Draco had spent the days after the incident with Quirrell and the Resurrection Stone simultaneously delighted that Harry had been hospitalised - "Are you just pretending that he'll be alright because you think we're concerned? Do you think he'll have to be transferred to St Mungo's? Do you think he's been so mutilated that he'll never be able to show his face again?" - and aggrieved by the fact that, once again, the entire school was talking about 'Saint Potter'.

"I suppose he'll have another stupid scar for everyone to fawn over," Draco grumbled late one afternoon in the common room. "There's nothing special about a scar. I could get a scar if I wanted to."

Regulus sighed and turned away from the window, where he had been hoping to catch sight of a merperson. He hadn't seen one in a month or two, and it was bothering him.

"Why aren't you out in the grounds with everyone else?" asked Regulus. "It's a beautiful day - you could paddle in the Lake or climb a tree or play a game with your friends. It's no good staying cooped up inside all day."

"I'm not a child. I don't need to play with my friends."

"You're twelve, Draco. Go outside and enjoy the sunshine, let yourself have some fun."

"Why don't you?"

"Fine," Regulus sighed. "I will."

He left Draco to sulk, alone, in the gloomy dungeons and drifted upwards through the empty castle, pausing at a balcony on one of the upper floors to look out onto the grounds below. There were groups of students haphazardly dressed in varying degrees of wizard and muggle clothing, all jumbled up together to make it impossible to tell which house they were in.

As it ought to be, he thought.

There were some older students playing a rather odd variant of fanged frisbee - he was aware that they had been banned and that he ought to alert Filch, but it was the end of term and the students deserved their fun - which involved one person sat atop another's shoulders. They toppled over onto the grass with alarming regularity and didn't seem to ever manage to catch the frisbee. That seemed to negate the point of the game, in Regulus's opinion, but the players were laughing raucously so he supposed they must be enjoying it.

At a window further along the corridor, he caught sight of a group of younger students sat in a circle with what looked like a giant pack of exploding snap cards. Regulus felt an ache of guilt that Harry wasn't out there with them. That he couldn't be out there, in the sunshine, with his friends, because Regulus had failed to act quickly enough.

He swallowed and turned from the window. He would go to the hospital wing and see if Harry was awake at last.

As he turned Regulus almost passed right through Professor Dumbledore. He managed to move aside just in time; Dumbledore gave him the briefest nod and continued whistling some obscure tune as he walked away, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

The old man was infuriating. He hadn't spoken to Regulus since the incident - had barely even looked at him, as though Regulus's opinion and experiences couldn't possibly matter. Regulus scowled at Dumbledore's back and continued on to the hospital wing.

He paused just outside the door and heard Madam Pomfrey fussing over Harry, apparently trying to get him back to sleep. The child sounded frustrated. Regulus could sympathise; he had suffered his own fair share of injuries and knew how irritating it could be to be stuck in bed, especially at the end of term, especially when the sun was shining, especially when there were things that needed to be done.

He drifted into the room and approached Harry's bed. Harry immediately stiffened, straightening his back and tightening his grip around the box of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans in his hands. Madam Pomfrey turned and rolled her eyes.

"You as well - it's like Diagon Alley in here today!" she scolded, wagging her finger at Regulus. "Five minutes. And then Mr Potter here needs to go back to sleep."

She bustled away and Regulus sat down in the seat beside Harry's bed. He felt the boy's eyes on him as he stared down at his own feet. He cleared his throat. He felt terribly awkward.

"How… how do you feel?" Regulus asked, after an uncomfortable silence that felt like it had stretched on for years.

"Alright."

"Good," he nodded. "That's… that's good."

"Thought you'd maybe come to finish me off," Harry said, in a voice that sounded far too nonchalant.

Regulus looked up in alarm. "No! That's not— sweet Circe, no. I… I've done very many stupid things, Harry, but I never intended for you to be harmed."

"I heard you hated my dad."

"You are not James."

The tense, uncomfortable silence returned. Regulus tried not to flinch under Harry's remarkably scrutinising glare. At last, Harry relaxed against the pile of pillows at his back once more, apparently too exhausted to put up much more of a fight. Regulus knew the feeling.

"Snape hates me because of my dad," Harry said quietly.

"Severus hates a great many people, you're not that special."

Regulus's eyes widened in horror at what he had just said, to the Boy-Who-Lived, of all people. To his surprise, Harry gave a little huff of a laugh and extended his arm, rattling the box of jellybeans at Regulus.

