A/N — I have written different variations of this story so many times, but Regulus is my fave so here's another one :P

For Jas; it's only 3 years late (:

Written for Assignment 5, Floristry, Task 7: Write about innocence being corrupted

And thank you so much to Bex for beta'ing :D

Warnings: Scenes of torture, minor character death

A shadowed figure, features hidden in the depths of his hooded cloak, steps forward.

He doesn't speak, and his form is almost entirely obscured, though Regulus knows somehow that he is he. He feels familiar in a way that Regulus doesn't quite recognise, but he's still left with the distinct impression that this figure means harm.

.oOo.

Regulus kneels before his new Lord, elation filling his entire being.

He has waited years for this moment, dreamed of this moment since he first started hearing tales of this wizard. Of someone who wishes to restore the world to rights; someone who wants them to take their true place, above all the Muggles and Half-bloods, and Traitors.

And finally, this day has come.

The burning of his forearm does nothing to dampen his mood; if anything, the spike of pain coursing from the newly formed mark and radiating up to his shoulder only serves to enhance it, making it feel all the more poignant for the discomfort he is feeling.

He remains kneeling long after the others have stood, eyes wide and barely restraining the grin that wishes to split open across his face.

"Cousin," Bellatrix greets, staring down at him with fond amusement. She extends a hand and helps Regulus to stand on unsteady feet. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

The question seems odd, coming from Bellatrix, but he knows what she means. "Like I have found my purpose," he answers easily, honestly, and she grins at him, the expression sharp and cruel.

"Good," she says; Regulus thinks she might say more, but Lucius Malfoy is approaching them.

He places his hand on Bellatrix's arm, smiling in a way that is both gentle and a little sickening, and leans into her side to whisper something in her ear.

It seems inappropriate — and the look Lucius gives Regulus is even more so — but then, Lucius Malfoy has always been a little … odd. And he's never particularly liked Regulus. But he will not let Malfoy ruin this day for him.

Inclining his head in farewell, Regulus gives Bellatrix a small, genuine smile, and turns to rejoin his friends.

.oOo.

The figure creeps closer, steps light but movements stiff, and leans over the bed. His touch is surprisingly warm and gentle, but still leaves Regulus' skin crawling.

"You will come with me," the figure says; his voice is raspy, croaking in a way that sounds almost painful. Regulus doesn't know how or why, but he's certain that it is an attempt to disguise his voice.

Fingers trail down his arm, tickling his skin, and Regulus finds himself nodding, agreeing whilst knowing it's a terrible idea.

He sees a flash of white teeth — the figure smiling, happiness seeming to radiate from his very being — before Regulus' hand is taken. And then, everything moves.

.oOo.

He is not trusted with anything big — of course he isn't, he needs to prove himself first — but they do not only have to act when their Lord commands it.

As long as they don't cast Morsmordre without his consent, they are free to live their lives as they choose.

Which is how Regulus finds himself on the edge of a Muggle town with a strong Wizarding presence, rubbing his hands together to stave off the cold. He could use a spell to keep himself warm, but he finds the sting in his fingers and cheeks helps him to feel more present.

That, and he knows they will be warmed soon enough, without the need of spells.

Barty is with him already, fidgeting nervously, his eyes darting around as if he expects to be detained at any moment. But even Barty is radiating excitement; it's in the flush of his cheeks that isn't entirely brought on by the cold, and the glint in his eyes.

"You're early," Avery says as he approaches the pair.

"Where's Mulciber?" Barty asks, jamming his hands into his armpits and making a visible effort to stop shivering. "Isn't he —"

"He'll be here," Avery interrupts, scowling at Barty in annoyance. Regulus remains silent, content with waiting.

"What're we —" Barty starts to say.

"You ask a lot of questions," Avery interrupts, his scowl deepening. Then, he turns to Regulus and adds, "Can't you keep your friend quiet?"

Regulus mumbles something unintelligible, ignoring Barty's complaints, and elbows his friend sharply in the side.

"You two," Avery says once he's decided Barty is likely to remain silent, "are going to stay out of the way."

