For in this sleep of death, what dreams may come.

Falling into the sunken depths of the lake, the words floated unbidden through his mind. He supposed it was only fitting, his last thoughts to be of a Muggle playwright. One last taste of the forbidden, as he sought to right what ought to truly be forbidden in the eyes of wizards.

Porcelain hands gripped his arms, his legs, wrapped around his neck in a deadly embrace. The frozen waters had overtaken the agony of the potion, and Regulus felt at peace for the first time in a very long time. It was as if the icy pain was purifying him, ripping through his veins like wildfire, taking with it the constant ache of pretense and harsh servitude. The midnight waters obscured his eyesight, dimming his senses until nothing remained.

It was a time later - how long, Regulus could not tell - that he awoke in a room filled with soft sunlight, his bare feet warmed against the hardwood boards beneath them. This must be the afterlife, though I am not deserving of such an honour. The ivory curtains rippled in a slight summer breeze, drawing his gaze to a large gilt framed mirror in place of a window. There was no sign of dust or tarnish, and the magical aura surrounding the mirror hummed and shimmered tangibly, as if alive.

"Kreacher!"

Nothing happened. He tried again, and still, no elf appeared. For the first time in his life, or perhaps death, he was truly alone.

Stepping closer to the silvery glass, Regulus reached out for his wand, stopping when he saw his arms bare of any trace of the Dark Mark. Most certainly then, I have perished. The knowledge brought comfort to him, for surely nobody may bother him now. Finally, he is at rest.


After what felt like weeks in the room, Regulus was no longer sure he was being rewarded with a kind afterlife. The room, although light and airy, was barren of any furnishings, and had nothing in the way of knowledge or entertainment. He held no possessions excepting a simple white silken robe, and he was sorely missing the companionship of his wand. He had no desire to eat or sleep, and so had taken to staring into the mirror through it's dappled sunshine and pale moonlight, memorising all the details of his person.

His silver eyes looked bright and sharp, unrecognisable without the dark circles he had grown so accustomed to over his teenage years. Long dark lashes framed them, absolving his sins with their angelic sweep as he blinked. His raven hair was shiny and soft, falling like down feathers around his pixie-like ears. Although still pale, Regulus was no longer a sickly pallor, a dusting of rosiness playing along his high cheekbones and aquiline nose. His gentle jawline was free of stubble, making his features look younger, innocent. He revelled in his clear skin, free and unblemished, articulating each of his joints slowly as if in some obscure dance known only to him.

Despite the lack of his wand, Regulus still had his magic. He could feel it within in, a quiet heat that warmed him from deep inside of his slim chest and radiated outwards to his bare feet and nimble fingertips. He could trace patterns in the air and create glowing trails in white and silver, and make bright sparks dance in the night breeze. He did not try to verbalise any known spells, in case they acted as wandless ones usually did with him, draining his core of joy and warmth and replacing them with darkness. He had read in his family's library that wandless magic was ancient, older, and channelled itself through your fingertips as if they were a wand. As Regulus had learned to think of his wand as an extension of his arm, as part of himself, the magic often found a block when wandless and was overpowered, overly directed. It stung his fingers and damaged his core. It had been on his mind to occlude around this, but he had never had the chance. Perhaps this is why dark wizards were better at wandless than their light counterparts. Wandless intent had to be focused and precise, no room for emotions. Regulus had always been good at hiding his emotions behind occlumency shields, but he had never managed to be rid of it. Perhaps I am not as dark as I once thought. Perhaps there is hope for me after all. He wondered if it was his shock at actually being dead that allowed him to play with his magic now. Perhaps it was just accidental manifestation, like when he was a child, and it would disappear when he broke out of his stupor. If he broke out.

Time here was limitless. It stretched on endlessly, with no interruptions of conversation or duties to complete. Regulus decided that he should try and set himself tasks in order to keep from going mad, if he wasn't already. Firstly, was the task of memory. He seemingly had retained all of his memories from being alive, and finally had time to review all of those he had set behind his shields, too caught up in the war and in evading detection from his family and acquaintances to pay them the attention they deserved. Secondly, once his memories were categorised into his mind-space, he could try and learn from them. He had done many terrible things in the service of the Dark Lord, and none of them were things he was proud of. He had realised they were wrong, but to what extent he had never worked out. It was time to evaluate where he went wrong, what he should have done differently, and what, if anything, he could do to try and become a better person. If anything, it would save him from growing too bored, even if he was stuck in a room that he supposed resembled muggle purgatory. Finally, Regulus would try and control his magic, and perhaps even find a way out of the room. Whether that would be to what muggles called heaven or hell, he was yet to make up his mind.


It was months later that he finally broke his numb vigil, having stayed silence since Kreacher had not answered his call. Before now, the words had eluded him, evading the capture of his pink lips and quick tongue. It was as if the silence of the room was healing him, the gentle rustling of the breeze washing away his dark thoughts and crushing guilt. His memories were categorised, sorted shelf by shelf into a library that strongly resembled the Hogwarts library. To his surprise, the books had appeared on shelves around him as he completed the memory transfers. Perhaps he was still dying, trapped in his own mind? He dug his nails into the palms of his hands. It stung. If he could still feel pain, Regulus sincerely hoped not.

