispered, looking at his friend grimly.
"Hypoglycaemia," James muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. "He…he induced it. He learned how to produce insulin here. This…this is it, Remus. This could be the proof."
Remus nodded, but the confirmation brought no relief - only a deep, gnawing dread. Regulus wasn't just intelligent; he was cunning, calculating. If he was guilty, this wouldn't be just a crime of passion or desperation; it was cold, premeditated murder, orchestrated with the precision of a surgeon.
"Why the hell would he even do this?" Remus muttered, half to himself. "What's his endgame?"
James didn't answer immediately. He just stared at the documents, his face pale. "He's playing a game we don't fully understand," he finally said, his voice low and tight.
They moved quickly, knowing they couldn't stay long. James grabbed a phone sitting on one of the desks, and tried calling the chief, but the line rang endlessly without answer. A curse slipped from his lips as he ended the call. "Damn it. We can't wait."
He quickly dialled Dorcas, his voice clipped when she answered. "It's James. We found something - important, on Regulus' laboratory. Get the chief to call us back as soon as possible. It's urgent ."
He didn't say more, didn't need to. Dorcas would understand the gravity in his tone.
When James hung up, Remus spoke up, "This is bigger than we thought. Regulus isn't just smart - he's dangerous. We need to be careful, James. Whatever his plan is, we're only seeing a fraction of it."
James nodded, the weight of their discovery settling heavily on his shoulders. The night seemed darker now, the shadows deeper, as if the university itself was complicit in the secrets it housed. As they left the lab, the fear they felt wasn't just for the investigation -it was for themselves. Because now, they weren't just hunting a possible murderer - they were being hunted by a mind that was always one step ahead.
The chill of the night air hit them like a wall, but it did little to cool the unease gnawing at their nerves. Remus could feel the tension between them, the unspoken questions hanging in the air, heavy and suffocating.
James walked ahead, his pace brisk, purposeful, but Remus could see the strain in his posture. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, but instead of forming a coherent picture, they only seemed to deepen the mystery.
" James ," Remus called out, catching up to him. "How does this fit with Bellatrix buying insulin?"
James stopped abruptly, turning to face him, confusion written across his features. "I don't know ," he admitted, his voice laced with frustration. "We've got Regulus learning how to produce insulin here, possibly inducing hypoglycaemia on Walburga, but then… Bellatrix? Why the hell would she be buying insulin? And from a private lab, no less."
Remus shook his head, trying to piece it together. "It doesn't make sense. If Regulus knew how to produce insulin, why would Bellatrix need to buy it? Was she in on it? Was she part of the plan, or…or are we missing something even bigger? And what about Orion? Because his death simply cannot be a murder - we found nothing on producing heart attacks, and it's impossible that the brothers could have pulled that off."
The questions felt like they were multiplying, each one leading them further down a path they couldn't fully comprehend. The more they uncovered, the more tangled the web became.
"Maybe," James suggested, the words tentative, "maybe Regulus was trying to cover his tracks, make it look like Bellatrix was involved. Or…what if this has nothing to do with the murders at all? What if it's just him trying to find out how if his mother was murdered, if there was a possibility of the induction of hypoglycaemia? It feels like there's so many possibilities here - the brothers could be guilty, but innocent just as easily. Jesus Christ," James grunted.
Remus sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The uncertainty was maddening. "And what about Bellatrix and Rodolphus?" he asked, his voice dropping lower as he recalled the tension he'd felt in the manor earlier. "They're on edge, more than usual. Whatever's going on between them, it's bad. Rodolphus is losing control - if he ever had it to begin with. You saw how he looked at her, like she was the one to blame for everything."
James nodded, his expression darkening. "I remember. He's hit her before, Remus. I saw it. And tonight, they were barely holding it together. This whole situation… It's tearing them apart."
The silence stretched between them as they considered the implications. The Lestranges, Regulus, the insulin - it all felt like a twisted game, each player moving pieces in a way that made sense only to them. And here they were, caught in the middle, trying to untangle a knot that was only growing tighter.
