The Second Son

Regulus was ten, and his father was poring over a piece of owl post.

The patriarch of the Black family was sitting on an armchair by the fireplace, across the room from where Regulus was being tutored in magical history. His tutor was one of the Carrow girls, fresh out of Hogwarts, hired by his mother to ensure that he would enter school an educated young man. Anything to further separate him from the common lot, the assortment of mixed blood and ill ideals that awaited him at Hogwarts.

Regulus wondered what Kreacher was up to, and thought that whatever it was, it must be preferable to yet another hour of study. He relished hearing tales of his ancestors and greatly enjoyed recounting the tales to Kreacher, but learning about every Wizarding invention under the sun was growing dull.

His mother entered the room and his father stood abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye Regulus could see his father’s hand stall, as if questioning whether or not to hide the letter. Walburga Black, fiery passion to Orion Black’s subdued nature, seized the letter, eyes scanning the page wildly.

“Regulus, are you listening?”

He heard his tutor’s words but they failed to register. The look in his mother’s eyes had stolen his attention. Walburga looked lost, confused. His mother was a woman in control, and when she was not in control she bent the world and everyone in it to her will until she achieved her end.

“There must be a mistake,” she said, shaking her head and handing the parchment back to her husband.

“Narcissa certainly wouldn’t lie about this,” his father replied, a tremor of timidity behind his reasonable voice. “And the Sorting Hat is never wrong, not for a thousand years has it—”

“I don’t care what the damned Hat says!” his mother shrieked, causing his tutor to drop her quill in alarm. “He did this deliberately, spiting me, bringing shame—”

“Walburga, I know Sirius has been difficult recently—”

“Then you know how bad this is! You know the Gryffindor sort, lousy with Mudbloods and half-rubbish, and who knows what will get into his head! Our son, Orion! Our eldest son!”

“Mother, what’s going on?”

Regulus’s parents turned to look at him, quill poised over his parchment, feeling apprehensive. What had Sirius done wrong now? He knew that Sirius and their mother had been fighting almost constantly in the months leading up to his departure for Hogwarts. Regulus had heard Walburga blaming “that unruly tart,” their cousin Andromeda, for Sirius’s recent change in behavior. He had always admired his older brother for whom he was, rebellion and all, but he didn’t fancy the idea of Sirius in real trouble.

His mother looked at him for a long moment, her anger dissipating. She strode over to the table where he sat, knelt and wrapped her arms around him. Regulus leaned his head back against her shoulder, allowing himself to pretend for a moment that everything was alright, that there had been no letter.

“You love your brother, don’t you?” his mother asked.

“Of course,” he said quickly.

“And you know what it means to be a part of this family, right?”

“Yes.” How could he not? Toujours pur was all he knew, the birthright in his blood defining him as worthy.

“You can set a good example for Sirius, can’t you? Remind him how to carry the Black name.”

All his life it had been Sirius who was told to be the responsible one—set a good example for Regulus, he looks up to you—and the reversal was jarring.

“Yes, Mother. I will.” After all, what wouldn’t he do for his family?

...

Regulus was eleven, and he had made it.

There was trepidation, to be sure, from the family as a whole. After Sirius’s Sorting, Regulus had felt an increase of eyes upon him, only intensifying as he neared his own beginning at Hogwarts. The thought of being Sorted into Gryffindor horrified him, the idea of his parents’ reactions and his own possible failure keeping him up during the late August nights. Yet there was also a tiny, unspoken part of him that didn’t want to disappoint his brother. He supposed it was born out of a wish that Sirius hadn’t disappointed him.

They were supposed to be the Black brothers, destined to take the castle by storm. How could they do this if Sirius was in Gryffindor?

Sirius himself had said little to counsel him, only telling him to be honest with the Hat.

“Will you still talk to me sometimes if my being honest leads me to Slytherin?” Regulus had asked, watching his brother’s face carefully.

Sirius gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure, Reg.”

