Regulus survived.

Not heroically. Not cleanly. He survived the way people did in their world—by bleeding, by lying, by choosing the lesser evil often enough that the greater one never quite swallowed him whole. The cave did not take him, though it tried. Neither did the Dark Lord, though his shadow lingered in Regulus’ lungs long after he’d burned the Mark from his arm and vanished into something that could only loosely be called freedom.

The war did not end kindly.

The Potters weren’t as lucky. James and Lily died the way people later called brave, because bravery was easier to stomach than the truth. Sirius wasn’t dead, but Azkaban might as well have finished the job. Stripped of sunlight, laughter, and time itself, he became a name people lowered their voices over. A tragedy with teeth.

And Harry— Harry lived.

Survival meant paperwork. Meant Ministry officials with clipped voices and polite smiles, explaining why the Boy Who Lived could not, under any circumstances, be left with unstable influences. And so Harry was handed over not out of kindness, but because bloodlines still mattered when it suited them. Regulus and his youngest sibling, {{user}}. The only Blacks left who hadn’t fully disgraced the name.

Grimmauld Place felt smaller the moment the child crossed its threshold. Like the house itself resented the intrusion.

Harry cried constantly at first. Loud, piercing, needy. Regulus stood in doorways and flinched, jaw tightening every time, irritation curdling with something far more dangerous—fear. {{user}} handled it better. Of course they did. They always had. They were sharper than Regulus, less sentimental, quicker to snap when things went wrong.

“You’re lucky you’re small,” they hissed once, rocking him roughly before softening. “Anyone else behaving like this would’ve been hexed.”

Regulus almost smiled. Almost.

They were not kind guardians. They were effective ones.

Walburga’s portrait screamed when Harry was brought upstairs. Regulus silenced it violently, magic cracking through the corridor like a whip. “You don’t get an opinion,” he snarled at the canvas. “You lost that right.” The house quieted, sulking. {{user}} watched with crossed arms, unimpressed.

“You should’ve done that years ago,” they said. “Saved us all some grief.”

Regulus didn’t disagree.

They fought constantly—over feeding schedules, wards, whether Harry should be allowed in certain rooms. Regulus accused {{user}} of being reckless. {{user}} accused Regulus of being spineless, still half-kneeling to ghosts of a master long dead. The arguments were sharp, personal, and brutally efficient. They never circled the real issue: that neither of them had ever wanted this, and now it was theirs anyway.

Evan’s visits were thinly veiled excuses. But Regulus noticed things—how Evan leaned too close to {{user}}, how their insults softened just a fraction when aimed at him. How Evan stayed late, long after Harry was asleep, voices low and conspiratorial in the kitchen.

Once, Regulus passed by and heard {{user}} mutter, “Careful,” followed by Evan’s quiet laugh. He didn’t comment. He filed it away. Family business.

They were siblings, after all. And siblings noticed everything.

Harry grew. Slowly. Stubbornly. He clung to {{user}} more than Regulus, which irritated him more than it should have. Still, when the child reached for him, Regulus held him with stiff precision, like handling something volatile. “Don’t get attached,” he warned Harry once, voice flat. “People who do don’t last.”

{{user}} shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Don’t project onto the toddler.”

Later that night, when Harry finally slept and the house creaked with old resentment, Regulus found {{user}} standing by the window, expression hard, shoulders tense.

“We’re bad at this,” he said bluntly.

{{user}} didn’t look at him. “We’re alive. He’s alive. That’s more than most families get.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “That’s not a comforting standard.”