He is losing track of how many times he has tipped the goblet into his mouth, or how many times Kreacher has done so, how many times he has not breathed, how fast vinegar is flooding his mouth, how many horrors he has lived through again. The fight against insanity is too much to handle now; he slips back into the dark world of green vinegar.

He hates Muggles. Naturally, of course, he has technically never properly met one. But he has tortured a few (and almost enjoyed it), killed a few more, watched a few more than that die. He hates their stupid little autos- don't they know how fast a broom can go? What would it be like to never have that simple exhilaration of flying- ground swooping away, everything right side up and upside down the next moment, a little utopia you control on your own.

Regulus hates how much this life has spiraled out of his control.

For Dolohov and Karkaroff's sake, he hates their bombs, their atom bombs. For his own sake, he hates them because of what they have done to his family. They have created a Dark Lord like none the world has ever seen, a Dark Lord he serves. And he is the one who could never live since the moment the Dark Mark seared across his arm. Every day he dies again, every night he rises from the dead and kills others- kills himself- again; each morning as a crown of sun, rays of painful light like thorns, pierces black sky and he lays down on a bed and dies.

They have taken from him his family. He will never see his own child.

They have taken from him his sanity. There are monsters in his mind.

They have taken from him his life. He is dying, properly this time, or is this really death? All he knows is that he will never see anything again but green racing towards him, ready to kill. A liquid lake of Avada Kedavra rushes him every time he opens his eyes.

Regulus remembers the first time he ever saw the monsters. And insanity is welcome this time, unlike every other time; he refuses to fight the monsters, the Muggles in his mind, Mudbloods and half-bloods and purebloods too, that scream for atonement, treason, betrayal….

They are human monsters, or they look human….Their faces are blank, anonymous and yet so cruel, so cruel. Their hands reach towards him, dragging him forward; they sometimes speak in grating voices, screaming voices, whispering voices, the voices of the ones he has killed or seen killed, they tell him to forget his master and turn away from the light, walk in the darkness of mud and Muggles who can't even use wandlight.

The Russian is not there yet, although later, he is, after Christmas night. Regulus still hears him screaming, German screams he cannot comprehend, as Dolohov laughs and waves his wand. It is worse when he cannot understand why they scream for mercy as they die. Every time they kill foreigners, little voices ask him, What if their argument was real? What if we killed the wrong man?

The first time he saw monsters drowns his mind

It is early October- October 4, 1979. He is married as of yesterday. Outside, it is too late at night- or early in the morning, all the same to him- to tell what the weather will be like, but the first scent of winter taints the crisp autumn air. Rocella lies next to him. Regulus watches her face, her eyelids twitching in a dream. He hopes it is good.

He tears his gaze away from her, above her.

Standing in the doorway is a monster. A human monster. It holds a wand on him, its eyes possessed with a killing firelight. He slowly stands, hand moving for his wand on the nightstand.

"Murderer," croaks the monster. It is so quiet; Regulus suspects he is the only one who can hear it.

"Get away from here," he says. "Get away from my house. Get away from my mind. You're scaring me." Who says crazy talk like that to a monster?

"Murderer," the monster croaks again.

And then behind him, a new voice, this one welcome. "Regulus? What are you doing?" Confused. Quiet, worried. She loves him, thank god.

"Don't move, Rocella," he whispers. "Don't do anything. It'll kill us both. Just go back to sleep."

The monster croaks the hated word again. Regulus advances towards it and it towards him.

"Regulus? Regulus, what are you doing? There's nothing there."

"Don't you see it? Please," he pleads, "see it. It's there- it'll kill us! It'll kill us all!" His voice rises in volume, enough to mask footsteps on the bedroom floor. Cold hands grip his arms from behind, pulling his mind back.

"Regulus, there's nothing there. You're having a bad dream." Rocella walks with him back to the bed. "It's only a dream."

But it is real, his mind protests, and it's not a dream. It's life, dangerous life.

"Master?"

"How much more, Kreacher? How much longer?"

"Only a few more, Master. Keep going, Master."

"Kreacher, please-"

The elf looks away and tilts the goblet down his throat. Not so very long to go now.


"Sometimes I wondered how everything would look above those clouds, knowing that the sun was blond, and the atmosphere a giant blue eye."

