Chapter Text
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room tick, tick, ticks away, two minutes too fast, as Voldemort folds his hands and sets them on the table.
Regulus’ shabby Muggle flat he bought for cover purposes — and so that he could handle dangerous artifacts away from his loved ones — reeks of mold, and even Kreacher can barely stay for two minutes before erupting into coughs, but the Dark Lord appears right at home. He must be, considering the state of Wood’s Orphanage when Regulus went to examine it. In talking with the old matron, he didn’t get the impression that she demonstrated much care for the children she watched over.
“I must ask a favor of you, my boy,” Tom Riddle Jr. requests. Regulus focuses on one of the dents in the tabletop, pouring all his energy into keeping his Occlumency walls up.
“Whatever you need, my Lord,” he replies smoothly. The sooner he gets the old wizard out of his flat, the sooner he can go back to studying the magic on the cliffside he investigated a few days previously. Whatever horcrux lies in there, it is steeped in power. Most likely, it was one of the first pieces of Riddle’s soul he split — the largest. If Regulus can get his hands on it…well, it would make Riddle’s demise come about much sooner.
“I require the use of your elf. Yes, it must be yours. The Malfoys have a young one; the Rosiers just disposed of theirs and are searching for a new one, but yours…your elf is old. Disposable. Its age means it has served your family for generations and therefore has unwavering loyalty. I can trust it not to betray me,” Riddle says. All feelings of inconvenience Regulus had surrounding this meeting are now replaced by fear and anger. What could Riddle possibly want with a harmless old thing like Kreacher?
His hesitation is his most grave mistake.
Riddle catches it, milliseconds before Regulus jumps in to agree, and raises a dark brow.
“Apprehensive? Not to worry. The thing will be back in your possession soon enough. If it isn’t, I will personally fetch you a new one,” he lies with a deadly smile. Regulus meets his eyes, which have been flashing more red than brown as of late, and shakes his head.
“No, my Lord, never. You may take him. I will call him at once.” Regulus turns his head to the side and shouts, “Kreacher?”
CRACK!
His House Elf appears with a snap of his fingers, looking pleased as ever to be of service. Regulus’ heart pangs as he notes how Kreacher’s eyes widen even more than their natural state at the sight of Riddle, and he dips into a low bow.
“My Lord. Master Regulus. How can Kreacher be of service?” he asks in his age-old croak.
“Kreacher, our great Lord would like your help with something very important. I need you to promise to obey his every word and keep the contents of your mission secret,” Regulus informs him. Kreacher does not exit his bowing state, but his small body trembles in amazement.
“My Lord and my master wish to use…Kreacher? Kreacher — Kreacher lives to serve Lord Voldemort and Master Regulus, yes, Kreacher does!” he exclaims, still shaking. Regulus once again feels guilt rush through him; nothing good will come of this, he knows, and Riddle implied Kreacher may not make it back alive. All he can do is hope the wizard is wrong.
“An eager spirit…I knew I could rely on such a simple thing,” Riddle mocks, though Kreacher either does not understand his dig or takes it as a compliment. The elf puffs out his chest and nods with pride. “Elf, you will come with me. Young Regulus, if he is not back in your care within three hours, I will be stopping by tomorrow morning with a replacement. Your services are acknowledged.”
No words form as Regulus watches the Dark Lord Apparate away and take his elf with him. There was no heartfelt goodbye, no “thank you” for all the help and kindness Kreacher has given him these past seventeen years. He cannot let that be the last time he sees his childhood elf. He cannot.
For the next three hours, Regulus paces. He intended to study more on blood wards and instead spends his time peering out from behind the curtains of his flat and waiting for the telltale CRACK! of his favorite magical creature. There are only so many things Riddle could need an elf for, none of them good. Regulus takes it to mean that he is carrying out a task he deems dangerous, too dangerous to risk the lives of even his lowest-ranking Death-Eaters. It most likely involves magic, otherwise Riddle would have no qualms about wrangling a few Muggles off the street and putting them through hell.
