Epiphany - Regulus Black

This was also published as a stand-alone one shot, but I've shifted it in here to become part of the short fic collection.

Epiphany. The word lies strangely on your tongue. Bittersweet; it fills the caverns of your throat with the sour tang of you were wrong all these years and the hollows in your cheeks with the surprising sweetness of you know what to do now.

Blacks do not have epiphanies. They do not change. They are vehicles, a system that keep alive the traditions of the elite by passing them down through the generations. You expected to be such a vector, but life has a way of surprising you. So here you stand, a pioneer.

The waters of the lake lie eerie and lifeless before you, home to spectres more sepulchral and equally dead. You will join them, soon. You are not frightened. Regretful perhaps, for eighteen years is too short a lifetime, but not afraid. Sirius would be proud. "Reggie," he said. "My little Lion."

You climb aboard and set off across the lake, eyes fixed on the shimmering green basin on the further shore.

Magic thrums in the air around you, crackles at your fingertips, dances along your spine, reminiscent of Grimmauld, but darker, more potent, furious and all-powerful. Kreacher shifts beside you, and you curl your fingers around the locket in your robes.

The potion glows, calm and deceptively inviting. The horcrux is encased safely within, but through the barrier you feel the tug of the twisted half-soul inside. It is time. Kreacher twists his ears and mutters. You take up the cup, and drink.

It hits the back of your throat, and suddenly, your body is consumed by fires within. You retch and fall to your knees, - the pain - and then, the memories.

You remember well the beginning of the revelation, the sickening horror in the pit of your stomach as you stared at your elf – your friend - writhing, damp and ashen, on the floor before you.

"Master told Kreacher to c-come home."

Thus it started, the long days buried in dusty tomes, snatches of the Dark Lord's mutterings of souls and immortality.

Voldemort, in all his self-proclaimed glory and power, was a coward. A coward afraid of death, afraid of the unknown, and willing to kill a thousand innocent souls to secure his own for eternity. You smile, for you will not let it come to pass.

Kreacher pours the last damning drops down your throat. Your vision flickers, you see him switch the lockets.

"Kreacher, leave me. G-go home."

Skeletal hands are rising above the waters now. What would Sirius have done? The same. Without hesitation. He is brave. But so are you. Epiphanies call for change, and change, for bravery.

"Reggie. My little Lion."

Cold arms are on your wrists, cold water upon your brow. An epiphany calls for action.

Water fills your nose, your mouth.

It is dark, but there is light at the end.

You have done what is right.

You smile, and strike out towards the light.

Epiphany; a moment of revelation. An illumination, a discovery, a realisation.