What saved Regulus was that the Dark Lord was too busy to meet with him personally. Gone were the Order of the Phoenix's early-days fumbling, Dumbledore's people were increasingly organized. Azkaban's dementors had rallied to the Dark Lord's side and swooped down onto the Ministry. Once bustling halls were now empty, the Wizengamot's chamber silent. Most of Britain hid, waiting out the war. Grim reports of fugitives being found by Death Eaters, even after they've let the Isles, or of what happened to loved ones who'd stayed behind, kept all but the bravest or most desperate from attempting the journey.

During the summer, Regulus had been tasked to spent three days a week with Lucius and Abraxas, to be groomed for his position as Lord Black, and to share with the Malfoys everything he'd learned at Hogwarts so they could plan their future hostages and recruits.

But ever since Kreacher had come home half-dead, Regulus struggled to not see the people behind the names. He had nightmares about Bryony. Often he was Bryony. Trapped in a small child's body, he watched his own father die, felled by the killing curse. He saw Marisa Fenwick's torture. Except sometimes it wasn't Fenwick but Gladys, or Sirius, or him. Sometimes, he tried to apparate away, but his magic wouldn't work. He would try to run, but his legs wouldn't move. His would scream for Kreacher, but no help would come. Or worse, Kreacher would come and then slump in a flash of green. Sometimes Regulus wasn't the tortured but the torturer. He'd wake up in cold sweats, feeling ill.

Regulus searched the Malfoy library, like he searched the family's, for the meaning of Horcrux. All he knew was that it was an enchanted dark object. Something instrumental to the Dark Lord's power. Something Regulus didn't dare ask about. After all, the Dark Lord had only boasted to Kreacher because he'd been convinced the elf would take the knowledge to the grave.


During those afternoons, Regulus would greet Narcissa with smiles, pretending all was fine. She would vanish when the men settled to talk, as if she didn't have as much to teach Regulus than either Malfoy. She would reappear, the perfect hostess, to see him out. No doubt an expert in etiquette would have nodded in approval at the hollow pleasantries they exchanged.

How is it that in trying to become someone, he'd lost everything he had? Who could Regulus call friend these days? Severus wouldn't be back before year's end and suspected nothing of Regulus' doubts. The Regulus Gladys knew was a lie. The Regulus his Slytherin 'friends' knew was just as much a crafted mask. Rodolphus wouldn't understand; he loved a woman who cast the cruciatus and the imperius with wild abandon.

Regulus sighed, putting the tomes away as he heard Narcissa's steps outside the library. Dead ends, again. His frustration melted into something softer, but more painful, as she stood there, elegant and beautiful as ever, to walk him back to the manor gates.

At least the day was lovely. The sun warmed his skin as they strolled through the grand grounds.

"Shall I tell Dobby not to throw away fallen peacock feathers when he's done gathering them?"

Dobby? "You have a new elf?"

"He killed Davy. Luag Urquhart had ordered him to spy and steal from us, and cover his tracks even if that entailed elf-murder." She said it lightly, as if it was as common and inconsequential as water leaking in because a window hadn't been shut well.

Regulus winced. When had this become their normality? "It's not the elf's fault -"

"The creature is alive, fed and taking care of the grounds." The sudden steel in her voice betrayed she cared little for reasons when her family was threatened. "He feels appropriately guilty now that he's bound to us, and as long as he obeys, he'll be fine."

Regulus smiled, that warm-but-surface smile that had became a habit, but his eyes caught Narcissa's slightly swollen stomach and suddenly he couldn't pretend. That they'd not once upon a time promised they'd always be family.

"You should go, Reggie." Narcissa's hand was on his arm, its stiffness the only crack in the witch's composure.

He lifted his own hand to grab hers. "I couldn't help noticing... The Eastern guest suite is used. You've kicked Lucius out of his own bed?" A shadow crossed Narcissa's expression. Regulus smiled, biting back wry laughter. "Good. Fight for yourself."

For the first time in months, Narcissa looked at him with unguarded fondness and Regulus had to hug her. She slumped against him, as if standing tall exhausted her, and Regulus found new hate welling in him.

"I'm worried for our family," Narcissa whispered in his neck. It struck him then, that he'd grown taller than her.

"That Malfoy tapestry you'll weave, it'll stay whole," Regulus promised, and he desperately wanted it to be true. He pulled away, squeezing her hands before letting go. "Do save a spot for cousin Reggie."

She cradled her stomach, her guarded smile warning him against empty promises but her eyes grateful. "Our next child will have Regulus as his or her second name."

"You'd saddle an innocent baby girl with 'Regula'? Really?"

Narcissa slapped his arm, lips twitching. "You're supposed to be honored not insolent."

Regulus grinned unabashedly, wishing he could erase the tightness in her eyes. Cousin Cissy had seemed invincible at Hogwarts, and it terrified him to see her so resigned.


Soul shards receptacles. Immortality in exchange for the loss of a part of yourself. Carved out of the whole through murder.