"Want one?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not even Bertie Bott has managed to invent a flavour that ghosts find palatable," Regulus said wistfully. Salazar knew how many years it had been since he'd tasted an Every-Flavour Bean, or any sweet for that matter. "But thank you for the offer."

"Oh, right. Yeah, the ghost thing," Harry said, looking a little bashful, and settled back against his pillows once more.

"Harry…" Regulus started, twisting his hands in his lap. "I'm truly very sorry. I had my suspicions, about Quirrell, and after you and Draco had been in the Forest, I—"

"Malfoy knows it was Voldemort?"

"No… he thought you had seen a dementor, but he told me enough that I could surmise that, well— I'm not sure how much you know, how much I should say…"

"What's a dementor?"

Regulus opened his mouth in surprise. It was easy to forget that Harry had been raised by muggles, far away from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. It seemed almost perverse that magical children had grown up knowing Harry's story while he, according to the castle gossip, had had no knowledge of it whatsoever until he had received his Hogwarts letter.

"A dementor," Regulus said, "is a creature that guards Azkaban. The wizarding prison. They… they're not very pleasant."

"Oh. Well, Voldemort's not very pleasant either so I s'pose Malfoy wasn't far off."

Regulus couldn't help but laugh. 'Not very pleasant' was one way to describe the Dark Lord.

"I'm sorry you had to face him alone."

"I wasn't alone," Harry shrugged. "I had Ron and Hermione."

"You're all children. You shouldn't have been in that position… I should have intervened. I should have said something sooner. I'm sorry, Harry."

"It's alright. It all worked out, didn't it? And Professor Dumbledore said we have to keep fighting him, keep delaying him so he doesn't come back to power."

"Yes," Regulus nodded, his anger towards Dumbledore increasing with every moment - how dare he suggest to Harry, a child, that it was his responsibility to fight the Dark Lord? "Yes, we do."

A couple of days later the lower years awoke to find envelopes bearing their names hanging on the common room noticeboard: their exam results.

They tore into them eagerly while the upper years watched on with envy - they would have to wait a week or more while EELS, the External Examinations Liaison Service, finished marking their written papers.

Draco let out a whoop of delight and Regulus hurried over to congratulate him.

"Well done, Draco," he said, feeling a burst of pride in his hollow chest as he read the parchment.

"I knew I would come top of the year," Draco said quickly. "I'm not surprised."

"You've done very well, but you don't know that you're top—"

"Who else would get all Outstandings? Saint Potter?" Draco scoffed. "He can barely hold a quill. What did you get, Theo?"

Theo's hands were clenching his own parchment, his brow furrowed as he read and reread his results.

"Er, mostly Outstanding," he said slowly.

"Mostly? Let's see—" Draco snatched Theo's results to read them for himself "—only an Acceptable in Astronomy? Don't you have an observatory at home? That's sad."

"I do, I just—"

"Exceeds in Defence?" Draco snorted and thrust the parchment back at Theo. "Shocking, Theo. Blaise, what about you?"

As Draco whirled away to compare his results with the other first years and prove right his insistence that he had come top of the year, Regulus drifted closer to Theo.

"You did well," he said, gesturing to the results.

"I didn't. I got an Acceptable."

"An Acceptable is still a pass - you're only in first year, Theo."

"My father won't consider it a pass," he said, his shoulders slumped.

"Our fathers aren't always right."

Theo shrugged. "It doesn't matter. He thinks he's right."

"Theo…" Regulus hesitated, unsure of himself, unsure if he was overstepping some invisible boundary. "I'm quite good at Astronomy. It sort of comes with being a Black, you know… if you want help, next year, you only have to ask. Not just with Astronomy, either - I don't know who the new Defence professor will be but if they're as useless as Quirrell…"

He trailed off, Theo's wide eyes disarming him.

"You'd do that? You'd… you'd help me?"

"Of course. Whatever you need."

Theo looked away and gave him a jerky nod. "Thank you," he said, his voice choked.

"That's quite alright, Regulus said and patted him on the shoulder, feeling quite choked himself. "Write to me over the summer, will you? I want to make sure— I mean… I'd like to know how you're getting on."

Theo nodded again. "Yeah, I will. If— if you want."

"Good. Alright," Regulus said breezily, "you'd better run along and make sure you've got everything ready for going home, there won't be time in the morning. Draco!" he called out. "Blaise - have you both packed your trunks?"

