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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”

Chapter Text

Regulus Black has now added "nearly dying in your own manor” to his already impressive list of unfortunate events.

And honestly, waking up in a hospital wasn’t even the worst part. No, the honour goes to Sirius, who greeted his return to consciousness with an “I told you so,” before he could even blink properly.

Naturally, Sirius followed that up with a full blown speech on how worried he’d been and how he’d terrorised every poor doctor in the place by refusing to budge from Regulus’ side. He looked quite proud, in fact, admitting he’d nearly bitten someone.

The concussed, half-conscious, bed-bound Regulus teared up.

Once the fog of panic starts to lift—first from being told he’d been in a coma (which is, frankly, horrific and not something he’s thrilled to have survived), then from being emotionally steamrolled by his overly dramatic brother, and finally from being poked at by far too many strangers in latex gloves—the embarrassment beings to creep in, and it’s a nasty, full body wave of it.

He groans.

He fell from the stairs like a complete idiot and then spent a week in a coma. He is never living this down. His mother had always said he was delicate. She was right. He is a weak man. He has to make absolutely sure no one ever hears about this.

Turning his head gingerly, he eyes Sirius, who’s balancing a takeaway coffee cup on one knee and scrolling through his phone. “Who’ve you told?” Regulus rasps.

Sirius glances up at him, one brow arched “Really? That your first thought?” Regulus presses his lips together, caught. “Not even a word about the blinding headache?”

“It is quite terrible.” He mutters, gaze dropping to his hands.

“Course it is! You’ve got a concussion!” Sirius chastises. “Worry whether you can still read, not if people know you went arse over tit down a flight of stairs.”

“I can read.” It comes out far too defensively, which only makes Sirius snort and reach over to pluck a paperback from the side table. “That doesn’t mean I want to.” He grumbles, snatching it from him with a sulk.

Of course James knows, he was there. He witnessed the entire humiliating ordeal, the undignified tumble that not only flattened his dignity, but also the hopes of not looking like a fool in front of him.

He shouldn’t be too worried about it, he doesn’t know him, and probably won't see him again. They’d only spoken briefly about the renovations and the light fixtures in the east corridor. That was it. Well, that and the awkward handshake they had, which Regulus decides not to dwell on.

It’s a sign, surely. A divine message. The universe didn’t just chuck him down the stairs, no, it timed it. Made sure James, the fit bloke he’d barely known for two hours, was in the room. Just to really hammer the point home and well, message received, loud and clear.

He’s deep in the middle of his ignominy when Sirius’ voice cuts through. “ —Been looking for buyers, but it’s not looking great.”

Regulus frowns, pulled back to the conversation. “Buyers? For what?”

Sirius gives him a look like he’s just asked why people breathe before spitting, “How hard did you hit your head?” prompting Regulus to roll his eyes just as he continues, “That crumbling old deathtrap is getting flung to the highest bidder, alright?”

Regulus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Sirius. I’m not selling it.”

“It almost killed you!”

The embarrassment that comes with saying, “It didn’t do a thing. I tripped,” is quite vicious.

“Bloody hell.” Sirius gets to his feet, pacing like he’s trying to shake the frustration out of his limbs without injuring him further. “You’re unbelievable. I’ve spent days worrying, and now you’re sat there acting like it’s no big deal! Regulus, help me out here. What’s it going to take? Is nearly dying not enough?”

Regulus frowns, because Christ, that is a perfect impression of their mother. “Sirius, it’s fine. It won’t happen again.”

“You don’t know that!” Sirius snaps. “What, do you think I’m just going to let you waltz back into that structural hazard after this?”

Regulus suddenly feels like a ten year old about to be grounded, so he acts accordingly. “You can’t stop me!”

“Like hell I can’t!”

“I’m an adult!”

“I’m adulter!”

Regulus stops mid-retort, blinking. “... You didn’t just say that.”

“That’s not the point!” Sirius barks, looking somewhere on the edge of insanity and Regulus wonders if his brother had an easier time dealing with him unconscious. “You’re not going back, and that’s final!”

He is just about to dig in, prepared to drag this argument into another hour when the door opens, and in walks the very last person he wants to see right now.

James Potter.

It takes the man a second to realise he’s walked straight into the middle of a sibling squabble. “Sorry, bad timing?” James grimaces, already half-stepping back out in a tactical retreat.

“No, you’re on cue, really.” Sirius, still channeling the spirit of an overbearing mother, says. He doesn’t miss a beat before rounding on him. “Prongs, would you please tell Regulus here that he is not allowed to go back to that bloody manor?”

Regulus braces for impact.

He knows two unshakable truths about James Potter.

One, he’s absurdly fit, unreasonably so, the kind of fit that’s clearly unfair to the rest of his peers. Even hospital lighting agrees with him, he looks like a healing angel under it. Two, according to Sirius, he’s the sort of bloke who backs his mates without blinking.

So yes, Regulus figures he’s about to lose this argument twice, once to logic, and then again because it’s nearly impossible to maintain eye contact with someone that attractive while also defending his right to return to the very house that nearly sent him to his early grave.

But against all odds, “Why not?”

