Chapter Text
“A house?”
Regulus Black stands firmly on the belief that his life has been one long string of unfortunate events.
From the ground up, being born into a family that valued money over affection wasn’t exactly a winning hand. He made do, of course, always careful with his words, ever-mindful of his behaviour and forever grateful for “the privilege of being born a Black.”
Not that he believed in the family’s rhetoric, not really. But unlike his older brother, Sirius, who charged headfirst into rebellion and bolted without so much as a glance back, Regulus’ defiance was quieter. Subtler. He was all about winning a game that no one else knew they were playing. Cold calculation, small, deliberate acts of resistance—A scheming kind of revolt.
He endured long days and longer nights in that house who seemed to suck the very soul of his being, playing the role expected of him until the moment was right. It wasn’t until the day he graduated that he laid it all out: a trust fund well out of their grasp with a solicitor on standby and a flat of his own lined up. He would not be inheriting the family company nor would he be staying under their roof any longer.
It was, to put it lightly, a mess. He doesn’t think Walburga had ever been that rattled.
Years ahead, not a whisper of the family’s affairs reached him, but in that same time, he reconnected with Sirius—who, for a long while, believed Regulus was lost forever to their mother’s clutches. It had taken some dramatics. Anything from shouting matches worthy of the West End and tear-jerking confessions of “betrayal” qualified as bonding. But eventually, they’d found each other again. Sirius even admitted, somewhat begrudgingly, that he was proud (something about Regulus outmaneuvering their parents in a way he never managed while moaning that being disinherited the hard way was exhausting)
The only other Black worth of affection was their Uncle Alphard. He had been different— decent, Kind. Foreign concepts in the Black Family.
When Alphard died, there was no funeral. His last wish was to be cremated and given to the sea. But he had left behind one final reminder that he, too, found them to be different. Everything that was ever owned by Alphard Cygnus Black passed to his nephews. Regulus didn’t need the money, so he let Sirius have it on one, non-negotiable, condition: All the art pieces stayed with him. Sirius, ever the uncultured one who’d rather hang a dartboard than a painting, agreed without hesitation.
From that day, Regulus stuck to the plan. With no emotional ties left binding him to that house, or that name, he left London to pursue another degree. Nothing against business, it had served him well—he’d enjoyed it far more than he’d ever admit aloud— but it wasn’t his calling. If the trust fund hadn’t panned out, perhaps he’d have put the degree to a good use. But it had, and he held both the means and the knowledge to never run out of it. He could do what he wanted, he was free after all.
So, he moved to France and started majoring in History. Collected art. Wrote, quietly.
He was proud of his planning. Every detail had played out. Even any potential nuisance his parents might have become had been dealt with before it could bother him.
He was, in every sense of the word, serene.
Until now.
When Regulus first got the call informing him of his mother’s death, his natural reaction was confusion.
Why on earth were they telling him? It’s not as if Walburga Black had considered him for half a decade. She’d made it clear to anyone who would listen (and plenty who wouldn't) that she had no children. So excuse him for being particularly ready to hang up and move on with his life. He’d buried her in his mind years ago. Long before he ever packed up and left.
But he didn’t, though. And he’s only half-glad he kept listening.
“Manor.” The executor corrects pointedly, rifling through a stack of papers with practised ease.
Regulus purses his lips, momentarily at a loss. “Islington?” He asks, though it sounded absurd. Inheriting the very house he’d run away from? Poetic, in the worst kind of way.
“Surrey Hills.” That only served to deepen his confusion. The woman, Ava, as she’d introduced herself, didn’t look up. “An estate.”
“Surrey Hills?” Sirius repeats, eyebrows climbing halfway up his forehead. He’d tagged along after hearing about the call—especially since he didn’t get one. And he wasn’t exactly trying to mask his disbelief. “There’s no way she bought a house in the countryside. She hated the countryside.”
The executor’s eyes flick briefly towards him, unimpressed, then drop back to the paperwork. “It wasn’t hers,” She said curtly. Regulus had the slight impression that Ava wasn’t pleased to have them. “She was in line to inherit. But she passed before the will cleared probate. You’re next.” She nodded to Regulus who couldn’t help but feel a bit threatened by the wording.
“Why him?” Sirius asked, with the nerve to sound genuinely offended. “I mean, I’m the oldest— why him?”
“Sirius!”
Ava doesn’t even blink in their direction. “I handled your disinheritance myself. You wouldn’t see a knut if every person named Black dropped dead tomorrow.”
That shut him up. More or less.
“So whose is this?” Regulus asks, though he doesn’t get an answer, just an awkward beat of silence before Ava slides a form across the desk with a pen. He stares at it for a second before signing it skeptically.
The property documents come right after. Regulus skims through them, still trying to make sense where this estate had come from, why he’s in line for it, and how he had pissed the universe for it to play this twisted cosmic joke.
“She never mentioned it.”
“I assume she didn’t know.” Ava replied, tone dry enough to parch the room. She snaps her briefcase shut. “She wouldn’t have left it to you if she had.”
