Grimmauld Place
Regulus has always known he was destined to drown. He feels it somewhere deep in his chest, past his rib cage, nestled somewhere behind his organs. He feels it in his arm when his mother squeezes it a little harder than a mother should. He felt it, the water rising in his throat, when his brother slipped out the window and into the night. He feels it now, sitting at the long cold table, watching Bellatrix’s nails click on the marble.
“Regulus.”
Click,
Click,
Click.
“Regulus. Are you listening?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Good. Do you understand what you need to do?”
Click,
Click,
Click.
“Yes, my Lord.” Regulus tears his eyes away from Bellatrix’s fingers, gaze snapping to the Dark Lords. Next to him, he feels his mother straighten nervously.
“My Lord…” Her voice trails off hesitantly.
“Walburga?” The Dark Lord sits forward in his seat. “Do you have something to say?”
“He is only a boy. I fear… I fear he will not be able to follow through.”
Click,
Click,
Click.
“You already bore one traitor, Walburga. Your husband told me he would be up for the challenge. I was told he was ready. You told me you were going to make him ready.” Regulus feels the Dark Lord's anger creeping in around them. The room seems to shrink, though maybe that part’s just in Regulus’s head because none of the other Death Eaters seem to notice. He thinks it’s funny, on some dark level. How much they compare him to Sirius, how much they hate the few similarities they find. He used to cling to each one, each resemblance, like a lifeline. He’s since killed that part of himself; drowned it in the bathtub back at Grimmauld Place.
“Well, Walburga? Is he ready? If he’s not, we can have someone assigned to Imperio him, control him from the outside. In fact… it might be easier…” The Dark Lord sighs, reaching for his wand. Regulus closes his eyes.
“No. He’s ready. He’ll be fine.” Orion. Stepping in only when absolutely, desperately, necessary. On the other side of him, his father places a hand on Regulus’s shoulder. Regulus holds impossibly still. “Imperio will just further cloud his mind, my Lord.”
The Dark Lord seems to consider before nodding, tucking his wand back into his robes. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Black, repeat your orders.”
He can do that much. He’s always been good at following directions.
“Open the chamber. Tame the beast. Deliver its fangs to you. Don’t kill it.” His voice cracks slightly, but holds firm. Regulus wonders if that was enough, but the Dark Lord nods.
Will you do it? The parseltongue slips from the Dark Lord’s lips so easily, like a first language. It coils way across the table towards him, as dangerous as the Dark Lord’s snake. This is just for Regulus. This is private.
Regulus takes a steadying breath and meets his cold eyes. Yes.
Because really, what else is there to say?
Around them the other Death Eaters shift nervously, left out, in the dark. Regulus feels his mother shoot him a frustrated look, one he’s grown quite familiar with recently. Regulus allows himself a small smile. This was something, one thing, that she couldn’t control. Couldn’t manipulate. Couldn’t understand. Being a parselmouth was his alone. His and the Dark Lord's.
“Fine.” The Dark Lord pushes back his chair. “Meeting adjourned. Regulus-” Regulus stops, looks up. He ignores the feeling that ignites in his stomach, the spark of curdling dread. Do not fail, the Dark Lord hisses. Not a warning, but a promise of something worse. Then he's leaving, his snake wrapping itself up his arm.
Regulus walks out, focusing on the sound of his shoes on the tile, his mother’s presence behind him. He focuses on Kreacher, who appears to take him back to Grimmauld place. He focuses on the food that’s set in front of him. He focuses on his violin, tucked under his chin. He doesn’t think about his orders. He doesn’t think about the task before him. He doesn’t think about his brother. He doesn’t think about the water that’s rising like a tide around him, choking out his voice, clogging his lungs.
He’s never been a very good swimmer.