My entry to the second challenge, at last!
Strategy 3: Run like hellebore. What some may call the most sensible strategy for dealing with the Dark Arts: don't deal with them at all. Write a story in which a character is "running from something".
Name: Half-Blood Metamorphmagus - House: Slytherin - Pet: Natural Heat (to be approved by staff) - Wand: Ollivander still has it, he's in love with it.
And I would like to receive my score as a PM in the out of 20 form, pretty please!
Regulus just didn't know what to do anymore. He knew this was what he wanted, but he couldn't support him now, not after this. Kreacher was like family to him, it's not as if he could carry on normally after this. The Dark Lord's ways just weren't right.
Actually, none of this was right. He should back out.
But he couldn't.
For years, he had venerated this man. In all that was known of his life and doings, he saw nothing but what was right being practiced. Pureblood supremacy was right, since his childhood, he couldn't believe this man could do any wrong. And the tattoo that he has been bearing for the past three years, was what he wanted the most, what he devoted his entire life to for the longest time, his main goal, finally achieved. But he couldn't agree with this, not anymore. He was torn. He so loved the dark arts, his most precious books taught all of it, it was enticing, tempting. Each page turned was another treat for his obsession, as if he was spellbound. But he, more than anything, defended magic. And the greater good couldn't be achieved through the torture of naturally magical creatures. That was wrong, and he always thought so, or else he'd never treat his house-elf as kindly as he did. He had to change this, he had to run away from this madness.
And so he would, for he had finally found a way.
He felt himself burning, something that couldn't be comparable to anything, like the Cruciatus Curse. His mouth was in desperate of water, of anything at all, as long as he could quench his thirst. But he had to be strong this time, he had to hold on just for a little longer. Grabbing the edge, he poised the locket into the basin, finally letting himself slump to the ground as his eyes meet Kreacher's. He nodded a goodbye, and suddenly, without warning, lunged for the water, his companion's cries going unheard as he dove headfirst into it, mouth open, trying to get as much water inside as humanly possible.
And then he felt them. Cold, twisted hands, gripping, pulling him. He closed his eyes, wondering whose hands they were, if those were the bodies of the people his past master had to kill in order to create those deadly Horcruxes. And then he thought of his mother, trying not to cry. He cared so much for everyone, regardless of what they thought him to be. But this was something that he had to do, his redemption to the mistakes of his youth. And as he look his last breath, he knew he had done the right thing.
As the Inferi so hungrily feasted on him, his body might be... but his soul was no longer torn.