Regulus’ jaw tightens. Well. That tracks.
There wasn’t much left to say after that. Ava breezed through a few formalities and dismissed them with a perfunctory nod. They left in silence, Sirius still poring over the documents as if they were treasure maps.
“Rosier House,” Sirius mutters, frowning in what can only be described as deep, unfiltered confusion. “Holy— This place is old, Reg. Like, ancient.”
Regulus hums. “Were any of our grandparents’ maiden names Rosier?”
Sirius pulls a face. “Their maiden names were still Black, remember? You know, the whole—”
“Right, yeah.” Regulus cuts him off with a matching grimace. “Forgot. Blocked it out, probably. Will do it again.” He checks the time on his watch, sighing. “What’s the address again?”
“230 Westhumble St, Dorking. RH5 6NT.” Sirius reads off the files, already pulling out his phone to plug it into the map. “Fifty-minute drive. Lovely.”
Regulus groans, already feeling vaguely carsick at the thought. “Brilliant. A bloody state in the arse-end of Surrey. Cheers, Mum.”
Sirius gives him a hearty slap with no actual sympathy, basically reeking enthusiasm. “Anyway, let’s hit the road.”
“My flight back’s in two hours,” Regulus reminds him, slipping his phone back into his coat. “You go. Take pictures, I’ll live vicariously.”
“Come on, Reg.” Sirius whines, full tilt, voice pitching into something dangerously close to a toddler. “You barely visit me! I see you, like, twice a year. If.”
“I’m busy, Sirius.”
“You’re not now!” He gestures wildly, flailing arms and all. “Look, I’ll buy you a ticket, yeah? Full refund and all that. Just come check it out with me.”
Regulus narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to negotiate with me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay so, let’s break it down. You’re offering to stain my flight record and make me sit in a car with you for another two hours minimum.” He scoffs. “Wow, Sirius, that’s one lousy deal.”
“First of all, ouch.” He says, a little offended. “Second, I told you this house is bally archaic. Aren’t you into that sort of thing? Ancient bricks, grimy portraits, drafty hallways and whatnot?”
That does actually give Regulus a pause, though his brother’s terminology it’s a bit off, in his opinion. He purses his lips in thought. “How old exactly?”
Sirius flips back to one of the pages, scanning quickly. “1800s? Maybe earlier.”
“Get in the car.”
──
Another unfortunate event on Regulus Black’s ever-growing list of pitiful life occurrences happens that day. Being trapped in a car with his brother and his music taste? People have offed themselves over far less.
It’s somewhere during the tenth Queen song when he’s had enough. He leans over and hits pause, earning an instant protest from Sirius.
“Oi! It was just getting to the chorus!”
“Yeah I know.” Regulus mutters, annoyed. “I’ve heard it four times already, I could do the background vocals at this point.”
“Lighten up.” Sirius grins, unhelpful as ever. “We’re bonding.”
“We can bond without Queen.”
“We literally can’t.”
“I’ll throw you off this car.” Regulus informs him.
“Wow, Reggie, still a delight.” Sirius scoffs but decides to compromise. “We’re almost there, anyway.”
They absolutely are not “almost there.” It’s another twenty minutes before Regulus finally spots the street sign, exhaling like he’s just emerged from underwater.
“Fifty-minute drive, my arse,” He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There better be some Voynich Manuscript waiting in that house or I swear…”
Sirius chuckles with all the glee of someone who didn’t quite get the quip but enjoys the sound of his own laugh anyway. Regulus, too carsick to bother explaining, lets it slide. Not like his brother would care for one.
They pull up to the estate at last, and when Regulus steps out of the car, he feels the world tilt back into place. Well, that and his stomach is still doing cartwheels from the drive.
The place is massive. Past the old gates, there’s a winding path flanked by orangery, overgrown, untamed and not well-kept overall, but he can see the vision and he honestly likes it.
Then they reach the house, more accurately a manor, and for a second, he nearly gawps.
Crumbling? Certainly.
Old? Extremely.
“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters, following behind like a reluctant tourist. “Imploding manor, a proper Knives Out mystery, this.” Regulus rolls his eyes so hard he nearly glimpses another dimension. “Did you know? Aristotle built this house. Einstein lived in it. That tree over there? That’s where the apple fell.”
“The apple was Newton. And Aristotle died without ever hearing the word England.” Regulus replies flatly, knowing full well it’s useless. Sirius just keeps going.
“Pluto, then.”
Regulus halts, turning to stare at him, appalled. “Do you mean Plato?”
“Same thing.”
“How are we related?” He mutters to the universe, defeated.
He turns back to the manor, letting his eyes trace its faded grandeur. Half of it is wrapped in ivy so thick it looks like it might be trying to swallow it whole. The structure itself is formidable—three stories with weather-worn windows that were probably hand-carved when candles were still a luxury. Most of the panes are cracked or clouded.
