#brainwashed regulus

Regulus blinked. His head throbbed. His magic felt like it had been bled out—his whole body ached with the hollowness of it, like something precious had been scraped out of his chest and replaced with ice. But worse than that, far worse, was the face standing over him.

Pale skin, dark robes, neat curls. Hands behind his back like a schoolboy. And those eyes, impossible to mistake—obsidian, gleaming with something too intelligent, too calculating to be anything other than monstrous.

"Tom fucking Riddle," Regulus rasped, voice dry as bone. "Back from licking your own mirror, I see."

Tom smirked.

"I should've let them drown you slower."

"Oh, believe me, they tried. Pity your little lake monsters don’t bite as hard as you do."

Tom stepped closer. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Just drank him in like a wine he’d been saving for too long. And touched him.

First, it was just fingers on the chair. Then the back of Regulus’s neck. Then tracing the line of his jaw. Familiar, too familiar. Obsessed.

"You think your little mockery is gonna make me cry?" Riddle asked softly. "That I'm bawlin' 'bout the past that could have been?"

Regulus scoffed. "You're the one who kidnapped me. Dragged me from a watery grave like a jilted ex."

Tom didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

"Look around ya, Black," he said, low and electric. "I’ve been schemin’ this whole time. I got a team, I got a dream—and all I’m gonna do is win."

"Not with that haircut," Regulus muttered.

"You’re in my house. With my rules. In my room. With my tools." He leaned in so close Regulus could see the flecks of red deep in his pupils. "And worse? You’re at my mercy. Cursed to watch me take it all."

"You’ve lost your marbles," Regulus said, calm and slow, "and you kidnapped someone to watch. Riddle, love, you’re spiraling."

"You’ve gone ass up. You’re deep fried. Your last luck has run dry," Riddle snapped, that polished façade cracking. "At last, your check has cashed—and I’d laugh at how small you look—"

"Don't you forget," he growled, fingers curling into Regulus’s collar, jerking him forward.

Regulus looked unimpressed. "You're so obsessed with me."

That caught him.

"I knew you'd need me here. Not dead. Not gone. Here. Your unwilling audience when you finally lose your marbles in act three."

"You’re huffing glue if you think I won’t end this tale a ruler," Riddle hissed. "I’m just like you. Except I’m smarter. Sharper. Brighter. Newer."

"So you’ll keep my smug ass alive why, exactly?"

Riddle gritted his teeth. "To—"

"To show me you’re not a loser?"

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Don’t you forget~"

Riddle rolled his eyes. "Oh, here he goes."

"You ain’t won yet!"

"Ooh, I’m scared~" he mocked, theatrically.

"You still need me like you did before."

"So cute you think I care." Riddle’s voice dropped to a snarl, sharp and soft and poisonous. "Now I’m the master. And you’re my bottomest bitch."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Flattering."

"No more Noble House of Black. No more high and mighty." Tom’s hand ghosted over Regulus’s chest, the spot where the Black family crest used to pulse with his magic. "Now that I flipped the switch."

"You drained me," Regulus said quietly.

Tom didn’t deny it. "I had to. You were dangerous. Powerful. Unpredictable."

"You mean better."

"Though your power’s gone dead," Tom continued, circling him, voice like velvet poison, "you know the show must go on."

He leaned in. Mouth right against Regulus’s ear.

"By the time I’ve had my fun with you…"

His lips brushed the shell of Regulus’s ear.

"You’ll wish that you had stayed gone."

Silence stretched.

Regulus tilted his head, eyes gleaming like stormlight.

"You always were dramatic."

"You always were insufferable."

"You always were in love with me."

Tom froze.

And there it was.

That pause. That tick. That half-second beat where the façade crumbled and the rot underneath came spilling out—rancid and sweet and so very human.

Tom turned slowly. One hand still gripped the chair. The other hovered near Regulus’s neck again, but didn’t land.

"I could’ve killed you," he said. "Let the Inferi rip you limb from limb."

"You still could," Regulus replied, voice low and sure. "But then you wouldn’t have anyone left to impress."

Their eyes locked like dueling blades. The air crackled.

"You think this is impressive?" Tom asked. "Keeping you chained like some curio? This is mercy. This is pity."

"No, Riddle. This is fear."

The strike came fast—Tom’s hand slammed into the chair’s arm beside Regulus’s head, cracking the wood, but he didn’t touch him.

Not quite.

Not yet.

"Say that again," Tom whispered.

Regulus smiled, slow and poisonous. "You’re scared of what I mean to people. What I am. You wanted me gone. But you couldn’t let me go."

Tom’s hand twitched again.

"You’re the boy who would be god. But I’m the prince they loved. And you know they still would."

"You’re nothing. You’re chained. You’re mine!"

Regulus leaned forward as far as the chains would allow. Their foreheads almost touched.

"And yet. You still haven’t broken me."

Their breaths were harsh and hot between them.

"You know I’ll never bow."

Tom’s smile returned, slow and cold and unbearable.

"Not yet."

But the way his hand lingered on Regulus’s throat said otherwise.

The way his eyes dropped to Regulus’s mouth and stayed—that wasn’t power. That wasn’t triumph.

That was hunger.

And Regulus, for once, didn’t smirk.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched.

Watched a monster fall apart from the inside out.

And waited.

Tom Riddle paced like a sermon with legs.

Stone floor. Long strides. Robes whispering as if the room itself leaned in to listen. The chamber was circular, carved from old rock and older intent, the walls etched with wards so ancient they hummed faintly, like a held breath. Candles burned without flicker. Power sat heavy in the air—Regulus’s power, siphoned, filtered, bent.

Regulus watched him from the chair, wrists still bound, posture infuriatingly relaxed for someone who had been dead a day ago and kidnapped by a tyrant with a god complex. He had one ankle hooked around the chair leg. Head tilted. Mouth curled.

Tom stopped mid‑pace and lifted his wand.

A pulse of magic lashed out—not Tom’s usual sharp, cutting spellwork, but something deeper, denser. It rolled like thunder instead of slicing like a blade. The air bowed.

Tom inhaled sharply, eyes lighting up.

“There,” he said, reverent. “Do you feel that?”

Regulus hummed. “Mm. Feels like you borrowed a suit two sizes too big.”

Tom ignored the jab, turning his wrist, experimenting. The spell warped, deepened, threaded with something unmistakably old. Black magic—not dark, not cursed—ancestral. House magic. The kind that remembered names carved into stone and bloodlines bred like weapons.

“Black magic doesn’t behave like ordinary magic,” Tom said, almost to himself. “It doesn’t obey. It recognizes.”

“It recognizes me,” Regulus replied sweetly. “You’re just the bloke wearing my skin.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. He flicked his wand again. The wards flared, answering him—hesitantly, but they answered.

“Soon,” Tom said, turning back to him, eyes bright with fevered certainty, “I’ll be up there. The one and only true god.”

Regulus snorted.

“No more playing house,” Tom went on, voice rising, carried by the room. “Once they’re devout, I won’t need a squad. I’ll climb the stairway up to power, live on every frequency. I always knew the man they’d be praying to was going to be me.”

He stopped in front of Regulus, towering, smug, triumphant.

“Once I get up there—”

“You will fuck it up!” Regulus cut in, cheerful as a knife.

Tom blinked.

Regulus leaned back against the chair. “Just thought I’d save you the suspense.”

“Just watch—”

“You’ll never fill your cup,” Regulus continued, voice lazy, cruel. “You’re broken from the start. No victory’s ever going to be enough for you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Dangerous.

Tom’s smile returned slowly. Carefully.

“We’ll see who’s smiling in the end,” he said softly. “You can say your last ‘I told you so’ while I slit your throat.”

Regulus tilted his head. “You do love dramatics. Is this the part where you expect me to be impressed?”

“I expect you to understand,” Tom snapped. He turned away again, stalking the room, gesturing as he spoke. “You were the only one who figured it out. The only one clever enough to see what I’d done. Horcruxes. Fragmentation. Immortality. You saw it.”

“And I destroyed it,” Regulus said. “You’re welcome.”

“That’s exactly why I need you.” Tom whirled back. “Even without magic—even drained—you’re still dangerous. Academic prodigy. Athlete. Social darling. Charisma dripping off you like sin. People follow you without realizing they’re doing it.”

“Hard not to,” Regulus said. “I’m devastating.”

Tom’s gaze dragged over him—slow, assessing, irritated by how true that was.

“I don’t need your loyalty,” Tom said. “I need your alignment. Your influence. Your face. The heir of the most powerful house in Britain standing at my side.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“I can break you.”