-The Book Thief, Markus Zusak


It is Christmas day, their first Christmas together. Or it would have been, until five o'clock that night, when Regulus's arm begins to quietly burn.

At first, he doesn't notice, but slowly the pain increases, until he is forcing himself not to scream. He's determined to have this one Christmas together, uninterrupted, and then he doesn't care if the whole world goes to hell. Rocella comes back to the parlor.

"Happy Christmas," she says quietly, and then, "Regulus- I- I'm- I'm pregnant." Her face breaks into something past a smile. She gazes at him like he isn't a murderer.

"Pregnant?" Regulus whispers hoarsely, trying not to think of dead bodies of children and young mothers, sometimes staring at the white ceiling, sometimes eyes closed. It's easier when their eyes are closed. Right now, this is what he is thinking:

Oh, shit.

Her face is shining, happily. "Yes. Pregnant, I'm sure. Oh, Regulus!" Rocella laughs and grasps his arms, pulling him into a hug. Grasps his arm- his burning left arm.

Immediately he flinches and pulls his left arm away.

"Regulus-?"

"It hurts. I'm sorry. It hurts, I'm sorry, I can't help it burning. I'll stay home tonight. Just- please- let me alone, and I'll be fine. Don't touch me…."

She shakes her head. It hides the way the joy in her eyes leaps off a cliff and dies. "Go. Just go. I'd rather you went and got it over with than had to sit here with me being happy and the Mark burning like that. Besides, it's only five o'clock; you'll probably be back before nine." Her artificial smile falters. "I know it's Christmas, but we can- we can celebrate on Boxing Day instead, maybe-"

He slowly kisses her goodbye, one final "I love you," and he's out the door into the cold. Today is a white Christmas- in fact, it's snowing right now. Though his destination is completely unknown to him, the Mark on his arm pulls him forward when he Apparates, and he's suddenly on a completely alien commercial street, where it is also snowing, and much, much colder.

Regulus glances about- nobody there- and steps into the shadow of a doorway. Closer to the buildings, the biting wind vanishes, and he shivers. He didn't stop for a coat or anything else, as his wand is in his pocket, and he wants this over as soon as possible.

Looking about, he realizes the strange lack of festivities- it is Christmas after all- and the strange language the shop signs are written in. God, it's not even close to English.

It's Russian. What the hell is he doing in Russia? What's going on? He would add 'where am I?' to the rapidly growing list of questions in his mind, but that was just answered. Well, sort of. Russia is a big country.

(He knows it's the Soviet Union. Karkaroff and Dolohov still call her Russia.)

A tall, thin man who is much wiser than Regulus- he's wearing an overcoat- is headed down the street towards him.

"Excuse me, sir, do you know where I am?" he asks, completely forgetting that this man has no reason to speak English and likely has no idea what he's said.

"Doginasara Prospekt," says the man in English, his accent strongly German, and behind that, faintly Russian. Regulus recognizes his face as the man draws closer- Antonin Dolohov. "You're in St. Petersburg-Leningrad, yes? Russia? You see the street sign? Russia, I tell you."

"Er- thank you," says Regulus, desperately wishing he were at home, somewhere warm, Rocella close by- "Where is everyone? I thought on Christmas night there'd be more people about."

Dolohov laughs. It is completely devoid of humour. "Vot did I tell you, Black? Ve're in Russia. Christmas here is seventh of January. It's only another miserably cold December day here- and not that ve haff many left to remember Christmas, either. The Muggle men made sure of that for us."

Regulus frowns. "I thought you were German. Look, let's go wherever we're going. I want to go home as soon as possible."

"The family is Russian, ve've only lived in Deutschland since the Great Patriotic Var- the time of Grindelvald," he adds by means of explanation. "Come. Ve need to haff this done quickly, and it's over onIkaratina Prospekt. Follow me." Dolohov strides off quickly and Regulus is left trotting behind his footsteps.

"What- d'we need- to do?" he asks, breath coming short. Half of it is torn away by the wind.

"Someone the Dark Lord vants joined up. Gnedich's the name, Pyotor Nikolayevich. He's pureblood, good man- our sort, you know? Dark Lord's tired of vaiting for him to realize there's something big happening out here. So ve go, meet him, persuade him that joining really is a good thing, for his own safety."