The mansard roof, unmistakably French, catches his attention. The slate tiles are blistered and lifting, some missing entirely. There’s an elegance to it still, stubbornly refusing to fully decay.
“This place is French.” Regulus says, more to himself than anything.
Sirius raises a brow. “It’s in Westhumble.”
“I know. But look at the roofline. A mansard, French.” He explains, almost exasperated with him. “The windows are Georgian, though.”
“Right, yeah, totally see it.” Sirius nods along like he’s been possessed by an interior designer. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and peers around.
They stand in a quiet lull, the wind rustling through the trees and the sound of what might be a very angry crow echoing through the grounds. Regulus studies the facade more closely, mentally cataloguing its parts. A central pediment—arched, one side almost crumbled. Columns near the main entrance, cracked near the base. He tries to pinpoint when and why this was built.
“Early 1700s,” He decides aloud, a bit uncertain. “French, already said. Huguenots, probably. Fled here. There are later additions, those windows on the east wing are newer.”
“Define newer.” Sirius slides closer, glancing off toward the overgrown garden. “Also, Religious folk? That tracks. There’s a broken temple-y thing back there. My best guess you ask? A cult house. Sacrificed goats and witches and everything.”
“It’s a folly.” Regulus says absently. “I assume it was added during a Victorian renovation. You know, when people got bored and rich and started building pointless shrines in their gardens?”
“Yes, lovely.” Sirius exhales, long and dramatic. “I was expecting some quaint country house with roses and a cat, not Frankenstein’s summer home. Can we go back to London now?”
“I’m going inside.” Regulus doesn’t even spare him a glance as he starts heading towards the entrance.
“Reg!” Sirius calls after him, flapping like a startled hen. “There’s probably a cult of pigeons in there!”
“Ask me if I care.” Regulus mutters, stepping up to the entrance beneath the arched pediment or what’s left of it. He reaches for the old brass handle dulled with age and pushes the door.
“Regulus! You’re going to find the entire Phantom of the Opera cast in there!” Sirius wails, still firmly planted on the gravel path like the threshold might swallow him if he stands too close.
“You do know there’s no actual ghosts in the movie, right?” Regulus shot him a look over his shoulder. “Also, I wouldn’t complain if Ramin Karimloo haunted me.”
“Who?” Sirius blinks, flapping his hands like the cold was out to get him. “Reg, seriously, this place could be a safety hazard. I mean, it sure looks like it! You don’t know if the floors will give out when you step inside!”
Regulus hesitates for a beat, letting out a sigh as his shoulders dropped. “Alright, point given. But—” He pushed the door open with a low creak. “—I’ll stick to the ground floor. I just want a proper look. See if it’s salvageable.”
Sirius moaned like a Victorian widow—which is quite fitting in Regulus’ opinion—before eventually walking in tow, muttering about how Regulus had always been the stubborn one.
It’s a little better on the inside, not quite the haunted crypt Sirius was betting on. Dust clung to everything like a second skin, and the air was humid, but it clearly hadn’t been empty for that long. It looked more like someone had stopped maintaining it.
“There’s gas and electricity.” Regulus noted, flicking a switch on the wall. The old sconce buzzed, then sputtered to life with a surprisingly warm glow.
“Yes, and creepy paintings.” Sirius added, side-eyeing a stern oil portrait of a blond man who looked like he disapproved of everything from democracy to indoor plumbing. “What are you even going to do with this place? Flog it?
“Could try,” Regulus mused, giving a tentative toe-poke to a dusty patch of parquet flooring. “But it would be hard to find a buyer.”
“Exactly,” Sirius gestured around wildly. “You know why? Because no one wants to live in British Amityville!”
Regulus gave a little shrug, eyes still moving over the faded wallpaper and grand, bit neglected, architecture. “I could try to renovate it.”
“Have you gone completely mental?” Sirius huffs. “Renovating this would cost you a soul or two! And I’m saying it now I won’t lend you my kidney! Not to say, Sir Thomas Phillip’s ghost won’t be pleased if you refurbish his room!”
Regulus ignores his dramatics, all too used by now. “It’d make a fine summer house. And I do need a bigger place for my collection.”
“Oh brilliant. The fool wants to make a glorified garage.”
He didn’t respond anything to that. They stepped into what must’ve been the drawing room once. High ceilings, battered cornices, and a chandelier above them that somehow gleamed like it had just been installed last week. Regulus stared up at it, lips parting slightly.
The room was fraying at the edges, yes, but it held its dignity. Ornate mouldings curved like frozen waves across the ceiling, and beneath the dust and decay were details too stubborn to fade. It reeked of History. He’d pay good money to have a chat with whoever was here when they built it, even the fire grate had a crest etched into it.
“The house itself is… art.” he murmured, almost to himself. “It’s giving me the chills.”
“No, I think that’s the lack of heating, mate.” Sirius scoffs, frowning at a cracked bust on the mantle. “Or tetanus, whatever suits your fancy.”