When the night of September first came and the Hat declared his House after nearly ten agonizing seconds of thought, Regulus looked first to the table on the opposite side of the room. Sirius was not clapping, not even looking at him, but turning to whisper into the ear of a boy with messy black hair and glasses, who gave a strange half-smile at whatever Sirius had said.

Sitting in the drafty Slytherin common room, Regulus still felt a pang of jealousy whenever he thought of Sirius’s new best friend. Growing up, the circle of people their age had been small, mostly limited to their older female cousins and a few boys from other important families. Here, Sirius had been allowed to branch out, and Regulus could see he was admired by the younger Gryffindors, but Sirius had also found a tight-knit group of three friends. Regulus saw them in the halls often between classes—it was hard to avoid them, coming and going like a riptide of chaos and boyhood energy—but more than anyone, Sirius seemed to favor the company of this one Gryffindor.

Potter. A pureblood name, but not one held in esteem. Sirius couldn’t have even done their family that courtesy.

Regulus wrote letters home that fall, one to his parents, and one to Kreacher. The former had been a lengthy one, detailing the kindnesses his seventh year cousin Narcissa had done for him, including showing him around the castle, giving him a place to sit at the Slytherin table, and introducing him to all the right people. His letter to Kreacher was shorter.

Kreacher,

Being in Slytherin is not too different from being back at Grimmauld Place. It really is all Mother prepared me for. The rest of the castle I’m not so sure about, but I think you’d like it here. I know you’d appreciate the history.

Still, even with Cissy here, it’s not quite home.

See you in two months,

Regulus

...

Regulus was twelve, and the headlines were changing. Muggle attacks in Eastern Europe became Muggle attacks in Ireland, in Wales, creeping ever closer.

Regulus was thirteen, and his cousin Bellatrix came to visit with a new husband and a new tattoo.

Regulus was fourteen, and the shadows were given names: Dark Marks. Death Eaters. Voldemort.

They were names spoken with increasing reverence in his household; rarely a holiday went by without Walburga Black reciting a Daily Prophet article in hushed tones, her grey eyes shining with triumph.

His parents themselves would never go and join up, they had far too comfortable a life here at Grimmauld Place, but the idea gave Regulus a thrill. All his life he had been told his blood made him what he was, and here was the proof on the page, dominating talk in the Wizarding world and even turning heads in the Muggle world. He wanted to add to the conversation, stamp his own pureblood name in the history books, but his youth was like an impatient itch under his skin. He would have to wait.

At the least, he had an in. Narcissa’s fiancé had recently received the Mark. Bellatrix and her husband were moving ever further into the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

“Someday soon,” his cousins would promise him when they came to visit, full of stories from the frontlines, the dangerous and righteous deeds they had done.

The more Regulus prepared himself for the possibility of joining, the less Sirius spoke to him. He tried not to let it bother him, it was becoming clear that Sirius had chosen his path, but he still wondered if there was hope, if his brother’s views could be changed.

Regulus wondered if Sirius ever thought the same of him.

...

Regulus was fifteen, and expectations had shifted.

He could hear muffled shouting from his mother and brother somewhere upstairs. It had become the summer’s background noise, and his father next to him was unperturbed, reading the front page of the Prophet as Regulus looked over the Quidditch Cup coverage inside.

All in all it was shaping up to be a normal day, until a door upstairs flung open. A series of crashing thuds could now be heard under his mother’s shrieking voice, which was coming into clarity.

“…off to your blood-traitor friend, and what makes you think he’ll take an ungrateful disappointment like you?”

“He’s more family than you’ll ever be!” Sirius spat. Regulus and his father simultaneously turned their heads.

“Are you off to join those Muggle-lovers?” his mother demanded as the commotion in the corridor increased in volume. “Fight alongside Anderson filth, against your own blood?”

“Can’t wait,” Sirius growled. He was still out of sight, but Regulus could almost see the determination in his face, handsomer than Regulus’s own, but angrier.

“And what if you run into your brother out there?” their mother called, as Sirius came into view near the front door. He had his trunk in hand, which must have been the cause of the extra ruckus.

