Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

His body was heavy, the weight of the water clinging to his thinness. Still, she tugged, her wand between her incisors as she grasped desperately at the underside of his arms, his shirt torn nearly in half. Her elbow smashed against a jagged edge of rock as she pulled him toward the ledge, a flash of pain cutting through the adrenaline, but she barely registered it. She threw his body out of the water, bouncing roughly against the stone. She didn’t falter, didn’t wait, turning and whipping her wand, casting incendio so violently the murky water began to boil.

The slimy, skeletal bodies of the Inferi withered, grey skin melting as the hot scent of molten flesh centered the cave. Shrieks and wails bounced off the dark rock walls, but she did not make a twitch of her expression. Selene didn’t stay around to watch, lugging the nineteen-year-old's arm over her shoulder. His body was limp in her hold, and colder than she’d felt a living person feel. The only sign of him being alive was the convulsing of his body and the foam dribbling from his mouth. Pushing through the burning sensation in her legs and the aching in her shoulders, she apperated herself and the boy in her arms away from the cove.

Selene had barely gotten used to the way her stomach twisted at apparition, holding back the bile rising in her throat as the familiar entryway of her door frame flickered into view. Like the hundreds of times before, the rest of her cottage materialized into view. The beach house was small, with wide open windows and pale yellow panels. A clothesline hung from the edge of the kitchen windowsill to a white painted fence. Bedsheets flapped lazily on the line in the breeze, the sight domestic and innocent. The first time Moody had brought her to the safe house, she admired the disillusionment charm for more than a few minutes. Now, she dragged the body in her hands through the door, finally analyzing the damage as she laid him on the cot of the guest bedroom.

His face was pale, paler than she’d last seen. The fluff of his lips was going blue, but he was shivering. He was alive. A flick of her wrist and the room warmed. Another spell dried the soaked clothes and hair in a gust of warm air. She stripped away the ruined shirt carefully, jaw tight as she uncovered his torso, cut through with old scars and new wounds, jagged and fresh. Too many. Her fingers hesitated just a moment above his skin, then she moved with precision. She dipped her nails into the jar of Dittany salve on the side table, the sharp, clean scent grounding her as she worked. She rubbed the ointment into the torn flesh with long, slow motions, watching it hiss softly as it mended him, bit by bit. He didn’t stir. Not even when she accidentally pressed too hard. Selene bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She was used to healing strangers. Soldiers. Spies. But Regulus, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to him. Not after everything. It took nearly three hours. When she finally stepped back, the guest room looked like a battlefield of its own: bandages, salves, and stained cloths scattered around the floor. Her palms were sticky with potion and sweat. Her muscles screamed for rest.

Still, she tucked the knit blanket over him, careful to charm it with a low, steady heat. Not too hot. Just warm enough to coax the life back into his skin. The teacup on the nightstand steamed quietly. Black, with two lumps of sugar. She lingered by the door a moment longer, watching him, half expecting him to vanish, like this was some kind of cruel hallucination conjured by guilt and exhaustion. But he was real. And alive. Selene exhaled, shoulders dropping for the first time in what felt like days. No tears. Not yet. Just silence, soft and tentative, like the breath between lightning and thunder.

Chapter Text

She had spent most of her days by the coast, drawn to it like a wounded bird seeking still water. Her cottage, lonely and overgrown with ivy, sat atop a rugged cliff that overlooked the sea, a quiet sentinel watching the horizon. A narrow path carved into the earth led from her doorstep down to the beach, winding between jagged stone and hardy sea-thrift. It was treacherous when wet, and yet she walked it daily, as if the salt air alone could cleanse her of everything she'd seen. The beach below was nothing like Crete. The sand was coarse and damp, grey with salt and strewn with shells and seaweed. The waves were colder here, restless and wild even on quiet days. But sometimes, when the clouds parted and the sunlight bled down golden through the mist, she could almost pretend she was home. Today, the sky was overcast, the kind of pale, wind-blown silver that made her bones ache. Still, she sat on the damp shore in a wool jumper, sleeves pulled over her fingers, her legs folded under her in the sand.A book lay open in her lap, forgotten, the breeze turning the pages freely. She could live the rest of her days out by the water, mostly content. That thought brought her peace, since it was becoming harder and harder to believe the war was on the edge of ending. 

“Selene.” The words were weak, raw-sounding. So much so, she almost didn’t recognize her own name. Her shoulders squared instinctively, but she didn’t turn. 

She should have been unrecognizable to him. War had carved away her softness. Her porcelain skin was rich and tan, freckles running across the small bump in her nose. Deep, murky eyebags haunted her flesh, and her hair was near unruly with the way it curled in her face. 

“Regulus.” She responded, cursing how familiar her tongue felt spelling his name. Against her better judgment, she turned her neck to him. Her body was burning with the need to see his eyes on her again. It did not matter if it was cold, glaring, or in disgust. 

There he stood, a few steps behind. Pale, gaunt, clothes hanging on him like borrowed shadows. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his dark trousers, but she could see the trembling in his shoulders. His eyes weren’t on her, not truly. He looked past her, hollow and distant. “Give me the locket.”

“No.” She said swiftly, turning her head back to the line where the ocean met the sky. 

“You don’t know what you are dealing wi-” His voice caught. A deep, raw cough tore from him, doubling him over. He staggered to his knees, hacking violently into the wind.

She merely stood in front of him as his body convulsed. “Is that how you want to start this conversation?”

He stared up at her, still kneeling, eyes darker than she remembered, steel, almost silver, glazed with pain. There was a fragility in them she hadn’t seen before. Not even as a boy. Her expression twitched, though hardly. “I am not an idiot. I knew you were alive.”

“No,” she replied coolly. “You just couldn’t bear the alternative.”

“You’re too stubborn to die.” His tone was faint, but laced with something close to reverence. “I always knew that.”

The wind tugged at her hair as she studied him. The sun dipped low, bleeding orange across the sea. It lit the side of her face in gold, her curls tracing the light. Her eyes, sharp and weary, never left his. “You look pathetic. Get up.”

He managed to get to his feet, but not without a violent tremor. “Pathetic?” The venom in his tone was so contrasted to his physicality that it made her head hurt. His voice cracked with something close to shame.

“Yes.” She spat. “You are a pathetic coward. My opinion of you has not changed.”

His expression hardened, his pale lips curling downward. “I did what I had to.”

“You did what was easiest for yourself .” She glared up at him. 

“You think it was easy?” Regulus took a wobbly step forward. “The things I’ve seen- the things I’ve done?”

She had gone over in her head hundreds of times how this conversation would go. What she would say, how he would reply. Now, standing in front of him, she felt like the emotionally stunted seventeen-year-old she was when she’d lost him. “I think perhaps it would be easy for someone like you.”

“You have no idea who I am anymore. You do not get to pretend like you do.” Regulus turned his nose up at her, hurt poorly hidden on his face. 

“Oh, do not burden me with your self-pity.” She snapped, anger replacing her otherwise indifferent nature. “You do not get to pretend like you are a victim. You had a choice- a way to get out of this mess. And instead, you left me .”

Regulus froze with guilt, the emotion much stronger than any possible fiend anger. He had ignored the truth, suffocated himself with the delusion that he had a purpose, and nearly killed himself in the process. Only to inevitably come back to burden the one person who meddled through his defensive nature. He was pathetic, he’d known it then, and he knew it like a prayer now. She didn’t falter in her glare, not when his face fell, or when she could see the uncharacteristic amount of emotion in his eyes. She waited for him to apologize, to say anything. But he only stood there, sulking like a child caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. Selene sighed, walking off the beach. 

She could hear him treading behind her quietly, but she kept her gaze upwards until they returned to the house. “Your wand was lost.” She said dryly. “Not that it matters much, it would have been confiscated by the order regardless.”

“ You're working for the order?” He exclaimed, his gloominess momentarily gone. 

“Yes.” She mumbled, though not very proud of the revelation. “You are a death eater, twat. Do not act like I am less than you.”  

Regulus recoiled, face souring but not disagreeing. Instead, he followed her down the narrow hallway, having to duck his head slightly when he stepped into the kitchen behind her. He silently watched her make a cup of tea, the movements practiced. “You make it the Muggle way?”

“Occasionally.” She replied shortly. 

“Why?” 

“You have been unconscious for two days following a near-death experience in an attempt to betray Voldemort, and you are inquisitive about how I make my tea?” She huffed before bringing her cup to her lips, still not facing him. 

“How do you know about my plans?” He whispered. 

“It was only a matter of time,” Selene said meticulously. “You are a coward who will do anything to please his parents, a direct response to your upbringing. But you are not evil. I knew you would rebel eventually.”

“You do not think of me as evil?” He swallowed, the action taking much more effort than he was used to. He was not sure why he held onto those words. Their bond was completely severed. He wasn't stupid enough to think it could possibly change. 

“I also called you a coward.” She raised a brow. 

“I do not care.” He replied simply.

“You are far more annoying than I remember.” Selene crossed her arms. 

“I am surprised you want to remember me at all.” The words fall from his lips before he can think about the weight of them.

“I did not say a thing about wanting to.” She replied quietly, averting her gaze. “If you are going to stay here until further notice, you need to abide by a few rules.”

“You are not permitted to go off the immediate perimeter of the house.” She listed quickly, before he could reply. “You need to be honest with me about what you have done. Do not even think about lying.”

“And you must help me with chores around the house.” Selene finished.

“Chores?” He repeated, sputtering slightly. She raised a brow. 

“Yes.” She said blankly. “I have learned how to care for a home. You will, too.”

“They did not give you a house elf?” Regulus nearly sounded like his world had collapsed. 

“Will you stop being so dramatic?” She huffed. “Now, more importantly. What do you think your relationship to Voldemort at this very moment.”

His eyes narrowed, spine straightening. “You seem to be under the delusion that I will not be returning.”

“Then you are much more stupid than I thought.” She replied dryly. “There has been a rumor of a traitor in your little committee for months.”

“I know that.” He rolled his eyes, crossing his shaky arms. “Voldemort would never believe it to be me.” 

Selene tilted her head slightly. The way he said his name wasn’t how he used to. It was shaky, unsure. “You are too arrogant. You cannot just waltz on back.”

Regulus scoffed. “I can do what I please.”

“The protocol is for you to be killed on sight.” She leaned back against the counter. “You can go back, but you won’t make it out the door.”

His mouth closed promptly. He wanted to argue, but he was also smart enough to know there was nothing intelligent he could reply with. “You really expect me to stay with you, of all people?”

“Would you rather someone else from the order?” She scoffed. “Potter? Dorcas ?”

Regulus huffed, opting for silence. 

“Besides… they don’t exactly know you’re here.” She admitted begrudgingly. 

“What do you mean they don’t know ?” He exclaimed. Now it was Selene’s turn to fall quiet, unsure how to respond. 

“You kidnapped me.” He said bluntly. 

“Sure.” She crossed her arms. “Saved your life too, but who’s counting?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.” He mumbled, knowing his words were hypocritical. 

“Moody knows.” She said. “Took a lot of convincing, though. He’s still hellbent on killing you, though, if you don’t prove to provide useful information.” 

“Insane bastard.” He grumbled, looking away. 

Regulus let his eyes flicker over her before forcing his attention back to what he approached her for in the first place. “The locket, it’s a fake.”

“What?” She haltered. “What do you mean?”

“I am not stupid, I did not go to the cave alone.” He said. “I brought Kreacher.”

The two sentences were enough for Selene to understand. “...You swapped the locket for a fake. Kreacher has the real one, doesn’t he?”

“I ordered him to abandon me.” He admitted. “I believed I was going to die. I ordered him to destroy the horcrux.” 

Selene stared at him incredulously for a few moments, breaking eye contact to curse herself for not realizing it sooner. How could she not know any of that information already? After a moment, she shifted her eyes back to him. “You are stupid, you know. That potion you drank, it’s in your bloodstream.”

“And how do you know that?” He huffed, ignoring the prominent roughness he’d had in his throat since he’d woken.

“Because you drank the drink of despair, you knobhead.” She scoffed, Regulus’s attitude shrinking back immediately at her tone. 

“The effects are… permanent?” The tremble in his hands worsened. 

“Yes.” She said bluntly. “There are potions that can lessen your symptoms.”

“I don’t assume I would have access to these potions.” He grumbled. 

“Depends on if you comply.” She knew she was being unfair, but she needed to keep him alive. 

His mouth stayed shut in a pursed line. “Fine.” He nearly seethed. “But I am not speaking to my brother, or anyone else in the order. Just Mad-Eyed.”

“You are in no position to make agreements.” She said. “I am the only person on both sides of this war that wants to see you live another day.”

“You of all people should want to see my head on a stick.” His eyes flickered to hers, a blink of guilt in them. 

She nearly caved, nearly opened her arms, and sobbed that she forgave him. “I know.” She said instead. 

Chapter Text

The first time Selene met Regulus, she was barely old enough to remember the event. It was late summer, not that she could tell in the cool ballroom of the Black estate. She could see her reflection in the polished dark oak, her chubby, seven-year-old face frowning back at her. Her neck was heavy, collarbones slightly itchy from the weight of the jewels laying against her chest. Her hair was pulled back too tightly, and the dress she was wearing was far too puffy for her liking. She did not care for these events, entirely unaware of their importance. All she knew was that these kinds of gatherings bored her senseless. An endless parade of stiff smiles and ancient names. She longed to be home in Wiltshire, in her drawing room with her telescope, charting stars that didn’t care who her father was.

She was fidgeting with the sleeve of her gown when her eyes lifted toward her father, scanning for the quickest escape. Instead, her gaze froze. He was speaking with a man whose shoulders seemed too broad for the narrow cut of his robes. His face was lined with severity, eyes sunken and cold. Beside him, a woman stood like a statue carved in marble and cruelty. Even without speaking, her presence made Selene’s stomach twist, and she dropped her gaze as instinctively as if she'd touched something hot.

But then, movement.

A boy peeked out from behind the man’s leg. A shock of dark curls fell over grey eyes, wide and uncertain. He looked about her age, and terrified. Her frown eased, ever so slightly.

“Regulus,” the man barked, yanking the child forward by the collar of his robes. The boy stumbled a little but straightened with quiet discipline. Selene tilted her head, watching him without blinking.

“My youngest, Regulus,” the man said curtly.

Selene’s father responded by pushing her forward, a firm hand on her back that made her straighten like a puppet pulled by string. “And my only,” he declared, voice slick with pride. “Selene. She dipped her head in a small, perfect bow. Regulus mirrored her gesture, though his was slightly stiff, his ears pink and visible through his curls.

“And our eldest,” the woman added smoothly, with a predator’s pride. “Sirius.”

Another boy stepped forward, taller, leaner, with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes and a posture that defied his mother’s iron grip on his shoulder. He looked Selene up and down, not rudely, but with the sharp, calculating curiosity of a boy already used to being watched.

“Why don’t you two take Miss Angelopoulos and show her around?” the woman said, mispronouncing her surname as most foreigners did. Her painted lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile on another woman, but Selene felt colder for it.

Sirius didn’t wait for permission. “Come on,” he said, grabbing his brother’s sleeve and pulling him along. Selene followed a few paces behind, her slippers soft against the marble as they slipped away from the adults. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows pooling like secrets. The portraits on the walls shifted and whispered, some glaring at the children, others ignoring them entirely. Selene ignored them back.

“You don’t have to be so shy, Reggie,” Sirius muttered, not unkindly, as they rounded a corner. “This is the kitchen hallway. Fancy a bite?” His tone was flippant, noble with a hint of mockery, like he was already bored of being noble.

Before Selene could respond, a loud crack made all three children jump. A house elf stood before them, expression inscrutable.

“Kreacher—Merlin,” Sirius yelped. “Do you have to be so creepy?”

Regulus frowned and let go of his brother’s sleeve, standing straighter. “Master Regulus. Master Sirius,” Kreacher said tonelessly, then glanced at Selene. “You have a guest.”

Selene stepped forward. “Hello,” she said politely, dipping into a small curtsy. “My name is Selene Angelopoulos.”

Kreacher gave a mechanical bow. “Kreacher proudly serves the noble House of Black. A pleasure, Miss Angelopoulos.” Regulus looked at her like she’d done something unusual.

“Would... um,” he began, voice almost inaudible, “would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.” She hummed, small and honest.

Sirius grinned as he messed up Regulus’s hair. “You’re already smitten.”

The kitchens were alive with motion. House elves darted between counters, levitating silver trays topped with hors d’oeuvres Selene couldn’t name. Kreacher returned with three teacups, each perfectly tailored to their tastes—Selene’s was vanilla and bergamot, faintly sweet and steaming.

“You’re nice to Kreacher,” Sirius noted bluntly, sipping his tea from the edge of the counter.

Selene blinked. “I’m polite.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Most wizards aren’t. Not to house elves."

She frowned slightly. “That is stupid, then.”

Sirius laughed, hopping down to swipe a pastry. Regulus didn’t follow. He stood beside her now, still sipping from his cup.

“I think it’s good,” he said quietly, not without a small stutter.

“I’m sorry?”

“That you’re kind. To Kreacher. He takes care of us.”

Selene turned to him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Of course he does.”

They sipped in silence for a moment, the clatter of the kitchens swirling around them.

“You and Sirius,” she said eventually, “you’re named after stars.”

“Yes,” Regulus muttered, a bit bitterly.

“Little King,” she translated, watching the slight twitch of surprise that he didn’t manage to hide.