Regulus ignores him, eyes drawn to the paintings lining the walls. Oil portraits, landscapes—it reinforces his guess on the year. He’d take a closer look later.
Despite the state of it, the manor hadn’t lost its opulence. It had just gone dormant.
He veers into the kitchen, flipping the tap on out of idle curiosity, blinking a little stunned when the pipes gave a groan and actually coughed up water. “There’s water,” he says, half in awe. He sticks a hand under the stream and immediately hisses. “Bloody freezing.”
“Really?” Sirius gasps theatrically from the doorway, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t have guessed. Not like Christ was the last tenant!”
“Sirius, knock it off,” Regulus berates, scrubbing his hands dry on his jumper. “You were the one who insisted we come and check the place out. So now I’m checking it out.”
“You’re such a little shit.” Sirius mutters, miming throttling him. “Since when do you listen to me? I thought this would be some posh summer house and now I’m starting to doubt these Rosier lot were ever related to us.”
Regulus gave him a flat look and turned out of the room. They entered what might’ve once been a dining room, but the long table was gone, leaving only faint marks on the floor where its leg had been. Faded tapestry clinging bravely to one wall like it didn’t realise its time was up.
“What even is this layout?” Sirius asks, spinning leisurely in place. “There’s just… rooms. Empty rooms. No beds, no telly, not even a sad little armchair. It’s like no one actually lived here.”
“Private quarters are probably upstairs,” Regulus replies absentmindedly, fingers brushing along a bit of surviving wainscoting. “Ground floors were mostly for entertaining, you know, kitchens, parlours, receptions.” He trails off, eyes flicking upwards toward the ceiling. “I’d bet there’s more furniture upstairs. The solar’s likely on the third floor, you can usually tell by how the rooms open out—more sunlight, higher ceilings. Also I’m sure there’s a walled garden, probably beyond what used to be the servant’s wing.”
Sirius stares at him, blinking slowly. “Are you alright? Having fun playing A House through Time, aren’t you? Feeling good, David Olusoga?”
Regulus narrows his eyes. “Anyway,” He says, pointedly moving on before saying something unbrotherly. “I think I’ll restore it.”
“For what?” Sirius gripes, eyebrows furrowed in deep distress. “You will what? Waft around in a dressing gown like some warlord?”
“I like the ambience.” Regulus replies simply, glancing around. “And I have no plans on living here. But I’d keep the solar. Don’t need to see it, I know it’s beautiful.”
Sirius pretends he understands what Regulus is on about, and continues to complain about it. “So what? You feel like taking on a DIY passion project now? Write a blog about it maybe? My journey into financial ruin, cleaning up Dracula’s crypt!” He folds his arms. “And all that just to chat with your little history geek mates about your aristocratic paintings being kept in an equally aristocratic house?”
Regulus inhaled slowly through his nose, visibly choosing patience over murder. “Exhibition.” He says at last. “Private collection, public display.”
Sirius squints. “What? Like charity?”
“Not exactly,” Regulus shrugs. “But I could host some. I’ve got pieces people would travel to see. It’d be easier to convince collectors to part with pieces if they know they’ll be properly displayed.”
“Oh so you want to be a philanthropist now.”
Regulus glances around, once again opting to be the bigger person and grant Sirius another day under the sun. He tries to picture it all cleaned up, curated, full of light.
His brother, naturally, remains unconvinced. “Whatever, it’s your money,” He mutters, giving Regulus a long, searching look before adding, “I know someone.”
Regulus turns his head, distracted by a lamp near the end of the hall that keeps flickering on and off. “You what?”
“You’re going to need someone for the renovations, yeah?” Sirius reasons, gingerly stepping over a faded rug that looked like it had once been burgundy, now downgraded to an uncommitted brown.
“Sure, shouldn't be hard to find someone decent,” Regulus replies, only half-listening as he absently tapped something into his phone.
“Yeah, it won’t be, because I already found him,” Sirius repeated, more insistent now, this time Regulus hummed in vague approval. “He’s a friend from my uni days. Has worked with period properties and all that. Bloke’s got a network, you know, craftspeople, surveyors, the lot. They’ll be ready to get stuck in as soon as you start paying.”
Regulus wandered a little further down the corridor, gaze drifting to the peeling wallpaper and the faint outline of what had once been a mural, now lost to water damage and age. “How long do you think it’ll take?” He muses. “Place is massive.”
“You should ask my friend,” Sirius says, clapping his hands with finality. “He’s coming by tomorrow. Already texted him.”
Regulus stops at the end of the hall, hand resting lightly on a dusty banister. There was something odd about this corner and the old mirror that hung at a strange angle. He sees the same lamp at the end of the corridor flickering violently before going dark, he frowns. “Sconces are fried. Did you see it?”
“See what? I’m too busy trying not to get lung disease from this carpet.”
That successfully snaps Regulus out of his commotion, throwing an exasperated glare at his brother. “You’re such a crybaby.”
