A/N: Thanks to all those who read and followed! And special thanks to Jenkt5 and Patrick—I can't really say much at this point in the story, but your reviews prompted me to keep writing. I really appreciate it:)


The fondest memories Regulus possessed were made in libraries.

He hadn't been the most gregarious child, a quality that his mother had been most pleased with regarding her second son. Sirius, she decided, was energetic and charismatic enough as the firstborn son; it would hardly behoove anyone to have an outspoken second child as well. It wasn't that second sons were ignored; primogeniture was not so commonly practiced in wizarding families as it was amongst Muggle families. It was simply that having a quiet second son allowed the first son to grow into the head of the family much more easily. No competition would tear the family apart, and Regulus's soft tone and reasonable arguments convinced Mrs. Black that as far as her second son was concerned, she needn't be worried; Regulus will do just fine by himself.

And the second son, knowing in the back of his mind the reasoning behind his mother's contentedness with him, spent most of his time in the family library. Regulus had been a voracious reader as a child, or so Kreacher had once said; the old family house-elf often spoke fondly of the days when Regulus would ask Kreacher, careful as you'd please, if he could fetch him the books that were out of the little boy's reach. The library was his one sanctuary in a house that was ruled by a mother who made it her business to poke into her children's business. Sirius had little patience for books as a child, her mother disliked the library due to its dusty decoration (it was the only room in the house that did not contain silver), and his father—well, as long as Regulus kept out of trouble, Mr. Black rarely ventured out of his office. So the young boy spent hours and hours in the library every day, skimming over various pictures in history books, frowning and silently trying to pronounce the odd words written on articles, essays, seminaries, half-absorbing what he encountered and leaving the rest to do their work in his unconsciousness. He'd found a favorite spot by a little niche between a side table and the third row bookshelf, where he could hide safely whenever there was a tedious family meeting. But he had been only seven by then.

He carried the habit with him as he grew up. Unless he was in the garden scratching in his notes various observations or practicing quidditch, he was crawled up in the library. At Hogwarts also he had been quick to find the fastest route to the school library, where even he was impressed by the sheer scale of the architecture and the volume of works available to him. It quickly became one of his favorite spots in the world, and, finding an agreeable corner where the sunlight shone pleasantly in the afternoon, he made himself home by an ancient table and a chair.

It was in the library when first fell in love.

Not that it was something that Regulus would ever admit to himself; he was not the kind to moon over his emotions and feelings. Come to think of it, neither was Sirius; Sirius tended to explode with feelings, but he rarely dwelled on them. Regulus never displayed his feelings, and what he did feel he kept locked away in some more private parts of his heart, where he would, if the occasion necessitated urgently, pay a visit for a bout of observation and analysis. Falling in love—what a ridiculous idea. But it had happened once.

Hogwarts library—hours and days and weeks and months became years so quickly. Years spent together in the library, always in the same spot, the ancient table by the corner where the sunlight shone warmly in the afternoon, doing homework, discussing quidditch strategies, researching, forever researching the truth of the secrets that eluded them. At some point he became used to her rhythm of writing, the way her quill unevenly scratched her parchment, her frantic flipping of pages whenever she was stuck on a problem, the faint, sweet scent of the soap she used whenever she flipped her hair from one side to the other, frustrated. The tired way she rubbed her eyes after a particularly long essay. Her wan smile that always seemed a little sad…

Perhaps it had been inevitable. She was the only girl he knew enough to respect. They didn't always see eye to eye, but they understood each other. He could make it as unromantic as he wanted. And the change—it had been gradual, so gradual that it was unnoticeable until it hit him one day that she mattered. She had a part in his life, a part that he realized he was most willing to give up for her. What ridiculous feelings his heart seemed capable of feeling, twisting painfully at the most fleeting memory of her face. He wanted her approval, her smiles, her thoughts, affection—he wanted her to share everything with him, and he everything with her.

When he first kissed her it was in the library, it was between 1848: Rebellion across Europe and A Decent Proposal—the seventeenth shelf in the history section from the studying area. Fifth year winter. Something that he would never reveal to Sirius under any circumstances; his brother would make indecent insinuations for months. He hadn't planned on it—something that always seemed to happen whenever she was concerned. She'd already been on her tiptoes, trying to grab a book that was too high up. He was taller than her, rather glad about the fact, and—it was lovely. She was lovely. She was possibly the loveliest creature that he had the fortune to meet. Or was it misfortune? Regulus wasn't sure. For some reason any pain caused by her made him happy. If he suffered, he suffered happily. Such was the idiocy of his youth.

Regulus shook his head furiously. No use dwelling on the past. Hadn't he managed to block out unnecessary thoughts since he'd become a Death Eater? Surely he still possessed enough self-discipline to push away memories useless to the mission. But however strong his self-discipline might have been, it wasn't strong enough to halt the wave of homesickness and warmth that swallowed him when he stepped through the entrance of the public library on Diagon Alley. Libraries were a second home. Merlin, he missed reading books.

