A/N: Just a speculative ficlet, posted mainly so that if my guesses are proved right with Book 7 I get bragging rights. (If they're not, I take the thing down pronto.) All rights reserved to the real Potter author.

The Stuff of Life

Redemption, or the possibility of, lies in oneself; it doesn't require anything more, can be carried forth without suggestion, without mentoring, without encouragement beyond the consequences of a good act within, without fanfare, without thanks, without glory, so that, fifteen years after you died for your redemption, your older brother can dismiss you as an "idiot." That is redemption. So let us look to the final stage of Regulus Black's… Although I suppose we'll have to touch upon that bit about stealing the Horcrux first.

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Kreacher should have known something was up from the start, something that boded him ill. Possibly he did. There's no way of telling, because if he had known that he ought to be Apparating like hell – as far away from young Master Regulus as possible – he still would not have been able to do so.

That is more or less "house-elf" defined.

Regulus impatiently cut off Kreacher's greeting. His world was all life and death and extremes and causes above oneself which nevertheless oneself played crucial roles in, and formalities were a waste of crucial seconds that might make all the difference in the coming apocalypse. ("Nineteen years old," more or less defined.) "I know master and mistress aren't here, that's why I came now. Leave me alone, Kreacher, I need to look something up quick's I can. Don't need you underfoot."

He had always been more the academic than the athletic type, but he charged the stairs two at a time. Kreacher's disquiet grew. That thunder on the stairs hadn't been heard in the physical abode of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black since… well, for a few years.

Young Master Regulus's tone also wasn't new… it had been common to… well, the other boy before he left… but common too to Regulus himself, ever since joining the Dark Lord's service. Kreacher wasn't suppose to distrust it, because young Master Regulus was a good boy, the dutiful son, and now the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient… etc., but Kreacher couldn't entirely suppress his doubts, although he could stick his feet into the fireplace for ten solid minutes at a time whenever he felt them.

Well-founded doubts they were. Regulus had just yesterday backed out of a Muggle attack. Stage one of redemption. He still hated and feared Muggles, but that didn't mean he had the heart – or lack of – to torture and kill. Just casting a great deal of mass Memory Charms and doings away with a couple of Ministry practices would have done for him, thank you. Besides, he had bigger things on his mind…

Kreacher was just about to hunt down a fireplace, feeling vaguely that he had been disloyal to his family in some way in the past few minutes, when, with more stairway-thunder, Regulus arrived back in the foyer. He had thundered upstairs to his father's extensive library all high colour and flashing eyes, but was now ashy-faced.

"Young Master Regulus does not appear well, Kreacher wonders if young Master Regulus – "

" – is miles and miles out of his right mind?" Regulus asked, a sort of hollowness to his tone, and to his weak laugh. "Something like – " Then he stopped short. He looked down upon Kreacher, and stared, and stared.

Kreacher fidgeted, every so slightly, before recalling that fidgeting was only even borderline acceptable in children house-elves, which he most certainly was not. He promptly raised a finger to point at his head and muttered a jinx that bounced him up and down the foyer – bounces of painful violence.

Regulus still just stared, and then cried, "Stop it! – I say stop it, you! It's just occurred to me that you're just what I need. You'll be coming with me."

Kreacher stopped, mainly in shock, and stared up at Regulus with wide elvin eyes. "Where is young Master Regulus going? Will Kreacher be – be – "

"Leaving the house, yes," Regulus said impatiently. "Oh, don't look like that, Kreacher, it's a direct order! My mother told you to obey me if I came while she was gone, no?"

"Kreacher was told that," said Kreacher, in an unusually subdued tone.

"Well then! I know elves are always over-attached to their houses, but what's the problem? You'll come with me, and no arguments from you." Regulus was sweeping on the cloak he had let fall carelessly upon his arrival. "You understand? None of your little trick of repeating an order you don't like to try and get out of it, you hear? And Kreacher – " Regulus got down to his knees, to be eye-to-eye with Kreacher. "You'll not tell any of this to my parents."

Thus did Kreacher find that his disquiet was legitimate. He looked sly as he said, "If Master or Mistress asks – "

"They won't think to ask if you don't make them think something's suspicious – which I forbid you to do! Now – upon my ancestors and yours – "

This was not an appeal Kreacher could easily break. Upon seeing the reluctant defeat in Kreacher's eyes, Regulus nodded, and stood briskly. "Excellent. Go get me a locket – any locket. Quick's you can. I'll meet you down here in just a minute – first I need to head to my room to get something."

Which he did, with the air of one who fears he'll lose his nerve if he pauses even for a moment.

