Chapter Text
In the labyrinth of choices, one's fate is spun,
Each decision, a weight, under the sun,
Sinking deeper, lost in the tide's cruel spin,
Drowning in the consequences of where one's been.
✧˚ · .
Regulus Black never thought of himself as one to stay locked up in his room day in and day out. He had assumed that the Dark Lord would call upon him once he ended his schooling at Hogwarts, yet it has not happened often. He stares at his arm, the ink that permanently marks it as black as the day he received it. It was truly the best day of his parents’ life.
He does not regret his choices in that regard. He was already trapped, the threat of his loved ones being harmed was too great. Perhaps he will in due time when inevitably the world continues to turn and Regulus is forced into society. Having the mark of the Dark Lord could hurt his chance at a normal life. But his life has yet to ever truly be normal so he does not ponder about it much anymore. There just isn’t anything left to ponder about.
The moment he stood in front of the fireplace, his brother bidding him farewell before leaving forever, any choice was stolen from him. At that moment, it ensured that he would never have a normal life in exchange for his brother to have a chance. It was a much-needed sacrifice, and Regulus does not regret it one bit.
Honestly, he was rather insulted that the first summons he received after a month of absolute silence was a request to borrow his house-elf, Kreacher.
And then he was left alone.
His parents are still in the home, of course, lurking in shadows as they await for their son to emerge. It must be such a boring life, only living to see the family line continue. Perhaps that is why they are so cruel, the reality of their cheerless never-ending existence hitting them the moment the first heir muttered his earliest utterance.
He rests his head on the window of his bedroom, refusing to even face the outside world. The four walls of his self-created prison suffocate him to no end, closing in as the shadows grow.
The Dark Lord took Kreacher early in the day, and the realization that the household does not function without their house-elf is dawning on him. He was taken early in the morning when the dew clung to the windows, yet as the sun began to set, he could not help but wonder what exactly the Dark Lord wanted with his house-elf.
He stands, finally looking out the window in concern. Regulus puts a hand to the glass, the warmth of the sun’s glow making him back away immediately. It has been too long, and now he is growing worried.
He waves his hand, the wards he crafted falling instantly so that he can finally emerge from his room. His mother is the first to greet him, smiling widely at him. “Regulus! Your father was looking for you earlier.”
“I don’t particularly care what illness he has suddenly come down with,” Regulus utters cruelly, looking down at his mother. “I fear the more he finds himself ill, the less Saint Mungo’s can do for him.”
His mother’s face contorts into a scowl as she stares at her son in shock. “Your father is not to be receiving care from those quacks any longer.”
“Why not?” He questions, stepping down a singular step. “They’re the best in the country for a reason.”
“They made a mudblood head healer.”
Oh, that would explain the sudden dislike for the hospital. He has yet to find interest in the Daily Prophet, not with him living through many of the events they explain. He almost wants to laugh at some points with how much they get wrong. Sometimes Regulus wonders if he should anonymously inform Miss Rita Skeeter that while he appreciates that she has just gotten hired, she best learns early on that people do not like lies told about them.
But then he remembers that in all technicalities he is a criminal and all thoughts of informing her are thrown out the window.
He shakes his head, careful with his words and actions. A tad bit of cruelty is expected, welcomed by his mother in fact. But too much and he will be labeled as ungrateful, which he would like to avoid. Too kind, and then he is punished for being too soft, something an heir should not be. “I fear I’ve grown hungry, has the house-elf returned?” He is even particular in his word choices, avoiding using Kreacher’s name.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she grumbles, simply bemoaning her lack of food. It’s almost appalling, her apparent lack of compassion for a being that has dedicated his entire life to making her happy, but Regulus should not be surprised.
“If he takes much longer, I’ll be sure to go and borrow one of Narcissa’s for the night,” Regulus says at once, not waiting for his mother’s response before locking himself back in his room. It is best to avoid her, unpredictability gives him a headache after all.
He stares at his arm with a blank expression, the skin still exposed to the light. With a sigh, the boy tugs his sleeve down, not wishing to gaze upon it any longer. It is simply not good for him to dwell on actions that he has no control over.
Regulus almost jumps out of his own skin when he hears the familiar pop associated with his house-elf. Well, it is the same noise as anyone apparating, but Kreacher is the only one able to get past the wards.
Kreacher does not look well.
The house-elf has water dripping from him, creating a puddle where he lays, his small body breathing heavily. Regulus finds himself rushing to the house-elf, careful not to touch him but concerned nonetheless.
But, it does not make sense. Why request his house-elf if the Dark Lord simply wanted to harm Kreacher? Regulus pauses, his hand flexing as he thinks of the last time he spoke to the wizard, his own words echoing in his mind.
“Why go after another town of muggles when we could easily strike down the Order?”