He called Kreacher disposable. As if Kreacher is some sort of trial run. A guinea pig for whatever contraption the man has come up with. A new method of torture? Some sort of Transfiguration mutation? It gives Regulus a headache just thinking of the various horrible things that could be occurring right under his nose at that very moment.
He wears himself thin worrying so much, eventually collapsing on top of a catalog of bouquet options he was studying on his bed before Riddle’s arrival. A sharp pain in his side reminds him that he hasn’t put his engagement ring back on — he took it off and set it under his blankets to avoid suspicion — so he maneuvers it onto his hand with his eyes closed, his head resting against his pillows.
It’s a beautiful thing, the ring. A simple silver band with an emerald stone in the center. He found it and its counterpart, a gold-banded ring with a ruby stone in the center, while Polyjuiced and shopping for a new cauldron in Diagon Alley, and the purchase was almost automatic. Though he cannot wear it as often as he would like, Regulus has placed a seemingly endless amount of preservative and protective enchantments on it, alongside James’, so that he can ensure its safety when he isn’t around it. He considered glamoring it for a while, something simple that would let him wear it to Death Eater meetings and missions, but not only was that too risky, it also put the ring in harm’s way.
James insists that it isn’t a big deal if it gets scuffed — he wears his to Order meetings, after all — but when they are apart, that ring is all Regulus has. All either of them have. Holding it in his palm, wearing it on his hand, makes him feel much safer than when it is gone, and its pristine condition reassures him that no matter what, the war has not touched them. Riddle cannot touch them. They’re going to get married, and they’re going to be happy, regardless of the circumstances that try to tear that away.
Regulus drifts off to sleep with these thoughts providing a blissful distraction from Kreacher’s situation. How long he rests, he does not know. When he wakes, all he is aware of is the sound of a frantic, wobbling voice and small hands tugging at his robes.
“Wh — Kreacher?!” He shoots out of bed and drops to his knees in front of his House Elf, who is pale and mumbling incoherently as he continues to tug on Regulus’ clothes. “Kreacher, what is going on?!”
“The Dark Lord — bad Kreacher! — The Dark Lord made Kreacher pledge not to tell!” the elf bemoans, growing increasingly distressed. Regulus frowns and recalls what he knows about House Elf binds.
“My word outweighs his as your master. Kreacher, I command you to tell me what happened,” he orders. He regrets his firm tone, but it snaps the elf out of his frenzy. Kreacher straightens out and looks around with fearful caution.
“The Dark Lord — he took Kreacher to a cave with a very little island….He made Kreacher…he…” Kreacher fights with his words, and Regulus has to grab his wrists to keep him from hitting himself on the head.
“Go on,” Regulus coaxes gently.
“There was a large basin…a potion…the Dark Lord…he made Kreacher drink all the potion….The potion made Kreacher see terrible things…terrible things…and thirst…. Kreacher thirsted…but when Kreacher went to the Dark Lord for water…the Dark Lord had taken the little boat to the cave mouth and Apparated away….Kreacher thinks the Dark Lord did not know House Elves can Apparate through anti-Apparition wards….That is why Kreacher is back here with Master Regulus…Master Regulus called out for Kreacher in his sleep.”
I did? Regulus recalls faint, fuzzy pictures of a dream he was having, but he cannot figure out what would have caused him to call out for his elf. Nevertheless, he thanks Merlin for it.
“He made you drink a potion?” Regulus demands, patting Kreacher down for signs of poisoning.
“A terrible, terrible potion…made Kreacher see terrible, terrible things, Master Regulus…” Kreacher trails off, his eyes going glassy. Regulus has half a mind to ask what terrible things he saw but decides against it when he spots tears in the little elf’s eyes.