Later that night he accompanied Cariad and Blythe - who had now fully recovered from her brush with arson, and did not like to be reminded of it - to the end of term feast. Slytherin house had been filled with excitement since exams had finished, buoyed by the knowledge that they had filled their hourglass with enough emeralds to win the House Cup and that there was very little they, or anyone else, could do to lose it.

"I can't believe we've won the Cup every year we've been here," said Cariad. "It felt amazing enough before, but now that I'm Head Girl…" she sighed happily, tilting her head to the ceiling. "I just can't believe it!"

"You deserve it," said Regulus. "You've all worked very hard."

"There were times when I thought your Draco might lose it for us… keep him on the right track, won't you? Rivalries with Gryffindor aren't good for any of us."

"I'll do my best," he said, his chest warming at the sound of Draco being called his.

"Seven in a row," breathed Blythe, running her hand along the stone wall. She paused at a suit of armour and rubbed its elbow for luck. Regulus stared at her hand, something sharp twisting where his stomach used to be. He had known someone else who had followed that superstition, once, when he had been alive. "Is that the longest?"

He blinked and tore his gaze back to Blythe's face. "I'm sorry?"

"Seven years," she repeated. "Is that the longest run?"

"Oh, I'm not sure… it's the longest in my existence, I think."

"Isn't it beautiful?" Cariad exclaimed.

They had reached the Great Hall. Blythe spun around in the entrance, her arms flung wide, a beaming smile on her face while Cariad watched, laughing. Beyond them, the whole room shimmered in the silver and green colours of Slytherin house: the tablecloths, the bunting, the crockery and candles and everything. There was an enormous banner emblazoned with Slytherin's serpent across the far wall, and smaller ones hanging above each of the long student tables, and above the fireplaces.

It was perfect. Regulus beamed and joined in with the students' excitable chatter at the Slytherin table, leaving Cariad and Blythe to settle down beside Draco. Now that term was drawing to a close he was determined to spend as much time with his cousin as he could - to try and guide him onto the right path, as Cariad had urged him to do.

"Is there some special reward for winning, do you think?" Draco was asking. "Like emeralds? From the hourglass?"

"My mother says emeralds would suit me very well," said Pansy. "She says I'm not allowed to wear them until I'm thirteen but I steal her jewellery all the time."

He recalled Theodore telling him that his aunt - Pansy's mother - was one of Regulus's old classmates. She, too, had had light fingers and a fondness for sparkling trinkets. Regulus had once, unwittingly and unpleasantly, found himself on a Hogsmeade date with her. She had been horrified at his confession that he would, actually, prefer to spend an afternoon in the bookshop to making awkward conversation over a pot of tea in Madam Puddifoot's.

As tiresome as he had found Iris Nott to be, Regulus was glad she had found a more suitable partner in Perseus Parkinson. He was glad she had had the opportunity to live, and to build a family because Salazar knew she wouldn't have had it with him.

At that moment Dumbledore strode into the Great Hall, his glittering robes streaming behind him, and took his position at the lectern. He raised his hand and the room fell quiet; the Slytherins up and down the table exchanged grins with one another. Regulus glanced up and caught sight of Cariad almost quivering in excitement, her hands clasped firmly in Blythe's.

"Father will be thrilled," said Draco in a loud whisper, as Dumbledore read out the house points. "He won the Cup every year when he was a student, you know. I expect I shall do the same."

Regulus was so delighted for his Slytherins that he didn't even care to correct Draco. Lucius could keep his false boasts. It didn't matter. Not when the children were jumping up onto their feet, banging their goblets on the table, and yelling in victory. He beamed at them - he was so proud of them - and joined in their exultant chants of SLYTH-ER-IN! SLYTH-ER-IN!

But Dumbledore raised his voice above the din and announced that more points were yet to be awarded.

"More points?"

"What does he mean?"

"The Quidditch points have all been given, haven't they?"

"Perhaps I'll be given additional points for coming top of the year."

This last was from Draco. Regulus hushed him, frowning at Dumbledore. As the headmaster spoke - as he gave more and more points to Harry and his friends - the atmosphere around the Slytherin table grew cold. Tense jaws, clenched fists: they were furious. He was furious.

Dumbledore granted the final points and tore the House Cup out of the Slytherins' fingers. The Gryffindor table erupted into a cacophony of whoops and cheers and Regulus's ears were ringing with the injustice of it. He heard Cariad's wail of disbelief, heard the others yelling how unfair it was, heard Draco loudly complaining, yet again, that his father would hear about this.