“It’s a bit pathetic.” He huffed. “Did you know the Sirius star is the brightest in the entire sky?”

"I did." She admitted. “I’m named after the moon.”

He looked up sharply. “Then I suppose... we’re all in the sky together.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a flush crept up his neck, mortified by his own words.

“I suppose so,” she murmured, letting herself smile.

Chapter Text

The noble house of Black quickly became Selene’s saving grace through the early years of her childhood.

Her mother, elegant and cold as polished marble, had made it her life’s mission to smooth every perceived flaw from her daughter. As a woman, Selene was expected to reflect the dignity and refinement of their ancient bloodline, but tailored now to English sensibilities, not Cretan. They had left behind the sun-drenched stone of their estate in Heraklion for the suffocating grey chill of London, and with it, Selene felt something vital in her had been left to rot in the salt air of her homeland.

London was damp and muted, all slate skies and dull cobblestones. Even the light here felt filtered through ash. Her olive-toned skin, once golden from long days in the Cretan sun, had dulled to a colorless pallor. Her curls, wild sun-bleached and salt-heavy, were always forced into smooth, straight styles, pinned up until her scalp ached. The food lacked the warmth of cumin and lemon. And worst of all, her parents had begun ignoring her education in favor of training her to become what she called “a proper English debutante.” That meant etiquette over arithmancy, posture drills over potions, charm-school diction over dueling stances. She was forced into event after event to “keep bonds” with the pureblooded community of the capital, and she was beginning to dread every ball, dinner party, and gala alike. She was quick-witted, even for her young age, and she was aware of the underlying importance of her attendance. The only thing a proper pureblooded witch was good for.

Marriage. 

The weight of her responsibilities was heavy on her head, and it made the preposterous parties even more dreadful for her. It created an intense need for Calliope to be certain her daughter fit the standard set for British witches, no matter the consequence. “You need to be still.” Her mother was gripping her face so tightly she had bitten back a cry, the end of her ivory wand poking the chub of her cheek.

“Nasty little freckles.” Her mother huffed lightly, unbothered as she cast a bleaching spell. “Makes you look dirty.”

She could not help the welling of tears in her dark eyes, lip quivering a bit as the spell burned her skin. That word, daughter, carried with it the weight of dynasty, not love. A chess piece, a future alliance. Selene bit her lip hard enough to taste iron, forcing the tears back, not for her mother’s approval, but to keep what little pride she still had.

Her mother tilted her face, examining the spell’s results with an appraising frown. “That will have to do,” she muttered. “Go get dressed. Quickly.”

And so, Selene found herself once again in another gilded prison, this time a gala hosted by the Rosiers, one of the oldest and most infuriating families in England. They had a son near her age. Her mother’s pointed mention of it earlier had felt more like a veiled threat than a helpful detail. For the first hour, Selene barely spoke. She simply stood at her mother’s side, nodding, curtsying, and offering dull pleasantries when spoken to. Several boys, sons of the usual families, had taken turns dancing with her. Not one had asked a real question. They spoke at her, about themselves or their family estates, bragging about tutors and broomsticks. None had noticed her fatigue or the way her fingers trembled slightly from the earlier spell.

Her mother said it was her “exoticness” that made her so alluring. Selene hated that word. It made her feel like a curiosity behind glass, something foreign and strange to be admired but not understood. She hated the way they all stared, not quite like her.

A light tap on her shoulder jolted her from her thoughts. Bracing herself for another dull, toothy aristocrat, she turned, frown already in place, and was surprised to find Regulus Black standing there. He was a little taller than the last time they met, though his posture still held that same uncertain awkwardness. His expression was gentle, almost careful.

“Hello,” he said, a quiet sort of offering.

“Hello,” Selene returned, her shoulders finally loosening. “My apologies. I thought you might be Goyle again.”

Regulus blinked, then gave a tight, knowing smile. “That’s a cruel assumption.”

“Cruel but fair,” she added, arching a brow.

His lips twitched, but then his eyes focused on her face. “Your freckles…”

Automatically, she lifted her hand to her cheek, where the spell’s afterburn still pulsed faintly beneath the skin. “They made me look unkempt,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Regulus frowned, but said nothing. For a moment, it looked like he might reach out, but instead, he tucked his hands behind his back like he was taught.

“Where’s your brother?” she asked, needing to change the subject.

“Home.” His voice tightened, and his shoulders squared.

She smoothed her gown. “My mother said he’s rather… fiery.”

Regulus’s eyes sharpened. “And how would your mother know that?”

“Your mother told her.” Selene gave him a sly look, not unkind. “You do not have to be so defensive. I do not bring any judgment. Just curiosity.”

He went quiet, chewing over her words. Then, after a pause: “He’s… different. My parents compare him to my cousin.”

“Andromeda?”

"Yes." He nodded reluctantly. “Sirius would never do something like that. He wouldn’t leave me.”

The certainty in his tone surprised her. She studied him quietly, seeing the pride beneath the vulnerability. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Regulus looked up at her with a strange, unreadable expression. “What else do you know about my family?”

Selene tilted her head, mischief creeping into her voice. “Your parents are cousins.”

His mouth dropped open in pure horror, curls bouncing with the indignation of it. “You—!”

“It’s remarkable, really,” she continued with a faux scholarly tone, “that you and your brother turned out decent. Physically and mentally.”

He stared at her, momentarily speechless, then his mouth twitched again, this time into a smirk that looked suspiciously like one Sirius might wear. “You think I look decent?”

She gave him a deadpan look. “Do not make me regret befriending you so soon.”

“Friends, are we?” he asked, but there was no smirk this time, only a quiet curiosity, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him until just now, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Selene paused, taken slightly off guard by the question. Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, like it mattered.

“I suppose we are,” she said finally, softer than before. “You’re the only person here who hasn’t tried to talk about themselves for ten uninterrupted minutes.”

Regulus looked down, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re the only person who hasn’t asked what I plan to be when I grow up. Or what kind of broom I fly.”

“I don’t care about brooms,” Selene replied simply, glancing around at the other children and adults alike posturing across the ballroom. “And I already know what I want to be.”

He turned to her, interested now. “What?”

“A healer,” she said, chin tilting slightly upward. “For magical creatures, ideally. Or people, if I must. But not a wife. Not just that.”

Regulus blinked, and for a moment his careful posture slipped. “You can do that?”

“My mother says no,” Selene admitted, brushing a loose hair behind her ear. “But I didn’t ask her permission.” A silence passed between them, warm and charged with a quiet understanding. Regulus’s eyes lingered on her face, not in the way the other boys had, but as though he were studying a star just beyond his reach.

“I think you’ll be a good healer,” he said. “You notice things. And you don’t talk unless it matters.”

She turned to him, something kind sparking in her expression. “That may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me at one of these dreadful events.”

He smiled, truly smiled, and for a flicker of a moment, he looked his age. Regulus hesitated, then held out his hand awkwardly, like it was something he’d never done before. “Friends, then?”

Selene looked at it, then took it, not dainty and reserved, but firm and certain. “Friends.” And for the first time that night, she didn’t feel quite so far from home.

Chapter Text

“Did you know that Muggles have gone to the moon?”

Sirius burst into the drawing room like a howler in midsentence, dragging a gust of irreverent energy into the otherwise peaceful space. The quiet hum of turning pages and the scent of old parchment were abruptly replaced with the thud of his boots against the carpet. Selene blinked, marking her page with a ribbon and setting her novel down with delicate fingers. The contrast was immediate, where she was still, Regulus let out a loud, exasperated huff beside her and snapped his book shut.

“They’ve gone to the moon?” Selene repeated slowly, incredulously, lifting her head. “How?”

She didn’t even attempt to mask her interest. Her eyes lit up with something childlike, a gleam of wonder. A part of her, perhaps the smallest and most untouched part, dreamed of what it might feel like to leave the earth behind.

“Yes!” Sirius said triumphantly, flopping onto the floor with no regard for the silken upholstery or the fact that they were supposed to be studying. Since returning from his first year at Hogwarts, Sirius had transformed. Gone was the meticulously combed hair and clipped, almost careful speech. In its place was a boy bursting with volume and motion, the taste of freedom from his family igniting him. Selene was staying with the Blacks for the summer, her parents were vacationing on the Continent, and the noble house of Black had, in a twist of irony, offered her a place of solace. Or at least, it had once felt that way.

“Regulus,” she murmured when he scoffed loudly beside her and buried his nose back into his book with too much force. She didn’t say more, only gave him a quiet glance. She had noticed something shifting in him. He was no longer just shy. He was guarded now, braced for impact.

“They’re Muggles,” Regulus said dryly. “They probably tied themselves to birds and prayed for the best.”

Sirius sat up, offended. “Don’t be daft. Muggles have tons of things we don’t.”

“Sirius,” Selene warned gently, glancing toward the open hallway. Her voice dropped. “You shouldn’t speak so loudly. Someone might overhear you.”

“She coddles you too much,” Regulus muttered, bitterness creeping into his tone, sharp and defensive. He didn’t look up from his book, but the words cut through regardless. There was too much venom there for an eleven-year-old.

Selene frowned but turned to Sirius with cautious curiosity. “I thought Muggles were... uncivilized.”

“No!” Sirius said quickly, springing to his feet. “They’re brilliant! You should hear their music—my friend Remus, I told you about him—he brought this... thing back from Christmas break. A disk. Flatter than our dinner plates. And it spun, but it played music.” He grinned, eyes sparkling, face flush with excitement. “You wouldn’t believe the sound—like magic, but without spells.”

Regulus’s head snapped up. “Sirius.” His voice was sharp, too sharp. Selene flinched. There was something dangerous in Regulus’s tone, something final. She had never seen him angry like this. This was not the petty irritation of a boy whose book had been interrupted. This was older. Darker. “Enough with this Muggle filth,” he hissed.

Sirius froze. The words seemed to stop him mid-thought, knocking the joy clean from his face. His grin fell slowly, the sparkle in his eyes replaced with something heavy and disappointed. The air shifted. Even Selene felt it—the words Muggle filth seemed to echo through the room like a curse.

“You need to remember where you come from,” Regulus said. He stood, trying to look taller than he was, his chin lifted as if that could make up for the weight in his voice.

Sirius took a step forward, taller and louder by instinct. “Shut up. You’re only repeating what you hear Father say.”

Regulus didn’t blink. “Father is right.”

“You don’t know anything,” Sirius growled. “You haven’t seen what I have—”

“And I have no intention of doing so!” Regulus cut in sharply. “I know my loyalties. My responsibilities. Do you?”

“Boys.” The word came like the crack of a whip. Orion Black stood in the archway, his shadow stretching far into the room. Selene’s blood ran cold. His presence was like a storm that did not announce itself until it had already broken.

Sirius and Regulus stopped immediately. Both boys stepped apart. Sirius’s arms crossed tightly over his chest, his chin lifted defiantly. Regulus’s head dipped low, his posture collapsing in on itself like a folding chair. Selene stood still, heart thudding behind her ribs.

“You dare fight in front of a lady?” Orion’s voice turned acid. “Have you not been raised right?” Selene swallowed hard.

He moved forward with calculated slowness, his long fingers closing like steel around Sirius’s shoulder. “Do not look down like a beaten mutt,” he snapped at Regulus, before dragging Sirius bodily from the room. There was a sound down the corridor—footsteps, then a scuffle, then silence. Deafening silence. A silencing charm. Selene wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was cast for privacy.

They stood in the quiet for a long beat. Selene kept her eyes on the floor.

“Are you okay?” she asked eventually, her voice quiet, almost childlike in the stillness. She didn’t move until she turned to him and froze. Regulus was crying. Tears streamed silently down his face, no sobs, no gasps. Just tears, pooling and falling from glassy eyes. She had seen him cry often. When Sirius stole his stuffed Kneazle, when he scraped his knee chasing butterflies on toy brooms, when Walburga shouted at him for speaking out of turn. But this was different. This was not childish.

For a moment, she could not bring herself to move or comfort him. Every effort her parents took to raise her had told her that what Regulus had said was right. It did not soothe the guilt in her throat.  Without a word, Regulus stepped forward and let his head fall to her shoulder. He was stiff at first, unsure, but then he trembled. She held her arms out, awkward at first, then wrapped them around his narrow shoulders as best she could.

“Would it be so hard to do as Mother and Father say?” he whispered. His breath was warm against her neck. “Why is staying with me not enough anymore?”

“I don’t know,” she replied softly, rubbing slow circles into his back. It felt unnatural at first, too intimate. Both of their mothers would turn scarlet if they saw their interaction. But she didn’t stop. “I wish I did.”

“It’s those stupid Gryffindors,” he sobbed, voice shaking. “Those blood traitors. They’ve corrupted him.”

Her arms stiffened. A chill passed through her, not because of his words, but because she saw the beginnings of the man he would become, the boy clinging to tradition because it was all he had left.

Still, she did not let go. Not when his tears tickled her collarbone, or she could feel him sniffling against her body.

“I got you,” she whispered into his hair, holding him tighter, a silent promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But in that moment, under the heavy silence and fading warmth of a summer afternoon, she meant it. And that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

Regulus would not stand beside Sirius as the three of them walked onto the platform. While this wasn’t necessarily new, it was proving to work against him. 

“-and I’ll try out for the quidditch team this year, of course.” Selene was amazed by how quickly Sirius could speak, the words flying adamantly from his mouth. 

“Beater, I presume?” She hummed, eyes flickering around the crowd of witches and wizards. The energy around them was something unlike anything she'd felt before, buzzings of conversations and a mix of accents. Selene was drawn to the interesting fashion many of the young witches were wearing, eyeing the odd-looking flared jeans and the striped dresses. 

“Of course.” He said, his chest puffed out slightly. Regulus scoffed from beside her. “You should try out, too.”

Selene raised a brow. “I am hardly a fair Quidditch player. I have only played to stop your annoying nagging.” 

“You’re a better flyer than Lucius.” Regulus chimed in to reluctantly side with his brother. 

“Your mother is a better flyer than Lucius,” Selene mumbled so the woman in question wouldn’t hear her from her position a few paces behind the three. 

Sirius barked a loud laugh before his attention was stolen by his name being shouted across the platform. A wide grin stretched across his face, one she had not seen all summer, and he bolted in the direction. It wasn't long until he found his odd group of friends, the kind of people Selene was taught not to speak to under any circumstances. She’d heard the stories of Sirius’ first year, which mostly resulted in the amount of trouble he got into with four boys, Regulus pretended not to want to hear about. 

Alone in the crowd, she looked to Regulus, noting the way he swallowed nervously without the guidance of his brother. The platform was loud, hot, and packed with students of all ages. Selene was unsure if she had seen this many people in one spot in her entire life. Silently, she grabbed his hand with the wonder of who was comforting whom. For a moment, she longed for the support of her father, or even one of Regulus' parents, but they had already said their goodbyes. They were on their own now. 

"Come, let us find the other Slytherins in our year." She pulled him onto the train, immediately overwhelmed by the amount of energy packed into the cart. Children of all ages, some families she recognized, some she didn't, were running back and forth through the compartments. Laughter, the sounds of awkward introductions, and reuniting upperclassmen filled the atmosphere. Selene wasn't sure what she was expecting, but she didn't anticipate it being so... loud. Regulus stayed beside her, already glaring at anyone who came too close to her. Over her head, he searched for the people his mother had approved of him to befriend. 

“Come on.” Regulus tugged on her hand in an attempt to be brave. Somehow, he was able to find a near-empty compartment, the only other occupant being another first-year.  The only giveaway that she was in their year was that she hadn’t been sorted yet. She was tall, with dark skin and coily hair slicked back into two puffs by the nape of her neck. 

“Hello.” Selene found herself immediately calmed by her presence, even as Regulus stood behind her, clearly opposed. “Is it okay if we sit?”

“Sure.” The girl's voice was soft, albeit slightly squeaky. “My name is Dorcas Meadowes.”

Both of them relaxed at her name, even if it was instinctual. “Oh, you are a pureblood,” Selene said. “That’s good.”

Dorcas seemed a little uncomfortable that Selene was able to recall that from her name alone, but she did not mention it. “I am.”  

“My name is Regulus.” He said proudly. “Black.” 

“Selene Angelopoulos.” She thought to herself for a moment before sitting down beside Dorcas. Blatantly, she tilted her head as she intently observed the girl. 

“Quite the last name.” Dorcas only said, seemingly not bothered by her stare. 

“It is actually quite simple.” She mumbled. Dorcas flushed in embarrassment. 

“Sorry.” She mumbled. Selene did not like the feeling of superiority the other girls' averted gaze gave her. 

“You can shorten it to ‘Angel’, if that is easier for you.” She did not miss the odd look Regulus gave her. 

“No,” Dorcas said stubbornly. “It’s your name. I’ll manage. Just because it’s a little different than I’m used to doesn’t mean I can’t get used to it.”

Regulus’ lips twitched in approval from the seat across from them. “Okay.” Selene’s eyes visibly brightened. 

Chapter Text

Selene was never late. Perhaps it had something to do with Regulus’ firm desire to be punctual, but she was always early to lessons even without his presence. But now, she wished she had not taken Slughorn’s offer to challenge herself, landing her in the Potions classroom with third-year Gryffindors. 

She had found a quiet corner in the back of the room, her calmness in the cool room suddenly melting away as students made their way into the classroom. Suddenly, she was left feeling oddly heavy, full of an emotion she could not place. Her parents had engraved in her that one of the worst things she could do was be sorted into Gryffindor, and at the same time last year, she agreed. 

