Dumbledore didn’t dwell on why Regulus did these things.
He’d lived too long. Seen too much.
People did the right thing for the wrong reasons. People did the wrong thing for the right reasons. Motives shifted. Today’s calculation could beco tomorrow’s sincerity, and tomorrow’s sincerity could curdle back into calculation the day after.
But actions left traces, and traces changed reality.
Those two half-blood students now had a place in Slytherin. Lily Evans’s magical ability was climbing fast.
These were real changes. Whatever the motive, the changes had already happened.
And Dumbledore saw sothing deeper.
He rembered the morning mist in France, the idle conversation with Regulus on the way there.
They’d talked about Transfiguration and flight, but what Dumbledore had taken away was sothing else entirely: Regulus’s attitude toward magic itself.
Total pragmatism. No boundaries.
When discussing flight, the boy had drawn naturally on Muggle research into how objects moved through air, setting Muggle principles and magical laws on the sa plane, using both without distinction.
His mind held no partition between this belongs to the magical domain and that belongs to the Muggle domain. If it was useful, he took it. If it worked, he kept using it.
Teaching a Muggle-born witch to cast a Patronus. The act alone proved that in Regulus’s world, the line of blood status simply didn’t exist as a barrier.
What he saw was talent and potential. Whether soone was worth the investnt of his ti.
For a child raised at the heart of a Pure-blood family, reaching that understanding mattered more to Dumbledore than mastering any advanced magic.
But now that child sat across from him, saying he needed help.
Dumbledore followed the thread.
The Christmas banquet. Hosted by the Lestranges. Most of the Pure-blood inner circle would attend. The Blacks would go, and Regulus would go with them.
Among the adult wizards of those families, a handful were genuinely skilled, but not many.
Old Abraxas was one. Old Nott was another. Rowle had shown so ability in his younger days.
As for the Lestranges, their elders were gone. The younger ones weren’t much to speak of.
But even all of them combined wouldn’t make Regulus feel he needed an escape thod free of all restrictions.
Only one person made that sentence necessary.
Tom.
He removed his spectacles, wiped the lenses with the cuff of his robe, and put them back on.
When he looked at Regulus again, his gaze had softened. "How fast does the response need to be?"
"As fast as possible."
"How large an area?"
"Within England."
"Just you, or might you need to bring others?"
"Just ."
Regulus finished answering, lifted his teacup, took a sip, and set it down.
He knew Dumbledore had likely pieced it together, but neither of them would say it aloud. That was their understanding, and it had been there for a long ti.
Silence settled between them for a mont. Then Regulus spoke, his tone casual, as though making conversation. "Professor, if soone hasn’t been seen for a long ti, when they finally reappear... would they be different?"
Dumbledore was quiet for a beat. "I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a very long ti."
Regulus nodded and didn’t press further.
So Dumbledore didn’t know what Voldemort looked like now either.
That tracked. Even among the Death Eaters, not everyone could easily get an audience with him.
Perhaps there was a reason for that. Perhaps Voldemort was avoiding Dumbledore.
Whatever the cause, it represented a gap in Dumbledore’s information.
And the fact that Dumbledore was willing to admit that gap to his face was itself a form of trust.
Regulus knew more than Dumbledore did.
Voldemort was reshaping himself. His appearance had already begun to drift beyond the boundaries of human. His soul, fractured by the repeated creation of Horcruxes, had grown unstable.
But none of that could be shared. The source was impossible to explain.
If the holiday did bring him face to face with Voldemort, though, he could say sothing afterward. He’d have seen it with his own eyes, after all. And he was a boy of pure heart, naturally inclined to resist the dark.
Dumbledore didn’t press either. A log shifted in the fireplace. Steam from the teapot drifted between them.
Then Dumbledore leaned back and changed his tone, as though bringing up sothing unrelated.
"I’ve known so wizards. Brilliant wizards. They shared a common trait: they were extraordinarily good at preparing for the worst."
He watched Regulus, blue eyes glinting once behind the half-moon spectacles.
"Their fallback plans were impeccable. Every retreat accounted for, every possible danger matched with a contingency."
He continued. "And then they discovered that with all their exits so well-constructed, they’d barely moved forward at all."
His voice grew lighter. "But sotis, knowing soone is behind you, ready to catch you, makes the next step forward steadier."
Regulus’s hand paused on his teacup. He took a sip, set it down, and gave a small nod.
"Thank you, Professor." Gratitude in his voice, quiet and real.
He understood what Dumbledore was telling him. Courage.
Don’t spend all your ti building escape routes. The road ahead is ant to be walked.
And soone has your back.
But he wasn’t afraid. He was being thorough.
Retreat and advance didn’t conflict. Thinking through the exits ant he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder while moving forward.
He planned for the worst so he could fight for the best.
That wasn’t the opposite of courage. If anything, it was proof of it. He mapped the contingencies so precisely because he intended to push ahead.
Dumbledore tilted his head and looked toward the perch where Fawkes sat. His gaze lingered on the gold-and-crimson bird.
"The only thing in this room that can et your requirents," he said, "is him."
He began to talk about phoenixes.
A phoenix’s spatial travel was bound by nothing. Anti-Apparition Charms, the fidelius Charm, spatial lockdowns, none of them applied. The way a phoenix moved was fundantally different from Apparition. A different chanism entirely.
Who a phoenix chose to help depended not on a wizard’s power or standing, but solely on the phoenix’s own judgnt.
It could see what wizards couldn’t.
"So this isn’t my decision to make." Dumbledore looked at Regulus, a trace of amusent at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps you’d like to have a word with him?"
Regulus raised an eyebrow and rose from the chair.
He walked to the perch. Fawkes drew his head from beneath his wing, eyes fixing on him.
Two creatures regarded each other.
Up close, Regulus felt it: the warmth in that gaze.
Not heat. A steady current flowing from Fawkes toward him, neither blinding nor burning, but unmistakable.
The phoenix was watching him. With his eyes, and with sothing beyond eyes.
Regulus knew phoenixes could see souls.
So what was Fawkes seeing now?
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