Next to him Sirius was trudging reluctantly, his hands stuck in his pockets. Regulus decided to pay him no mind. Sirius could pout all he wanted; they had a mission to accomplish, a mission over life and death. A sullen twenty-one-year-old man would have to wait.

"Where is the history section?" Regulus wondered out loud to no one in particular.

"Third floor," Sirius said, going toward a staircase that Regulus hadn't noticed before. Regulus couldn't resist raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"How did you—"

"Contrary to your belief, I do read sometimes," Sirius drawled drily, his hands still stuck in his pockets. Regulus considered.

"I did consider it a feat itself that you even knew where the library was," he settled. Sirius snorted.

"And the high and mighty heir of the Black family never even bothered to look up where a public library would be, right?"

Regulus suppressed a flush but didn't say anything.

"I have errands to run," Sirius said when they passed the counter on the third floor, Regulus trying to discreetly draw large breaths of air and find a place to lean against for a while. He swallowed. Regulus supposed that doing bookwork for Sirius was like having a Beater's bat without a Bludger for a Beater—frustrating and boring.

"I'll see you in an hour, then," he said, failing to hide his huff. "At the entrance. Might need your name to borrow a few books."

Sirius shrugged. "Fine," he said, and left without further ado. Regulus frowned; no, Sirius and he were not the most affectionate of brothers—they weren't the most affectionate of anything—and it wasn't as if he had expected Sirius to fawn over him. But had his shrug seemed sharper, more erratic than usual?

Pushing the suspicion aside, Regulus proceeded to navigate between the aisles, breathing in deeply. The musk of old paper and thinning leather and dust wafted through his nose, cold and inviting. The way the heels of his shoes clacking against the wooden floor rang in the enclosed space forced the corners of his lips to twitch ever so slightly, and something so impossible, so improbable, began to course through his veins—excitement.

He settled on a desk after his excursion, his arms laid with a few more books than just Hogwarts: A History and Purebloood Directory (Magick Moste Evile was, as he had predicted, not open to public viewing, and he had small inclination to invent a wild story about a lost ID and to get permission from the library); he couldn't help himself as he came across several titles that caught his eye. Perhaps the library had a long lending period, and he might be able to find some time…

Grabbing a roll of parchment that he had requested from the counter along with a spare quill and an ink bottle, he began to leaf through the books.

The last members of the Gaunt family were Marvolo Gaunt, the patriarch, with his son Morfin and daughter Merope. All three were recorded as deceased, and Regulus supposed that it must be true; most wizard records were updated magically, and when one's life ended, his magic ceased to exist in the world, and that would change the existing records accordingly. In some ways this was convenient; authors didn't have to update their books every decade and, in fact, didn't even have to check their facts.

Struck by a strange thought, he flipped hastily to the near front of the book, his fingers flying over the pages. His breaths quickened unconsciously. It couldn't be.

But it was; under the Black family, two, not one, sons were both shown to be living.

Regulus stilled for a moment, his thoughts racing a million miles per second. So he was shown to be alive. A good thing was that Pureblood Directory and books similar to it were possessed more for display than actual reading, and chances were that no one would ever notice that there was no date of death under his name. Regulus wondered if his mother made his grave; he doubted it. His mother was probably trying to deny the idea of her son's death until his body actually turned up—and it never did. The thought made him guilty for being an unmindful son—he'd never even contacted her in the year he was missing—but it was all for the best, wasn't it? But his mother—she would have to suffer from grief all her life.

A strange itch caused his eyes to blink rapidly, but Regulus ignored it. There would be time for personal feelings but it was not the time.

An odd thing about the Gaunt family line, Regulus forced his thoughts back on track, was that there was no heir, something that pureblood families were almost fanatic about. In many ways this preoccupation was only natural; an heir ensured the continuation of the family name, fortune, and prestige. A lack of heir meant the end to all these things. Admittedly the Gaunts had almost no fortune left to their names, but they were still the direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Surely, Morfin Gaunt must have had some idea of marriage at some point in his life. But the Dark Lord—he must have been a child of the Gaunt family. How else could he be a parseltongue? And yet, had Morfin had a child, it seemed most likely that the Gaunts would have flaunted their new heir to the world...

Frowning, he went to the counter where an elderly witch was loftily reading Witch's Weekly.

"Excuse me," he said. "Could you tell me how I could find public records for a person?"

The witch looked up from the magazine. "I could look it up in the directory," she said. "It's a rather complicated process. Who are you looking for?"

"Morfin Gaunt," Regulus replied, wondering if it would be a wise idea to mention the Gaunt name in a public space. But the wizarding society in general was unaware of the significance of the family name anyway; it couldn't be bad.

The witch typed on a typewriter, but there was no paper attached to it. "Morfin Gaunt. This could take some time."

Regulus shrugged. "That's fine—I'm sitting at the table over there by the window," he said, pointing at the said location. "Please tell me if you find anything."

The witch only nodded, and Regulus went back to his table, vaguely chastened.