Sirius was turning to face their mother, mouth open and ready for an angry retort, when he saw Regulus. For a moment his older brother’s face fell, and there was none of the moodiness or indifference Regulus had been greeted with for the past few years.

To Regulus, his brother’s face looked like regret, and it lasted only a moment before the steel returned.

“I’d do whatever I had to,” Sirius said, then redoubled his grip on his trunk, opening the door and starting out into Grimmauld Place.

“And don’t even think about coming back!” their mother screamed out the open door.

“Walburga, what—”

His father had risen, but his words were disrupted by his mother slamming the door closed, turning on her heel and heading back upstairs.

“Mother, wait!”

Regulus set off after his mother, heart hammering nervously in his chest, his father close behind. He knew things had been bad, but he had believed Sirius would always have a place here. His brother was a Black after all, and that meant something.

He followed his mother into the second floor room where the family tapestry was displayed, ancient and proud. With her wand hanging loosely in her hand, she was staring at the names, and for a moment Regulus did too. His eyes fell on the scorched mark where his cousin Andromeda’s name was once written, and a horrible thought occurred to him, twisting in his stomach. Andromeda had deserved her disinheritance, marrying a Anderson the way she had, but surely there was no way Sirius could have done anything so awful.

“Mother…what exactly did Sirius—”

“Confringo!”

Regulus and his father jumped as the spell was cast, tearing a violent hole through the tapestry, leaving a smoldering circle to the left of Regulus’s name.

“I never want to hear that name again,” his mother said, turning to him, wild fury in her eyes. “You are my son, my only son now. Do you understand?”

“Walburga—”

“Do you understand?” she repeated, ignoring her husband.

Regulus nodded, staring blankly back at the tapestry.

His brother was gone.

He started to walk out of the room, and as he made his way toward the stairs he could hear his father asking questions of his mother in a low voice. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard his mother let out a sob.

Downstairs in the kitchen he told Kreacher what had happened as the elf made him a cup of tea. Kreacher was understandably ecstatic; Sirius had been nothing but contemptuous to Kreacher his whole life. But Regulus couldn’t shake the sense of betrayal. There was no higher privilege than being a Black, and Sirius had cast that aside for…what? For the three mediocrities he now preferred to his own family? They could never be Sirius’s real brothers. They could never understand the way Sirius had been raised, but Regulus did…

I’d do whatever I had to.

Sirius had looked right at him when he said it. His brother could be thoughtless, but Regulus had never heard him take it so far.

“Master Regulus?” Kreacher said. He waited a moment before speaking again. “Best forget him now, your brother was never fit to -”

“I don’t have a brother,” he replied, venom in his voice, for a moment feeling as cruel as Sirius.

...

Regulus was sixteen, and his moment had come.

It was Christmas Eve, and Bellatrix stood before him, holding his wrist tightly, her wand held aloft in her other hand.

“And to whom do you hold allegiance?” she asked.

Regulus looked at the faces all around him, each watching him with bated breath. It was still strange, being the center of attention, though he had grown more used to it over the last year. Bellatrix and her husband, along with Narcissa’s husband Lucius Malfoy, had been instructing him on holidays in increasingly difficult Dark magic, which he practiced ceaselessly with his dorm mates at school. And ever since Sirius left home, his parents focused singularly on him, determined not to let him slip through their fingers. He understood their intent, but they never had anything to worry about. Regulus followed the plan, always had, always would. And now he was making a name for himself and his family, staking their claim in the war against impurity, balancing out Sirius’s betrayal.

“The Dark Lord and none other.”

“Receive the Mark,” Bellatrix said, and lowered the tip of her wand to the exposed skin of his left forearm. Regulus knew the pain was coming but it was still stronger than had imagined, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. To keep himself grounded he focused on the black ink appearing on his arm, twisting in serpentine patterns.

Even after it was finished, the snake seemed to move. Regulus felt a thrill run up his spine, nerves and excitement in one. He belonged.