Regulus blinks.

Sirius gasps like James just kicked him in the gut. “James Potter! What do you mean why? He almost died!”

“It was just a fall,” James shrugs. “Happens all the time.”

Regulus practically beams. If he weren’t tethered to a heart monitor, he might’ve attempted a small victory lap, just out of the sheer joy that watching his brother tweak pumps. “See? The professional agrees with me.”

Sirius swings back around, glowering. “If you don’t shut it, I’m going to send you back to sleep.”

Regulus tilts his head back, properly scandalised by the violence. “Christ, have some respect for the convalescing.”

Behind them, James chuckles, and it’s so disarming that Regulus is fairly certain he could fling himself down another staircase to hear it again.

“Don’t laugh, you arse!” Sirius groans. “Stop encouraging him, Potter, he’ll throw himself down the stairs again to prove a point.”

“I will do no such thing.” Regulus scoffs, clutching his blanket now that he’s given it some thought. “Not worth the migraine, thanks.”

Sirius, likely for the sake of his own blood pressure, turns his attention to James. “I can’t do this. He was out like a light for a week!”

“Pads, calm down.” James sighs, hands landing on Sirius’ shoulders. “It’s not like he’ll be on his own, is it? There’ll be construction guys around, few cleaners—”

“That’s it!” Sirius lights up, “He won’t be alone.”

Regulus exhales, letting his head drop back against the pillows. “Yes, finally. Thank you.”

“He won’t be alone,” Sirius repeats, beaming now. “Because you will be staying with him the whole time.”

Regulus bolts upright again, horrified. “No.”

James, remarkably unfazed—or maybe not catching up onto what he’s signing up for—shrugs. “That’s fine. Sure.”

“No!” Regulus blurts, more forcefully this time. “What is he? A babysitter?”

Sirius replies, “A brothersitter” like it’s an actual thing. “That’s the only way you’re ever setting foot back in that place, with James hawking over you.”

“I wouldn’t call it hawking—”

“Really, Sirius?” Regulus scoffs. “You’re honestly going to turn your best mate into some glorified guard dog? Do it yourself!”

James frowns. “It’s not technically—”

“I would,” Sirius stresses out, rubbing his temple. “But I can’t! I’m heading out the country with Remus for a few days, it’s been planned for weeks!”

Regulus takes a deep, steadying breath, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Sirius shrugs, unmoved “No James, no manor.”

“If he isn’t alright—”

“You’re insufferable, Sirius.” Regulus swallows, bitter and defeated.

“Guys—”

Sirius folds his arms. “Well?”

Regulus sighs, accepting his sentence. “Fine.”

Regulus was discharged and unceremoniously relocated to Sirius’ flat. Apparently, his brother had sacked the Airbnb he’d been staying in and shifted all his things while he was still unconscious. He thought it was touching for about half a second before promptly blaming the soft feelings on the concussion.

It took precisely five days and another round of scolding before he was cleared to return to Surrey Hills. Until then, he was confined to Sirius’ flat and judging by his brother’s behaviour, something resembling PTSD had developed, considering he flinched every time Regulus so much as looked at a staircase. And, on a different note, a small part of him was glad Sirius isn’t letting him wander off too soon, he wasn’t sure he could’ve tackled this on his own.

“Oh, you’re finally up.” Sirius says, catching sight of him leaning against the doorway, looking somewhere between barely awake and mildly undead. “Feeling alright for breakfast?”

“Not really.” Regulus mutters, trudging into the kitchen with the vague coordination of a toddler. Mornings had become a special sort of punishment, every day began with his head pounding and the room insisting on swaying when he stood. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and held it up in silence. “Can you grab my pills?”

“Course,” Sirius replies, already reaching for the blister pack on the counter. He hands it over and, with a frown, presses the back of his hand to Regulus’ forehead. “You sure you’re up to it today? Could give it one more day, yeah? No harm in resting.”

Regulus sighs and downs the pills in one go, chasing them with half the glass. “I’m grand,” he states, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I have to stare at the same four walls for another day, I’m going to start naming them.”

Sirius still looks unsure, narrowing his eyes. “You know James is already there, yeah? Cleaning’s already started. You don’t have to go.”

Regulus tries not to react, but something flutters uncomfortably in his stomach at the mention of James. He takes a breath, then another, until it passes.

Now, he isn’t particularly fond of wallowing, though he does it often enough, he likes it even less while concussed, but he can’t help but marvel at how Sirius managed to find people like this. People who look out for him, who show up at the first call to clean dusty old manors and then stay at a hospital when his idiot little brother winds up in a coma without a protest.

He’s happy for his brother, of course. Sirius deserves that kind of loyalty. But it stings, just a little, knowing the only text Regulus received during his weeklong coma was from a classmate asking if he’d sorted out his schedule for next term.

It is fair to say that Regulus’ friend list is rather dead, or something close to it.

“I want to,” he says, forcing the self-pity back down where it belongs. “Look, I’ll just meet the crew, say hi, see what they’ve mucked up already. Then we head back to London. You pack, I get some fresh air, everyone wins.”

