Chapter Text
If you had told Peter years ago that he’d end up living at Grimmauld Place—former home of his ex-friend—he would’ve laughed in your face. Everything Sirius had said about the house had made it sound like it belonged on Peter’s “Top 10: Least Favorite Places to Ever Visit” list. Given his status as a Muggleborn with decidedly non-aristocratic features and a talent for social awkwardness, meeting Walburga Black’s portrait should have been horrifying.
Thankfully, no one but Regulus knew he wasn’t actually a half-blood, as he’d successfully claimed since the age of eleven. And more thankfully, thirteen years in prison had taught him that life was meaningless and people weren’t worth fearing rejection from.
So, his first few days in the old house? Surprisingly relaxing. No dementors, good food, and a soft bed were more than he’d hoped for just a month ago—he counted it as a win.
While Regulus, aided by a bit of stolen Polyjuice Potion from Kreacher, was off on undercover missions scouring dubious libraries and bookshops for Horcrux lore, Peter had started working through every newspaper from the past decade. He marked what he didn’t know, what was important, what concerned their friends—or enemies—and what he'd guessed at but now had confirmation on.
His notes grew quickly, filled with both fun facts (new chocolate frog cards!) and the truly horrible (Pandora was dead, Frank and Alice had been tortured into insanity, Malfoy and others went free, Evan Rosier was killed by Moody, werewolves still had no rights, Rita Skeeter was writing far too much garbage, the Ministry was a cesspool, and on and on). He also tried to catch up with the Muggle world, wondering what had become of his cousins, his mother, and pressing down the hovering anxiety that he might find out the wrong things.
Every evening, when Regulus returned, they would share what they’d learned and chat with Kreacher, who remained as grumpy as ever—but looked oddly content.
When his brain felt too waterlogged from all the reading, Peter would wander the halls, chatting with the various portraits. Most were stiff and painfully boring. But beside a strange man who had apparently just discovered the letter "U," he found one that stood out: a rather charming painting of Phoebe Black, an old lady who seemed to have a personal vendetta against his fashion sense.
It was, honestly, delightful—he’d never been told off so consistently for wearing sweatshirts.
A week into this odd domestic rhythm, Peter began to think: maybe he could get used to this.
That morning, he busied himself in the library—not with newspapers, for once, but reading up on the Black family's involvement in various wars, like the First Wizarding War and the Goblin Rebellions. He even tried to decipher some of the darker rune books left on the shelves—probably placed there for fun.
Kreacher brought him a cheese sandwich for lunch. (Peter still hadn’t told the elf he could, in fact, eat more than cheese, fruit, bread, eggs, and more fruit. But it was kind of adorable—Kreacher had clearly found a guide on what to feed rats and just ran with it. Besides, Peter didn’t mind. He hadn’t had good cheese since before the war.)
That evening, as he passed the “U”-obsessed man, he found himself once again in front of Phoebe Black’s moon-themed observatory portrait.
“This is the same horrid rag you wore yesterday,” she sniffed. “How will anyone take you seriously if you dress like a mudblood peasant?”
Peter grinned up at her, as he had every day since she’d first scolded him for wearing Sirius’s Gryffindor pullover. “Fashion has changed drastically since your time. I’m actually very well-dressed right now.”
Her eyebrow arched. “I’ve seen the change myself, young man, and I can assure you—taste hasn’t yet fallen this far.”
“Rude. But fair,” Peter laughed. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to keep disappointing your fine sense of fashion. Regulus is the one with a wand—I can’t exactly go shopping.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she huffed, before suddenly pausing—her expression twisting, ears straining. “Someone is trying to get through the wards, young man.”
Peter froze. Well, shit.
They hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t secured an exit. Regulus was still out there—not in the know.
Peter’d hoped their Azkaban stunt had caused enough chaos to delay any real investigations. But then again—they had been here for about a week, and the Daily Prophet hadn’t mentioned them yet.
Wait.
“Kreacher?” he called.
Plop. The elf appeared beside him, nearly giving Peter a heart attack. “Yes, Mister Master’s Rat?”
“Could you get me today’s newspaper? And then go bring Regulus back—quietly. Don’t blow his cover.”
With a resigned sigh, the elf nodded. “Kreacher will do as the Rat asks.”
Moments later, Peter was holding the Prophet. The front page had pictures from last year—him and Regulus in Azkaban.
“Well, fuck,” he muttered, a lump forming in his throat.
“Language, boy,” the portrait scolded.
“Right. Sorry.”
“The wards won’t hold much longer,” Phoebe informed him. “Whoever’s coming has at least a bit of Black blood.”
Peter made a face. “Or they have a lot of it—but are currently disowned.”
“Also possible,” she agreed, with a sniff.