Regulus smiled wider. “You’re fifty. I’m eighteen. And you’re pacing like a man begging his ex to take him back.”

Tom stopped.

The room felt smaller.

“I will use you,” Tom said quietly. “I will learn you. Your magic. Your mind. I’ll carve out whatever I need until you fit.”

“And I’ll still be better than you,” Regulus replied. “Imagine that. No magic. Still winning.”

Tom stepped close again. Too close. Fingers brushed Regulus’s shoulder, then his throat, thumb pressing lightly under his jaw, forcing him to look up.

“You’re everything I should have been,” Tom murmured, almost furious. “Born into power. Loved without earning it. Brilliant without trying.”

“And you’re everything I never want to become.”

Their eyes locked. Old hatred. New tension. Something sharp and electric threading between them that neither acknowledged out loud.

“You could rule with me,” Tom said. “We could remake the world.”

Regulus laughed. Soft. Mocking. Unafraid.

“You don’t want a partner,” he said. “You want a mirror that tells you you’re enough.”

Tom’s grip tightened for half a second—then loosened.

“You’ll come around,” he said, turning away again, voice smooth as poison. “Everyone does.”

Regulus watched him go, eyes bright, smile sharp, utterly unbroken.

And somewhere deep in the chamber, the old Black magic pulsed—patient, watchful—waiting to see which of them would crack first.

Tom Riddle paced like a storm trapped in a bottle, restless energy rattling every inch of the chamber.

He was muttering, half to Regulus, half to himself, and fully to the war he saw unfolding in his mind like a perfect, violent tapestry.

“The Ministry will fall,” he said, more declaration than theory. “Not all at once. Bit by bit. The public won’t even see it. It’ll rot from the inside, the way all good things do.”

Regulus arched a brow, lips curled. “Bold of you to assume they’re any good to begin with.”

Tom waved the comment off. “Yaxley’s already embedded. I’ve got Dawlish’s loyalties locked by debt and blackmail. Mulciber’s father is funding weapon shipments. Travers is organizing foreign wand smugglers.”

He turned to Regulus suddenly, eyes gleaming with calculation.

“I could use you at the next meeting.”

Regulus, bound to the iron chair, smiled lazily like he was lounging on a silk chaise at Malfoy’s estate.

“Oh, love, you already are.”

Tom ignored the comment, resuming his pacing, hands clasped behind his back.

“You’d be ideal,” he muttered. “Perfect.”

He started listing things, walking faster now, manic precision in every word:

“Use your looks. You draw attention even in silence—like a flame. Could send you to charm diplomats. Seduce the sons of politicians. Whisper in the ears of foreign ambassadors.”

Regulus widened his eyes, mock-earnest. “Oh, daddy, you want me to be your little honey trap?”

Tom paused—stumbled, more like it.

His jaw clenched. “I want you useful.”

“Say ‘honey trap’ just once. C’mon. Do it. It'll be so cute.”

Tom growled and turned away.

Regulus snorted, delighted.

“You could run training camps,” Tom snapped. “You were a star Seeker, weren’t you? Fast. Sharp. Merciless. You could build an elite guard.”

“Out of what?” Regulus asked, leaning forward as much as the chains would allow. “Inbred sociopaths with half a brain and three full Daddy issues?”

“You’re in no position to mock anyone’s daddy issues.”

Regulus grinned wide. “Touché.”

Tom ignored him again, resuming his internal spiral.

“Academics—plans—strategy,” he listed under his breath. “Pureblood networks. The Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Blacks command everything. And if I had you at my side—”

“—you could attend every Gala and be the prettiest girl at the party.”

“I could crush the resistance,” Tom snapped, whirling to face him.

“Baby,” Regulus purred, “you’re already crushing on me.”

Tom stared.

Just stared.

Processing.

He blinked once.

Then again.

Then, slowly, painfully, realization dawned. And fury came with it.

“You’re toying with me,” he said through gritted teeth.

Regulus crossed his legs where he could, lounging in the restraints like they were velvet ropes and he was center stage.

“You’re just now catching up?” he cooed.

“I will break you.”

Regulus tilted his head, gaze coy. “You’d have to take me to dinner first.”

Tom turned, growling, hands flexing like he couldn’t decide whether to throttle Regulus or fling something across the room. A jar did levitate briefly—trembled midair like it, too, wasn’t sure what the hell was happening—and then gently dropped back down.

“You’re a child,” Tom snapped.

“I’m eighteen,” Regulus said, smug as hell. “And clearly I’m still too old for your emotional maturity level.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“You’re smug now. But you’ll tire. You’ll slip. I’ll find the angle. The chink in the armor. Everyone has one.”

“Oh, I’ve got chinks,” Regulus said, fluttering his lashes, voice dripping with filth. “They’re just not the kind you can handle.”

There was a clang—Tom’s fist slamming into the wall.

A thin crack spidered across the stone.

“I hate you,” he hissed.

“No, darling.” Regulus licked his bottom lip. “You wish you did.”

Tom was breathing hard now. Like he’d just come off a battlefield.

He turned back to Regulus, hands trembling with the effort it took not to hex the smirk off that infuriating face.

“You’re wasting your breath,” Regulus said, feigning a yawn. “You’ll never get me on your side.”

Tom’s voice dropped to a cold whisper.

“You will stand beside me.”

“And what?” Regulus said with a grin. “Be your arm candy? Your death queen? Your little wicked consort?”

He licked his teeth and added, “You could dress me in black. Put me in heels. Make me your dark bride.”

Tom stared.

Something short-circuited behind his eyes.

Then—

“GET OUT!” he roared at no one in particular.

There was no one else there. Just him. And Regulus. And the echo of Regulus’s laughter, spiraling through the chamber like music in a cathedral.

Loud.

Unbothered.

Victorious.

Regulus leaned back, smiling like the devil in the middle of a coup.

“Gods,” he sighed, eyes glinting. “I’m gonna have so much fun breaking you.”

Tom Riddle was circling again, like a snake skimming the edges of its prey’s cage, tasting the air.

Only now he wasn’t pacing aimlessly—he was studying. Calculating. Eyes locked to the figure in the chair, body held tight by enchanted rope, black hair messy but regal, dark eyes shining with the kind of wild mischief that should never have survived death. He was watching the problem.

Regulus Arcturus Black. His most precious complication.

“…Torture won’t work. Too proud,” Riddle muttered under his breath, barely audible. “Break the body and he’ll just get cockier. Masochistic little shit…”

Regulus was barely listening. His wrists were twisting subtly, thumb hooked under the edge of a loop. The rope gave just the faintest shift. One strand loosened. Just a little more—

Tom walked past him, still talking.

“Maybe isolation. Starve the ego. Cut him off from sound, sight, touch. Turn the charisma inward—make him crave attention.” He paused. “No. Too risky. He’d start monologuing to the rats and still think he’s winning.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and flexed his thumb again, rotating his hand like a joint in a lock. The rope shifted once more. Almost there. If he could just twist—

“Humiliation?” Tom muttered. “No… he’d enjoy that. Would taunt me while naked in chains.”

“You say that like it’s a punishment,” Regulus murmured under his breath, still not looking up.

Tom froze mid-thought.

A long silence passed. Then:

“Seduction,” he said suddenly. “He’s too sexual for his own good. Probably expects everyone to want him. He’s used to control.”

He turned.

Regulus was still struggling. Still distracted. Almost had it—

A hand slammed around his jaw.

Cold fingers. Pale knuckles. That unmistakable scent of expensive parchment and rot.

Regulus flinched back, but the hand tightened, forcing his face upward.

Tom was grinning.

“Oh?” Regulus purred faintly, voice unsteady from surprise. “You finally working up the courage to kiss me?”

But before he could say more—before he could tug free, or twist his hand completely out—

PSSSSHT.

A sharp hiss of magic erupted from Tom’s wand. A silver mist blasted into Regulus’s face, cold and heavy, thick as perfume, laced with something that stung the eyes and numbed the brain.

He jerked, gasping.

And then blinked.

And blinked again.

“…What the fuck was—”

His words stumbled over themselves. The sentence broke apart in his mouth like glass underfoot. He felt dizzy. Cold in his spine, warm in his skin. His lips parted, then closed again. Head swimming.

Tom was already leaning in.

So close.

So soft.

“You don’t want to fight me, darling,” Tom whispered, tone suddenly silken and low, like venom wrapped in satin. “You want to serve me.”

Regulus twitched.

“I…”

“You want to stand beside me. Worship me. Be my fiercest believer. My shadow. My flame.”

A fog settled over Regulus’s mind like a blanket dropped over a caged bird.

