IWSC2 round 6

Beauxbatons 2nd year

Theme: Shyverwretches Venoms and Poisons (using evil in the pursuit of self-healing or revenge)

Prompts: Regulus [character] (main); turncoat [character type]; fallen hero [character type]

Bonus allowance: Up to M rating.

WC: 2917

WARNING: Animal abuse and gore.

Author's Note: There is an uncommon and largely obsolete word in this story, which I explain here for the benefit of those without an uncommon and obsolete dictionary close to hand :-) Chambers Dictionary (1993) defines "veneficious" as "acting by poisons or potions, or by sorcery", derived from Latin venenum (poison) + facere (to do).

Hidden in the Depths

Regulus Black looked up in surprise from his study of Quidditch Through the Ages as his favourite house-elf materialised in front of him with a feeble pop instead of the usual loud crack. Then he jumped up in alarm, for the elf looked ghastly.

"Kreacher! In Merlin's name, what happened?"

Kreacher's orb-like eyes were starting from his head in terror, and his face was a horrid grey-green. He was soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. He tottered a few steps toward the fire, then staggered and fell to his knees, coughing up water from his mouth and nose. Regulus grabbed his eiderdown and flung it around the elf's shoulders, wrapping him in it and holding him close in an attempt to warm him.

The boy did not speak while he cradled the tiny elf in his arms and waited for the convulsive shudders to ease. He was astounded by the elf's condition. The Dark Lord had said he needed an elf, and Regulus had been honoured to offer Kreacher in his idol's service, but he had never expected his servant to return in such a state.

Eventually, when Kreacher's shudders had lessened to an occasional tremor, Regulus spoke quietly.

"Tell me what happened, Kreacher."

Kreacher flinched, but he could not disobey the command, gentle though it was.

"M-Master told Kreacher to obey the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a c-cave, where he cut Kreacher's arm and drew blood. He smeared the blood on the wall, which opened an enormous cavern." The elf gulped a couple of times, then went on. "The Dark Lord pushed Kreacher into a small boat on a great, dark water, and took Kreacher across the water to an island. There was a basin full of potion, and…and the Dark Lord made Kreacher d-drink the potion. It burned inside, and Kreacher saw terrible things…"

His voice broke off at the memory of those awful visions, and he flailed his arms in a futile attempt to push them away.

Regulus tightened his grip and said quickly, "Never mind. What happened then?"

Kreacher continued obediently. "Kreacher cried, and called for Master Regulus's help, but the Dark Lord laughed at him. He forced Kreacher to d-drink all the potion, then he dropped a locket into the empty basin and poured more potion over it. Then he sailed away from the island, leaving Kreacher crying for Master Regulus and Mistress Black to save him."

The elf moaned at the recollection of his abandonment. Regulus had a brief glimpse of the horror of that moment for a house-elf who had always lived under the protection of his master, and said with a lump in his throat, "Go on."

Kreacher took a gasping breath. "Kreacher needed water; the potion made him thirsty, as thirsty as if he had not drunk for a month. He crawled to the water and drank. Dead hands came up from the water and dragged him under."

He stopped again, struggling to subdue his terror sufficiently to finish his account. Regulus could not look at the elf's mottled face. He stared into the leaping flames in the fireplace, his eyes aghast at the scene Kreacher was describing and his lips tightening in anger.

Kreacher trembled as he relived his ordeal. "Kreacher could not breathe. The hands dragged him down, down. They fastened around his throat. He fought, but there were many, many hands, and they were too strong. Kreacher knew he was dying. His last thought was of Master Regulus, who had told him to obey the Dark Lord and then come home. Kreacher did Master's bidding and came home."

Regulus sat in horrified silence as he took in what the elf had said. In those lingering minutes, all his hero worship of the Dark Lord disappeared in utter revulsion. Blood supremacy was one thing; callous treatment of valued servants was another matter entirely. The Most Noble House of Black had always honoured their house-elves, even to the extent of mounting the heads of their deceased favourites on the walls. Regulus, who had believed he was following a wizard who would do similar honour to those who served him, suddenly saw that the Dark Lord would treat all those who worked for him as expendable, even torturing them if he thought it expedient. His stomach twisted at the realisation. Ambitious though he was, he was no sadist, and he could not support a sadistic leader. Ruefully, he acknowledged to himself that his brother had been right. He had jeered at Sirius for being a turncoat and a traitor to the family; now he had no alternative but to become a turncoat himself. He shivered at the implications; Voldemort had no mercy on such people. But the Dark Mark on his forearm, accepted with such pride a year ago, had become, in this thunderclap of awareness, no longer a mark of allegiance, but a scorching indictment of his wrong choice and an incentive to bring the Dark Lord down.