This was Regulus’ fault. He questioned the Dark Lord, and Kreacher paid the price for it. This was not a punishment, no, this was a warning. But it only makes Regulus want to question the easily offended man more.
If his empire is truly so frail that a barely of age wizard can topple down, was it truly worth building in the first place?
“Kreacher, what happened?” Regulus is careful when speaking, not wishing to alarm the house-elf even more.
“Master Regulus…” Kreacher whimpers, not looking at him. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to return after his task.”
Regulus stills, staring at the house-elf in shock. Is that truly the only reason why Kreacher is standing in front of him? Sometimes he forgets just how important orders are to house elves.
“What happened?” He repeats, his tone steady.
Kreacher does not respond.
“I order you to tell me exactly what happened,” Regulus says coldly, ignoring the house-elf’s state. He will be sure to conjure a quick drying spell after figuring out what is going on, but not before.
Kreacher whimpers again but nods. “The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave to hide something.”
“What was it?”
“A locket.”
How curious…Regulus does not know the context, but it sounds intriguing.
“Kreacher was forced to drink a horrible potion…and the Dark Lord left Kreacher. Kreacher made sure to return to the young master with much difficulty.”
“Is there anything else?” Regulus asks calmly, pretending he is not seething with rage over the fact that his house-elf was almost murdered.
“Kreacher did not like the locket…it was reeking with old dark magic. Made Kreacher uncomfortable.”
Regulus nods, awkwardly patting Kreacher’s head in an attempt to comfort the house-elf. It does very little, but it does make Regulus feel better about himself so he supposes it was not all for naught. “I need you to never tell my parents about this, understand? It is an order.”
“Kreacher would never dream of disobeying the young master’s orders.”
And with such devotion, Regulus cannot help but feel guilty that he ever gave the Dark Lord a chance to harm his house-elf.
✧˚ · .
Regulus Black never thought he would return to Hogwarts. On the last day of his sixth year, he attempted to take in the entire school and commit the small secrets to memory. But the task was far too large, and he never was able to. If he had more time, perhaps he could have. But his time was cut short the moment the Dark Lord rose to the power he currently holds and cut even shorter the moment Sirius decided to leave.
He always liked the halls of Hogwarts when the moon was high. It was a wonderful moment when he was named prefect, giving him ample opportunity to walk the halls undisturbed. The stars would protect him, staring down to ensure every night would bring him good fortune. Now it simply feels as if he is being mocked. They stare him down, practically laughing at the way his life has turned out. Perhaps they were always gleefully observing him from afar and he just never noticed.
Regulus pauses at a specific statue, staring at it intently. It stands tall, resembling a golden griffin, and while he knows that it is not alive, he feels the statue’s eyes judging him.
Regulus stares back with the same regard.
“I need to speak with Dumbledore.”
The statue does not move, as if daring Regulus to question its judgment. He scowls, finding himself annoyed with the gargoyle. The more he looks at it, the more ugly it appears. How ironic the gargoyle is golden, almost as if it’s required to show just how much Dumbledore adores his own house.
Regulus wonders if the old man was the one who painted it, he’s conceited enough to do so.
“It’s important,” Regulus says carefully. “It’s about the Dark Lord.”
The griffin moves, allowing Regulus access to the staircase at last. He supposes he should thank the gargoyle, but he just cannot bring himself to do so. It’s sapient, but not sentient, so he hopes the statue ignores his manners.
When he enters the office, he immediately scrunches up his nose for a moment before going back to his usual blank expression. Dumbledore’s office is far too…bright for Regulus’ liking. Perhaps it works for some people. Perhaps some people adore such a thing, but he does not.
As if expecting him, Albus Dumbledore sits in his office, sitting in a chair, overlooking the entrance. Regulus immediately finds himself pausing, staring at his old headmaster in shock, but he brushes it off, going back to his usual blank expression. Yet, Regulus still finds himself clearing his voice, readjusting his stance as he looks at the old man.
“Mr. Black, while I do insist that Hogwarts will continue to have its doors open to everyone, I must say I did not expect you at such an hour,” Dumbledore says cheerfully in a way that makes Regulus’ skin crawl. It is the same fake sincerity that assured him that his family would do the right thing, not allowing him to be marked as merely sixteen years of age.
But quite obviously, that never happened. Because that is all Dumbledore is, words and broken promises all bundled up in a mirage of a happy-looking old man.
Regulus sighs before slamming his notebook onto the century-old desk, the sound echoing throughout the overly crowded office of his former headmaster. “That is all of the notes I have of him.”
“Pardon?”
“The Dark Lord,” Regulus says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Because truthfully it should have been. Dumbledore knows why he is here, or he would have never opened the passageway to his office. Unfortunately, it is a dance with the old man, one Regulus finds himself stumbling through in a feeble attempt to survive. “Everything you need is right there.”
