![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic - Futures Past - 1/1
Title: Futures Past
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: T
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Regulus/Harry
Warnings: Master of Death!Harry, time travel, headcanon, religious elements
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A chance meeting in a graveyard while saying goodbye gives Regulus Black a chance at a future.
Author's Notes: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leontinabowie as part of the 2013/14 Rare Pair Winter Fic Exchange at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
rarepair_shorts.
The church at Godric’s Hollow is lit up, casting stained-glass highlights on the snow-covered tombs that surround it. The sound of hymns drifts out into the night air and Regulus Black stands and listens. He ignores the gently drifting snow that catches in his hair and the folds of his cloak and the chill that sinks deep into his bones in favour of pricking his ears and trying to determine which – if any – of the baritone voices he can hear belongs to his brother.
He doesn’t think Sirius has converted from the Old Ways – some things are harder to cast away than family – but he knows that he is in there, sheltering in the warmth of the Potter family as he hides his true nature in Gryffindor red and gold.
The church at Godric’s Hollow is the oldest Wizarding church in England. One of the tombs in this graveyard belongs to Ignotus Peverell – the first pureblood to ever pledge himself to the Muggle faith. Regulus only knows this because one of his disgruntled fourteenth century relatives wrote of the disgrace at length. That relative had been a Sirius too, and Regulus imagines him grumbling in the Summerlands at the sight of his many-great-grandsons standing peacefully on Christian ground. (It’s the kind of mental image that – no doubt – his brother would get a kick out of.)
Muggle and magical voices soar in praise, united in love for a witch-killing god, and the hairs on the back of Regulus’ neck stand on end even as his chest aches in a strange desire for faith – for the ability to walk into that church and tell Sirius goodbye for the last time. He will be dead by the time the Muggle New Year arrives in a week. But he has no such faith and no such ability and his toes are numb in his dragon-hide boots so he stays still and listens and keeps his mourning (as ever) to himself.
It is by listening that he knows he is not alone. He hears the soft crunch of boots on snow and he turns to see a figure, cloaked like himself, walking slowly through the graves with his head bent and snow gathering in wild black hair.
For a moment, he thinks the stranger is Potter – the hair is that obnoxiously messy – before he remembers that Potter is inside the church, and before he sees that it’s a little too long and the stranger a little too short to be Sirius’ fake-brother. Still, there is a resemblance, and Regulus wonders if he’s related somehow. A bastard, maybe? A secret Squib?
The crunch of his footsteps is uneven, uncertain, and Regulus’ chest aches again – this time with sympathy. Someone else, it seems, is drawn here despite knowing that they don’t belong; that they’ll ever be left out in the cold. He lets the stranger approach, and when he draws near, takes the time to study him closer.
The resemblance to Potter is still startling, but the stranger’s face is pale as the snow and his profile is somehow gentler than Potter’s – etched with a sadness that Potter, in all his charmed life, has never known. The faint smile he sends Regulus in greeting is heartbreaking and beautiful all at once, and doesn’t come close to reaching his green eyes – luminous in the glowing church light. He looks as tired as Regulus feels, and it’s a thought that makes him smile back.
“I came here because I’m going to die,” Regulus says, his voice barely above a whisper. He isn’t sure if the stranger can hear him over the sudden blast of pipe organ and sopranos, but he needs to tell someone. He’s needed it for days – needed someone to know that he’s going to leave and not come back; needed someone to mourn him – and a stranger is better than no one. “I don’t believe in any of this,” he says, “but I wanted to say goodbye.”
He’s decided that he can’t hear Sirius. Or maybe he can. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything except death.
“I came here because I’m going to be born here,” the stranger replies. “And I’m going to die here. The first time, anyway.”
“Does it hurt?” Regulus asks, wondering if the man is a time-traveller or just mad.
The stranger shrugs. “It can,” he says, and then shushes him softly before turning his gaze back to the church. He raises a hand to brush the ends of his shaggy fringe out of his eyes and Regulus sees that he isn’t wearing gloves. There’s a ring on his finger set with a cracked black stone, and something about it is even colder than the snow.
They stand together in the snow in silence, letting the music wash over them and bathe them in unearthly sorrow until the doors open and the congregation flows out into the night. Each of them is bathed in the radiant glow of belonging, and Regulus catches sight of familiar faces free of the stresses of war. Potter and his mudblood wife go arm-in-arm, Lupin and Pettigrew follow – laughing as they talk – and Sirius follows. He looks more subdued than anything else, but calm, and Regulus is glad for him.
