Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.

Written for Auction Prompt - D30/2. Buried Alive

Word Count - 411

Warning - Fairly graphic description of murder.


Guilt


The scream was piercing and Regulus only just stopped himself from covering his ears to block it a little. He wanted to silence the muggle, but his Lord was standing close by and Regulus had already been schooled about his likes.

He liked to hear them scream.

Regulus didn't, but then, according to Bellatrix, he was a delicate little flower. She hadn't meant it in a nice way either, since her words had been followed with a warning for him to quickly develop a thicker skin before the Dark Lord realised just how weak he really was.

Nobody knew that he still couldn't cast a functional killing curse either.

When he'd been called forwards and told to 'entertain' the master, he'd swallowed hard. He was infinitely grateful when the order was followed with a second; to be creative. At least his Lord was expecting something different than the Avada Kedavra.

He thought quickly and conjured a large clear tank, dropping the muggle unceremoniously inside.

The screaming had started then and it hadn't stopped. Regulus cast four egg timers to the four corners, and created holes, so that sand slowly began to fill the tank. Feeling sick, he conjured a few animals to scare the muggle more, sand snakes, large crabs and nasty looking beetles to name a few.

"Interesting," he heard someone behind him murder.

Regulus could only hope that 'interesting' was a good thing, because he didn't dare look at the Dark Lord for any signs of approval. Instead, he spelled the sand to flow faster and watched as slowly, the muggle was covered, buried alive in the sand.

At least it made the screaming stop.

Eventually the tank was filled, and Regulus ended his magic, leaving the muggle's tomb in the middle of the room. He knelt at his Lord's feet, praying that he'd done enough to spare him the cruel pain of Crucio at the end of his master's wand.

"Creative," the Dark Lord hissed. "Well done, Regulus"

He didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief until he was an anonymous mask in a sea of identical ones.

He didn't dare let himself vomit until he was in his own home, protected from the judgement and jeering of his fellow Death Eaters.

When he climbed into his bed, it was with tear streaks still on his cheeks and a heart so heavy he was struggling to breathe.

He still had his life, but it wasn't worth the guilt.