Part II
In an altogether unusual turn of events, Regulus is running. If he weren’t so out of breath, he’d laugh: Sirius is the runner of the two Black brothers, not Regulus.
But as it was, Regulus was the one panting like a dog - which admittedly wasn’t the best idea considering there was a werewolf on his tail. It wasn’t even a full moon, but then, he supposes there are potions for that kind of thing. Potions, Regulus knows, that Voldemort keeps a hefty supply of, so the werewolves in his ranks remain feral and easy to manipulate.
Regulus wonders if the werewolves know they’re just pawns in the Dark Lord’s game, that instead of making their own choices, they’re acting on the whim of some maniac who really couldn’t give less of a fuck about werewolf rights. But some people are just that stupid, so Regulus supposes he’ll never know.
He keeps running, the branches of the trees surrounding him whipping his cheeks, the wind rushing cold against his ears. He can still hear the wolf pounding behind him, steadily catching up as Regulus loses stamina, and Regulus wishes that he can take a break for a minute, catch his breath and apparate to the abandoned farmhouse that’s become his home in these past long months. There’s just no time.
There never seems to be enough time.
Regulus keeps running, praying for a calm stream or something that he can run in and mask his scent so he can lose track of the wolf following him. He knows there are several around, small tributaries leading into the - frankly terrifying - river that runs through these woods. It’s the kind of river you hear horror stories about; Regulus has spent many nights alone reading about the one-hundred-percent fatality rate, the way the current sweeps your feet from under you and washes you away, never to be seen again.
He can just barely hear it in the distance, the thundering rush of the current, the way the magic in the area seems to thrum around it, dark and heavy with all the lives it has taken.
Regulus stumbles. He can hear it.
Fuck.
The really shitty thing is that’s his only option. For a brief second, he wishes that he wasn’t so hesitant. Regulus has a family, people to live for, people who would miss him if he died.
But the thing about his family is just that: he would die for them.
Regulus turns, narrowly avoiding a tree, and runs in the direction of the river.
***
“Why are you so fascinated with death?” James asks one night when they’re curled up in bed together, while Regulus is in the middle of reading a muggle novel about death in the aftermath of the second World War.
Regulus would be annoyed - he generally hates when someone interrupts his reading and James knows it - but he had hit a good stopping point and sleep was starting to creep at the edges of his consciousness, so Regulus allows the question.
“I don’t know,” he says after taking a few seconds to mull it over. He places the book on his bedside table and pulls the lever on his lamp, casting the room in something that’s not-quite darkness, the light of the moon creeping through the curtains and only just allowing them to see. “I think when you grow up expecting to die, it becomes more of a comfort than something to fear.”
At James’ disturbed look, Regulus chuckles. “I’m sure Sirius would say something similar - although I think he’d laugh in the face of death.”
James’ frown deepens. “That’s kinda fucked, Reg,” he murmurs, and Regulus shrugs.
“That’s how it is.”
James hums, wrapping his arms around Regulus’ stomach and resting his head on Regulus’ chest. “You know you’re not allowed to die, right?”
“I know,” Regulus murmurs. It sends a pang of something - guilt, maybe sadness - through Regulus’ chest. He can’t promise that, and James knows it. James can’t promise it either.
The truth is the war has made it so that any promises they’ve made in the last three years have become nullified, with rushed substitutions taking their place: Regulus wanted a spring wedding, and while he wouldn’t change what happened for the world, he did wonder what it would have been like to have actually planned their ceremony.
But weddings were one thing. They could have a vow renewal whenever they want after the war is done, throw that big party he and James both wanted to have, with their families and friends surrounding them.
When it comes to Harry, though, they can’t remake memories. They can show their families and friends, of course, through the old pensieve hiding in the study in their cottage, but that won’t change the fact that Harry doesn’t know his grandparents. He doesn’t know about his gaggle of aunts and how he’s missing on bonding with them.
There is always time after the war, Regulus supposes. Things to do when Harry’s older and able to process more things. Lily will teach him how to study, Marlene can teach him how to be tough. Dorcas can teach him to be cunning, but careful with it, and Mary can teach him how to develop his own style.