Black Manor stood more menacing than ever. There was a storm brewing, tinting the skies dark grey, a strong, cold wind almost managing to knock Remus down. The grand house, with its age-darkened bricks, its towers, and stained glass windows, seemed to welcome him grimly, a wolf with its mouth hanging open, waiting for the unknowing prey to walk in.
But the thing was, now Remus wasn't unknowing - or at least, not entirely. The weariness he'd felt for the brothers before seemed to expand itself, about to burst. He was tense, scared for his life, even, because now, hell, he didn't know what to think. He had never properly evaluated the very real possibility that he'd been dealing with potential murderers - sure, he knew, but now the prospect had begun to sink in.
Murder.
It was unfathomable, that people his age could have possibly done such a thing, and to their parents, much less. And the scariest thing of it all, was that if they were guilty after all, then they were exceptionally good at presenting themselves as innocent, at wearing their beauty, their allure, like a smoke curtain. Because that's what it had been. Both Remus and James had fallen for the sickly sweet image they presented, for the riches, the ethereal beauty, the practised charm, and hadn't truly processed the gravity of the situation. But looking at Sirius, at his charming smile, his deep, blueish grey eyes, his easy confidence, how could anyone think of him as anything other than perfect?
And yet, there was still that little voice, that beam of hope that told him that maybe the brothers weren't guilty after all, that Regulus truly had been trying to find out if there was a possibility that Walburga's death had been plotted, that the true culprit of it all was none other than Bellatrix - a much more fitting suspect, with her crazed looks, the violence surrounding her, the plausible motive of wanting an inheritance to save her estate.
He entered the manor, greeted with an unsettling silence. He hadn't expected to simply be let in, but as the creepy, bald old butler approached him, Remus requested for Sirius, and was met with an unwavering look. The man then led him to the library, the air thick with the scent of aged books and polished wood, "Lord Black will join you shortly," he rasped before slinking away, leaving Remus alone in the cavernous room.
The library was a mausoleum of knowledge, lined with towering shelves of dusty tomes and ancient manuscripts. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Remus couldn't shake the feeling that the room was watching him, that the very walls were aware of his intrusion.
He discreetly placed a small recorder in a corner, hidden behind a stack of books, and adjusted the collar of his coat, trying to calm his racing heart. The tension was almost unbearable; he had no idea what he was walking into, or what Sirius had become.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and Sirius entered the room with a languid grace that sent a chill down Remus' spine. Disarming as always, the man walked in, the hint of a smile playing on his lips, tilting his head slightly, allowing the shoulder-length inky black locks to touch his shoulder. Remus' throat went dry - why must he be so beautiful?
"Remus," Sirius drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "What brings you here?"
"I wanted to… discuss some things," Remus replied, his voice steady but his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions.
"Discuss?" Sirius arched an eyebrow as he approached, his presence overwhelming. "We've been good at talking as of late, haven't we?"
He was close now, too close. Remus could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. The air between them crackled with a tension that was both intoxicating and terrifying. The man sat beside him, his presence intoxicating, but Remus slapped himself mentally, speaking up, "Listen, I don't really know how to ask this, but the other day, while looking at your family's heirlooms, I found some… uncanny things."
Sirius raised an eyebrow, "Uncanny, you say? You must make yourself more clear, Remus. Just have a look at this place. Anything could fit that description."
He sighed, trying to divert his gaze from Sirius', but failing miserably, the other man's eyes a spiderweb, enrapturing him, "What I mean, is - Jesus, just how religious were your parents, Sirius?" Oh, well, there went all of his subtlety. Why did he feel like a child, stumbling over himself, whenever the other man simply looked at him? He wished, not for the first time in this mission, that he wasn't so bent.
Surprisingly, Sirius laughed, "How direct," he smiled. "My parents were very devoted to the Lord, in ways I, myself, have never been capable of comprehending. If you found unusual items, I shall ask you to keep any information about them to yourself. I allowed you to look through our things in confidence, you understand," he drawled, subtlety shifting closer, "I'd hate for that trust to be betrayed in any manner."