“It is done,” Bellatrix announced, and released his arm. Murmurs of welcome swarmed around the airy room, and his cousin wrapped him in a tight embrace, kissing him on the top of the head.

“You’ve done it, Reg!” she whispered excitedly, dropping her detached persona.

Regulus nodded, still staring at his tattoo. He could scarcely believe his own luck. All his life he had been the second son, beloved but always an afterthought, and now the balance had shifted entirely.

He laughed, a single exhale, relieved the worst was over and eager for what was to come.

...

Regulus was seventeen, and he had a place.

All around him, he could feel their movement picking up speed, accelerating through the British countryside, a plague of fear and whispers. And he was a part of it all.

For the most part, his work was simple. He would accompany elder Death Eaters to raids of Muggle villages, or the homes of blood traitors. There he would watch for members of the rebellious Order of the Phoenix, bind captives, or cast the Morsmordre into the sky. Any task asked of him, he would perform. At any place marked with impurity, they would leave their own mark.

Bellatrix had insisted on taking Regulus along to increasingly dangerous missions, any chance to show off the superiority of her family’s own blood. Regulus wasn’t so sure he measured up; Sirius had always been the more skilled wizard, the quick thinker of the two. It should have been Sirius out here doing their parents proud.

Sometimes he wondered if Sirius had joined the Order. Sometimes he wondered if his brother would follow through on his final words if they did meet again.

Still, his name afforded him privileges not granted to lesser Death Eaters. The Mark itself, dark and winding on his arm, distinguished him from those whom could not be so carefully trusted. He was allowed into small meetings, allowed glimpses of plans yet to be unveiled. And he had met the Dark Lord himself.

There was a quiet, nervous energy that took over Lucius Malfoy’s drawing room when the Dark Lord appeared. Regulus had filed in line, muttered quiet and respectful greetings, kissed the hem of his robes along with the others.

From afar he had admired Lord Voldemort since he was old enough to know about him, but being in his presence had left Regulus with a sense of unease he hadn’t been able to shake. Bellatrix had spent years orating about the magnetic grandeur of the Dark Lord, but the whole meeting had been terribly unsettling. Save for Bellatrix and a few choice others, everyone in the room had been rigid with fear.

At one point, Regulus had risked a glance over at Narcissa, who had given him a small smile before looking like she was going to be sick.

He wondered afterward what precisely it had been to make him feel ill at ease. Had it been the Dark Lord’s appearance itself? He had heard whispers of a flattened nose in a white face, eyes almost like a snake’s, a red glow within. But the whispers could not do justice to what he had seen. It was like looking upon a corpse of something half-human, with only the glint of scarlet from the eyes to show life.

But it was more than this that unnerved Regulus. Little of the meeting had been spent discussing upcoming plans of attack, or the goal at large. Rather, the Dark Lord seemed singularly focused on approaching his own immortality. He was close, he claimed, and it was the duty of his servants to help him finish the job.

Regulus had nodded devotedly along with the rest, but he hadn’t been able to escape a feeling of skepticism. Was not the job to establish pureblood Wizarding dominance throughout Britain? And how was Lord Voldemort planning on achieving his own goal? Immortality for humans was said to be impossible, save for circles of Dark magic practitioners who admitted there were ways, each more awful than the last, nothing even most Dark wizards would attempt.

Voldemort, however, was not most Dark wizards.

When Regulus visited his parents’ house later that week, he spent time in his father’s study, poring over ancient books of Dark magic, making notes on parchment all the while.

Philosopher’s Stone: best option, but more legend than reality.

Unicorn blood: accessible, but was it worth the cost?

Horcruxes? Only found in one old book - could be up Voldemort’s alley.

“What is the young master up to today?” Kreacher asked, bringing him a cup of tea and a small tray of sandwiches.

“I’m not sure,” Regulus replied honestly. He wasn’t quite sure why he was digging into this. He only knew that meeting the Dark Lord had planted a seed of doubt, forcing him to wonder if he was getting more than he signed up for.