Effie and Monty Potter would just smother him with affection, and each and every one of them would be there for Harry when he inevitably got into it with his parents.
That’s probably the cruellest part of this war, Regulus thinks. He never had people to love him as a child, with the exception of Sirius. Harry has an abundance of people to love him, but they can’t.
***
The sound of the river gets closer and closer as Regulus runs. His breath has long left him, and save for the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, steady and strong, he would think he was close to dying. He can still hear the werewolf hunting him, the thundering of his paws as he pounds against the forest floor, the cracking of fallen tree limbs under his feet.
The river, when Regulus spots it, looks more like a babbling creek than anything. The water appears to tumble gently over smooth rocks worn by time. Moss-covered stones line the shores, making the place feel like something out of a book. To the unsuspecting stranger, no one would expect that hundreds have died beneath these waters.
It’s the perfect trap.
The trouble is: Regulus is just as liable to fall for it as the wolf.
He studies the water, fully aware of both the danger that lies beneath it and the danger above the surface. It seems thin enough, Regulus thinks. He could be able to jump over it if he has a running start.
He sucks in a breath, carefully backing up, before running to the water.
He leaps.
Just as his feet hit the opposite bank, Regulus can hear the werewolf skid to a stop on the other side of the river. He turns around just in time to see the werewolf slip on the mossy stones and fall in.
Regulus doesn’t wait to see if the werewolf turns up downstream, knowing full well he’s just become another body to add to the count, and all Regulus feels is a sharp sense of relief that it wasn’t him the water took.
Regulus supposes he should feel guilty; it’s not the first person he’s killed in these five short months, and it definitely won’t be the last. He’s been ruthless in his quest, letting the edges James had once smoothed sharpen once more, carving out a little hole in his chest where he keeps his longing for his family tucked away. He’s killed and maimed and tortured all for the sake of a potential happy ending, to end this war once and for all.
Regulus remembers the day Dumbledore came to retrieve him well, the look of righteous fury on James’ face, the bitter rage rising in his own. In the end, Regulus doesn’t regret - will never regret - the way he jumped at the opportunity to go in James’ place. Because, at the end of the day, James is ultimately kind. He doesn’t carry that same darkness in him that comes from years and years of hate scraping at your soul, and Regulus never wants him to.
Regulus never lied when he told James and Dumbledore that it wouldn’t be out of character for him to infiltrate Voldemort’s ranks, but he also never told the full truth, either.
What he didn’t tell James is that there’s this darkness inside Regulus, the kind that comes from centuries of anger bred into him, the kind that was once synonymous with the Black name. He didn’t tell James that Regulus didn’t think James could do it, didn’t think James could make himself hurt someone, even if it was for the greater good. And even if James could, Regulus wouldn’t want him to have to.
James doesn’t have a mean bone in his body; he cries whenever a bug dies in his tea, he can’t listen to ads on the radio about animal shelters because each time he does, he spends hours wearing a frown. And Regulus can’t take that, can’t ask James to hurt himself through hurting someone else, so Regulus will shoulder the burden himself.
Regulus will do anything to preserve James’ smile, to save that intrinsic goodness that Regulus loves so much.
Regulus has known it from the first day he laid eyes on his husband: Regulus will burn the world for James Potter.
***
The first place Regulus goes after he leaves James and Harry is Hogwarts.
It’s strange being back here now that he’s older. The corridors still thrum with the footsteps of students scurrying to classes, their chatter bouncing off the high ceilings and echoing back to them. If Regulus closes his eyes, it’s like he’s back in school. He’s the student rushing to class, laughing as James pulls him into a corner and distracts him with a kiss.
It feels discordant with the environment outside of the school - or even the way it had felt in Regulus’ final years at Hogwarts - where the air feels thick and heavy with the weight of the war. But here, in Hogwarts, the only things students have to truly worry about are what their friends are doing, whether or not they’ll get caught for that prank they did last week, who’s shagging whom. The weight of the world might be hanging over their heads, but the school itself acts as a bubble where children are allowed to be children for their tenure as students.
It wasn’t that way when he was in school. How fucked is that? How fucked is it that Regulus now finds himself jealous of a bunch of sixteen year olds?