They were as loud as their color, red and boisterous, even at the early hour of the morning lecture. Selene found her eyes stuck on Sirius. She had not fully realized she had only been seeing flickers of his real personality at the Black manor, and the truest version of him was cackling at a poorly transfigured caldron that was wobbling around the desk. Of course, besides him were James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettergrew, as she’d learned. Selene suddenly felt cold in realization. Not for herself, but for the clear revelation that Regulus would undoubtedly lose Sirius.   

She could not care less for the constant glances and glares sent her way, her green tie sticking out sorely. Her eyes were stuck on Sirius’s grown-out hair, his laughter echoing viciously in her brain. She ignored the trace of envy as someone sat in the seat next to her. She smelled her before she saw her, honey perfume and a warm radiance.

She shifted her eyes, a little surprised to see Lily Evans a bit red in the face with annoyance, arms crossed in front of her. “Hello.” She greeted rather forcefully. 

“Hi,” Selene said back, voice quiet. Her eyes lingered on the older girl, confused as to why a Muggle-born of all people would choose to sit with her. 

“How was your summer?” Evans turned her body to her completely. 

Selene stared at her for a moment, incredulously. “Good.” She blinked. “Thanks.”

After another moment, she found her voice again. “How was yours?”

Lily fell into a deep explanation about her summer holiday, how she spent it at something called an “amusement park”, which sounded the least bit ‘amusing’ to her, with her sister. The ginger stopped speaking once she noticed Selene staring at her blankly. Her lips snapped shut abruptly, a flush crawling up Lily’s neck. Unsure how to explain that she was not uninterested in her story (just ridiculously confused), Selene opted to break eye contact and keep her eyes on her textbook.  Slughorn had started speaking anyway, delivering the tragic news that whoever was sitting beside each other would be potions partners for the term. She swallowed guiltily. 

She was halfway through the invigoration draught when Lily spoke again. “Are you in any other advanced classes?”

“No.” Selene managed once she got over the slight shock that she was trying so hard to be friendly to her. “Just potions. I suppose I find it easier than most subjects.”

“Is it your favorite?” Lily asked naturally as she handed her the vial of honeywater. 

Selene’s lips pursed. “I have not given that much thought.” She could feel Lily’s eyes turn questioningly. 

“Well, I’m quite fond of charms.” She said. “Potions, too.”

Selene paused for a long moment before turning to her briefly to speak. “Is that because you are just good at such topics?”

“No.” Lily chuckled gently, stirring the potion lightly. Her laughter melded well with the small clink of the ladle against the cauldron. “I wasn’t good at much at first.”

“That makes sense,” Selene said without thinking. “Magic must have come unnaturally to you.” She winced as the words fell off her tongue. 

“It did. Clumsily at times, even.” Lily did not seem the least bit offended, even if she should have been. “But after enough studying and trial and error, it just clicked.”

“Clicked rather well, too.” Selene sighed in slight relief. She was not able to outwardly say it, but the meaning was there. Lily Evans was brilliant. The kind of intelligence that made Selene question her parents in the first place. 

They finished the rest of the potion in silence, the air lighter than before. Professor Slughorn made his way to their station first, poorly hidden eagerness about testing their potion vibrating from his stance, a marsh frog in his grasp. With an eyedropper, he collected a small sample from the vial before placing a drop on the frog, a joyful smirk on his face that only grew as the amphibian hopped around swiftly. “Did not expect anything less from the pair of you.”

“Thank you, professor.” Lily ducked her head slightly to hide the redness on her cheeks. Selene wondered how she still managed to humbly take praise at this point. 

It was surprisingly natural getting used to Lily’s company as a potions partner, even if she had no choice. They worked smoothly and comfortably together, often opting for silence over mindless chatter, but it was pleasant all the same. It did not matter what her friends said about the Muggleborn; she could not help the ease of working with her. That didn’t stop the rest of Gryffindor from having differing opinions, though.

“Got another slimy Slytherin to follow you around?” James Potter, who was completely ignoring his own potion to lean over his chair. 

Selene didn’t even look up at him. Instead, her eyes flickered to Sirius behind him. He hadn’t even noticed, or he was pretending like he didn’t, too involved in whatever Remus Lupin was doing besides him. 

“Don’t be arrogant, Potter.” Lily huffed, prickling slightly. “Severus is my friend.”

Selene stayed quiet, rather uninterested in their conversation. Instead, she continued writing her potions essay that was due next week. “ Snivellus is a rotten toad. You could have much better friends than that, Lilypad.” 

Lily’s face twisted in anger, slamming her quill down on the table. “Oh, like you?” 

James only grinned boyishly, jumping from his chair to lean fully on the station. “Exactly!” 

“No.” She said blankly. “I would much rather spend my time with kind people like Selene and Severus than you.” 

“Kind?” James nearly barked a laugh. “Has the little freak even said anything remotely nice in her life?”

Selene looked up at that, finally, but more at Lily’s silent response. She supposed James wasn’t necessarily wrong, but it didn’t help the churn in her stomach. By now, a few people had taken notice of the interaction. 

“Prongs, man.” Sirius was stepping towards him, a hesitance on his face that only Selene remembered. “You’re about to put your head in a cauldron.”

“Just because I do not flaunt around the castle boisterously does not mean I am not kind,” Selene said, avoiding the boy next to James. 

“Not to muggleborns.” He said stubbornly, shaking off Sirius’s hand. “Only blokes in your own house.”

“Will you stop picking on a second year?” Lily snapped, cheeks aflame. 

“Let it go, James.” Sirius urged at the same time, finally managing to pull the taller boy back to his potion station. 

Before he turned, Selene caught his eye, pride poorly concealing the guilt, heavily knitting his brows together. She was almost sure that would be the last time the boy would look at her, and she was reminded of the child he used to be.

Chapter Text

“I’m still mad at you.”

Dinner had become the most agonizing ritual of their confined days, an unbearable quiet broken only by the occasional scrape of silver against ceramic. The tension between them was a third presence at the table, thick and sharp-edged.

“And I have no intention of redeeming our friendship,” Selene continued, her voice low, unwavering. “But I fear you are the war’s last hope.”

Regulus looked up slowly. His gaze was hard, unreadable. For a moment, the fork hovered in his hand before lowering silently to his plate. He said nothing, only swallowing as if the food in his mouth had turned to stone.

“Don’t make my decision worthless.” Her eyes locked onto his with an icy resolve, her stubbornness now carved into every line of her face.

“You should have left me to die,” he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness and something quieter, perhaps grief. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to admit he was wondering whether she remembered shepherd’s pie was his childhood favorite, or if it was a cruel coincidence.

“I didn’t save you out of care.” Her voice dropped. “You’re a necessity.”

He clenched his jaw. “So instead of death, I’ve been sentenced to servitude. Kidnapped and chained to your cause.”

“You’re too important to throw your life away,” Selene said flatly, brushing aside his accusation like dust on the table. “Morality doesn’t matter.”

“You’re reckless,” he spat. “And completely mad.”

A pause.

“I suppose I’ve changed,” she said after a moment, her wand flicking to clear the dishes with a silent charm. She leaned her elbows on the heavy oak table, fingers interlaced. “Have you not?”

Regulus let out a pained grunt as a sharp, familiar ache surged through his ribs. He didn’t answer the question. Not directly. “What do you need to know?”

“What do you know about the Horcruxes?”

“I don’t know when he began the process or how far it goes,” he said, eyes flicking to the swirling black potion that had appeared in her hand. The liquid shimmered with ominous energy. “But I believe there are six. All of them personal.”

“Which ones?” she pressed.

“A family ring, Marvolo Gaunt’s,” he began. “I also suspect Nagini. And items from the Founders. Ravenclaw’s diadem, Hufflepuff’s cup. Maybe something of Gryffindor’s. Something he believes immortalizes him.”

“Any idea how to destroy them?”

“Not with what I’ve tried,” he admitted. “There are whispers, rare spells, magical items. Theoretically, they might work.”

“Fiendfyre.”

“Or Basilisk venom.”

She gave a quiet, satisfied nod, standing and approaching. Regulus immediately tensed. He didn’t trust proximity, especially not hers.

“Be still,” she said gently, but there was no softness in her eyes. She gripped his jaw firmly, pried his mouth open, and poured the potion past his lips before he could fully react. He jerked slightly, but her fingers already buried in his hair, holding him in place. He swallowed, coughing as the last of the potion seared down his throat. Heat bloomed in his chest, radiating outward like spreading fire, but without pain. Just a suffocating warmth.

“…I could’ve done that myself,” he rasped, feeling oddly dizzy from the contact.

“It had to be swallowed in one go,” she said, walking away. “Or it would have ignited your throat.”

He let out a dry, almost disbelieving chuckle. “Of course.”

As she prepared herself a cup of coffee, she used a silent flick of her fingers to summon tea for him. In the years he had come to know her, he did not know life as a stranger to Selene. He especially did not know what it was like to be disliked so deeply by her. Even still, in the evening summer light, her clipped-up hair and the sight of the nape of her neck reminded him of the girl he’d grown up with, and the realization that he could never bring himself to hate her. 

After all, he had done this to himself.

The sunset spilled warm orange across the kitchen, bathing her skin in golden tones. She set the cup in front of him, the blue and white lilies curling up the ceramic’s side.

He stared at it. “Did you make this?”

“Yes.” Her answer was curt.

“All of the dishes?”

“Yes.”

“You must have had a lot of time.”

“I did. I wasn’t allowed out of the safe house for the first few months,” she said, sipping her coffee. “There was little else to do.”

“Did you ever paint again?” he asked cautiously.

“I did,” she murmured. “Not as much now. The Order needs me more.”

Regulus scoffed. “They’re still fools.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “But they want this war to end.”

He took a sip, eyebrows raising. “What’s in this?”

“Honey,” she answered. “It’ll soothe your throat.”

The kindness in that small gesture hit him harder than the potion. He almost choked on the memory it triggered.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

She didn’t respond.

Later that night, silence stretched between the two bedrooms, a void neither sleep nor time could fill. He wasn’t sure what pulled him to her door. Guilt, loneliness, fear of dying before saying what needed to be said. His knuckles knocked before he could stop them.

She answered quickly, barefoot, in striped shorts and a plain T-shirt. Muggle clothes. Beautifully mundane. Far too tempting. A little less so when he realized they must have belonged to someone from the order. 

“What is it?” she asked, the soft lamplight behind her casting long shadows on the floor.

“There’s something you should know.”

She didn’t flinch at his stare, nor comment on his wandering eyes. She simply waited.

“Have you heard of the prophecy?” he asked. “About him?”

“You served him like a lapdog, yet you still won’t say his name?”

“Voldemort,” Regulus said with cold clarity. “Have you heard it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why do you think I’m keeping you alive? The prophecy speaks of two forces united. I’m not stupid. It’s you.”

He shook his head. “He thinks it’s you.”

She froze.

“He was seeking you out.” He whispered. “When we were still in Hogwarts, he wanted you on his side.”

She fell silent, expression falling as her stomach churned violently. “You knew this?”

“Yes.” He could smell her, the sickening familiarity whipping his nose and settling in his lungs like dust. 

She did not respond, stepping back into her bedroom and shutting the door in his face. Regulus quietly sighed, resting his forehead on the door lightly and closing his eyes. His heart lurched, stuck in the constant tugging of his emotions, exhausting him. 

The slight arc of his nose rubbed against the oak, as he quietly mumbled a string of “I’m sorry, Selene, I’m so sorry.” Knowing she could not hear him. And perhaps, part of him feared, she no longer cared to.

Chapter Text

“Crouch, you fucking cow—”

Selene rarely cursed. Not if she could help it. Her mother would’ve scourgified her mouth for less, and with a very old wand. But it was the only word that felt remotely fitting for how Barty Crouch Jr. was currently attempting to drape his entire lanky form across her lap at the Slytherin table like some lovesick, drunken niffler.

Dorcas made a sharp sound of disgust beside her, though not one that suggested the behavior was remotely out of character.

“Please, love—” Barty whined dramatically, hair flipping like he imagined himself in a witch weekly romance ad, as he rolled across the bench with all the subtlety of a wounded hippogriff.

“I cannot tutor you,” Selene interrupted coldly, pushing his head out of her lap with the flat of her palm. “You’re hopeless and annoying.”

Evan Rosier nearly choked on his orange juice across from them, snickering through it like a third-year with no concept of table manners. She didn’t need to look over to know Regulus was already scowling beside him, she could feel it, like a shift in air pressure.

“Crouch,” Regulus said, voice low and cutting like a blade wrapped in velvet. “You look pathetic.”

Barty straightened immediately, as though Regulus had jabbed a wand to the base of his spine. In doing so, his shoulder collided with Selene’s chin, earning him a sharp glare. She jabbed her fork into her French toast with calculated force, her expression otherwise impassive. Under the table, she felt the brush of Regulus’ foot slide subtly between her ankles, the feeling familiar, grounding.

“Maybe if you weren’t hung over for your O.W.L.s last year, you wouldn’t be repeating fifth-year Potions,” Evan said cheerfully, like he was discussing the weather.

Dorcas leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “I feel terrible for your Potions partner, honestly.”

Barty groaned with obvious exaggeration. “Well, it’s not my fault Slughorn isn’t obsessed with me like he is with our house prince and princess over here.”

He ruffled Selene’s and Regulus’ hair in one swoop, grinning like a child. Selene swatted his hand with enough force to make him hiss, and Regulus gave him a look of pure disdain.

“You only want to go to his dastardly parties,” Regulus muttered, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve.

“His alcohol collection is legendary,” Barty defended, entirely unrepentant.

Selene’s eye twitched. Just slightly.

“Why don’t you just find a date?” Evan offered, teeth flashing.

Barty turned to Selene with a hopeful glint in his eye, and before a syllable could leave his mouth, Regulus’ voice rang firm across the table:

“No.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Dorcas, looking far too amused, sighed. “Alright, I’ll take you, Barty. Slughorn extended an invitation to me for his Christmas party this year.”

Barty made an overjoyed sound and threw himself onto Dorcas, nearly flattening the second-year beside her. The child squeaked, his plate of eggs tilting dangerously.

Selene turned away, focus drifting as a flurry of owls began descending from the enchanted ceiling. The familiar silhouette of her family’s owl, a petite, sleek thing with feathered feet and marbled plumage, coasted smoothly to a halt in front of her plate. Athena. Of course her mother had named the creature after a goddess.

“I cannot believe how cute the little fucker is,” Dorcas cooed, scratching Athena’s soft head with a gentle middle finger.

Selene untied the letter but didn’t open it. Not yet. Her appetite had vanished.

Regulus silently tore off a piece of toast and offered it to the owl, who took it with dainty precision before lifting back into the rafters. The table began to thin as students left for morning lessons.

“I thought you weren’t going to Slughorn’s party,” Selene said casually, falling into step with Dorcas. Their shoes echoed against the marble floors of the Entrance Hall, Regulus and Evan lingering a few paces behind. “Since you would have to stay here over Winter break.”

“I wasn’t.” Dorcas flipped her braids behind her shoulder, scanning the far end of the Hall. “But I changed my mind. Fancy a trip to Gladrags this weekend?”

“I suppose.” Selene turned down the corridor, eyes flicking up just once. Regulus had paused at the junction, waiting for her, as he always did. “Friday night?”

Dorcas shook her head. “Have to finish my Defense essay. Saturday?”

Selene considered for a moment before nodding. “Alright.” She didn’t glance back when they split off. She didn’t need to, she could feel the quiet presence at her side the moment Regulus rejoined her.

“Come along,” she said lightly.

His hand brushed the small of her back, touch featherlight, automatic, pulling her subtly to the inner edge of the hallway. Away from passing traffic. It was effortless, the sort of care so ingrained it didn’t need acknowledgment.

Then came the thunder: the distinct, chaotic rhythm of four sets of hard soled dress shoes pounding on stone. Regulus’ mood shifted instantly, a subtle tensing of the jaw, the slight lift of his shoulders. Selene looked over her shoulder just once, catching Sirius Black’s eye in passing.

The elder Black brother looked back, something unreadable in his face. Pride, maybe. Or challenge. Or disappointment.

Behind them, Professor McGonagall was in hot pursuit, robes billowing and expression murderous. Selene didn’t even want to know what idiotic prank the Marauders had pulled this time. It was always the Slytherins who paid for it.

Still, as much as she loathed the juvenile chaos, a small part of her acknowledged the relief it brought. A distraction from the outside world, from the headlines folded in the Daily Prophet, from whispers of raids and disappearances. The war was bleeding in, no matter how far Hogwarts tried to wall it out.

She was staring again. She didn’t even realize until Regulus gently tugged at the sleeve of her jumper, his hand cool and firm. Wordless.

“We’ll be late,” he murmured.

“You don’t have to walk me,” she said as they descended into the dungeons. The chill was immediate, like stepping into a shadow. But she found it oddly comforting. A reprieve.

“It would make no sense not to,” he replied easily. “We had breakfast together. We have lessons together. Of course I’d walk you.”

She huffed, glancing sideways. “You’re not helping the rumors.”

“What rumors?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

“Half the castle thinks we’re together,” she said incredulously.

“I don’t care what they think,” Regulus answered plainly, as if it were obvious.

She let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite amused. “And our friends? Who I believe started the rumor?”

“I care especially less.”