“I… don’t…” he murmured.

“You admire me,” Tom whispered, brushing Regulus’s hair back. “You respect me. You need me.”

“No…”

“You ache to make me proud. You crave my approval. You want to earn your place at my feet, eyes full of awe, breath catching when I enter the room.”

Regulus whimpered faintly, body slackening in the chair.

“You’ll be mine,” Tom hissed, eyes gleaming. “Clingy. Devoted. Obedient. Flushed and flustered by my presence. You’ll beg to serve the Death Eaters. You’ll demand it. You’ll thank me for the privilege.”

The mist hung heavy in the air, sparkling as it began to fade. Regulus’s head lolled, lashes fluttering, lips parted just enough to show the barest edge of teeth. His eyes rolled slightly, unfocused, confused.

“You’ll tell the others. You’ll speak of me like a god. You’ll say I’m everything. You’ll kneel. You’ll kneel,” Tom breathed, feverish with it now, pacing around the chair, voice cooing, reverent, deranged. “And when you wake, you’ll feel it. You’ll feel your purpose. You’ll smile when you hear my name.”

Regulus gave one last twitch.

Then slumped.

Unconscious.

Breathing shallow. Skin flushed. Body limp in the ropes he’d nearly undone.

Tom stood still.

Staring down at him.

Then he began to laugh.

Not softly.

Not politely.

But wild and sharp, echoing off the stone walls like thunder in a tomb.

The kind of laugh that heralded the rise of gods. Or the fall of kingdoms.

The mist settled.

The chamber pulsed with ancient magic.

And Regulus Black—heir to the most powerful house in Britain—dreamt of silver eyes and whispered orders in the dark.

Regulus woke to silk.

Not the suffocating cold of stone. Not chains. Not the metallic taste of old magic on his tongue. Silk—cool and sliding against his skin, perfumed faintly with myrrh and something darker, richer. Incense, maybe. Or blood, if one knew how to listen for it.

He groaned and rolled onto his side. The room swayed.

“—fuck,” he hissed, clutching his head as a spike of dizziness lanced through him. “Merlin’s tits, what did you—”

His voice echoed too softly. The ceiling above him was high and draped, fabric falling in lazy arcs like a tent pitched for royalty. Candlelight glowed warm and gold. This wasn’t a cell.

This was a bedchamber.

He pushed himself upright, blinking hard. His hands—unbound—caught the light. Rings glittered on his fingers. Bracelets chimed at his wrists. A collar—ornate, dark metal etched with sigils—rested cool at his throat.

He looked down.

“…You have got to be kidding me.”

Gone were his robes. Gone were his boots. In their place: a cropped top of sheer black fabric, bell sleeves split open at the sides; low‑rise trousers that flowed like smoke and clung tight at the ankles; bare feet on woven rugs; chains and gems and a veil pooled beside him on the bed.

He dragged a hand down his face. “Riddle, you absolute pervert.”

The dizziness faded to a low hum. Annoyance replaced it. That familiar, razor‑sharp edge slid back into place.

Regulus swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, swayed once, then steadied. He stalked toward the door, jaw set, irritation buzzing under his skin like static.

The corridor beyond was dim and winding, lit by torches set into black stone. He moved quietly, senses sharpening, slipping into that old, practiced stillness. He was good at this. Always had been.

Then—

thump.

His back hit something solid. Warm. Broad.

He whirled, already snarling—

—and froze.

Tom Riddle stood there.

Tall. Immaculate. Dark robes pressed and perfect. One brow lifted in mild amusement, eyes alight with something sharp and satisfied.

Regulus’s gaze glazed.

Just for a heartbeat.

The world tilted. The hum in his chest surged, then settled, rearranging itself into something new—something aligned. His breath hitched. His shoulders went slack.

Tom didn’t move. He waited.

Regulus blinked.

His eyes cleared.

He gasped softly—then smiled.

Not defiant. Not mocking.

Coy.

“Oh,” he murmured, voice suddenly warmer, breathier. “There you are.”

Tom’s breath caught, just barely.

Regulus stepped forward, brushing his fingers along Tom’s arm as if drawn there by instinct, then curled both arms around it and hugged it tight to his chest. He pressed close, cheek against Tom’s shoulder, lashes fluttering as his cheeks flushed a soft, dangerous pink.

Tom shuddered when Regulus shifted, one of Tom’s hands sliding—almost without conscious thought—to rest between Regulus’s thighs, grounding him there. Regulus leaned into it, clinging closer, a quiet, pleased sound slipping from his throat.

Tom’s arm wrapped around him fully now, possessive and smug.

It had worked.

“Regulus,” Tom said, testing. “Do you know who I am?”

Regulus tilted his head up, eyes bright. “You’re my lord,” he said easily. “My cause. The future. The only one clever enough to remake this world properly.”

Tom smiled, slow and sharp.

“And where do your loyalties lie?”

“With you,” Regulus replied without hesitation, tightening his grip. “With the Dark. With what we’re building. I’ll burn anyone who stands in your way.”

There it was. Fierce. Righteous. Still him—but pointed in a new direction.

Tom’s chest rose with a satisfied breath.

“And if I command you?”

Regulus’s lips curved, playful and wicked. “Then I’ll do it,” he said, batting his lashes. “And probably look better doing it than you.”

Tom huffed a laugh, stunned despite himself.

“You’re still mouthy.”

“Obviously,” Regulus said, fingers curling into Tom’s sleeve. “I just… know who deserves it now.”

They stood too close. Forehead to forehead. Breath mingling.

Regulus looked up—and then, without warning, rose on his toes and kissed him.

Soft at first. Testing.

Tom froze for half a second—then groaned, hand tightening at Regulus’s waist as he melted into it, returning the kiss with a hunger he hadn’t expected. Their mouths moved together, unhurried but charged, breath warm, the world narrowing to the press of bodies and the crackle of power between them.

Regulus relaxed fully against him, one hand gripping Tom’s arm, the other sliding—slow, deliberate—across Tom’s stomach beneath the robes, tracing heat and tension and promise.

Tom deepened the kiss, tongue brushing, holding Regulus close like something claimed and cherished all at once.

When they finally parted, Regulus stayed tucked against him, smiling up with flushed cheeks and parted lips.

“See?” he murmured. “Told you I’d be useful.”

Tom rested his forehead against his, victorious and breathless.

“Yes,” he said softly. “You will be.”

It had been days.

Long enough for the magic to root itself like ivy in the walls of Regulus’s mind. Long enough for the haze to clear and for the certainty to remain. He still smirked the same. Still teased and purred and drawled with that sharp little tongue. But now he meant it when he pressed his lips to Tom’s palm. Now he meant it when he curled up in the older man’s lap and cooed against his throat, murmuring about destiny and domination in the same breath.

There had been no snap-back, no fight, no rebellion. The spell hadn’t just taken. It had thrived.

And Tom Riddle was nothing short of glorious with it.

He had tested Regulus, again and again. Ordering him to ignore, obey, kneel, sass, command, question. Regulus had done it all, fiercely and flawlessly, still every inch the arrogant, brilliant boy he’d always been—but now aligned. Loyal. Obsessed.

Devoted.

Which made the timing perfect.

The next Death Eater gathering was being held in the ritual chamber beneath the forest chapel—neutral ground, but sacred. All the Inner Circle would be there. And tonight, for the first time, they’d see what their Lord had claimed.

Tom stood in front of the mirror with Regulus nestled behind him, arms around his waist, nose buried under the collar of his robes.

“Shall I wear the veil again?” Regulus purred.

Tom’s lip twitched.

“No. Let them see your face when they fall to their knees.”

He turned and dragged silk and gold across Regulus’s bare skin. Black and silver, sheer and decadent: cropped, sleeveless top that tied at the front, more jewelry coiling down his arms, tight bangles and open sleeves trailing like water. Loose silk trousers, cinched at the ankles, soft and floating. No shoes. Anklets instead. His feet were marked in ash and rune.

A collar of carved obsidian clasped around his throat.

A sigil had been added to it.

One only old magic could see.

The Binding had been done in private. Sacred words. Cut palms. Kisses across hearts. Regulus, smiling as he repeated his vows in perfect ancient Latin. Tom, murmuring his claim, his magic drinking deep from the connection until he could feel Regulus like a second skin.

The House of Black was now his. Through blood. Through bond. Through Regulus.

It was time.

They Apparated to the chamber steps, Tom’s arm wrapped tight around Regulus’s waist, his husband pressed close at his side. The hall was already full—Death Eaters in dark robes, all heads bowed toward the center as they waited for their Lord to appear.