The truth is they were supposed to have been protected. Kids are perceptive: they would have known about the war just as these students surely do now. But they shouldn’t have gotten involved when they did. Sirius and James and Remus and their gaggle of Gryffindors shouldn’t have been conned into joining the Order when they were seventeen. Regulus shouldn’t have had so much pressure to take the mark when he was sixteen. It didn’t matter that he wound up fucking off to live with his brother at the Potters’; it should never have happened in the first place.
And, to an extent, Regulus can excuse the pressure his parents put on him. They were already terrible, fucked up people; it made sense they would do that. But Regulus can’t get over the anger he feels when he thinks of James and Sirius and Remus, who should have been protected by Dumbledore and the adults in their lives.
Regulus watches the students rush past him and sighs. He has many things to be angry about, but anger would do him no good here. He turns his gaze to the large gargoyle standing guard in front of Dumbledore’s office and pauses.
He’d always thought the gargoyle was stupid. It’d been here since Hogwarts’ inception all those centuries ago, but the level of pomp that went with having a gargoyle standing outside your door is better associated with that of a king, not a headmaster. But then, maybe it was perfect for Albus Dumbledore, who did act as if he were a king.
Regulus had always had issues with Dumbledore. He had always thought Dumbledore knew what it was like in Grimmauld Place growing up, had always seen the marks that Regulus and Sirius would return to school with at the end of each holiday. Maybe the old man couldn’t do anything because they were purebloods and their family held too much power, but Regulus remembers seeing other students with similar marks on their bodies. Muggleborns and halfbloods and purebloods outside of the Sacred Twenty-Eight who went through the same things Regulus and Sirius did growing up, and still, Dumbledore did nothing.
Regulus is all for self-preservation; he has and will do terrible, awful things to keep himself and his family alive, but he also was just a kid when he roamed the halls of Hogwarts. He was a child who needed help, and he was failed.
That history, compounded by how Dumbledore has separated Regulus from his family under the bullshit guise of ‘the greater good’ and his defensive anger for his Gryffindors, causes a quiet rage to simmer in the pit of Regulus’ stomach as he stands at the gargoyle’s feet and stares at the beast. How much more will Regulus have to give up?
The gargoyle turns to him, peering over his beak with eyes too wise to fit a statue. “State the purpose of your visit,” it says, and Regulus fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“I’m here to receive my mission from Dumbledore.”
Regulus tries not to show his surprise when that’s all it takes for the gargoyle to swivel to the side, revealing a staircase. He was half expecting for the gargoyle to be something like the sphinxes in Egypt: answer this riddle and you may pass; get the answer wrong and you shall die. It makes sense in retrospect. This is a school, and Dumbledore can’t have students just dropping dead whenever they can’t see him. But, at the same time, Regulus can’t help but think that this is a school, and students should be able to see their headmaster whenever they please without an obstacle blocking their path.
Regulus ascends the staircase and emerges in Dumbledore’s office. The portraits of each headmaster in the school’s history stare at him as he steps deeper into the room, whispering among themselves. There’s a perch sitting empty, a pile of ashes filling the tray beneath it. Regulus knows what it means, but a part of him aches. A phoenix is a magical creature like any other; it belongs in the wild, not in a cage shaped like a headmaster’s office.
That’s what Dumbledore does. He takes shiny powerful things and keeps them for his own use, nevermind the pain it causes those around him. Regulus is glad the phoenix is absent, as wonderful as it would be to see one in person. He doesn’t think he could take seeing his mirror weeping in its cage.
“Mr. Black,” Dumbledore calls as he enters the room. Regulus turns to face him, notes the shadowed corner Dumbledore is walking away from, and figures that must be where his quarters are. “I did not expect to see you so soon.”
Regulus scoffs. “You knew as soon as you cast your shadow on our doorstep one of us would follow a day or two after. Don’t lie to me, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore hums. “It’s interesting,” he says calmly, drifting across the room to take a seat in the plush armchair behind his desk. “I never expected you and Mr. Potter to last outside of these halls.”
“I’m full of surprises,” Regulus shoots back, bitter. He sits in the chair laid out on the other side of the desk. It’s uncomfortable, and Regulus notes the power in that. Still, he maintains his posture, watching Dumbledore watch him, keeping his emotions hidden.