Barty bristles at that, taking a deep breath in through his nose, but thankfully remains silent. Regulus tips his head to the side, and asks: "Of what?"

Avery rolls his eyes. "Me and Mulciber." He pulls his mask down over his face, and Regulus has a brief moment to worry that they were expected to bring their own, despite being told they shouldn't, before Avery adds: "He's waitin' for us at the house."

When they reach the little house on the outskirts of the town, Avery's only instructions are: "Knock on the door." He leaves before either of them can ask any questions, moving behind the house and out of sight.

"What do we do now?" Barty whispers when they can no longer see him.

Regulus shrugs. "Knock on the door."

An elderly woman answers, smiling up at them with mild concern. "Isn't it a little late for you boys to be out?" she asks.

"No, ma'am," Regulus says. He doesn't understand why they're here, what they're doing, and he already regrets forcing Barty to stop asking more questions.

The silence stretches on for an uncomfortable amount of time before the woman finally asks: "What can I do for you, then?"

"Uh —" Barty begins, while Regulus can only stare wide-eyed. Thankfully, they are saved from having to come up with an excuse by a clatter from the kitchen.

"What the —" The woman starts to turn at the noise, but falls to the floor before she can make a full rotation. Mulciber stands behind her, lowering his wand.

"She's only stunned," he says. "No use wasting an Unforgivable on her; she'll be dead soon, anyway."

"But what —" Barty tries to ask, but Mulciber pushes past him.

"C'mon, we've got what we want." He holds up a small coin purse before slipping it into a pocket inside his robes; the way his cloak sags on one side means an expansion charm has probably been cast on the purse. Regulus frowns, confused.

"Don't worry," Avery says, clapping him on the back, "you'll get your share."

Regulus follows the pair as they leave, feeling numb from something other than the cold.

Petty theft? Disgust claws at his throat. This is being done in the Dark Lord's name? It's an outrage, an insult to everything they stand for. It's not what Regulus signed up for.

But then, if that's the case, why does he feel a strange sense of relief?

.oOo.

When Regulus opens his eyes — and when had he closed them? — he is in a small room. Cobwebs cover the large door and walls, the floor is covered in dirt and dust and the skeletons of long-dead creatures. Regulus avoids looking at them.

The figure is gone, but he can hear voices outside, and he recognises one as the man from before — he sounds different now, but Regulus knows it's still him.

"Please!" Regulus calls, keeping his voice low. "Please, let me out."

He knows the man can hear him, though the knowledge is not something he should possess, but he receives no response.

"Please," Regulus whispers.

.oOo.

He keeps a closer eye on his fellow Death Eaters after that night; he isn't sure why, but distrust grows within him.

They seem the same as ever. The same ideals, the same goals, and Regulus is left with the distinct impression that he is the one in the wrong. That he's overreacting, or perhaps that he went into this with too much naivety.

"Are you alright?" Bellatrix asks, an unusual amount of concern lacing her tone. But then, she has seemed to become much more fond of him since he pledged himself to their Lord.

She lays an arm around his shoulders, and from anyone else he might consider it a hug, but from Bellatrix it's just … unsettling. Uncharacteristic and odd.

"I'm fine," Regulus says, forcing himself to relax into her touch. "Did you need something?"

"It's more …" she pauses, her face taking on a thoughtful expression, though he imagines she knows exactly what she intends to say, "more what I can do for you."

"Oh?" he asks, turning his head so that he can meet her gaze. She still doesn't release him.

"The Dark Lord trusts me," she says, "enough so that he accepted you while still at Hogwarts." She doesn't mention Barty, who is a little younger than him, and Regulus doesn't bother to ask. Instead, he waits, knowing she has more to say. "I can … help you," she says; the way she says 'help' doesn't sound quite right, though Regulus can't pinpoint why.

He swallows thickly. There's something distinctly off about this entire interaction. "How?" he asks, hoping his trepidation isn't audible in his voice.

"There's more to us, more to our cause, than these —" she gestures about the room with distaste "— people can understand," she says. "They have the right ideas, but they are selfish. They will put their personal gains before that of our cause."

Regulus nods; he has seen as much himself.