When the doors close, the light vanishes, and he and the stranger are left in darkness.
Regulus has always been left in darkness. At least this time, he thinks, he isn’t alone.
“Nothing is set in stone,” his stranger says. “And time can be changed.” His lips lift in a crooked smile that reminds Regulus eerily of his grandfather Pollux. “Wait,” he says. “Before you go to the cave.” Regulus’ heart stops. “The Dark Lord will be dead by the end of the week. There’s no need for you to die too.”
…
Regulus gives him a week. He paces in his room for days, worrying his fingernails down to the quick. He’s waiting for either the Dark Lord’s death or his own – he was foolish to have spoken and the Dark Lord does not deal well with traitors. And while the wards on Grimmauld Place would defend him from any attack, they cannot help him if his mother decides to sell him out as she may do. Her support or the Dark Lord is almost as fanatical as Bella’s.
Then, on the day the Muggles’ New Year begins, the Dark Mark burns and fades from his arm and the Daily Prophet proclaims the Dark Lord dead. There’s even a picture of the once fearsome Lord cut down, his body bleeding out onto the grey slush lining Diagon Alley. It had been a raid, and it had been his last.
His mother shrieks and wails, screaming vitriol about mudbloods and blood-traitors, and his father sighs and shuts himself in his study with a bottle of brandy. Regulus escapes, taking the paper and his cloak, to the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow where he knows his stranger will be waiting.
He doesn’t know how he knows that. All he knows is that he has a future now. He has a fate outside of an unknown grave, and it’s thanks to his stranger.
His stranger is sitting on the tomb of Ignotus Peverell. Regulus knows that because the snow has been brushed away by long, white fingers to reveal a name and the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. There’s a faint smile on his stranger’s lips, and it grows when he spots Regulus coming towards him. It reaches his eyes this time and he’s all the lovelier for it.
Regulus grips him by the shoulders and pulls him up into a kiss. It’s impulsive and ridiculous and his stranger kisses back, curling his cold hands into the collar of Regulus’ cloak. The ring brushes his skin for a split second and it’s cold enough to burn. Regulus shudders at the pain and pulls his stranger closer, deeper, before they break apart.
Their breath mists together in the winter air, and for that moment they’re both alive.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: T
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Regulus/Harry
Warnings: Master of Death!Harry, time travel, headcanon, religious elements
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A chance meeting in a graveyard while saying goodbye gives Regulus Black a chance at a future.
Author's Notes: This was written for
leontinabowie as part of the 2013/14 Rare Pair Winter Fic Exchange at rarepair_shorts.The church at Godric’s Hollow is lit up, casting stained-glass highlights on the snow-covered tombs that surround it. The sound of hymns drifts out into the night air and Regulus Black stands and listens. He ignores the gently drifting snow that catches in his hair and the folds of his cloak and the chill that sinks deep into his bones in favour of pricking his ears and trying to determine which – if any – of the baritone voices he can hear belongs to his brother.
He doesn’t think Sirius has converted from the Old Ways – some things are harder to cast away than family – but he knows that he is in there, sheltering in the warmth of the Potter family as he hides his true nature in Gryffindor red and gold.
The church at Godric’s Hollow is the oldest Wizarding church in England. One of the tombs in this graveyard belongs to Ignotus Peverell – the first pureblood to ever pledge himself to the Muggle faith. Regulus only knows this because one of his disgruntled fourteenth century relatives wrote of the disgrace at length. That relative had been a Sirius too, and Regulus imagines him grumbling in the Summerlands at the sight of his many-great-grandsons standing peacefully on Christian ground. (It’s the kind of mental image that – no doubt – his brother would get a kick out of.)
Muggle and magical voices soar in praise, united in love for a witch-killing god, and the hairs on the back of Regulus’ neck stand on end even as his chest aches in a strange desire for faith – for the ability to walk into that church and tell Sirius goodbye for the last time. He will be dead by the time the Muggle New Year arrives in a week. But he has no such faith and no such ability and his toes are numb in his dragon-hide boots so he stays still and listens and keeps his mourning (as ever) to himself.
It is by listening that he knows he is not alone. He hears the soft crunch of boots on snow and he turns to see a figure, cloaked like himself, walking slowly through the graves with his head bent and snow gathering in wild black hair.
For a moment, he thinks the stranger is Potter – the hair is that obnoxiously messy – before he remembers that Potter is inside the church, and before he sees that it’s a little too long and the stranger a little too short to be Sirius’ fake-brother. Still, there is a resemblance, and Regulus wonders if he’s related somehow. A bastard, maybe? A secret Squib?