There can only be one explanation: another horcrux. Perhaps the diadem of Ravenclaw? The identity of the item doesn’t matter; what matters is that, given all that Kreacher has told him, Regulus cannot take anyone with him on this journey. It sounds like a death trap at best. There have been enough casualties as a result of Regulus’ carelessness. This time, he will go it alone. Yes, he will take Kreacher — as much as he loathes the idea of forcing him to return to where he was traumatized — but Regulus will send the elf away at the first sign of danger.
“Kreacher, I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to take me to this place,” Regulus urges.
“Oh, no, Master Regulus must not go to the cave! No, no, no, Master Regulus must stay safe at home! Yes, Master Regulus must stay right here with Kreacher!” Kreacher protests, backing away. He’s so wound up that he (thankfully) doesn’t remember to punish himself for protesting against his master’s orders.
“Kreacher, this is important!” Regulus counters with ferocity. The elf cowers into a bow that makes Regulus ache with guilt. “I cannot afford to waste any time. Take me to this cave, please.”
With a hang of his head and a, “Yes, Young Master,” Kreacher obliges.
Regulus’ boots hit an uneven, rocky shore, and his surroundings come into focus as an area far more familiar than he was expecting.
The cliffside. So he was right: the blood wards were blocking an interior.
“The Dark Lord cut his hand and — and placed the blood upon the rocks,” Kreacher squeaks, pointing a gnarled finger at the cliff. Regulus waves his wand and draws some blood from his palm, then dabs it against the damp rock walls. For a few moments, nothing happens, and they stand in silence as waves crash and pool around their ankles.
In a blink, Regulus’ blood melts into the stone. However, the transformation doesn’t stop there. The cliffside morphs and warps until it spreads apart into an arched entrance just large enough for Regulus to slip through without hitting his head. Beyond it?
Otherworldly, emerald light beckons to him from inside the dim cavern. Plops of water droplets fall from stalactites on the cave’s ceiling into a still, salty pool below, murky with the unknown. Faint humming emanates from the center of the lake, where an island stands just as Kreacher described, a basin of crystal resting at the peak of it. The humming seems to come from within the basin, echoing off the rim and into the stuffy air. It smells of seaweed and death and radiates power.
“This is the place?” Regulus asks, his soft breaths coming out in puffs of fog. Kreacher makes no response, but his solemn stance is answer enough.
The elf walks over to the shore of the small entryway they stand on and grasps something invisible with his small hands. He gives it a good yank, and a ghostly green chain sloshes out of the water, tugging a rowboat along with it.
“There are no oars,” Regulus worries as he steps forward to help Kreacher carry in the boat. They haul it onto the rocky land and step inside.
“Master Regulus will not need oars,” Kreacher says, sounding sorrowful. Sure enough, before Regulus can fully sit down, the boat jolts and begins to teeter across the water. When he looks over the side, Regulus sees dozens of pale, bluish hands pressing it along.
Inferi? he mouths to himself. Alas, Riddle’s requiring of an elf rather than a Death Eater assistant or even a Muggle makes much more sense now. Regulus grits his teeth and blocks out the sight of those reaching hands below him, their fingers long and greedy.
They bump up against the rocky island in the center of the lake and exit the boat, careful not to come in contact with the water. Regulus approaches the basin with caution, peers in, and sees a shimmering liquid reflecting his face back at him, at the bottom of which is none other than the locket of Salazar Slytherin. A cupped shell sits on the rim, awaiting his touch.
“Damn you, Riddle,” he hisses under his breath. Stealing this horcrux will be much more conspicuous of a task than a long-forgotten ring or one cup of many inside a massive vault. He’ll have to come up with a replacement. A fake. Something to keep the wizard placated long enough for Regulus to find and destroy the diadem.
In his pocket rests a notebook, the very same one he used to record directions here from Riddle’s old matron. He pulls it out and sets it in the basin, then tears out a page.
To the Dark Lord, he writes;
I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it is I who discovered your secret.
If all goes well, Riddle will be just as dead as — hopefully much deader than — Regulus, but that is the best-case scenario, and Regulus has never been one to think optimistically.