Regulus shut the tome in daze. Tom Marvolo Riddle, heir of Slytherin, was dead. He'd killed himself in order to create an immortal monster. Could they possibly coincide, the moment where Lord Voldemort had cursed Slytherin's locket and the moment he'd begun torturing his own followers, his political ambitions cast aside, replaced by a merciless crusade against Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix? Could it be that Abraxas Malfoy hadn't been fooled by Tom Riddle? that he'd simply met the wizard before his reason and restraint had been sacrificed to the darkest of rituals?

Regulus boarded the Hogwarts Express for the last time a few days later, still overwhelmed by his discovery. Impulsively, he bought two galleons' worth of candy, desperate to recapture the excitement of his first trip. An hour later, nauseous, he brought the half-eaten five-pound bag of sweets to a compartment full of Slytherin second years.

"I overestimated myself," he said in way of greeting. "Who wants free sweets?"

His words sparked an wave of cheer. He basked in his newfound popularity.

But neither daily distractions nor the intensity of his NEWTs classes could silence the terrified voice whispering what if's to Regulus' mind.

The Dark Lord would find out, if not next week, or next month, then during the Winter holidays. Perhaps Regulus would not be discovered before he'd sat his NEWTs. But what then? Would Regulus be bound to secrecy? Would he be tortured? How badly? Would he be obliviated, left with only a fraction of himself, like the muggles who'd had all knowledge of magic torn from their minds?

What would happen to Kreacher? Regulus had told Mother and Father nothing. He couldn't involve them until he found out how to protect them.

What would the Dark Lord ask of him, to prove himself?

Whispers of people leaving the Isles began to fill him with envy. Regulus fantasized that he'd wake up in a foreign country, where nobody would know him. But the constant warm pulse of his Dark Mark, like a resting parasite coiled beneath his skin, was quick to remind him he'd be found, no matter how far he went.

He stopped talking to Gladys, desperate to forget her, to make her nobody to him as would be proper for a Death Eater. He couldn't look at her without seeing Bellatrix order a stricken Lord Parkinson to torture his long-time friend, the now fallen-from-grace Marius Bulstrode. 'You wouldn't want to be confused, as to where your loyalties lie, would you?'

Occlumency gave Regulus days of respite, and dark arts helped him channel his growing fear into guardian spells. Those often took the form of conjured animals that Regulus would photograph, desperate to distract himself through artistry. But as days turned into weeks, it became harder and harder to stay in denial.

Before he'd known about Horcruxes, Regulus could have fooled himself into thinking the Dark Lord's cruelty was rational or even necessary. That there was a plan. That Regulus wasn't slave to a master consumed by dark arts. But now, there was no escaping the truth. Lord Voldemort was mad and Regulus had condemned himself the day he had refused to let Kreacher take the Dark Lord's secret to his grave.


A harsh meow had Regulus jump backwards. He hastily leaned against the tower wall next to him, his feet slipping on the tiles.

He'd sneaked on the Hogwarts roof to take pictures, enjoying the silence and the evening light, a silver conjured eagle by his side. That eagle had caught a very upset cat.

Wait -. Perhaps it was the tabby's odd stiffness, its unnervingly stern eyes or – Merlin! Regulus vanished the eagle and hastily conjured a thick mat to catch the falling feline.

She landed on her feet and stood up, shifting back to human shape.

Regulus hung his head. "Professor, I never meant to -"

"I saw," Minerva McGonagall said stiffly. "You're forgiven. What are you doing on the roofs?"

"Taking pictures," he admitted, lifting the camera in his left hand. "I... they distract me. Hogwarts is beautiful, I... I've made a book, with all the portraits and ghosts and -" The library held inventory tomes, more detailed and artistic than whatever he'd manage, but still, Regulus was proud of his compilation.

"You look terrified, Mr. Black."

Yes. He felt little else than terror these days. The use of fear-based dark arts didn't help.

"Is there anyway I can be of assistance?"

Ha. Regulus smiled weakly at his transfigurations professor. McGonagall was Dumbledore's deputy, and most certainly an Order of the Phoenix member. She was a good teacher, hard sometimes, but good. She'd been soft on the Marauders, but they had been hers, and it's not like Slughorn had managed to corral Sirius and his gang either. In truth, Regulus had never quite paused to think about Minerva McGonagall the person. Not that she'd ever seemed interested in knowing him.

"It's too late for that, Ma'am." Dumbledore's people were struggling to protect their own, so a Death Eater...

"As long as you're within the Hogwarts' walls -"

"I have family outside." He took a sharp breath, staring at the lake below. It looked so deceptively calm. So peaceful. "Do you believe you can win? Or is fighting a matter of principle?"

"Both." The confidence in the witch's voice had him turn. She looked formidable in her robes. But perhaps it was just a formidable lie.

"Why didn't Dumbledore block owls or lock down the wards so we couldn't leave? Why didn't you shove Veritaserum down our throats? Had the Dark Lord known Hogwarts was out of bounds, he might have left us alone."