Sirius stares him down for a full minute before sighing, long, reluctant and deeply bearish. “Fine.” A beat passes before he adds, “I already asked James to go with you to your check-up, by the way.”

That makes Regulus groan and drag a hand down his face, “Sirius.”

“What?” He huffs, defensively. “I can’t go, and he knows your doctor.”

“He does?”

Sirius hums, nodding. “He was with me most of the time at the hospital.”

Those words crush what remained of Regulus’ dignity. Not only had James witnessed his spectacular collapse, no, he’d also seen him hooked up to a hospital drip, probably snoring or drooling or, God forbid, wearing those flimsy robes. The universe, clearly, was done with subtlety and decided to take a more direct approach to make sure he stays in his lane.

“He was?”

“Course he was. Offered to get me food, stay with you when I had to go talk to the doctors or whatever.” Sirius shrugs as if that isn’t the worst news Regulus had heard in his life. “Don’t look so stunned, he’s like that. Worries about everyone, poor sod.”

“He had known me all of two hours. He was worried you’d work yourself into a frenzy, not about me.”

Sirius pauses, then concedes with a nod. “You know what, fair.”

Regulus doesn’t reply, he just turns on his heel and heads toward the bathroom. He rubs at his eyes as he walks, he’s never had trouble with them before, but the lingering blurriness is a proper nuisance.

Halfway down the hall, he freezes.

A figure, blurry, indistinct, moves quickly and then it’s gone. Not like it had vanished, no. It went through the wall.

He blinks once. Then again. And then lets out a low, pitiful sound. Somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

He was warned, to be fair, about the side effects. Delusions. Hallucinations. All part and parcel of smacking your head on ancient floorboards. Still, he had hoped to steer clear of them. He’d had a strange dream, sure, something about a woman in one of the halls, but he hadn’t thought much of it.

Now, though, he’s starting to worry it wasn’t a dream. Because he’s sure he just saw that same woman. Wide awake. Up like the sun.

He walks into the bathroom and very deliberately fools himself into pretending none of it happened. A trick of the light, he’ll call it.

The drive to the countryside is slow, but not slow enough for Regulus’ stomach.

He keeps his eyes glued to the car floor, willing it to stop the motion sickness. It doesn’t. Honestly, by the time they pull into the drive, he still feels like he’s about to hurl up the three pills he had for breakfast.

“Give me a second,” he mutters, eyes screwed shut, one hand gripping the door handle like a lifeline.

Sirius eyes him, concern creeping into his voice. “Is it your head?”

“No, Sirius, it’s you.” He snaps, “You drive like you’ve got a spare life tucked in the glovebox. Took every pothole from here to Kent.”

Sirius pulls a face, well aware he deserves it. “Oh, come off it. My driving’s grand.”

“A grand misfortune is what it is.”

“Would it kill you to be nice to me?”

“I’ve a theory, yes.”

“I should’ve left you to rot on those stairs—”

Before Regulus can deliver something suitably cutting in return, someone appears at the driver’s side window. Bright-eyed, windswept and wearing far too much cheer for the hour

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” James chirps, leaning in through the open window, grinning in a construction helmet he somehow manages to pull off. He’s met with two identical glares. “Terrible day,” He amends quickly, straightening up. “Absolutely dreadful.” A cough. “Sorry.”

Regulus says nothing. Mostly because his brain has stopped working. James is wearing a fitted T-shirt, a tool belt and a grin bright enough to give the sun a run for its money. He groans, brushes past both of them, and trudges toward the front door. He is done. As if this whole situation wasn’t already teetering on the edge of farce, he now has to contend with James attached at the hip and somehow not make a tit of himself. Historically… unlikely.

It’s not that James being fit is the issue, no, that part’s fine, encouraged even, Lord knows it’s been a while since anyone’s caught his attention like this. He could do something about it, flirt a bit, test the waters, maybe even get him into bed. But, alas, there’s the elephant.

James is Sirius’ best mate.

If it goes south, Regulus won’t just be living with the mortifying sting of rejection. Oh no, he’ll be hearing about it for years. Every time Sirius opens his mouth. And Sirius always opens his mouth.

He can already hear it: “Remember when you tried to cop off with my best mate?” Followed by that smirk. And a reminder of the following rejection. The worst part would be the smirk, though.

And if, by some miracle, it did go well?

No. Absolutely not. He smacks himself mentally. He’s not going there. He’s been skirting that thought since he agreed to Sirius’ mad little scheme. Yes, spending time with James could lead somewhere. He’s aware. He’s also aware that he’s supposed to be back in France in a month, with lectures and deadlines waiting for him. Not to mention Sirius again, that alone is enough to slam the brakes on any daydreaming.

Worst of all? James has already seen him at rock bottom. Comatose, drooling, in one of those paper-thin gowns. The universe is practically drawing diagrams at this point. Stay. In. Your. Lane.

Honestly, Regulus isn’t sure what’s worse: the fall, the ghost he might’ve seen, or the fact that James Potter, of all of England, is now his assigned babysitter.

And it’s only ten in the morning.

He veers toward the kitchen in search of caffeine and a reason not to scream, halfway there a construction worker passes him in the corridor. Regulus pauses, frowns and points at the man’s head.

