Regulus stepped out of his house, standing still on the marble porch, watching the dreary streets of London bustling with crowds and noises and other things he could not put a name to.

"Give it back, Sirius!" he heard a young voice cry in acute distress, followed by a taunting laughter.

"It's a plant, Reg," his brother said. "Just a lame plant."

"Well, it's mine," the proprietary tone in Regulus' voice was unusual for a six-year-old.

Sirius, too, was evidently shocked by this also, and his voice became cooler, losing all its previous joking tone. "Let me guess, Mommy bought it for you?" the envy in his voice was thinly veiled by mockery, but Regulus blushed, too affected by Sirius's words to notice his envy.

"Yes, and I'm supposed to plant it in two hours, or it's going to dry up!" he reached out for the plant in Sirius' hand, but Sirius was taller than him, even then. He held it out of Regulus' grasp and Regulus jumped up and down to retrieve it, rather undignified.

"Give it back, Sirius!" Regulus demanded once again. Mother had bought him a small dittany as a reward for his good behavior at the latest party at Grimmauld Place. If he managed to grow it well until it reached its maturity, Mother promised to buy him a rose bush. But now, it seemed that all he could do was to keep it from dying before his eyes.

"Or what? You'll tell on Mommy?" Sirius mocked.

"Or I'll tell Father that you've been sneaking out of the house and talking to Muggles!" Regulus said, without thinking, in a moment of distress.

This was the last straw for Sirius, who, on throwing the delicate plant on the ground, promptly punched Regulus in the eye. Regulus shrieked in pain and began to sob, reaching, even in the midst of embarrassed defeat, for the little plant he had to take care of.

"Coward!" Sirius bellowed at his face before stomping back into the house.

Still crying, Regulus crawled to the shady spot he'd reserved for the dittany and fumbled with his trowel, wiping his nose every often as he removed small stones and weeds to create a place for his plant. He would name it Arcturus—it was his middle name, he liked his middle name, it had a resonating sound, it seemed. His grandfather was named Arcturus. He sometimes came to visit and gave Regulus and Sirius chocolate frogs. He liked his grandfather Arcturus, but he didn't quite like Aunt Lucretia.

The earth was soggy, and it stuck between Regulus' fingernails, but Regulus was glad. It was an ideal environment for Arcturus to grow in. Humid and shady. Yes, young Arcturus would grow up well, just as Regulus would one day. His mother said so.

"You would be a young, handsome man one day, Regulus," she said every day, stroking his black hair. Her tone was warm, not unkind—there was a possessive edge to it, and the warmth was limited only to those who met her expectations, but Regulus had not yet learned to realize that, only liked the fact that his mother complimented him, but not Sirius...

The dittany, Regulus remembered, never had a chance to mature. The next morning, Regulus found his precious Arcturus trampled on violently. He'd yelled at Sirius, who had shouted back, and they were all called into his father's office for a session of self-repentance and flogging. Sirius, putting salve on his sore bottom, and Regulus, putting salve on his stinging hands, had resolved their differences. It was so easy back then, wasn't it, Sirius? Regulus felt like laughing out loud at their petty fights. Things had been so simple back then, so uncomplicated, every difficulties obscured and veiled by youth, himself protected by ignorance and innocence...

"Tommy is nice," Sirius said, as they tottered around the garden together. Regulus had gotten his rose bush despite his failure and the it reached her prime unfailingly every year, blossoming magnificently near the fence. Regulus crouched down on it and examined the ground critically, looking for weeds or any signs of bugs that may hinder the growth.

"Does he know you''re a wizard?" he asked. Sirius' habitual escapades hadn't ceased—they were now eleven years old, and a few months before enrolling into Hogwarts. Regulus tried to hide the fact that it hurt his brother preferred going outside, risking his neck in the process, to play with Muggle boys and Muggle girls, to staying home and reading books with him. Regulus tried to subdue his anger at his brother, his envy at the Muggle boys who instigated those feelings in him when they should've been below his notice.

The spiteful feelings were not usual in the young Black, had it not been for the fact that Regulus was already stressed about Hogwarts—what if he couldn't follow the classes? Sirius, he knew, was talented—uncle Alphard said so, every time they had a family meeting. He said nothing about Regulus, nothing at all, and this worried him greatly, even though Mother assured him that he was just as talented.

"'Course not, don't be stupid," Sirius said.

Regulus didn't respond, but his silence spoke more than enough of his disapproval.