There was no sarcasm. Just truth. And in a way, Selene didn’t mind the silence that followed. It was warm, even in the coldest corridor in the castle.

Chapter Text

Selene had gotten remarkably good at pretending not to notice Regulus trailing after her like a particularly elegant shadow. It was a sensation she’d become accustomed to during their school years, his quiet presence behind her in the library, his figure in her peripheral vision during Potions, the way his gaze always seemed to find her in a crowded corridor. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d grown used to it until it was gone.

Now, it was back again, and more constant than ever. She could feel his eyes on her from the kitchen window when she strung laundry outside to dry, when she poured tea in the morning light, when her body slumped into sleep on the sofa with a book forgotten on her chest. He never said anything about it, but the weight of his stare, sharp and watchful, but never invasive, warmed her more than she cared to admit.

It soothed her. In a way nothing else had since the war began.

“I’m off,” she called lightly, pulling on her coat over her long-sleeved shirt. Her fingers brushed the edge of her wand in her pocket, familiar and reassuring. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was there. She could sense him in the room. Still, alert, quiet as snowfall.

“Off?” Regulus repeated, his voice calm, but tight at the edges.

He didn’t bother to pretend he wasn’t watching her. From the dining table, he leaned against his palm, the other hand slowly stirring his tea. She had begun tending to the lingering aftereffects of the poison that had nearly killed him, mostly with whatever she could salvage or brew, honey in his drinks to soothe his ruined throat, restorative draughts when the pain became too sharp to mask.

“Order business.” She lifted the fake Horcrux and let it dangle from her index finger, the chain glinting faintly in the morning light. “Need to return this to the cave before someone notices the real one is missing.”

Regulus stood so quickly the chair scraped against the floor, and his knee clipped the edge of the oak table with a sharp crack.

“You’re going alone?” The twitch in his jaw wasn’t subtle.

Selene didn’t flinch. “I can assure you I will be fine.”

“I do not doubt that,” he said, already standing in front of her with unsettling speed. His voice was low, but urgent. “But it would be unintelligent to go alone.”

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Sit down.” Her voice was cool, authoritative. “I need you to figure out how to contact Kreacher without alerting anyone that you’re still breathing.”

He stared at her for a beat longer than necessary, then slowly backed away, irritation flashing behind his grey eyes.

“Fine.”

Selene reached for the doorknob, pausing only briefly. “I’ll send my patronus when I’ve completed the task.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Regulus stood there for a moment, hand still slightly raised toward where she’d just been. She moved like smoke. Vanishing, slipping through cracks, untouchable. It unnerved him.

Two hours later, the house was still and dim, the only sound the occasional creak of wood and the gentle whisper of waves below the cliff. Regulus had dozed off sideways on the sofa, one leg dangling off the edge, his cheek pressed awkwardly against one of her knitted pillows. He would deny it later, but he liked her scent. I was something like salt air, bergamot, and the faintest trace of vanilla.

A sharp, impatient meow pierced his dreamless sleep.

He jerked upright with a snort. Hovering inches from his face was Selene’s Patronus, a wildcat, silvery and ghostlike, yet uncannily solid. It blinked down at him, tail swishing with amused disdain.

Regulus squinted, rubbing his eyes. “Bloody hell—”

The cat meowed again and batted his forehead lightly with one paw before vanishing in a shimmer of light.

Barely two minutes later, the front door creaked open. Selene stepped in with a brown paper bag cradled in one arm, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind. She shut the door quietly behind her and began unlacing her boots.

“You’re back,” Regulus said quickly, straightening up, running a hand through his tousled hair. His voice was casual, but his eyes were scanning her for any sign of injury.

“Yes.” She slipped her coat off, revealing the wand tucked neatly into her belt. “Did you not get my message?”

“I did.” He scowled as he rose, rubbing his temple. “Your cat nearly scratched my eye out.”

“You’re dramatic.” She breezed past him into the kitchen. “And you like cats.”

He raised a brow, following her. “I am fond of cats. Ones that don’t assault me.”

“Come here.” She didn’t look back as she summoned a cutting board with a flick of her wrist. “You’re going to help me make dinner.”

“I’m sorry?” he sputtered, standing rigid in the doorway.

Selene turned around slowly, one hand on her hip, her brow lifted in a look that brooked no argument. Regulus sighed and shuffled toward the counter, defeated.

“Or you can do the laundry,” she added bluntly.

He huffed. “I do not understand why you insist on not using magic for these things.”

“You look like a sulking child.” She handed him a bag of vegetables. “The more magic cast, the easier it is to track us.”

“Are your wards not strong enough?” he said, feigning indignation, though he knew the answer.

“They’re the strongest I’ve ever seen.” Her tone was matter-of-fact as she unpackaged the butcher’s paper. “But strength means little without discretion.”

Regulus recoiled slightly as she dropped the raw chicken onto the counter. “I’m not touching that.”

“Regulus Black.” Her voice was suddenly sharp, commanding. His eyes snapped to her instinctively. “You will not stay in this house and act like a spoiled pet.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “…Fine.”

She passed him an onion.

He stared at it.

“Here,” she said more gently, her voice softer now, less rigid. She peeled off the onion’s skin with practiced ease, slicing it in half, then into precise dice. “Like this.”

He watched closely. Something about the knife in her hands made him nervous, not because he feared her, but because of how effortless it was. Like she could dissect anything.

“Careful,” he murmured suddenly, when her fingers neared the blade.

She paused. Looked at him. Didn’t say anything.

“It’s quite like potions,” she said instead, stepping aside so he could take her place.

“I do not believe that,” he grumbled, but copied her motions anyway, slower, more awkward.

“You’ll get used to it.”

He did, surprisingly quickly. There was something calming in the repetition. A strange comfort in the rhythm.

“Good.” She was already chopping celery and carrots, her hands a blur. Behind her, a pot floated to the stove with a quiet clink. She hadn’t even looked.

They fell into a companionable silence, broken only by the sounds of the knife on the cutting board and the bubbling of water. Slowly, Regulus began to lose himself in the ritual. Chop, slide, stir.

“What is this, anyway?” he asked.

“Avgolemono,” she said. “Lemon soup.”

Regulus blinked. “…Soup with lemon?”

She didn’t respond.

Later, when they sat down at the small kitchen table with mismatched bowls in front of them, Regulus took a cautious sip, then another. The warmth spread through him like a charm.

“This is good,” he said quietly. “Why do you spend so much time on preparing food, thought?”

Selene’s spoon paused midair, just for a heartbeat. “It passes the time.”

He nodded slowly. “I suppose… it is like potions.”

“In some ways,” she said.

She didn’t know why she answered. Maybe because the silence was suddenly too loud. Maybe because it was nice, having someone across the table again.

Regulus didn’t say anything else, but when he reached for a second helping, she let herself smile. Just a little.

The clink of his spoon echoed gently in the quiet kitchen, and for a long moment, it was almost peaceful. The fire crackled in the corner hearth. The air was thick with the scent of lemon and herbs and something else. Nostalgia, maybe. Regulus leaned back in his chair slightly, cradling the warm bowl in both hands.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“How much have you told them?”

Selene blinked. “Who?”

“The Order.” His tone was carefully neutral. “About me. About the locket.”

She set her spoon down, eyes on her bowl. “Not everything.”

His jaw tensed. “What have you told them?”

“That you had a hand in retrieving a Horcrux. That you left it with me. That Voldemort likely has no idea it’s gone, let alone know who was responsible.”

“But not that I’m alive.”

“No.” She looked up at him. “Only Albus knows. And only because he had to.”

Regulus exhaled slowly, tension uncoiling from his spine like a wire cut loose. Still, there was no relief in his expression.

“Do they even understand what the Horcrux means?” he asked bitterly. “What it is?”

Selene studied him. “Some do. Dumbledore most of all.”

“And the rest?” he muttered, setting his bowl down a little too hard. “Do they even know what kind of magic they’re up against?”

“They know enough,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. “They’re trying.”

“Trying won’t be enough,” Regulus snapped. “You know it won’t. I’ve seen what he’s done to split his soul. I’ve felt it. That cave, it broke things in me I didn’t know could break. And that’s just one of them.”

Selene's hands tightened around her spoon. “Then help us.”

Regulus looked up sharply.

“You’re here,” she said plainly. “You know the inside. You know the magic he used. The places. You’re one of the few people alive who’s been close enough to see the rot underneath the polish. So help us.”

“I don’t think they’d accept my help,” Regulus said flatly, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not exactly a fan favorite. Half of them would string me up by the ankles before I could speak.”

Selene didn’t laugh. She didn’t offer comfort.

Instead, she set her spoon down with deliberate slowness, her gaze cold and unreadable.

“No,” she said. “They wouldn’t. And honestly? I wouldn't blame them.”

Regulus stilled, his posture tightening.

“You think I don’t remember?” she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “The raids. The disappearances. The branding. You think I forgot the night you stood beside your precious Dark Lord while the rest of us buried our dead?”

“I didn’t know—” he began, voice sharp with guilt, but she cut him off.

“You didn’t care. Not then.” Her tone was sharper than a blade. “You were so eager to be chosen. So desperate to prove yourself. And you did. You proved exactly what side you belonged to.”

Regulus looked away, jaw clenched. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“It never is,” she replied coolly. “But don’t stand here in my kitchen, with soup in your hands and grief in your eyes, and pretend you were innocent.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Selene leaned forward slightly, her voice low but steady now. “Do you want to know how I really found the Horcrux?”

Regulus looked up, brow furrowing.

“I followed you,” she said, and for a moment, it almost sounded like a confession. “Months before we saw each other again. Before the cave. I was sent to watch you, to see if you could be turned, or if you needed to be eliminated.”

“You—” His voice caught. “The Order sent you to—?”

“No,” she said quickly, coldly. “I sent me. Because I didn’t believe you’d follow through. And apparently, I was right not to.”

He flinched. But she wasn’t finished.

“I watched you sneak out of meetings. Disobey orders. Argue with Rosier. Avoid violence when you could. I saw the way your hands shook when you thought no one was looking. I knew something was unraveling inside you.” She took a breath. “That’s when I started reporting what I saw. Quietly. Carefully. I didn’t know what you were planning, not exactly. But I knew it wasn’t loyalty anymore. And when I followed you to that cliffside, when I watched you go into that cave with Kreacher…”

She trailed off.

Regulus swallowed. “You were there? Always?”

“I was always there,” she said. “Watching. Waiting for proof that you weren’t just a coward in fancy robes.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t seem to.

“And the Horcrux?” she continued, voice clipped. “That was my report. Not yours. The only reason the Order even knows what they’re looking for is because I brought it to them. You didn’t tell us, we found out because of you, not from you.”

Regulus’s knuckles whitened around his spoon. His face had gone pale.

“I never meant to be one of them,” he said finally, voice strained. “I was seventeen. I thought—”

“You thought it would make you powerful,” Selene snapped. “You thought it would make your family proud.”

He didn’t deny it.

“But something changed,” she said, more to herself now. “And you did try to undo it. I’ll give you that.”

They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled. The soup cooled between them.

Then, reluctantly, she added, “I don’t trust you. Not fully. I don’t think I ever will.”

Regulus finally looked up. His expression was hollow. “So why let me stay?”

“Because you’re useful,” she said flatly. “You have information we don’t. You’ve seen things we haven’t. And right now, that matters more than my personal feelings.”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Pain. Maybe shame.

“I’ll give you everything I remember,” he said. “All of it. The ring, the cup, the protections. I’ll do whatever I can.”

Selene nodded once, sharp and decisive. “You’d better.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “If you try anything—anything—I will finish what Voldemort started in that cave.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

She rose to her feet, collecting the bowls and rinsing them briskly in the sink, back to him.

He sat in silence, staring into the remnants of his soup, feeling the weight of her words settle like lead in his chest.

And for the first time, Regulus wondered if redemption wasn’t just impossible. It might be undeserved.

Chapter Text

Truthfully, Selene had never gone dress shopping.

Not in any real sense, at least. Her wardrobe had always been curated, dictated, really, by her dress maid under the hawk-eyed supervision of her mother. It was all imported silk and stiff-backed tradition: brocade robes with nipped waists, corsets that stole her breath and posture alike, and embroidery heavier than sin. Beautiful? Perhaps. But they were museum pieces, relics more than garments, and never hers to choose. They belonged to her bloodline, not her.

Now, as she stood surrounded by velvet, chiffon, and enchanted zippers, Selene realized how foreign the concept of freedom felt.

Between her and Dorcas, they had amassed nearly twenty gowns in various colors and styles. Strapless, off-the-shoulder, mermaid cut, empire waist, it was dizzying. Still, Dorcas seemed to move through the selections with the finesse of a seasoned duelist, draping dresses over her arm as though they were Quidditch brooms she planned to ride to victory.

Selene, for her part, remained stoic as ever. But there was a hint of softness in her eyes, the kind only Dorcas would catch, the illusion of being a normal sixteen-year-old witch, gossiping and dressing up, if only for an hour.

“Are you really bringing Barty? To Slughorn’s?” Selene called through the curtain of her changing stall, unzipping a burgundy velvet gown. The charm on the hanger pulsed gently as it adjusted the dress to her measurements.

“It’s not a real date,” Dorcas replied, somewhere between exasperated and amused. “He was the only one in the group not invited. I felt bad.”

Selene examined her reflection in the mirror. The dress fit like a glove, high neckline, flared sleeves, and just enough drama to catch the eye. But something about it… felt wrong. Not bad, but not right either.

“You never feel bad about excluding Crouch,” she muttered, adjusting the sleeves. “You once hexed his eyebrows off.”

“I let him keep one,” Dorcas defended from the neighboring cubicle. A moment later, she emerged in a flowing blue dress that dipped daringly at the neckline. “Besides, I feel bad for me when I have to hear him complain about it for the next month.”

Selene stepped out, arms crossed, brow lifted in quiet expectation. The full-length mirror caught them both, a contrast in shades. Selene, rich and solemn in velvet; Dorcas, wind and water in blue.

“I like that one,” Selene said genuinely, gesturing to Dorcas’ dress.

“Yeah?” Dorcas turned slightly, the skirt of her gown a wisp around her legs. “What about yours?”

Selene ran her fingernails along the velvet. “Too similar to a pillow my mother has in the drawing room,” she said flatly. “And too itchy.”

Dorcas let out a full, open laugh, the kind that echoed like bells, uncaring of who might hear. “Fair enough.” With a grin, she spun and ducked back into the fitting room. “Okay, next one!”

They could’ve spent the whole afternoon like that, twirling in front of mirrors, rating sleeves and necklines, making sharp observations about boys and professors. For that brief window of time, the war felt like a rumor, and Selene almost forgot the weight she carried.

But eventually, the shadows outside lengthened, and the castle would not wait. With reluctant sighs and full shopping bags, they made their way back to Hogwarts. Selene’s steps were light, the rare kind of happy exhaustion pooling in her limbs. She hadn’t realized how tightly wound she’d been until the thread had slackened.

Her contentment shattered when she turned a corridor and nearly ran into Alecto Carrow.

The older Slytherin stood laughing, wand pointed upward, a third-year Hufflepuff girl dangling in midair by her ankles. Her robes had fallen over her head, socks mismatched, face red and wet with tears. The other students scattered, not out of shock, but indifference.

Selene froze for a heartbeat. Then her wand was in her hand, quicker than thought. Expelliarmus.

Alecto’s wand flew from her fingers, skittering down the stone hallway. The girl dropped gently to the floor, sobbing as she clutched her robes back into place. Selene’s hand remained outstretched, unwavering.

“Detention. Two weeks,” Selene said coolly, not even looking at Carrow. Her focus was on the younger student, kneeling beside her with a gentleness that contrasted her cold tone. She helped the girl up, brushing her off.

Alecto's laugh had vanished. She lunged for her wand.

“I believe you heard me,” Selene said, rising with smooth grace, taking a single step back, her wand still raised. “Speak to Professor Slughorn. He’ll know where to send you.”

“I don’t care about detention,” Alecto spat, close now, too close, her breath sharp and ugly against Selene’s cheek. “You actually think you have the pull to go after me?”

“You do not scare me,” Selene replied, voice quiet but deadly in its apathy.

Carrow’s lip curled. “No, but you should be scared of my family. Not everyone’s so quick to forget your bloodline. Not everyone’s convinced you belong. Not even with a surname like yours.”Selene’s eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, footsteps thundered behind her.

“Carrow!” barked a familiar voice. James Potter, head boy, wand already raised. Lily Evans stood beside him, hand gently clutching the sobbing girl’s. “Three weeks detention. And get lost. This is a prefect meeting, and you’re far from that title.”

Selene handed Carrow her wand firmly, not flinching when their fingers brushed.

She watched the younger student be led away, Lily giving her a soft, reassuring smile. Something in Selene’s chest ached at the sight, not quite envy, but something adjacent to it. A world where kindness didn’t need to be earned.

“That was proper good defense work,” James said quietly. They were alone now, in the silence left behind.

“Thank you,” she replied, voice clipped. She turned, intending that to be the end of it. But Potter wasn’t done.

“No, really. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d go against your own house.”

Selene tilted her head. “I don’t like everyone in my house.”

Even he had to chuckle. “Even if they dangle thirteen-year-olds by their socks?”

She didn’t smile. “Especially then.”

He hesitated, and then, the real question: “Even if they’re Muggle-born?”

Selene’s eyes slid toward him, sharp and assessing. “Don’t be dense, Potter.”

