“Kill them.”
Regulus lifts his wand at the man before him, his wrists bound behind his back and blood dripping down his chin. After a few rounds of the cruciatus curse, the man is weary, but his eyes are defiant as their gazes lock, and the man sends him the same look he gets from all of his victims. They think you won’t do it, a voice in his head says. They think you’re too weak. Prove them wrong, Regulus, the voice supplies.
There’s a hollowness in Regulus’ eyes as he casts the killing curse. There’s no excitement, no rage, no hesitation. He doesn’t even blink when the green light emerges from the tip of his wand. Doesn’t flinch when it reaches its target. He does nothing as the body drops to the floor with a heavy thud. Regulus turns to his next victim, watching as the realisation hits them, and then he does it again. And again.
It’s not until they are all dead that Regulus takes a good look at them. There are three of them. A man and a woman, most likely in their late forties, and beside them, slumped on the side with wide eyes, is a familiar face.
Regulus lets his eyes sink shut for just a moment, a sliver of guilt rising from somewhere within himself. He opens his eyes again and takes one last look at her before disapparating from the residence and back to the Dark Lord’s headquarters.
Voldemort waits for him and the others at the head of the table. One by one they appear and take their seats. Victory laughter and muffled conversations reach Regulus’ ears but he doesn’t hear any of it. He has drifted off into a state between guilt and shame, perhaps both, even a flicker of sadness makes its appearance and Regulus has to swallow it down with force.
“Regulus.”
His head snaps up and he meets his Lord’s piercing gaze.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“The mission. How did it go?”
“The McKinnons are dead,” Regulus confirms, trying to keep his voice steady, although his heart is racing. “I killed them all.”