The next step could only be trickier. Regulus didn't know how the Dark Lord had acquired Slytherin's locket, but he presumed—and the precariousness of the reasoning made him feel even more insecure than he already was—that it once belonged to the Gaunts. Most family heirlooms, unless they were up for sale—and it was very rare that families would put up family heirlooms for sale—were kept safely inside a family. The Gaunts might have been poor, but Regulus doubted that they would go so far as to sell the only artifacts that gave their family name significance. Such was the foolish side of pureblood aristocracy.

The most plausible theory was that the Dark Lord had gained it by force, which would have to mean that he came in direct contact with the Gaunts. Again, not an impossibility. So he would have paid a visit to the family house—another reason why he should at least pay a visit to the place. Regulus had a vague idea of where the cottage was; Little Hangleton, his mother had once mentioned disdainfully, hardly worth a Black's notice, as the Gaunts sank deeper and deeper into obscurity and poverty whereas the last few generations of Blacks knew nothing but prosperity and comfort. But all the family politics aside, the Dark Lord's choice of object for a holder of his soul seemed oddly… sentimental. Regulus supposed that anyone would become a little sentimental if they had to choose an object to put their soul in, and it befitted the Dark Lord to choose something that was worth so much, but why did the choice feel so out-of-character? Or was it completely in character?

If the Dark Lord had been looking for valuable artifacts alone, then he would have had a thousand options to choose from, from an ancient Egyptian sorcerer's scepter to goblin daggers. But he went more specific—something of Salazar Slytherin, one of the most famous wizards in magical history. This had bothered Regulus when he had been looking for a copy of the locket after he had heard vaguely from Kreacher what the Horcrux looked like, but he had decided to ponder on the topic at a later time. And the idea bothered him still.

Hogwarts: a History was quite clear on the matter: each founder left one artifact to represent the house. Ravenclaw left behind her diadem, Gryffindor left behind his sword, and Hufflepuff left behind her cup. Regulus doubted that the Dark Lord chose to make the sword of Gryffindor his Horcrux; he wouldn't go that far and, besides, it was in the headmaster's study (he had seen it several times during his visits to the office as a prefect). But no one knew where the diadem or the cup was. Had the Dark Lord actually tracked it down and made them his own? A more likely scenario was that he had lackeys whom he employed to do the dirty job—but who? The Dark Lord, as powerful as he was, did not have an income, something the Death Eaters whispered behind his back, especially those who "supported" his cause much more financially than the others. In that sense the Dark Lord was vulnerable; he had no capital, other than that which he had extorted from his followers; he had no permanent residence, no way to feed himself, no place to sleep, and in that sense, Sirius, as disowned as he was, was much richer than the Dark Lord ever could be. So if the Dark Lord had managed to coerce some of his followers to pay for those artifacts—but that would leave too much trail, and that was not his style. The Dark Lord used showmanship to cause fear, but when it came to actual missions, he preferred discretion, something that Regulus was especially well versed in—a quality that the Dark Lord had prized in him, Regulus knew. It had never been Regulus's intellect, which would have only served to question the Dark Lord's motives, nor his quick skill with his wand that the Dark Lord valued the most. A bitter taste filled his mouth and he quickly swallowed, moving on.

So let him assume that the Dark Lord had somehow managed to find the diadem and the cup; there were others. There must have been others. It wouldn't have surprised Regulus had the Dark Lord split his soul so many times to the point where there was nothing left. The most difficult variable to figure out in this quest was the number: how many Horcurxes the Dark Lord had managed to create before, according to Sirius, he burned down. Regulus sighed, putting down the quill on the old table. What if the Dark Lord had created more than three Horcruxes—what if he had created seven? A dozen? How would he figure them out, one by one, hunt them down and destroy them? Did he have enough time left in his life to accomplish it?

The best assumption—and it was again only guesswork—he could come up with was that the Dark Lord must have left hints, if not for himself, for his followers in case he perished; after all, he had created the Horcruxes for that very purpose. He himself would not be able to resurrect himself, as he was, for all intention and purposes, dead; so another person would have to get involved in his revival. Someone he could trust enough to guard his soul—but that sounded too strange. The Dark Lord did not trust anyone, and to trust someone to guard one's soul—that was love. He was incapable of love. Regulus supposed that there was always Bellatrix, but she was frankly insane. Madness might be one form of love—and it must be more constant than loyalty out of fear—but would that assure the Dark Lord enough?

"Here." The voice shook him from his glum musings and Regulus looked up to find the old witch staring down at him, her eyes strangely owlish behind her spectacles. She was frailer than she had appeared behind the counter. Regulus squinted in confusion.

"The records," the witch said. "I could find only newspaper articles; for documents you'll have to visit the Ministry."

"Oh," he said. "Thank you. Thank you very much." The witch nodded and left.