The crunch of his footsteps is uneven, uncertain, and Regulus’ chest aches again – this time with sympathy. Someone else, it seems, is drawn here despite knowing that they don’t belong; that they’ll ever be left out in the cold. He lets the stranger approach, and when he draws near, takes the time to study him closer.
The resemblance to Potter is still startling, but the stranger’s face is pale as the snow and his profile is somehow gentler than Potter’s – etched with a sadness that Potter, in all his charmed life, has never known. The faint smile he sends Regulus in greeting is heartbreaking and beautiful all at once, and doesn’t come close to reaching his green eyes – luminous in the glowing church light. He looks as tired as Regulus feels, and it’s a thought that makes him smile back.
“I came here because I’m going to die,” Regulus says, his voice barely above a whisper. He isn’t sure if the stranger can hear him over the sudden blast of pipe organ and sopranos, but he needs to tell someone. He’s needed it for days – needed someone to know that he’s going to leave and not come back; needed someone to mourn him – and a stranger is better than no one. “I don’t believe in any of this,” he says, “but I wanted to say goodbye.”
He’s decided that he can’t hear Sirius. Or maybe he can. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything except death.
“I came here because I’m going to be born here,” the stranger replies. “And I’m going to die here. The first time, anyway.”
“Does it hurt?” Regulus asks, wondering if the man is a time-traveller or just mad.
The stranger shrugs. “It can,” he says, and then shushes him softly before turning his gaze back to the church. He raises a hand to brush the ends of his shaggy fringe out of his eyes and Regulus sees that he isn’t wearing gloves. There’s a ring on his finger set with a cracked black stone, and something about it is even colder than the snow.
They stand together in the snow in silence, letting the music wash over them and bathe them in unearthly sorrow until the doors open and the congregation flows out into the night. Each of them is bathed in the radiant glow of belonging, and Regulus catches sight of familiar faces free of the stresses of war. Potter and his mudblood wife go arm-in-arm, Lupin and Pettigrew follow – laughing as they talk – and Sirius follows. He looks more subdued than anything else, but calm, and Regulus is glad for him.
When the doors close, the light vanishes, and he and the stranger are left in darkness.
Regulus has always been left in darkness. At least this time, he thinks, he isn’t alone.
“Nothing is set in stone,” his stranger says. “And time can be changed.” His lips lift in a crooked smile that reminds Regulus eerily of his grandfather Pollux. “Wait,” he says. “Before you go to the cave.” Regulus’ heart stops. “The Dark Lord will be dead by the end of the week. There’s no need for you to die too.”
…
Regulus gives him a week. He paces in his room for days, worrying his fingernails down to the quick. He’s waiting for either the Dark Lord’s death or his own – he was foolish to have spoken and the Dark Lord does not deal well with traitors. And while the wards on Grimmauld Place would defend him from any attack, they cannot help him if his mother decides to sell him out as she may do. Her support or the Dark Lord is almost as fanatical as Bella’s.
Then, on the day the Muggles’ New Year begins, the Dark Mark burns and fades from his arm and the Daily Prophet proclaims the Dark Lord dead. There’s even a picture of the once fearsome Lord cut down, his body bleeding out onto the grey slush lining Diagon Alley. It had been a raid, and it had been his last.
His mother shrieks and wails, screaming vitriol about mudbloods and blood-traitors, and his father sighs and shuts himself in his study with a bottle of brandy. Regulus escapes, taking the paper and his cloak, to the graveyard in Godric’s Hollow where he knows his stranger will be waiting.
He doesn’t know how he knows that. All he knows is that he has a future now. He has a fate outside of an unknown grave, and it’s thanks to his stranger.
His stranger is sitting on the tomb of Ignotus Peverell. Regulus knows that because the snow has been brushed away by long, white fingers to reveal a name and the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. There’s a faint smile on his stranger’s lips, and it grows when he spots Regulus coming towards him. It reaches his eyes this time and he’s all the lovelier for it.
Regulus grips him by the shoulders and pulls him up into a kiss. It’s impulsive and ridiculous and his stranger kisses back, curling his cold hands into the collar of Regulus’ cloak. The ring brushes his skin for a split second and it’s cold enough to burn. Regulus shudders at the pain and pulls his stranger closer, deeper, before they break apart.
Their breath mists together in the winter air, and for that moment they’re both alive.