Sirius brushes it off, standing now by his side. “Now, since you’ve doomed yourself to pay another visit to this haunted IKEA showroom,” He starts, grabbing his arm at once. “How about we go do some real bonding, away from Scooby Doo’s next rolling set piece, yeah?”
“Fine,” He relented with a sigh. “I’ll have to stay for a few days anyway. At least until the work starts.”
“Yes! Brilliant.” Sirius tugs at his arm, beginning to steer him toward the door. “As payment for riding this haunted house gig with you, you’re singing along in the car.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Regulus informs him, slipping the keys into his coat after locking up.
Behind them, a faint hum remained in the wires and something that might’ve been a whisper threaded through the air, unnoticed.
──
There’s a sharp, piercing scream echoing up the stairwell like a banshee on acid that makes Dorcas wince and slap her hands over her ears.
“Oh, do shut it, Barty.”
“This is hell, Cop!” Barty wails dramatically, clutching his non-existent pearls. “I’ve had years of…” He makes a pause to look around. “relative peace, and now it’s all being ruined by some—some geeky little museum lad! A very pretty one, granted, but still! A geek!”
“Watch your mouth,” Evan chimes in with his usual upper-crust breeziness. “He’s family.”
“Oh, is he now?” Marlene snorts, raising an eyebrow as she saunters over. “You were bitching about him being no Rosier the second he walked through the door, as far as I remember.”
“I may have spoken hastily.” Evan says, folding his arms with a deliberate flair. “Turns out he’s quite proper. Keeps his posture. Dresses well. I’ve changed my stance.”
The ghosts all turn their attention back to Barty when he continues to rant with the despair of an alcoholic denied a pint. “You lot don’t get it!” He insists, throwing his hands up. “My peace, my afterlife is at stake— That boy is going to turn this place into some posh gallery of people who think staring at fruit bowls in frames is a day out!”
“Paintings are delightful,” Evan states with a bored look. “Not that you’d know anything about art.” He pointedly ignores Barty’s murderous glare. “Also, what peace are you mourning? You’d hardly be stuck in purgatory if you knew peace.”
Pandora hums softly from the corner, eyes distant, but it sounds vaguely like approval.
Barty spins toward Marlene for backup, throwing a desperate glance her way. She narrows her eyes. “What? Don’t look at me like that.” He gives her a pleading nod. “Fine.” She relents. “He’s right, I don’t want a bunch of weirdos wandering about. Or, like, Brits.”
A chorus of groans follows.
“You’re in England!”
“Not by choice.” Marlene argues. “You guys are real sensitive about this stuff, huh?”
“Anyway,” Dorcas clears her throat, snapping the group back to attention. “Barty’s got a point, annoying as that is. If they turn this place into a museum we’ll end up surrounded by Evan’s mates' portraits and no beds.”
That earns another round of disheartenment. See, ghosts are creatures of habit, and a nice chaise longue goes a long way for the undead, so naturally, all of them reach the same conclusion: Regulus must not stay.
“So…” Dorcas prompts, looking around. “Any plans? Cause that little haunting stunt?” She points at Marlene. “Didn’t even get a flinch”
“It was a shitty light!” Marlene protests. “And it fizzled! At least I did something.” She continues, jabbing a finger at Barty. “You barely wobbled that mirror and Pandora couldn’t get a single whisper out before they scarpered.”
“Hang him.” Pandora suggests with a smile.
Evan points at her with mild enthusiasm. “Yes. Classic method, very effective.”
Barty blinks. “Yeah… that’s not a thing anymore.”
“Pity,” Pandora sighs. “Burn him, then.”
Marlene scoffs. “Great ideas from mad-hatter over there.”
“Who?” Pandora tilts her head. “Is that another one of your poets?”
“Never mind,” Barty says quickly, waving a hand. Pandora nods, settling back into her usual low hum. “Focus!” He snaps. “We need a plan, a proper one. Because he’s not staying, he’s renovating. He’ll gut the place and fill it with track lighting!”
“I’m alright with a bit of maintenance, few changes even.” Evan admits, brushing a ghostly speck of dust off his shoulder. “Provided we keep the library and no one touches my bath”
Barty spins on him, eyes absurdly wide. “He will gut the bath and replace it with a gift shop.”
There’s a beat.
Evan turns slowly. “Let’s kill the boy.”
──
“You’re going to like him, everyone does.” Sirius says for the ninth time that hour.
Here’s the thing, when his brother mentioned knowing someone in the field, Regulus had pictured a statto of sorts. Since then, a few more details had trickled in—none of which helped dismantle his theory. He’s not judgemental, obviously, but every engineer he’s ever met looks like they crawl out of a server room twice a year to hiss at sunlight. So no, he’s not exactly buzzing. But he lets Sirius ramble. Sort of.
“I assume he’s nice, if he puts up with you on the daily.”
“I’ll ignore that.” Sirius informs him. “But I’m not baffling, he’s a top lad. Love him to bits.”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “Yes, I got that the first time.”