Regulus bent over the articles, brows furrowed. The first one was dated 1925, when certain wizards in Little Hangleton by the names of Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt were arrested and sentenced to Azkaban for terrorizing Muggles and attacking a Ministry official three years and six months, respectively. Hardly surprising, as purebloods' habit of "Muggle hunting"—not unlike fox hunting the Muggle aristocrats used to enjoy—was much more common in those days. The other article, dated 1943, reported that Morfin Gaunt was again sent to Azkaban for the murder of a Muggle family called the Riddles. He was in a rather disorderly state of mind when he was arrested but, despite the history of madness in the family, the officials took his free confession of guilt at face value and, after checking his wand which revealed that indeed the last curse performed with the wand was Avada Kedavra—chucked him into Azkaban. They wanted to believe his guilt, Regulus thought bitterly. They saw the case and there was no trace of doubt that the mad Morfin did it. Pureblood Directory had indicated that Morfin had died soon after his imprisonment, so there would be no sense in trying to find him. Regulus wondered. Morfin Gaunt had probably been paranoid enough about blood status to not touch Muggle women in the village—although he could well be wrong, considering what hypocrisy the purebloods were capable of. But supposing that Morfin was fanatic enough about blood status to not have touched a Muggle woman and, knowing that no woman from a respectable, acceptable pureblood family would have considered Morfin Gaunt for a husband (madness was one thing, but lack of fortune must have been a deal-breaker), then Merope, the sister, was the only viable candidate for investigation—she could have had a child. That was the only logical explanation, wasn't it?

"You're late." Sirius stood before him, arms crossed in front of his chest, peering down at Regulus the way one would peer down at a queer, funny animal.

"I was thinking," Regulus said eventually. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"In case you were wondering—and you probably weren't—you're late half an hour. Do you know what kind of thoughts crossed my mind during the thirty minutes I've looked for you?"

Regulus raised his eyebrow. "Now I'm all for personal change and development, but don't tell me you were actually worried about me, Sirius." Sirius scowled.

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "I was just worried about wasting good money on this." With those words Sirius threw a vial at him. Regulus's right hand shot out instinctively to catch it, only to let it slide off his hands to fall onto the floor. The vial, it seemed, was hard enough not to break despite the impact. Sirius's eyebrows formed a perfect semi-circle.

"Huh," he said. "So the anti-breaking charm actually worked."

Regulus, meanwhile, busied himself with looking for the vial, trying not to dwell too long on the fact that he failed to catch something that was twice as large as a Snitch—especially when it was Sirius who had thrown it. The fact weighed heavy on his heart. "What's this?" he asked, turning it around. The liquid inside the vial was mint green, which seemed rather promising.

"Reliever," Sirius said, drawing up a chair across from him. "I asked for the strongest antidote they had for injury sustained by Dark Magic, but apparently you need Healer's special prescription to get that. And as we both know, somebody didn't want to see a Healer." Sirius threw him a dirty look but Regulus ignored this jibe. So this was the errand Sirius had to run—get medicine for him. Regulus would rather that he hadn't, but he wasn't particularly displeased that Sirius had thought about him a bit…

"That somebody is supposed to be dead right now," he merely responded, uncorking the vial and sniffing it cautiously. IVery strong peppermint shot through his nostril the way vodka went through the throat. "Cheers," he said, holding the vial up at Sirius, who had an odd expression on his face.

"What's it like?" he asked. "I'm hoping that it's nasty."

Regulus wrinkled his nose. "Imagine Firewhiskey distilled to its essence," he managed, feeling the liquid burn its way down his throat. Merlin, that was hot. Sirius sighed plaintively.

"I got you the good stuff, then," he said. "Damn it. I was hoping at least Polyjuice-potion nasty."

Regulus raised his eyebrow. "Have had an experience with it, then?"

Sirius snorted. "How do you think we've managed to lead the Slytherin first-years to—" His eyes widened, realizing his mistake. Regulus's eyes narrowed.

"I meant to say, how do you think we've managed not to lead the Slyther—"

"You drew them into the Forbidden Forest?" his voice grew louder with each word.

"Not me, per se, you know, me, Prongs, Wormtail—"

"You—" Regulus sat there, temporarily lost for words. He'd spent hours in the Forest searching for the first-years. Hours for the ten first-years who were by the break of dawn so scared out of their wits that a rumor flew few years later that that particular class never signed up for Care of Magical Creatures. They'd never caught the perpetrators, and the first-years had been too disoriented to really be of any help. All they repeated was that the fifth-year prefects had led them, but Regulus knew that he'd never done it.

"Do you realize that they could have been killed?" he hissed, noticing that other people in the library were giving them annoyed looks. "A group of them was found near the acromentula nest—"

Sirius's expression turned gleeful. "Really? Merlin, and we were regretting the month we spent brewing that potion—"

"You never learn, do you?" Regulus stood up hastily, feeling the hard wooden table bump against his thighs. He didn't even wince. "The biggest wizarding war of history just decimated at least twenty percent of the wizarding population, and you're still happy that a bunch of Slytherins almost died. Don't you have any respect for life?"

A pink flush crept up Sirius's cheeks, and in the back of his mind Regulus knew that this was a bad, bad sign; a telltale signal that Sirius was about to explode, lash out, or often both. He'd seen enough of the fights between his brother and his mother to know. But right now he failed to act on his caution, he would rather fight… he'd never been this short-tempered before, had he?

"Rich coming out of your mouth, seeing as you were Dea—" Sirius caught himself just in time, and looked around furtively before furiously hissing, "a you-know-what!"