When the doors opened, every voice stilled.

Every. Single. One.

And then they saw him.

Regulus Arcturus Black.

Alive.

And not just alive—but radiant. Adorned like royalty, wrapped in shadow and silk, glowing from within. Head high. Collar gleaming. Tom Riddle beside him, hand resting possessively on his hip, leading him forward like a god with his most beloved offering.

Gasps. Stares. Crushed whispers.

“What the fuck—” “That’s Black, that’s fucking Regulus—” “Wasn’t he—? Didn’t he—?” “He’s—married—”

Lucius Malfoy’s jaw dropped slightly. “Oh, bloody hell,” he whispered, rubbing his temples. “How the fuck am I going to tell Narcissa…”

Barty Crouch Jr made a choked, wheezing laugh. “He’s wearing bells!”

Evan Rosier actually took a step backward.

The Lestranges were frozen, wide-eyed.

Bellatrix, however, beamed.

“My baby cousin!” she crooned, practically skipping over to press her hands to Regulus’s cheeks. “You look gorgeous. Oh, you wicked little minx—I knew you had it in you.”

Tom sat in the central throne-like seat at the head of the chamber, dragging Regulus with him—not to the seat beside, but onto his lap. He perched there with effortless grace, one arm around Tom’s neck, one around his waist, legs curled elegantly over his thigh.

Tom’s hand rested low on Regulus’s stomach. The other dropped to his thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the silk.

The room watched, stunned.

“As you can see,” Tom said, his voice smooth and low, “the rumors of Regulus Black’s demise were… premature.”

“And very sexy,” Regulus added with a wink.

Several Death Eaters looked like they were short-circuiting.

“Regulus is not only alive,” Tom continued, “but mine. Bound to me by the oldest rites. Loyal to the cause. His gifts now serve us.”

“I’ll be overseeing your training,” Regulus said sweetly, legs crossing as he leaned forward in Tom’s lap. “Some of you are frankly embarrassing in a duel. Expect bruises.”

“Recruitment as well,” Tom added. “He’ll be assisting with diplomatic missions, negotiations, and…” He glanced down, smirking. “Strategic persuasion.”

Regulus purred, brushing a hand over Tom’s shoulder. “Seduction, darling. Just say seduction.”

There was a strangled sound from Avery.

“However,” Tom said darkly, voice dropping, “he is not to be touched. Not looked at. Not dreamed of.”

His hand squeezed Regulus’s thigh. Hard.

Regulus gasped, head tipping back with a breathy whimper.

Tom’s hand dragged that thigh up over his own, spreading him across his lap.

“I do the taking,” Tom growled.

“And I do the moaning,” Regulus sighed, nuzzling into his neck. “And the teasing. And the demanding.”

“I should gag you.”

“You tried. I liked it too much.”

“Merlin’s fucking balls,” muttered Mulciber.

“Does Narcissa know about this?” Lucius asked no one.

“No,” Bellatrix said, grinning ear to ear. “And I’m not going to tell her.”

Snape looked like he might vomit.

“I’ve never been so confused in my life,” Peter whispered to Karkaroff.

Regulus, meanwhile, was lazily tracing the edge of Tom’s robes with one hand and raising the other to speak.

“If I may?” he said, all polite and poisonous.

Tom nodded, amused.

Regulus turned to the rest of the room. “Your current infiltration plans are laughable. Whoever thought up the ‘Ministry janitor’ idea needs to be launched into the sun.”

Crabbe Sr looked offended.

Regulus continued, “Instead, I suggest we utilize Diagon Alley’s upcoming Gala and target the St. Mungo’s Board of Governors. Several of them are purists and very corruptible.”

The room went silent.

Then Dolohov nodded, slowly. “That… would actually work.”

Tom smiled.

“You see?” he murmured, lips brushing Regulus’s ear. “Useful.”

Regulus leaned in, smiling wide, proud and coy and dangerous.

“Anything for you, my Lord.”

The meeting had long since devolved into glorious chaos.

Plans were being discussed, sure—but barely. The real focus was Regulus Black, lounging like a cat in his Dark Lord’s lap, smug as ever, dressed like a sin-soaked altar boy and armed with a venomous smile.

And the Death Eaters?

They were spiraling.

Evan Rosier kept giggling like a madman, practically vibrating in his seat. Every time Regulus shifted his legs across Riddle’s thigh, Evan wheezed louder. Barty Jr had resorted to elbowing him repeatedly, eyes flicking between the newly devoted prince of darkness and the shattered psyches of everyone around them with a grin that said he might combust.

Lucius Malfoy was sweating.

Visibly.

He sat three seats down, dabbing his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief and muttering furiously under his breath.

“I’m going to have to tell Narcissa. I’m going to die.”

Across the table, Rodolphus Lestrange whispered, “Just lie.”

“Lie? About her baby cousin straddling the Dark Lord in silk trousers? Wearing bells?”

“She likes bells.”

“I’m going to die.”

Bellatrix, meanwhile, was thriving.

“My darling baby cousin,” she crooned, clapping her hands as Regulus suggested assassinating a governor by slipping powdered banshee bone into his morning tea. “So inventive! I knew you’d be special.”

Regulus winked at her over his shoulder.

And all the while, Tom sat at the head of the table, one hand draped lazily around Regulus’s waist, the other still anchored low on his thigh. His expression was pure satisfaction—righteous, smug, possessive.

And then—

It happened.

Crabbe Sr grunted from the far end of the table, arms crossed, scowling like he’d swallowed something sour. “He’s not a fighter,” he muttered, clearly thinking no one would hear. “What’s he going to train? Fashion duels?”

The room stilled.

Every. Single. Person. Froze.

Tom’s eyes cut to Regulus. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just nudged his chin slightly toward the source of the insult.

“Go.”

Regulus perked up like a dog hearing a bell.

His entire demeanor snapped from silken flirtation to soldier in motion. He slid from Tom’s lap, knees first, then rolled half across the meeting table in one graceful twist—spilling a goblet of firewhisky and kicking over a stack of maps in the process.

“—wait, what is he—” someone began.

Regulus cartwheeled.

Right over the stunned heads of the Lestranges.

Then flipped into the air, twisted sideways mid-air in a perfect spiral, and—

SLAM.

His legs wrapped around Crabbe Sr’s neck in a brutal scissor kick.

The man barely had time to blink before his entire body was yanked off the ground and crashed onto the stone floor like a sack of bricks.

There was a deafening silence.

Regulus didn’t pause.

He wrestled Crabbe down with the skill of someone who had very clearly been training in secret for years. Hands snapped into motion—one arm twisted behind Crabbe’s back, the other pinned under Regulus’s knee. He leaned forward, breathing evenly, face right next to the older man’s ear.

“I could break both your shoulders right now,” he said sweetly. “Or just one, if you’re feeling repentant.”

Crabbe didn’t speak. He wheezed.

Regulus smirked and looked up toward the table, where every single Death Eater had either backed up or gone completely still.

“Well?” he called. “Am I weak?”

Someone coughed in terror.

Tom stood, one hand raised.

“Return.”

Regulus instantly perked up.

He released Crabbe with a little shove and a playful tap on the shoulder, bounced to his feet like a gymnast finishing a routine, and skipped back toward the table.

Everyone watched, gobsmacked, as he beamed and launched himself back into Riddle’s arms like nothing had happened.

Tom caught him easily, pulled him flush against his chest, and wrapped both arms tightly around his waist.

Regulus hummed happily and clung back, head resting against Tom’s shoulder, looking far too pleased for someone who had just assaulted a war general with his thighs.

“Good boy,” Tom murmured, kissing the top of his head.

The room lost its mind.

Evan collapsed backward in his seat, wheezing, “I can’t—I can’t breathe—he just crushed Crabbe with his thighs and cooed.”

“Is he purring?” Karkaroff whispered, eyes wide.

“Of course he is,” Barty grinned. “That’s the Dark Lord’s husband.”

Snape looked pale. Bellatrix clapped again, delighted. “That’s my favorite cousin.”

Crabbe Sr groaned from the floor, still unable to move his arms.

Tom just smiled into Regulus’s hair.

And Regulus—smug, brilliant, gleaming with power—smiled back with the satisfaction of a boy who knew he had just become the most dangerous, worshipped creature in the entire room.

It had been twenty-three days since the Ministry fell.

Twenty-three days since the last great fire swallowed the Department of Mysteries and the Dark Mark curled itself around the rooftop like a crown.

Twenty-three days since Regulus Black, declared dead in absentia, had emerged from shadow at his husband’s side—smiling like a prince at his coronation, eyes glittering beneath a jeweled veil, hand in Tom Riddle’s.