“Get a hat,” he says flatly. “Falls are vicious round here.”

And off he goes.

Barty barrels up to the library at a pace he ought to be proud of, nearly slipping through a side table in his hurry to announce, “He saw me!”

“Who?” Dorcas asks, not turning from the window where she's been watching a magpie peck at something shiny on the gravel below.

“Regulus!” He shrieks, breathless and wild-eyed. “He looked at me and told me to get a hat!”

“That can’t be right,” Evan drawls, lifting his gaze from a worn book he’s been pretending to read for the last decade. He gives Barty a dismissive wave. “There must've been someone behind you.

“There wasn’t!” Barty insists, voice jumping an octave. “He thought I was a— A worker or something! He spoke to me!”

Marlene rolls her eyes, arms folded across her scuffed football jersey. “He can’t see us, dickhead.”

“He did! He talked to me!” Barty presses both hands to his temples like he’s one bad moment away from dying again. “Oh my god. Has this ever happened before?”

Dorcas opens her mouth to answer, but Pandora cuts in first with a soft hum. “Yes,” she says airily. “A few days after I died, a little girl looked right at me. Stared for a good while before she ran off screaming.” She gives a light shrug. “It was rather sweet in its way.”

Barty claps his hands together, triumphant. “See! It’s happened! He can see us!”

“Let me test that,” Evan huffs, rising with the distinct air of a man who’s been inconvenienced. He adjusts his cuffs out of habit and glides straight through the wall.

Marlene watches him go, unimpressed. “Whatever keeps you boys entertained, I guess.”

Regulus is not having what anyone would call a good morning.

First of all, there’s no coffee. Not even a pitiful tin of instant. Just an old kettle squatting on the hob like it’s harbouring at least three waterborne plagues. He pokes at it with the end of a wooden spoon, squints inside, then recoils with a soft noise of horror, and wisely decides tea’s off the menu as well.

Giving up on the kitchen entirely, he sets off to find Sirius, who is nowhere to be found as usual. The manor is far too big for how unfinished and echoey it is, and Regulus, still nursing a mild headache with an existential crisis, is not navigating it with any grace.

Before his charming tumble down the staircase, he might’ve remembered the layout. Roughly. Now, though, the halls blur together like a half-remembered dream. Or a maze designed to punish the indisposed. He winds up on the second floor without knowing how he got there, drifting past a few workers, some nod at him, some ignore him entirely. He nods back, trying not to look as lost as he feels.

Then he takes a left—a wrong left, he knows it immediately—and ends up in the corridor that leads to the library.

And halts.

Now. This is not good.

At the far end of the hallway, there’s… something tall. Pale. Perfectly Still.

It should be nothing. Another crew member, a mannequin, anything. Then he spares another look and realises it is wearing a waistcoat. Stockings. Breeches.

That, Regulus thinks, is an issue.

He blinks once, slowly. Then closes his eyes and counts to ten like one does when faced with vivid hallucinations on a Tuesday morning.

When he opens them again, the man is still there. Only now, he’s staring back at him, equally startled. Regulus swallows, a cold sweat’s starting to creep down the back of his neck.

This is, naturally, not ideal.

Regulus’ brain fumbles desperately for a rational explanation. It finds none. He looks the man up and down again, silk cravat, immaculate hair—No high-vis, no ID badge. Not a worker.

Well, that’s unfortunate.

“Right,” he says quietly. “Not real.” He glances behind him. No camera crew. No prank show. Just him. And… that. “Definitely not real,” he mutters louder, taking a cautious step back. “Nope. No. No. Thank you.”

He points vaguely over his shoulder like he’s been summoned somewhere urgent. “I’ll just—”

And then he’s off picking up speed, retreating from the corridor with as much dignity as he can muster at that pace.

By the time he reaches the stairs, he’s already convinced himself it was just a painting. A very lifelike, unusually placed painting. His brain must’ve registered it and filled in the gaps, he’ll call it stress, head injury, weird lighting—He’s got excuses lined up like soldiers.

That’s all it was.

A painting that blinked at him and stood out of the frame.

He nods firmly to himself. “Brilliant.”

He hides for about half an hour in what he vaguely remembers as a home office. Possibly. There’s a desk, at least, and some ancient cabinets and that’s enough to call it an office. He doesn’t question it, he just sits in the corner, breathing like he’s run a marathon and waiting for his brain to sort itself out.

Once he’s sure he’s not seeing anything else, specifically not a waistcoated man standing ominously, he gives himself a pat, takes a deep breath, holds the door handle and opens it.

Big mistake

Huge mistake.

Because standing right outside, perfectly poised, is the waistcoated man. And worse, he’s brought friends.

Four of them. All arranged like they’re waiting for a family portrait.

Regulus stares. They stare back.

He gapes for a full minute, frozen in place, before letting out an actual, honest scream and slamming the door shut so fast it nearly bounces off the drame, presses his back to it and clutches his head.

“Sweet mother of Jesus.” He cries out.

Let’s review.