That was the end of that. Students began to filter in for the prefect meeting, and she shifted away from him without another word. But Potter was undeterred. Throughout the entire (and dreadfully dull) scheduling session, he kept stealing glances. Not subtle ones. Enough that Regulus, now seated beside her with his usual silent intensity, noticed.

“Why does he keep doing that?” Regulus muttered, low and venomous.

“What are you talking about?” she whispered back, eyes never leaving her parchment.

“Potter,” he hissed. “He keeps looking at you.”

“He looks at everyone,” she replied mildly. “He does that when he gives these speeches.”

Regulus paused, then sniffed. “Can’t imagine his Quidditch pregame huddles.”

That earned a faint smirk from her. She felt the heat of his presence, the closeness of him. And yet, he made no move to pull away. Their shoulders brushed. Neither of them shifted.

“What time will you be ready?” he murmured, so quietly it tickled her ear.

She stiffened slightly, turning toward him. “I’m sorry?”

“For Slughorn’s party,” he clarified, voice low, possessive in its confidence. His hand rested along the back of her chair. “When should I get you from the common room?”

“I didn’t realize we were going together,” she replied after a beat.

Regulus tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “It’s not like you would let anyone else take you.”

The meeting ended, chatter rising as they stood together. Regulus casually took her bag before she could protest, slinging it over his shoulder with ease. Selene glanced at him. Calm, composed, entirely certain.

“I should be ready for eight,” she finally said, her voice low.

“Good,” he replied. And this time, his smile softened into something else, something almost warm. Something that lingered with her, long after he’d walked her back to the dungeons.

Chapter Text

It was difficult getting used to Regulus' company again.

He haunted the edges of the house like a ghost, drifting from one room to the next in near silence, always tense. He spent most of his time behind the closed door of the guest bedroom, blinds drawn, as if darkness might make him less visible to the weight of the choices that had followed him here. He refused to touch the Muggle books that lined Selene’s tall, crooked bookshelf, titles he would have scoffed at years ago, now gathering dust under his indifference.

Selene, in turn, barely acknowledged him. She moved through her days with quiet purpose, tending to potion vials and hand-written Order reports at the kitchen table. At times, Regulus wondered if she even remembered he was here, or if she was deliberately ignoring him. Perhaps she had come to regret dragging him from death.

Still, it was quiet in her seaside cottage, a rare and precious quiet that existed nowhere else in the world for him now. Wind chimes whispered at the windowpane, the sea murmured just beyond the cliffs. And sometimes, when Selene poured tea and didn’t look away too quickly, Regulus was reminded of why he had once cherished her company. Why, even as a boy, he had always felt safer when she was near.

But that brief peace was shattered with a thunderous crack in the living room. Shouting erupted, followed by the unmistakable shatter of breaking glass.

Regulus bolted from the bed, stumbling in bare feet across the wooden floor. The pounding in his chest drowned out all rational thought. The only image in his mind was her crumpled on the ground, blood soaking through her sage-colored sweater. Dead. He barely registered the pain as he skidded down the stairs two at a time.

But she wasn’t dead.

She was alive. And furious.

“How many times do I have to tell you to use the damn door?” Selene’s voice rang out sharply. She stood in front of the hearth, her wand out, glaring at the intruder with fire in her eyes.

Alastor Moody, infamous scourge of Death Eaters and Order loyalist to the bone, looked entirely unbothered by her fury.

“Where is he?” Moody barked, storming forward. “How in Merlin’s name did he get past the wards?”

Before Regulus could speak, Moody turned and spotted him at the base of the stairs. His wand was drawn and leveled in an instant.

“Stay where you are!” the Auror snapped.

Regulus froze. But Selene stepped in without hesitation, her voice dangerously low and steady.

“He is disarmed,” she said firmly. “Put your wand down, Alastor.”

For a moment, Moody didn’t move. The tension in the room was taut as piano wire. Regulus braced himself for a duel, perhaps even for death.

But, to his astonishment, Moody lowered his wand. Slowly. Reluctantly. The silence that followed was filled with unsaid things, with old loyalties being tested.

Selene didn’t sit until the Auror did. She placed herself directly between them on the sofa, her back rigid with controlled fury.

“How long?” Moody demanded.

“Seventeen days,” Selene said without blinking.

“Seventeen?” he thundered. “Selene—”

“If I had told you he was here, you would have detained him on the spot,” she replied coolly.

“He is a Death Eater!” Moody roared. “He could have summoned half the Inner Circle here, right into your so-called safe house! Do you have any idea the risk—”

“I would never hurt her,” Regulus cut in sharply, his voice trembling with urgency.

“Oh, please,” Moody sneered, his wand twitching again. “Your word’s worth as much as the mark burned into your arm.”

“It is my risk to take,” Selene interrupted, tone sharp enough to cut.

“No, it bloody well isn’t!” Moody pointed a gnarled finger at her. “You don’t get to rewrite the rules that were meant to keep you alive!”

“We agreed that if the opportunity arose, I could retrieve him.” Her voice was tight, laced with controlled defiance.

“We agreed someone would retrieve him,” Moody growled. “Someone higher up. Someone trusted.”

“I am high in the Order, or have you forgotten that just because I’m not grizzled and bitter like you?”

“And you forced the opportunity,” Moody shot back. “You placed yourself at risk for him.”

“He was going to die!” Selene’s voice cracked as she stood. “I watched him walk to his death.”

Regulus could feel his own hands shaking in his lap. He pressed them together, knuckles bone-white.

“And why were you there to witness that?” Moody asked coldly, never standing, but raising his chin to look up at her with narrowed eyes.

Selene hesitated. Just for a second. But it was long enough.

“You were supposed to be gathering intelligence,” Moody continued. “Not… babysitting Voldemort’s castoffs.”

Selene’s voice dropped, almost pleading. “Things changed after we discovered the horcruxes.”

Regulus looked up sharply, heart thudding. “He knows about the horcruxes?”

“Shut up, little boy!” Moody barked.

Selene let out a breath, rubbing her temples. Regulus didn’t flinch. He was too stunned.

“He knows more about them than anyone else,” Selene said quietly. “More than Dumbledore. More than anyone. He’s agreed to share everything he knows.”

Moody turned to Regulus, eyes piercing. “Is that true?”

Regulus didn’t look away. “I’ve agreed to provide intel,” he muttered. “All of it.”

“Where’s the locket?” Moody asked.

“I sent it away,” Regulus said, but Selene cut in quickly.

“He sent it to a house elf. Kreacher.”

Moody barked a bitter laugh. “You want me to trust a bloody house elf?”

“Kreacher would die for him,” Selene said with confidence. 

Regulus leaned forward, his voice firmer now. “Let me prove it. I’ll get you the horcrux. There are likely still five left—”

“Four,” Selene corrected softly. “I have the diary.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“I broke into Malfoy Manor,” she said, as if she were discussing the weather.

“You what?” His jaw dropped. “How did Lucius not—”

“I left a convincing duplicate. Lucius couldn’t tell the difference, and I doubt Voldemort is checking in on him.”

Moody rubbed his face like he had a migraine. “You’re insane. Both of you.”

“What charm did you use?” Selene turned slightly toward Regulus, a flicker of curiosity igniting in her eyes. “I couldn’t tell it was a fake. The locket felt… wrong. It radiated something.”

“A minor curse embedded in the alloy. Old magic,” Regulus said carefully, eyes meeting hers for a split second. “It needed to feel like it hated you.”

Before he could elaborate, Moody snapped, “Angel! Focus.”

Regulus felt heat rise to his face. He tried not to grin, but the nickname hadn’t escaped her, apparently. Nor the tension it carried.

“You’re not keeping him like some stray kneazle,” Moody snapped. “If he’s truly valuable, the Order will decide his fate.”

“He stays here for now,” Selene said with quiet finality. “You saw what he risked. He’s more useful here than locked in a cell.”

“You don’t get to make that decision alone.”

“Then we’ll make it together,” she said. “After we find the rest of the horcruxes.”

Moody exhaled sharply and finally dropped into the threadbare chair with a grunt. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“I do,” Selene said. “I just choose not to.”

Regulus watched her, unsure whether to feel grateful or ashamed. The longer he looked at her, the more he could feel her not looking back. The guilt in his chest twisted tighter.

Moody grunted again. “Fine. But you’ll need to present him to the Order eventually.”

“I will,” Selene said before Regulus could object. Her tone left no room for debate.

The door shut with a final, heavy click behind Moody.

They stood in silence for a long moment. Regulus listened to the echo of his own heart pounding, unsure if the tension had actually left the house or just grown quieter. The wind returned to fill the corners of the room, playing the wind chimes like a nervous gesture.

Selene didn’t speak. She stared out the window, arms crossed, her shoulders high and tight. Her knuckles were still white from gripping her wand.

Regulus stepped forward. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said flatly.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I know that too.”

He swallowed. “But you did.”

Finally, she turned to look at him, really look at him. The firelight painted amber across her cheekbones, but her eyes were unreadable.

“You have a habit of dying for causes that you don’t understand,” she said coolly. “I figured it was time someone stopped you.”

Regulus looked away. “Is that all this is?”

“No,” she said quietly. “That’s not all of it.”

He waited, but she didn’t go on. He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard through his nose.

“I didn’t want you to get involved,” he said. “I tried to keep you out of it.”

“You failed,” she replied simply.

Regulus almost laughed, he didn’t know if it was at her honesty or his own stupidity. “I wasn’t sure you’d even care. After everything…”

Selene’s jaw tightened. “After everything,” she echoed. “Yes, I cared. Of course I did. You don’t just… stop caring about someone, even if they go off and tattoo their soul to a murderer.”

His throat bobbed. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You did.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. It cut cleaner than shouting. “You were just too scared to stop.”

Regulus opened his mouth, but there was nothing useful to say. So he sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced. “You’re right.”

She turned then, slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. Her gaze was clinical at first, scanning him like a Healer might a patient. But something flickered beneath the surface. Tension, calculation, something more human than she'd probably like to admit.

“I was scared,” he continued. “Scared of my family. Of disappointing them. Of what Voldemort would do to me. And when I realized what I’d gotten into, what it really was, it was too late.”

Selene moved slowly, sitting across from him but not leaning back. Her posture was wary.

“But,” he turned to her. “How did you follow me?”

“I’m an Animagus.” She revealed it with the cool simplicity of a weather report.

Regulus stilled for a moment before realization slapped him hard in the face. “The cat-“

“Yes.” She said. 

He sat back in stunned silence, remembering all the times he’d sworn that cat had the eyes of a girl who was dead. All the times he’d spoken to himself in empty rooms, or stepped over shadows with a shiver down his spine. He thought he was paranoid. Haunted by the dark gaze that didn’t quite reflect light. But it was her. It had been her.

“Why?” he asked after a long pause.

“I was tasked with collecting intel,” she said. “But… it turned into something else. I kept expecting you to slip. To prove me right. To show me that you were everything the Mark on your arm suggested you were.”

Regulus closed his eyes. “And did you find that?”

“I found something else.”

Her voice was quieter now. He looked up at her again, unsure what he would see.

“You weren’t like the others,” she said, almost like she was still trying to convince herself. “You were always alone. You avoided them when you could. You kept meeting with that elf. You kept going to that cave.”

She continued. “I knew your routines. Where you went. Who you met. I watched you leave letters in shop windows and lie to Evan Rosier. I saw the way you avoided Lestrange. I saw you go to the cave twice before the night you tried to destroy the locket.”

He didn’t know what shocked him more, the fact that she had followed him, or the realization that knowledge brought him peace.

There was a silence, heavier now, tinged with all the things neither of them were willing to say out loud.

“I didn’t know how to ask for help,” Regulus said after a moment. “I knew I needed to do something. But I didn’t know if anyone would believe me. Or care.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “You were right to assume the Order wouldn’t be so forgiving.”

“I wasn’t asking for forgiveness,” he said.

Selene raised an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking for?”

He thought about that. Thought about lying, or deflecting, or apologizing again. “Time. A chance to be useful.” He said instead. 

Selene let that settle between them.

“You’re not forgiven,” she said, not cruelly, just honestly. “But I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought you were beyond redemption.”

Regulus nodded slowly. “I can work with that.”

“You’d better,” she said. “Don’t embarrass me.”

Another long silence followed, but this one wasn’t quite so brittle. There was a strange comfort to it, familiar in the way only silence between two long-estranged people can be.

“Did you… see everything?” Regulus asked quietly. “When you were following me?”

“Most things,” Selene said. “Enough.”

He turned his head slightly, wary. “Enough to hate me?”

A flicker passed through her eyes, something cold and fleeting.

“I did hate you,” she admitted. “For a while. I thought you were like the others. Evan, Barty, the rest of them. But you never laughed the way they did. You didn’t gloat. You weren’t… cruel.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So she continued.

“But I didn’t trust it,” she said. “Not at first. I thought it was an act. Another Black brother playing at being conflicted.”

Regulus swallowed hard. “And now?”

Selene looked away, toward the flickering firelight.

“Now,” she said slowly, “I think you might have meant it. But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

He gave a bitter smile. “That’s fair.”

“But I do believe you,” she added, almost begrudgingly. “Or I want to.”

Their eyes met then. His tired and bruised, hers sharp and burning with some unreadable emotion. Neither looked away.

“I’ll earn it,” he said, voice quiet and certain.

“We’ll see,” Selene replied.

She turned from him and began to gather the broken mug Moody had left in his wake, her sleeves pushed up, her fingers steady. Regulus stood and crossed the room to help. For a moment, they worked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, close but not touching.

Outside, the sea howled against the cliffside. Inside, it was quiet again, but not empty.

It was the first time in a long while that Regulus didn’t feel completely alone.

Chapter Text

Selene was not the least bit surprised to find Regulus waiting for her in the Slytherin common room. The flickering green light from the lake above cast pale ribbons across his sharp profile as he leaned, perfectly poised, against one of the towering bookshelves beside the staircase. He was, of course, fifteen minutes early. That was as inevitable as the tide. 

She didn’t announce herself at once. For a heartbeat she remained on the last step of the staircase, half-hidden in shadow, quietly observing him. His long fingers adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with the sort of unconscious precision that only habit could hone. The silver House of Black cufflinks glimmered like captured moonlight against the darkness of his jacket, heirlooms polished to an almost liquid shine. There was a small frown on his face, barely there, but enough to give his side profile the severity of a carved statue in some ancient mausoleum.

“You’re early,” she said at last, her voice carrying down the staircase like water rippling across stone.

His head turned sharply toward her, the movement quick and contained. His expression appeared neutral, though she saw the subtle flicker in his grey eyes. Regulus was not a boy easily stirred by something as trivial as beauty. Even at sixteen, he wore composure like armor. And yet, when his gaze took her in, her hair down and silken, her gown of dark green silk slipping from her shoulders and pooling like liquid shadow around her ankles, his breath caught for a fraction of a second.

“I didn’t fancy getting myself ready with the rest of my dorm,” he replied, his voice as cool as he could make it.

“Fair enough,” Selene hummed, beginning her descent. She moved down the stairs with the same unhurried grace with which she did everything, like water slipping over marble.

“Did you buy that with Dorcas?” Regulus asked, blunt as always, holding out his hand without thinking.

“I did.” She slid her hand neatly into the crook of his arm, her polished nails resting against the fine fabric of his sleeve.

“It’s quite nice,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You look pretty.”

“Thank you.”

They crossed the room together, posture straight, expressions unreadable. They were always being watched; it was the nature of their world.

Professor Slughorn’s office was awash with winter enchantments when they arrived. Snow drifted lazily from a bewitched ceiling, melting before it could reach the floor. Ice statues shaped like rearing hippocampi poured self-replenishing streams of punch into crystal bowls, their manes glinting like spun glass. Clusters of their classmates milled about in small knots, chattering and preening in their best dress robes.

Before Selene and Regulus could retreat to some quiet, shadowed corner, a booming voice called across the room.

“My two brightest students!” Slughorn’s jovial bellow rolled over them as he bore down, a hand slapping onto each of their shoulders. Selene flinched almost imperceptibly at the contact, her eyes flicking to the half-empty goblet of wine he held precariously close to her gown. The scent of it, rich and heady, made her nose wrinkle.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” the professor gushed.

“Of course, Professor,” Regulus replied smoothly, though there was a subtle strain in his tone. He drew Selene gently back to his side, his palm brushing the small of her back, a steadying pressure. “Thank you for inviting us, as always.”

“Well, well, I do believe I have to invite the soon-to-be Head Boy and Girl,” Slughorn said in what was supposed to be a whisper but carried easily. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

A shared glance passed between Selene and Regulus, a flicker of pride under their composure. Selene stood a little taller. Regulus’s finger traced a slow, absent-minded path over the knobs of her spine where her gown dipped low, his hand warm against her bare skin. It was dizzying.

“That’s nice to hear, sir,” she managed.

Slughorn winked and turned to another student. As soon as he was gone, Regulus muttered under his breath, “He’s quite drunk.”

“Seemingly so.” Selene took a small step closer to avoid a passing group of Ravenclaws. “Are Barty and Evan coming?”

“I believe so,” he hummed, steering her toward a glistening ice fountain. “And Dorcas?”

“She wanted to wait for them.” Selene’s eyes swept the room, noting faces and alliances with the ease of habit. All pureblood, save for Lily Evans, whose flaming hair and burgundy dress made her stand out like a torch in a cavern. “I suppose Slughorn is reaching for a particular crowd this year.”

