Chapter Text
It’s after swallowing the first gulp of water that Regulus realizes he doesn’t want to die.
The sudden realization does little for his situation; it doesn't keep the hands from gripping him and dragging him under; it does little to calm his frantic heart; and it does even less to ease the struggle in his lungs. He can’t breathe, he can’t see— he is not surviving this.
The dread inside him sinks faster than his body. It takes him somewhere darker than whatever lies in the waters of the cave. I deserve this, a voice inside him whispers amid the other thousands of thoughts circling his head. I deserve to die, he tells himself even as his body continues to fight.
His vision is completely clouded and his muscles strain with the pressure of the water. His skin feels like it's on fire even though he is aware of how cold he must be. His lungs continue to drink the water of the lake as they freeze over but everything inside him burns. I deserve to die. He continues to tell himself but something inside him wants to scream out in protest.
No.
No.
I don’t want to die.
Regulus feels a hand grip his waist, then at his leg, then at his arm and lastly nails are clawing at his neck. I deserve this. Regulus’ heart shatters as the last bit of hope leaves him with the force of the hands all over pulling him further down. Sinking him completely.
I deserve this.
He thinks he must touch the bottom of the lake right before his clouded vision turns completely dark—right before his mind has the capacity for one last thought.
I deserve to die—There is suddenly a blinding light and Regulus barely acknowledges it before he feels a shock of electricity throughout his body. He screams, drinking more water in the process but for some reason, the water doesn’t make it to his lungs. For some reason, the water starts to disappear. I don’t want to die, please, no, nonono, I deserve this, I—
Regulus doesn’t know what happens afterwards, he doesn’t know the when or what or who but he does know that his mind stays active throughout his unconsciousness. He knows that he doesn’t stop telling himself what he deserves even after he makes it out alive.
-o-
The locket sits by his bedside table where Regulus spends every waking moment watching it. He has tried everything he can to destroy it. He has searched for every possible answer and yet the locket sits firm on the table without a single scratch.
It belonged to Salazar Slytherin but Regulus doubts it was this hideous back when it was under his possession. The Dark Lord has done the unspeakable to it. He has tampered with dark magic and created an abomination. It’s disturbing and nauseating. It leaves Regulus often staring at his arm trying to understand how he ever came to stand behind such a man.
When he is not caught up in his failures and regrets, Regulus watches the locket from the corner of his eyes while books and papers lay scattered around him.
On the first few days since waking Regulus had spent his time carefully reading what he could on anything linking to the magic placed on the locket. After hours and hours of organized research, Regulus’ reached a breaking point and began to frantically devour any form of information in anything but order.
The word Horcrux circled his head like a damned mantra and it weighed on his soul like a curse. He spend day after day hoping for some sort of hint, some sort of answer to the questions plaguing his head but he couldn’t find anything. For months, he found nothing. Not at Grimmauld, not at the department of Mysteries, not at any forsaken place that held a book with a possible connection to Horcruxes.
And now, almost two years later, as he visits another hidden library in another country, far away from the Dark Lord, Regulus is sure he will go mad if he gets nothing more than theories on Basilisk venom and Fiendfyre.
Or maybe he has already gone mad. It’s a plausible probability if the way the owner of this library looked at him upon his arrival is anything to go by. Regulus hasn’t faced a mirror in quite some time but he has always been aware of how he appears and how others perceive him.
He must look outright insane. He hasn’t cared for his hair in years and it sits longer than it ever has, past his shoulders. He has never been one with a big physique but his body which was once firm and lean is nothing but thin and weak. The scars all over his skin have not healed because he has not cared to heal them and the crazed look of his gaze stays firmly in place because it’s a reflection of what he feels.
Knowing that he can help put an end to the terrors that the Dark Lord has brought; knowing that he could kill him; knowing his secret and yet being able to do absolutely nothing: Regulus is easily crumbling under the guilt.
But he won’t stop. He can’t. Not until he does something worthy of his life.
It’s been almost two years since he has survived when he clearly didn’t deserve to and Regulus has yet to come to terms with it. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know why. It doesn’t help that in one moment he was drowning while in the next he was waking up in Grimmauld Place, weeks after his trip to the cave, with a Horcrux in his hand and a hundred scars all over his body.
Too many questions, Regulus has, and yet no answers. No hope for any answers. And come night, no need for them.
