Chapter 15
Regulus
“Imperio!” His mother shouts, pointing the tip of her wand at him.
Regulus tenses out of instinct, but truthfully, hearing the word is a bit of relief. It rolls into him with a warm, pleasant sensation, like the first few sips of a hot mug of tea, filling him with a sleepy heat. It fogs his brain, making him feel completely detached from everything. He no longer has to exist, he can watch the world turn from inside his head, from untouchable safety. Regulus hates these sessions, but not because of the spell. No, he quite likes the spell, it’s what comes after that he hates.
Regulus watches as his own body walks over to Kreacher, his family’s house elf. He watched as Kreacher begins to shake where he stands.
“Master Regulus,” the elf squeaks, fear and confusion in his eyes. “Kreacher is sorry to have upset Master Regulus. Kreacher won’t do it again. Kreacher will be better.”
But the elf’s pleas fall on deaf ears. Regulus doesn’t answer. He just grabs Kreacher by the shoulder. He kicks Kreacher in the gut. Kreacher doubles over.
“Kreacher deserves this.” Kreacher moans. “Kreacher deserves Master Regulus’s anger. Kreacher is sorry.”
Part of Regulus wants to fight the terrible things he’s watching himself do. He wants to make himself stop hurting the elf, to go back to the way things were. After Sirius left, Kreacher was the only ally Regulus had in this house. He was the only one who wouldn’t judge Regulus, or yell at Regulus, or hurt Regulus. Kreacher was the only one who never left Regulus’s side, the one who brought Regulus healing potions after particularly violent reprimandings. Kreacher was his friend. Kreacher doesn’t deserve this, and Regulus should break the spell. He should fight. He should save his only remaining friend.
But it’s so much easier for Regulus not to. It is so much easier for Regulus to stay dormant, hidden in some corner of his mind. To submit to the curse. It is a temporary relief from the everyday torture of being Regulus.
Regulus watches as his body thrashes Kreacher, throws him against the walls, slashes at his old, papery skin, and slams him into doors. It is easier not to think, to let himself be a puppet. It is easier to do anything his mother asks.
“Pathetic!” Walburga screams, dropping the Imperio.
There it is. The familiar pain and agony of being alive. The dread and disgust of being Regulus. If comes crashing back into him in a sickening wave.
“No backbone! No spine!” Walburga insults. “A Black is supposed to be strong, we have complete control over ourselves! We don’t cave to anyone else’s magic!”
But Regulus does, though. He doesn’t fight. He never has. He stays where he is, silently cowering as his mother releases her rage.
This is a familiar ritual by now. She’s been trying for weeks to make Regulus strong, Orion, too. They’d cast the Imperious curse time and time again, making him do worse and worse things, trying to make him fight. But Regulus doesn’t. He lets himself hurt Kreacher. He lets Walburga hurt him. He lets himself hurt himself. He’d let anyone do anything, it seems.
He is exactly what they say. Weak. Pathetic. Incapable. He has no more control over his magic than the wizard who transfigured his feet.
No, it isn’t the curse that makes these sessions so horrible. It isn’t his mother’s anger or his father’s disappointment. It’s the way Kreacher has started to look at him. The way Kreacher runs out of a room as quickly as possible when Regulus enters it. The way Kreacher has slowly stopped looking at Regulus, stopped caring about Regulus. It is the way Kreacher has started acting around Regulus the same way Regulus acts around his mother.
Regulus had thought he was alone the day Sirius left for Hogwarts. He had thought he was alone when Sirius left him for James. But the alone he feels now that even Kreacher can’t stand to be around him anymore? That is much, much worse.
Now, there is no one left to love Regulus. Not even Regulus.