Regulus not only managed to fall down an entire flight of stairs like a tragic lead from an indie movie, but he also wound up in a coma, gained a babysitter, and is now hallucinating the entire cast of a period drama.

He, Regulus Arcturus Black, has officially lost the plot.

Reduced from a quietly tragic child of privilege to a complete lunatic with a delirium problem. Not his best Tuesday.

And just when he thinks it can’t get worse, he dares—foolishly, naively—to open his eyes.

They’re here now, in the room, with him. All five of them. Still staring. Still very much present. One of them even cocks their head slightly, like they’re trying to work out what’s happening too.

And just as a sliver of hope braves to twitch inside him, thinking maybe they’ll disappear now and he won’t have to be institutionalised, one of them speaks.

“You can see us?”

Regulus doesn’t even blink. “No.” Because of course, that’s what all the best doctors say, isn’t it? Talk to your hallucinations. Engage and encourage the collapse of your grip on reality. Bloody hell.

“You can hear us too?” One of them says, far too cheerfully for the situation at hand.

It takes Regulus a full second to focus, his vision struggling to lock onto her face. And when it finally does, he very nearly blacks out again, because the one who spoke is a girl, blonde, young and also with rope around her neck.

That’s a no. That’s a hard no.

“No.” He’s decided that lying to his hallucinations is the new coping mechanism. “I cannot.”

“The kid can see us!” The man in the waistcoat exclaims with delight—the portrait, he mentally corrects, because he’s lost all his marbles and now thinks oil paintings have dialogue.

Regulus decides this is quite enough and bolts.

Eyes shut, hands out to keep himself from bumping into his own breakdown, he stumbles down the corridor, muttering under his breath. He’s gone perfectly mental. “Not real, not real. Nope. No. No.”

He has no idea how long he wanders, might’ve been two minutes or twenty. The halls are echoing and endless and every few steps he hears someone call his name, which is not helpful nor comforting. If anything, it just reminds him he should be in a padded room.

And then, horror of horrors, he hears footsteps. Their footsteps. They’re following him.

Regulus is painfully aware of it. He can hear their voices overlapping, questions piling on top of each other. “What do we do?” “Oi! Stop legging it!” “Who won the ‘98 WorldCup?”

He picks up pace. He doesn’t run exactly, it’s more of a power-walk, but the message is clear: he’s not stopping, he’s not talking, and if they catch him he will throw himself out a window.

“Regulus! Hey! I lost you there.” He hears, of course he does, but he’s also hearing five other voices, so forgive him for not parsing reality on the first try and keep walking right past him. “Hey— What is—”

His brain finally catches up and he realises he knows that voice, that’s not one of them. He halts on the spot, eyes squeezed shut again. Then one eye peeks open, cautiously.

James.

Standing right in front of him, looking slightly concerned and plenty confused, high-vis catching the morning light like some kind of fluorescent angel.

Regulus could kiss him. He won’t. But he could.

He exhales, sharp and shaky, relief loosening something in his spine. “Where is— Where’s Sirius?” He asks, voice cracking. Because Sirius will know what to do. That’s his job. This entire mess is, by all rights, Sirius’ problem.

“He left.” James says, a bit sheepishly. “His flight got moved up, had to leave in a hurry.” He’s still talking, completely unaware that Regulus is five seconds from fainting out of sheer helplessness. “Told me to tell you, but I couldn’t find you—been looking for over an hour, actually…”

James is definitely still staying something, something probably kind and helpful, but Regulus misses all of it, because in the next moment, a blonde girl—not the same as the one that talked—sticks her head through James’ torso.

Regulus screams. Loudly.

James flinches, blinking in alarm. “I—I mean, yeah, early flights are scary. Are you alright?”

“No!” Regulus cries, eyes shut as he smacks the side of his own head, trying to reset it. “God, no!”

A flash of something akin to lucidity passes over him, long enough to realise two devastating truths. One, he’s fully cracked. Bonkers. Barmy. Possibly cursed. Two, he’s become a madman in front of the hottest man he’s ever met. Double homicide. Possibly a triple if that blonde girl pops her head back through anyone.

For one wild second, he considers sprinting out of the manor entirely and into the woods, living off moss and shame for the rest of his life. But instead, he just stands there, frozen. Dignity, he decides. He’ll go down with some dignity.

He opens his mouth. Nothing.

Closes it.

Opens it again. “I’m—” He manages, forcing a brittle laugh. “It’s… the concussion, you know? Side effects, I’m having side effects.”

James’ brows knit. “Another headache?”

“No.”

“You’re dizzy?”

“No.”

“Erm…”

Regulus sighs heavily and stares very intently at the floor, where nothing is currently floating or phasing through anyone. A small mercy. “Things,” he mutters, voice flat with despair. “I’m seeing… things.”

“So… delusions?” James says carefully, voice calm and oddly non-judgemental. It’s not what Regulus expected, frankly. He expected alarm. Possibly a net.

“Yes,” He says, eyes shutting tight again. “It’s… a bit funny.” He chuckles, awkward and a little high-pitched. “I keep seeing like— Some girl with a noose and a Victorian man—”

“Wrong ruler.” The man interrupts with a sniff, arms crossed over his waistcoat.