"Like the Order members were any better? You killed as much as we did—"

"Hey, we weren't the ones who went around and killed Muggles for fun—"

"Those weren't the Death Eaters, you prat, they were supremacists—"

"Same difference—"

"No it isn't!" Regulus's eyes flashed and even Sirius drew back temporarily. "They're not the same, and it's your own fault for being such a prejudiced simpleton that you can't tell the difference. Just what kind of people do you think joined the legion of the Dark Lord, Sirius? Those who feared their lives, those who wanted a bit of power, those who felt compelled to take sides and fighting on the side of the Order felt too risky—do you imagine that all of them were purebloods? More than two thirds of the members were half-bloods of some sort, and yes, there were half-blood supremacists, but even the Dark Lord was one of the half-blood supremacists. But not all Death Eaters are purebloods and not all pureblood or Death Eaters hunted the Muggles for fun. That's the logic of the ignorant." Regulus drew in a shaky breath. He was out of air. "That's all."

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "You haven't changed at all, have you?" he said.

Regulus felt like the air was being knocked out of his chest again. "What?"

"You. You're still going on about that argument that 'not all purebloods are bad'—"

"They aren't all bad, even your mate Potter's a pureblood—"

Sirius's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "Don't bring James into this. You don't even deserve to talk about him."

Regulus's hands balled into fists and he tried not to show how much the comment stabbed his guts like a dagger wielded by an expert assassin. This was why he'd tried to remain a recluse, work from behind the scenes, not come in contact with anyone—what was the point of trying to make the world understand, when the world was clearly fine functioning by its own logic? When the world was fine without him, what was the point of trying to forcefully impose himself into the unwelcome household?

Unfortunately, Sirius wasn't done. "I thought that you might have realized something—I don't know, that our parents were pureblood maniacs—"

"For Merlin's sake, I never denied that our parents were a little off—"

"Really? Because from what I've heard, you were just defending the Death Eaters—"

"Why shouldn't I?" Regulus's voice now sounded almost hysteric, even to his own ears. Now the nearby readers were definitely looking at them, and even the witch behind the counter had put down her Witch's Weekly. "Did it ever occurred to you, Sirius, that the Death Eaters are actual people? Actual people with feelings and weaknesses, just like everyone else?"

"If they were just like everyone else, then why couldn't they act like everyone else? You don't see any regular wizard on the street deciding to just join Voldemort's terrorist group."

"Sirius, I realize that it might be difficult for you to believe that there is complexity to every situation. Your logic that all Death Eaters are pureblood supremacists and therefore bad just doesn't translate into the real world—"

"Stop being so BLOODY CONDESCENDING!" Sirius's face was now fully red. The breaking point. "If you're going to defend your actions and say that you've done nothing wrong, then fine. Do what you want. But don't expect me to help you." He grabbed a parcel from the table. "You know what, sometimes—and I mean very rarely—I wondered if I made a mistake at sixteen. If I shouldn't have left you. Thank Merlin that I did. You've just proven that I hadn't. I don't want to see you ever again." With those words Sirius stalked out of the library, his robes swishing behind him like a trail of dark cloud.

Regulus stood still, looking at the disappearing image of his brother's back. Hollowness began to replace the hesitant beating of his heart, his rebellious mind, every sensation of his body, until there was nothing left but himself, himself and hollowness inside of him. He managed to take a breath and it felt like walking on a trail of fire. The corners of his eyes stung. Crying. Was he crying? He wanted to. But he couldn't. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He had to—keep going. There was nothing else left to do but to keep going. He tried to take his foot off the floor and put it at a new place. It was done. It was done, wasn't it? How did they go from getting medicine for his condition to—this?

Could there truly be no other way for them?


The town of Little Hangleton must have once been charming, or so Regulus thought, slowly making his way on the main street. The streets were laid with cobblestone, and buildings were all low, squeezed together. It was small, smaller than even the tiny village where Peter had taken care of him, and the memories filled him both with guilt and wistfulness. He couldn't go back there. He simply couldn't.

All memories aside, Regulus was quite certain that it wasn't his own mood adding a layer of dust over the windowpanes, soot to the chimneys, and paint flecks to the walls. Most of the stores—and there were few of them—were closed, and Regulus remembered with chagrin that it was still the New Year's Day. Well, he didn't have time until tomorrow—he didn't even have a place to stay for the night. The only place open was a small restaurant down the far end of the road, and Regulus slowly trudged his way there, weighing his options. He couldn't afford a meal, but would he be able to talk to the owner anyway? He tentatively reached out to the handle of the door and pulled it open.

"Pardon me," Regulus said. "I was looking for some relatives of mine, but seem to have gotten lost."

The inside of the restaurant was small and poorly lit; the owner must not have been expecting many customers. Or at least, so Regulus reasoned, trying not to pay too much attention to how the darkness was affecting him. In the far corner of the restaurant stirred a small woman of at least fifty, squinting through the dimness at him.

"Who is it?" she croaked, and the tone of her voice went along with the restaurant nicely—low, cranky, ominous. Regulus shook off the uneasy feeling the second time.