"What do you mean?" Once, McGonagall's stern tone would have intimidated him. Now he sneered, tired of everybody's failures. "Mr. Black, has -"

"He'd be alive, Doge. Fenwick wouldn't have been captured. Tortured. At least, not like that."

"Do you mean to say that students -"

"You're truly surprised?" McGonagall looked pale and horrified, but not... no, not that surprised. As if she'd suspected but failed to investigate that particular suspicion. Exhaustion dug deep lines on the witch's face.

Regulus sighed, turning back towards the sunset. It wasn't McGonagall who haunted his nightmares. "Why do you spend time on the roofs, Professor?"

"Hogwarts is beautiful."

A smile drew itself on Regulus' lips. The trees of Forbidden Forest, dark against the golden sky, moved in different directions, as if animated by winds of their own. "It really is."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Black," McGonagall said after a pause. "I wish we'd done things differently."

So do I. "You're doing a lot." Whereas Regulus often wondered why he bothered to get out of bed.

"I must. I owe it to this country and I owe to myself. If I fail, I must trust that others will not." She took a sharp breath, and for a second they were not Professor and student but two soldiers. "That monster cannot stop me from getting up and being proud of what I see in the mirror."

Regulus blinked. Something other than fear stirred inside him. A feeling of... injustice. One he'd learned to squash years ago. 'It's not fair' was a sentence for babies. But faced with McGonagall's unyielding pride, he suddenly realized that it was also a sentence that spurred you to fight.

It wasn't fair. He was tired of being terrified. Tired of feeling like he had no choice.

It wasn't fair. He wanted to be safe. He wanted to be free.

He wanted the Dark Lord gone.

The Horcrux had to go.

Light-headed, Regulus smiled weakly. It was insane, he'd fail, he'd pay for it. And yet... He hadn't felt so good in months.

"Thank you, Professor. Would you consent to me taking your picture? As a cat?"

McGonagall's stare made him blush, but her lips were twitching. She transformed, her markings almost invisible as the last of the sun's rays painted the lake beneath them red.


Regulus didn't wait, too scared to lose his nerve. He'd wasted over a month already.

He asked Professor Slughorn how the strongest debilitating potions could be countered, and if he had experience with debilitating potions that caused abject hopelessness and guilt. A few days later, the Potions Master sold him a thick concoction. 'This lines your mouth, throat and innards, no other potion will touch you. You just have to throw it up afterwards.'

When a pale Kreacher took him to the cave where Lord Voldemort had hidden his Horcrux, Regulus had to fight back the urge to flee. The place stank of death and the chill clawed at him despite the warming charms on his robes. The boat supposed to take them over the leaden lake was ridiculously fragile. Who would ever find Regulus if he drowned here? Would he rise up, one faceless inferi among hundreds?

Who had those inferi been? Dead muggles excavated from graveyards? Wizards?

Regulus clenched his wand harder. "We're doing this," he said through gritted teeth, wincing at the hollow echo of his own voice.

Slughorn's potion felt like swallowing a snake and then pulling it back out. Regulus gagged to tears at first, but in this nightmarish cave, it was the lesser evil. He drunk that abject potion, and he survived. He felt wretched, violent shudders wracking his body, but he was standing He didn't dare contemplate what it would have been without Slughorn's help.

He had it in his hand. The silver locket. Passed through twenty generations of Slytherin descendants. A priceless artifact. Now defiled. Darkness irradiated from it like nothing Regulus had ever seen. A familiar darkness, whose pulse echoed that of his Dark Mark.

The locket whispered to him. 'The second son. Untalented, needy, average. You never fooled everyone. You're just smart enough to realize you've been used. Flattered into being an obedient little slave.'

'You're going to die. You're going to get them all killed. Kreacher. Mother. Father. Narcissa. It will be your fault. Your little rebellion. Useless.'

"Kreacher be popping master home as planned?"

Regulus grimaced, struggling to focus on his surroundings and the elf staring at him in concern.

"No," he managed. "If I'm home, he can apparate through the wards using the mark. Take it home and destroy it, Kreacher. Don't tell Mother and Father, it'll put them in danger. If you need time, hide it well, in the house. Keep it inside the wards."

'... scream. The imperius will make you who you should have been. Perhaps you'll bring his Sirius, the true Black heir -'

"Enough!" Regulus exclaimed. "Go, Kreacher. Get that thing away from me! Come back to apparate me out."

Alone in the cave, the young man shakily dropped to his knees. Growing hysteria sapped his energy as he realized this was it. He'd done it and now... They wouldn't just chase him down and kill him. They'd strip him of all dignity. They'd make him a puppet. They'd go after his family.

The lake was there, he'd just have to extend his arms and touch it. The water was so cold, if Regulus removed his charms, with the weight of his clothes, surely it would be quick. His magic would be no match for the inferi.

Regulus shook himself out of his morbid fantasy. He couldn't do this Kreacher.

But now the thought had made its way in his mind...

