The door was locked, which should not have been as surprising as he found it; after all, this was hardly the first time, and they quite deserved it. Hadn’t all of last night proven that they weren’t to be trusted? That they would go against their parents’ rules and wishes as if it were nothing? It was only natural that Mother and Father therefore moved on to harsher methods, more foolproof ones, to keep himself and his brother safe. So why was he so annoyed about it still? He wasn’t particularly hungry, nor was he overly concerned about missing breakfast. He could easily call Kreacher if he did get hungry. He also didn’t need the toilet yet. And he was sure Father would fetch him in time for their lessons – he could go then. And he could see Father then, and Mother, and Sirius. It wasn’t that he was going to be along forever.
Sighing, he got up from his bed again, upon which he had let himself fall face-down after finding the door locked. He walked over to his wardrobe, opened it, and pulled out some robes at random. Kreacher had done away with all his old ones a while ago – before Christmas, even – but he missed them now more than ever. They had been more comfortable. They had been his for ages. Yes, they had been short (very short, in the end more like knee-length, and rather tight in places, too), but what did it matter, on days like these? He wasn’t going anywhere. There was no reason to honour his name and look presentable when he was locked away in his bedroom.
Even so, he did not make the rules, and so he donned the robes, washed his face in the basin, brushed his teeth and combed his hair, and then put on one of his more boring hats. He slipped on his slippers and then he was done, and all that was left for him to do was wait until he would be let downstairs.
Half an hour passed. An hour. Another hour gone and Regulus grew restless. He paced his room for fifteen more minutes, then opened his desk and got out one of the studybooks Father had given him a few weeks ago. They had had an understanding, Father and he. If Regulus memorised the whole book, if he could recite it perfectly, and carry out what it said, then he would be allowed to write with his own quill pen, on real parchment, instead of using the slate and pencil he had been using for so long now. But that was before last night. Before Regulus had, once again, betrayed his parents’ trust. It was nearing midday and Father still hadn’t let Regulus out – was he cross? Was this more than a safety measure, but a punishment? Would he still be allowed to swap pencil for pen when this all was over? Or was this the end?
Those were the questions going through his mind as he skimmed the pages of the book. He knew it all. He had meant to go to Father today, and show him just how well he knew the book. But now …
Take quill from a goose, that is somewhat round,
The third or fourth in wing to be found,
And if sometimes of those none come to hand,
Take pinion as next, when Raven’s quill is scant,
And rive it just in the back as may be,
For ragged your slit else you shall see,
Amidst the slip that runs up the quill,
Were it of gander, then it will not spill.
The feather shave off, the quill do not pare,
The stronger your pen in hand you may bear.
Make slit without teeth, your pen good and hard:
Thinner, and shorter, on right hand regard:
The slit somewhat long, the nib somewhat short,
Then take it in hand in most comely sort.
Your thumb on your pen as highest bestow,
The forefinger next, the middle below:
And holding it thus in most comely guise,
Your breast from the board if that you be wise,
Your body upright, stoop not with your head,
Lest you take harm when you are well fed.
Over and over again he read it. Over and over again in the hope that, when Father did come, he would be impressed.
He was just about the move on to the next section, on making ink, when he heard the lock of the door click. He turned his head in time to see his father appear in the doorway.
Regulus shot to his feet at once, the book snapping shut between his hands. He held it against his chest, suddenly unsure whether he ought to look eager or contrite. Father stepped inside without speaking, closing the door behind him and looking at Regulus in a way that made his stomach twist.
Regulus straightened his back and tried to look as though he had been doing something worthwhile, something proper, something that would make Father believe he had not wasted the morning.
“I see you are awake,” Father said at last. “And dressed.”
“Yes, Father.”
Father’s gaze flicked to the book in his hands. “And you have been studying.”
Regulus nodded. “I—I know it all, Father. I was going to show you today. Before—before ...” he did not finish his sentence; a faint crease appeared between Father’s brows, though whether it was displeasure or thoughtfulness, Regulus could not tell, but he did not want to worsen it by picking the wrong words to describe his current situation.
“The door was locked because your mother and I needed assurance that neither you nor your brother would attempt to leave your rooms before we had spoken with you.”
Regulus’s heart sank. So it was punishment for last night. He lowered his eyes, gripping the book tighter.
“Look at me, Regulus.”
Reluctantly, he looked up again. But Father's expressionless face betrayed nothing.
“You were not confined because we doubt your loyalty. You were confined because you acted without thought. Because you placed yourself — and this family — at risk. That must never happen again.”
Regulus nodded, though shame prickled hot beneath his skin. “I understand, Father.”
“Do you?” Father stepped closer, and Regulus felt the weight of his presence like a hand on his shoulder. “Understanding is not merely knowing the rule. It is knowing why the rule exists. It is knowing what your actions mean. It is knowing what they cost.”