It wouldn’t do for him to lay out his cards this early in the game, not when he doesn’t know what Dumbledore’s agenda is.
“Certainly,” Dumbledore mutters, shuffling some papers across his desk. “Well, I’m sure you’re here to get information about the horcruxes.”
“That is the point of my mission, isn’t it?”
Dumbledore sighs. “There’s no need for an attitude, Mr. Black. I’m simply stating your purpose.”
Regulus bites back a snarl. There’s every need for his attitude, and Dumbledore knows it. He’s been separated from his family - from his child - for an indeterminable amount of time, and Regulus will be damned if he’s calm about it. Outwardly, though, he can’t afford to be too emotional.
Dumbledore continues, blithely ignoring Regulus’ scowl. “Unfortunately, there’s not much. I can only give you information about who he was before he rose to power.”
“So you want me to do the work for you,” Regulus states tonelessly.
“Yes,” Dumbledore agrees cheerfully, humming when he finds the parchment he’s looking for. “This,” he says, holding the paper out between wrinkled fingers, “Is all of the information I have. Other than that, I expect you to keep me apprised of any progress you make in the field, and, of course, this must remain on a need-to-know basis.” He peers at Regulus over his glasses. “I don’t think I have to say that you cannot see your family on your mission.”
Regulus blinks, shakes his head. “No. I know.”
He knew going into this that he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. He knew he’d be giving up slow mornings with James, tucked away in their cottage. He knew he’d likely miss Harry’s first babbles, the first time he began to crawl. But knowing that and seeing the reality of it are two entirely different things, and it sends a sharp pain through Regulus’ chest like he’s never experienced before.
He’s been crucioed by his own mother and yet this is the most painful thing Regulus has had to do.
“It’s for the best, you see,” Dumbledore says, in a tone Regulus suspects is supposed to sound soothing. “The greater good.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything to that. He wonders if it shows on his face, how little he cares for the greater good. Every dictator in power has always said their actions are for the greater good. It’s just an excuse for inexcusable actions - if something is for the greater good, it doesn’t matter how that goodness is achieved.
It’s all bullshit.
Regulus doesn’t give a flying fuck about the greater good. What he does care for - what he’ll do anything for, no matter what, is his family. He’ll do whatever he can to get back to them, to see James, to see Harry.
He schools his expression to remain impassive, give nothing away. Secretly, he wonders what would happen if Dumbledore went and found the Horcruxes himself. He’d likely die, old bastard that he is, and probably in a gruesome way, too. The thought fills Regulus with some sort of glee.
“Right, then,” Regulus finally mutters, standing up. “Best get started.”
***
It’s when he’s destroying the sixth Horcrux that Regulus remembers he hasn’t updated Dumbledore in a while.. He doesn’t think the old man particularly cares; Regulus is simply a means to an end, a pawn in this endless game. The thing about pawns, though, is that they always need to be replaced once they’ve fallen.
It hasn't been so long they can pronounce him dead; it’s only been three weeks. The trouble is that Dumbledore would have sent his replacement out by now, and Regulus can’t have that. He’s made too much progress to have a random bumbling idiot at his feet, and Merlin knows the Order is full of them. This work is delicate; it requires patience, something the vast majority of the Order members do not possess.
If Regulus is being completely honest, he’s worked far too hard over these past five months to have some random person take all the credit. Regulus is the one who infiltrated Voldemort’s army, he’s the one who discovered five Horcruxes and destroyed them. He gave up his family to do this, and he’ll be damned if his replacement fucks it all up.
Regulus has done this all for his family, for himself. He’s done it for Harry, so he doesn’t grow up in a war-torn world.
Regulus can’t think about how much he’s missed in terms of Harry’s development. When Regulus was carrying him, he knew each new thing as it happened. The alien fluttering of Harry’s first movements, his kicks and the way Regulus’ belly moved with the force of Harry’s hiccups in utero. Regulus remembers the first time Harry cried, the way his little face wrinkled at the notion of being in the outside world, away from his father’s protection.
Now, Regulus doesn’t know if Harry has rolled over yet. He doesn’t know what Harry’s smile looks like, what colour his eyes finally settled on.