I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hopes that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.
He folds the note, waves his wand, and Transfigures his notebook into a perfect copy of Slytherin’s locket. It opens when prompted, and Regulus slips his note inside before handing the fake to Kreacher.
“I’m going to drink the potion now, Kreacher. Before you do anything, I want you to swap out the real locket for the fake one. Do not listen to me if I tell you to stop giving me the potion or to put the locket back. Only follow my orders after the potion’s effects have worn off. Are we clear?” Regulus watches the elf with anxious intensity.
“Yes, Master Regulus,” Kreacher whispers, though his entire body screams run! Regulus thanks him and picks up the shell, scooping a hearty serving of potion into it.
Kreacher’s words come back to him as the potion touches his lips: “A terrible, terrible potion…made Kreacher see terrible, terrible things…”
It is then that the burning starts.
The pain is worse than any Cruciatus his family has forced upon him, worse than the feeling of his skin splitting open under his mother’s spells. It blackens his vision, tips him backward — falling, falling, falling, and then —
His head smacks against familiar wooden floorboards. Regulus tries to push himself up on his elbows, only to feel a sharp boot shove at his ribs to throw him back down.
“You failed your duty to this family!” Someone is shouting. “You let our only heir leave! My firstborn son! And you allowed him to walk out the door!”
Another wave of agony hits, and Regulus curls in on himself, scratching at his skin in a vain attempt to make it stop. He knows this memory…it is as fresh as the blood that pools beneath his nails as he tears into himself.
“Sirius was rebellious, but at least he had strength! Now look at what you have left us with! A weakling for an heir! A false leader who cannot even stand up!”
A kick jams his ribs again, this time sending him careening into the wall. He remembers what comes next, and he braces himself for the inevitable.
“Stand up, Regulus! We raised you better than this! Or did we fail? Were we too lax with you? I saw my own image in you when you were born, and you went and destroyed it! Perhaps this will draw it out again… Crucio!”
Regulus cries out, thrashing against the new layer of hell that coats his body. Someone’s hands are cupping his jaw, forcing it open, and he chokes down a foul substance he vaguely recognizes as the source of his misery. His stomach lurches and protests the addition, but he cannot throw it up no matter how much he gags. All that’s left is his mother, her wand, and the unforgiving floor.
“Mama, please!” he pleads, bones crying out in agony.
“I do this because I love you. Because I refuse to let your image be tainted by weakness! Nothing good comes of a weak Black!”
“Mama…Mama, no — !”
The shadow of Walburga looms above him, pauses, then breaks into his mind.
“Master Regulus must keep drinking! One more sip, Master Regulus!”
The voice of Kreacher causes Regulus’ memory to fuzz around the edges, blurring with a dark, moist scene tinged in green. Kreacher…Kreacher shouldn’t be here. Kreacher wasn’t here last time; Mother and Father sent him away to fetch new quills. This memory…it fades faster the more the elf speaks, and Regulus finds himself praying that he’ll monologue for eternity. Something is pressed into his mouth again, a smaller amount than the last, yet still just as fiery.
“That is the end for Master Regulus. No more potion. Now do not —”
Regulus’ surroundings come into focus: wet walls of rock, shimmering waters around him, and the unforgiving cold of Voldemort’s cave. Most pressingly, however, is the rawness in his throat, as if he has swallowed thousands of needles coated in sandpaper. The feeling is so intense that he can barely squeeze words out without worrying he’ll draw blood, but he manages a weak, “Kreacher…water, please.”
“Master Regulus mustn’t touch the water! No! No, he must not!” Kreacher frets, tugging on Regulus’ leg. Regulus shakes him off and inches closer to the emerald depths that surround the small island, picking up the cupped shell on his way. The pain in his throat only grows the longer he goes without a drink; it tightens his muscles until his breathing is restricted, until even swallowing with a dry mouth is nearly impossible.
