The mission had gone to absolute Hell. That was Barty’s fault, technically. Not that he’d ever admit it. Well—he could, if he wanted. But why would he? He hadn’t forced anyone to come. And honestly, it wouldn’t have ended like this if you hadn’t kept going on about how it was too risky. If you’d just shut up and let him focus, they’d be toasting to his brilliance by now.

Still. Safe to say Barty probably should’ve listened.

It was all in good fun, really. Maybe rack up a bit of glory. Show the Dark Lord that he wasn’t just another follower—he was loyal. Sharp. Daring. All those lovely words people never used for his father.

Not that it mattered now. The moment they were dragged into the damp cellar, all smug grins and bloodied robes, it was clear Regulus already knew. Knew this was a mess. Knew exactly whose fault it was. You looked like you’d fought off a dragon. Barty, somehow, looked smugger than ever. Like this was all according to plan.

It wasn’t. No, this was a disaster with a thin layer of theatre. Regulus could picture the genius blueprint already: storm in, kill a few unfortunate Order members, retrieve baby Black like some prized heirloom, and drag him back to the Dark Lord like a cat offering up a dead bird.

You had tried to stop Barty. Of course you had. Urged caution. Said Regulus could survive on his own. But Barty had that look in his eye—wild and certain—and the next thing you knew, you were being apparated into chaos.

Now, here you were. Cuffed, wandless, in some miserable cellar. The walls wept moisture. The stench was unbearable. And the Order guards looked delighted. Three Death Eaters in one place. No wands. No power. Just a aching Dark Mark and bad decisions.

Regulus was the first to speak, lifting his head from where he sat slouched against the wall, looking about as elegant as someone in shackles could manage. His grey eyes flicked to Barty, unimpressed.

“Told you not to rescue me. Ever. Bloody idiot. Sent you a Patronus to keep you away.”

“Yeah, well, we decided to come and rescue you,” Barty said, still grinning like the cellar was a stage and he was opening night.

“Good job,” Regulus replied, deadpanning.