“Fu—right. Sorry.”
He tucked the paper under his arm. “Thank you for the warning, Lady Black. I’ve got to go.”
As he hurried away, her voice followed him: “Next time, wear better clothes!”
“I’ll try!”
He raced to the library and started gathering his notes.
A plop echoed behind him. Regulus stood there, looking calm but alert.
“What is it?” he asked, eyes darting between Kreacher and Peter.
“Someone’s breaking the wards. We were in the paper today—might be the Order. One of your relatives told me they’d be able to get in because they’re either distantly related or closely related and disowned.”
Regulus grimaced. “The wards should still hold up. They endured worse during the war.”
Peter gave him a flat look. “That was thirteen years ago, mate. Nothing’s been updated. Your grandfather was the last person to touch them. Who knows how many times the Ministry tried to raid this place since?”
Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “So we leave—and make sure no one knows we were ever here?”
“Can we do that?”
Regulus squared his shoulders. “Kreacher, remove all traces of our presence—burn it if you have to.”
With another plop, the elf vanished.
Regulus turned back to Peter. “Where do we go? If they search here, they’ll go for other Black properties next.”
Peter hesitated, then nodded. “I think I have a place.”
Regulus could feel someone passing through the wards just before Peter grabbed him by the upper arm and Disapparated.
They landed in front of a small yellow house nestled in the middle of a forest. The garden was filled with herbs and vegetables—non-magical—and in the corner, a handful of chickens pecked peacefully at the grass.
Next to him, Peter took a deep breath and mumbled, “This will either go very well, or very badly.”
Regulus chose to say nothing to that. If Peter had wanted to explain more, he would have. Instead, he followed him past an array of stones—runes, Regulus realized only as they crossed through them.
“Blood runes,” Peter said. “I carved them during the war.” That shouldn’t have surprised Regulus. During their time in Azkaban, Regulus had learned that Peter’s best subjects had been Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Together with some of the projects he’d spoken about, it was obvious Peter must have mastered the darker branches of those studies, too.
“Who—or what—did you sacrifice for them to be this strong?” Regulus wondered. Because they were strong. He had no doubt that, had Peter not been with him—or had Regulus come with the intention to harm the person living here—he wouldn’t have made it past the stones. Actually, he’d bet good money that something in the woods would have tried to eat him.
Peter did that scrunched-up face again, the one he made when calculating how much to tell Regulus before the other man cut his losses and ran. But, as always, he seemed to conclude that Regulus had been a Death Eater and a Black, so whatever he was about to say would seem less horrific than the skull staircase in Grimmauld Place.
“They sent five people to punish my mum for having the wrong kind of son,” he explained, eyes dark as he rang the bell. “I spent a day trying clean their blood from the porch.”
Understanding, Regulus nodded. Once upon a time, he would have done the same—and his own mother had been decidedly less worthy of that devotion. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how Peter’s old friends would have reacted to him bleeding out five people in a dark ritual and carving protection stones with their blood. It didn’t exactly scream “Dumbledore’s golden boy.”
The door opened, revealing a short, soft-looking elderly woman. Her grey hair was tucked under a pink-and-yellow shawl. On her nose rested a thick turquoise pair of glasses, with two bright, honey-colored eyes peeking out behind them.
“Peter?” she asked breathlessly.
The man beside him froze, then shakily lifted his hands to sign, Hello, Mum.
That was all it took for her to stumble forward and pull Peter into a tight, desperate hug.
Regulus, very much not accustomed to witnessing affection, pretended to be deeply interested in the chickens for a solid minute or so.
“Regulus, let me introduce you to my mother,” Peter sounded a bit choked up. “Mum, this is Regulus. He’s my new partner in crime,” he said and signed at the same time. Which was a good thing—Regulus had gotten decent at the sign language Peter had taught him, but now, with his mother, Peter seemed to sign twice as fast.
Still, Regulus lifted his arms and signed, I am glad to finally meet you, Madam, with a smile he meant. In the past thirteen years, Peter had rarely spoken of his family, but it had always been clear how much he loved his mum.
“I’m so happy to meet a friend of Peter’s. Please come in, dears,” she said warmly, ushering them inside the bright little house. Peter and Regulus removed their shoes by the door and were guided to an old but comfortable-looking yellow couch.
Peter’s mother didn’t take no for an answer when she insisted Peter sit down instead of helping her with the tea. So in the end, Peter and Regulus found themselves side by side, with Regulus taking in the very Hufflepuff-looking living room and Peter staring teary-eyed at the colorful carpet.
“I wasn’t sure she was still alive,” Peter whispered softly. “I had hoped, but… I couldn’t find out much about my family, except for my cousins.” He took in a shuddering breath. “I was so scared I’d break out of fucking Azkaban only to be too late to see her again.”