He wasn't condemned to wait until the Dark Lord found him out. He could make it stop. He could make sure it didn't hurt. They wouldn't be able to blame anybody else, because he'd not told anyone.

Regulus had come to the cave straight after classes, in his school robes, and with a fake locket in his bag, built using a drawing of the original he'd found in the Hogwarts' library. Impulsively, he ripped a piece of paper from one of his textbooks 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.

He shoved his quill and inkwell in his bag, breathing deeply and feeling like... like his bloody brother. Reckless and stupid. But he really, really, wanted the Dark Lord to know.

Regulus smiled in satisfaction as he slid the fake locket where the real one had been.

"Kreacher," he whispered.

A pop announced the elf's arrival.

"Locket being hidden. Kreacher later be finding better hidings." Kreacher tugged at Regulus' robes, his eyes bright and concerned. "Reggie?"

Regulus couldn't do it. He didn't know how to kill himself efficiently without his magic flaring up and the Dark Lord becoming aware of it. He couldn't ask Kreacher to kill him. He needed... help.

"Take me to Hogsmeade. I need to think."

He had Kreacher pop him on the roof of the three Broomsticks. Chatter rose from the inside. It was 8 PM and even a war didn't stop the regulars from having their meals at the pub.

But who would help him? Who would defy the Dark Lord.

Sirius abruptly came to mind. Regulus pulled his knees to his chest with a groan. Sirius would think he was a spy. Even if Sirius didn't, if Sirius took him to an Order safe-house and the Dark Lord appeared using Regulus' mark... Regulus shuddered. He never wanted to be a witness to that again.

Perhaps Slughorn : the Potions Master would know which poisons were fast, too fast to allow the Dark Mark to alert Lord Voldemort before Regulus was beyond the point of healing. But Slughorn would never sell Regulus such a lethal poison without asking questions. What if the man told McGonagall, or Dumbledore? What if, simply, his Head of House would worry, and decided to keep a close eye on Regulus? No, Regulus needed someone more ruthless. Someone who would understand.

He couldn't go to Narcissa, no matter how ached to see his cousin. He couldn't, wouldn't, put her in danger. And would she even accept, pregnant, and in love with a Death Eater? And she liked him. He could never let Narcissa die, let alone kill her even she asked, so to expect her to-.

Regulus stood up with a shuddering breath. "Kreacher. Could... Can you locate Andromeda? Magically, she should still be a Black."


Regulus was so stiff he could barely breathe when he and Kreacher popped in front of Andromeda's house. A cottage, cheap-looking but cozy in its way. "Don't eavesdrop," he warned Kreacher. "You don't want anyone to ask you what's being said."

It killed him that Kreacher just nodded trustingly and moved out of earshot, his protruding eyes shining with concern.

The cottage's door opened, and Regulus was shocked to see his cousin... unchanged. Older yes, but he'd expected muggle clothes, muggle jewelry maybe, instead... She could have come like this to have tea at Malfoy manor. She looked like a Black. He'd never questioned why she'd been disowned. But seeing her... This was his cousin, no matter what the tapestry said.

Her wand was out and she looked enough like Bellatrix to send a jolt of fear up Regulus' spine. But Cousin Meda's expression was one he never saw on Bellatrix anymore : a calm frown, one that said 'I'm just taking precautions here'. Regulus dropped his own wand and kicked it towards the house's wards, his arms open in a peace offering.

Andromeda's eyes flickered from Regulus to Kreacher. "Who's he to you?"

Regulus swallowed. "A better brother than Sirius, and a better Uncle than your father."

Andromeda's frown deepened. "Come in." The wards shimmered, letting him through. Kreacher's ears twitched but Regulus gestured at him to stay outside.

The house's entrance hall and the living room had Regulus smile despite himself. Not only was there much more space than what the cottage's walls suggested, but it was filled with antiques. Magical flames danced in the wood and crystal chandeliers, and it looked like a more friendly, portrait-less version of home. And there were books on every wall, muggle books, although some of those ancient encyclopedias looked like something the Malfoys could have kept in a cabinet hidden from the public eye.

"So this is Black Cottage... It's like Black Manor for Hufflepuffs." Gladys had shown him around the Hufflepuff common room once, it was so cozy it made you want to hug everyone and play chess instead of planning for your future.

Andromeda seemed to almost smile, her cautious stiffness replaced by perplexed curiosity.

"I'm surprised to see you, Regulus." Her eyes never left him. He'd been nine when she'd last set foot in a Black house.

"I'm dead. He's going to kill me. I need... I need you to kill me. If he finds me..."

Andromeda stared. "Sit down," she finally said. "Breathe, Reggie. Explain."

So Regulus did. For the first time he spoke about Bryony and Fenwick and the Meadowes, about the cruciatus and the imperius. He didn't speak of the Horcrux, but he spoke of dark arts, of the mark and the Dark Lord's punishments. Of how things had changed for the worst, for everyone.

