I have been exploring Regulus a bit (in my mind), and I wanted to write something about such a deep character. This is also in present tense (aaah!), and I'm a bit unsure. Please tell me if it works!
Cover image by Natello!
R.A.B
Climbing. Not too steep, but climbing. It's only a small hill, but his heartbeat is too fast, too irregular to be natural. And the speed of his heartbeat is climbing. Faster, faster. And there … there it is. Where it must be.
How could he not have realized this before now? The simplicity of it all. How wrong he had been about everything.
He should have realised when he saw his older brother's blood on the floor. When he heard the screams echo all the way up to his attic bedroom. He should have realised when he first saw that ... that creature that called himself a Lord. He should have realised when Bella had laughed at the pain of such a young girl. How could he not have realised? That his parents were wrong. So, so wrong. That Lord Voldemort deserved to die.
And Kreacher had come back, sobbing and sobbing and he didn't stop. Kreacher had started neglecting his duties, and Walburga had screamed and raged and ordered him to beat himself. Andromeda left, and Alphard left, then Sirius left and now even the house elf is rebelling! But it wasn't rebellion that Regulus Black had seen in the house elf's eyes. It was terror and pain and it wasn't right. Not right at all.
So he is following Sirius' words. Don't do it. Don't leave, it'll only cause pain for all of us. But if you see a chance, take it.
A chance at what? Regulus had asked.
He had only received a smile of goodbye in reply.
And now Sirius is gone, and Regulus is taking the chance.
He leans over the bowl.
"Kreacher, make sure I keep drinking. Until it is all gone, alright? That's an order. Even if I beg and scream. Even if I order you to stop, don't. And promise you'll never tell of this day to anyone. Anyone, Kreacher. Understand? Not Mother or Father or Bella. No-one can know of this. And when it is all gone, take the locket inside, and try to destroy it. Keep it and then destroy and don't give it away. Don't show anyone. Put this in its place."
Regulus gives the house elf a green locket and he cradles it to his chest. "Yes, master Regulus."
To the Dark Lord -
Kreacher brings the cup to Regulus' lips. The liquid burns like fire, but he persists. After only one cup, his throat is dry and parched as desert sand, and a stone of discomfort sits in his stomach. The world seems darker, and a haze descends on them. 'Dark Lord'. Not really. His face is pale as a ghost and his cloak is more grey than a proper dark black. Not like now. Not like this beautiful blackness that Regulus sees now. The beautiful blackness that seized him, pushing into him and enveloping him into it.
I know I will be dead long before you read this,
Drink, drink. Gulp it down. Next cup. The third now? Suddenly it hurts. It hurts, it really does. The pain. He doubles over, clutching his stomach: it feels like it's being eaten by a hundred tiny bugs inside him. His head swims, and footsteps echo in the darkness. Strong, sure footsteps that Regulus can recognise anywhere. "Father?"
Father said Regulus had to live, because he was the only heir. Sirius was a disgrace. Stupid Sirius. Did he not think that Regulus might want to be a disgrace too? So Regulus disobeyed his father. Now was the time to die.
but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.
Another cup. A scream echoed through the darkness.
"Sirius?"
The crack of a whip. Another yell, blurring into a hundred shrieks of pain. And then there's a cackling laugh and a shout of "Crucio!", and Sirius is screaming again.
"Sirius?"
And mother is yelling and father speaks in that stupid condescending tone. Grey eyes blink in the darkness. The soft dove grey of Andromeda, the stormy grey of Sirius, the silver of Walburga, the sharp steel of Bellatrix and the dark grey of Orion. Then more. He could see Narcissa, and Uncle Cygnus, and then they circled him, and even Sirius' little storm clouds seemed malevolent. The Blacks. All of them with their classic grey eyes. Eyes that Regulus didn't possess, much to the disappointment of his mother. Sirius had been the favourite, back then. Grey eyes, strong jaw … a Black through and through. So Regulus had listened to his parents, determined to be appreciated. He is ambitious, like a proper Slytherin. Regulus may not look like a Black, but he is much more Black than Sirius.
And the Blacks are clever. All sly and cunning … even those who are more Gryffindor than Slytherin. Blacks are curious, and curiosity means discovery. Regulus had discovered.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
Horcrux. That was what he'd concluded. Voldemort would not die, and he'd discovered why. A horcrux - cleverly hidden and protected. But not clever enough for a Black.
Regulus yelps as he feels a sharp pain in his side, running through him as if he was being impaled.
His sight is fading, and his mind can't keep up with him anymore. The world is playing as usual but he is in slow motion. That's what it's called in the muggle movies, right? Slow motion.
And now Regulus' own destruction is coming. Soon, bearing on him with gleaming eyes full of malice.
I face death
Death. What a beautiful thing. The last cup. It made his insides squirm as it ran through him. Burning, burning, and then cold, like clammy cold hands were closing around his face and he was breathing in the stale, old air of the basement in Grimmauld Place. Sirius stands beside him.
"Let me out!"
"Sirius?"
"I hate you! I'm not a Slytherin and I never will be!"
"Sirius!"
But Sirius wasn't speaking to Regulus. Sirius wasn't speaking to anyone that he could see. Because everything was dark, and the walls seemed to push inwards, and then he was being squeezed, and the breath was knocked out of him, and he took wheezing breaths to focus himself.
And now the pain. The pain washes over him in a wave of overwhelming agony. Regulus Black screams until his throat can't take it. Water. The locket can wait now that the liquid is gone. Water. Now.
in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
And the water … mere feet away. He reaches his hand out to touch the serene stillness of the water, and another hand reaches out to join him. It's not a very nice hand. Pale as death and dripping wet. Regulus reaches further and the hand pulls. Is it helping? Helping him drink?
And then he is dragged in. No help. Not for a Black. Blacks don't need help.
The only way was death, and as he is pulled under, the water tugging at his robes and more cold hands scrabbling at his skin, he embraces it. Because Regulus is mortal, and he's consoled by the fact that Voldemort might soon join him in death.
- R.A.B