summary: as the boat silently pulled him towards certain death, regulus remembered :: canon-compliant, one-shot, mention of death
a/n: a gift fic for aj (nottheonlyfanaround). it gets a bit angsty at the end, obviously. it's not my best work, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
contests: pre-round challenge, the houses competition—for aj.
disclaimer: i don't own harry potter or the characters, only the plot. all rights go to jkr.
remember, remember
words: 1508
The cave had a certain dreadful aura about it that sent chills down Regulus' spine. The murky water lapped against the boat quietly and Regulus wondered if he was imagining the ghostly hands darting below the surface. Kreacher had curled up into a ball beside him, muttering about bad potion and pendant and dead men. He did not pay much attention to the elf, lest he should lose his courage and turn back.
A cold wind ruffled his hair, whispering in his ear. Regulus shivered and thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers running over the engravings of the locket he had taken from the considerable collection in the Black family vault. If his plan worked, it would replace the Horcrux which was hidden in the middle of this lake. His mother had believed him when he said it was a gift to his betrothed, patting him on the cheek affectionately and praising him for being a dutiful heir to the House of Black.
Regulus hated to think of what would happen if he told her that he had no intention of ever marrying Goyle's daughter.
Not that it mattered, anyway. He doubted he would make it out of this cave alive.
He'd considered reaching out to someone, anyone, for help. Perhaps Snape, or even the Order—desperate times called for such measures. But in the end, it was too risky. By bringing the Horcrux to Snape's attention, he'd only put him in more danger—he had enough on his plate hiding the fact that he was a spy for Dumbledore. And there was no guarantee that the Order would believe him when he told them that he had defected from the Dark Lord's side.
Sirius would, a small voice said in his mind, and he pushed it away. Perhaps, before he fell out with his brother before Regulus accused him of being a blood traitor, Sirius would have offered to help.
But now, he was not so sure.
He could still remember Sirius' horrified expression as he had looked at the dark ink marring Regulus' left arm. He had looked up at Regulus, disappointment in his silver eyes and asked if he'd done it out of his own free will, or because it was what he was expected to do.
Regulus had not answered. They both knew the answer to that.
Sirius had turned his back and walked away from him. That was the last time Regulus ever spoke to his brother.
The boat docked against the little island with a jolt, bringing him out of his thoughts. Kreacher was shaking like a leaf at this point, and Regulus felt regret clench his heart. He should've never sent him to do the Dark Lord's bidding. He carefully made his way to the centre of the island, almost slipping over the slick rocks. Kreacher followed, his enormous pale eyes filled with horror.
"M-master," Kreacher's tiny voice stammered. "Kreacher w-will drink the p-potion, Master Regulus. M-master may take the locket after Kreacher has f-finished the p-potion."
Regulus felt a pang of pity and something resembling affection for the old elf. Kreacher had taken care of him and Sirius when their parents were too busy and indifferent to involve themselves in their sons' life. Sirius had always been cruel to Kreacher, but Regulus could never be anything but kind to him. He'd already suffered enough at the hands of that potion. Regulus would take the hallucinogen this time.
He told Kreacher as much and forbade him from taking the potion when he began protesting. Kreacher fell silent instantly, listening as Regulus gave him further instructions.
"Now, Kreacher, if I am trapped by the Inferi, you must—I order you to leave the cave with the Horcrux and destroy it by any means you can think of. Do not try to save me, do you understand?" Kreacher trembled and nodded. The quiet of the cave was eerie and oppressing when Regulus finished speaking.
He turned to the basin in the middle of the island, the translucent stone almost glowing in the dark. The potion in it seemed harmless enough, but if Kreacher were to be trusted, it was far from it. In a moment of desperation, Regulus tried to reach for the locket through the liquid, but his fingers slipped right through it like it was just a mirage. He let out a shaky sigh.
Well, it had been worth a try, at least.
With a final fortifying breath, Regulus dipped the crude cup into the potion and drank a mouthful, the cup clattering to the ground as he swallowed. It burned—not in the pleasant way Firewhiskey did, but in an excruciating, blood-boiling rage.
Suddenly, he was standing with his parents and Sirius. His mother's hand was on his shoulder, tight and restraining, while his father fingered his wand threateningly. A feeling of dread washed over him. He knew what was going to happen next.
"You must learn your place, boy," Orion Black hissed to Sirius, who stood proud and tall in all of his Gryffindor glory. Regulus wanted to yell at his brother to run, to escape while he could and not be an idiot but his voice refused to work, the words stuck in his throat. "You must learn what it is to be a Black."
"Never," Sirius replied, and Orion's face twisted with rage. Sirius' cries of pain echoed in his ears as their father cast a Cruciatus on him. He tried to break free, to help, to do anything, but his mother's hand was like a vice, holding him in a cage.
Sirius shrieked louder and Regulus could take no more. His brother's painful shouts morphed into his own and he wanted it to stop, the burning, the horrendous screams, Sirius' suffering, everything.
He blinked, and suddenly he saw Kreacher, forcing another mouthful of the potion down his throat. He shook his head, begging for Kreacher to stop, but the elf shook his head.
"I must do as Master commands," the elf said, tears dripping down his long, crooked nose.
As the potion was forced down his throat, Regulus felt like he had been pushed into Fiendfyre. He could not think straight, could not feel anything, could do nothing but writhe with pain.
He saw Sirius again, groaning, as Regulus hastily packed a bag for him and smuggled him to James Potter's home through the Floo. It was the last time Sirius had looked at his brother with affection in his eyes.
The green flames of the fireplace morphed into Avada Kedavra as Avery killed a horrorstruck Muggle woman, cackling delightedly. Regulus realised, with horror, where he was. A revel. His first one to be exact. The one where he had to prove his worth.
"Well," a high, cold voice said, very close to his left ear. Regulus shivered, looking into the scarlet of the Dark Lord's eyes. "Go on, kill him," he gestured to a hapless, sobbing Muggle at Regulus' feet. Bile rose in his throat, and Voldemort must have sensed his hesitance because he continued in a silky voice, "Remember, Regulus, you're ridding the world of worthless scum. No need to feel sorry for it."
The word was out before Regulus could process it. "No."
The blood-red eyes turned cold. "No? No? You dare—" His features, contorted into a mask of rage, relaxed. In a voice of velvet, he whispered, "Then, you must suffer the consequences."
The Dark Lord faded from view as he screamed in agony, burning and writhing, not able to distinguish between his imagination and reality. Regulus cried and yelled, begging for it to stop, as visions of Sirius and Voldemort and nameless victims flitted past his eyes and Kreacher, sobbing, forced more potion down his throat. Death was his only salvation, and Regulus begged for it.
Finally, Kreacher hoarsely whispered that he'd got the locket and it was alright, he did not have to drink any more of that potion, that he would take them home, but Regulus was not listening because the inferno in his throat was replaced by the dry ache of thirst. It was almost as unbearable as the potion, prompting him to crawl across the jagged rocks to reach the water.
He vaguely registered Kreacher's small hands tugging at his clothes, pleading him to stop, but Regulus was oblivious to it. He reached for the dark, glinting water, his mouth dry with unquenchable thirst when—
He gasped for air as he was dragged below the surface, the dead hands reminding him of his mother's vice grip. He kicked and struggled and fought, but it was no use. His wand lay abandoned on the island and the Inferi were too strong to fight off by hand.
His vision dulled as he lost his strength and his lungs filled with the dark, murky water. At that moment, he was almost peaceful, the pain and terror a ghost in his memories. Pale, rotting hands caged around him and the world fell into darkness and he knew no more.