“Master Regulus must not!” Kreacher exclaims again, throwing himself onto Regulus’ back. “There are evils that lurk within the lake! Evils very bad for Master Regulus!”
The need for sustenance outweighs Regulus’ survival instinct. He plunges the shell into the water, along with half his forearm, and captures as much of the liquid as he can. He attempts to pull his arm away, but something cold and coated in slime grabs hold of it, its pointed nails cutting into Regulus’ skin.
“Let go!” Regulus grumbles, wriggling his arm. More grips join the first, beginning to pull so that his face is inches from the lake’s surface. Kreacher is shouting behind him and trying to drag him back up by the ankles, but whatever has him in its clasp is far too strong for one small elf.
A pale, bloated hand slings up out of the water and around Regulus’ neck. Far too late, Regulus remembers, The Inferi.
He scrambles for his wand with his free hand, but the Inferius that holds his neck makes it so that he cannot turn his head, and he accidentally knocks it aside with his wrist.
“Kreacher!” he rasps. “My wand! Use it!”
His command is fruitless. The wand rolls off the island and splashes below the surface. Fleshy, partially decomposed bodies rise out of the water with hunger in their eyes, seaweed sliding off their forms like snakes. Rather than working as one, each Inferius seems hell-bent on having Regulus for themselves, clawing at his limbs and tearing him left and right. Two large ones grab hold of his right leg, and he feels something pop, leaving it limp and out of place.
The undead creatures tug his body closer to the waves, and something jogs in his memory. The fake locket.
“Switch the locket!” he demands to Kreacher as he fights to remain afloat. “Switch it with the fake horcrux! Bring the real one to Pandora Lestrange! Destroy it!”
The Inferi that hold his right leg grapple with it so ferociously that they throw themselves backward, taking Regulus along with them. He submerges under the water with one last gasp of air, and as his eyes fly open, Regulus understands that this is where he will die.
An Inferius grabs onto his face and jerks, forcing his body in dozens of directions as more of the creatures hunger to drown him. His brow whacks against the part of the cave’s island that rests below the surface, blood spilling out from above his left eye.
One of the Inferi twists his dislocated leg to the side and back with a fierce pull. Regulus screams as multiple muted cracks sound throughout the water, and he kicks at the thing as hard as he can with his good leg. That only succeeds in making the monsters angrier and his lungs more desperate for air. They descend upon him with urgency now, upset at their lack of progress with killing him. His injured leg, now completely detached from feeling, folds and twists in unnatural ways as he is shoved against the island’s side. Something that feels horrifically like an out-of-place bone jabs him in the small of his back. The surface of the water is just above him — just out of reach — and Regulus is going to die.
As one of the large Inferi from before latches its claws into Regulus’ shoulders, he thinks of Kreacher. The House Elf will not fail his duty, though it is a weighty one he must carry out.
As another Inferius’ hand covers his mouth and nose, he thinks of Pandora. She will continue the quest for horcruxes. She will find the diadem, if not for the world, then for him, and she will live because she is Pandora Lestrange.
As his body attempts to force him to breathe, he thinks of Sirius. The brother he loves. The brother he thought he loathed. He will carry on. He always has.
As his vision dims, as his head fills with static, he thinks of James. His James. The boy who brought Regulus a warmth and love he could have never imagined feeling before. He holds fast to his engagement ring despite the chaos threatening to remove it, and selfishly hopes James will never remove his. He doesn’t want to be forgotten. He doesn’t want to be lost in time, just another body in a catastrophic war. He wants to be held by the sun, even in death. Cradled to his chest, listening as James’ heart beats — as his own heart slows.
James, James, James.
Even in the end, it never stops calling out for him. James. James. James. My Jem. James.
Regulus hopes James knows that he is ready to die.
James…James…James…
He hopes James knows that, though he may have suffered, in the end, all he thought about was his lover’s smile.