"Don't know why you keep digging up dirt, only girls do it," Sirius said, defensively.

Regulus didn't reply, but his hands clenched into fists. Well, Sirius could go and play soccer with his Muggle friends Tommy and who else. He would stay home and do "girl things."

"Come on, let's go in, I'm hungry," Sirius complained, his thoughts already forgotten by the prospect of food. Regulus followed reluctantly, casting one last glance at his roses.

The rose bush in question was now wildly in bloom again, despite his growing negligence over the years. It was a magical plant, enchanted so every rose would be a shade different. Subtle, Regulus knew, and very little appreciated. His long, slender fingers swept across one of the flowers delicately, pricking his forefinger on a particularly long thorn. A single drop of blood oozed from his fingertip, and Regulus stared at it intently.

"Ow!" she cried in pain.

"What's wrong?" Regulus asked, trying not to be too concerned—Blacks were never concerned, as far as his father was concerned. But Regulus couldn't keep his worry out of his voice as he examined his friend's thumb, the blood pouring out of a nasty cut.

"It's fine, really," she said, embarrassed, drawing her hand hastily away.

"I'll go clean up, but you'll have to slice the dragon liver..." their eyes shifted to the cutting board, and the liver which had turned blue from contact with human blood.

"Oh, no," she'd moaned.

"Well, what do we have here?" the booming voice of Slughorn reached them from behind and Regulus and Alex both jumped in surprise as Slughorn drew closer, examining the desk.

"Well, Regulus, excellent work with the potion, but I'd say you'd have to fetch a new liver. And Miss Wilson, try to be more careful next time," was all he said before he'd left. Alex was obviously disappointed, wiping off the blood on her hand and refusing to look at anywhere as Slughorn loudly praised Evans' potion.

Regulus gave her a comforting squeeze on her wrist before she left.

Regulus opened the gate slowly, pushing it with his whole body numbly as he stepped onto the gray cobblestones of a London street. His feet carried him on its own, his mind not in control of anything but his memories, his thoughts...

"Stinking Muggles," Bellatrix was saying venomously as Narcissa and Regulus tried to keep up with her swift pace.

"Filthy, vile, undeserving..." Bellatrix kept on going.

"I know, Bella, it was unpleasant for me, too," Narcissa said tiredly, already familiar with her sister's sentiments. She shared them, yes, they all did, and the fact that they just had to pass through the Muggle London because the Floo Network was down did not help in any way, but Bellatrix's malicious voice was not at all a pleasant company.

"It is ridiculous that we have to suffer them," Regulus acknowledged reasonably. "But for now, we have a mission to do." Regulus remembered what the Dark Lord had ordered him to do—he would require something from Borgin&Burkes—but oh, he knew what he had to obtain, what he had to do, would not be met with her approbation. And her approbation should not have bothered him—he had a cause, he was an idealist, he could not let his emotion get in the way of achieving what he believed to be a better future for his kind.

And yet...

Contemplating, Regulus did not notice the mailbox which he promptly bumped into unceremoniously. Massaging his abdomen, Regulus looked around. There were stone buildings, old ones like his home. Tall, steel lampposts with their olive paint peeling off, and dingy, cemented road blocks that was distasteful to one's eyes. Street trees were immobile for there was no wind blowing, and the sky itself was bleak gray. The cars made honking noises and they emitted gas that Regulus didn't like. Exhaust gas, Regulus remembered from his Muggle Studies. Revolting.

The sound of laughter broke him from his glum observation. A young couple was sitting on a nearby bench, with a baby in their arms. A young man—Regulus assumed he was the father—held the baby up in the sky, as though the baby was flying. Regulus felt his lips twitch into a smile as he imagined the baby on a broomstick, feeling the air rushing behind him as he beheld the world from above. The woman, smiling, rummaged through her handbag and produced a small toy that the baby reached out for delightedly, again laughing that little laugh that had caught Regulus' attention.

Domestic life had never appealed to him, quite possibly because he knew how horrible it could be. What domestic life he had—with his parents, and before the Unspeakable Betrayal, Sirius, was tense, filled with frustration, hurt, and, what seemed to him, disillusionment. Sirius and he had always been, consciously or unconsciously, on competing grounds. They supported different ideals, stood up for different people. Their personalities clashed, and their methods were incomprehensible to each other. Their parents, although they were not indifferent, were less than helpless in uniting the family. Instead, they chose an easier option of favoring the Good Son and abandoning the Bad Son, who in turn abandoned them...