"Good. You know it, too." She releases her grip on his shoulder, taking his arm in hand and pulling him to the edge of the room. "They can't help it, of course," she adds, when there is no chance of them being overheard. "We are simply better. More devoted."

Regulus nods again.

"Are you willing to accept my help, cousin?" she asks.

"Of course," Regulus says without hesitation.

.oOo.

"Why won't you let me out!" Regulus is yelling now, screaming, tears coursing down his cheeks.

He pounds on the walls, on the floor, until his fists are bruised and bleeding and his arms ache. Still, he receives no response.

The voices outside continue in soft murmurs, and somehow Regulus knows that they do not care — that they will not help him — but still, he cannot give up.

His screams take on a desperate edge, his voice cracking, and he does not stop even when his throat feels numb and raw all at once.

Only when his voice fails him entirely does Regulus fall to the floor, exhausted.

.oOo.

In all the chaos that's going on, Regulus isn't really expecting to take part in any of the action. There's too many people crowding the narrow corridors of the house, filling doorways and making it difficult to even move let alone risk casting spells.

It's just bad timing, or bad luck, really, on the man's part that Regulus stumbles across his hiding place.

He opens the door to what he had thought was a bathroom but turns out to be a small utility closet, and the man just tumbles out.

Lying sprawled on the floor, wide eyes staring up at Regulus in desperation, he whispers, "Please," in a horse voice.

Regulus' lip curls in disgust; this man's family are all downstairs, his half-blood children dead and his Muggle wife soon to join them, and this man has been hiding the entire time.

"Crucio," Regulus hisses, without even a moment's hesitation.

He holds the spell as long as he can, staring down at the man as he screams and writhes in pain.

They hadn't actually come here for the family, but they hadn't been willing to miss the opportunity to make an example of these people. The actual mission had turned into a bit of a mess — some wires had been crossed at some point, miscommunications had occurred, and there were too many people to get anything done — but this night wouldn't be entirely wasted.

When Bellatrix finally finds him, the man has long since stopped screaming, now silently shivering on the floor of his own home. It's pitiful, really, how quickly he had been reduced to this.

"Regulus," Bellatrix says, placing a hand on his arm and lowering his wand. He's sweating and shaking himself, breath coming in ragged gasps, and the house is much quieter now.

Regulus frowns, turning to face his cousin.

Bellatrix looks proud of him, the expression almost alien on her usually harsh features.

Unease claws at his throat, making it difficult to catch his breath, and Regulus is left with the distinct impression that once again not all is quite right.

"Now what?" he asks, ignoring the slight hitch to his voice and tucking his wand carefully into his sleeve. If anything, Bellatrix looks even more impressed.

Regulus' unease grows.

.oOo.

Curled into a ball in the corner of the room, Regulus' sobs echo off the stone walls. How long has he been here now? He does not know. But the voices are still outside, still as gentle and even as ever, as if this is simply an everyday occurance. At this point, Regulus is willing to admit it might be.

Slowly, he stretches out his legs, groaning as his numb limbs are given some form of relief. His sobs quiet, but the tears still trace paths in the dirt that covers his cheeks.

He uses the wall to pull himself unsteadily to his feet, the cobwebs sticky under his palms.

He stands, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily, and does not utter a sound.

.oOo.

After that night, Bellatrix has started actively seeking him out. Regulus can't say he minds. He's always admired his cousin, and now, somehow, she seems less terrifying than before; she's more accessible, despite him knowing for certain she's done terrible things. But that's difficult to think of when she sits opposite him, delicately sipping a cup of tea as she talks of her day.

"— and Cissy said —" She stops abruptly, tipping her head to the side and watching him through narrowed eyes. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," Regulus says, taking a slow sip from his now own tea. He winces at the temperature; it's been sitting too long. "I was just wondering when the next meeting will be. We haven't had one for a while, and —"

Bellatrix rolls her eyes. "It's not a school club, Regulus," she says. "We don't have a set schedule for little get-togethers every week." She purses her lips, casting a wordless warming charm on Regulus' tea, an oddly thoughtful gesture that would have been unheard of before. "There'll be a meeting when there is something worth our Lord's time to discuss." She pours herself another cup from the teapot sitting in the centre of the little coffee table. "Besides," she adds, "those of us who are truly devoted to our Lord already know what is expected of us."

