A/N: Written for QLFC Round 3 | Beater 2 for the Wimbourne Wasps | Main Prompt: The Turn of the Screw by Henry James — write about someone two-faced | Optional Prompts: 1) Isolation and 8) Locket | Note: 'sanguinatramens' is a combination of the Latin words for blood and ink, and 'serpencalvari' is a combination of the Latin for serpent and skull
—
"Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew that I was. But I gave myself up to it…"
- Henry James, The Turn of the Screw
The dark serpent writhed and flitted about in a hideous fascimile of a human tongue, extending out from the open jaw of a skull. Grey eyes followed the movement, narrowing to examine the details of the twitching, burning ink. Regulus Black was appalled.
Today was 28 August — two years to the day since he had been marked with the notorious skull-and-snake symbol. Two years since he had devoted himself to following the path of the Dark Lord. Two years since what was now the worst regret of his short life. In fact, it might just be the only regret he had. Anything that could possibly join it was overshadowed to the point of obfuscation by the dark, foggy overhang left over his mind when his thoughts drifted to 28 August, 1978.
—
The sun was sinking down into the surrounding hills, painting the sky behind the clouds in deep red, orange, and purple hues. A few scattered raindrops were falling onto the ground, darkening the patches of soil peeking out from under the blades of grass and purple heather that covered the rolling hills and mountains as far as the eye could see. And in the middle of the scene stood a line of eight teenage boys, the ends of their dark robes blowing in the south-westerly winds of the Western Highlands as the summer slowly started to give way to autumn. There was no one else to be seen for miles around.
An air of anxious anticipation emanated from each shadowy figure as the colours faded in the growing darkness, the rain picking up. Cracks echoed through the fog, and the number of figures steadily increased — ten, fifteen, twenty — until there were three horizontal lines of cloaked men and women, with the front-most line consisting of the original eight.
One of the figures at the front pushed his long, dark hair away from his eyes. Regulus had prepared his whole life for this moment, and he was not going to miss one second of it. He turned to the boy on his left, whispering under his breath, "Jake? Jake, do you know when He is meant to arrive?"
The boy hissed back, "Whenever He intends. Shut your impatient trap."
Regulus tried to contain himself. The Dark Lord will be here tonight, and I will be called to do His bidding. For the first time in his 16 years he would set eyes on the man himself. It was the Dark Lord's wish to be seen only by those who were truly worthy, those who bore His mark, the mark of true loyalty, of unwavering faith in the cause. Tonight, Regulus would gain that mark. After tonight, there would be no doubt of where his loyalties lay. He would belong to the Dark Lord. Where he was meant to be.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light pierced through the darkness, the air crackling with an electric hum as a bolt of lightning struck the ground a mere few feet from where the figures all stood, burning a wide circle of bare earth. And just as suddenly, a new figure appeared before the gathered crowd. Regulus looked on in wonder. The figure appeared to be made of smoke, yet corporeal; shapeless, yet fully formed; there, but not. The contradiction between his eyes and his mind was becoming maddening.
The man in the line behind him leaned forward. "You cannot yet bear witness to the Dark Lord, my son. Direct your gaze to the ground below."
Regulus did so, and felt the endless circle of uncertainty in his mind come to a halt. And then the being spoke. His voice was low, cold, and authoritarian, and there was no other sound to be heard.
"Welcome, my followers. Welcome back to these fateful hills where many of you received your own marks. You are gathered here tonight to witness the initiation of eight more to our ranks. See them here, taking their place in the formation. They see not the man before you, as they have not yet completed their own journey, but tonight, they join you: the worthy, the loyal, the marked."
The marked Death Eaters watched as the Dark Lord lifted His arm to swirl His wand in an elaborate motion, and a large cauldron of acid-green liquid appeared in the patch of bare earth created by the lightning strike. "Come forward, my young followers," the Dark Lord said. "And hold your left arm over the Sanguinatramens."
Regulus and the other seven initiates left behind the triple-line formation to form a circle around the cauldron, left sleeves pushed up to their elbows, arms held out with their forearms up, over the shimmering potion.
"Macnair!" Called the Dark Lord. "It is time."
A tall, hooded figure stepped out from the center of the second line and came to stand by the Dark Lord, who then addressed the initiates once more. "When the blood has been drawn, let it drop into the Sanguinatramens immediately."
Blood? Regulus glanced down at his bare forearm, and the dots connected. So that's why Macnair was called up. Father mentioned Macnair's fondness for the sight of blood.