“If there is anything Kreacher can do, I will be here for you, sir,” Kreacher said.

“Thanks Kreacher,” Regulus said with a smile. Even in his moments of confusion and doubt, the family’s house-elf was a reliably comforting presence.

As it turned out six months later, Regulus would have great need of Kreacher’s help.

...

Regulus was eighteen, and a loud crack resounded in his parents’ kitchen.

“There you are,” he said happily, turning toward the sudden noise. “How was - Kreacher!”

Kreacher’s wrinkled skin was a horrid pale shade tinged with green, his hands leaving tiny, bloody prints on the shining floor, his body hunched and kneeling where he had Apparated.

Regulus shot out of his chair and rushed to the elf’s side. He tried helping Kreacher to his feet but it was no use; he simply could not stand in the condition he was in.

“M-Master…I…” The attempt at speech came out in a pained rasp.

“Hang on, Kreacher,” Regulus said, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. He scooped up the elf and gently laid him on a clean countertop, his mind racing. Only an hour ago he had watched Kreacher Disapparate to an unknown location, off on a secret mission for the cause. It had caused Kreacher to weep with pride; the Dark Lord had needed a house elf, and Kreacher had been so happy to be selected, so honored that Regulus had recommended him.

It’s my fault, it’s my fault, whatever happened to Kreacher there is on me. What have I done?

“Master…R-R…”

“Shh, it’s okay, let me get you some water…Aguamenti!”

Regulus pointed his wand at a glass and filled it, holding it to the elf’s lips. Kreacher drank deeply, and followed it with two more glasses before he spoke again.

“Master, Kreacher came home. Just as Master Regulus said. Kreacher came home.”

Regulus gave a small laugh of relief, gladdened to see the elf starting to come around.

He then sat and listened as Kreacher told him of a lake, a locket, a potion, and the Inferi. As the last hour was recounted to him, a strange, silent fury began coursing through Regulus. Voldemort had used Kreacher, like something to be discarded without a second thought. He felt sick when Kreacher told him of the things he had been forced to see and hear under the influence of the potion, and sicker at the idea of what could have happened if he hadn’t told Kreacher to come home after the deed was done.

Some of the color began returning to Kreacher’s skin, and Regulus began breathing easier. Elves were hardier than they seemed, and this one would make it. The Dark Lord certainly made a mistake in underestimating Kreacher.

When Kreacher’s eyes started to droop Regulus picked him up again and carried him to his small bed, where the elf was asleep in seconds. Regulus himself trudged up to his old bedroom, his mind full.

The locket was the key, it had to be. The levels of protection surrounding it meant it was of monumental importance to Voldemort. An ancient heirloom was certainly worth guarding, but this was something that could not be trusted in a Gringotts vault, or perhaps not allowed, high levels of Dark magic…

It had to be a Horcrux.

Regulus had been reading about them for months now, repulsed and fascinated. This was how the Dark Lord was planning on keeping himself alive forever. Surely not even his closest advisors knew; Regulus had realized that though Voldemort had his inner circle, none of them would be counted worthy of this secret. But now there were two, though the Dark Lord did not intend it: Kreacher, and himself.

Nepotism had allowed Regulus to rise through the ranks, but it was Kreacher who had given him a leg up over the rest of them.

He felt a renewed sense of guilt when he thought of Kreacher, who would have died in agony tonight had it not been for the loyalty that was his own brand of magic. Had the Dark Lord truly believed that Regulus would not care if his house elf was hurt or killed without his knowledge? Did he think that little of Kreacher, of his kind? Regulus knew all along what their cause would entail, but the idea that Voldemort was willing to sacrifice faithful servants in the process disturbed him greatly. Where would it end? How much did blood truly matter to Voldemort, and how much was he willing to spill on the road to his own immortality?

There was no turning back for Regulus now; he had the Mark, and death was the only escape from service. But he knew just as strongly that he could not go on working for the Dark Lord.

There was no turning back. But perhaps there was still a chance to make a difference before the end.