Selfishly, Regulus wishes Harry kept the silvery-green of his own eyes. He treasures the way Harry looks like James in miniature, but Regulus also wants something of his own to show in Harry’s face.
Mostly, though, he just wants to see Harry. Regulus wants to hold him, smell his baby-soft skin and hear his babbles. He wants to be in the same room as his child again and be comforted by the fact that Harry is close and safe.
And then there’s James.
James, who has probably been informed of Regulus’ supposed disappearance and who’s freaking out right now, with only Sirius and Remus to comfort him. James, who Regulus loves beyond all measure and reason, who doesn’t deserve that pain of not knowing where his husband is.
“Fuck,” Regulus mutters to himself, angrily kicking the burnt husk of the Horcrux. It goes flying, landing with a thump amidst the tall grass surrounding him. A sheep bleats indignantly.
He’s in a field somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It’s the best place to destroy these things, Regulus has found, far enough from civilization that no one will be affected by the dark magic exploding from the artefact after killing it, but still close enough that Regulus can pop by a muggle cafe and grab a coffee afterwards.
It’s strange, he thinks. He’s so close to Hogwarts, so close to the place he once considered home, and yet he can’t return until his mission is over.
He has one more Horcrux to kill.
Truthfully, he’s been putting it off. He knows where it is, courtesy of Kreacher, who had reported to Regulus as soon as he had hidden the thing. Kreacher had warned Regulus it was a death wish, going to the lake, and Regulus had sighed. He had known the minute Dumbledore had handed him the parchment that he would probably die on this mission, and the thought had only solidified in his mind when Kreacher told him of the locket and the cave.
Regulus had decided he would procrastinate then. Save the best for last. Kill all the other Horcruxes before this one, in the hope that maybe Kreacher was wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a lake of inferi waiting for him, maybe the cave was more like a divot in a cliffside. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the thing that finally kills him.
Regulus sighs. He wishes, for a second, that he could apparate home and see his family before he completes his task. He would like to die with a current image of them in his mind, without all of the what-ifs.
But it’s too dangerous. Regulus is too close to completing his task, and Voldemort has caught onto the fact that someone is on his trail. Regulus couldn’t bear to have someone trailing him only for them to follow him home just so he could get one last glimpse of his family.
So Regulus sighs, closes his eyes for a brief moment, bracing himself. He pushes away the sadness and fear swirling in his gut and focuses on the mission at hand. “Kreacher,” he murmurs, opening his eyes, and the elf appears with a crack.
Kreacher watches him with sad eyes, looking every minute his age. He’s served the Black family for centuries, he told Regulus once, when Regulus was a child, and Regulus was his favorite of the lot. It shoots a pang of guilt down Regulus’ spine, that Kreacher has to take part in this. That he has to watch - that he has to help - Regulus die.
“It’s time,” Regulus says tonelessly, and the elf nods his head.
They apparate with a sharp noise, and with it Regulus says his goodbyes.
***
It shouldn’t shock him, but Regulus is still surprised to see Narcissa at his first meeting with the Death Eaters. That’s the thing that occupies his mind as he takes the mark, as Voldemort loudly declares he’ll be keeping an eye on Regulus. It’s the thing that takes away the pain, to an extent, that sheer curiosity as to why his cousin would be here.
She has a son, he recalls, about Harry’s age. Regulus wonders if she feels the same deep-seated fear as he does, that they’ve brought children into this world.
Once, when they were children, she told him the best way to survive was to blend in. “Make sure no one sees you as a threat,” she had said, “and become the biggest threat you possibly can.”
It doesn’t bring Regulus any joy to see that she’s done it. As he feels her eyes on him, he can somehow tell she feels the same way.
In the end, she’s the one who tells him about the second Horcrux. It’s a month into his tenure as a Death Eater, and he’s only slowly managed to climb the ranks to Voldemort’s inner circle.
They’re at a party much like the ones Regulus’ parents had hosted when he was a child, all pomp and pressure. Each guest has attempted to suck up to Voldemort, trailing behind him like ducklings, begging for power or riches. Regulus undoubtedly sticks out like a sore thumb, huddled against a wall as he is, refusing to engage. He’s the picture of elegance as is, ever the Black heir, and his parents must be rolling in their graves for the knowledge that he’s a spy.