Remus dragged a hand through his face, frustrated, "I-"
"What is it you really want, Remus?" Sirius' voice was a low, seductive whisper when he interrupted him, leaning in slightly, his lips parting ever so marginally, "You wear your emotions on your face, have you noticed? I appreciate that ever so much, in an environment where honesty is so rare."
Remus' breath hitched as Sirius' hand brushed against his arm, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through his body. He was caught between the pull of his attraction and the cold reality of his mission. He needed information, needed to understand what Sirius and Regulus were playing at - but the way Sirius was looking at him, the way his touch lingered, made it almost impossible to think clearly.
"Don't do this, Sirius," Remus murmured, though his voice lacked conviction. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to maintain control.
"Do what?" Sirius' lips curved into a knowing smile. "You're the one who came here, seeking answers. Or was it something else you were after?"
Remus knew he was walking a dangerous line, that he couldn't afford to be swayed by the desire Sirius was expertly stirring up. But he couldn't deny the magnetic pull, how his body responded to every word and touch.
Just as Sirius leaned in, his breath warm against Remus' neck, the door creaked open again. The butler shuffled in, his bulbous eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The tension in the room snapped like a taut string, and Sirius pulled back, his expression darkening.
"Lord Black," Kreacher croaked, "there's a matter that requires your attention."
Sirius' eyes flickered with annoyance, but he stepped away, breaking the spell. Remus let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his mind scrambling to regain its footing.
"I'll be right there," Sirius said, his tone clipped. He turned back to Remus, his eyes narrowing, "I'll see you around, I hope."
As Sirius exited the room, Remus quickly retrieved the recorder from its hiding place. His hands shook as he examined it, a cold dread settling in his gut. It was devoid of batteries - empty, useless. How the fuck had that even happened?
He stared at the lifeless recorder in his hand, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. This place, this family, was a labyrinth of secrets and lies, and he was hopelessly lost within it. The encounter with Sirius had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and now, with nothing to show for his efforts, he felt the icy grip of fear tightening around his heart.
Regulus
The heart of the fire in Regulus' study reflected in his older brother's grim eyes. Sirius had become slightly restless, drinking more than usual that night, and as Regulus played with the two batteries in his hands, he couldn't help but prod, "Spit it out, Sirius."
His brother sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, avoiding his gaze, "I never really wanted this, you know?"
Regulus cocked his head, "What, the whole mess with Remus and James?"
Sirius laughed, "Oh, no, that's quite alright. I'm having loads of fun, actually."
"So, whatever do you mean?"
"I mean," Sirius sighed once more, taking a pull from the cigarette between his fingers and slowly blowing the smoke out, "I would've liked it to be another way. I imagine you and I if we hadn't been born aristocrats - I'd have tons of tattoos, despite, you know, God apparently being against that, and I'd have a motorbike. Those in which the people in the city go around with, do you know what I mean? I'd do art for a living, and you would probably still be a scientist, you absolute brainiac ," Sirius laughed, but it sounded choked, wet. "We could have been happy, Reg. I never wanted to be Lord Black. I'm not suited for it - I think you would be much better at it, to be honest."
And that was the thing, wasn't it? Regulus had always known it would come down to this, to Sirius wanting to live. He put the batteries down on the little table between them, "Listen. As soon as all of this is dealt with, when we get Bellatrix out of the game, it might be possible. You're not chained here, Sirius. Not any more. You are still young - there's plenty of time to make all of it come true, but not just yet."
Just as he was taking a breath to keep talking, to explain how he believed he should be left behind in Sirius' plans for the future, to tell him that no, he didn't think he'd make it the way his older brother surely would, a familiar, faint ringing interrupted him.
"What on earth could it be now?" Sirius protested, getting up to follow him to the hidden panel.
Ignoring him, Regulus picked up, "Hello?"
"Fun's over, Reg," Dorcas' slightly panicked voice streamed through the speaker. "They've got something, I don't know what, but they went into your lab, and they told me to tell the chief as soon as possible. What the fuck did you even keep there?"
