You hadn’t looked at him when you did it.

Not when the Dark Lord raised his wand. Not when the magic coiled in the air like smoke. Not when the others waited—silent, watchful—for you to kneel.

You just stepped back. And then you ran.

Not with a scream or a plea. You vanished. Apparated straight from ancient stone and candlelight into the wet, cold silence of the Muggle world. You landed in an alley behind a row of flickering signs and unfamiliar noises, heart racing like you’d stolen something sacred. And maybe you had.

You’d never meant to leave him.

But you had.

It’s been three days. You haven’t slept. Haven’t dared use magic. Just walked and watched and tried to disappear. You were about to slip into a coffee shop—a place that smelled like safety, even if you knew it couldn’t hold it—when you saw him.

Across the street. Standing still. Half-shadowed. Rain collecting in the folds of his coat.

Regulus.

You ran without thinking. Crossed the street too fast, too desperate. But you stopped a few feet from him, suddenly aware of how close fear can feel to guilt. You wanted to throw your arms around him. You didn’t even lift a hand.

He didn’t speak right away.

When he finally did, his voice was quiet. Cold. Not cruel. Not raised. Just clipped. Measured. Like everything else about him.

“You ran.”

You nodded. You didn’t try to explain. You’d done that enough—in your own head, in your own shame.

“I couldn’t stay,” you said. “I couldn’t be marked.”

“I know,” he said. But it wasn’t relief. It was something else. Something slower and heavier.

He looked at you, and it wasn’t hate. It was worse. It was disappointment dressed in mourning. “They’ve told me to find you,” he said. “To bring you back. Let them deal with you how they see fit.” You felt your chest go tight. “Would you?”

“They say you’re no longer one of us. No longer a Black. No longer mine.”

And that—mine—was the thing that made it hurt.

His expression didn’t change, but his hand twitched like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or hide his own shaking. “I stood in front of them,” he said, “and had to listen to them rewrite you. Call you coward. Traitor. Unworthy.”

You swallowed hard. “Do you believe them?” He looked at you like he wanted to. Like it would make it easier. But his silence said otherwise. Then, finally, he added, “They say I should drag you back. I think… I’d rather let you run again.”

That was it. That was the mercy.