"I... He doesn't want a better England. He likes this : the chaos, using awful magic nobody else can cast. Bellatrix's the same. He's... he's insane. He's so powerful dark arts have twisted him but won't kill him. Cousin Bella... she's so cruel now." He put his head in his hands. "They're going to kill me."

"Nobody's going to kill you."

"You don't understand, the mark's made me his! He can apparate anywhere I am, regardless of the wards, except Hogwarts or Gringotts." Andromeda stiffened at that and Regulus smiled mirthlessly because, yes, he meant here too. "I betrayed him. I..." He couldn't tell her. She was his only close family not neck deep in this mess. He had to trust Kreacher to dispose of the locket. "If the Dark Lord catches me, I'll be tortured or worse, Meda. I want to go on my terms. I'm sorry, I just... I have nobody else."

"Show me your mark," Andromeda said after a tense pause.

Her magic was pleasantly cool against his arm. She silently moved her wand, her eyes betraying a hundred thoughts, most unpleasant. "Yes, even if we cut your arm off... It'll take root again. Unless you happen to know a way to get rid of your own magic-"

"You mean like Bella at her wedding?"

"Bella?" Of course she hadn't known.

So Regulus told her, about the blood curse Father had cast and Bella using magic-blocking armbands from Saint Mungo's to become magically a Lestrange during her wedding. Andromeda looked increasingly horrified.

So much Regulus had to smile. Merlin, he'd not wanted to see it, right? How messed up his family was. "I bet you don't regret leaving now."

Cousin Meda stared, a rueful smile creeping on her lips. "I must've left when you were still too young to be glib. How old are you now?"

"Seventeen and a half." He pretended not to notice her wince. "Why did you never want to talk to Cissy again?"

"Is that what she told you?"

"Yes, she said she'd waited months for you to show up and you never did. She decided it wasn't worth it to miss you as you didn't miss her enough to bother."

Andromeda stood up abruptly, her eyes flashing. She froze when she realized Regulus had flinched, as if expecting to be hexed. "She's married to a Death Eater," she said with schooled calm as she sat back down again. "It complicates things."

Regulus cleared his throat. "How's the muggle?"

"Still a wizard," Andromeda said with a warning glare.

Regulus flushed. "Right. Sorry... I mean. Are you happy with him?"

"With Ted? Yes quite. Nymphadora's in her room, he must have finished her bedtime story by now and found my note on the door."

Regulus' eyes darted towards the closed living-room doors and wondered what exactly Andromeda had written. Bedtime story. Kreacher had told him stories, but Father?

"The armbands Bellatrix used during her wedding, where are they?"

"With Amanda Wilkes, she's the healer." Amanda was glazed over. Competent, friendly, but... as if parts of her were missing. Regulus now suspected that a few memory charms too many had been cast.

"You're the one with the house elf," Andromeda said pointedly.

Regulus stiffened. Using Kreacher - . His guilt was overpowered by something he'd thought he didn't deserve anymore : hope. He might not die.


It was deep in the night when Kreacher finally apparated back with the armbands. Regulus almost broke into grateful sobs.

"I'm going to modify Kreacher's memory."

"You must let her, that's an order. It's to save me, and I'm so sorry."

"Kreacher happy to be saving Master Reggie."

"But you're going to be miserable."

Kreacher sighed and turned to Andromeda, as if to say, tell him to quit it. "Reggie will be coming back. Kreacher will forgive."

"Ted will erase my memories of tonight," Andromeda said, struggling with her businesslike attitude. "Then he'll ask me to do the same to him. There's no recovering memories erased before they're one day old, no matter how powerful or skilled you are. For us to remember you, you'll have to show up physically."

"The Dark Lord -"

"Will think you have committed suicide. I'm going to bind the armbands to you skin, so that they can't be taken off. You'll have to help me, have your magic cooperate."

Binding. The metal would melt, leaving burn-like tattoos into his skin. Another mark. The one which may save him. He smiled weakly at his cousin. His parents had made it sound like she'd turned her back on everything that mattered and yet here she was, still a dark witch, still crafting spells.

"Must-"

"Yes, the Dark Mark is in your skin. It can only be countered by similar magic. And I'll have to cut your arm off at the elbow, or the Dark Mark is too powerful either way."

His arm – "I'll be a squib."

Andromeda's eyes were bright. "Ted will find you a flight out of England, Cousin," she whispered.

"Sectumsempra," he managed, hating how his voice caught. "It's the best severing charm, to cut off as much of the darkness as possible. Just... focus it, alright? It'll lacerate me everywhere if you don't." It wasn't the most subtle spell Severus had crafted. "Once the cut's done, Vulnera Sanentur will stitch the wounds together."

When Andromeda flicked her wand, Regulus flinched, but she'd only conjured a squirrel. The teenager's heartbeat slowed as Andromeda practiced the spells. Soon, the squirrels barely protested as their arms were sliced off and the stumps healed. Andromeda was pale, but her casting hand didn't shake. She nodded, and Regulus slid both armbands on and outstretched his arms, letting them rest on the woman's lap.