For people who think themselves so smart, so much better than the rest of society, the Death Eaters really are idiots.
Narcissa slinks up to his side at one point, resplendent in a periwinkle gown, and Regulus regards her with cool disinterest. “Cousin,” he acknowledges, and doesn’t say anything more.
“Cousin,” she greets, and takes up a post at his side. “Imagine my surprise you’ve finally joined the cause.”
“Quite,” Regulus quips.
“In fact,” she says, “I heard a rumor you shacked up with your blood-traitor brother and that Potter boy.” Regulus’s head turns sharply to look at her, unbidden, and her eyes widen briefly. “It’s true,” she breathes.
“Cissy -” Regulus can’t help the slip of the childhood nickname, fear flooding his veins.
Narcissa considers him, her cool blue eyes roaming over his body. “I knew it was strange you arrived so late,” she whispers. “You work for him don’t you? You’re a-”
“Cissy, don’t,” Regulus hisses, cutting her off. “It’s too dangerous for both of us.”
Narcissa hums. Briefly, she looks impressed, before she schools her expression into bored disinterest. “I don’t care what you do,” she finally whispers. “Just keep me and my son out of it.”
Regulus nods. “It’s a deal.”
Narcissa hums again, and Regulus turns back to face the crowd. Luckily, everyone’s been too busy fawning over Voldemort to notice the exchange. “We were asked a favour,” she murmurs.
“Anything interesting?”
“Keep a book in our library. Bella was asked to keep something in her vault at Gringott’s, too,” Narcissa scoffs, but Regulus can hear the pain behind it. Bellatrix had long ago abandoned her family for Voldemort, and has taken to berating Narcissa regularly for never having formally joined the cause. Regulus thinks it’s ridiculous; just because Narcissa doesn’t have a mark on her left forearm doesn’t mean it’s not clear where her allegiance lies.
But then he thinks of the information she just told him, and remembers the advice she gave him all those years ago. Narcissa is just doing what she can to survive. She always has been. Life’s just a long game to her, and while it saddens Regulus, he can’t pretend he’s not grateful.
“Thank you,” he says, and Narcissa just bows her head.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
***
The cave is dark when they get to it. Not the kind of dark that caves usually are, where the walls are shrouded in shadow and it’s hard to see. This cave is that - obviously, it is a cave after all - but the magic that seeps into the air is the worst part of it. It’s suffocating, causing Regulus’ shoulders to slump forward with the force of it.
How many people have had to die, how many dark spells have had to be cast in this space for it to be this way? Regulus shudders to think about it. He’s killed his fair share of people in his tenure as a spy - Death Eaters, muggles, and aurors alike - and still the sheer amount of bodies it must have taken to fill this space with such magic shocks him.
What’s worse is he’s resigned himself to joining them.
He turns to face Kreacher, the elf clutching his hand in a vice and watching Regulus with wide eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Master Regulus,” he says, and Regulus shakes his head.
“You know I do.” He lets go of the elf’s hand and descends into the darkness.
Kreacher follows him, of course, ever the faithful servant. They walk deeper into the cavern until they reach the lake Regulus had heard about and he’s able to see the island in the middle.
There’s a boat on the shore, gently rocking in the water as if it’s waiting for him. Perhaps it was. Voldemort was just that cocky, after all; it was not outside the realm of possibility for him to leave easy access to the island. It’s like he’s watching, like he’s egging Regulus on. Get in the boat and die trying to save the world, die trying to save yourself.
When he steps into the boat, it rocks unsteadily.
He rows across the water and he ignores the feeling that he’s being watched because he knows it to be true. The things that live under the lake are waiting for him to fall into their trap.
He wonders if it’ll hurt. Regulus has heard that drowning is one of the worst ways to go: your lungs filling with fluid, burning from the need to get it out but you can’t, you just keep sinking. Passing out, in that case, has to be a blessing. Dying, though…
Regulus doesn’t want to die. Sure, he’s accepted it, had known this would likely be the end result of this farce of a quest the minute he volunteered to hunt the Horcruxes in James’ place. But acceptance isn’t the same thing as desire.