The happy smile of the mother quite mystified Regulus, who could only watch her brown hair swaying to and fro as she nodded in front of the baby, encouraging it to do something—what? Oh, she was teaching him to say 'Mummy.' He wondered what was the first word he'd uttered. His mother would not remember—his mother would not have nodded in front of him, teaching him to say 'Mummy.' His mother had always been 'Mother' as long as he could remember.

Narcissa had a baby boy, didn't she? Yes, a few months back—Draco, Regulus recalled. A pudgy little thing, with pale gray eyes like his father. Narcissa had doted upon it, much to Regulus' discomfort. Bellatrix, too, was please, to everyone's surprise, until she began to enthusiastically enumerate things the baby Draco would be honored to do for the Dark Lord one day. Narcissa had gone pale, drew up the little Draco more closely than she'd been holding him, and was silent for the rest of Regulus' visit. Narcissa's protectiveness—yes, he'd seen it before, in Rebecca Goyle, Rebecca Parkinson now, who held her baby boy in a similar fashion. Protective. Adoring.

A bitter smile etched itself on Regulus' face as he remembered his mother's enthusiastic reaction to his desire to serve the Dark Lord, how she fretted over his robes on his first meeting with his master. How she pushed him, encouraged him to take on missions even when he was tired, because he would be doing a noble thing, and serving not only the Dark Lord, but the Ancient and Noble House of Black. It seemed that protection and adoration from a mother was a privilege to the chosen ones whom Fortune deemed worthy enough.

If he were married...

Regulus shook the possibility from his mind, but his fingers clasped themselves around a thin golden band that he carried with him wherever he went. He'd planned the whole thing by himself, not wishing to involve anyone into it except himself. It would be the one thing he committed himself to because he wanted to, because he wished to—for himself. Others be damned. Or so he had thought, before everything went horribly astray.

It had been low of him, he knew, to have withheld information from her about her mother, when he knew she had been worried sick about her for months. He excused himself that he had no right to carry on classified information without an express permission from his master—but it was inhumane of him, he knew that, he was sorry for it. He also knew that his not telling her about her mother had simply been the last straw—had he not become a Death Eater, had he not spent time with other Death Eaters, had he not killed, tortured innocent people who deserved better... He had put it all upon himself, he knew. He was foolish to expect her to follow the same path he'd taken, selfish to have tried to persuade her to do so.

Yet he found himself wondering, despite years of denying even the possibility of their union. He wondered if she would've accepted him, had he asked her, had things been different and there was no war raging outside school and he had not chosen a side. He wondered if they would have parted after graduation—or would they have left platform nine and three-quarters together, hand-in-hand, about to face the world together? He wondered what kind of a vow he would've made to her, the color of the dress she would have worn. He wondered what would it feel like, to be joined with her in the most intimate way two people could be joined, to wake up every day and find her in his arms. What it would be like to have breakfast together, leave for work, come back home in the evening and spend the rest of the day together, their days passing and continuing in bliss.

A normal life.

But they were not meant for that life, at least not in this lifetime. Regulus had always believed in magic—still did, despite the Dark Lord's pretensions and his society's general twisted way—and fate had always seemed to him the most determinate form of magic, the most perfect magic. The ways of nature and magic taking course—that was fate. It could not be helped, and it could not be altered. His fate was death filled with remorse and humility—he could see it in front of him, brighter than the night stars, and just as lonely. He would not resist it, for it was something he had always believed in, and he always acted on what he believed in. He would die doing the right thing, standing square-shouldered and firm-footed, enduring what fate had set up for him.

If a life with her was never meant for him, then he would bear this life without complaint.

It had started to rain, and Regulus cursed his lack of foresight as thick, cold drops of rain began to fall upon his face. The sky had been dull gray, had it not? He had even stared glumly at it, trying to figure out the meaning it was trying to convey. Apparently it had been telling him that he should have brought out an umbrella. He had no wand, wearing Muggle clothes, so there was no way of sheltering himself from the rain. Regulus looked around—there was a small cafe nearby, just across the street. Its bright yellow light reminded him of the life he could not have, and he marched there, his hands stuck in his jacket pocket. A few coins jingled between his fingers. A few pounds, he'd wager. He'd be able to stay there for a while, Muggle cafe or not.