Regulus flinches, then corrects, “Georgian.” A beat. “Oh god, why am I listening to it?” He cradles his head in his hands, rubbing at his temples as if he could press the madness out.

“Hey, hey.” James says gently, stepping closer, ducking his head to catch Regulus’ eye. “It's alright. You hit your head pretty hard, yeah? It’s just lingering. It’ll pass.” What lovely words from him. Kind. Understanding. The absolute worst.

Now, this proximity does nothing to help Regulus’ current mental state. If anything, he feels his brain unspooling faster under the weight of James’ voice and eyelashes.

Thankfully, salvation arrives in the form of terror.

A girl appears just beside James. Not one of the blonde ones, no. This one has a knife through her chest.

Regulus screams. Again.

“What? What is it?” James asks, stepping back, eyes wide but still somehow not running for the hills.

“It’s— It’s there!” Regulus points to the empty space next to him, breath cough somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

James, bless him, follows the direction of the point, then takes a slow step forward, peering into what is, to him, empty air.

“Regulus,” he says gently, “there’s nothing there.”

Regulus tries, truly tries, to take a deep breath, regain a sliver of composure, dignity, sanity, anything. But it slips straight through his fingers. He groans, clutching his head. “What the hell are they? Ghosts? Am I being haunted?”

James shakes his head quickly, stepping in with another soothing tone. “It’s just your head, alright? A trick of the brain, yeah?”

One of them, the portrait man, lets out a dramatic, offended gasp. “I’m not in a man's head!”

Regulus frowns. Was his hallucination being… homophobic?

“I don’t think they’re in my head.” He says, letting go of reason altogether. “I think they’re outside my head. Talking quite loud.”

Jame presses his lips into a line, trying his best. “Right, okay. But what sounds more likely here? Ghosts or delusions?”

There’s a second of silence.

And then, in perfect unison, “Ghosts!” Like they’re in a bloody choir.

Regulus stares at them. Then at James. Then back at them.

He has his answer, “Delusions.”

Regulus Black has always been good at pretending everything’s fine. This is arguably his most challenging performance yet.

The delusions—no, spirits, he’s decided on that term now, are still up and about. Chatting. Bickering. Claiming to be real. Which, if he recalls correctly from absolutely no medical training, is textbook hallucination behaviour.

James had gone off to call Sirius, who’s already offline (to no one’s surprise). So now the plan has changed. James is attempting to move the doctor’s appointment forward. Preferably to today, or five minutes ago.

Regulus, meanwhile, is parked in a corner on a self-imposed time-out. Blank face. He’s testing the theory of exorcism via long breaths and steadying sighs.

Behind him, the voices continue.

“You know,” one of them pipes up, it’s a man, but not the waistcoated one, this doesn’t sound as snobby. “staring at the wall won’t make us disappear. Wish it did, mate. Been stuck here for years.”

A sharp scoff follows. A girl, crisp, bit more mature. “Try a century.”

“Oh, stop bitching about it,” another girl snaps, this one’s got an american accent, strangely enough. “Yes, you died before the radio, we know.”

Regulus doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but internally, he’s screaming. Why are they arguing with each other? Hallucinations aren’t supposed to have group dynamics, are they? He’s not a doctor, but this feels less like a mental health spiral and more like a haunting.

“Children, water down,” comes a calm, clipped voice, Regulus immediately knows is the waistcoated man, purely by his tone. That’s when he realises he’s officially gone round the bend, he’s starting to tell them apart. “Regulus,” the man says again, “Boy, stop fooling about. We’re still here.”

“No, you’re not.” Regulus mutters, clinging to reason. “You’re in my head.”

“Are we?” That airy hippie girl asks.

“Yes.” He says firmly, jaw tight. “I hit my head and now I’m having hallucinations. That's what this is. That’s all this is.”

“You did hit your head,” says a different voice. “We all saw it.” Somehow, that makes it worse. That feels like a confirmation that he is, indeed, making them up. “We thought you died, honestly.” she adds, thoughtful.

Regulus groans quietly into his hands.

“Wait,” One of them pipes up again, and he can’t help but turn a little. He peeks. Sees the knife. Shuts his eyes again. Mistake, big mistake. “Maybe he did die,” she muses.

“No, I haven’t.” Regulus snaps, brow furrowed. He’s not dead, he can’t be. Why would this be his afterlife? He’s done nothing to deserve it.

There’s a pause before they all start talking at once, voices layered and rising in confusion or debate, but Regulus doesn’t catch any of it because—

Salvation.

A hand lands gently on his shoulder. Real, warm, steady. “Hey,” James says, voice low and grounding. “Got you an appointment. They can see you this afternoon. I’ll take you.”

Regulus straightens on instinct, clears his throat, and tries to act as if he had any composure. “I can go alone, thank you.”

James gives him a very pointed look. “You’re having hallucinations, and you want to… drive?”

Regulus opens his mouth. Shuts it.

That sounds silly, doesn’t it? “Okay. Fair. Let’s go.”