Sirius launches into another gushing monologue that’s starting to sound suspiciously like a love confession, and Regulus tunes him out in favour of surveying the front of the manor again.
They’d arrived just after nine. Sirius’ mystery man was due any minute now, until then, Regulus was stuck with his brother, so he might as well get some thoughts in order renovation-wise.
“I sort of like the ivy.” He muses aloud, successfully derailing Sirius mid-rant. “I’m keeping some of it. Adds to the ambience.”
“Ambience of what? Abandonment?” Sirius sounds personally wounded. “Come off it, Reg. Chop that stuff off or you’ll have spiders crawling up your walls and then up your arse.”
“We’re not in Australia,” Regulus gives him a look. “And with this garden? Oh, I’ve got spiders, alright.”
Sirius looks at him horrified. “Why do you sound okay with that?”
“I’m not scared of anything I can stomp on and that carries no venom.” He says simply.
“Remus says the same rubbish. Christ. You two are mental.”
Regulus lets that one go. He knows that pointing out that Sirius is a raging wimp will only get him an exhaustive list of the brave things his brother has done, none of which, conveniently, feature a spider.
Naturally, Sirius doesn’t get the memo that the banter’s over, so he keeps threading at it. “Well, you know, Prongs’ll agree with me. Just wait.”
“Yes, your friend who should’ve shown up thirty minutes ago, what a reliable source.”
Sirius purses his lips, defeated, but still refusing to give in. “He probably got caught up at work.” Regulus blinks at him, unamused. “What? He’s a busy man! Hard to pin down, some weeks.”
“Mm.”
“No, really, you’re lucky you’ve got him for this. He’s brilliant.”
Regulus doesn’t answer. He’s already gone back to fine-tuning the theory he’s been sculpting since breakfast. He’s drafted the first three lines of their conversation. He envisions a lanky. gawky bloke with glasses, zero fashion sense—wardrobe strictly limited to flannel and skinny jeans.
Sirius is still in the middle of his love avowal, listing off every project this Prongs person has worked on across London. Regulus is sure they’re perfectly nice, but also has no intention of visiting any of them. He nods absently, sips his coffee, and tries to will the remnants of sleep out of his bones.
Another ten minutes crawl by before a car pulls into the drive, and Regulus exhales in quiet relief at the prospect of finally getting this day started, and also being spared another fifteen minutes of Sirius’ waxing poetic. He loves his brother, truly, but there are limits to how much nonsense he can bear with before noon.
The breath he lets out is promptly sucked back in when the man steps out of the car, and every assumption he had been clinging to crumbles like a badly built house of cards.
Now, make no mistake, Regulus Black is a composed individual. Master of his body, commander of his thoughts. The only thing he can’t quite keep a leash on are his eyes, annoying little things with no shame or subtlety. They go rogue the second anything remotely appealing enters their field of view. A perk for art, a nuisance for dignity.
They—because he is not owning up to this personally—do a full, rapid sweep. He’s not checking him out, he’s assessing. Big difference.
From the top, he spots curls, Messy, but in a way he doesn’t disagree with, a little carefree, a little intentional, plenty flattering. They fit his face, which, by the way, nearly sends him on a jog around the estate. Then his eyes trail further down and—In short, he’s hot. And if history has proven anything, it’s that Regulus Black does not do well around hot people.
“Hey Pads, sorry I’m late, meeting ran long.”
Regulus watches Sirius cross the drive to hug him, but their voices might as well be underwater until he blinks and suddenly, somehow, he’s standing directly in front of the man, shaking his hand.
“Uh, Regulus.” He manages, voice more even than he feels, and he’ll take it as a win.
The man chuckles, and Regulus is half tempted to call this whole thing off. “Yeah, Sirius caught me up. Pleasure, though. I’m James.”
Up close, his voice is smooth like honey, and he looks even better. Which just feels excessive, frankly.
Regulus spends fifteen agonising minutes walking him through the basic renovations plans, making a herculean effort not to look at him directly. He talks about the few things he’s gathered: the architecture, the historical elements he wants to preserve, the whole art display idea, feeling like some pretentious, snobbish, pompous arsehole saying it out loud.
“Oh, that’s lovely. Great idea.” James murmurs, eyes sweeping over the facade. Sirius is off somewhere round the back now, mid-call with Remus, Regulus notes. “You should start with the exterior,” James adds. “The garden, driveway, gate. Oh, and the ivy.”
“Hm?”
“I recommend starting there. Take it all down.”
Regulus glances to make sure Sirius is out of earshot before answering, “I was thinking the same thing.”
──
“We’re so fucked.” Marlene says with a disheartened sigh as she stares at the back of their heads.
“You don’t say.” Dorcas mutters besides her, arms folded. She looks at Regulus with mild disappointment. “I thought he was better than this.”
“May I ask,” Evan horns in, stepping forward with his usual air of mild confusion. “What precisely are we moping about?”