His research.
A cold tremor ran through him, and he was falling, falling, falling…
He'd never been outsmarted like this. He'd been careless, and now, he had to pay the consequences.
"I- are you absolutely sure?"
"Why the fuck would I play about this? Regulus, you have to find a way to push this away. They haven't found you out just yet, but they're very damn close."
Yes, he would pay for this. But not just yet. Not while Sirius was still in the line of fire.
He smiled slowly, the thrill of a plan already brewing in his mind, "My darling, whatever do you mean? This is where it gets really interesting," he replied, and hung up. He turned towards Sirius - his face was a stark shade of white, his eyes slightly wide. "You know what must be done, brother," Regulus said grimly, and to this, his older brother breathed in deeply, steadying himself, his resolve hardening.
"Whatever you deem necessary."
Winter, 1971
The brothers
The month following Orion's death had been a relentless storm, not just outside the walls of the Black Estate but within. The house, once an imposing fortress of lineage and power, felt hollowed out, as though the very soul had been drained from it. Sirius and Regulus had not spoken much of that night, the night their father had died at the bottom of the stairs, his heart twisted by a bubble of air, his fate sealed by the hands of his own blood.
Regulus found himself more on edge than ever, haunted by the echoes of his own actions. The satisfaction he'd felt at watching Orion crumble had quickly turned to a cold, lingering dread. Yet, with each passing day, that dread was tempered by an equally cold resolve. He had tasted power , the kind that came from playing God, from deciding who lived and who died. And now, his mother - Walburga, who had never been a mother to him - was all that stood between him and the silence he craved.
Sirius, in particular, felt the chill most acutely. The death of his father had left a void that was quickly filled with a darkness he couldn't ignore. Walburga, once the terrifying matriarch who wielded power over her sons with an iron fist, had become more erratic, more unstable. The weight of her husband's death had pushed her to the brink, and Sirius could feel her malice growing, sharpening its claws.
She would wander the estate at odd hours, muttering to herself, her eyes wild with grief and anger. The punishments that Regulus had endured as a child - the waterboarding, the forced prayers, the suffocating control - began to resurface in his mind, each memory like a ghost that refused to rest. His nights were plagued by nightmares, but none were worse than the recurring dream of being held underwater, the cold, dark abyss swallowing him whole as he struggled for air, as his mother's voice, cold and unyielding, counted down the seconds.
Three minutes. That was how long she would hold him under, her grip firm and unyielding, her expression one of twisted satisfaction as he thrashed and gasped, his lungs burning for release. It was her favorite punishment, reserved for when he had failed her most grievously. And it was this memory, this specific torture, that had begun to consume him in the weeks following Orion's death. His hatred, once buried deep beneath layers of duty and fear, had begun to fester, and with it, a plan took shape.
The Black Estate was suffused with tension, the very walls seeming to breathe with unease. With Orion gone, Walburga had grown more erratic, her grip on reality slipping as she buried herself in her rituals, her paranoia. Regulus could feel it in the way her eyes lingered on him, as though she suspected, as though she knew .
And then the storm came.
It had been a night like no other - a rare gathering at the Black Estate, with the Malfoys, Lestranges, and others all trapped under one roof by a sudden, violent storm that made the roads treacherous. The winds howled like the souls of the damned, battering the windows, and the lights flickered as if the house itself was frightened.
The gathering had been tense, the conversation stilted. Walburga, ever the dutiful hostess, had put on a façade of calm, but the brothers could see the cracks. They could see how she flinched at shadows, how her eyes darted around the room as if she could sense the noose tightening around her neck.
And in those moments, Regulus felt a dark satisfaction. It was as if the universe had conspired to give him this chance, this moment where he could exact his revenge with divine precision.
As the guests began to retire to their rooms, Regulus slipped away, unnoticed. His heart pounded with a familiar rhythm, a rhythm that had begun the night he had stood over his father's corpse. He made his way to the small room adjacent to the family chapel, where he had hidden the vial of insulin. It was almost too easy.