The magical world had barely begun to understand what that meant.

And tonight, they were going to choke on it.

The gala was held at the newly renovated Atrium—a palace of enchanted marble and obsidian that still carried the scent of smoke and revolution. The Fountain of Magical Brethren had been replaced with a single obsidian monolith, etched with runes in every language. It pulsed faintly, alive with power.

Around it, the elite of the new world order gathered: purebloods who'd chosen survival, diplomats with trembling smiles, foreign delegates sizing up their new overlord. The Prophet was there, enchanted cameras blinking, quills skittering across golden scrolls. Reporters whispered.

"He’s actually alive—" "Look at him—what is he wearing—" "That’s the Dark Lord’s husband."

Regulus was on display.

Draped in deep crimson and gold, cropped robes lined with runes and stitched from sheer fabric that caught the light and clung just enough to hint. His sleeves trailed behind him like fire. His waist was wrapped in a golden chain-belt, hips moving with decadent precision. Rings flashed on his fingers, his collar was carved obsidian etched with silver.

No shoes.

Just bells and magic and bare, inked feet against the Ministry floor.

And every step he took was with Tom—arm in arm, Tom in full ceremonial robes, pale hand resting firmly on Regulus’s lower back as they cut through the crowd like a knife through silk.

They passed through pockets of stunned silence and frenzied whispers.

Tom greeted dignitaries with cool charm, nodding, smiling thinly.

Regulus followed, trailing fingertips along glasses and jacket buttons and the edge of one trembling ambassador’s tie. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. But he smiled.

He smiled like he knew the world was his playground now.

Like he'd already won.

Later, once the crowd had been fed and boozed and softened with flattery and threat, Tom returned to the center of the ballroom—Regulus still tucked into his side, lips near his ear.

“Are you ready?” he murmured.

Regulus’s grin stretched.

“Always.”

Tom stepped forward and raised a hand. Music stilled. Conversation faltered. Heads turned.

“My honored allies,” he said, voice echoing through the vast enchanted room. “Tonight, I offer more than speeches and wine. I offer you a vision—the face of the future you are now a part of.”

He looked to Regulus.

“Show them.”

And then Tom stepped back.

Regulus stepped forward.

The band started behind him, slow and smoky, all strings and velvet brass. The light dimmed, magic focusing its gaze on the singular form at the center of the marble floor.

Regulus closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and sang.

His voice was soft at first, warm and winding, like silk sliding down bare shoulders.

"It’s been so very long… since Lady Luck kissed you..." "Still, you listen for her song, and pray that she missed you…"

The room swayed. Literally—magic rippling like smoke through the air as eyes locked onto him, some wide with shock, others hungry with fascination.

"Dead inside 'cause you know it’s all pretend…" "Close your eyes 'cause you’re goin’ off the deep end again…"

Regulus stepped forward, slow and sure, hips rolling in rhythm. His fingers brushed down the shoulder of one high-ranking Romanian diplomat, who choked softly on his wine.

"You’re livin’ for the rush… for that royal flush…" "But you take what you can get…"

He dragged a finger along the edge of a table as he passed, circling another cluster of nobles, dancing on the balls of his feet.

"You play your final ace… for a pretty face…" "Tastes like scotch… and cigarettes…"

A swirl, a spin, eyes glinting. He moved like water, like fire, like he was made to be watched.

"And you can’t help fallin’, goin’ all in—" "Though your odds are bleak…" "‘Til you break your losin’ streak…"

He smiled then. That coy, knowing, dangerous smile.

Gasps echoed through the room.

And still he sang.

"You’re livin’ for the rush, for that royal flush…" "But the next best thing will do…" "You wanna spend your chips… on these rosy lips…"

He stopped in front of a particularly stubborn councilman from the French Ministry. Lowered to a crouch. Breathed the next line into his ear.

"Tryin’ to get me next to you…"

The man shuddered. Visibly.

Regulus stood. Slow. Languid. Smirking.

"’Cause you can’t help needin’… to believe in…" "Findin’ what you seek…"

The final note came soft. Sweet. Deadly.

"‘Til you break your losin’…" "Good luck out there, boys~"

The room exploded.

Cheers. Applause. Shocked laughter. A few glasses shattered from dropped hands. And dozens of eyes turned to Tom Riddle—offering hands, promises, allegiances. The resistance in the French Ministry folded. The Swiss delegates asked to speak in private. The Irish envoy declared the future belonged to him.

It worked.

Regulus made his way back through the parting crowd, eyes low, lips curled, hips swinging with every step. Tom was already waiting at the edge of the floor, arms open, face dark with hunger and pride.

Regulus reached him and fell into his arms, arms around his neck, body flush against him, legs almost curling up. Tom caught him. Held him tight.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered.

“I’m yours,” Regulus replied, brushing his lips against his jaw. “Did I do good?”

Tom kissed him. Not sweet. Not polite.

Possessive.

The Prophet got the photo, of course. It would be on every front page tomorrow.

“THE DARK LORD’S STAR: REGULUS BLACK RETURNS” “HOUSE OF BLACK UNITED WITH POWER” “THE DARK LORD’S HUSBAND BREAKS THE WORLD’S HEARTS”

And behind all of it, Regulus smiled.

A little prince of shadow and song—dripping in magic, full of fury and fire, kissed by darkness and kissed by power.

And absolutely in control.

The air in the drawing room was thick with tension and sweat.

Witches and wizards sat crammed around the long, dark table, stacks of parchment and half-drunk tea cups cluttering the surface, while soot-streaked maps of Britain hovered above them. Pins glowed red in all the wrong places—more each day. Reports were scattered, voices rising and falling, battles lost, friends gone missing. Another safehouse compromised. Another raid that ended with bodies on the floor.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Marlene McKinnon said, frowning, wand tapping against the rim of her cup. “We’re smarter than this. Faster. We’ve got Minnie and Moody running ops—how are they still ahead of us every damn time?”

Moody grunted in agreement, the scars on his face twitching with irritation. “They’ve been anticipatin’ every bloody move. Like they’re inside the room.”

“We’ve already swept for spies,” Emmeline Vance muttered. “Double-checked communication charms. Nothing.”

“Then it’s not us,” said Benjy Fenwick grimly. “It’s them. They’ve got someone smarter.”

James Potter leaned back in his chair, dark eyes narrowed behind smudged glasses. “They’ve always had a brain behind the brawn. We just didn’t think they’d use it like this.”

“Maybe it’s Snape,” Dedalus Diggle suggested from the far end. “He was a bloody prodigy. Real quiet, all the time—but clever. Top marks.”

“Snape’s not a leader,” Lily said sharply. “He’s a follower. Always has been.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

Hestia Jones sighed, flipping through a stack of crumpled editions of The Daily Prophet. “There has to be someone coordinating it all. The timing. The strategy. It’s too—” Her sentence stopped short.

Her eyes went wide.

Then pale.

She slowly lowered the page she was reading.

“...I may know why,” she said, voice hollow.

Every head turned.

“What?” Sirius barked, already halfway out of his chair. “What is it?”

Hestia said nothing. Just slid the paper across the table.

Everyone leaned in.

And saw it.

The headline stretched across the full-page spread, glossy and cruel:

THE DARK LORD’S STAR: REGULUS BLACK RETURNS The Dark Prince of the House of Black Lives—And He’s Loyal to Him.

Beneath it: the photo. Front and center.

Regulus.

Alive.

Alive—and stunning, wrapped in crimson and black silk, pressed against Lord Voldemort’s side like a prized jewel. Smiling. Performing. Glowing.

The enchanted image showed him in motion—spinning, flirting, singing on a marble stage while ministers and warlords clapped and stared, and the Dark Lord looked on with open, unholy pride.

The room erupted.

“WHAT—” “REGULUS? BLACK?!” “He’s ALIVE?!” “THAT’S YOUR BROTHER—!” “HE’S MARRIED TO VOLDEMORT?!” “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Sirius shot to his feet, face pale as bone, mouth hanging open. “No—no, that’s not—he’s DEAD, I—he—” His voice broke.

“That’s not a glamour,” Remus said, staring in horror. “That’s him. That’s really him.”

Marlene had both hands in her hair. “He’s singing. He’s dancing. He’s FLIRTING WITH AMBASSADORS?!”

“And Voldemort’s looking at him like he’s the fucking moon,” Fabian Prewett added in disgust.

“Why didn’t we know?” Dorcas said, voice cold. “The Ministry declared him missing months ago. Assumed dead. There was no sign of him.”