“He wants to stay in good faith with the pureblood community,” Regulus said dryly, collecting two glasses of champagne and handing one to her. “I do not blame him.”

“I still don’t understand how he’s allowed to give alcohol to students,” she murmured, her tone a counterpoint to the heaviness of his words. “Dumbledore must know he’s teetering on the edge of alcoholism.”

“It’s only champagne.” Regulus took a measured sip. “And a weak one at that.”

Selene mimicked his action but frowned slightly. She had never liked champagne, anything carbonated set her teeth on edge. Regulus’s eyes glinted knowingly, and he tilted his head toward a table. “There’s lemonade over there.”

“I’ll be back, then,” she hummed, handing him her glass. He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a tilt of her head. “I do not need you to play bodyguard, Regulus. This isn’t one of our family balls where I am being hounded by suitors. No one is going to try to court me here.”

“You don’t know that-” Her eyes silenced him. “…fine.”

She patted his shoulder lightly before slipping away, her black heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Regulus watched her go, her hair swaying like a banner at her elbows.

He was not blind to the attention she drew, especially now, in her sixth year. Selene was beautiful in the way that belonged to old portraits and legends, the kind of beauty that should have been immortalized in stained glass. But she was intimidating too, and for years that had kept most admirers at bay. With the number of heads turning as she passed, he knew that would not last forever.

Selene herself cared nothing for it. It was a point her mother would never understand, no matter how fervently she tried to impress it upon her daughter. Her expression didn’t change until she nearly collided with James Potter.

“Well don’t you look dashing!” he said, sounding more like he was addressing a child than paying a compliment.

“Thanks.” Selene’s reply was flat, her step angled to leave.

“Hey, wait-”

“Selene!” Lily Evans’s voice cut in from her other side. Selene exhaled softly, resigned. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Hi, Lily.” She gave up on retreating. “How has your year been?”

“It’s been…okay.” A lie they both recognized.

James cleared his throat, impatience flickering across his face. “We wanted to talk to you about something.”

Selene’s eyes flickered over her shoulder to Regulus. He was now flanked by Barty and Evan, but Dorcas was nowhere in sight. “What is it?”

“It’s more something Sirius wanted to know,” Lily began gently before James bulldozed over her.

“Is Regulus a Death Eater?” His question was short, quiet enough for no one to overhear, but it sent Selene’s heart to the floor.

“I’m sorry?” Selene straightened, the chill in her tone sharp enough to cut.

“For Merlin’s sake, James,” Lily muttered.

“Does he have the Mark?” James pressed, undeterred.

“I- no, you idiot!” she hissed back. “He would not sell his soul for something so barbaric.”

James seemed to relax, though only slightly. Lily remained tense, like a bowstring. Selene’s own heart hammered against her ribs.

“I told you,” Lily said, huffing. “He’s just a boy, James.”

“Don’t act like it isn’t plausible,” James countered, eyes fixed on Selene. “He only ever spends time with you and families we know are-”

“You are childish if you think just because he’s a Slytherin he wants to harm people.” Selene spat, increasingly frustrated. “His ‘friends’ are people his family has hand picked him to associate with. They are hardly people he enjoys being around.”

Lily’s expression softened into pity. “I’m sorry, Selene. That was cruel.”

Selene’s gaze flicked between them, hard as flint. “Sirius put you up to this?”

“No,” James lied badly, his hands gesturing uselessly.

“Then tell him to have some courage,” she snapped. “Tell him to ask me himself if he’s finally worried about Regulus.”

She turned on her heel, her original errand forgotten, and nearly collided with Regulus himself. He was right behind her, close enough for the scent of his cologne, clean and faintly smoky, to brush her senses.

“What did he say to you?” Regulus’s fingers closed around her bicep. The grip was firm but not harsh, a tether rather than a shackle.

Selene drew a small breath. “Nothing worth worrying about,” she said softly. “Just stupidity.”

His gaze bore down on her, eyes like storm clouds. Selene did not look away.

“Fine.” He didn’t like questioning her.

“Regulus.” She slid her hand over his, squeezing his fingers. “I mean it. It’s okay.”

Something in him eased, his expression softened. “I believe you.”

“Good.” The pit in her stomach remained. “Have you seen Dorcas?”

“I think she just came in.” He let her steer the subject elsewhere.

The room had grown more crowded, the divide between Slytherin and everyone else now starkly apparent. Twice as many green-robed students as any other house. Selene’s eyes found a dark-skinned girl in a blue dress and cut toward her without hesitation. Dorcas stood with a faraway look, her face carved into something almost morbid.

“Hey,” Selene said quietly, breaking Dorcas’s trance.

“Hey!” Dorcas’s voice cracked slightly, her body snapping into defense.

“Everything all right?” Selene frowned.

“Yeah, of course,” Dorcas lied. “Just a bit tired, I guess.”

Selene said nothing at first, scanning the room. Two Ravenclaws danced nearby, giggling. A blonde Gryffindor ignored a Hufflepuff prefect’s attempt at conversation. Two younger students fumbled with each other in a shadowed corner. Barty had already left, disgruntled at the ‘legendary alcohol’ proving to be a rumor. None of it explained the look on Dorcas’s face.

“I’m not as good a friend to you as I’d like to be,” Selene said suddenly.

Dorcas blinked, startled. “Um, what?”

“I can tell you’re lying, but I can tell that about people I don’t know well, too.” Selene’s voice was soft but direct. “I don’t know you well enough to know what’s hurting you, or why you feel you have to lie. That bothers me.”

Dorcas looked as though she might cry. “You are a good friend, Selene. Don’t think otherwise.”

Chapter Text

Sirius had gifted her a record player.

Months ago now, back when she had first rejoined the Order in tentative peace, choosing neutrality over isolation. The truce had come quietly, without dramatics, without apologies, just a wordless understanding exchanged over tea and guarded stares. She remembered the way Sirius had slipped the gift into her hands at some point in the next month, wrapped with a careless charm and a note that simply read ‘Music for the wounded’. 

He always had a soft spot for her. Even when he shouldn’t have. Even after everything.

Still, she hadn’t touched it. Nor the records, dozens of them, that he’d provided along with it, stacked like a shrine to emotion beneath the low shelf in her sitting room. The collection was eclectic. Bowie. Queen. Fleetwood Mac. The Beatles. Some classical records too, but mostly things Sirius said were “for soul repair.”

Selene had not yet decided if her soul was interested in being repaired.

More often than not, she just stared at the thing. The player was sleek and black, almost elegant in its own way, foreign to the rest of her space. She would kneel in front of it sometimes, eyes trailing over the album covers. Vibrant, worn, some scuffed from Sirius’s own years of use. Occasionally, her curiosity got the best of her, and she would lift the lid with care, inspecting the delicate arm, the needle, the spinning mechanism, but she never played anything.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of it that scared her. Or perhaps it was that no matter how much she tried, she could not begin to understand how it functioned. 

Then, one late afternoon, something shifted.

It was raining. Not just a drizzle, but a thick, silencing downpour that pressed against the windows and echoed in the chimney. She was seated at her desk, finishing a long report for the Order, cross-referencing names, connections, movements. And without thinking, she reached for a record. Rumors, by Fleetwood Mac. The cover had a tear across the top corner. 

The music began with a crackle, the needle dragging itself into place. Soft, haunting harmony filled the room. 

And that was the moment Regulus chose to speak. “You are presenting me to the Order today.”

His voice startled her only slightly. She didn’t look up right away, just underlined a word in her notes before she raised her eyes.

He stood across from her, posture straight as a ruler, arms pinned to his sides. He looked freshly washed, hair still damp and curling at the nape of his neck. His hands betrayed him, though, clenched at his sides, thumbs twitching. The collar of his jumper was pulled too tight.

“Are you not concerned?” he asked.

“I’m presenting your information,” Selene clarified. Her tone was mild, almost bored. “You will not be there.”

“But still,” he pressed, brows drawing together. “What if they- what if they don’t believe you?”

She set down her quill and tilted her head. “Why are you so worried?”

Regulus hesitated. His lips parted as if to offer an excuse, but he shut them again. Then, with a brittle edge to his voice, he said, “You will be seeing my brother, then.”

“I’ve seen your brother frequently,” she replied without missing a beat, eyes drifting back down to the parchment.

“I know that.” He scoffed, quiet but sharp, wounded.

“I’ll tell you how it goes,” she added, surprising even herself with the impulse to comfort him. “It will be fine.”

“When do you leave?” His jaw flexed slightly as he spoke.

“Soon.” She flicked her wrist to glance at her watch. “You need to relax.”

“My life depends on this,” he said stiffly. “They could order my death-”

“They won’t.” She cut him off with a huff, not bothering to hide her irritation. “They respect my word. And they’ll respect yours, as long as it comes from my mouth.”

He was silent for a beat. Then, just softer he spoke. “How did you get them to trust you?” Her fingers stilled against the page. “You were as likely to turn into a Death Eater as I was,” he added, almost accusingly.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. Something in her expression darkened. “No,” she said, voice suddenly sharp. “I wasn’t. I was as likely to be married to one.”

The words sliced through the air with finality.

Regulus flinched. It was barely visible, just the subtlest retreat in his gaze, the way his mouth pressed into a thinner line. He stepped back once, then again, retreating without another word into the hallway. A soft click of a door closing behind him was the only response she received.

She didn’t tell him when she left.

The Order’s current meeting place was an old, abandoned pub just outside of Hogsmeade. It was murky, smelled of mildew and old ale, and every time Selene passed through in her Animagus form, her whiskers twitched from the stench. She moved swiftly tonight, light on her paws, slipping behind the enchanted portrait hole that served as the rear entrance.

Inside, the usual chaos buzzed.

Sirius Black was slamming a drink onto the table, froth from his beer sloshing over the rim. His hair was tied back messily, face flushed from drink or frustration. Beside him, James Potter twirled his wedding band around his finger, gaze lost in thought.

They were mid-conversation. Loud, fast, and emotionally charged when Selene shifted form. Magic shimmered, bones reshaping, cloak falling into place as she appeared behind them in full.

“I have information,” she said dryly.

James let out a strangled yelp, twisting so violently in his seat that he nearly toppled the chair.

“Jesus fucking-“

“Sel!” Sirius beamed as he stood, voice tinged with relief and something softer. Her face relaxed, not a smile, but enough to ease the tension between her brows. He was always like this now, warmer with each meeting, more familiar. He saw the fragments of Regulus in her that he had always wanted to see. 

“Hello,” she greeted, nodding slightly. “I’ve finalized the reports.”

James took the folder from her with a sigh, flipping it open with hands that still shook slightly from the scare.

“You look tired,” Sirius remarked, eyes narrowing. He wasn’t much taller than her, an inch or two at most, but there was a protective tilt to his shoulders. “What’ve you been up to? Moony said that mad bastard was sniffing around your place.”

“Moody?” Selene asked mildly. “Yes. He stops by. Occasionally tries to hex my fireplace.”

“Hold on,” James interrupted, brows pinching as he skimmed the first few pages. His tone shifted. “What- what is this?”

Sirius leaned over to look.

“Horcrux?” he read aloud, the word hitting the air like a dropped dagger. “Horcruxes?”

“I need your permission for something,” Selene said calmly, almost conversational. “Well, not permission. I’m doing it regardless.”

“You want to hunt the rest of them.” Sirius wasn’t asking. “You have two.”

“Yes.” Her reply was clean. Clear. “And I can. I just need… resources.”

“No.” He snapped immediately, eyes fierce.

Selene didn’t even blink. “I do not need your approval. And I’m not suggesting I do this alone, that would be idiotic.”

“Then what’s your plan?” James asked before Sirius could interrupt again. His tone was steady, eyes scanning her.

“I continue my research,” she said. “I give you what I find. You decide how to use it. My only recommendation is that we do not try to destroy them yet. Just collect and replicate them without the Death Eaters knowing.”

James nodded slowly, taking it in. Sirius, on the other hand, looked like he might combust. He stood, jaw tight, fists clenched.

“Padfoot,” James muttered, a warning. “Let me talk to her.”

Sirius apparated with a crack, no words, no farewell. Just fury and smoke. Selene barely reacted. “Dramatic as always,” she muttered.

James chuckled once. It was a dry, tired sound. “Runs in the family, I suppose.”

“Ran,” Selene lied. “Regulus is presumed dead.”

“So were you.” James said slyly. “You’re not that convincing, you know.”

“What do you mean?” She asked defensively. 

“Come on, Selene.” James’ voice moved to a hushed whisper. “You know he’s alive.”

“I spy on Voldemort.” She muttered harshly. “The death eaters have ruled him missing, presumed dead.”

James only stood in front of her with his arms crossed, grin only widening as if he’d finally figured out a puzzle. “You’re holding him.”

“That is a ridiculous accusation.” She spat, keeping her face as even as she could. “Why would I risk everything I’ve done for the past year for someone who left me to suffer?”

“Because you love him.” James said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if it were fact. As if it had always been. “Or loved him, whatever.”

She found herself unable to respond directly. “That still wouldn’t mean I would protect him.”

“Selene,” James said quietly, tone oddly serious. “It’s okay.”

Somehow, the gentleness in his words made her deflate. “It wasn’t my plan. Not originally, at least.”

“I had a feeling.” He hummed, hair flopping as he tilted his head to the side. “Well, Lily did, actually.”

“Figures.” She mumbled a sigh. “It hasn’t been long. Not even a month.”

“How are you doing?” He asked.

“It’s been fine.” She said. “He’s not ready to present himself to the Oder, but he’s promised to be helpful. And he has been.”

“I mean with you.” He interrupted. “It must be hard. Living with him.”

“He’s different.” She admitted. “Weaker, almost. Always quite sad and guilty. Not that that’s unexpected.”

“That’s probably a good thing.” James said. “Let him sulk for a bit.”

“He’s injured.” She added, unsure why she was telling James Potter of all people. “There are days he struggles to get out of bed without nearly seizing. Days he is too tired to move.”

“Then he’ll need you.” James concluded. 

“Anyone else can babysit him.” She huffed a scoff. “I am not special.”

“I don’t think he’d let anyone else.” He chuckled dryly. Selene didn’t argue. 

“Let me prove his innocence before the rest of the order finds out.” She found herself saying. “If he were to die when I found him, he would’ve died a villain on every side. But he’s not. He’s just a boy who’s afraid.”

“Okay.” 

“Why are you so accepting about this?” Selene asked. “You’ve hated Regulus your whole life.”

“Hate is a strong word-“ her deadpanned expression cut off his sentence. “I was immature.” He huffed childishly. “All I saw was a Slytherin who hurt my best friend. I didn’t care for the reason or the complexity.”

“Lily is the best thing that ever could’ve happened to you.” Selene grumbled, knowing he didn’t get to that conclusion herself. 

“I know.” He only smiled earnestly. 

She studied his face for a moment. James looked older now. Grief had etched itself into his frame, into the shadows under his eyes, the premature silver strand in his front hair, the way he moved like someone who knew time was running thin.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He patted her shoulder, smiling soft. “You should get back to him. He’s probably pacing by now, convinced you’ve died.”

Selene nearly smiled. 

“Is the Floo still out?” she asked instead.

“Too traceable,” James confirmed. “Portkey’s still stashed in the bathroom, though.”

She nodded, already shifting back into her cat form. The world spun around her as fur covered her skin, and her eyes gleamed a pale green in the candlelight. With barely a sound, she padded through the pub, past the bathroom’s cracked door and the familiar “Out of Order” sign, toward the stall with the old, bartered hat.

She stepped a black paw onto it.

A pull at her gut, then she was gone, vanished into the trees. Back into the deep, waiting forest. Back to Regulus. After a brief walk in the cooling September air, a familiar path started to make way as smooth stones emerged under the soles of her shoes. 

She stared at the cottage as it came into view, eyes stuck on the brooding sight of him perched in her kitchen window, struggling to make his own tea. Without magic. 

Chapter Text

Selene could not stand Christmas. Rather, Christmas at home.

She would never dare utter it aloud, least of all to her mother, but she far preferred the hush of Hogwarts during the holidays, when the castle emptied out and the few students who remained carved silent paths through frost-glazed corridors. There was something sacred in that quiet. Peaceful. Honest. At home, the silence was never peaceful. It was expectant, full of judgment and sharp glances passed across silver-laden dinner tables.

Now, she was back in her childhood bedroom. Trapped. The air smelled faintly of old lavender sachets and dust, and everything, every polished surface and tightly tucked blanket, looked as though it had been frozen in time. She tried to lose herself in her hobbies. An unfinished embroidery hoop, a potions text cracked open on her duvet, a half-built model of a snitch resting on her vanity. But nothing could fully occupy her thoughts long enough to quiet the restlessness blooming in her chest.

Her gaze drifted to the bedroom window, drawn by the dance of snow flurries catching in the wind. The sky beyond was a deep, violet-black, the stars hidden behind thick clouds. The snow fell in sheets, ghostly against the dark. It was beautiful, she admitted silently. Cold and beautiful.

Then came the noise.

A soft knock, no, a tap. A pebble, striking glass.

Selene blinked, realizing that must have been what had pulled her attention in the first place. She moved to the window in a single, graceful motion, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. She unlatched the pane and swung it open. The cold hit her instantly, curling around her like a shawl of wind.

Below, a familiar silhouette stood beneath the arch of a leafless tree, curls damp with snow. Regulus Black looked up at her, his face pale and pinched with the cold. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He just waited.