Hoping it would be the last time he would be able to summon such fear, Regulus thought of the Dark Lord. Of the threat of torture and death. His and others', memories and nightmares. The armbands, cold against his skin, began to vibrate. His skin itched, his magic stirred, summoned by his emotions and by the artifact invading him. Let it, welcome it, Regulus urged, clenching his jaw shut as it burned. Like the Dark Mark had burned. Only the dark mark had been alive, a sliver of another wizard's magic. The enchanted armbands carried their magic in runes and runes adapted to any substrate. Andromeda's magic and his mixed, absorbing them, printing them on his skin. Regulus could barely breathe. He gasped in panic when his Dark Mark stirred, the black snake pulsing like a bulging vein.

"It's noticing something's wrong! Get rid of it! Get -"

"Look away."

Regulus shut his eyes. The sudden lightness on his right side told him she'd done it. Magical numbing spared him any pain. He didn't dare look down, so he looked at Andromeda instead. He wondered if that tense calm was occlumency, or like Narcissa, a mask crafted in childhood and polished in adulthood. With a deep breath, he grasped his wand with his left hand.

Lumos, he thought vehemently. Nothing. Not even a spark. And the wand itself... it was like holding onto dead wood. A squib. Regulus swallowed, anguish constricting his throat. Was it truly better than death?

"You being gone, Master Reggie. Kreacher be feeling no bond. Its like you being dead." The elf smiled weakly. "Yous being saved."

Regulus looked down then. A stump. His arm just... ended. The skin was barely red, the wound cleanly knitted shut at the elbow. It moved painlessly. His head spun, as if he couldn't quite grasp what he was seeing.

With his good hand, he squeezed the elf's bony shoulder, willing a smile on his face. Kreacher wouldn't see him weep.

"You won't forget what I told you, won't you?"

Kreacher cocked his head thoughtfully. "Old orders still being loud. Perhaps that being because Master not being dead."

"And if I order you now to never reveal that you can still hear my orders?"

Kreacher slowly shook his head, ears drooping. "No bond. But Kreacher won't be betraying Master. Masters' orders will be remembered even if Kreacher not having memory of them being said. Bond being more powerful than any spells."

'You must not mention me in the days to come. Until others bring me up, act like I'm at Hogwarts and everything is fine. Don't think to check our bond.' Those had been Regulus' last orders.

Watching Kreacher be stunned and obliviated was harder than staring at his stump. The elf would be left on the roof of the Three Broomsticks with a note in Regulus' hand saying 'Sorry, you were needed for task. Go home. No telling.' His last memory would be of transporting Regulus to that very roof.


"With your arm on hand, it'll be easy to stage a suicide."

Regulus hugged Andromeda. She stood stiff, upset. She struggled to hug him back, and when she did, it was obvious she wanted him to let go. And soon she'd forget he'd even been here.

"I'm sorry, I had no one else. Sirius-"

Andromeda shook her head, tears running down her cheeks. "You're so young, you... you'll bounce back."

Before he cast a memory charm on his wife, it was Edward Tonks who pulled him into an embrace, to Regulus' shock.

"You didn't choose to be born a Black. You're barely an adult and yet you found it in you to fight back -"

"For all the good it -"

"Doesn't matter. Screw You Know Who. Scariest bastard in the whole world, and you screwed him. That strength you found to look at death in the eye, don't forget it's there. You're going to need it. And one day you'll realize all this crap was just a small part of your life." His smile was grim, as if he knew what Regulus had done. There was no forgiveness there, but there was something close enough to respect. "If you're struggling to live with yourself, try giving back."

Regulus stared, struck speechless by this mud- wizard who somehow could look at him like he was family when Regulus had-

"Always the sweet talker," Andromeda said, her hand grasping her husband's tightly and Regulus saw it then, why she hadn't cared to be disowned. She had no name and yet she stood stronger than Narcissa did these days.

"I'm sorry," Regulus finally managed. "I'm sorry about muggleborns. It's not fair."

"No. It's not. I'm happy to hear you say that, Cousin." Tonks stuck out his hand, the muggle way.

Regulus clasped it tightly, with the only hand he had left.


When ten days later, at the end of October, Death Eaters found the mangled remains of Regulus' body in the Forbidden Forest, destroyed and decomposed (and partially eaten) beyond recognition save for the marked forearm and hand, Voldemort modified their memories to make them believe it had been an execution. There was something unnerving about a suicide, and even more one that had been effectively kept from him so long. Regulus' Dark Mark should have alerted him the minute the wizard had ingested that blasting potion (or whatever it was that he had taken). Instead, Voldemort had become aware there was a problem when an acromentula had started nibbling on the severed arm.

Voldemort blamed the Founders' spell-crafting : the body had been found just outside the limit of Hogwarts' apparition wards. The castle muffled the Mark, making anything other than summons difficult. Even simple summons required a greater expense in energy than was required anywhere else.

"A waste," he told Bella, upset. He'd given that weak fool everything : opportunities to rise through the ranks, the focus on politics he so craved... Suicide. "It's a wonder such a disappointing family produced someone like you."