Officially, there’s a new list Regulus needs to keep track of, “Unfortunate events” doesn’t quite cover it anymore because he’s now compiling an increasingly disturbing catalogue of original, unrecorded cursed experiences that defy logic, mercy and sense. Working title’s Reasons to Die Soon.

At the top? Inheriting a centuries-old manor from a previously-unknown branch of his family tree, one that’s responsible for the entire miserable list.

Next on the roster is slipping into a coma after tripping on his own stairs. He’s since told himself that’s fairly common, a humble reassurance that he’s not the only poor sod in history to face-plant his way into oblivion.

But then? Oh, then.

The doctor’s appointment went something like this.

“Hallucinations, you say?” The doctor repeats, tapping at the table like she’s not bothered by anything Regulus just told her, seemingly calm with his tenuous grip on reality. Regulus isn’t especially comforted by her, she looks disconcertingly young and he’d much rather be dealing with someone who’s wrinkly and experienced three or four nutters in practice, not theory.

“Yes,” he answers, nodding hastily. “I see… odd people. Say period clothes, ropes round their necks, knives sticking out…”

“Usually how they died.” She says breezily.

Regulus pauses, blinks, then narrows his eyes. “Sorry, died?”

“Yes.” The woman shrugs. “Some are quite terrifying, granted.”

“I beg your pardon?” he stammers, feeling more helpless by the second.

“I don’t understand it fully myself,” she answers, entirely too calm for his liking, And if that wasn’t dreadful enough, she adds, “Never seen this happen before, mind you.”

“Aren’t hallucinations quite common with concussions?” That question, oh, how he regrets asking it when he’s faced with the answer.

“Oh, you’re not hallucinating.” She answers, looking serene, intrigued even. “I’d say you probably died for a moment when you fell, but since you were brought back…”

“Sorry, what?”

That’s when the office door creaks open and a man steps in, muttering an apology for the tardiness. His brain is only beginning to catch up when the woman rises, hums an approving “Oh, he’s quite good.” toward the newcomer and then walks through the wall. That’s the second time today.

Regulus battles five kinds of denial after that, possibly six, depending on how one classifies ‘quietly whimpering into his coat sleeve in the hospital car park’.

Now, back in the car, with James Potter of all people acting as his impromptu chauffeur, Regulus adds what he hopes is the final item to this list.

Seeing ghosts, spirits, apparitions—Whatever they are, he can see them

Not that he’s accepted it, not properly, he’s still convinced it’s some lingering brain trauma. That’s what he tells himself when two kids leg it past the car and phase right through a woman walking her dog, and also when a couple in what looks like early nineteenth century gets-ups stroll by hand in hand with matching holes through their chest. No, he’s still hallucinating. Has to be, he’ll give it a day or two and it’ll all go away.

James hasn’t said much, probably because Regulus hasn’t offered anything resembling a sane explanation for any of this, more precisely, he’s said nothing, of course he hasn’t, he can’t just very well turn and say “Alright, odd, but I can see dead people” and expect James not to run for the hills. They barely know each other, their entire relationship could be summarised as mutual survivors of Sirius Black, hardly the foundation for meaningful confessions.

So instead, they sit in a silence that’s not exactly companionable, the kind of awkward, clumsy quiet only achievable between two near-strangers who’ve never properly spoken before, with one of them being on his way to a psychiatric hold.

Regulus glances sideways, and even through his own rapidly unravelling mental state, he can’t help but notice James looks the part, a poor sod roped into madness by his best mate’s little brother. Regulus takes pity on him, through all his misfortune, he’s still painfully aware of just how awkward this must be for James who’s doing a great job pretending this isn’t his worst Tuesday on record and looking good while at it.

“I’m sorry about this.” He says at last, almost reluctantly.

“About what?” James asks, brow creasing, voice light and confused, Regulus appreciates that, the decency of it.

“Everything.” He adds, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. “It’s not— It’s not the usual, you know?”

“I hope so.” James replies, following with a short laugh. “No worries though, Sirius did assign me to keep an eye on you, didn’t he?”

Regulus lapses into silence, staring out of the window as if he’s going to find something to make this better, then he lets out a long, dramatic and dreadful sigh. “You don’t have to pretend this isn’t awkward.”

“What isn’t?”

Regulus turns to him slowly. He’s starting to think James is not being polite, he might just be thick. “This!” he exclaims, waving a hand between them. “Sirius putting you on babysitting duty. You were supposed to be managing the renovation, the real reason he called you, not— not driving the local nutter round the M25.”

“I don’t mind,” James says, calm and sincere, “Really, I don’t mind being here with you,” There’s a pause before he rushes into his next sentence, “Taking care of you, I mean,” Another beat, “Because Sirius asked.” James finishes, clearing his throat and fixing his eyes on the road.

Regulus clicks his tongue, not very convinced. “It’s shameful for me, I can’t imagine what it is for you.”

The rest of the ride is soaked in another pitiful silence that’s a word away from becoming tense. Regulus spends most of it looking at his hands to help with both the motion sickness and the sighting of dead people.

He flees from the car the moment they pull up to the manor. Inside, the place is quieter than it was when they left, the last few workers are milling about, carrying toolboxes and muttering to each other, he doesn’t stop to greet anyone.