“Everything I need? My dear boy, I’m confused,” Dumbledore says with clear amusement. Something is twinkling in his eye, a light that Regulus has to stop every cell in his body from squashing. The boy's hand twitches, his wand close enough that he would simply need to grab it. It would take one second, a singular spell, and Regulus would be regarded as a hero to all that matters to him.
But that reality became unobtainable the moment the Dark Lord hurt his house-elf. That moment was destroyed in the same way every positive connection he had was. And even if he wishes he could turn around and repair them, he knows that wish will never come to fruition. He is too far gone to be begging for help now, that much he is sure of.
Regulus feels his eye twitching next as he stares at the old wizard hailed to be the hero of the wizarding world. “For the last month, I have taken note of every small detail that the Dark Lord has given us. Every plan, everyone I believe could be a traitor, and every theory I have to his downfall.”
Dumbledore looks Regulus over for a moment, clicking his tongue as he observes the boy. “I am afraid I am in no need of your information Mr. Black, I do apologize.”
“He’s created Horcruxes. Multiple of them I believe.”
Now this gets Dumbledore’s attention, something Regulus knew would happen. For how much the man wishes to distract others with a peacock-like mirage of golden and crimson feathers, he knows exactly what kind of man lies beneath them.
“Do you have proof?”
“It’s in the notebook,” Regulus says, tapping on the book. “It’s there, all of it.”
“Thank you for the information Mr. Black,” Dumbledore says, nodding at him, “but I'm afraid I have already heard the whispers of Voldemort’s magical potential. I do not need the conspiracy theories of one from his inner circle at this time.”
“He disrespected the House of Black!” Regulus yells, slamming his hands onto the desk loudly as he stands. “That stupid half-blood took my house-elf to a cave and left him there to die! My elf! Kreacher comes from a line of elves that have been with my family for centuries.”
“So the ramblings of an angry child then.”
“He has the upper hand if you lot do not have this information!” Regulus groans, grabbing his notebook. He runs a hand through his hair in a feeble attempt to calm himself that does not work. “Why aren't you accepting this?”
“At this time I have no need for it.”
“Your people will die if they do not have this!” Regulus retorts, his hand twitching once more, inching closer to the pocket that holds his wand. “Why aren't you helping?”
Dumbledore just leans into his hands, staring at Regulus with those annoying eyes that reveal more than the old man would like to admit. “I am.”
“You’re a fool,” Regulus scowls, holding his precious notebook as if the old man will suddenly change his mind and steal it from him. “You’re going to lose, Dumbledore. The Order of the Phoenix will fail, and it will be your actions that caused it.”
The boy turns away before the headmaster can say any more words to him. His steps are quick, his need to escape this hell far outweighing any logical reasoning to stay. And as he comes across the entrance of the school that was only his home for a few short years, he does not pause, merely walking on.
✧˚ · .
“Kreacher…” Regulus trails off, glancing at his house-elf with a semblance of pity. The elf is practically trembling, the constant boom of waves slapping against the earth overwhelming him. He jumps when Regulus speaks, staring up at him with those large eyes. “I have something to ask.”
“Of course Master Regulus,” Kreacher says, bowing with much difficulty. “Anything that the Master wishes, Kreacher will do everything to fulfill.”
Regulus kneels toward the house-elf, an action that would send his mother into a spiral. If his mother were to learn the truth of what exactly he is doing, Regulus is sure that even he would not be safe from her wrath. “In there, I will not be in the right mind.”
“Master Regulus?”
“In that cave, you are not to listen to a single order from me, am I clear?” Regulus says carefully, observing the house-elf. “It’s the only way, Kreacher.”
The house-elf stares at him, his eyes widening. Regulus swears that if he could look closer, Kreacher’s lip would be trembling. Which, if he is being honest, is refreshing. Kreacher is the cause of this, and if the house-elf held no care for him, it would feel as if all this were a waste.
Regulus finds himself tightening his fist right before the blade comes in contact with his skin. His blood sizzles, the magic understanding that the requirements have been met and allowing them access. They enter the cave, the immediate smell of mildew and decaying matter entering his nostrils and refusing to let him be. Regulus cannot help it, he scrunches up his nose in a feeble attempt to avoid inhaling such a scent. He knows how it looks, childish, which makes him curse at himself internally. He is the head of the House of Black, being childish has been out of the question for a long time.
He grabs a thick green chain, revealing a boat, covered in grime that would normally cause him to grimace, ensuring that it is seaworthy. Regulus decides not to comment on it, intentionally ignoring as much as he can to avoid regret forming. The wizard and house-elf climb into the boat, the adventure far from over.
It is odd, the water is calm yet causes Regulus to feel uneasy. When he lifts a lantern toward the water, he knows exactly why.