"And what is that?" Regulus cannot help but ask, eliciting a bark-like laugh from his cousin.

"Don't be so modest, Regulus," she says, her lips pulled back in a predatory smile. "You know exactly what needs to be done." She sips loudly. "You've been doing so well."

Regulus' mind flashes back to the man, not much older than Bellatrix herself. Murdered — tortured by Regulus himself — in his own home. Cowering in fear whilst Death Eaters murdered his small family. There had been children, though Regulus had not actually seen them.

A pit forms in his stomach, like claws tearing him apart from the inside.

Regulus has always thought wizards should not have to hide their existence, especially from such inferior beings, but do they need to be so cruel?

.oOo.

Has he given up? Regulus does not know. He thinks he might have.

There are cobwebs matted into his hair now, and his limbs are stiff and aching from lack of movement. He thinks he will probably join the skellingtons soon, and he knows the thought should be unpleasant. Instead, he finds himself strangely detached.

He rests his palm against the wall; his hands are covered in dirt and yet more cobwebs, dried blood caked around his knuckles. But, underneath it all, his hands are healed; unbruised and no longer bleeding or scabbed over.

He has stopped trying for escape, and that thought more than anything else that has happened, sends fear coursing through his veins.

.oOo.

Regulus pulls his white mask down so that it covers his face, the delicate filigree embossed into its surface hidden in the shadow cast by his hood.

He can't actually remember if he's supposed to wear his mask for these meetings, but this is his first meeting since he's had the Mark stamped into his arm. He's nervous, more so than the last time he came face to face with the Dark Lord, and the anonymity of the mask offers him a small amount of comfort.

For the first time in his life, he is a part of something bigger than himself. It is something that has been slipping his mind the more he focuses on the horrors committed, but these have not been sanctioned by their Lord.

Their Lord is powerful enough to not need to murder children to get his point across.

Regulus walks slowly up the long path to the manor house, avoiding any attempts to make conversation with him. He can't remember whose house this is; though it is purportedly a great honour to host such meetings, Regulus finds that he really doesn't care.

The location is not the point. Their Lord is. Their Lord, and the new, better world he will bring into being.

A world where Regulus and his kind do not have to hide themselves, do not have to pretend that they do not exist. A world where witches and wizards do not have to seek out small towns and villages cut off from the rest of the world, simply because they are the only places where they are free to be them.

A world where they can use magic out in the open, where they do not have to hide in fear. With the Dark Lord as their saviour, bringing them all into the light.

And Regulus will be a part of that.

He finds himself nodding along to the Dark Lord's words, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips behind his mask. Most have their faces on show, but Regulus likes the mask. Likes the way it makes him feel like a part of something far bigger than himself.

And when his Lord asks for the use of a House-elf, Regulus is the first to volunteer.

.oOo.

He cannot give up, he realises, though the thought doesn't quite feel like his own. After all, how long has he been trapped here? And when was the last time he tried for escape?

But still, now that the thought has occurred it doesn't leave him. He latches onto it, feeling hope build anew.

A spider crawls from his hair down his cheek, and Regulus shudders as he has not in a long time, brushing the creature away. He knows more will follow, and that disgust curls low in his stomach.

He knows now that he must leave; it's not just the spiders or the dirt and decay, but that he knows with such a certainty that he does not belong here.

But still, there is no way out.

.oOo.

Kreacher stands proudly before Regulus; he is freshly cleaned, wearing the best pillowcase he owns, with a tea towel wrapped around his head and covering his large ears.

"Remember," Regulus says, "you are representing the House of Black." Kreacher nods enthusiastically, his eyes shining brightly with his pleasure. "You will follow all of the Dark Lord's commands; you will serve him as if he is your master"

"Yes Master Regulus, of course," Kreacher says with a bow so deep the tip of his long nose brushes against the floor, "Kreacher will serve your Lord as his own master, Kreacher will."