“Wait—Regulus!” James calls from somewhere behind him, Regulus flails an arm in a sign that might not mean anything, he’s more focused on what he's about to do, and whether it’s the worst idea he’s ever had.

Up the stairs, first landing, there he goes, scanning around for signs of spirits. Should the room be colder if they’re present? He’s still got to figure out the mechanics of this, there’s got to be a warning sign, surely, though he doesn’t get it before he finds them, or when they found him, more accurately.

“Oh, you’re back!” Chirps a voice behind him.

He turns, sucking in a sharp breath as it takes everything in him to look, to see and not scream. It’s a bloke, young around his age, give or take, dressed sort of smart—It’s not quite a suit, but definitely formal and out of date—and then there’s the real issue, not one, not two, but three bullet holes through his chest. He suppresses the urge to whimper.

“I am,” he manages his first willing contact.

“Oh, right, you can see us.” The man nods, staring back at him intently. “You can… see us.” He repeats, glancing around.

“I presume so.”

“You’d be right.”

“Usually.”

“Right.”

It’s not a very groundbreaking exchange, there’s probably better ways to engage with the undead he’s sure, but he can’t think of any just now, he can barely handle conversations with the living on a good day. He’s about to try steering the conversation into something slightly more productive, few questions, maybe, when the guy abruptly cuts him off, “Yeah sorry about this but… Dorcas!” He bellows down the corridor. “Oi! Dorcas! He’s talking!”

“Who is talking?” comes a voice from the hall.

“Regulus!”

“How do you know my name?” Regulus asks, decidedly not comforted by the sound of it.

“Oh, we heard, uh— the one who looks like you? Bit less pale, little taller—”

“My brother.” Regulus provides. “And he’s not taller, he was wearing boots with heels.” He remarks, unable to help himself.

The comment earns no reply, mainly because at that very moment, a girl strides in, followed by three more figures that are not as unknown as he’d like. “Regulus is talking?” the girl, Dorcas he assumes, asks.

“He is!” The young man, bullet-hole guy, exclaims, pointing directly at him and they turn to look at him like he’s supposed to say something as if he’s got a script.

“I… talk.” Regulus says weakly, less certain this was the proper course of action.

“Oh, brilliant.” There he is, his sworn enemy, the waistcoated man. “Told you he’d come round, smart boy.”

Then they break into something suchlike of a group discussion that is more accurately a chaotic volley of voices, half-formed opinions and general disagreement. He can barely make out the words and it prompts his headache to return with interest. “What— What are you?” he blurts out in a successful attempt to bring them to a stop.

They all turn toward him, eerily synchronised in their confusion. “Well, ghosts of course” says the posh one, and apparently, that’s not the answer Regulus wanted because his whole body reacts in rejection, a full shiver from the top of his spine to the soles of his feet.

“Am I being haunted?” He asks, pitifully.

The blonde girl, not the one that looks out of a 60’s hippie flick but the American one in a fried football kit, clicks her tongue. “No, dude, we haven’t figured out how to do that yet.”

Helpful.

He wonders if that’s supposed to ease him, because it’s surely not working, “Brilliant,” he grumbles before pursing his lips and inhaling slowly to decide denial deserves one last, desperate shot. “You’re not real.”

That earns him a collective groan, a loud, theatrical, genuinely fed up groan. It’s so convincing because he tells himself his mind’s work wouldn’t be this annoyed with him. “Okay, sorry.” A silence follows, tense, unnatural, Regulus doesn’t like it. If he’s going to play along with this, the least they can do is keep him company and prevent another coma out of sheer shock. “What’s the— What’s the playbook for this?”

“Playbook? There’s no playbook.” The footy girl scoffs. “This has literally never happened before.”

“You’re not very comforting, are you?” Regulus sneers and looks away, down at the floorboards as he tries to decide on his next move. There’s few things he can think of, first is the coherence, so he closes his eyes, counts to three and looks up. There they are, the same ghosts, same clothes, same bullet holes and ropes. “Alright then,” he says, eyes settling on the least alarming of the group, even with the gunshot wounds. “What’s your name? The one with the suit.”

“Me?” The man asks, pointing a thumb at his chest. “Well, glad you asked, beautiful, I’m Barty.”

“That’s not your name.” cuts in the same blonde girl Regulus is increasingly tagging as the annoying one. Barty turns to glare at her “Name’s Bartemius.”

Regulus blinks. “Bartemius?”

“Technically.” Barty grits out, begrudgingly.

That seals it.

Regulus pauses, lets the silence settle for a moment, then draws a breath and comes to a grim conclusion, he is seeing ghosts, not just because of the period pieces or their allegations, but because there is no way in hell he’d name anything Bartemius. He’s a little mean, sure, but he’s not evil.

And anyway, he’s fairly certain delusions don’t name themselves.

“So… Ghosts?” Regulus asks, deciding, for once, he’ll accept their answer.

“Yes.” Dorcas, as he had learned, nods. “Ghosts.”

“Bloody hell.” He whimpers, dragging a hand through his face.

Concussions, Regulus learns, come with headaches, nausea, and sightings of the undead.