Selene sighed through her nose, not quite annoyed, not quite surprised. She gave a small flick of her fingers, motioning him up.

While he scaled the trellis, like he had done a dozen times before, she turned back into the room, flicking her wrist to summon a black lacquered box from beneath her vanity. It floated to her hand obediently. The window thudded shut again behind her as Regulus stepped in, breathless and soaked through from snow. His curls clung to his forehead and neck. His overcoat was half-unbuttoned, and he looked as though he had walked through a battlefield rather than a blizzard.

He stopped short, freezing in place.

She was still in her nightgown, the thin silk, the color of ivory wine. It draped over her like mist, sleeveless and loose around her collarbones. The firelight made the fabric glow. Regulus found his throat dry, his thoughts muddled, as though someone had stunned him mid-sentence.

She was not the little girl who had once served him tea in the kitchens after their parents’ formal summer meetings. She was not the girl who had fumbled with a wand too large for her hand or shrieked when a doxy flew too close. She was something else now. Something older. Sharper. Softer, too, in ways that made him forget himself.

He didn't notice the blood until he felt it. It dripped from his fingers, red on her floorboards, bright and alarming.

Selene moved before he could. Her hands, usually so precise and measured, were firm as they pushed him down by the shoulders onto her bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She didn’t care that his boots were wet or that his coat was flecked with dirt or that he was going to stain her pale sheets with blood.

“Be still,” she murmured, her voice low, the command brooking no argument.

She stripped the coat from his arms, followed swiftly by the torn shirt beneath. The sight beneath did not make her flinch, though it should have. His skin was a canvas of thin, deliberate lines, the evidence of a Severing Charm, unmistakable in its cruel precision. The cuts ran from just below his collarbone to his ribs, the worst of them centered near his right shoulder. They had bled through the fabric.

Her fingers brushed the wound once, then pulled away. He hissed.

“What happened now?” Her tone was steady. Detached. But her eyes flickered for the briefest second to his left forearm.

Just a glance. As if committing the skin to memory.

Regulus caught it. His lips twitched, but he didn’t answer her question directly. Not yet.

“Do I really need to tell you?” he muttered instead, voice heavy and dull.

He winced again as she pressed gauze to the wound, soaking up the blood with gentle but unrelenting pressure. His jaw clenched, the sound of his breath tight. Selene said nothing at first. Her hands moved with practiced familiarity, pulling a vial of Dittany from the floating box and uncorking it with a flick. A few drops sizzled on the wounds, and Regulus grit his teeth.

“Sirius is part of the Order,” he said suddenly, unprompted.

She paused, the vial still in her hand.

The words landed strangely. She wasn’t sure how to respond. “He’s still in school,” she said slowly. “I doubt he’s doing anything truly threatening.”

“That’s not the point.” His tone was sharp, abrupt, cold enough to cut.

She flinched. Just slightly. A flicker of tension in her shoulder, a pause in her breath. But he saw it. It made his stomach lurch. He hadn’t meant to- He didn’t finish the thought. Because “I’m sorry” felt dry, useless. It stuck in his throat like chalk. So he said nothing.

Selene didn’t press. She simply continued her work, dabbing the last of the salve across the angry red lines. Her movements were gentle, but not tender. The silence between them thickened. Not quite hostile. Just… full.

She wanted to ask him something. It sat behind her teeth like a weight. A question she’d buried for weeks now. Something dark. Something she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to. Instead, she said, “Do you think there’s something going on between Barty and Dorcas?”

Regulus blinked.

The question was so absurd, so unexpected, that it took him a moment to process it. He turned his head toward her, brow raised.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at her,” Selene went on, as if discussing the weather. “And she clearly is interested in someone.”

It was childish. Gossipy. So unlike her.

And yet, it made something inside Regulus unclench. He let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh. It reminded him, reminded them both, perhaps, that despite everything, despite the war, despite the blood still drying on his chest, they were only sixteen. They were still just teenagers in too-large roles.

“She’d eat him alive,” he said finally, voice a little lighter.

Selene’s lips curved. “He might like that.”

And for a few quiet seconds, they almost smiled together

The almost-smile faded, but something quieter lingered in its wake. An understanding. An unspoken memory of who they had once been, two children sitting beneath the rose arbor in the summer, trading stories about the stars carved into their names.

“You used to hate him, you know,” Regulus murmured, eyes still trained on her vanity mirror. “Barty. Said he was smug and had beady eyes.”

“I still think he’s smug,” Selene replied, dipping a clean cloth into a small basin of warm water. “The beady eyes have grown on me.”

A puff of dry laughter left him. “You’re going soft.”

She shot him a look. “And you’re deflecting.”

There was no accusation in her tone. Just quiet familiarity. The way one learns to speak another person’s language over years of patient translation.

Regulus didn’t reply right away. He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees. His hair dripped onto the carpet, and he didn’t bother to push it back. In the low light of her bedroom, he looked older than a teenager. Or maybe he just looked tired.

“I’m trying to understand,” Selene said at last, voice softer now. “Why you still come here.”

“To see you,” he answered, as though it were obvious.

“That’s not what I mean.” She placed the cloth aside, folding it neatly despite the faint smear of blood on her palm. “You show up like this. Hurt. Angry. And you never tell me the whole of it. I patch you up, you leave before morning, and the next time I hear of you, it’s in whispers. Why do you come back if you’re not going to tell me the truth?”

For a moment, she didn’t think he would answer. The silence between them teetered, fragile as spun glass.

Then, he exhaled. Not sharply. Just slowly.

“Because you’re the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve already disappeared.”

Selene stilled. He wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was on her floor, on the place where a drop of his blood had dried into the wood grain.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said. “I’m not sure I do. But there’s this… weight. It presses on you. Being a Black. Being his son. You either become what they want, or you fall apart trying not to.”

“And which are you doing?” she asked, very carefully. “Becoming, or falling apart?”

He didn’t answer. And that, in itself, was answer enough.

She leaned back, the breath leaving her in a slow stream through her nose. Her arms crossed around herself, fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her nightgown. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. For a long while, that was the only sound.

“I can’t protect you from this,” she said eventually. “Whatever it is you’re becoming.”

“I know.”

“I won’t pretend I don’t see it.”

“I don’t want you to pretend.”

She looked at him then. Not at the blood on his skin, or the scars already starting to fade under Dittany’s touch, but at him. The boy who used to leave her notes under library books. The one who once gave her a moonstone bracelet for her thirteenth birthday and forgot to sign the card.

“You’re not lost yet,” she said quietly. “You’re close. But not yet.”

Regulus finally turned to look at her. Something in his expression had shifted, less guarded now, less heavy. But there was resignation there too. A kind of muted despair that had no place on a sixteen-year-old's face.

“I’m trying to choose the right path,” he said.

“Then stop walking with your eyes closed.”

His lips twitched again, not in amusement, but something like gratitude. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers once.

They sat in silence for several minutes, the kind of silence only old friends could survive. The kind that held more words than most conversations ever did.

Eventually, Selene rose and moved to the armoire in the corner. She opened it, retrieved a spare blanket, and draped it over him without ceremony.

“You’re not going back out tonight,” she said, already making her way toward her own side of the bed. “Your mother can think you’re dead for a few hours.”

Regulus said nothing as she slipped beneath the covers. He stayed perched at the edge for a while, blanket around his shoulders like a second skin. When he did finally lie down beside her, it was with the careful movements of someone who didn’t quite believe they deserved comfort, but would take it anyway.

They lay back-to-back, not touching, but close enough to feel each other’s breath in the space between.

The snow continued to fall against the windowpane. Somewhere beneath it all, the world was shifting. Lines being drawn, loyalties fraying.

But here, in this quiet room suspended between childhood and war, they could almost forget. Almost.

Chapter Text

The news came with the rush of near midnight rain. Breathless, pounding, impossible to ignore. Selene hadn’t even fully woken before someone was banging on her door, summoning her in clipped words that left no room for refusal. Alastor Moody had been attacked. Badly.

She didn’t know the details, not yet, only fragments carried through the storm. A spell hurled so viciously it had torn half his face apart, stealing an eye and mangling the bridge of his nose. The image bloomed in her mind like a nightmare before she even laid eyes on him. She was still in her pajamas when she Apparated to Emmeline Vance’s flat, a place she had barely visited, though its narrow windows glowed dimly against the predawn storm.

The living room was packed and restless. Nearly half the Order seemed crammed within, voices low, movements sharp. Some bled quietly into bandages, others hovered, attempting to soothe. The smell of iron, damp clothes, and singed fabric clung to the air. Selene’s eyes snagged on Fabian Prewett’s fumbling attempts at binding his twin’s shoulder, Gideon wincing, swearing under his breath, but she wrenched her gaze away, anchoring it instead on Remus Lupin as he strode toward her.

Normally, she had to work to catch his words through the lilting fog of his Welsh accent. Now, everything blended together, his voice rising and falling like smoke in a crowded room. Only stray phrases stuck. “curse unknown,” “holding on,” “blood loss.”

Then she saw him.

Moody lay stretched across the sofa, thrashing faintly, his bulk spilling over like he was too large for survival itself. A field medic crouched beside him, muttering irritably as they abandoned their efforts, shaking their head.

“She’s here,” someone called out, Lupin maybe, but Selene hardly registered.

Her chest clenched tight. His face was almost unrecognizable, split nearly in two. The socket where his eye had been was a grotesque ruin, plush tissue pulsing as though life itself rebelled against the injury.

Selene moved before her mind caught up. Her healer’s kit answered her silent summons, snapping into her hands. Knees struck the floor hard, but she didn’t flinch. Breath held, throat taut, she forced herself to stare down the possibility that he might die under her hands.

Warm, slick blood seeped between her fingers as she pressed down, and the horror bloomed anew, this was no hex she recognized.

“Vulnera Sanentur-” The incantation tumbled out broken, brittle. Her wand hand shook so violently she almost dropped it. Selene squeezed her eyes shut, drew in a shuddering breath, then tried again. This time, the words carried steel.

Light rippled faintly, tracing jagged lines along Moody’s mangled veins as they writhed, knitting back toward one another. He grunted, a sound of animal pain, but did not resist.

“I need dittany leaves,” Selene snapped, her voice pitched high with urgency. She scrabbled one-handed through the chest beside her, nails catching on glass vials and cloth wrappings. Her knees ached from kneeling but she hardly felt them. Someone shoved a handful of leaves into her palm, she didn’t even look to see who. It didn’t matter.

She pressed the dittany directly into the gash, the pungent smell burning her nose. Her fingers worked quickly, winding bandages around and around, pulling so tightly that tufts of Moody’s hair poked out at odd angles. The cloth blossomed red almost immediately, but at least the flow slowed.

When she finally looked up, she realized his breathing had changed. No longer ragged gasps tearing through the silence, now only shallow, fragile rises and falls. His massive leg dangled over the couch arm, the other sprawled limp across the floorboards. Still alive.

“He’s going to be okay.”

The words slipped out on instinct, though she wasn’t sure she believed them.

A hand pressed against her shoulder, she flinched before realizing who it was. Sirius. His voice was low, gentler than she expected, but the cadence struck her like a blow. For an instant, she could have sworn it was Regulus speaking.

The room was silent. Selene felt it all at once, the weight of every gaze. Lupin and James hovered nearby, both tight with concern. Mary McDonald’s trembling hands spilled tea over the rim of her mug as she tried to steady Marlene McKinnon. Peter Pettigrew stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed and pale, and Selene’s gaze narrowed at him, sharp as glass.

“Selene,” Sirius urged again, softer this time. “Come on. Let’s make you some tea.”

“What happened?” Her voice cracked under the grief choking the air.

“Surprise attack on a Muggle home in Brighton,” he said, sliding his arm under hers to help her up. “Moody was first on scene. Luckily, he caught the worst of it.”

Her hands, caked in dried blood, trembled as she forced her legs to move. The thick crust cracked across her palms as she curled her fingers.

“Did the family make it?”

Sirius’s pause was all the answer she needed, but still he spoke. “No. They’d been gone nearly an hour by the time anyone arrived.”

Selene stilled mid-step. A shaky breath dragged through her teeth. “This wasn’t random,” she whispered. “They were after Moody. The family was just cover.”

“You know who hit him?” Sirius’s voice dipped to a murmur.

“No,” she admitted, looking up at him.

“It was Rosier.”

Her throat closed. “Evan?”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Word is, he’s climbed higher since… since Reggie’s disappearance.”

Selene’s stomach hollowed. “It makes sense,” she breathed. “Who else?”

“Theodore Nott. And…” Sirius hesitated. “My dear old cousin Bella.”

The blood in her veins went cold.

“Those aren’t foot soldiers,” she murmured. “That’s leadership. This was deliberate, meticulous. You need to consider the possibility of a spy.”

The word “spy” seemed to hang heavy between them, dangerous even to say aloud. Sirius’s mouth pulled tight. He knew what it meant: division, mistrust, fracture. The Order already cracked at the seams, suspicion would splinter it further.

“I need you to dig,” he said at last, his eyes on the floor.

“I will,” she promised, voice steadying as she crossed her arms. “But don’t accuse anyone. Not yet. I have methods. And I have theories.”

Selene didn’t wash the blood away. Not even after she returned home, clothes plastered to her skin, the rain turning dirt to mud beneath her shoes. Instead, she sat on the porch steps, cigarette between her lips, watching the storm blur the horizon. Each exhale sent smoke coiling into the rain, smudging into nothing. The butt of the cigarette was stained red where her fingers touched it, but she tried not to look.

She made no move to go inside, no matter how cold seeped through her thin pajamas.

The door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She felt him. Regulus. His presence settled over her like a shadow she had grown used to carrying.

He lowered himself onto the step beside her, careful and measured, his tremor barely noticeable now, though she knew how hard he worked to conceal it. A mug appeared in his hands, offered wordlessly.

Selene accepted it, feeling the warmth seep into her bones. He didn’t scold her for the cigarette, though his lip curled faintly, that same familiar tic of distaste. He had never tolerated the smell.

She sipped. The steam kissed her face. It was just too sweet, meaning he’d gone through the trouble to make it by hand. Then, with deliberate quiet, she stubbed the cigarette out against the wet stone.

Regulus said nothing of the blood, the mud, the wild-eyed exhaustion etched into her.

“Our old friends are making themselves useful,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “Useful for destruction, at least.”

“Crouch?” he asked after a beat.

“Not this time.” Her laugh was sharp, humorless. “Rosier. Hit Moody with something foul- I don’t even know what. I’m shocked he’s still breathing.”

Regulus didn’t so much as blink. “Crouch had his hand in it. He always does. Coward’s too loyal not to follow.”

“Some things never change,” Selene whispered into the rim of the mug. Her words nearly disappeared into the rain.

Silence stretched, filled only by the steady patter of the storm. Selene thought of the family in Brighton, faceless and gone, and her chest ached with the weight of it.

Regulus broke the silence first, his voice unexpectedly mild. “Can’t believe Potter and Evans actually went and married. When did they find the time? Between all this?”

For a moment, Selene simply stared at him. His attempt at levity was clumsy, almost jarring, but earnest in its own way. She let out a soft sigh, deciding to accept it. “They eloped.”

“That tracks,” he murmured. “Though I’d expected something grander from Potter.”

“They’ll wait until the war’s over for a proper celebration,” she said, voice low. “Just one more thing to fight for.”

“That would be nice.” Regulus’s tone wasn’t hopeful, but it wasn’t bitter either. Only neutral. “Safer too.”

Selene studied him from the corner of her eye, the rain dripping from his hair. He looked impossibly young and impossibly tired all at once, and she wondered, not for the first time, how much more either of them could endure. 

The silence between them stretched again, only the rain to fill it, steady and relentless. Selene traced her thumb along the rim of her mug, the warmth fading but still present, anchoring her. Regulus sat with his spine straight despite the weariness in his frame, as though he feared what might slip if he allowed himself to truly rest.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it nearly disappeared into the storm.

“I can collect the locket at any time. I spoke to Kreacher.”

Selene’s head turned, just slightly. His tone was controlled, but she could hear the weight under it, the secret pressing against his ribs, the enormity of what they had not yet shared with the others.

“I assume he is trusted still?” she asked, though the question was more ritual than doubt. She already knew the answer.

Regulus gave a humorless little breath. “My parents are dead. There is no other official Black for him to serve. And…” his mouth curled faintly, almost wry, “I think we both know I was always his favorite anyway.”

That pulled a sound from Selene, not quite a laugh, but close. A small, reluctant breath of amusement that softened the hard line of her mouth. “That is true,” she admitted.

The memory flickered between them: a boy and girl at Grimmauld Place, whispered conversations while Kreacher fussed over Regulus with an attention he gave no one else. It lingered like an old bruise, familiar, tender.

Regulus’s expression shifted, the fleeting humor extinguished. He looked down at his hands, fingers tightening around his own mug until his knuckles paled. “I still don’t know how we will destroy it.”

The words felt like stone dropped in still water, heavy and irreversible, rippling outward.

Selene drew in a slow breath, exhaling through her nose. Her mind had turned over that same question countless times, worrying it like a sore tooth. They had seen dark curses before, dangerous enchantments, but this was different. Older. Hungrier.

“We can let the Order decide that,” she said at last, steady but grim.

Regulus’s eyes flicked toward her, sharp and searching. “You trust them with this?”