"Good," Regulus says softly, giving the old House-elf the barest hint of a smile.

He would never admit it, but Regulus is quite fond of the creature. Kreacher had essentially raised him and his older brother, acting as nanny in a household where children were to be seen and not heard. And often, whilst their father had sought out Sirius, his heir at the time, Regulus would go hours, days, with no company other than that of the House-elf.

He doesn't even mean to say the words, "And then come back to me," but they slip out of his mouth before he has even registered the thought.

"As you wish, Master," Kreacher says with another deep bow, before disappearing soundlessly in a way wizards have yet to master.

.oOo.

He doesn't know what else to do. He can think of no other plan, though he knows it's futile.

He screams and shouts and cries until his voice leaves him, and still he is ignored. As he knew he would be.

He begs and pleads and cries until he can form no more words, and still the voices continue in a quiet murmur behind the door.

But what else can he do?

.oOo.

Regulus shifts from foot to foot, nervously watching his oldest cousin through his eyelashes.

"Regulus," Bellatrix snaps, "don't just stand there." She has always been quite blunt, but never before has the force of her tone struck him like a knife to the chest. He isn't sure if that is an indication of her mood, or of his nerves, however. "If you want to speak to me, speak."

Better to get it out quickly, he supposes, like ripping gold from a niffler.

"What's a Horcrux?"

He regrets the words instantly. Bellatrix's already pale face drains of what little colour her skin usually holds, and the light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that she usually hides with little charms stand out in stark contrast. Regulus swallows thickly.

Bellatrix's tone is low when she speaks, quiet. Dangerous. "Where did you hear that word?" she asks, standing slowly and gliding towards him like a dementor approaching it's unlucky victim. "Who told you that?"

Regulus' throat is dry, his tongue thick and swollen and sticking to the roof of his mouth. He licks his dry lips. Swallows again. "No one," he says, his voice barely a croak. Clearing his throat, he tries again, "No one told me, I just … heard it somewhere." His breath is coming quickly now, and Regulus isn't sure he's ever been more scared. Bellatrix continues her slow approach.

"At the meeting," he adds hurriedly. "The last meeting, I … someone said it, I can't remember who. I just heard it and —" his words come quickly now, stumbling over each other in their hurry to escape his mouth.

"But you don't know what that is, do you?" Bellatrix asks slowly, carefully. "You don't know what it means?"

Regulus shakes his head.

"You don't know," Bellatrix mutters, seemingly to herself. "You don't know his plan."

She looks up suddenly, the movement quick and shark-like. And smiles.

"But you told me," she says, her tone sugary sweet and all the more alarming for it. Regulus takes a step back even as Bellatrix wraps an arm around his shoulders. She's holding on too tight, pressing too deeply into his neck, but Regulus doesn't dare move further away.

"Don't worry, little cousin!" Bellatrix practically sings the words, a manic glee exuding from her very being. "We'll find the nasty little gossip," she says. "Thank you for telling me." And her words are so sincere, Regulus almost believes she just wants the best for him. But her hold is still too firm around his neck, narrowing his airway.

"Of course," he says with a strained smile. Bellatrix does not seem to notice his discomfort. She is too busy mumbling to herself, listing names. Some Regulus recognises, most he does not.

Regulus is only now starting to realise just how in over his head he is.

.oOo.

He hasn't given up — not this time, of that much he is certain — but he sits in the corner, arms around his knees and feet kicking up the dirt covering the floor. The remains of a small creature crunch under his foot.

What can he do? The thought has been circling in his mind, on a repeated loop for what feels like an age. He knows he must change something, but what?

He has done all he can.

.oOo.

Open books are spread out across his bed, more stacked in piles on the floor.

Each of the books Regulus has deemed useful only has a small section, a few pages at most, of relevant information. But it doesn't make any sense.

Why?

Why would the Dark Lord need to create such a horrid thing? Maybe Regulus could understand it, could understand the need for having a guarantee his Lord's life would not end, that he would be able to further their cause, if it were not for the way these things were created.

