This is for The Quidditch League Competition Round 7. My prompt was to include Slytherin's locket.
Other prompts: "All that is gold does not glitter." Christmas ornament, first person present.
It stings. Burning acid slides down my throat leaving it parched. I can feel the cracks form in the desert of my tongue. I need water, but not yet. I haven't reached the bottom yet. I haven't reached the locket.
Kreacher's hand reaches out and helps me fill my cup again. It's trembling and angry and I know he's probably yelling at me but I can't hear him. I can only hear the sound of madness. I hear it hiss like a snake as my vision becomes clouded and suddenly I'm home and I see it- a shadow creeping along the stairs beneath the house elf heads lining the walls, judging me out of unseeing eyes, made all the more grotesque because Mother had Kreacher decorate them for Christmas. Nooses of evergreen and ribbon wrap around their necks, and I wonder if this is what Kreacher saw. I wonder if he envisioned himself, stuffed and mounted like an animal. Like a beast.
I see it in the family tapestry where blackened holes are all that is left to remember a traitor by. A constellation of stars that fell from grace, and they told me that I shone brighter above them all. Or so I thought.
When I'm gone will they burn me too? Will my mother cry? Will Sirius be proud?
Sirius…
Another gulp. Fire in my lungs. Acid in my throat. The books said it would taste like regret. But as the madness takes hold and Kreacher and the lake and the locket disappear, I think it tastes like goodbye.
Sirius pulls me into an empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express, closing the door harder than he means to. The glass in the window clatters from the impact and he winces. I do too but for a different reason.
"So…"
He has a way of staring me down that I've never learned to master. He's unwavering and solid and so bloody Gryffindor. I wish I could hate him for it.
"This is it then? You're going to do it? You're gonna join them?"
His foot shuffles, trying not to tap it because he always hated when Mother did that. He finally picks it up and rests it on one of the seats.
"You are, aren't you?" he asks when I don't respond.
"I don't see how it's any of your business," I say dismissively. I move to leave the compartment but he's in my way.
"I'm your brother. I make it my business."
I finally meet his eye defiantly before pushing him out of the way.
"Maybe if you were home, you'd know," I say with a sneer.
He opens his mouth to retaliate, but I've hit my mark. His quick wit fails him so I kick him while he's down.
"Some brother you are."
I leave him like he left me and it's a bitter victory. It's not the goodbye I had in mind.
I swallow it anyway, the memory of him sinking into the pit of my stomach, clawing at my insides and I am thirsty for more. Kreacher is still pouring it into my mouth, but I am desperate now. I reach for the locket myself but my hand won't move forward. I have no choice.
I must drink them all.
It is the moment I knew it. The Dark Lord holds himself tall and proud. "Master of death," he says. On and on, he pities us "mortal creatures".
He dangles a young woman from her ankle above us. A crowd of Death Eater masks is the last thing this poor Muggle girl will ever see. He demonstrates the fragility of life, the uselessness of the ordinary. She crumples into a heap as he lets her fall, surrounded by a halo of green.
So simple. So dismissive. It makes me sick.
He asks me for proof of my loyalty, for a servant in my employ for the Blacks are known to have many. And I am powerless to do anything but summon him, powerless to disobey, and when Kreacher appears I have never felt such an affinity for anyone.
The Dark Lord smirks, and I cannot look away, and he knows my displeasure.
He revels in it.
Not much longer now. The cup scrapes against the side of the basin. I cling to the side of it as Kreacher tips the last of the potion into my mouth. I swear I must be choking, suffocating on the last time I will ever see him. The last chance I had to do right by Barty Crouch.
Barty is holding me. We're in bed and it's the night before I left for good and he says he loves me and I don't say it back. He doesn't mind. He doesn't mind much of anything to be honest, and perhaps that's why I let him stay.
I can't take my eyes off the tattoo on his arm, the snake poised to strike and I hear it again. It's the madness that lives here, in this place between love and lust where I am powerless and hollow and cold. His hands are so cold.
I whisper sorry against his skin. Maybe he hears me. Maybe he doesn't. But I say it anyway because I am, I truly am this time. I'm sorry I got him into this mess.
He falls asleep, his fingers tangling with mine as all our what ifs squeeze their way between us, begging for attention, begging for just one more night like this. What if I stay for one more night of Barty and not saying what I mean and keeping quiet when I shouldn't? What if I stay for the sound of his steady breaths and the way he kisses the hollow of my throat? What if I stay?
I reach up to touch the locket with my note carefully tucked inside. It weighs heavy on my chest beneath my shirt, a constant reassurance.
I could stay. Of course I could.
But what if I don't?
In the early morning light I leave him sound asleep in my bed silently blessing the curve of his smile. He doesn't get a note. Perhaps it is better if he hates me.
It's done.
Gasping for air I reach into the basin to grasp the chaing with trembling fingers. The locket is heavier than I'd imagined and it resists me. I feel it pulse beneath my hands, feel the evil trapped inside.
I quickly pass it off to Kreacher. I mumble instructions though I hardly know what I'm saying anymore. All I really know is that I hear him howl in rage before he disappears with a pop. And without another care in the world I crawl to the edge of the lake, needing the sweet relief of water in my throat.
I've heard it said that death greets you like an old friend, and as it pulls me under with rotten hands, I can honestly say the feeling is mutual.