“I don’t trust anyone with it,” Selene admitted, her voice low. “But keeping it hidden between just the two of us is more dangerous. It is no use to let it rot between us.” She swallowed, throat dry. “If destroying it is feasible, they’ll have the resources. The knowledge. More than we do alone.”

He hummed, a sound almost lost to the storm, and looked away. His jaw was tight, but his profile softened under the silver curtain of rain. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either.

Selene shifted slightly closer, not touching, but enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence even through the chill. “You’ve already done the impossible by getting it. That’s enough.”

Regulus let out a faint, humorless laugh. “Impossible is only the beginning, isn’t it?”

Her lips twitched in the barest shadow of a smile, but her gaze lingered on him, dark and steady. “Yes. But you’re still here. Which is good, seeing as we’ll have to do the impossible a few more times.”

And though he didn’t look back, the corner of his mouth betrayed him, pulling upward just enough to show he’d heard her. 

Chapter Text

Truly, Selene often found herself baffled by the strange twist of fate that had landed her within this particular circle of friends. She wasn’t especially sociable, nor was she known for her warmth. Sharp-tongued and quietly observant, Selene had little patience for meaningless chatter or performative camaraderie. And yet, somehow, she was frequently found wedged between Barty Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier, a reluctant fixture among the Slytherin boys and their peculiar rituals. Including, most notably, the so-called “pre-match party” they insisted upon hosting before every single Quidditch game. 

Tonight was no exception.

Dorcas was absent for once, her absence occurring more and more as the year went on, leaving her marooned in the cluttered dormitory with the boys and Regulus Black. She perched stiffly on the edge of Evan’s bed, nose buried in a thick, dog-eared book, while the others noisily prepared for the match. Or, in Barty’s case, didn’t.

“First game of the spring term!” Barty bellowed, flinging himself backward onto his four-poster bed with reckless abandon. The bed gave a tortured groan beneath his weight, the wooden frame shuddering ominously. He was the only one not yet in uniform, bare-chested, tousled, and utterly unbothered, clad in nothing but his trousers and mismatched socks. “Those stupid red bastards won’t know what hit them.”

“Will you put a shirt on?” Evan drawled through a grin, the ever-present glint of mischief lighting his eyes. That familiar smirk, a signature expression reserved exclusively for moments when Barty was around, curled his lips like a reflex.

“I second that,” Regulus muttered as he emerged from the bathroom, tugging his emerald-and-silver jersey over his lean frame with practiced ease. His stormy gaze flickered briefly to Selene, still engrossed in her book on Evan’s bed, before drifting away with a frown that darkened his otherwise stoic features. “I truly cannot wait for the day I have a dormitory to myself.”

“Well,” Barty chimed in, smirking, “you’ll still be sharing a common room with Selene, Mr. Head Boy.”

He waggled his thick eyebrows suggestively.

“But I imagine her company is much preferred-”

“It is,” Regulus cut in sharply, his voice as cold and precise as a sharpened blade. His eyes narrowed to icy slits. “Though, to be fair, I’d prefer the company of a flobberworm to yours.”

“I’m certain the conversation would be just as riveting,” Selene said dryly, not looking up from her page as she turned it with slow, deliberate fingers.

“Oh, hush,” Barty grumbled, attempting to force his sandy hair through the sleeve of his jersey instead of the appropriate head hole. “We’re lucky if we even make it through the rest of seventh year.”

Selene’s attention snagged.

The tone in the room shifted imperceptibly, like the tightening of a noose. Evan, now fully dressed in his uniform, shot a warning glance at Barty, a subtle flash of disapproval that Selene didn’t miss. She lowered the book a fraction, her dark eyes flicking toward them with quiet curiosity.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, her voice calm, but her posture had stiffened slightly. She leaned forward, the book sliding closed over her thumb like a curtain drawing to a close. Truthfully, she already had a suspicion of the answer, but she asked anyway, needing to hear it spoken aloud.

Barty’s trademark smirk faltered. His mouth opened once, then again, but no words followed. For perhaps the first time since Selene had met him, Barty Crouch Jr. was struck too dumb to speak.

She turned her gaze to Regulus.

He didn’t meet it. He knelt silently, methodically tying his laces, his jaw set in a hard line, expression unreadable.

“The war,” Evan said at last, carefully choosing each word like they were stepping stones across a frozen lake. “If our families… determine we’d be useful, then-”

“Right.” Selene snapped the book shut, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense quiet that had fallen over the dorm. She straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt with brisk, irritated strokes. “Of course. Don’t know why I expected any of you to say something revealing.”

Barty and Evan both looked past her. She didn’t need to turn to know their eyes had landed, inevitably, on Regulus.

Still, silence.

“If this is some noble attempt to protect me,” she began, voice rising ever so slightly, “keeping me in the dark is far more dangerous than-”

“Selene.”

Regulus’ voice cut clean through her words, cold and unyielding as winter wind. She flinched despite herself, the argument dying on her tongue. There was no fire behind the command, only finality.

“This is not your concern,” he said, eyes finally meeting hers. “Don’t bring it up again.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t challenge. Didn’t even look at him as she crossed the dormitory floor, one step after another, until the heavy door slammed shut behind her. It wasn’t until she was swallowed by the bustle of the common room that she realized had moved at all.

The corridor teemed with students, most clad in their house colors, abuzz with the usual pre-match excitement. Selene moved through them like a ghost, detached and untethered, though her ears caught a conversation that slowed her steps.

Two first years stood near the entrance, practically vibrating with excitement. The smaller of the two, an undersized boy with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, was rattling off player stats like he was reciting holy scripture.

“-and Regulus Black, the Seeker? He’s going to go down as the greatest Hogwarts Seeker of our generation. I just know it-"

Selene’s scowl softened imperceptibly. Her pace slowed.

The image came unbidden, Regulus as a boy, cheeks round with baby fat, broom far too big for his frame, eyes alight with that same quiet, determined fire he carried even now. The memory ached, but in a way that warmed her, curling gently in her chest like embers refusing to die out.

She exhaled softly, letting it settle.

Then, shoulders squared, she made her way toward the pitch.

Naturally, on the way, she ran into Dorcas, her hair styled in pretty locs that ended around her elbows. She sported a green sweater, but it was a half enthusiastic attempt at house pride compared to her usual look. Still, Selene didn’t comment on it as she made her way to her side. 

Like she somehow always could, Dorcas absorbed her less than happy mood the moment she saw her face. But like she’d learned to do, she didn’t say a word. 

Selene let Dorcas steer her with the kind of effortless ease that came from years of knowing when words weren’t welcome. Her friend’s arm slid through hers, a tether pulling her back down to earth while the rest of her thoughts spun higher and higher, threatening to unravel entirely.

The corridor throbbed with energy. Green and silver scarves trailed like banners, shouts of excitement echoed off the stone walls, and a pack of younger Slytherins ran ahead with painted faces, one of them carrying a makeshift flag that was dangerously close to clipping passersby in the head. Selene might’ve smiled on another day. Tonight, her mood was too heavy for such things.

Dorcas tilted her face upward, squinting at the slanted light spilling in through the high windows. “At least the weather’s holding. I half expected to be trudging through mud by now.”

Selene hummed noncommittally, her lips pressed thin.

Dorcas gave her a sidelong look. “Don’t hum at me like that. I know what that hum means.”

“I wasn’t aware my hums had meaning,” Selene replied dryly, trying and failing to inject the words with her usual wit.

“They do. That one means you’re brooding, and pretending you’re not brooding. Which is worse than the other kind of brooding.” Dorcas’ tone was light, but her eyes were sharp, pinning Selene as deftly as a needle through parchment.

Selene’s throat worked as if she might argue, but Dorcas filled the silence before she could.

“It’s him again, isn’t it?”

That landed like a stone in Selene’s stomach. Her steps faltered, just slightly, betraying her before she could compose herself. Dorcas, predictably, noticed. She always noticed.

“Dorcas-”

“I’m not asking for details,” her friend interrupted smoothly, sparing her the effort of denial. “But Selene, just… don’t shut me out like he does to you.”

The words stung, not because they weren’t true, but because they were. Selene pressed her lips together, eyes fixed firmly ahead as the passage opened into the stairwell leading down toward the pitch.

“Maybe,” she said at last, voice clipped and brittle, “I simply don’t care for Quidditch.”

Dorcas gave a soft snort of disbelief. “Right. And I’m secretly a Beater.”

Selene shot her a glance, sharp enough to cut, but Dorcas only smiled faintly, unbothered, the kind of smile that always disarmed her no matter how tightly she clung to her irritation.

“Fine,” Selene muttered. “Perhaps I am brooding.”

“Better,” Dorcas said, satisfied. She tightened her arm around Selene’s, steering her past a knot of rowdy Ravenclaws. “Admitting it is the first step.”

By the time they reached the stands, the stadium had erupted into a cacophony of cheers and stomping feet. The banners of both houses waved in the spring breeze, scarlet and gold clashing against emerald and silver in a dizzying display. Students balanced on the benches to get a better view, their voices rising in chants that mingled with the sharp blast of Madam Hooch’s whistle as the players strode onto the field.

Selene’s gaze found him immediately.

Regulus, mounted astride his broom with that quiet, unshakable composure that made him stand out all the more amid his teammates’ showy bravado. He didn’t wave at the crowd, didn’t preen under the cheers; he sat tall, jaw set, eyes fixed on some point beyond all of them. She knew that look. Determined, focused, as though the outcome of this match meant more than just house points.

Her chest tightened, an ache she hadn’t braced for. After all, she always felt her heart squeeze when the Black brother shared the pitch.

“He looks good,” Dorcas murmured beside her, following her gaze. There was no teasing in her tone this time, only a quiet kind of respect.

“Yes,” Selene admitted, voice low. “He always does.”

The whistle blew, and the match exploded into motion.

Brooms soared skyward in a blur of color, the Quaffle tossed into play as the crowd roared. Selene watched absently as the Chasers darted and clashed, the Bludgers cracking through the air, but her attention kept drifting upward, searching the open sky for the lean figure of Regulus as he circled above, patient as a hawk.

The first years she’d overheard earlier weren’t wrong. He was good, too good for someone who treated the sport like an obligation rather than a passion. Every movement was precise, calculated, almost surgical in its execution. He didn’t need to grandstand, he simply outclassed them all.

Selene leaned forward, forearms braced against her knees, her bookish detachment forgotten. For a brief, stolen moment, the war and its shadows receded. Here, he was just Regulus Black, Seeker, chasing light across the sky with the weight of the world suspended, if only for the span of a game.

Dorcas glanced at her from the corner of her eye, catching the unguarded expression that had softened Selene’s face. She didn’t comment. 

And high above, as if he felt her watching, Regulus tilted his head just slightly. Not enough to be certain. Not enough to be seen. But Selene knew.

He knew she was there. And she wondered how much longer she’d get to watch him fly before the weight of the war dragged him down for good.

 Selene was surprised by Slytherin’s victory. If she were being honest, it had been a stroke of luck rather than an earned triumph. Gryffindor had the stronger team by every reasonable measure: tighter unity, sharper coordination, and undeniably more talented fliers (mostly because Slytherin refused to let girls try out for their team, but she never admit that aloud). Yet their Seeker was mediocre at best, and that flaw proved fatal. When Regulus spotted the Snitch barely fourteen minutes into play, Slytherin House erupted as though they had secured the entire Quidditch Cup in a single match.

So, in retrospect, Selene realized she should have anticipated the chaos waiting in the common room.

The space was sweltering, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp bite of firewhisky. Laughter and shouting rattled the stone walls, and music thrummed so loudly it seemed to pulse in her ribcage. She caught a glimpse of Barty Crouch Jr. vaulting across the room like a deranged centaur, clutching a bottle of firewhisky from which he sloshed generous shots into any passing goblet. The crowd roared their approval, surging around him in waves of green and silver.

Beside her, Dorcas grinned wickedly and tugged at her arm, steering her toward the staircase. “Come on. You’re not staying dressed like that for a party.”

Normally, Selene loathed events like these. The press of bodies, the shrieking laughter, the smell of cheap smoke clinging to her skin. It was everything she despised. Yet tonight, some fragile, restless part of her longed to pretend she was simply another girl of almost seventeen, one who drank recklessly, smoked without hesitation, and wore the messy, daring fashions of the age.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself as Dorcas hurled outfit options across the dormitory with alarming speed. Selene barely dodged a shimmering green slip of fabric that might have sent her mother into a rage-induced apoplexy. After much resistance, she settled on a black tank top and flared trousers. Bold enough to appease Dorcas, modest enough to keep Selene breathing.

Still, when she stood before the bathroom mirror, she felt almost foreign in her own skin. The top wasn’t scandalous, yet it traced the line of her collarbones and shaped her chest more than she was accustomed to. The trousers were worse, cinching her waist and clinging to her thighs in a way that felt revealing, though not unpleasant.

Dorcas leaned in the doorway, lips painted a glossy onyx curve. Her grin was both smug and encouraging. “Selene, you look incredible.”

Selene frowned faintly at her reflection, her uncertainty laid bare. “Are you sure? I feel… ridiculous.”

“You don’t look like the daughter your parents want you to be,” Dorcas said simply, stepping closer to ruffle Selene’s dark hair until it fell in a messier, freer frame. “And that’s a good thing.”

Selene’s fists tightened and loosened again, as though she were trying on the idea of her own defiance. “I know. I don’t think I mind it. Not really.”

“Just different,” Dorcas finished for her, her voice softer.

“Exactly.” Selene drew in a deep breath, then exhaled with mock dramatics. “Now, get me out of here before I change my mind.”

Dorcas laughed triumphantly, linking their arms as they descended.

The common room was somehow even stuffier than before, crammed with not only Slytherins but half the school, it seemed. The rumor of alcohol and music made strange bedfellows. It amazed her, even in the midst of a war, teenagers still crowded to parties in effort to let loose.

Selene wove into the crowd, wrapping her arms around her middle as if it might shield her from the sheer press of it all. Unwillingly, her eyes searched for Regulus, even in her current irritation with him.

She didn’t find him. Instead, she found herself flanked by Evan Rosier and Barty, both glistening with sweat, flushed with drink, and grinning like conquering kings.

“Well, look at you!” Evan crowed, raising his goblet in salute.

Barty leaned down, eyes glinting. “Hands to yourself, Bart!” Dorcas laughed, swatting him away before he could drape an arm around Selene’s shoulders.

Selene barely smiled, already distracted. “Have either of you seen Regulus?” she asked, raising her voice over the pounding music.

“He’s not one for parties, princess,” Barty smirked, his words dripping with mockery. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Her frown deepened, and she turned her face away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of her annoyance. “Right. Well… I’ll be stepping out.”

Whether anyone heard her or not, she didn’t care. She slipped through the throng and out into the corridors, gratefully swallowed by the shadows and the sudden silence.

The castle was unnaturally still, even more so than on her prefect patrols. She assumed half the student body was jammed into Slytherin’s common room. She wondered if she should look for Regulus, seek him out and try to ignore the guilt he seemed to carry whenever he looked at her.

Her footsteps echoed faintly as she wandered aimlessly, letting the minutes blur until they became hours as she made excuses for his behavior in her head. By the time her watch ticked past three in the morning, she had nearly convinced herself to return to her dormitory.

That was when she heard it. A faint shuffle, clumsy and irregular.

Selene froze, instinct taking hold. Her wand slid smoothly from her boot, her senses sharpening as she followed the noise down the corridor. But as she drew nearer, suspicion waned. The sound wasn’t threatening; it was punctuated with hushed giggles and breathless laughter. Girls, drunk and careless.

She lowered her wand and rounded the corner, and stopped dead.

Dorcas was half sprawled across Marlene McKinnon’s lap, their lips pressed together between fits of laughter. Marlene’s hand curved around Dorcas’s waist, her other brushing tenderly against her jaw. The sight struck Selene harder than any spell, Dorcas radiant with happiness, joy carved into every line of her face.

Selene’s breath caught. She hadn’t known. She should have known. They were inseparable, surely there should have been signs. The realization that she had missed such a vital truth about her closest friend stung deeper than any judgment or scandal could.

She tried to slip past unnoticed, but her movement drew their attention. Marlene stilled first, her expression collapsing from delight into wariness. Dorcas pulled back as though burned, stumbling to her feet.

“Selene! It’s not-”

Selene shook her head, cutting her off. Words tangled uselessly in her throat, her mind spinning with a thousand things she could say. None seemed right. None seemed enough.

Dorcas’s mouth opened, desperation spilling out in the wrong shape. “I’m just drunk. It doesn’t mean anything-”

“Stop.” Selene’s voice rang sharper than she intended. Both girls froze. “There is nothing wrong with you. Don’t act like there is.”

The silence that followed was heavy, painful. Marlene’s gaze dropped, Dorcas’s eyes shimmered with tears.

”Are you afraid?” Selene’s stomach clenched painfully. “Of me? What I think?”

”I’m just not ready.” Dorcas whispered, blinking hard. “I’m not ready to know what anyone thinks but her.”

Marlene looked at the side of her face. Not asking for Dorcas to meet her gaze, simply accepting her words without a hint of hurt. Like she would do anything to keep her at her side. 

Selene forced herself to meet them both, her chest tight. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She lingered only a heartbeat longer before retreating down the corridor. Behind her, she heard the muffled sound of Dorcas crying, Marlene’s soft murmur of comfort. Selene didn’t look back again. Her head was pounding with thoughts, with regrets, with the sudden, aching understanding that she hadn’t known her friend nearly as well as she thought.