Macnair made his way to the cauldron, and let a blade fall from his sleeve into his hand. One by one, he carved a line down each waiting forearm. Regulus tried to hide his wince as the blade sunk into his skin, and then followed the lead of the others, turning his forearm over to let his blood fall into the potion, as per the Dark Lord's orders. As he watched, the blood began to turn the potion inky black. Macnair returned to the formation, and the Dark Lord came over to admire the substance.
"Your blood is strong," he said, facing each initiate in turn as they averted their gaze toward the ground. He then left the circle and addressed the marked. "It will sustain your marks for many years." He turned to Regulus. "Regulus Black! Son of Orion and Walburga, you will be the first of tonight. Give me your arm."
Regulus turned his arm back over so that the new gash faced the dark sky, and felt long fingers grasp his wrist. The Dark Lord drew his wand and pointed it at the inky depths of the cauldron, and as Regulus watched, a portion of the potion was drawn out into the wand itself. Then the Dark Lord pointed the wand at Regulus, and began to chant, "Morsmordre serpencalvari," tracing the tip of the wand over Regulus's bloody forearm. Regulus closed his eyes and bit his tongue as ink penetrated his skin with a burning fury. After what felt like eternity, the burning stopped. Regulus opened his eyes to see the Dark Lord for the first time, and was shocked at the sight.
The Dark Lord looked so… ordinary. He was a relatively tall man who looked to be about the age of Regulus's own father. His features were handsome, but there was something off about him. Something… not quite human. Regulus couldn't pinpoint what it was, all he knew was that He was somehow warped. Wrong. Almost monstrous. In that moment, though he would ignore the knowledge for far too long, Regulus knew he did not want to follow whatever path had led to that.
—
But what he had done could not be undone. The mark of his mistake was branded on his person for all to see… and he had to obey its command. And so, two years after that fateful day, Regulus pressed his fingertips to the reviled symbol and, with a crack, he vanished into the night.
A moment later, Regulus found himself wincing as his feet hit the ground of his new surroundings with ungraceful force. Apparition never was my strong suit. Brushing dust off his robes, he took a deep breath before raising his head. His gaze settled on the imposing opulence of Malfoy Manor, and he quickly shuttered any errant thoughts as he strolled through the entrance and into the meeting room to join the Dark Lord.
Of the seven initiates who had been marked with him, those boys whose blood had been mixed in the ink of his own mark, only five remained. One had been killed in a duel with the Order of the Phoenix. The other was rumored to have met his end at the hand of the Dark Lord himself. But as far as Regulus could tell, he was the only one of the remaining five who was not wholly committed to living for the cause, the only one who was not devoted to the Dark Lord with every fibre of his being. He was alone in his disloyalty. If that was how it had to go, he could accept it. But he was not going to die a coward. He could play the game, he could act every bit the loyal servant, but his heart did not belong to the Dark Lord. He planned to do everything in his power to dethrone him.
As he entered the meeting room, Regulus gave a short bow. "My Lord," he said, taking a seat. The rest of the chairs soon filled, and as he listened to the plans the Dark Lord had in store for the coming weeks, all he could think of was the locket Kreacher had told him of. Today was the day he would act. He would finally break away from the spell of the Dark Lord's path, even if it killed him.
—
There was no living creature to be seen in the barren landscape to which Kreacher had taken them, and the night was as dark and gloomy as the night of his marking. Regulus picked up a craggy rock.
The house elf at his side spoke up. "Master Regulus, Kreacher can —"
"I brought us here. It's my own duty," Regulus said firmly, and he drew one of the rock's sharp points down his left forearm. He raised the bloodied mark to the bare cave wall before him and let droplets rain down upon it, dying the grey stone a lurid red. The doorway in the cave wall parted to reveal a murky lake, and Regulus climbed into the small boat Kreacher summoned from its atramentous depths. Upon arriving at the site of the horcrux, Regulus saw Kreacher shivering fiercely.
"It must be done, Kreacher. This — this thing cannot be allowed to remain here." He drew the locket he had brought out of his pocket, handing it to the house elf. "Keep ahold of this for me, will you?"
Kreacher grabbed the locket and held it tightly as Regulus began to scoop the vile potion into his mouth. He watched helplessly as its horrid effects took hold of his master.
Finally, the potion was gone, and Regulus scooped the locket up with one pale, shaky hand. "Destroy it," he said faintly. "You must… destroy it." He grabbed the fake one from Kreacher's hands and handed him the horcrux in its place, dropping the fake into the empty basin. "Water…"
"Master Regulus, don't — "
It was too late. Kreacher watched as Master Regulus was dragged to his death at the hands of inferi.