firecracker ???

REGULUS

Regulus Black had always known how to play the long game.

It was in the silence of his footsteps, the arch of his brow, the cold that clung to his words like frost along the windows of Grimmauld Place. The world saw only his return — the proud son, the chosen heir, the perfect portrait painted in the family tapestry. They didn't know the truth. They couldn't. That was the point.

Truth had never been power. Only perception was.

He sat in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor that summer, legs crossed, gloved hands folded atop one knee as Lucius spoke in low tones about allegiances, movements, and murmurs in the Ministry. Narcissa stood nearby, her perfume like cold roses, watching the fireplace as if it might give her an answer she didn't want to speak aloud. 

Regulus thought about Lyra. He had long since given up trying to protect her from the truth. She had found out anyway.

He had grown up on masks — taught from the moment he could walk that the world was meant to be watched from behind polished eyes. That silence was the highest form of strength. That poise, properly wielded, was more powerful than a curse.

Now, years later, he played the most dangerous role of all: The Dark Lord's dearest follower. 

Voldemort believed it.

That was the only thing that mattered.

The other Death Eaters may doubt him, but he knew they wouldn't do anything. They were scared of him. He was the Dark Lord's favourite, their Lord wouldn't believe what they said over Regulus anyway. 

Not because Regulus was clever — though he was. Not because his aim never wavered — though it didn't. But because every detail had been calculated long before he came back from that cave alive.

Lucius had helped him write the story.

Snape had helped him act it.

Dumbledore had made sure no one else would ever learn the truth.

And the others — Narcissa, Sirius, Lyra, even Harry — had chosen silence.

Family. Legacy. Survival. That was the core of everything. That was the real vow.

Even as Voldemort gathered his strength again. Even as whispers of resurrection slithered through the old crowd. Even as war gathered like a storm on the edge of the horizon.

Regulus had already chosen his side. 

He looked over at Lucius.

Lucius, who spoke not of loyalty but of lineage. Who reminded them, time and again, that they were not soldiers. Not pawns. They were the architects of survival. The empire might crumble, the war might shift — but the Malfoys and Blacks would remain.

Not because they were faithful.

Because they were family.

And it was the only vow that mattered.

The night sky was a bruise above London. Regulus apparated away shortly after he returned home from Malfoy Manor. No one saw him go — not Sirius, who was playing cards with Harry in the living room and not even Kreacher, who simply left his master's cloak by the door.

Regulus met Barty Crouch Jr. in the field outside Little Hangleton.

"Ready?" Barty grinned, wand spinning between his fingers like a knife.

Regulus shot him a smile, the kind they shared when they were still in school together and best mates. Together, they walked up the hill.

The house was silent. The garden overgrown.

The Riddles had lived there for years, the manor smelled of judgment — old money, dead names. Perfect, Regulus thought. A fitting stage.

"Four inside," Barty whispered. "I'll take the one upstairs. It's Master's father." He giggled with glee.

Regulus moved without a word. His wand slid into his palm like it had always belonged there.

He found the father first — hunched in a leather chair, half-asleep, a newspaper draped over his stomach. Regulus looked at him for only a moment.

Then he raised his wand.

"Avada Kedavra."

The light flashed. The man slumped, head cracking softly against the wing of the chair.

Upstairs, a shout, followed by tortured screams — Barty's work. Regulus moved to the next room. The mother was awake, her mouth opening in protest, eyes going wide. It didn't matter.

"Avada Kedavra."

She dropped like the first.

Barty met him in the hallway, wild-eyed and breathless.

"One more," he whispered. "The old man."

Regulus nodded once. His steps were even. Unhurried.

The old man — the caretaker — came last. A thud echoed as Barty did his part.

Four names. Four deaths.

All for one rebirth.

Regulus stood over the bodies. His pulse was steady.

Barty joined him at the door, breathless, flushed. "He'll be pleased. This is the first blow."

Regulus nodded once.

He didn't say that this was the first price or that Voldemort had already paid it.

Barty and Regulus cast the Dark Mark into the night sky in quiet celebration.

-

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, breath catching in his throat.

The dream clung to his chest like smoke.

The house. The bodies. Regulus standing over them — calm, precise, terrifying.

It wasn't just a dream. He knew that now.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, breathing through the tightness in his lungs.

Across the hall, Sirius was laughing at something in the wireless — probably some stupid Quidditch commentary.

But the third bedroom — Regulus's — was empty. Again.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't seen him in days. There was always a new excuse.

Meetings with Lucius. Conversations with Dumbledore. Old debts to settle.

Harry didn't ask anymore. He just waited.

And in the quiet, he worried how Regulus. He was worried he would get caught. He was worried what it would mean for Lyra.

Something in the dream had felt final.

Harry had a terrible feeling that Regulus wasn't just building the fire this time.

He was risking it all and stepping into it.