"Shall we talk about your family?"

A wall of fire blasted the insolent witch. And yet there she was, a second later, inches from him, shielded and grinning wickedly, as conjured ropes bound his wand arm.

Not that Voldemort couldn't switch hands, dispel her conjuration and curse her in an instant. He preferred to grasp her face and pull her even nearer. Her skin was soft, and her darkness sang loud these days, beautiful. Everything he'd hoped the muted hum of her teenage years would grow into. She made directing this bowing and scraping lot much more entertaining.

He never connected the dots to Kreacher. When, years later, Lucius would tell him the Black elf had come to Narcissa to tell them Potter was going after his godfather, Voldemort failed to recognize that this was the same creature that should have died in the cave, seventeen years before. Not that Voldemort had ever spent much time thinking about house-elves. Those ugly, servile things with their insufferable squeaky voices and their grating lack of grammar.


Sirius would not learn that his brother had died for weeks. When he did, he felt gutted. Hollow. Regulus hadn't even graduated. When Sirius learned Regulus had been a marked Death Eater for years, right under Dumbledore's nose... he didn't know what he felt. There was too much happening with the war to stop and think. In Azkaban, there was more than enough time, but the Dementors were quick to remind him why he'd hated Regulus, and as the years passed, he forgot why he should have cared.


On December 1st 1979, a month after his son's body had been found, an ashen Orion Black changed his will, naming Sirius his heir once more. Orion had wanted to return his family to greatness and, for a time, surrounded by his sons and nieces, powerful and smart (except Regulus, but Regulus hadn't been incompetent, and he hadn't been difficult. People like that were needed to keep families together), he'd felt proud. Then they'd left him, one after the other. He was Lord of nothing. The Black family was ashes, their family vaults depleted.

When he had orchestrated the 'retirement' from public life of Father and Aunt Lycoris, Orion had been convinced he was saving House Black. His own childhood had been one lavish party after the other, a parade of delicacies and finery. His parents had been decadent, disinterested in magic or politics, happy to offer their support to the highest bidder. But as the years had gone by, Black support came to mean little. Orion had despised them. When he graduated Hogwarts, he decided he would not wait for his father to die to become Lord Black. Uncle Regulus, Father's younger brother, had been Orion's staunchest ally. Orion found another ally in his second cousin : Cassiopeia, who'd been content to rise on her own but could see the benefits to be reaped from a powerful Lord Black.

Orion's parents had never made use of the blackmail they had on other families because their hands had been just as dirty, but Orion didn't mind his parents taking the fall. On the contrary. As great houses grew dirtied by scandal, House Black rose once more. Nevertheless, the price had been higher than Orion had expected. Uncle Regulus' death in 1959 remained his greatest failure. Oh, their enemies had paid, and they had only pushed so far because Orion had been successful. But none of that would bring Regulus back. Orion's sister, Lucretia, now Prewett, had never forgiven him for getting their favorite uncle killed in the name of politics.

As Regulus, Orion's Regulus, grew, Orion feared he'd given his son a name that would condemn the boy to fall short. He couldn't look at Regulus and not see everything he should have been. But then Regulus had come to him, with the Dark Lord's favor, confident House Black would rise, and eager for Orion's approval and guidance. Orion had stopped doubting. He'd allowed himself to love his son.

Now House Black had buried another Regulus. And, this time, what did Orion have to show for it?

Kreacher had revealed that Regulus had not come home because he did not want to let the Dark Lord into their home. Even now, Orion couldn't forget the rage in the elf's voice. Lord Voldemort killed my son. That fiend was killing all the great houses, forcing them to bow, to open their coffers and manors.

Orion didn't dare think what Sirius would do with the house of his ancestors, but it wasn't Sirius who had ordered Regulus killed. There was an honored Black tradition in making compromises with one's enemy's enemies. And at least that headstrong Gryffindor was Orion's blood.

His affairs in order, Orion coated a blade with manticore venom and sliced his wrist. He hadn't told his wife. Walburga had raged at him over Sirius, saying they might as well name Andromeda his heir, since the witch had a magical child already, securing the line, and didn't bow to Albus Dumbledore. It was fitting, that their last conversation would be an argument over Sirius.

Why stay only to have the Dark Lord come with yet more demands? Why stay when he was powerless to avenge his son?

Walburga, widowed and grief-stricken (over Regulus. Over her wretched husband, she felt mostly fury and betrayal), locked herself in her home. Kreacher brought food stolen from muggle storage zones. On good days, she watched the photo albums Regulus had put together, and she sometimes read the Prophet. Once, she might have dabbled in spells but ever since Regulus had died, dark arts filled her with irrational terror. She had neither the patience nor the scholarly fiber to distract herself with light magic. On bad days she drank and raged and blasted the house apart, leaving Kreacher to mend things.

The elf cowered often, but he couldn't blame his poor Mistress. Master Reggie had been the best of the Blacks. When Kreacher had no orders, he tried to find ways to destroy the awful locket.


