Harry Potter: Reborn as Regulus Black

Chapter 340: Chapter 340: A Warm Home

Regulus landed on his own doorstep. 12 Grimmauld Place.

One second it had been sea wind and sunshine. The next, London’s industrial pallor.

Regulus had barely found his footing on the steps before the front door swung open from inside.

Kreacher stood in the vestibule, enormous ears flapping with excitement, body folded nearly in half, the tip of his nose inches from the floor.

"Young master is home!" His voice was high and trembling. "Kreacher has cleaned the room three times! The curtains are new! The sheets are new! The pillows have been beaten!"

Regulus stepped over the threshold, shrugged off his cloak in the entrance hall, and said without looking back, "Thank you, Kreacher."

Behind him, Kreacher was practically vibrating off his feet.

The entrance hall of Grimmauld Place looked the same as ever. Ancestral portraits on the walls dozed in their frames. Two of them cracked an eyelid, glanced at him, and closed their eyes again.

He walked down the corridor, passing the dining room.

He’d come back early on purpose, hoping to make it in time for a proper breakfast at home.

The food in Cornwall hadn’t been bad. Agnes had prepared his meals separately. The Shepherd’s Pie and Ginger Tea were solid, and the Yorkshire Pudding, Roast Beef, and Christmas pudding were all decent, well above standard staff fare.

But there was no other way to put it: the plantation’s kitchen, measured against the one at Grimmauld Place, was short by exactly one Kreacher.

"Where’s Father?" Regulus asked.

"Master and Mistress left early for the Parkinson Residence. The Parkinson family’s New Year reception. Noon until evening, they won’t return until very late."

Pure-blood families never lacked excuses for a gathering, and they weren’t picky about dates.

Christmas had its parties. New Year had its own. A change of season was reason enough. A baby born, a funeral held, both demanded events. Even without an occasion, someone would invent a pretext to herd people into a room for tea, gossip, and mutual appraisal.

They didn’t observe the Muggle New Year, didn’t care about calendar markings, but maintaining connections was a standing obligation. Pretexts were always available for those who wanted them.

Regulus thought nothing of it.

"The elder young master is home," Kreacher continued. "Mr. Hawke is here as well. They’re in the training room."

One eyebrow twitched.

Sirius practicing magic wasn’t a surprise. The hour was, though. Early for him.

Last holiday, Orion had arranged for Hawke to teach him the basics. From Regulus’s perspective, that meant starting from scratch: stance, grip, casting procedure, foundational spells.

Sirius had talent. A full term later, he should be into combat drills by now.

He hadn’t been idle at Hogwarts either. He’d gone to McGonagall for Transfiguration guidance, explored every corner of the castle with James and the rest. Most of his energy went in the wrong directions, true, but at least he hadn’t wasted the term entirely.

Back home for the holidays, he wasn’t sulking in his room. Wasn’t parading that Muggle band T-shirt in front of Walburga. Instead, he was in the training room, actually working.

Whether Orion had mandated it or Sirius had chosen it on his own, either way, it was good.

Those words about power. Maybe Sirius really had taken them in. Perhaps the Christmas dinner had played a part too.

"Understood." Regulus looked down at Kreacher. "I’ll be in my room. Bring breakfast up, and make it generous."

"Yes, young master!"

"And," he pointed at Baruk on his shoulder, "a serving of dragon meat for him. Same cut as last time."

Kreacher bowed and vanished with a crack.

Regulus climbed the stairs and pushed open his bedroom door.

The room had indeed been cleaned. New curtains, deep green, the pattern intricate and dense, the fabric heavy.

The fireplace blazed, the room warm and close.

Baruk leaped from his shoulder to the desk, eight legs drumming across the surface, heading straight for his drawer.

That drawer had been his territory since the first time he’d stayed at Grimmauld Place.

He ducked inside, circled once, scraped the bottom twice with a foreleg, tapped his chelicerae against the walls. Confirming everything was as he’d left it. Domain intact.

Then he climbed out, jumped from the desk to the floor, skittered to the bed, and launched himself up with a push of all eight legs. He crawled the length of the mattress to the pillow, tucked six legs beneath him, stretched his two front legs forward, and settled in, perfectly content.

Regulus watched him, amused.

Before, at Grimmauld Place, Baruk’s world had been this one room. During the day he’d explore its corners and the gaps between furniture, circle the desk, press his forelegs against the window and peer out. At night he’d sleep on the desk corner or curled up inside the drawer. Never once on the bed.

But in the Cornwall cottage, the desk had no drawer. Baruk had taken matters into his own legs, climbing onto the bed and sleeping beside the pillow every night.

A few nights of that, and the habit stuck. Back at Grimmauld Place now, he wanted to keep sleeping on the bed.

He’d grown bolder in general since leaving the Forbidden Forest. Yesterday he’d snuck out two shots of silk, one on the ceiling beam, one in a wall corner.

Probably because Regulus hadn’t scolded him, the confidence grew. Today, the bed. Tomorrow, what? A seat at the dining table?

Regulus didn’t spare him another glance. He turned and headed for the washroom.

He came out, changed into a clean house robe.

Food was already on the table.

Kreacher’s efficiency never wavered.

Smoked salmon sliced thin, fanned across a white porcelain plate. Scrambled eggs steaming. Toast cut on the diagonal, butter softening in a small silver dish.

Baruk’s small plate sat on the corner of the desk.

He’d already climbed down from the pillow and crouched beside it, chelicerae tucked in, two forelegs resting on the rim of the plate, all eight eyes fixed on the steak.

Not eating. Waiting.

The corner of Regulus’s mouth lifted. He walked over, sat down, picked up his fork. "Go ahead."

Only then did Baruk lower his head, chelicerae spreading wide, and begin tearing into the dragon meat. Crunch. Crunch.

One wizard and one spider ate breakfast in quiet.

Baruk sucked the last thread of dragon meat from his chelicerae and wiped his forelegs across his mouth.

Regulus drained the last sip of tea, stood, and straightened his collar.

Baruk launched himself off the desk and landed on his shoulder.

He opened the door and headed downstairs.