“Your great-grand-whatever,” Dorcas says, gesturing at Regulus. “just lost all his backbone. I could see the logic leave his body the moment that lad stepped out of the—” she makes a vague twirling motion toward the front drive. “the… machine.”
“A car.” Marlene aids. “It’s a car.”
Dorcas turns, affronted. “That’s not a car.” She scoffs. “I’ve seen cars and that’s not one. That looks like something built for war. I swear I saw it growl.”
Evan peers out, curious. “It is quite beastly.”
“What’s a car?” A voice mumbles from behind them, dreadfully close. All three flinch.
“Jesus Christ!” Marlene shrieks, jumping a full foot. “Would it kill you again to announce yourself for once, Eliza Doolittle?”
Barty’s cackle echoes from the doorway.
Pandora merely blinks at them. “Sorry.”
“Anyway,” Marlene huffs, running a hand through her hair. “What are we going to do? Because if Mister Dimples over there suggests turning this place into a Tesco Express, our boy will nod and fetch him the permits.”
“Mister Dimples?” Dorcas lifts a brow.
“Well, I may have conducted a brief… visual assessment on the newcomer,” Marlene sniffs. “For the good of the mission. You’re a cop, you know what I mean.”
“That’s besides the point.” Dorcas waves her off. “We need a plan. He’s clearly vulnerable to tall men.”
“We did agree to kill him, didn’t we?” Evan interjects thoughtfully. “A dead man can’t carry on with his renovations. I would know.”
Barty finally strides into view, nodding as if Evan’s suggestion was the most reasonable thing anyone’s said all century. “I wouldn’t mind if he stayed as a ghost, actually.” He says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Nice view.”
Evan swats him sharply on the wrist. “You shan’t talk about men like that.”
Barty sides eyes him, frowning. “Now what on earth are you on about?”
“Homophobia.” Marlene declares tiredly. “You know, older times.”
“No, I got that.” Barty says, rolling his eyes. “I meant him—” He flails an arm around Evan. “Makes no sense.”
“Can we focus, please?” Dorcas berates, exasperated. “The boy! Regulus. He’s… He’s gone soft.”
Marlene nods. “We’ll be living in IKEA by October.”
A long, beleaguered silence follows. The ghosts collectively glance around, watching Regulus studiously not look at James.
Then, “I have an idea.” Pandora says, smiling
They all turn.
“Oh no.” Barty breathes, grinning.
──
“It’s a very nice layout.” James declares after Regulus finishes the brisk tour of the main floor. Sirius, meanwhile, is eyeing the portraits like they might lunge at him.
“Is it?” Sirius mumbles, squinting down the hall.
Regulus, who’d rather die than miss a chance to jab at his brother, arches a brow, “Didn’t you say he’d agree with you?”
Sirius sticks his tongue out in response. “We have our disagreements.”
“He’s a professional, though.”
“Not a reliable source, you said.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“So have I!”
James laughs softly, looking between them with mild amusement. “Lovely dynamic, you two. Can we go upstairs?”
Sirius tilts his head back to study the upper landing, eyeing the aged wood with suspicion. “That looks like it’ll collapse if a feather steps on it.”
Regulus rolls his eyes with vigour. “You can wait outside if you’re scared.”
Sirius gasps like he’s been insulted, mouth agape. “Are you calling me a wimp?”
“A raging wimp.” Regulus confirms without missing a beat, smiling in quiet triumph when Sirius turns with great purpose and marches toward the stairs to prove a point.
James chuckles beside him—low, warm—and Regulus nearly flinches, struck by the sudden realisation that they’re alone. Dangerous territory.
“Are you—”
“Let’s go upstairs.” Regulus blurts, already halfway to the first creaking step before he can do something truly undignified. Like flirt.
The staircase groans under their weight but holds firm. The dark-stained oak is worn from centuries of use The bannister, though still elegant, could use some tightening. Regulus voices this, and James nods in agreement.
The second floor is mostly bedrooms, modest in size but with high ceilings. The wallpaper is a mix of faded damask and hand-painted panels. There’s a faint mustiness clinging to everything, like lavender sachets left too long in a drawer. Each room has a fireplace, and most of the ceilings bear delicate plaster mouldings, some of which have begun to crumble.
The exception is the library, tucked behind an arched oak door that Sirius immediately regrets opening.
“Oh no,” He sighs as Regulus slips inside like it’s a portal to Narnia. “I’m not doing this. We’ll be here until next week.”
“I’m just looking.” Regulus lies, already scanning the titles on the nearest shelf. They’re leather-bound, some with cracked spines, many of them in French.
James, leaning against the doorframe, watches with a subtle smile. “He does this a lot, I assume.”
“Mate, he once reorganised my entire bookshelf by literary movements.” Sirius says like it was a personal violation.
Regulus lifts his middle finger without turning. Still browsing.
It takes a full-body effort from Sirius to peel him away. Regulus was already making plans to spend the rest of his day on the reading nook near the window, and he has to accept defeat, not without casting one final longing glance at a particularly handsome copy of Les misérables that’s probably as old as heating. .