"Thank you, Kreacher," he said finally. "I know that was very difficult to speak about. And I'm sorry; I never imagined the Dark Lord would submit you to anything like that. But I'm proud of you for obeying me so faithfully. You have done well, and it was your obedience which saved you."

Kreacher looked up at his master worshipfully. "Th-thank you, Master Regulus," he whispered.

"And now," said Regulus, his voice changing, "we must think what to do. Kreacher, you must not go outdoors at all, nor have any contact with anyone who might mention you to the Dark Lord. He believes you to be dead, and nothing must give him reason to think otherwise. I shall have to make a plan, and I'll need your help. You said he left a locket there. What did it look like?"

"It was gold, Master Regulus, with an S in green stone on the front."

"I know the one!" exclaimed Regulus. "He's been wearing it lately. I asked him about it and he said"—he wrinkled his brow, trying to remember the exact words—"he said he loved it as much as he loved his life, and that it was the soul of his survival. I wonder what he meant? And why put it in such a place?"

He puzzled over the question while Kreacher lay cocooned in the eiderdown. The warmth of the fire was making the elf drowsy after the trauma of his experience, and he gave a sudden huge yawn. Regulus lifted the elf, eiderdown and all, into the easy chair beside the fireplace.

"Get some rest, Kreacher," he said brusquely, but kindly. "I'll make sure no-one calls you."

The elf gave his master an adoring look before his eyelids fell and his body relaxed in sleep.

Regulus curled up on the hearthrug in deep thought. His first inclination was to tell his parents what Kreacher had recounted and demand their support in retaliation against the Dark Lord, but he quickly realised that any such action would place the entire family in jeopardy. They were far safer not knowing what he now knew. And anyway, it was he who really bore the responsibility—had he not so eagerly become a Death Eater, the Dark Lord would probably not have sought to use his house-elf. He clenched his fists. Anger at the Dark Lord warred with his fear and the weight of his obligation; was he old enough, skilled enough, to walk this alien path alone, without the family support he had always relied upon? He quailed at the prospect, but then lifted his chin in courageous resolve. He would rely only on his own wits and his inside knowledge of Lord Voldemort to bring about the downfall of his former hero.

The locket was obviously the key. Why did the Dark Lord value it so much, and why was it so strongly protected? In his mind, Regulus ran over the defences Kreacher had described—a hidden cave, blood, a lake, a tiny boat, a potion, and Inferi. He wasn't a member of the House of Black for nothing; he knew that only an intensely Dark magical artefact would be given such elaborate protection.

He looked compassionately at the sleeping elf. Kreacher had suffered indescribable horrors in that shadowy place, and he had done it out of obedience to his master. It was up to him, Regulus, to avenge the elf's maltreatment and, in doing so, atone for his own folly.

He tiptoed out of the room, on his way to the family library.

o ~ o ~ o

A week later, he was still poring over Dark Magic tomes in every spare moment, seeking the key to his revenge. The Dark Lord's words were imprinted on his brain from constant repetition, but he still didn't know what they meant. Why would Lord Voldemort love a locket as much as his life, and how could it be the soul of his survival? Without the answers to those two questions, Regulus knew that he could not counter its power. Wearily, he dragged down yet another volume from the shelves and opened it. This one was hand-made, being a series of vellum pages between two boards, the whole bound together with animal sinews. The handwritten title read Vyle and Venefycious Vyctories, beneath which was written: translayted from ye Latin by Octinius Black in ye Year of Merlin 783.

Regulus began turning over its hardened pages, handling the brittle sheets with care. It was obviously a long time since the book had been opened, for some of the leaves had to be coaxed apart. The faded ink was difficult to read, and he might well have abandoned the attempt had he not read the introduction: "Ye vyctorie against ye stronge enemie maie bee moste dyffyculte to obtayn. Herein lyes a collecte of sorceryes, potions and poysons whyche maie bee of grayte use."

He carried the folio carefully over to the window seat, rested it on his lap, and began to read.

Even for a Black, accustomed to family members being involved in the Dark Arts, the contents were disturbing. Regulus's gorge rose at some of the spells described, and he passed over them hastily. The poisons, too, he gave only cursory glances; they were not what he sought. He spent longer deciphering the potions, hoping that one might give the symptoms Kreacher had recounted, but without success. He was beginning to lose hope when the word "soul" caught his eye, and he stopped.

"About Horcruxes.

An Horcruxe is a piece of soule whych has been encaysed in a magickal objecte. By soe doing, a sorcerer rendereth hymself immortal for as long as ye Horcruxe remaineth notte destroyd. Ye invyolate fragmente of soule tethers ye bodyly forme of ye sorcerer to lyfe even should he be 'killed'. Thus a sorcerer maie insure his owne vyctorie by effectyvely returning from ye deade.