They grew subdued as the food appeared on the table before them, their yells suppressed to grumbles. The platters piled high with roasted meats and glazed vegetables remained mostly untouched, left to grow cold as the Slytherins pushed their forks morosely across golden plates that had once been silver, resting on red tablecloths that had once been green. Regulus commiserated with them, tried to cheer them up, but his heart wasn't in it. He just about managed to restrain himself from insulting Dumbledore right there in the Great Hall, but the evening seemed to stretch on and on and on.

Eventually, they all shuffled back to the common room. The Slytherins' feelings of resentment towards the Gryffindors, and their headmaster in particular, rumbled on all night. What should have been a celebration of winning the House Cup for the seventh year in a row - and what a magnificent, portentous moment seven years would have been - ended with deflated Slytherins draped all over the common room debating the many ways they would like to take down Gryffindor house.

Regulus ought to have intervened and stemmed the flow of abuse, but he was just as furious as his charges were. He pitied Cariad, who had worked exceptionally hard that year as Head Girl to earn the trust of students from other houses.

"I know those children deserved the points for what they did but— but it's just so unfair!" said Cariad, her chin trembling as Blythe guided her to one of the couches.

"It's very unfair," Blythe agreed and wrapped her arm around Cariad's shoulders.

"Why did he have to wait until the feast to award the points? When the Hall was decorated in our colours? Why did he have to humiliate us like that?"

"Because he's a bastard," said Blythe, her soothing voice concealing the venom in her words. "He's always favoured Gryffindor. Remember how bitter he was last year?"

"It's not fair," Cariad sniffed.

Blythe kissed her forehead. "I know. But we won't be in his bastard school for much longer. We'll be at the Ministry and we'll make him do extra paperwork every time he visits. We'll pretend we don't know who he is and we'll make him wear a name badge."

Cariad was right: Dumbledore had been unfair. He had humiliated them. There was no need for him to have awarded Harry and his friends those additional points at the very last moment, no matter how much they deserved them. It was as though he had calculated the precise amount of points he would need to give them to snatch victory from Slytherin. There was no need to have done it when Slytherin had already celebrated their win, when the Great Hall had already been decked out in Slytherin colours.

Didn't Dumbledore realise the heartbreak he had caused? Not just to Cariad. Not just to the other seventh years, who would never have the chance to make up for this loss. Not just to the first years, experiencing their headmaster's bias against their house in such a public manner for the very first time, the confusion and upset plainly visible on their faces. But to all of them, this was proof that no matter how hard they worked, no matter how well they behaved or how good their essays were or how many Quidditch matches they won, it wouldn't be good enough to shake off the shadows of their fathers' and grandfathers' actions.

Regulus sat simmering in his rage all night, staring broodily into the fire long after the children had finally retired to their dormitories. None of it was fair. It hadn't been fair when he had been alive, when he had been a student - when he had seen James Potter lifting the Quidditch Cup, when he had seen his brother praised for escaping their family, when he had watched his friends hexed and tortured and killed by Dumbledore's side as much as the Dark Lord's.

Nobody had cared then. No adult, no teacher had extended their hand. No one had offered him sanctuary, or even an alternative - no one had realised that Sirius had only been able to escape because he had the support around him, had Potter's welcoming parents, while Regulus was left behind to placate their own family.

And what had Regulus had? Friendships as shallow as a puddle. Sleepless night after sleepless night, terrified that he would whisper something in a dream. Terrified the boys in the beds around him - his friends, his cousin - would hex him in his sleep and drag him to the Dark Lord for daring to even think about betrayal.

Nobody cared now, either.

The Dark Lord was trying to return. Dumbledore knew that. And still he threw children into danger. Still he ignored the warning signs.

Regulus saw them. He saw echoes of his own past in Theo, in Cassius, in Draco.

Theo was terrified of his father and the pressure weighing down on him; worried that he wasn't good enough, that he would fail to live up to his family's expectations, that he would never reach the ever-shifting goal hoops. Cassius had been denied the one thing that he loved, Quidditch, and was searching for something to be a part of, searching for somewhere to belong. Draco had lived a life of luxury, had been brought up being told he was the most important thing in the world, that blood was the most important thing in the world and that his blood was the most important blood of all…

He would stop it. He had to. He had to be there for them because nobody else would be. He would show them that there was an alternative, that they didn't have to blindly follow their fathers' footsteps, that they had choices. Difficult ones, yes. But they had choices.

He would make sure that his death wasn't in vain, but could serve as a warning: your family don't care about you. Your teachers and your headmaster don't care about you. The Dark Lord doesn't care about you, either.

But I do.