James…his James…
He hopes James knows…he hopes…he hopes…
James…
Alone, in the dark, a young child walks.
His tongue wraps around his “s”s incorrectly, and his pale skin is littered with bruises, but he walks.
He walks until his legs give out, and he falls against the midnight floor, cold and dusted with water droplets.
Are you alright?
The words aren’t uttered aloud, but the child hears them in resounding clarity. He lifts his eyes to meet an identical pair of grey irises, these one older and more weary with the burden of what they have seen. A hand is outstretched, offered to him.
I fell. His own voice echoes throughout the endless space, around the figure before him.
I know. It’s okay.
The figure retracts his hand, only to extend both his arms and scoop the child up, resting him on his hip.
I like your hair. The child reaches up and tugs on the older one’s dark curls, so akin to his own, yet more mature. Shapely.
The older one smiles, and it is the most beautiful thing the child has ever seen.
I much prefer yours. The older one fluffs the child’s hair with his free hand, his grin growing. So bouncy…carefree.
You’re real’ pretty…I wanna look like you when I grow up.
The older one flinches, and the child fills with dread. He has said something wrong, surely, and wrong brings punishment. However, no slap or sting of magic comes his way. He sits up straighter in the older one’s arms, preparing to apologize.
Trust me, little one. You don’t want to be anything like me.
Something sad has taken over the older one’s face — something much deeper than a mere wounding word. The child frowns and presses his palms to the older one’s cheeks.
Don’t be mean to yourself. My big brother says it’s not allowed.
This gets the older one to crack a smile; Your big brother? What’s his name?
I…I can’t remember…
The realization brings tears to the child’s eyes. He sniffles as his breathing quickens, his mind rapidly grappling for the memories he is missing.
Hey…hey, little one, it’s okay. You’re with me now. We’ll do this together, okay? The older one soothes, lightly bouncing him on his hip. The child thinks about the word together, how it has brought him safety in times of strife. Staying together with the older one is not only his desire, but his need. Somehow, he understands that the two of them need one another now; they are one another.
Are you…ashamed of me? The child hides his face in the older one’s shoulder. He knows he is not strong, nor is he someone most people would want to go through the shadows with. His big brother barely tolerates him toddling behind. It is something he has come to accept — being left behind — but acceptance cannot remove how it burns.
Ashamed? Little one, I could not be more proud of you. The older one holds him close, and the child can feel their heartbeats sync up. Pride is an unfamiliar emotion, whether it is others taking pride in him or him taking pride in himself. To hear that the older one is proud of him makes his cheeks flush with embarrassed flattery.
You’re someone to be proud of. All big and brave. The child pokes the older one’s cheek, reviving both their smiles. The older one shakes his head and kisses his brow.
If you knew what I’ve done —
But I do. And I’m still proud of you. It is true; the child knows. The child knows everything, as much as he can know. The older one has done many things, committed many deeds, and all of them are worthy of pride. Some more so than others, but the child can find hope in all things, and the source of it comes from the older one’s heart.
Your judgment is twisted. I came here to get away from what I’ve done. The older one looks away, that melancholy expression befalling him once again.
We’re supposed to do this together! The child gently guides his gaze back to him. You said…you’re proud of me. I don’t want to be here forever. I don’t want to get away. Let me go back. Let me be brave like you. Let us do it together.
The older one looks at him and sighs, the first audible noise the child has heard. It shatters his previous silence, and now, he can hear every individual water droplet on the floor, each one shrieking its own song of misery. The older one seems to hear it too, for his features contort, and he presses the child closer to him.
We will do this together, little one. You and me. I know now that…no matter what I’ve done…you are all that matters.
The child’s eyes widen. The older one has given him purpose — has told him he matters to more than just himself. It is not an answer, but it is a hope that brings him a surge of happiness, of love for the one who holds him. All he can find it in himself to do is nod and rest his palm over the older one’s heart, feeling it grow stronger.
Together, in the dark, they walk toward the light.