He drifted in and out of a restless sleep through the night, formulating a plan, perfecting it. He focused on what his actions would mean in the grander scheme, doing his best to quell the frantic beating of his own frightened heart.

The next day he felt a burning on his arm, summoning him to Wiltshire and a small gathering of Death Eaters, but he did not answer the call. That day Regulus played wizard’s chess with his father, helped his mother reorganize the library, wrote several drafts of a letter to Sirius and burned them all. On the last scrap of parchment he wrote one short letter to someone else, signed it with his initials, and tucked it in his pocket.

He checked in on Kreacher several times, and found that the house elf was doing remarkably well, given what he had gone through the previous night. He was still paler than Regulus would have liked, and he startled when approached without warning, but it was clear he was on the path to recovery. There were moments in the day when Regulus couldn’t help hoping the same could happen to a wizard.

The magic of elves is stronger than we know, he reminded himself. In any case, if you came back from this, they’d kill you anyway.

That night Regulus tried to sleep, but it was useless; his mind kept traveling to dark caves. He had hoped to hold out one more day, make certain he had it all planned out the way he wanted it, but if he waited any longer he would never be able to go through with it. Primeval fear of death was fighting with the itch in his limbs urging him to action, and he wouldn’t let the former win.

He rose from his childhood bed and left his room, closing the door that bore his name.

He lit his wand and quietly made his way to a spare room down the hall, where old family trinkets were kept by the hundreds. Pulling aside several jewelry boxes, he began searching through them, after an image in his mind. Big, maybe silver, it’s got to hold a slip of parchment…

“Regulus?”

He was startled by his mother’s voice, though sleep had tempered her usually-harsh tone. Her own lit wand was in her hand, her other hand in the pocket of her dressing gown.

“Mother.”

“What on earth are you doing at this hour?”

“Trying to find something suitable for Cissy’s baby,” Regulus replied, thinking quickly and remembering his cousin who was expecting a child in four months.

“How thoughtful,” his mother said. “She made herself a fine match, didn’t she?”

“The Malfoy blood is good,” Regulus agreed.

“Perhaps when you’re not so busy you’ll meet a proper girl,” she said.

Regulus turned away before his mother could see his reaction. The finality of what he was planning had hit him in that moment. If he went through with it, he would never marry, never have a child, never grow old. If he abandoned the Death Eaters without exercising his plan, he would be murdered in his sleep just as quickly. If he stayed, he could be killed tomorrow by any Order member.

However, if he did stay, it would be a death of its own. He could not pretend nothing had happened, could not unhear Kreacher’s wracking breaths. He was in too deep, had been since the moment Bellatrix’s wand touched his arm. Death was certain now, but he could have his say before the end.

“Maybe,” he said quietly, staring into a box. His eyes fell on a large locket, plain but clearly old, the silver in need of polishing. Regulus picked it up and gently pried it open, revealing a spacious, empty center.

“Do you know where this came from?” he asked, standing and walking over to his mother. She held up her wand to examine the locket closer.

“Of course. Your grandmother Irma sent this to me when you were born. It used to belong to her grandmother.”

“It must be important.”

“Very,” his mother replied. “I think it would do nicely for the baby. His name may be Malfoy, but he will still be a Black.”

Yes, it will do nicely, Regulus thought.

“Don’t forget to put those boxes back right where you found them,” his mother reminded him sternly.

“I won’t,” Regulus said, and wrapped his arms around his mother. It was a moment before she responded, hugging him back tightly, and he had to bite his lip. When he had risen from his bed that night it was with the expectation of never seeing her again, and yet here she was, her hard edges softened by the late hour, not just Mistress Walburga Black but the mother who loved him.

“Good night, Regulus,” she said when she released him, and made her way back down the hall.

“Good night, Mum,” he whispered back.