Looking at the categories of his mind, he was saddened to realise the dark memories outweighed the good ones, and the sections on the Dark Arts, the Dark Lord and the abuse - he realised now it was abuse - his family had dealt him taking up the most space. Still, there was still a large portion of his memories that gave him hope. He smiled, realising these were mainly from Hogwarts, and were spent in the same library he was now sitting within, secretively pouring over his collection of muggle literature he had found, stolen, and bought without anyone else ever finding out. His favourite had always been Hamlet, by a man called Shakespeare. The plot of a man driven mad with grief and revenge had struck a chord with him, and he often found himself thinking on it. Alas, poor Yorick. Regulus reckoned that perhaps instead of Hamlet, he himself was relegated to Yorick, the skull, a dead shell of his former self. At least Yorick had been buried. Regulus didn't know whether his family even knew he was dead.

After putting it off for as long as he could, Regulus had finally confronted his Pureblood beliefs. He saw now, in clear resolution, that he was wrong, so very wrong. He wanted to shout it, scream it from the Astronomy tower that he, Regulus Arcturus Black, had been wrong. Blood is blood is blood is blood. Pureblood, Halfblood, Muggleborn, Muggle. Once spilled, it's the same deep red, blooming like wine spilled over a tablecloth. His pure blood had never saved or absolved him, and muggle blood hadn't saved the muggles, either. They'd all suffered, and he had been wrong.

Slowly, defeated, Regulus pressed his forehead against the surface of the mirror, the glass cool under his touch. His breath fogged the surface, the shallow puffs of air spreading and dissipating like the tides under moonlight.

"I'm sorry."

Nobody could hear him.


"Ok Gods, I've learned my lesson. I am sorry. I do not know how else I can repent. I am alone, I have wept, I have thought on my wrongdoings for months now, years perhaps."

As Regulus expected, nobody answered him. He was still in the same light, unchanging room, his memories his only friends. He poured over them all as if they were treasured friends, caressing the dusty tomes with reverence. He had been in the room for years, over a decade by his reckoning, and still he was a gentle eighteen-year old. His body had never filled out to become muscular and stocky like his brother, his beard never grown or hair silvered like his father, his alabaster skin never wrinkled or lined as his grandfather's had. The time had allowed him to recall so much more than he ever thought possible, his library now a vast sea of books going right back to his early childhood. He had even recovered memories of his christening at nine months old, although the details were less clear, the emotions attached less pronounced.

Regulus' favourite memories were of his childhood, playing with Sirius and his older cousins Andromeda, Bellatrix, and Narcissa. Sirius had been brash and bold even then, aged eight, but he was protective of Regulus, picking him up when he fell in the warm pond in summer, and helping him attack Bella and Drommie with snowballs in the days after Yule. Regulus supposed his life here was peaceful, where the memories were his to treasure for eternity, but he could not be truly hurt by them. He could not be loved by them, either. It was lonely, and Regulus knew in his heart he would take the pain of his actions every time over another decade or more in his prison of a memory-mind.

He hated these thoughts. They got him nowhere, and as a Black, or a former Black at the least, Regulus was used to getting what he wanted. He forced himself to think upon one of his less pleasant memories, as if to punish himself for the thoughts of weakness. He would not break. The memory he chose was of Cousin Bella again, but this time they were in the morning room of Malfoy Manor, and he was kneeling at her feet. "Poor Cousin Reggie couldn't hack it, the little weakling. Shall I add some incentive for you, little delicate boy?" She had crooned in his ear, softly whispering her plans for him. She had tortured him for hours, watching as he begged for mercy and promised he would try harder, he would do his part for the war. He had lied about wanting to kill the Mudbloods, and she knew it. She only let him go once he gritted his teeth so hard they cracked, and resolved to stay silent under her torment. He did not agree with how he had begged her, but he acknowledged that it had taught him resolve. He was still being tortured, in a way. It would never do to break now.

Sighing in frustration, Regulus sent his magic towards the mirror, hoping that this time he may be able to break it, and see what lies behind it. Perhaps even escape. He had trained his magic extensively, and had hurled daggers, fire, lightning, hexes, and even his memories and fists at it. The surface would ripple, and nothing more, as it did on this occasion.

"I am sorry."

Again, nothing happened, and Regulus resigned himself to an eternity of memories with only himself to blame.


"I am sorry."

The mirror fogged up at his whisper, caressing the surface with his words. Many more years had passed, and he was desperately alone. He had not spoken in months, and did nothing except stare into the mirror and touch the cool glass reverently, feeling the magic hum just beyond his reach.

"I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. I am so so sorry."

Now he had started to speak again, the words came in a chant, overtaking his mind. He couldn't stop whispering, shouting, screaming the words.

"I am sorry. Forgive me. I am so so sorry, please forgive me. I am sorry."

Regulus pressed his hands hard against the glass, looking for purchase as he slid down to his knees. His breath came in pants, tears wetting his perfect lashes and streaming down his porcelain skin.

"I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry."

He chanted the three words for hours, as the room darkened and brightened and darkened once again. Sobbing too much to push the words past his swollen lips, he opened his silver eyes, alive with pain, and watched his breath continue to bloom over the surface. Desperately, he wrote the words in the fog, the elegant loops of his handwriting wobbly with the tremors shaking his graceful hands.

I am sorry.

Regulus sat back on his heels and watched the writing slowly disappear from the mirror, leaving behind nothing but his own disheveled reflection looking every bit as devastated as he felt.

What he didn't expect, however, was the mirror to fog up, seemingly of it's own accord, and neat little words to begin printing themselves backwardly across the surface that had been unresponsive for almost two decades.

What for?