Inferi, creatures made from extreme dark magic, cover the sea floor, staring up at him. They are waiting, blank eyes knowing that there will be a moment of success. That eventually there will be white hands gripping onto Regulus’ skin, pulling him into the depths so that he will never see the light of day again. So that he will never see the stars again.
The boat hits the other end of the cave, the only noteworthy item being a basin. For some reason, this is the moment that gives Regulus pause. Even when Kreacher leaves the boat, Regulus remains, staring at the thing that the Dark Lord has attempted to keep so hidden.
Regulus swallows the excess saliva that has been pooling in his mouth as he finally stands, his feet meeting hard ground. His knees wobble, he knows they do. He knows exactly what this must look like;
Fear.
He takes one last glance at the inferi in the water, utterly aware of how they are closer, waiting with bated breath for their chance. He moves closer to the basin, observing the potion with a critical lens. Emerald potion, a dark green liquid known as the Drink of Despair looks back. He finds his hands trembling as he leans toward the potion.
He looks at Kreacher with glassy eyes, taking a shaky breath before he even thinks about speaking. “When I collapse, you must force me to drink it, understand?”
“Of course master Regulus.”
“And then replace the locket with the fake one.”
“Master Regulus…you have gone over this with Kreacher already.”
“Kreacher, listen to me,” Regulus mutters, closing his eyes as he fears his expression will show the pure amount of terror overtaking his body. He is far too young for this…he is only seventeen. How did he think that this would be easy? “When you get the locket…leave me here.”
“Master-”
“Leave me here and destroy it,” Regulus says, finally opening his eyes so he can stare at his house-elf intently. “That is an order Kreacher.”
The house-elf stares at him for a moment, slowly blinking as the words hit him. Meekly, Kreacher nods, his eyes never leaving Regulus. And if Regulus is being honest with himself, it makes him happy to see the creature’s reluctance. At least in the end, he has someone in his corner, worried for him. That is truly all he could ask for.
“Right well…” Regulus mutters, looking back at the potion, and grabbing the small crystal goblet so that he can begin. He brings the goblet to his lips, taking one last glance at Kreacher with a wry smile. “Good luck Kreacher.”
He downs the drink.
He scrunches up his eyes, flashes of regret overtaking him the moment the potion enters his system. But he continues on, filling the goblet once more and downing it. It is as if his brother is now standing in front of him, berating the way their lives have gone down different paths. Paths that perhaps Regulus regrets.
He downs another glass.
This time he cannot stop himself from sobbing, tears freely falling as the potion affects him greatly. The words of his mother, her encouragement as he went down a path that saw no way to turn around. There was no stopping when it came to the Dark Lord, merely going forward. Because once you are on the road, it is as if you will never be able to leave.
Another goblet-full portion of the potion enters his system.
It is as if every person he has wronged is coming to haunt him at this exact moment, whispering words he knows to be true. His existence is a sham, any semblance of self-perceived power only hesitantly given to him after others make their own choices. He drops the goblet, holding his head as more and more people overtake his very being, ensuring that every voice can say their piece.
He is vaguely aware of the fact that more of the potion is being forced into his system, the final words his brother had spoken to him being far more distracting. How did his life come to this? Why did he refuse his brother’s offer? He could have been…happy. Perhaps eventually the Dark Lord would have killed him as unfortunate incidents have been occurring far more, but he would have been happy.
He is gasping for breath now, ragged breaths overtaking his small, thin frame. He hates this, he hates all of this. But he must continue on. It is not atonement, as that would take much longer than a night, but it wrongs a right. If Dumbledore cannot help his people, at least Regulus can give them a chance. He can give his brother a chance.
He is gripping onto Kreacher now, the faint sight of glimmering gold peaking through his despair. Good, this is good. “Kreacher…you need to go.” His voice does not sound like his own, but he decides to ignore it. He hears them, the Inferi, finally realizing that they are not their master. “Go!”
His vision blackens again, the potion still affecting him in ways that he does not quite understand. He knew he had regrets, but this? This is far more than he thought. But he is aware of the icy-cold hands that grasp his ankle. He is aware of the rocks from the cave digging into his skin as he is dragged away. Water fills his lungs yet he cannot bring himself to scream. Weakly he reaches upwards, hoping for one moment that perhaps someone would be there to catch him and drag him out of his eternal resting place.
For a moment he wishes Sirius was there.
He closes his eyes, allowing him to accept it even as his lungs scream for him to continue fighting. He hurts…so much. It is overtaking him, drowning out the voices that continue to berate his mind. But he still cannot bring himself to fight back. His mind goes fuzzy, his consciousness beginning to lessen its hold on his body.
Yet, for a moment, he swears the pressure of the water leaves him. He swears that he is gasping for air and actually obtaining it. And, the thing that makes him fully realize that this is his mind’s last attempt to give him peace, is the mirage of his brother staring down at him, eyes widened in shock.
And just like that, Regulus finally loses consciousness.