“That was before they controlled the press,” Moody growled. “This was deliberate. They hid him.”

Sirius was still standing, staring at the page like it had slapped him. “He… he ran off when he was sixteen. I never… I never knew what happened to him. I thought…”

James reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“He’s not the kid you remember anymore.”

“He’s a weapon,” Lily said, voice flat. “Look at this.”

She flipped to the continuation on page two—another photo, this time of Regulus wrestling a Death Eater to the floor, locking him down with bare hands and a sneer, before rushing back to Voldemort’s lap like a pet.

And below that—new reports:

New Death Eater Commander to Oversee Training, Recruitment, Diplomacy Regulus Black to lead elite divisions, oversee charmwork, and infiltrate resistance cells.

“They gave him everything,” Remus whispered.

“He’s already winning,” Emmeline added.

Benjy rubbed his face. “That’s why we’re losing. He’s not just a figurehead. He’s the brain.”

Moody’s expression twisted into something darker. “If he’s in charge of strategy… the raids, the ambushes, the propaganda… then that’s why we’ve been walking into traps. Why every safehouse gets sniffed out.”

“Why we’re bleeding,” Marlene said.

“Then we have to stop him,” Dorcas said, voice firm.

“Or turn him,” Lily offered, though her tone was strained. “If he can be reasoned with, persuaded—”

“No.” Sirius’s voice was cold. Final. “He’s too far gone.”

“We don’t know that,” James countered, though even he looked doubtful. “We don’t know what happened to him. What made him… that.”

“Maybe it was always him,” Fabian said grimly. “We just never saw it.”

“Either way,” Moody snapped, “we have two options. Recruit him—or kill him.”

The table went quiet.

A beat passed.

Sirius exhaled, shaking. “If he’s what’s keeping them together… If we take him off the board…”

Remus nodded. “It could change everything.”

Across the room, the Prophet sat open, the photo of Regulus replaying in an endless loop.

Him—alive.

Him—beloved.

Him—theirs.

And outside, in the world now ruled by darkness and charm and blood and song…

Regulus Arcturus Black was smiling.

And the Order of the Phoenix had never been more afraid.

It began at dawn.

The first curse struck like a crack of thunder in the middle of a sleepy, grey sky. Then another. Then a dozen. Then a storm.

Shields cracked. Pavement split. Shops erupted in fire and ash as both sides flooded the cobblestones—black-robed Death Eaters slamming into the Order of the Phoenix like tidal waves of magic and rage. The streets were war. The buildings were crumbling. The world was watching.

The Ministry was no more. Neutrality was dead. Now came the last battle for hearts, for minds, for control of the magical world itself.

The Order fought back with all they had—Dumbledore leading from the front, golden sparks flying from his wand as he deflected curse after curse. Moody barked orders. Lily Potter shielded fallen fighters. James dove through chaos, dueling three at once. Sirius was a blur of black and teeth and fury, screaming through the fight.

But the Death Eaters… had changed.

They were faster. Smarter. More precise. Coordinated like never before.

And now the Order knew why.

“THERE!” someone shouted.

And heads turned.

Regulus Black had entered the battle.

And he wasn’t walking.

He tore through the battlefield—spinning, flipping, carving a path with wandless spells and brutal precision. He moved like a storm: lithe and untouchable, his sheer crimson robes trailing behind him like fire. Curses bounced off magical barriers cast by instinct. He disarmed five at once with a flick of his fingers and knocked a squad of Aurors flat with a burst of wind sharp as blades.

“That’s not possible,” Emmeline Vance whispered. “That can’t be—”

“He’s just a boy—”

“He’s winning.”

The Order rallied to capture him. Remus, Dorcas, and Marlene flanked from the side, spells ready.

“REGULUS BLACK!” Moody roared. “SURRENDER!”

But Regulus just turned—eyes glowing with bound magic, the sigil on his collar pulsing black—and smirked.

He vanished in a blur of crimson.

And appeared behind them.

He took Dorcas down with a trip and flip, wrestled Marlene mid-air, and spun Remus away with a whirl of wind. His bare feet skidded across ash and rubble as he leapt to a rooftop, cloak flying.

The Order faltered.

And from the crowd emerged Tom Riddle.

His expression was pure fury.

He stormed through curses and screams like a storm, hand outstretched, magic curling around his arm. When he reached Regulus—bloodied, panting, still grinning—he grabbed him bodily, arms locking around the smaller wizard’s waist.

“You’re mine,” Riddle growled.

And he lifted him.

The crowd gawked as the Dark Lord carried the heir of the House of Black off the battlefield like some ancient war prize. Regulus didn’t resist. He clung—laughing breathlessly, arms tight around Riddle’s neck as if nothing else mattered.

Tom Riddle landed in the center of the square, right across from Albus Dumbledore.

And the world went silent.

The crowd watched. Fighters stopped. The air was poised.

Two giants of ideology. Power incarnate.

Facing each other with everything on the line.

“You’re desperate,” Dumbledore said calmly. “To parade him around like a trophy.”

“Oh, Albus,” Riddle chuckled darkly, setting Regulus gently at his side. “You really don’t understand anything.”

The crowd stirred.

Dumbledore stepped forward, raising his voice. “This war—this chaos—has cost too many lives. The public still has a choice. A better path. There is still a future—”

“Wow,” Tom interrupted loudly, voice echoing. “Super scary.”

He took a few lazy steps forward.

“I see why they give you such a big hat.”

A few chuckles from the edges of the crowd.

“Quick thing, though,” he continued, louder now. “It’s curious you stopped by to fight me nail and tooth—when all I really mean to try… is to dispense a dose of truth.”

Murmurs.

Regulus stepped up beside him, eyes burning.

Tom spread his arms.

“We Wizards don’t need suppression. We need an uprising. A different kind of despot, bringing respite from puritan demands.”

Some in the crowd stirred, uncertain.

“A new order. Like what Grindelwald promised— He knew we could be great. And we can make the magical world great again.”

Gasps. Whispers. The international press snapped photos.

“Just imagine if we flipped the script. Took the fight into the light. Made them beg. Made them pray. What would happen if we ran the ship?”

He grinned viciously.

“Hoist the mainsail—paint the decks—”

“Aye-aye!” shouted the Death Eaters.

“Have a crewmate to protect,” he purred, brushing a hand down Regulus’s arm. “Because they want us divided. That’s how they keep us down.”

The crowd leaned in.

“But we got the guts. We got the chutzpah. We got the means to seize the crown.”

He pointed directly at the press.

“If you’re not fuckin’ stupid, then you’ve only got one choice— Me. Voldemort. The People’s Voice.”

Cheering broke out in pockets. Then more.

“Picture it. We escape this hole. Never live in fear of magic’s toll. Wizards could save their souls— Not by hiding, but by taking control.”

Dumbledore raised his wand—“That’s enough—!”

Tom laughed.

“They say the magical world’s too populated. That’s why they exterminate. But we got the numbers. We got the thunder. Let’s annex their real estate.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Albus shouted. “This is madness!”

“If you wanna see a new world—raise your fist and make some noise!” Tom roared.

“HAIL VOLDEMORT, THE PEOPLE’S VOICE!” the crowd screamed.

Magic exploded around them in pure noise.

“Manifest destiny,” he snarled, “Long as you invest in me. The rest’ll fall into place.”

“Meanwhile, this king thinks all of us peasants Should be satisfied with suffering.”

Albus stepped forward—“Wait. Hold on—”

“Tell me, people—are you satisfied?” Tom shouted. Then, with venom, “Your lover knew it was wrong, Albus. Maybe that’s why he’s not around anymore.”

“YOU MOUTHY LITTLE—” Albus’s wand lit.

Tom smirked.

“Here it comes. Smite me. Silence me. That’s all you hypocrites know how to do.”

He turned to the crowd.

“You won’t do it. You’re weak. They didn’t banish you, Albus. They restrained your power. Chained you down here.

I got no chains on me.”

He held his arms open wide.

“WHO’S WITH ME?”

And then it happened.

The crowd surged.

“LET’S UNITE AND FIGHT FOR A BRAND NEW REALM!” “ONE NATION UNDER VOLDEMORT!” “HAPPY DAYS ARE NIGH WITH OUR LORD AT THE HELM!”

The square roared. Magic cracked the sky.

“FUTURE’S NEVER TASTED SWEETER, THANKS TO OUR CHARMING LEADER— EVERY WIZARD CAN BE A WINNER— LET’S TAKE OUR FATES TO THEIR WORLD— WE CAN HAVE THE KEYS IF WE TRUST VOLDEMORT— GIVE APPLAUSE—THE MAGICAL WORLD HAS CAUSE TO REJOICE— HAIL VOLDEMORT, THE PEOPLE’S VOICE!”