They are working to protect magical life, to keep the Purebloods safe in a world that despises them and forces them into shadows. In a world that has pushed them to near extinction, with less and less Pureblood children being born each year. Their bloodlines being diluted, reduced to nothing.

But a Horcrux?

What little information these books have is shrouded in mystery, the magic too dark for even the darkest of wizards to speak of.

But you cannot make something from nothing. It is one of the sacred rules of magic. One that can never be broken.

And, from what Regulus can gather, the creation of a Horcrux requires life. Life is needed to extend life. And to extend the life of a Pureblood? Only the life of another Pureblood can do it.

Regulus doesn't understand. He cannot understand.

It goes against everything his Lord teaches. Everything they stand for. Everything Regulus believes.

He feels his world shattering around him, everything he had known crumbling to ash at his feet. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Not because he had been wrong — Regulus does not think he is wrong to wish to preserve Pureblood life — but because the Dark Lord might not be everything Regulus had believed him to be.

He is not everything Regulus had believed him to be.

And Regulus feels himself floundering, lost, with no idea where to go from here.

.oOo.

Regulus stands slowly, his feet feeling sure underneath him. A small part of him thinks that they should not, that he should stumble and fall, but he remains steady.

He walks to the door, steps a lot more confident than he feels, and braces his palm against the surface.

Somehow, he knows what will happen when he pushes, but he hesitates nonetheless.

Is he sure? Is this really what he wants?

He pushes the door.

.oOo.

The people Regulus would usually go to for council are the very people Regulus cannot utter a word of this to.

Bellatrix will think him a traitor. Her loyalties have always been with the Lord himself, and Regulus suspects that she would follow him no matter his views.

His parents: Regulus does not wish to worry them. He doesn't want them to fear for the life of the only child they have left. Regulus knows that his brother leaving — his brother being disowned, he reminds himself, not wanting to take the blame from where it belongs with his mother — had deeply hurt the both of them, despite their attempts to hide it.

Barty would either think Regulus is overreacting, or proceed to massively overreact himself. There's never any telling with Crouch; it's always one extreme or the other, and very little indication as to which way he will go on any given day.

And that is it. The only people Regulus has ever trusted. Except he knows that's not true. But Sirius would sooner see Regulus thrown into Azkaban to rot than listen to him.

Regulus' life being so insular has never bothered him before, but then, he has always been able to rely on himself.

And, Regulus realises, that is going to have to continue to be the case. He cannot trust anyone else with this. But the only problem is, Regulus has no idea what to do.

.oOo.

The door opens easily, and Regulus is left squinting in the sunlight.

The spiders flee from his body, retreating back into the darkness, and Regulus steps outside.

Only the one figure remains, leaving Regulus to wonder if there had ever really been anyone else outside at all.

And, as the figure lowers his hood, Regulus is met with his own eyes.

His mouth falls open and he stares, incredulous, as the figure fades away, leaving nothing but his cloak.

The black fabric flutters away on a breeze Regulus cannot feel, and relief floods his body.

.oOo.

An idea begins to form. Slowly, in bits and pieces as fine as pixie dust, but it is there. Somewhere. In the depths of his mind.

"Kreacher," Regulus calls. He does not know where the House-elf is, but that has never mattered before. And it does not matter now, as Kreacher appears silently in front of Regulus, staring up at him expectantly.

"Kreacher," Regulus begins again, "do you remember when you were with the Dark Lord? The Horcrux?"

Kreacher pulls on his long ears, gripping painfully hard so that the flesh turns a mottled red and white. "Master Regulus told Kreacher never to speak of it again," Kreacher practically howls with his distress, unsure what to do about such contradicting orders.

"I know, Kreacher," Regulus says gently, lowering himself to his knees so that they are almost the same height. It is something he has never done before, and it seems to shock Kreacher out of his panic, at least momentarily. "I know what I said," he continues, "but now I need you to talk about that night."

Kreacher looks up at him with wide, watery eyes, the devotion on his face suddenly feeling like a responsibility Regulus has been shirking for the majority of his life, and the House-elf nods.

"Tell me everything you can remember."

.oOo.

Regulus wakes in a cold sweat. He knows now what he must do.