Regulus’s throat tightened. He wanted to say he did know, that he had thought of nothing else all morning, that he had replayed every moment of last night until he felt sick with it. But the words died in his chest.
Father held out his hand.
“Give me the book.”
Regulus hesitated.
“You said you have memorised it, did you not?”
“Yes, Father. I – I have –”
“Then you do not need it any longer.”
Regulus looked back at the book. Then, again, at Father. He hesitated a heartbeat longer, then placed the book in Father's hand. Father tucked it away at once.
“Come,” Father said then, extending his arm a second time. “Kreacher has a good brunch ready for you. And after, you and I will speak further about what you learnt from that handy little book.”
Regulus’s breath left him in a rush — relief, dread, hope, all tangled together.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, stepping into the open space beside him. Father's arm was heavy as it lay around his shoulders, steering him downstairs, but Regulus wouldn't want it any other way.
He had been sitting there for quite some time – long enough that his back ached and his stomach had begun to make its own complaints – when the handle of his door moved, and clicked, and the door swung open. Father stood in the doorway, already dressed, entirely himself, holding a tray. Regulus closed the book and stood up. He tried to compose his face into something neutral and found he couldn't quite manage it, so he settled for looking at the tray instead. There was a plate of toast, and a cup of something warm. Father came in and set the tray on the desk, and then he stood there looking at Regulus for a moment, and Regulus stood there looking at the tray, and waited. 'Sit,' said Father. He sat. Father looked at the book he was still holding. He held it out, and Father took it, turning it over in his hands without opening it, as though taking its measure from the outside. 'You've been reading,' Father said. 'Yes, sir.' 'What page?' 'The pen one,' said Regulus, and then thought that sounded imprecise and added, 'Chapter one. On making a quill. And the chapter on ink preparation. And the chapter on the angle of the elbow.' He paused. 'I went back to the beginning after that. I was going to read the whole thing again.' Father turned the book over once more, set it down on the desk beside the tray, and was quiet in the particular way that meant he was thinking about what to say next. Regulus waited some more. 'Do you know why the door was locked?' Father asked at last. 'Because of last night, sir.' 'And?' Regulus thought about it. 'Because of the other times. Before last night. Because we – because Sirius and I keep leaving when we've been told to stay, and you and Mother can't trust that we won't do it again, so.' He looked at his hands. 'So you have to make sure we can't.' Father looked at him steadily. It was not a comfortable feeling, being looked at that way. It was the kind of look that saw everything, the kind that had no use for what you said and made its own judgements based entirely on what it found. 'Eat your breakfast,' Father said. Regulus ate his breakfast, perched on the edge of the desk chair, while Father remained standing, and for a while neither of them said anything. The toast was going cold but he ate it obediently, washing each bite down with the warm drink, which turned out to be the sweet milky tea Kreacher made when one of them had had a bad night. He hadn't been sure Father knew about Kreacher's bad-night tea. 'Do you know what happened last night?' Father asked, when Regulus was nearly done. 'A man named Weasley came with two Mudbloods from the Ministry.' He glanced up. 'They said they were acting on a tip. You used Memory Charms on them when they were leaving, so they think they searched the house and found nothing, so they won't come back.' Father said, 'Correct. And do you understand what that means?' Regulus turned it over carefully in his mind, the way Father had taught him to do before answering questions he wasn't sure of. 'It means they were looking for something,' he said. 'Something in the house. And they didn't find it, which means it's safe. For now.' He hesitated. 'But someone told them it was here. Which means someone knows. Which means they might tell someone else, and if enough people know –' 'Enough,' said Father, but he said it the way he said very good, not the way he said stop talking. He moved to the door again and then paused with his hand on the frame, looking back. 'I want you to be able to tell me how to make a pen correctly. In your own words, without the book. I'll hear it this afternoon.' Regulus put his cup down. 'I know it already, sir. I've known it for –' 'I know when you learned it. I'm asking you to know it still this afternoon, after this morning, which was not, I suspect, the most restful of mornings.' He looked at Regulus steadily. 'You will get your quill, Regulus. That hasn't changed.' He said it in the tone of someone who considered the matter settled, and then he was gone. His footsteps moved away down the landing, unhurried and even, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all, as though it were simply a Tuesday morning, which it was, in point of fact. Regulus sat for a moment, his hands folded in his lap, looking at the empty doorway. Then he took the book back up, turned to page one, and read it again. Not because he needed to. Only because this afternoon was still a long way off, and there were worse ways to spend the morning than knowing something so well it could not be taken from you. Father nodded and steered him towards his desk. ‘Show me what you’ve learnt from that book I gave you.’ Regulus sat down and noticed at once that on the desk lay a quill that wasn’t yet a pen and the inkwell beside it was empty. He looked at his father, uncertain of what to do, but got no confirmation from him. So he picked up both knife and quill and shaved off the fibres, and put it in water. Then he moved on to the cauldron that stood in the corner of the room, and collected the ingredients he needed from the shelf beside it. He was making ink for parchment, he noted, looking back at the scroll on his desk to be sure, so he needed half a pint each of water, wine and vinegar, and he mixed them together in a little pot he also found upon the shelf. Then he took oak galls, six ounces of them, and took them back to his desk and beat them until they were small powder, then put them through a sieve and let them go into the cauldron, adding half of the mixture of water and wine and vinegar to it. He glanced up at Father as he moved back to the shelf to retrieve the copperas, but Father’s face was unreadable and did not give away if he was making a mistake or doing the right thing. Father did not move at all as he beat his copperas into fine powder and took four ounces of it. Father did nothing, and yet followed his every move. He shuddered as he put the beaten copperas powder into another separate pot he found on the shelf and added half of the remaining water-wine-vinegar mixture onto it. Father’s eyes on him felt judging and it was as though he looked right through him. To the remaining water-wine-vinegar mixture he added the gum, four ounces of it, and then stirred them all and covered them all, still under the watchful eye of his father. ‘I … I think I’m done?’ he muttered, sitting back at his desk after all that. ‘Are you?’ ‘I’m supposed to let it sit now, aren’t I?’ ‘Do not ask me, Regulus. Decide for yourself. You know this.’ ‘Then I’ll let it sit for the rest of the day,’ he said, firmer now. ‘And I’ll boil the galls tomorrow, and the quill as well. Not boil it, I mean, finish it. Not that the ink will be finished tomorrow, but...’ Father smiled. ‘Well done, son. I see you’ve spent your time wisely.’ Regulus decided not to tell him it had been out of sheer boredom that he’d read the book that often, and nodded in agreement. In the days that followed, he finished his ink and set about shaping his quill into a pen – something Father helped him with to ensure it would stand out, that it would befit a Black, that it would be more elegant than what the common folk used. There were two ways to achieve this: either by leaving some of the feathers intact or by dyeing the quill a striking colour. Since Regulus had only ever written with fashionable quills (those that showed off the finest feathers of the most beautiful birds), he was far more interested in the dyed option. Thus, they stripped the quill of all its feathers, and rubbed it with a woollen cloth (so the quill would be smooth) and cut off a little of the end of the quill so the colour could enter into it and dye it fully. Then came the waiting: the quill had to be soaked in alum water for half a day. It was a test of patience, something that had never been Regulus’ strong suit, but certainly wasn’t now, not even after weeks upon weeks of it being tested, trained, with him sitting out his punishment in his room. But what choice did he have but wait? To argue would be foolish. Not only was there no way it would speed things up, he also risked being locked away again if he stepped out of line. And so he waited. And he waited. And he waited the full half day it took, and then, filled with excitement, assisted Father in the next step: removing the quill from the water and drying it with a cloth, and placing it in a wooden board designed specifically for drying quills. ‘And now we wait another half-day again,’ Father said, moving away from the board. ‘Again?!’ Regulus snapped, his patience breaking for half a second, his tact leaving with it. ‘Can’t we just magic them a different colour?’ Father shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t last the same if we did it by magic,’ he explained. ‘But why must it take so long?’ he whinged. ‘I want my quill now!’ But Father simply shook his head again, and said he didn’t understand. ‘Then explain it to me, Father, please!’ ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ And with that, he was sent back to his room. He paced the room, hands clenched into fists. Had he ruined everything? Would Father make him wait weeks again? The thought made his stomach twist. He had been impatient. Ungrateful, even. Perhaps being made to wait weeks was what he deserved. He shouldn’t be rewarded for this sort of behaviour with a beautifully dyed quill. And yet, when morning came, Father didn’t seem cross at all. He wasn’t made to stay in his room. He was taken downstairs for breakfast and then they went back to the study. Together, they dyed the quill a bright green, and, at last, it was his to keep. He showered his father in praise and gratitude and promised wholeheartedly to never leave the house ever again – without permission, that was – and to be a far better son than he’d ever been before. And he meant it. More than that, he kept his word. He was determined to prove himself worthy, to show that he could be trusted. Oddly enough, he wasn’t the only one making an effort. Just a week later, when he and Sirius were brought downstairs at the same time, for the first time in ages, for the first time since before the punishment, it became clear that he had a similar resolution. He was on his best behaviour, and this “best behaviour” was better than he had been in, well, forever. He didn’t even talk back – not even once! Regulus was glad to see it. Not just glad, he was relieved to hear that Sirius had finally let go of his silly ideas about running away. Clearly, he had come to his senses, and that could only be a good thing.