Beware: Thys is a moste grayve piece of magick, due to its inherente damage to ye humanitie of ye practitionner."

Regulus's eyes blazed with excitement, and he smacked the window seat in jubilation. This was surely the clue he had been looking for. If the locket was a Horcrux, the Dark Lord would indeed "love it as much as his life", and the survival of his soul would be "the soul of his survival". Finally, he had the answer! Now all that remained was to make full use of the knowledge.

He read through the details of the spell and his stomach churned. The Dark Lord had done this? His erstwhile hero sank even further in his estimation. There was no glory in this, nor could he hold anyone in high esteem who so far debased themselves and others, even in the pursuit of victory. But…Regulus considered the matter carefully. Whatever he did might have to mirror at least some of the elements of the Horcrux spell in order to be effective. Was he willing to do evil in order that good might ensue? He decided that he was. The memory of Kreacher's terrified appearance and desperate gasps as he coughed up the lake water he had imbibed kept returning to his mind, fuelling his desire for vengeance.

He could, of course, simply get Kreacher to take him to the cave, abstract the locket and destroy it somehow. But he wanted the Dark Lord to know exactly who was responsible. He wanted to fling it in Voldemort's face that his own actions had caused the defection of one of his keenest followers. He wanted to replace the Horcrux with a counterfeit, ridiculing the Dark Lord's precautions and showing his contempt for his fallen hero.

He mentally tabulated the conditions. The bogus Horcrux must look similar; he could manage that. It must be created using a blood sacrifice; he flinched at that, but quickly decided he had no choice. It might not be possible to put the counterfeit in the basin unless it was made in blood. Then he must penetrate the defences of the cavern; he'd need Kreacher's help to do that.

At this point in his thoughts, he stopped short. Kreacher had drunk the potion and the Dark Lord had left the cave. Kreacher would have died there, had it not been for his own command to Kreacher to return home. A house-elf's highest law is to do his master's bidding. Apparently that trumped even Inferi and the intense Anti-Apparition Jinxes Regulus was certain must surround the cave. But the same would not apply to Regulus himself. If Kreacher took him to the cave, one of them would have to drink the potion and face the Inferi. He cringed at the thought of those dead hands dragging him down. He was too young to die! There would be no honour, no renown. His parents would never know what became of him, never be able to bury him. But the alternative was equally appalling. Could he put Kreacher through that again, and sail away, leaving his house-elf to endure the same terrifying ordeal he had already suffered? He rejected the thought immediately.

No, he would have to drink the potion himself, after commanding Kreacher to return home and not tell anyone what had happened. Vengeance must be served, even if he lost his life in doing so, and the family must be kept safe. He realised he was likely to lose his life soon, in any case, when the Dark Lord discovered his defection. It was worth choosing the moment of his departure, if the choice could give him victory over his former hero.

o ~ o ~ o

A few days later, Regulus was putting the finishing touches to his design of the sham Horcrux. The flickering candlelight in the cellar caught the suspicious green eyes of the stray cat he had adopted a few months before, and her golden head pushed against the door of her cage, seeking to escape. He avoided her accusing gaze, and consoled himself with the thought that once he was dead, she would have been neglected again anyway. This way was better.

The book had said that a murder was necessary to create a Horcrux. Regulus hoped that the murder of a cherished pet would be enough to mimic the requirement and satisfy the Dark Lord's protective measures. For certainty's sake, he knew he should do it manually, rather than magically. He took up the knife he had sharpened in readiness and approached the cage.

A few bold strokes with the knife and the cat lay lifeless in front of him, her blood still dripping from her severed throat. He sucked the long scratch on the back of his hand for a few moments while he looked remorsefully at her, then braced himself for the next step. He shaved off her golden fur and laid it ready, then carefully cut around her eyes—their green hues were a necessary ingredient, too. Working as quickly as possible, but with extreme care, he used a Transfiguration Charm to fashion a locket identical in appearance to that which he had seen around his former hero's neck. From time to time, he compared his handiwork with the snapshot of his memories which he had captured in the family's Pensieve.

Finally, he straightened up painfully and stepped back from his workbench. It was done. His tension relaxed, and he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He wanted to weep—for the cat, for Kreacher, but most of all, for his own disillusionment. Anger and the desire for revenge had carried him to this point, but all he felt now was a great weariness. At this moment, he would almost welcome the Inferi's grasp.

But wait—there was one more thing still to be done. The Dark Lord must know whom he had to blame for the loss of his Horcrux. Regulus felt a momentary pang of regret that he could not be there to take satisfaction from Voldemort's outraged fury when he discovered the counterfeit, but that, of course, was impossible.

Fallen heroes create turncoats. Regulus had no thought of his own heroism as he took up his quill and began to write:

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.