He replaced the boxes, placed the locket around his neck, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

For a minute he simply watched Kreacher sleep, the elf who had helped take care of him all these years, who knew him better than most any wizard, who had been misjudged by the Dark Lord himself. He felt guilty knowing he was about to ask Kreacher to return to the place where he had been so recently traumatized, but Regulus knew it would all be worth it. If all went according to plan, Lord Voldemort would never be able to hurt another elf like Kreacher, who only ever served faithfully.

“Kreacher,” he said as quietly as he could. The elf stirred, his bloodshot eyes blinking in confusion for a moment before he sat up straight.

“Master Regulus,” he croaked. “What are you doing up?”

Regulus couldn’t help smiling, remembering his mother’s similar question. He was a year out of school, and those closest to him still fretted.

“Can you help me with something tonight?”

“Anything, Master Regulus. Anything.”

...

Regulus was eighteen, and he was leaving his home for the last time.

Kreacher was inconsolable but dutiful after Regulus explained his intent, stifling his sobs so Regulus’s parents would not wake, taking Regulus’s hand and Apparating them to the desolate seaside. Black waves lapped at the shore just behind them, and Regulus found himself faced with a stone wall.

He went through the motions mechanically, in part to keep Kreacher as calm as possible, in part to convince himself this was just another mission, and not the rapidly approaching end of his own life. He paid the blood toll on the wall, was directed to the invisible boat, rode across the glassy lake with Kreacher at his side. Before long he could see something dimly lit in the distance, and he knew this would be the place where he would die.

Minutes. This was all he had left, and he would be gone. He wondered if it would be quick, even as he remembered Kreacher’s tale of the horrific effects of the potion. Regulus recalled a time years ago when he had been terribly sick as a child, the year his mother wouldn’t take him to St. Mungo’s because the head Healer was a half-blood, and Kreacher had been able to use what they had to create a medicine that worked wonders.

The elf was beside him out of necessity, but it was also an incredible relief to Regulus that, even in the loneliest place imaginable, he would not have to die alone.

They reached the island far too soon, and Regulus climbed out of the boat immediately, not allowing himself to linger. Kreacher followed, whimpering, as Regulus pulled the note from his robes. He placed it securely in the locket, then put the heirloom into Kreacher’s hands.

“You remember what to do?”

“Replace M-Master’s locket w-w-with the one in…in there,” he gulped, nodding at the basin full of glowing potion, tearing flowing freely from his eyes. “And destroy th-the one inside.”

“But what do you have to do first, before you can destroy it?” Regulus asked. “What’s the most important step?”

“Go home,” Kreacher replied. “Kreacher m-m-must go home, must leave M-M-Master…”

At this the elf began to wail, and clutched Regulus’s leg. For a moment Regulus considered shaking him off, determined to keep detached, but he knelt instead, allowing for a more proper hug. The elf had done more for him than he could ever repay; he owed him this one kindness.

“That’s right,” Regulus said, patting Kreacher comfortingly on the head as the elf cried into his shoulder. “You’ve got it just right. And don’t listen to anything I say after I start drinking the potion, just help me drink it if need be, that’s an order. You remember what it did to you, how it made you say things you didn’t mean?”

“Y-Yes, Master…”

“And you can never tell the family what happened to me, or they’ll be in trouble, you understand? Not Mother or Father, not even Bella or Cissy or…or Sirius.”

“Of course, Master Regulus…”

“Thank you, Kreacher.” Regulus allowed them to sit in silence for a few seconds longer, savoring the last serene moment he would ever know. He wondered if he would feel peace afterward.

Then he heard bubbling under the water around them, and knew he had to do what he came for, before anything could go wrong. Regulus straightened up, and Kreacher stood back respectfully, mopping at his eyes.

He stood before the basin and stared into its depths, his own glowing green reflection looking back. He looked so young, felt so young, yet here he stood, at the site of a secret known only to three. The Dark Lord, a house elf, and an eighteen-year-old boy.

Regulus conjured a goblet and filled it, holding the potion aloft. Behind him, Kreacher’s sniffles had quieted, the elf’s duty keeping him focused.

“To mortality,” Regulus said quietly, and he raised the goblet to his lips.