---

It hadn't been so bad when Kreacher had merely went up-legged. Seeing that, Regulus didn't bother to inspect closer, nor to feel much anything about it. He hadn't meant to get Kreacher killed, of course, but one house-elf's life was a pretty good exchange for a bit of Voldemort's soul. Regulus left Kreacher in his own bed, flopped into an armchair, locket dangling from his wrist. He was drained but not exhausted. That always augurs bad for sleep, and his was punctuated by dark, confused images, and echoes of screams. House elves were loud – shrill, Kreacher's shrieking had been horrible, and he could hardly get it out of his head even as he dozed…

Who says you're allowed to be afraid of them? Just sit tight, would you?

Green shimmering on the water… getting closer all the time… and Kreacher trembling next to him…

Kreacher, I order you. Drink this. No, don't slosh it everywhere…

The weirdest feeling on his hands where they touched the stuff, too… what was that ingredient again… it had been in one of his father's books…

Don't be ridiculous, you can't have this water – it's full of Inferi, you worthless idiotic elf! Inferi, I say, tell me someone's told you what bloody Inferi are!…

And then Regulus found himself muttering, "Damn you, Kreacher… shut up, stop it… you're driving me mad…" in reality, not merely in memory, and woke to find that Kreacher really was moaning. He tucked the Horcrux in his pocket – damn, should have destroyed that before drifting off – but first to check on Kreacher. Was it possible he was still alive after all?

Evidently. He was no longer up-legged – his absurd little legs were down again, and he was bent over into the pillows, stirring more and more violently. Regulus went down on one knee by his bed and watched intently. Kreacher's whole face was changing… shriveling, deepening, going fantastically green… his eyebrows were going white… his breathing got raspier and raspier until, at the pitch of desperation, he suddenly vomited right onto Regulus's pillow.

Regulus's nose went all a-crinkle. Kreacher collapsed again, half in the sick, gasping, though less painfully.

"Er… Evanesco."

Kreacher wasn't – exactly – whimpering. Regulus couldn't figure out what was on for a moment. "Hey," he said. "You're up."

More of that dry, heavy whimpering.

"Can you hear me?"

Wrong answer. Kreacher didn't look as though he had the strength to move, but nevertheless he burst into violent sobbing. Regulus groaned. Hysterics and comforting wasn't his forte. After a couple minute's awkward cajoling he got something about of Kreacher… whose voice had utterly changed, was now deep as a bullfrog's, certainly deeper than any house-elf's had ever been before. It was quite a change. Regulus would have appreciated it – those high-pitched elvin tones could wear on your nerves – except that he was feeling some novel discomfort somewhere in the region of his conscience.

"Kreacher is a good elf," Kreacher was insisting, with urgent effort. "Don't be angry with poor Kreacher, please master, Kreacher will be a good elf…"

"Sure," said Regulus. "Sure, Kreacher. You're the best."

Regulus doubted he was being understood. Kreacher went on with his slow and laborious groveling. That grew old pretty quickly.

"How about some water?" Regulus proposed. "Are you still thirsty?" Kreacher went on muttering implorations in his strange new deep voice. Regulus shrugged and got up. "Get you some anyway. Just chill, Kreacher. You've done well. I'm pleased with you."

Regulus had never thought he would ever say that with any sincerity. Kreacher was an officious sort of snitchling, always spying on his mother's behalf and never letting Regulus have an inch. But Regulus had some healthy guilt going. He should've taken the potion… if ordered Kreacher could have forced it on him and then gotten them out of there… more complicated that way, but Regulus couldn't help thinking – it was much too harsh on Kreacher's system, he was so small, a human could have absorbed it anyway. And – Regulus didn't want to think on it too hard, but there it was – it wasn't as though Kreacher had a choice.

So Regulus sighed. He was an evil, evil bastard. No point to wallowing in it though – if he lived out the week it was only because the Dark Lord was playing with him, torturing him with hope. More likely he would be tipped off by his father's alerting system within twenty-four hours… he was going to go out to meet them, rather than let number twelve, Grimmauld Place be breached. He wondered idly who the Dark Lord would send. Bellatrix, maybe, it was like him, prove that he garnered loyalties stronger than family's. Well, if it was her, it would be family, maybe he could prevail upon her to make it quick and easy.

Regulus smirked dryly to himself. Yeah, right.

Probably Bellatrix was too important for the job anyway. But for the moment Regulus had no pride and no scruples about what was or wasn't beneath whom: he was drawing some water for the elf, and looking up some elderberry wine as well.

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