He can’t help but to think, as the boat moves steadily through the water, that he didn’t even say goodbye. He left in the midst of a fight, a final fuck-you to his husband, the ugly need to have the last word fuelling his words and actions.
Regulus is not saying he is in the wrong - he’d make the same choices a million times over to protect his family - but he does wish he had left under different circumstances. Regulus regrets he didn’t tell James he loves him, regrets that he didn’t hold Harry for one last time, regrets that he didn’t press a final kiss to his downy head.
He regrets not telling Sirius he loves him. That Sirius was the one person Regulus had always modeled himself after, the person who taught Regulus everything he knew. Sirius would understand, though, and that is perhaps the worst part of this. Sirius grew up in the same confines as Regulus, sprouts off the same bramble. Sirius knows Regulus in a way no one else does, and it is for that reason that he’ll understand why Regulus had to die. But just as desire isn’t the same thing as acceptance, neither is understanding.
Regulus sucks in a steadying breath just as the boat moors itself on the shore. His arms ache from the effort of rowing, but still he stands and steps foot on the island. Kreacher follows him, watching with wide eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” the elf pleads, tugging on Regulus’ shirt.
“I have to. I’m sorry,” Regulus murmurs. “No matter what happens, make sure I finish the potion.”
“But -”
“That’s an order, Kreacher,” Regulus interjects sharply. “After, take the locket and kill it. There’s basilisk venom in my bag, and if there isn’t enough, there are directions to a potions shop that sells it under the table. Tell them you knew me and they’ll give it to you.”
Kreacher bows his head, and the splash of a single tear on the ground echoes through the cavern. “Yes, Master Regulus.”
“And Kreacher,” Regulus says, and the elf tilts his head up to look Regulus in the eye. “Thank you for being my friend.”
Kreacher nods, solemn, and Regulus turns to the podium in the middle of the island.
It only takes two steps to see the contents of the bowl sitting atop the podium, a scallop shell resting delicately on the bowl’s edge. It would be beautiful, if not for the bowl’s contents. Regulus can see the Horcrux at the bottom, submerged in the potion that will inevitably kill him.
Regulus sucks in a breath.
This is it, he thinks, as he picks up the shell and scoops the first mouthful. The beginning of the end.
He drains the shell, grimacing at the taste. Scoops again, drinks.
He can feel the effects of the potion start after the third shellful. He can feel it clawing up his throat, the urge to gag taking over him as he forces shellful after shellful down his throat. He’s so thirsty, an odd thought considering he’s drinking. The water surrounding the island grows increasingly more appealing and he wants more than anything to take the shell and grab some of that.
The pain starts halfway through. It feels like fiendfyre licking up his insides, like one of those muggle cartoons James watches where steam comes out of the character’s ears. Regulus can feel it traveling through his bloodstream, igniting each nerve ending and sending him to the ground with the force of it.
Distantly, he can hear someone screaming, sobbing, the sound of it bouncing off of the cavern’s walls in a twisted symphony. Is that him? Is he the one making that noise? It’s strange; he was so silent when his mother tortured him as a child, he didn’t know he could make sounds like that. What is he doing?
Fuck, what was he thinking? Regulus can’t do this; he’s not strong enough. Who is he to think he can turn the tide of the war?
“You have to finish the potion, Master Regulus,” he can hear Kreacher saying, but it’s as if the sound is coming through a tunnel.
Regulus can only vaguely feel his arms moving to push the shell away from his mouth, Kreacher’s gentle hands tipping the potion down his throat.
“I don’t want to, Kreacher,” Regulus sobs like a child, “please don’t make me. I don’t want it.”
Kreacher tips another shellful into Regulus’ mouth and Regulus shakes his head even as he swallows. He doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore.
“You’re almost there,” Kreacher soothes, “Just this one more.”
Regulus sobs, quietly this time, defeated. He opens his mouth and accepts the pain, knowing after he can take a dip in the waters surrounding him and finally be at peace.
Kreacher sighs as Regulus swallows, and turns to grab the locket.
It’s just enough time for Regulus to claw his way to the black shore.
How funny, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and allows the hands that emerge from the water to pull him under. Black waters for a Black’s death.