"I don't mean to intrude," Regulus said hesitantly, "but all I've heard from—from my father was that his parents came from Little Hangleton. He didn't like to talk about it much, you understand."

"His parents?" The woman slowly made her way from behind the counter, and Regulus couldn't help but to size her up instantly. She could probably wield a hot frying pan, he guessed, but she would probably have a harder time throwing him out of the restaurant. Thank Merlin. "We don't have many people who come and go, young man."

"I understand," Regulus said easily. "But I just wanted to check. He passed away recently—" sort of a truth, except that it had been almost three years— "and I just wanted to go a bit more into family history, you understand. My mother is still having a hard time without him." Again, a sort of a half truth.

The woman scrutinized him. "Come to think of it, you do look familiar," she said slowly, her eyes focusing on his face. Her eyes widened. "Master Riddle?"

Regulus frowned. That was not what he had been expecting. "Riddle?" he repeated, remembering that it was the name of the family Morfin was accused of murdering, but the woman was apparently not hearing him.

"Oh, but this can't be," the woman said. "Master Riddle died decades ago."

Regulus slowly approached her, trying not to look too focused. "How do you mean?"

The woman's eyes grew glassy. "The Riddles—the most wonderful family you could imagine. They owned the manor up there—" she pointed at hills that Regulus had noticed earlier— "and we were all involved somehow, the townspeople. I was the family cook for many years."

Regulus nodded. "You mentioned—you mentioned Master Riddle. Was he the head of the house?"

The woman shook her head. "He was the son—Master Tom Riddle. Oh, the most handsome young man you could imagine. We all had high hopes for him; girls from the next town all fawned over him, as you would expect. If it hadn't been for that mishap—"

"What mishap?" Regulus said, leaning in unconsciously.

The woman looked around, her eyes roaming nervously. "Now, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, as you can well imagine—" Regulus nodded sympathetically. "But that Gaunt girl from the shack right outside of the woods—they say she seduced him." Her voice grew lower and Regulus drew closer to listen. "Must've been difficult, she wasn't the bonniest girl out there—but for some reason Master Riddle ran away with her when he was twenty. Came right back, of course, just a few months, but none of the girls ever looked at him again. Such a shame," the woman sighed. "He could have had a beautiful wife."

"He ran away with Merope Gaunt?" the question shot out of him before he could even stop himself and Regulus berated himself immediately. What was he thinking? But the woman looked at him with surprised but unsuspicious eyes.

"You know her?" she asked. Regulus debated.

"Well—I—you seem to have noticed already, but—" Regulus cleared his throat. "Merope had a son by Tom Riddle, you might have heard—"

"Oh there were rumors, dreadful rumors, and Master Riddle never said anything, but—are you saying that it's true? Master Riddle had a child?"

"Well, Merope had a child," Regulus said. "And—well—the child grew up and got married and—had—." Regulus made a vague gesture toward himself. The woman clasped her hands to her mouth, apparently shocked.

"I understand that this may be unpleasant, as, well, my father wasn't the most legitimate of children—"

"I thought you looked similar," the woman murmured in a low voice, almost to herself. "The dark hair. Master Riddle had darker eyes, but the face—you do look mightily like Master Riddle. He was just as handsome—a little bit stockier, but still handsome. My lord." The woman looked at him up and down. Regulus swallowed. "Is it truly you?"

"I've been told that I have my mother's eyes." Not untrue. But his parents had the same eyes. "My father died a couple of months back," Regulus said, feeling the irony. The Dark Lord did burn to the ground a few months back, didn't he? "I was trying to find more information about his side of the family."

"Well, then, come and sit down," the woman ushered him to one of the tables. "I'll tell you everything I know—I'll even call Frank! The gardner—he used to work for the family as well. He'll be mighty pleased to see you."

And that was how Regulus Arcturus Black, the ninety-somethingth heir of the Black family, temporarily became the son of (presumably) the Dark Lord, the most dangerous wizard of all times. The revelation that he resembled the Dark Lord—or, at least, his presumed father—bothered him much more than he had expected. He was used to people calling him handsome—after all, the heirs of the Black family were often flattered, mostly with ulterior motives—and he was self-conscious enough to notice that the girls usually liked how he looked. Something that he used to take advantage of at Hogwarts. They weren't his proudest moments, but to think that the Dark Lord once looked like him—it unsettled him. Was Sirius right? Was he not that different from the image Sirius held of purebloods?

Despite Regulus's assiduous protests and not-so-vague hints that he couldn't afford to pay, the woman brought food from the kitchen, telling him that he looked far too thin (another thing that he was beginning to get used to hearing). The reflection against the silverware told him that the disguise charm he had put on had indeed worn off; his hair was black again, and his eyes gray. He hoped that the wizards at the library had seen the disguised version of himself, but the worry quickly dissipated when the food came. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

Frank the gardner did not end up showing up, but the woman told Regulus enough about the family to get a generic picture. The Riddles were a wealthy family in the town; the Gaunts were living right above the line of abject poverty, barely making do, and plagued with insanity. None of the townspeople dared to approach them; the father and the son especially were known for their violent temper. The daughter, "a pathetic little thing," the woman called her, was abused; when Regulus asked the woman why townspeople didn't do anything about it despite knowing it, the woman muttered something vague about not wishing to get involved and the violent father. The father and the son soon went to prison; the entire town rejoiced at the fact. Soon after the daughter drew up enough resources to seduce the only son of the Riddle family—bewitched him, the woman said.