The house was quiet, the storm outside muffling any sound as he moved through the corridors, his footsteps silent on the thick carpets. He knew Walburga would be in her room, preparing for bed, likely too drunk to notice anything unusual. She had always had a bath before sleep, and the brothers had counted on that.
Sirius stood outside the room, standing guard, ready to alert him of anything. Their eyes had met for a brief moment, exchanging their final thoughts on the matter, and then, silent as a wraith, Regulus slipped into their mother's rooms.
When he reached her door, it was slightly ajar. He could hear the water running, the faint clink of glass as she set down her drink. He waited, his breath shallow, until he heard her sink into the tub with a sigh. This was it.
He entered the bathroom silently, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. Walburga's head was resting against the edge of the tub, her eyes closed, her mind somewhere far away, in a rare moment of peace. For a moment, Regulus hesitated, the syringe heavy in his hand. But then he remembered - he remembered the icy water, the way she had held his head under until he thought his lungs would burst, the way she had smiled as he struggled. He remembered the fear, the helplessness , and now, standing over her, he felt none of those things.
He knelt beside the tub, and Walburga opened her eyes, blinking at him in confusion. "Regulus?" she slurred, her voice thick with alcohol. He said nothing, just leaned closer, his hand steady as he reached out with the syringe. She didn't notice until it was too late, until the needle was already under her tongue, the plunger pressed down.
She gasped, a sound more of surprise than pain, and then her eyes widened in terror as she realized what he had done. Regulus watched as the insulin flooded her system, as her breath quickened, as she began to struggle, her limbs growing heavy. She tried to push herself up, out of the tub, but her body wouldn't respond.
Regulus watched, his emotions a storm within him, as she began to slip away. But it wasn't enough. He needed to be sure, needed to see it through to the end. And then, in a gesture so chillingly intimate, Regulus placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed. It took little effort to hold her down, her strength rapidly fading as the overdose took hold. Walburga's eyes met his, filled with a mixture of disbelief and horror, and for a moment, Regulus thought he might see regret there. But there was none - only the reflection of his own cold, detached gaze. The memory of her doing the same to him as a child flashed in his mind, the fear, the helplessness, the way her voice had sounded as she counted down the seconds.
One… two… three…
He held her there, his grip unyielding, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a moment, just a fleeting one, where he thought he might falter, might pull her up and let her live. But then he remembered the look in her eyes every time she had punished him, the cold satisfaction, the way she had relished his fear.
Four… five… six…
He pushed down harder, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. The guilt, the satisfaction, the fear, the power - it all swirled together in a maelstrom that threatened to consume him.
Thirty-seven… thirty-eight… thirty-nine…
Her body twitched beneath his hands, a final, desperate struggle for life, and then she went still. The water, once rippling with movement, became eerily calm. Regulus held her there for a few moments longer, just to be sure, just to make sure she was truly gone.
Ninety-five… ninety-six… ninety-seven…
The water splashed as she thrashed weakly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Regulus felt nothing as he watched the life drain from her, only a grim satisfaction that justice, his justice, had been served. Divine justice, he thought, his lips curling into a smile as the bubbles ceased and Walburga's body went still.
He stayed there for a moment, his hand still on her shoulder, as though grounding himself in the reality of what he had done. Then he let go, standing up slowly. The room was silent, the storm outside a distant roar. Walburga's head lolled to the side, her eyes open but unseeing, her hair floating in the water like a dark halo.
Regulus wiped his hands on a towel, his mind already calculating how to stage the scene. An accident, he thought. The perfect cover. No one would question it - an old woman, a drunkenly triggered hypoglycaemia, drowning in her own bath. They would be free.
As he left the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him, Regulus felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. The house was no longer cold, no longer oppressive. It was theirs now. All of it was theirs.
Regulus whispered a prayer, not for forgiveness, but for the strength to carry on. After all, God helps those who help themselves.
And Regulus Black had never needed help from anyone.