The mention of the name, "Blake," sliced through the sleek, sterile atmosphere of the villa like a physical blow. Bay White—no, Regulus Black—went utterly still.
The rich, white smoke from his cigar, which had previously been curling into neat rings, stalled and then slowly diffused, mirroring the sudden disruption in his composure. He didn't reply, simply drawing a long, thoughtful drag from the tobacco, his eyes fixed on the distant ceiling, lost in the echoing hallways of a past he had painstakingly tried to brick up.
Sebastian allowed the silence to deepen, observing his friend with the same meticulous patience he employed when waiting for a complex alchemical reaction to complete. He knew every fissure and fault line in the psyche of the man across from him.
This was not a business partner; this was a deeply personal, calculated investment in loyalty and genius forged in the heat of near-death trauma.
The man sitting opposite him was a ghost of the most ancient and aristocratic bloodline in the wizarding world. Regulus Arcturus Black, younger son of the disgraced House of Black.
Sebastian's mind drifted, reviewing the tragic, twisted path that had led Regulus here. He remembered the boy who had initially joined the Death Eaters not out of true malice or fervent belief in blood purity, but out of a misguided sense of familial obligation and aristocratic pride.
Regulus, the sixteen-year-old, had felt the crushing weight of his mother's expectation, the need to restore the Black name's prestige after his brother, Sirius, had been publicly disowned for his defiance.
Sebastian, who had been an unlikely confidant despite his own rivalry with Sirius (fueled, of course, by the perpetual feud over Severus Snape), had recognized Regulus's complexity early on. Their friendship was rooted in shared Slytherin traits: ambition, calculation, and a profound, if cynical, understanding of power dynamics.
"To truly understand a person, Regulus, you must not only listen to what they preach, but observe where their conscience bleeds," Sebastian had advised him repeatedly.
Regulus had held onto that counsel, even as he wore the Dark Mark. His moral descent had been a calculated political move, not a conversion of the soul. This allowed Sebastian to maintain their secret liaison, offering a safe harbor outside the pureblood political battlefield.
The true breaking point had arrived when Regulus realised Voldemort's 'pure-blood ideal' was merely a shallow pretext for cruel, dictatorial, and ultimately half-blood-driven tyranny. The shame of his betrayal was compounded by the devastating truth: he had been a useful idiot for a monster.
It was the despair of that disillusionment that finally drove Regulus to Sebastian's door. He hadn't confessed his Mark or his sins; he had simply presented a soul ravaged by self-hatred.
Sebastian knew what was coming. He knew Regulus, true to his tragic, self-sacrificial nature, would seek to destroy the one secret that could fell the Dark Lord. It was too late to fully extract him from the web, so Sebastian had done the next best thing: he had prepared for the inevitability of the Horcrux quest.
"If you ever stumble upon the secret to the Dark Lord's permanence," Sebastian had whispered to his friend during a clandestine meeting, his eyes intense, "you are to view it not as a burden to be borne, but as a weapon to be shared. You will not face that shadow alone. I will assume half the cost of that knowledge."
The caution had been a veiled promise. Sebastian had then located Kreacher, the Black family's devoted house-elf, and used a powerful, yet non-damaging, compulsion charm to ensure Kreacher would prioritize Regulus's physical survival above all else, should the boy face imminent, magical danger, while maintaining loyalty to the family.
The charm paid off spectacularly. When a tear-streaked Kreacher had Apparated into Sebastian's private study, clutching a poisoned vial and sobbing the location of the coastal cave, Sebastian had reacted instantly.
He had arrived not a moment too soon. The cave was a vision of aquatic horror. Regulus, weakened by the Inferi's poisoned draught, was being dragged toward the frigid, black depths by a tangle of grasping, corpse-like hands.
Sebastian remembered the sheer, panicked effort it had taken. He didn't use flashy spells; he relied on sheer, sustained alchemical fire and anti-Dark Arts shielding to hold the tide of Inferi at bay long enough to haul the poisoned, semi-conscious boy to safety.
The physical healing had been a protracted nightmare. Regulus's blood was saturated with the Dark Lord's protection poison—a relentless, slow-acting compound designed to induce maximum psychological distress. But the physical poison was nothing compared to the mental trauma.