At the beginning of the same year, eight months before Regulus stole the Horcrux, Cygnus and Druella Black's manor had become a breeding ground for dementors. The couple lived barricaded in a couple of rooms, but even those could not be kept free of the nightmarish mist those creatures exuded. They had begged Bellatrix to convince the Dark Lord to take the creatures elsewhere, anywhere else, but they'd come to suspect that their unmanageable middle daughter was the reason Azkaban's monsters now resided in Westham.

In the summer of 1981, Druella broke. In a moment of madness, the witch cast fiendfyre to get the awful creatures out of her house. Cygnus survived, Druella did not. The century-old wards and a cackling Bellatrix suffocated the dark inferno before it could leap to muggle dwellings, but there was nothing left of the minor Black manor except charred ground and a few burned walls.

Cygnus fled to Grimmauld place. He forced Walburga to fix up the house and stop moping. They raged about their children (except poor Regulus) and made plans for the future. It was an almost companionable half-year before they remembered that they couldn't stand each other. The Dark Lord was dead, this Boy-Who-Lived was Britain's new hero, and with the risk of death or torture gone, Walburga had no qualms pushing Cygnus to appeal to his youngest. Surely, Narcissa would let him live in Malfoy Manor. The place had a ridiculous amount of guest-rooms.

Whatever Narcissa told her father must have been more violent than a simple no, because Walburga found herself once more stuck with him, and this time, he sulked for weeks.

When Cygnus, humiliated and restless, emptied his Gringott's vault and left for the Americas, Walburga was annoyed to find herself missing him. Of course she had refused to leave. They were Blacks, and she would never abandon their ancestral home. Cygnus ended up swindling muggles in Brazil, living with wizards that cared little for anything except for money. To think Cygnus had once sneered at Alphard... How far they had fallen.

Walburga decided in late 1982 that it was time to get Sirius back. Two years with dementors had no doubt set that disgrace straight. She raised a huge fuss, arguing he must have been imperioed into betraying the Potters, because, come on, he'd left his bloody family to play house with those people. But that sly muggle-lover Dumbledore blocked her at every turn. Unfortunately, it was hard to argue that the thirteen muggles and Pettigrew had been gruesomely killed after the Dark Lord had died.

Narcissa was no help, the disloyal bint. After she was denied visits to Azkaban, she claimed she had done all she could. That she had to look out for Draco's interests. Of course Lucius Malfoy pranced around as if nothing had happened. Walburga would have called upon Aunt Cassiopeia, had the witch not vanished in some remote African country the second the Dark Lord had fallen.

After the Dark Lord's death, Walburga's social circle had become embittered dark-aligned purebloods who had not been close enough to the Dark Lord to risk Azkaban, but close enough to lose most of everything else. But Walburga could not stand those who mourned the late Dark Lord. She spent two months in Azkaban for blasting Mildred Avery's living-room to ash. When she came home, Regulus' face, his death, was one of her clearest memories. They hadn't even let her see Sirius, those jeering Aurors so bloody smug to see her locked up.

Walburga locked the house and began selling her jewelry. The grandest pieces weren't the heirlooms, most of those had anyway been sold, stolen or destroyed, often by jealous Blacks, but those Alphard had gifted her. Alphard had made her a lot of gifts, throwing his money around as if it justified the loss of dignity, the scandal. Still, she'd been fond of the scoundrel as much as he infuriated her. Besides, who didn't like jewelry? With the money, she bought the kind of potions that Alphard had once sold. Her past stopped mattering then. Soon, Cygnus, disgusted, stopped calling.

Realizing there was little left for her in the world, Walburga had her portrait painted. She spared no expense and secured a talented artist. As was traditional, she was given a magical paste to rub her hands in, one that would capture her magic, a part of her essence. It was then mixed with the paints. Only, these days, Walburga without drugs was only rage and hate and grief. The once-attractive witch laughed at the result when she saw it, and even harder when the discomfited painter apologized, convinced something must have gone wrong. Yes, this screeching harpy was her, wasn't it?

Her body, wrecked by substances, gave out a few years later.

At Grimmauld place, only Walburga's portrait and Kreacher remained. Dark thoughts sometimes filled the elf's mind, but he knew he had to go on. For Master Reggie. It was odd: orders were supposed to vanish when the master was dead. The bond was gone: there was no Reggie Kreacher could pop to. And yet Reggie's orders still rang loud. Perhaps that was what happened, when one loved a master.

So the grieving house-elf stayed, loneliness giving way to embittered mutters, failure filling him with a rage he could not express. The Horcrux, in a drawer locked by Kreacher's strongest wards, slumbered.


A year after the end of the second, and last, fall of Voldemort, Kreacher's ears twitched. Someone was calling him.


There we are folks, the end of the first war, and a twist I had planned since the beginning. And hey, it's canon plausible. You know what they say, as long as there's no body...

Next up : an interlude of sorts, centered around Sirius and Bellatrix's time in Azkaban.