Regulus put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You weren’t.”
Peter let out a choked laugh. “I could have been.”
He looked up at Regulus, his mouth twisting downward. “I guess I didn’t really realize until now that I could’ve stayed in Azkaban my whole life and never known how she was.”
Regulus hummed quietly. He remembered a day—after a particularly brutal Dementor attack—when Peter had told him that at least in prison, he couldn’t hurt the only family he had left.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if we’d come here and…” Peter trailed off.
Regulus rubbed slow, steady circles into his shoulder.
Miss Pettigrew returned shortly with tea and a box of chocolate biscuits, which she gently nudged toward them. She let them drink while signing to Peter about news from the cottage—about the chickens, the nearby village, Peter’s childhood Muggle friends and where they’d ended up.
When they finished their tea, she refilled both cups.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been back sooner”, Peter signed, placing the warm cup back on the wooden table.
Miss Pettigrew just looked at her son with so much love and sadness that Regulus' stomach churned.
Peter stopped, glancing at Regulus—whether to check if he was okay or unsure if he should speak in front of him, Regulus didn’t know. Whatever the reason, Peter seemed to decide to continue anyway.
“The war ended about thirteen years ago. Two of my friends died—James and Lily”, he signed, fingers rushing over the words. A far away expression crossed his face, it turned just a bit too blank to be believably calm. “I was captured. I gave away their location.”
Regulus’ heart dropped at that piece of information; a queasy feeling spread through his throat. Captured. He really had been captured, instead of seeking the death eaters out. Of course he had suspected it, but to be sure was… He didn’t know how to feel about this revelation.
A similarly alarmed look crossed Miss Pettigrew’s face, her honey eye widening behind her colorful glasses.
Peter’s shoulders sank as he continued, still focusing on some invisible point in the distance. “We won the war.” An unsteady beath. “I went to prison for betraying them.” Hesitating, he focused his gaze back on his mother. “We broke out about a week ago.”
Without a word, Miss Pettigrew stood and pulled him into another hug.
Awkwardly, Regulus concentrated on his chamomile tea and the delicious biscuits. He distracted himself with pressing questions like: Is that strange contraption over there the “TV” Peter once explained to me? Anything to avoid watching Peter cry.
Regulus had seen him cry many times in thirteen years, but this… this felt more tragic than the Dementor-induced panic attacks ever had.
He tried not to think about the implications of “I was captured.” Deep down, he’d known that had to be how it happened—but it still made him think of the time he himself had been caught. Of others he’d seen get captured by Death Eaters. The tea now tasted bitter, and the biscuit felt like ash on his tongue.
Lost in thought, he only noticed the signing again when Peter gently tapped his arm.
“My mother asked if there’s any type of food you’d like for dinner?”
Regulus, suddenly very aware of how often he’d insulted Peter’s taste in food over the years, went completely blank. Peter, probably guessing exactly what he was thinking, snorted. His puffy red eyes crinkled into a smile. “Don’t worry. She cooks far better than the Azkaban cooks. I’d say even better than Kreacher, but that wouldn’t be fair—he only ever fed me the rat diet.”
“He’d smother you in your sleep if you ever insinuated, he wasn’t the best cook.”
“Not in here,” Peter replied cheerfully. “I actually considered more than just wizards trying to murder my mum and me, you know.”
Which, Regulus supposed, was fair. Most Pureblood families never considered the fact that an elf was, in many ways, more powerful than a regular wizard.
“But—do you have anything in mind? If not, I’ll ask her to bake some apple pie with me while you... well, I suppose one of us still has to actually read today’s newspaper, right?” he added with a grimace.
Relieved not to have to decide, Regulus nodded.
Peter grinned up at him, and Regulus realized—despite all the optimism and humor Peter had carried through Azkaban—he had never looked this bright.
Smiling back, Regulus shook his head and took another sip of tea. As he set the cup down, he watched Peter signing to his mother about the pie plans. She threw both of them a warm look.
After wiping a happy tear from the corner of her eye, she signed: I’ll prepare the kitchen, boys. You can bring your things to your rooms.
“Thank you for letting us stay”, Regulus signed, with a grateful half-bow.
She smiled kindly. “There is nothing to be thankful for, dear. I’m grateful to have my son and his friends for as long as either of you wishes.”
And with that, Regulus was pulled into a hug by the elderly woman.
His brain promptly went warm and fuzzy. He threw Peter a startled look, who just smiled at him—completely unhelpfully.
When she let him go, Regulus watched in a daze as she squished Peter’s cheek and left the room.
“I can’t believe I’m home again,” Peter said, still grinning. Softly he bumped their shoulders together (as much as one could with an entire head of height difference). “Come on. We’ve got work to do, haven’t we?”