Regulus entered, a bell hanging on the door jingling as opened the door. A few faces turned to his direction before quickly resuming their own affairs. There were some girls who stared at him for a few seconds more than it was necessary, but Regulus chose to ignore them—it would be better if he didn't talk to the Muggle girls, for their own sake if not his own.

"What can I get you?" a middle-aged woman behind the counter asked brusquely. Regulus, although annoyed at her rudeness, studied the menu without letting his emotion show.

"Could I have a brownie and black tea?" Regulus said politely before handing the woman all the coins in his pockets. He would have no further use for them, after all. It would be pointless to hang upon every penny.

"Keep the change, please," Regulus said, before settling down on a secluded table near the window. A few minutes later, the woman brought him a cup of black tea with a milk jar and a dish stacked with three large squares of a brownie. Regulus thanked her for her unnecessary kindness. The woman merely grunted, but he thought he'd seen a slight blush on her cheeks.

The woman was probably a girl once, Regulus mused. A girl who had other girls to giggle with about silly things and who may have fancied a neighbor boy who smiled at her when she passed by. Perhaps she married the neighbor boy, or perhaps she grew up and moved out of hometown to see a bit more of a world. Regulus wondered how she ended up in her present position. Did she marry a baker, or did she need a method of supporting herself? What happened to the neighbor boy, and the friends she'd giggled with on warm summer evenings? What had happened to her that made her grunt instead of smile, that made her frown when she thought no one was looking? He would never be able to account may circumstances that befell on, or blessed, her, just as she would never be able to guess his feelings, his inner turmoil, the conflict.

He knew he could cheat death, ask Kreacher to take him away, but the idea was so unappealing, so wrong. Was there a hope for his reform? A reason that he should continue on? He didn't believe in second chances for those he'd killed, and he didn't believe in it now. His legacy, as he had once believed arrogantly, would not be emancipation of wizard society, magical beings taking over the world. No, his last action would be small, insignificant, unnoticeable. His disillusionment would remain unknown. It was best this way, to hide the truth—no one would get hurt, no one would question his loyalty. His family would remain safe, and unbeknownst to themselves, his friends and Alex.

How he wished to see her one last time! Before death ultimately tears them apart, before his last breath feebly warms the air. The desire would have to be suppressed. It would be unwise, he knew, to attempt in any way to contact her. He did not believe himself to be strong enough to let go of her once he held her in his eyes—he would not wish to leave, when fate had already sentenced his death a long time ago. He could not let it happen. Best let go of the temptation itself; he had a job to do, a job that would ensure her future, perhaps her survival and her happiness...

For she would be happy without him. She had friends who cared about her, Regulus knew, the bloodtraitors and Muggleborns whom he disdained but still protected her when she needed protection, who comforted her in times of distress. They would substitute him perfectly, perhaps be even a better company than he'd been. The war may last his time, but end before hers, and she may have some peace then, an opportunity to pursue her love of magic, a chance to live a life that she deserved. She would find a new love—perhaps she already had—and get married and have a family. Perhaps she would hold the baby up in the air as the brown-haired mother on a bench did so a while back and smile at the baby. And the father... oh, the father would be happy too, so happy...

It would not be him. Regulus did not feel anger, or jealousy—only sadness and regret and acceptance. It would not be him who would smile at the baby. He had his fate to follow and she would have a life. Such self-sacrifice would've made Regulus proud had he some expectations left in him—but he only had his own heart left to him, and it told him what he must do.

Downing the last drops of tea from his still-warm cup, Regulus carefully wrapped two eclairs that he had not touched with a brown paper napkin. He suddenly had an idea as to how he could use them. Thanking the cafe-owner, Regulus stepped outside of the bright yellow atmosphere, glad that the rain had stopped, just like his own state of mind. He jogged briskly back to the number 12, Grimmauld Place. The place had once been a center of fashion, his mother had once told him, when London, England was the center of wizard society. These days the wizards have spread across the globe, forming their own small ministries in deserts of Africa and distant mountains of China. Regulus shook his head amusedly at the inefficiency, the foolishness. What a waste, to divide, when they could be so stronger, so much healthier together, united as whole, cooperating whenever necessary. Wizards and Muggles and all the other creatures alike. How he saw all this so clearly now, how he could not see all this before. But that was to be his fatal flaw, his own foible.

The well-oiled gate swung easily at his lightest touch, and Regulus quite barged into his house, out of breath and determined.

He climbed up into his room quickly, not waiting for Kreature to greet him on the doorway. He had letters to write.