"Not actual magic, of course," the woman said. "That would be silly. But the girl had nothing—I mean nothing. She was ugly, mark my words, downright ugly, and she had no money. How else would she have convinced Master Riddle to come with her?"

Regulus listened silently, taking in the words. So there was a rumor, nothing more, of a child between Tom Riddle and Merope. It would be hard to confirm, especially if Merope did not report the birth of her child. And he had no idea what name Merope had given to her child.

"What happened to her? Merope Gaunt?" Regulus asked.

The woman waved her hand dismissively. "Died. Somewhere in London, I heard. She'd led Master Riddle there, and I doubt that she left."

Regulus did not stay for long after that. The woman seemed to have formed some sort of attachment from the knowledge that Regulus was a direct descendant of her former Master, and tried to persuade him to stay for tea, but Regulus declined. Instead he stepped outside the restaurant after asking her for directions and thanking her, bracing his shoulders against the bitter cold. The food had been warm and nice, but his inside still felt hollow. Damn Sirius. Damn him for being so persuasive and indifferent and hurtful. He found an alleyway next to an old bookshop and quickly Dissaparated. Damn Sirius for all he cared.

The Gaunt shack was in shambles. Vines climbed their way up to the very chimney, and the entire house was smothered in plants that it appeared like a natural part of the scenery. He circled around it a couple of times, muttering detection charms. The cave had been in a remote location and still the Dark Lord had built strong defenses to keep people off; Regulus didn't know what he would find inside the shack—there was always a possibility that nothing would be inside—but he wanted to be prepared. Nothing serious jumped out at his senses and he stopped in front of the house, where a snake was pinned in front of the door. Regulus raised an eyebrow. Charming taste—comparable to the heads of the house-elves inside the Grimmauld Place.

He knocked on the door. It swung open by itself. A gust of wind greeted him, a breath of wind from Zephyrs himself, and Regulus staggered back a couple of steps, taken aback by its coldness. Yes, it was winter, but the wind was freezing. Had someone propped open one of the windows? But he had not seen any windows when he was looking around...

He stepped inside cautiously, his wand shaking imperceptibly in his hand. The inside of the house was slightly better than the outside, which was to say that it was also in shambles. A sick feeling began to spread in his stomach—nerves, he decided with some disdain. As if something could go wrong in this empty house. The Gaunts were dead; there should be no one inside. Yet, something felt amiss; something was wrong with this accursed place. What, Regulus couldn't tell.

The floorboards creaked every time he took another step, and soon after he gave up trying to be silent. Beside the rooms themselves there were few things to observe within the house; most of the furniture, it seemed, was carried away or sold off, and apart from a shabby table in what he guessed used to be the living room there was nothing worth noticing. Yet the sick feeling in his stomach increased, making his entire body feel light and unsteady. He swayed unconsciously to his side, catching himself by the edge of the table at the last second. He frowned. What was going on?

A small buzz began to ring inside his head. It wasn't one of the warning signals that the instinct sent to the brain—no. A literal buzz, getting louder each second, began to make his head spin, and Regulus tried to breath in deeply to steady himself, but it was as if an invisible pair of hands was constricting his throat. Trap. The gust of wind when he entered. It was a trap. Why couldn't he see it before? He automatically tightened the grip on his wand. His new, unfamiliar wand and himself, who hadn't used magic in over a year. What a fool he was.

He leaned against the table, coughing. Think, he told himself. Calm down and think. There were two reasons why this place would have defensive spells cast around it. Either the owner did not wish to have any intruders, or someone wanted to keep people away from this place. Regulus didn't doubt for a second that Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt would have used every protective spell they knew to secure this place; Merlin knew what kind of spells his mother used on Grimmauld Place. But they were both dead, and the protective spells by their nature would have ended with them. So someone else had cast these spells. Someone else who knew about the Gaunts and their small shack in Little Hangleton, someone who had something to hide…

He coughed again, swearing inwardly. How did the Dark Lord acquire the Slytherin's Locket, he had asked himself. How, indeed. The Guants would have parted from it over their dead body. So there was only one explanation; he took it from their owners by force. So much Regulus had already guessed. Of course the Dark Lord had known about this place, about his relatives, had known about his heritage that he later showed off to the world. How could have this possibility never occurred to him before? Did he truly believe that he could simply waltz into an abandoned shack and expect to be fine?

But if it truly was the Dark Lord who had cast these spells, there was still hope; he would have wanted to hold off the intruder, not kill them outright. He would have wanted them alive to question their motives later. Which meant that some time was still left to him, precious little time.

He turned around and took another step. There had been a small, rotting bed and a small wardrobe in the master bedroom. Not the most ideal hiding place, but Regulus had little choice otherwise. He staggered to the doorframe, leaning heavily against it, gasping.