The Order could not compete.

They were drowned in voices. In chants. In spells. In fear.

The crowd turned on them.

And Dumbledore made the call.

“Fall back,” he whispered.

“Everyone—fall back!”

Sirius pulled James away. Lily screamed for Remus. Marlene covered Dorcas. Albus shielded the retreat.

Tom watched them go, smug, victorious, one hand around Regulus’s waist, the other raised to the cheering masses.

Regulus leaned in.

“Did I do good?” he whispered.

Tom kissed his temple.

“You won me the world.”

And the magical world cheered for the man they once feared—and now followed.

Hail Voldemort. The People’s Voice.

There weren’t enough beds anymore.

There weren’t enough fighters. Not enough blood to spare. Not enough plans that didn’t end in smoke.

The Order was in ruins.

Their headquarters had gone silent after the retreat. People limped through the corridors, eyes dull, robes torn. Healing spells flickered and failed over cracked ribs and shattered minds. Benjy was gone. Dorcas was missing. Marlene had taken a curse meant for Moody. James had a split down his shoulder that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

And worst of all: they had no momentum.

They had no hope.

Because the public had chosen Voldemort.

Because Regulus Black—dead, defected, dazzling—had danced on that stage, and they had clapped.

He was the face of the new world.

And now he had to be taken out.

“If we don’t pull him from the field,” Dumbledore said, “then we lose the war. He is the spine of their movement. The flame. Without him…”

Sirius stood in the doorway, silent and pale.

“If we can get him,” Remus said quietly, “we might be able to get Tom, too.”

No one dared speak the obvious:

That without Regulus, Voldemort might break.

Somewhere Else – Riddle Manor

The bedroom was all black marble and velvet, charmed to flicker in candlelight that never burned out. Silk sheets. Hanging veils. A glass balcony overlooking a forest that screamed at night. It was silent now, save for pacing footsteps and the hiss of a brushing comb.

Tom Riddle paced like a man on fire.

“Mulciber botched the extraction,” he snapped. “Again. That idiot Travers let the Irish delegation slip. Rosier’s bleeding somewhere in France, I think, and Snape is still harping on about new potion funding like we haven’t just conquered half of Europe—”

From the adjoining bathroom, Regulus’s voice floated out, muffled but amused.

“You sound sexy when you’re unhinged.”

Tom groaned. “Not now, Regulus. I’m serious. We need to clean house. Replace half the council. Maybe execute a few. Make a statement.”

Regulus hummed, running fingers through his hair. “You say that every week.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You always mean it.”

Tom stopped in front of the mirror, chest rising with frustration. “I’m trying to keep this war from slipping out of my hands.”

“Then maybe take your hands off it for one night.”

“I can’t,” Tom snapped. “You’re not hearing me. I—"

The bathroom door opened with a soft click.

And the world stopped.

Regulus stepped into the room wearing next to nothing—just wine-red silk, slashed lace, skin gleaming under candlelight. The lingerie was high-cut and sheer, clinging in all the right places. Straps wrapped low around his hips and kissed high over his thighs. Gold chains sparkled around his waist. His hair was tousled and perfect. His eyes—burning.

Tom’s mouth went dry.

Regulus tilted his head.

“Shut up,” he said sweetly. “You know that I love you.”

Tom blinked, words dying in his throat.

“But that’s enough of this spiral,” Regulus cooed, crossing the room with slow, rolling hips. “Some of your goals haven’t come true. Fine. So here’s how we’ll break the cycle.”

He took Tom’s hand. Lifted it. Placed it on his waist.

“Your hand, my hand... your body and mine...” “They can withstand the firin’ line.”

He leaned in, lips brushing Tom’s ear.

“‘Cause anyone who finds love in Hell… can do anything, baby.” “You and me don’t need no one else… to make it through the crazy.”

Tom inhaled sharply as Regulus straddled his lap, pushing him back onto the edge of the bed.

“No blow comes close to fatal for this prince and fallen god…” “We already found love in Hell—the rest is easy, baby.”

Tom groaned, gripping his hips tightly. “I appreciate all that, but—”

Regulus shushed him with a finger to the lips.

“We’ll get through it.”

“But we need our allies to come back—”

“We can do it.”

Tom closed his eyes, forehead pressing to Regulus’s collarbone. “You’re my pillar. My heart’s fulfiller. But there’s no way this lining’s silver. Everyone’s gone. We’re facing a war. We can’t get in touch with anyone anymore, and—”

“Shut up,” Regulus whispered again, pulling him back to look him in the eye.

“You know that I love you.” “But you’re forgettin’ who we are.”

He kissed Tom—slow, then sharp.

“In a pit that doesn’t let sun through… somehow we managed to see stars.”

Tom growled and flipped him onto the bed.

Regulus giggled—an actual giggle, breathy and wicked—and dragged Tom down with him under the covers, hands wandering, mouths meeting, legs tangled.

“I’m going to destroy you,” Tom muttered against his throat, voice low and wrecked.

“You always say that,” Regulus gasped, nails scraping down Tom’s back.

Tom groaned, grinding against him, hands everywhere. “You're right. This can wait. This is more important.”

“You’re so easy.”

“You’re unfair.” He kissed down his chest. “You look like this and expect me to focus?”

“I expect you to fuck me.”

“Oh, believe me, darling,” Tom hissed, eyes glowing. “I will.”

The war outside thundered on. But inside, the gods of this new world tangled themselves in silk and darkness— And forgot the rest.

A Ruined Farmhouse – West Yorkshire Countryside Three Days After the Fall of Exeter

The night had been brutal.

Half the Death Eater squad sent to Exeter was slaughtered. The safehouse was compromised, the artifacts lost, and the ambassador Regulus was meant to charm into alliance had been assassinated before he could so much as bat his lashes.

So now, Regulus was alone. Again.

He moved like shadow through the wreckage, high boots crunching glass, one sleeve torn, his lip split in a way that added to his ever-present allure rather than detracted from it. A soft silk sash trailed behind him, the wind catching it like a banner.

He was here to clean up the mess. Because no one else could be trusted to fix what was broken.

“Honestly,” Regulus muttered to himself, casting an advanced tracking spell with a flick of his fingers, “I leave you idiots alone for two days and you already turn the whole mission into a bloody pissing contest—”

But the spell never finished.

He didn’t hear them coming.

Too many of them. Too many shields. Too many distractions. A dozen spells hit all at once.

The last thing Regulus saw was a streak of green across the sky.

And then—

Black.

He woke to rope burns and a blinding headache.

And… déjà vu?

Regulus blinked slowly, lashes fluttering, head pounding. His wrists were bound to the arms of a chair. Tight. Familiar. So familiar.

He looked around—dim room, cracked plaster walls, candlelight flickering from sconces. The room was cold. Voices hummed nearby.

Where…?

And then it hit him.

“I’m going to fucking kill someone,” he muttered, yanking at the restraints.

The door opened.

And the Order of the Phoenix walked in.

There was Sirius Black—older, unshaven, furious. James and Lily. Dorcas Meadowes. Remus. Moody. Marlene. A dozen more, most of them pale and wary, all of them staring like he was something ancient and diseased.

"Well, this is cozy," Regulus drawled, cocking his head. "Is this the part where you weep and beg me to switch sides because I’m so pretty?"

James made a strangled sound.

Moody stepped forward, wand raised. “What was the last Death Eater mission you completed?”

Regulus smirked. Stayed silent.

“Who’s controlling your operations?”

Regulus rolled his eyes.

“Who gave you the order to seduce the Dutch Minister?”

Regulus leaned forward as much as the chair would let him.

And spat at Moody’s feet.

Sirius lunged.

“ENOUGH!”

He stormed across the room, grabbing Regulus by the front of his ridiculous satin-stitched top. His voice cracked.

“This is not who you are.”

Regulus raised a brow, unbothered. “You’re lucky this chair has me tied down, Sirius, or I’d teach you what I am.”

“You were my baby brother,” Sirius said, voice shaking. “You used to follow me around in the garden. You stole Mum’s wand and blew up a doily. You cried when I left for Hogwarts—”

“Cute,” Regulus sneered. “Maybe you should’ve stayed gone.”

But Sirius didn’t let go.

He just stared.

And for a split second, Regulus blinked—and his eyes glazed over.

Like a ripple across glass.

Then—

He snapped back.

“Are you done blubbering?”

They all saw it.

Dorcas stepped forward carefully. “Talk to him again.”