Setting down the sweet carefully on his desk, he opened his desk drawer and drew out the fake locket he'd carefully had crafted from the Goblins and a few rolls of parchments. Dipping his eagle-feather quill unsteadily into a pitch-black ink bottle, Regulus took a moment to calm himself before beginning to write. This letter, his last standing, would be dignified, perfect, worthy of the name Black.

To the Dark Lord, he wrote, a wry smile appearing on his lips.

I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B

Regulus frowned. Paradoxical. He was soon going to die, but he was going to destroy the locket as soon as he could. But that would hardly matter to his power-crazy coward of a master, Regulus decided. He almost wanted to chuckle at the prospect of the Dark Lord's furious face as he read this, but his expression quickly quickly turned somber—this was no laughing matter—he could not afford to be sidetracked...

He folded the letter neatly into a small square and put it in the locket, closing it with a small click. He placed the locket carefully on one side of the desk, as though it may vanish with a hint of disturbance. Rubbing his neck tiredly—for he felt suddenly very tired, the weight of what he was about to do crashing on his shoulders—he turned to the second piece of parchment.

Professor Dumbledore, he wrote, his hands much steadier than they had been as his elegant handwriting traced the lines of the parchment,

I enclose you the following package in the hope that the Dark Lord would be brought to end with the assistance it may be able to provide. I can only entreat you that its purpose is not to bring harm to people on either sides, but to save as many lives as possible.

Regulus hesitated, wondering if he ought to add more. However, he could not think of anything that he would like to confess to the Headmaster, not at all...

Regulus Black.

Regulus sighed, reaching for the secret compartment just above his bookshelf, where he had hidden his diary. The first several pages would not be relevant to the issue at hand; Regulus tore off the pages without a second thought. They would remain private, and quite possibly, forgotten. He slipped the letter between the cover and the first page, and bound the leather diary tightly with a thin cord of rope before sealing it with a Black crest.

Finally, he turned to the last piece of parchment in front of him. Dread washed over him like tidal waves, crashing into his mind before his eyes. Would she ever even read this letter? Would she even care?

The letter would not be addressed to.

Who knew Muggle brownies would catch my interest? I never imagined. The lady gave me a bit too much, so I thought I might share them with you. They're absolutely divine. Quite takes your mind off darker things.

Regulus paused again, wondering what he would like to say. So many things, so many bitter memories... He wanted to confess, to apologize, to beg and to plead—but none of them was his option.

It's a lovely autumn evening. I do hope you enjoy it.

Should he sign? No, she would recognize his handwriting at once. Yet, he wanted to call out to her one last time, even though she may not hear.

Love,

Regulus.

Regulus let out a breath that he didn't know he'd been holding. He sat there for a long time, not noticing that the sun had set and the moon had risen. Contemplating the last moments of his life.

At last, he stood up, summoning the family owl and Edge.

"Be careful," he muttered lowly to Barny the Barn Owl, carefully tying his diary to his leg. "You must not be discovered or caught, do you understand?"

The old owl gave a doleful hoot as though it understood Regulus' intention. Regulus stroked its fading feathers warmly.

"You have served us well," he said quietly. "I thank you."

The owl gave one last look at Regulus before setting off to Hogwarts. Regulus knew it would be unwise to send Barny on such a lengthy journey, but he was the only owl Regulus could trust to cleverly maneuver itself to Hogwarts safely. Edge was far too young, far too personal.

"Now," he said, turning to Edge. "Wait a moment, will you?"

Regulus turned to the clumsily-wrapped brownies and carefully re-wrapped it with a long piece of parchment. He enclosed his letter in the package. Then, almost unconsciously, his hands went to his pocket, drawing out the thin golden band. Regulus stared at it for a moment, thinking.

He slipped the ring between the folded letter, along with his family ring.

"Fly along, now," he whispered to edge, as though fearing that some one might discover his greatest secret of all. "You know who to find. She's your new master, do you understand?"

The owl glared at him, as though telling him to stop talking nonsense.

"Go!" Regulus shooed him out the window. Edge took off, a small shadow in the night sky.

Regulus watched him disappear for a moment. Did he have anyone else he would like to say good-bye to? Several. Yet, his mother was now asleep, and he would not trouble her—tonight would perhaps be the last peaceful slumber she would have. And Sirius—he was happier without him, happier hating him. One day, Sirius might understand why Regulus did what he did; but now, all he could ask for was a small trace of remorse his brother may feel when the news of his death reached his ears.

That he did care.