"Accio," he tried, but nothing came. Just as expected. But where would the Dark Lord hide the Horcrux, whatever it looked like? He did not seem like the type to hide things under the bed.

A searing pain blinded him for a second and his knees gave way beneath him, making him kneel on the cold dusty floorboard. His left hand lost strength and dropped his wand. Regulus opened his eyes; his right hand had automatically reached for his left wrist. His mind whirled in confusion. The Dark Mark had not burned in almost a year, even during the time that Voldemort had been active. He uncovered his wrist and the tattoo, a daily reminder of his past that he tried everything to cover up, jumped out at him like an angry snake, its etching darker than the finest jet black ink. A summon? Impossible. But he was near. Very near. Yes, the Dark Lord had given his servant the best key to finding him; he himself created the key to his demise. It could only be.

Regulus shakily got up, supporting his body on the doorframe. His nails dug into the age-old wooden panel, the splinters digging beneath his fingers. Pain, different from the weight in his stomach and the dizzying sensation inside his head, cleared his mind. He staggered inside, trying to keep breathing, however shallowly. In, out. In, out. The burning sensation on his left wrist grew stronger. Yes, he was on the right track. But where—

He threw open the wardrobe doors, but there was nothing there. The drawers inside the wardrobe were similarly empty. He covered his mouth and coughed again from the bottom of his stomach; on his hand was blood. The effect of the spell was getting stronger. What could he do?

He sank to his knees again, clutching his abdomen. The noise in his head grew louder and louder. What could he do? He couldn't apparate out of the house; he'd checked for the anti-apparation charm. Besides, it was not as if he had anywhere to go. But he still hadn't found the Horcrux; if nothing was to come out of this foolish enterprise than at least he would have to find out what the second Horcrux even looked like.

He laid his forearms on the floor and doubled over, his head drawn between his shoulders. His head felt like it was about to burst and dark spots began to appear in front of him. Merlin. Couldn't anything go painlessly? Was everything—his family, his life, his thoughts—to be filled with nothing but pain? Was that what destiny had in store for him—pain and death? He had once thought that he was ready for that and more, ready to meet his timely end, but he was still alive and every thought that occupied him screamed at him to run away from pain, from humiliation, from everything that he thought he could once bear. What a frail creature he was. Perhaps Sirius was right. He wasn't strong enough.

The burn on his left wrist sharpened, as if someone was holding his arm out above a blazing fire, threatening to burn his arm off if he didn't comply. Regulus frowned despite his delirious state. Floor. The Horcrux was closer to the floor.

Instinctively he peered beneath the bed, but there was nothing there but corpses of dead spiders and cockroaches. He reached for his wand that he'd dropped earlier and this time the wand responded to him, flying into his grasp. Regulus breathed out a sigh of relief. Yes…

"Reducto," he whispered, and a few floorboards creaked in response, some of them splintering imperceptibly due to the magic, but they remained the same. Regulus sat up with difficulty, supporting his weight on his useless right hand. His eyes became blurry.

"Reducto," he said with more strength, and some of the floorboards were finally torn off from their original places, the nails popping and rolling away to far corners of the room. Regulus frowned at the sight and—there, at the middle of the room, there was a small hollow space beneath the boards. He scrambled to the place, and the burn on his forearm became almost unbearable. He would have whooped in victory had there been any strength left in him…

Beneath the board a strange light emanated from an object that was covered by a sphere of gray clouds. It looked almost like a Snitch, a very dark, tormented sort of a Snitch—someone must have used pewter instead of gold to paint it—and instinctively, because he knew no other way, Regulus reached out to grab it. After all, he was a Seeker—Seekers caught the Snitches, that's what they were supposed to do…

A jolt of pain shot through his arms and Regulus would have gasped if there had been breath left in him to gasp. Every fiber of his muscle was on fire; that was the only description that he could come up with. Cruciatus couldn't have been worse. His mouth opened to let out a scream, but nothing came out—there was nothing inside of him that could—

His vision blackened completely. Darkness surrounded him, darkness and pain. In a distant sort of way he could feel something hard and cold in his palm, something smooth yet immeasurably unyielding. So there was something. He supposed that he should feel triumphant; he'd managed to find a second Horcrux; now if only he could—

Someone was calling his name from a faraway place. Who? His father? He'd passed away when Regulus was eighteen; it had been only a few months after graduation. Natural causes, the Healer had said. Black men weren't known for living long. Well, there was grandfather Pollux, and great-uncle Sirius, but recently the average lifespan had shortened to less than sixty years. Generations of inbreeding, people whispered behind their backs, as if he couldn't hear every single one of them. And the Black women, they said that the women survived long because they let madness consume them. Perhaps they weren't so different from the Gaunts after all.

The voice was growing louder, frantic. Frantic? Why would anyone feel frantic in afterlife? Was afterlife more eventful than he had supposed? After all, eternity with nothing would be boring…

Thoughts grew fainter. Someone kept calling for him, calling his name, but Regulus couldn't respond to them. Sorry, he thought. I seem to be rather indisposed, but I will try to respond as soon as I can...

Then darkness came around him and there was no more.