For weeks, Regulus was a shell—a walking corpse in Sebastian's hidden infirmary. The horrors of the Inferi, the crushing weight of his misplaced family loyalty, the guilt over his Mark, and the shame of his failure had rendered him clinically catatonic. Conventional mental magic wouldn't work; his mind had retreated into a fortified, self-hating loop.
Sebastian realized he couldn't heal the body until he had offered the soul a purpose worthy of the cost. He didn't offer comfort; he offered an ideal.
He spoke to the unresponsive Regulus for hours, not about forgiveness or redemption, but about the future he was building: a future where the distinction between Muggle and wizard was obsolete, where magical people could thrive openly, not out of secrecy, but out of cultural saturation.
He described a world where the power of the Black family could be transformed into the power of narrative and influence, a world built on rational, Muggle systems that the old guard couldn't touch.
Regulus had slowly, painfully, responded to the magnitude of the vision. It was a new kind of pureblood honour—the honour of building a kingdom outside the crumbling edifice of the Ministry. It pulled him back from the abyss, giving him a reason to survive.
He chose exile. He chose the Muggle world, where his shame was meaningless and his power could be rebuilt in secret. He chose the name Bay White—a complete rejection of his former identity, a stark, clinical absence of the 'Black' shadow.
Regulus finally extinguished his cigar, crushing the butt with a sharp, decisive twist in the crystal ashtray. The smoke had cleared, and the ghost was forced back into the room.
"Don't call me Black," Regulus said, his voice flat, his gaze heavy with an eleven-year burden. "Call me White. Black is a name that belongs to the limestone of that cave and the drowned corpses at the bottom of the water. He was a fool who nearly died serving a false god."
He leaned back, the image of the ruthless venture capitalist returning, overlaid with a profound melancholy.
"Maybe one day, when I've earned the right to look that boy in the eye, I'll take the name Black back. But not today. Today, I am simply White, the man who manages the balance sheets and ensures the Ministry remains utterly blind to our financial reality."
His expression shifted, a flicker of the old Slytherin fire returning. "I genuinely appreciate the framework you drew for me, Sebastian. I needed an ideal greater than myself, and the concept of ushering the wizarding world into the sunlight through Muggle culture… it's a brilliant, compelling crusade. It is why I work so obsessively. I rather enjoy being White, the invisible hand of global finance. It's a role with real, tangible power, unmarred by silly house rivalries."
Sebastian nodded, accepting the boundary. "Very well, White. But we must address Kreacher."
At the mention of the house-elf, Regulus's composure cracked, revealing a deep, lingering vein of guilt.
"Kreacher," he repeated softly. "That was the hardest decision, and it still weighs on me. Yes, I gave consent to the memory wipe, but only because I couldn't bear to leave him with the trauma of the cave, nor the knowledge of my cowardice, nor the certainty of my death."
He ran a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "We fabricated the memory of my glorious, pure-blood death—the myth that he could cling to. If he came here, if we restored his true memories, he would discover I simply abandoned my post and my name. He would feel shame and an obligation to serve the shameful ghost. He's finally free to live an easier life, free of a master who makes him wade into poisoned lakes for objects of Dark Magic."
"He is a house-elf, White. His definition of an 'easier life' is likely doing your dry cleaning and worrying about your nutritional intake," Sebastian observed drily, knowing this was Regulus's final, lingering act of self-punishment.
Regulus offered a weak, sad smile. "Perhaps. But until I am ready to step back onto a platform and declare myself a wizard again—a Black who can genuinely redeem the name—Kreacher remains better off believing his master died a hero's death. I am a Muggle now. House-elves serve wizards, not bank managers. It's cleaner this way."
He inhaled deeply, the moment of emotional vulnerability passing as quickly as it had arrived. He snapped his fingers, a sound of finality that echoed the decisive snap of his self-imposed exile.
"That is the price of this new life, Sebastian. The past is compartmentalized. Now, let's talk business. As the Muggles say, 'Time is money,' and we are wasting a considerable quantity of both."
Regulus, the financial architect, straightened in his chair. The former Death Eater had vanished. The tragic young Black was buried. Now, only the formidable Bay White remained, his eyes alight with the strategic hunger of a man who saw the grand ideal Sebastian had provided, and was ready to conquer the world to achieve it.
"Tell me about the Phase Two launch schedule," White demanded, reaching for a notepad. "We have to ensure our initial literary and film releases are not merely successful, but culturally disruptive."