“What?”

“About before. When you were kids.”

Sirius frowned, but nodded. “You used to sing to yourself at night, in that tiny voice. You were scared of the dark, but you never admitted it. You carried your star chart around like it was gold—”

Again, Regulus’s eyes glazed. This time for longer.

Then he flinched, shaking his head hard.

“Shut the fuck up, Padfoot. You don’t know anything.”

Now they were all staring.

Dorcas stepped up, voice soft. “Reg… we were friends at Hogwarts, remember? You and me and Barty and Evan sneaking into the kitchens? You made me hex a teacher’s wig off for slipping you a detention.”

Another flicker.

Glassy eyes. Shaky breath.

Then rage. “You’re all pathetic.”

Remus turned to Lily. “Diagnostic spells. Now.”

She nodded, launching a flurry of charmwork. Lights flickered. Runes shimmered over Regulus’s body—blurry, distorted, like they couldn’t quite focus.

“There’s something there,” she whispered. “It’s buried deep. I can’t tell what it is.”

They tried again. And again. Memory probes. Countercurses. Healing charms. Even a mild Obliviate reversal.

Until—

One spell slipped through by accident.

A diagnostic-memory trace combined with a deep clarity charm. No one even cast it on purpose. It shimmered—and then—

Regulus’s whole body went still.

Eyes wide.

Lips parted.

And then—he collapsed.

Not unconscious—just limp, panting, sweat slick on his forehead, trembling like something had just cracked.

Sirius was at his side instantly. “Reg—Reggie?”

Regulus opened his eyes.

Blinking.

And blinking again.

Confused.

“…where…?”

He looked around. His voice was rough and soft and real.

“…Why am I here?”

Everyone held their breath.

“I…” Regulus looked down at his hands. “Why the fuck am I wearing this?”

James muttered, “He’s back.”

“Back?” Regulus frowned. “What do you mean ‘back’? I was just—I was just in the cave.”

Silence.

Regulus looked around the room, expression twisting. “Riddle had me. He—I took the locket. I drank the potion. The Inferi dragged me under. Then he—he saved me. Or—I thought he did. He was ranting. He tied me to a chair. I was—mocking him. Laughing. I remember that. And then…”

He paused.

Everyone leaned in.

Regulus’s voice dropped. “And then… there was this mist. It sprayed in my face.”

Gasps.

“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “He was brainwashed.”

“He’s had weeks of memory loss,” Remus said, horrified.

“Wait,” Dorcas interrupted. “You defected? You left the Death Eaters?”

Regulus blinked, annoyed. “Obviously. I was trying to destroy the fucking horcruxes.”

Dead silence.

Sirius choked. “Horcruxes?”

Regulus tilted his head like they were all morons. “Voldemort made horcruxes. You didn’t know?”

“No one knew,” Dumbledore said grimly from the doorway, face pale.

Regulus sighed, like this was the most inconvenient thing in the world.

“Brilliant. So I nearly died alone in a zombie cave for nothing.”

And then he looked around.

“Okay, seriously. Someone get me normal clothes. And a fucking cup of tea. I'm exhausted, I look like a slut, and apparently I missed a month-long breakdown.”

Everyone just kept staring.

Even now, no one—not even Regulus—knew how close the world had come to ending.

But for now, at least, he was back.

And everything was about to change.

The room was still reeling from the return of Regulus Arcturus Black.

He sat curled up in an armchair like he’d fused with it, one leg hooked over the armrest, clutching a blanket like it might fend off the entire war. Someone had finally given him proper clothes—a pair of James’s sweatpants and a too-big Gryffindor jumper, which he wore like a funeral robe.

His hair was a mess. His face was pale. His expression oscillated wildly between confusion, denial, and outrage.

And across from him, the entire Order of the Phoenix sat around the drawing room in stunned silence as he finished explaining.

“So,” Regulus said dramatically, gesturing with a biscuit like it was a wand, “I defected, destroyed one of Voldemort’s horcruxes, died, got resurrected by the perverted Dark Lord himself, was brainwashed, and apparently married off like some veela courtesan in silk lingerie while being used to commit war crimes with my arse.” He paused. “Did I miss anything?”

Dead silence.

“…No,” Lily finally whispered. “That… about covers it.”

Regulus threw his hands up. “Sick.”

Sirius was gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. “You—you did all of that alone?”

“Well, I had Kreacher,” Regulus muttered. “Sort of. He took the fake locket and I told him to leave me. I was ready to die.” His voice cracked a little. “And then he came. Riddle. Saved me. Or—whatever he thought he was doing.”

“He kidnapped you,” Remus said gently. “You were vulnerable. Your magic would’ve been—”

“—drained, yeah,” Regulus muttered. “That’s the weird part. It still is. I can feel how little of my core I can access, and my Black family magic—it’s like it’s… missing.”

Everyone went still again.

Then James slowly turned to Dumbledore, face pale. “He said he married him, didn’t he?”

Regulus blinked. “He WHAT?”

Everyone turned back.

“I’m sorry—” Regulus sat bolt upright. “I MARRIED HIM?!”

They all nodded, grim.

“TO HIM?!” Regulus shrieked. “TO TOM FUCKING RIDDLE?! HE’S FIFTY! HE’S OLDER THAN MY DAD!”

“You don’t remember?” Dorcas asked gently.

Regulus’s entire soul left his body.

“NO, I DON’T REMEMBER! I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER!”

Lily put a hand on his arm, but Regulus had entered full meltdown mode.

“IS THAT WHY MY MAGIC’S FUCKED?!” he wailed. “HE TIED ME TO HIM WITH BLOOD MAGIC?! THAT’S WHY I CAN’T ACCESS MY FAMILIAL POWER?! HE BLOOD-BOUND ME LIKE A BRIDE?! A BRIDE?!”

And that’s when it hit.

He gasped.

He gasped, and his whole body seized. His eyes went wide—too wide—and he let out a horrible little hiccup of a noise, then made a full-body twitch and—

“OH MY FUCKING GOD—”

“Reg—?” Sirius stood up, alarmed.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD, I REMEMBERED SOMETHING—”

“What is it?” James asked.

Regulus screamed.

Not like a dramatic, posh-boy scream. Like a real one. A from-the-guts, end-of-the-world, burn-my-eyes-out sort of scream.

“NO NO NO NO— I REMEMBER—WE—WE—UNDER THE COVERS— HE— OH MY GOD OH MY FUCKING GOD—”

He leapt from the chair and began running in circles.

Literal, actual circles.

“I HAD SEX WITH VOLDEMORT OH MY GOD—”

Everyone sat frozen.

No one could breathe.

Remus made the sign of the cross even though he was not Catholic.

“I TOUCHED HIM—I RODE HIM?! NO—NO— OH MY FUCKING STARS—”

“Okay, he’s spiraling,” Marlene said weakly.

Dorcas stood and tried to intercept him.

Regulus shoved past her and continued pacing like a cursed metronome.

“NO—THAT’S ILLEGAL—I’M EIGHTEEN—”

James actually gagged.

“I WORE SILK AND BELLS—HE PUT HIS HAND BETWEEN MY THIGHS—”

“I NEED TO LIE DOWN,” Peter moaned from the corner.

Regulus suddenly froze.

He was staring at Peter.

“…Why the fuck are you here?” Regulus asked coldly.

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You’re a Death Eater.”

Everyone turned slowly.

Peter’s eyes widened. “N-no I’m not—”

“Yes you are.” Regulus’s voice was sharp now, cutting through the noise. “You took the mark before I defected. You weren’t high up, you were shit, but you were there. You were one of them.”

Peter looked around, stammering.

Sirius’s face hardened. “Pete…”

“I—I—He’s confused! He doesn’t know what he’s saying—!”

“I’M THE ONE WHO GOT BRAINWASHED,” Regulus screamed. “NOT AMNESIA.”

Peter bolted.

James and Sirius chased him.

Regulus collapsed back into the chair, heaving.

Everyone else was still staring.

And then Regulus groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Don’t talk to me. Ever again. I need to erase my whole soul.”

Lily looked at Dumbledore.

“What do we do?”

Regulus’s voice came from beneath the blanket.

“You fix me, and then you kill him, and then you burn this whole outfit, and then you send me to therapy for the rest of my natural life.”

Sirius stormed back in. “We’ve got Pettigrew.”

Regulus peeked out. “Cool. Can you get me next?”

And they all realized:

Regulus Arcturus Black—Horcrux hunter. Brainwashed war consort. Sexually traumatized magical twink in borrowed Gryffindor pyjamas—

Was back.