"Okay," says Regulus, relieved. That doesn't sound too hard. Just talk to him, and from the way Dolohov sounds, the only reason this man isn't in already is because he doesn't know what's going on. They stop in front of a little alleyway, where someone is leaning against the corner wall, watching them.

"Zdravstvuyite, Antonin," says the man. He is slightly shorter than Dolohov.

"Hello, Pyotor Nikolayevich. Good evening. Look, my friend and I need to talk to you about something very important."

This man Pyotor takes his cue from Dolohov and speaks in English as well. "Vot? I haff to go, preferably now, I can't spend my life vaiting around for you." Strong Russian accent- there is a difference between Russian and German. Like the Rhine and the Volga.

"How is Marya?"

"Good, spasibo, but you know I can't stand about now. If you've something to say, please say it."

"You haff a family, don't you, Pyotor? Good vife, a son, a daughter. You vouldn't vant anything to happen to them, vould you?" Regulus knows this speech before. He's heard it a billion times. Generally, death follows soon after.

"Nyet- Antonin, if this is about that, you know vot I said before-"

He's tired of Dolohov dragging things out. All he wants is to go home- for god's sake, Christmas night- "You're a pureblood, same as Mr. Dolohov and I. I'm going to assume that you act like one. But, Mr. Gnedich, there's something farther than just a little bit of toujours pur. There's a whole cause, a movement- call it a revolution if you will, and I don't mean the Bolshevik kind. What we want is, well, we want pure blood on top like it used to be and the Muggles ground into the dust where they belong," he concludes. Regulus thinks the Bolshevik line was a nice touch.

Then Gnedich slowly draws out one word from his lips. "No."

Dolohov says, "Pyotor, think this through. You're being spontaneous; I alvays told you to think things over for vunce in your life before stepping up to the gallows. Ve are Death Eater, ve're not afraid to kill you or anyvun else. Think for a moment. Is your life vorth this?"

Gnedich's hand begins to travel towards a pocket where Regulus knows a wand lies in wait. "It's vorth my self-respect, yes. You too haff a son, Antonin, remember that. Vot does he haff for a father? Vot vill he grow up to be vith you as an example?"

Dolohov whips out his wand with one practiced, extravagant sweep. "Vun last chance. Vun simple vord. Then you valk avay a free man- or you die."

"Saying da von't let me valk avay free. I'll be just as much enslaved as you are. Kill me, then," spits Gnedich, and Dolohov raises his wand. Gnedich doesn't really expect to die, it's plain as day. Regulus almost wishes he wasn't here, then suddenly does wish he weren't here. This isn't a matter of whether some foreigner dies- this is something that's regarded as blatant failure in the Dark Lord's book.

His failure. His price to pay.

By now Gnedich has realized precisely how serious Dolohov is. He begins to shout, just like they always do. German screams Regulus cannot comprehend. "Bitte töten Antonin, bitte mich nicht! Ich habe eine Familie, Sie weiß das! Ich habe einen Sohn, er bin nur zwei Jahre alt, eine Tochter, sie bin kaum ein Monat alt. Ihre Schwester ist meine Frau, Antonin. Würden Sie soweit, Ihren Schwager zu ermorden gehen?"

Dolohov laughs, aims.

"Bitte!"

Dolohov regards him carefully for a moment, and then laughs softly as he says, "Nein. Do svidaniya, Pyotor Nikolayevich."

And Dolohov laughs as the body falls into the clutching debris of a dark alleyway somewhere in Leningrad.

"I must go," he says. "Pity it didn't vork. He's good at the Imperius curse."

"Where to?" asks Regulus, hoping very much that Dolohov needs to go home as well, not to report back to their master.

"My sister's house."

"What for?"

"To tell her that her brother is dead."

There is honor among thieves. Among murderers, it is hardly existent.

A/N: Okay, some of that was in Russian and some in German, I hope I didn't confuse anyone. I used altavista babelfish for the translations, if I totally butchered German and you can

tell, I am very sorry, but I can't change it. The whole paragraph of German was essentially a 'please don't kill me' schpeel.

If you read Bellacine you just might want to remember a couple surnames in here. They will crop up later on- actually, they already have.

Wow, I wrote this in one day. Spring break next week, so the next chapter might be a bit. Huzzah.

The street names are completely random sequences of letters. The Christmas stuff, etc. is all real.

"Any day out of the whole calendar year- even Christmas[..."

Sucks to be you, Regulus...