The house was far too quiet, as if even the building itself was waiting with baited breath for the arrival of the monster with red eyes and too-cold skin. The only noise was his own breathing and the ticking of the clock on the mantle, the usually soft sound ominous and echoing in the silence. Regulus stared at it, watching the second hand shutter and jerk to each now position, waiting, his heart beating faster than the flutter of a dragonfly's wings.

"Good evening, Mr. Riddle."

It was his father's voice and the first sound Regulus had heard other than the clock in the hour since he'd been told to wait in the parlor. The door was cracked open and he sat in a well-made and comfortable armchair in his own home, yet for all the world, he could have been locked away in a dungeon and still felt safer.

"Good evening. I'm sure you have Regulus waiting for me already?"

The voices were coming from the entry way, drifting up the stairs and through the room. They sounded distant as compared to the clock's ticking. Regulus stood. If he walked fast enough, he could get up to his room, owl his brother, and climb down the trellis on the side of the house. He could leave and never come back. As long as he could forget the way his mother had cried for days when Sirius had done the same thing or the way his father hadn't spoken or shown his face outside of the study.

Before Regulus could move any farther, the door opened. His eyes snapped up and were met and held by rings of blood-read. Suddenly, those eyes were the entire world, and lost memories and thoughts that he had no real reason to be thinking were making their way to the surface of his mind, as if those eyes were digging them up and out. He blinked and tore his gaze away before looking down, feeling his thoughts begin to make conscious sense again.

"Ah. Regulus Black."

Regulus glanced past the tall, inhuman figure toward his father who nodded desperately—eager to sell his son's soul for safety and a cause that didn't settle just right in Regulus' gut. Regulus looked back down at the ground, head and eyes averted respectfully.

"My Lord."

:::

Regulus opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his room, the same one he'd had since being moved out of the nursery in early childhood. The same one across the hall from where another young boy had once slept. A young boy with a bigger grin and brighter eyes, longer hair and always in movement.

As shadows crept across his ceiling, telling an unintelligible story of the neighborhood beyond his house, Regulus' mind wandered over the contents of his dream before he realized it had been a memory. That had been three years ago. He'd been sixteen and home for Christmas. His parents' gift to him had been selling him off to the Dark Lord. His family's safety would be ensured; his parents would be proud of him; the world would change, and he would help it.

Don't think, Regulus thought to himself, you mustn't think.

Despite the reminder, Regulus' hear beat fast, and his jaw and fists gripped tight. He threw his blankets off of him—a splash of dulled green through the sunrise-stained air—and got dressed quickly into his black robes, then stood, feeling lost in his own room. Though he was standing on the rug upon which his bed was placed, he could feel the cold coming off of the hardwood floor a few inches away from him. It sent a shiver up his spine before he put on his shoes and sat down again on the edge of his bed. He longed for the mark on his arm to burn. He longed for a distraction. He longed for anything to call him away. Even pain. Pain numbed the mind just as well as, and sometimes better than, pleasure.

After long moments, nothing came. Biting down hard on his tongue, keeping back a scream, Regulus dug his fingers into his sheets and mattress uselessly, then stalked forward and opened his door quickly and tensely before slamming it shut behind him. The anger and pent up aggression was seething through him, and staring at the identical deep brown door across from him was not helping matters. Sirius Orion Black, he read to himself silently. He held back a snarl, then turned on his heel to continue down the hall, his robes billowing at the movement. He wanted to kick and punch. He wanted to tug at his own hair. He wanted to slash anything or anyone with a blade. He wanted to kill and hear screams. He wanted to-

"Kreacher."

"Will Master Regulus need breakfast?"

Regulus' face softened and he knelt down to look at the elf who had practically raised him, feeling the scratchy Victorian rug that lined the halls and stairs against his knees through his pants. He stared down at the pattern for a moment, calming himself before looking up into Kreacher's eyes. "No thank you, Kreacher." There were flowers on the edges of the rug. They were red. Maroon. He swallowed. "But perhaps lunch for when I return. You don't need to worry about the time." Kreacher's eyes were pale and grey, eerily matching the family that had owned himself and his kin for generations.

"Of course." The elf bowed and moved to the side, allowing Regulus room to pass.

The carpet scraped his palm softly as he pushed himself back up. He wanted to rub his skin raw against it until the fabric felt like blades. "Thank you," Regulus said quietly before standing and stepping past Kreacher to continue down the stairs. The fear kicked in again—the fear that he was becoming something horrible or had already. He was a monster. His blood boiled, and he had to hold back the need to run. Instead, he calmly stepped into an alleyway and disapparated.