The third level is more lavish in its layout. There’s a wide solar and a sprawling master suite, draped in faded wall tapestries and flanked by tall windows dressed in velvet so thick it looks theatrical. The bathroom is all marble and brass—overkill, but quite amusing.
To Regulus’ surprise, there’s even an attic, accessible by a narrow stair that he can’t take a full step towards before Sirius plants himself in front of him like a human barricade.
“Absolutely not.” Sirius says, catching yet another exasperated glare. “What if there’s bats? Or asbestos? Christ, for all we know there’s a body up there!”
James shrugs. “It’s probably just storage.” He reasons.
Regulus, for once, lets himself be swayed.
All in all, it takes just over an hour to walk through the house and make a working list. Regulus mutters notes aloud as they go: fireplaces that need clearing, cornices crying out for restoration, flooring he’d like to preserve. He’s already forming mood-boards in his head for each wing.
He’s dead set on keeping a lot of the manor’s original fixtures. Oil portraits in the dining hall, the paintings lining the corridor, a few porcelain oddities that are either deeply cursed or wildly expensive.
“I’m having them appraised,” he says, mostly to himself. “Some might be listed. I’ll store whatever can’t be displayed.”
James hums, tapping something into his phone. And now that Regulus thinks about it, he realises James hasn’t interrupted once, just asked the right questions. Layout, lighting, fire safety, visitor flow. He’s professional. Helpful. Easy.
How the hell did Sirius manage to befriend him?
“I think that’s the lot.” James states as they step out of what can only be assumed was an office, badly kept and clearly used as a dumping ground for the last few decades.
“Yeah, there’s the garden too, though.” Regulus adds, peering out of the window. From here, it looks wild and vaguely haunted. “Do you know a gardener, perhaps? ‘Cause it’s in a bit of a state.”
James hums in thought. “Well, you’d need more than a gardener for that, but yeah, I know someone.”
Sirius perks up. “Oh, Pete?”
“Yep.”
“Course, Wormy’s brilliant with that sort of thing, how did I not think of him?” Sirius muses, like he’s just cracked some sort of code.
“I know, right? Got him on a project last month and he was ace. Hope he’s free this time round. I’ll pull the best mate card if I have to.”
“You might have to,” Sirius replies, lips pursed. “Some woman is trying to book him for a job out in the countryside. We should get a move on.”
Regulus, who has absolutely no idea who this Pete bloke is or why he's called Wormy, quietly slips away to look around the solar. The room is beautiful, spacious, with a well-kept table in the centre and bookshelves lining the walls. The windows are tall and wide, their carved wooden frames still bearing what he assumes is the Rosier family crest.
He moves closer to one of the windows, brushing his fingers over the carving. That’s when he hears it—a creak, sharp and sudden—and his head whips around. Probably a pigeon, he reasons. Or a stray cat that’s managed to sneak in.
But then he spots it. A small door, half-tucked into the corner of the room. They hadn’t noticed it earlier.
Another study? A storage closet?
He opens it, and finds stairs. Not unheard of, of course. Old houses like this often had secondary staircases for servants and the like. Perfectly normal. Still, he hesitates before stepping forward.
It happens too fast to track. He doesn’t register the stumble, doesn’t even see what he tripped on, but he does hear Sirius shouting his name.
The next thing he’s aware of is the vicious pounding in his head, quite debilitating, he starts to feel the lights going out.
Lastly, he sees three figures standing in the doorway, blurry and backlit.
Then nothing.
──
“Who killed the boy!” Evan cries, arms flailing wildly as he spins in panic.
“He’s not dead.” Barty blurts, stumbling over his words like they might trip him too. “I didn’t— He’s not dead— I mean— We haven’t seen his— We just heard a thud, yes? Bit… final, sure, sounded very final, yes— But—”
“Oh, just own up to something, Bartemius.” Marlene sighs, giving his shoulder a pat. “Be proud! He might not be dead, but he’s definitely not getting up in a hurry.”
Evan collapses into the nearest chair with a haunted look. “Heaven’s gates have slammed shut on us. We’re murderers. Cursed. All of us.”
Pandora surveys the room, then shrugs. “Barty didn’t ask any of us for help.”
Dorcas nods sagely, pointing at her as she adds, “Exactly. If anything, he is the only one not getting sucked off.”
A beat of silence. Marlene snorts, Barty chokes. The two of them lock eyes, teetering on the edge of laughter.
“Oh, he’s not getting sucked off anytime soon, alright.” Marlene wheezes, wiping her eye.
Barty huffs and throws her a look before turning to the window, just in time to catch sight of Regulus’ limp body being loaded into the back of an ambulance. “He’ll be alright,” he says, trying to persuade himself. “Why wouldn’t he be?”
Evan blinks at him, caught between disbelief and indignation. Then he rises, exasperated, and sweeps out of the room through the wall. “This,” he declares over his shoulder, “This is what death is. Murder and nonsense, and no bloody tea”