Come night, the unexpected happens—the impossible—though Regulus doesn’t learn about it until three days later when the witch housing him a few blocks away from the library he frequents offers him The Daily Prophet.
Regulus’ first reaction upon reading the headline is coated with denial. He doesn’t believe a single word because he knows, factually, that the Dark Lord can’t be killed because he has made himself immortal.
But Regulus has always been smart, he has always craved knowledge more than anything and in the pursuit of it, he has learned to break apart information, to extract facts and to allow himself room to theorize and to doubt what he believes to be true. Because of this, Regulus accepts the headline and momentarily feels something light within himself resembling a peace he hasn’t felt since he was just a child, looking at Hogwarts for the first time, looking at what would be his second home for the next few years. His escape.
But that light is short-lived. Very shortly lived because the next few pages of the newspaper tear Regulus apart, breaking him in ways the Inferi never could; in the way his mother wished she had; in the ways he probably has deserved since taking that cursed mark on his arm.
Yes, Voldemort is dead, but at what cost?
Sirius. Regulus' heart breaks with every word he reads. Sirius, no. His heart shatters bit by bit while his throat is clogged with the desire to scream in denial. Sirius, not you. Not you. Regulus sobs and crumbles alongside the newspaper in his hands. Not you, not you. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. He falls to his knees and feels the same creeping feeling of hands all around him, scratching and pulling.
“Sirius.” Regulus' voice comes out with a tremble as his body continues to shake at the reality of what he is reading. It’s not real, he tells himself over and over again. They are lying. It wasn’t him. There has been a mistake.
All of those thoughts circle his head but acceptance slowly starts to creep within him, against his will, against every inch of himself. Because Regulus loves very little, very few, almost nothing. Except Sirius. He loves Sirius. His brother. The light of the family. A man who is a million times better than any, with goodness beyond anything Regulus could comprehend.
So why did he do it? Why did he betray them? Why did he become a murderer?
And oh.
Regulus chokes.
The Potters. Dead. James Potter. Lily Potter. And—
Oh.
-o-
He watches Barty’s trial.
The courtroom is a mess. Shouting and screaming and tears and anger— it’s all there, raw and fresh as people struggle to move on from the war. Not that Regulus blames them, not that he expects them to. It’s barely been a few months, all of the magical world is still in shambles. There is chaos everywhere and too much hatred and too little hope.
The room is filled with light wizards but Regulus hardly feels that reflected in the atmosphere. Truthfully, he feels nothing. Though perhaps it’s because he can’t seem to find anything in Barty’s eyes. There are no emotions, no feelings, and no hidden words for Regulus to decipher. They are just blank orbs, staring into space until he is being addressed. Then his eyes shift and Regulus catches a hint of the anger Barty used to carry around the first few years of school before it vanishes and indescribable agony takes its place.
Barty denies all accusations. He claims to have not committed any crimes. He claims his innocence and pleas his father to reconsider. Crouch Sr. doesn’t even flinch when he sentences him to Azkaban. He doesn’t flinch when the entire room breaks out in protest. He doesn’t flinch when he is called a monster.
Regulus hates him, more than ever. He grips his knees with so much strength to prevent himself from reacting. To prevent himself from cursing him and then spewing every word he had reserved for him since the moment Regulus learned his name.
Barty cries but says nothing. He says nothing as they drag him away. He says nothing but his eyes are screaming with grief. Betrayal. Pain. Hurt. He is alone, truly alone. Everything before may have been an act, but Barty’s emotions as he is escorted out of the room are anything but.
He is suddenly hit with a wave of guilt and Regulus comes to realize he won’t live a day without blaming himself for Barty.
-o-
When Regulus first considers seeking help, Remus Lupin is the man he thinks to find.
They studied together at Hogwarts. Not quite friends but classmates: fellow students. Remus Lupin could have been a lot more in a life without the war, he knows his brother would have made sure of that. But his brother is a traitor and Remus Lupin is mourning three best friends and Merlin knows how many others so he can’t trust him with this.
Which unfortunately leaves him with Dumbledore.
Dumbledore who raised his wand the moment Regulus appeared before him. Dumbledore whose gaze was split with surprise and anger. Dumbledore who Regulus knew would have killed him had Regulus been holding his wand.
“Regulus Black.” He says. “I thought you dead.”
Regulus swallows, arms raised as he considers what to say. In those seconds of silence, Dumbledore has studied his shaking hands and withered body carefully.
“I need your help,” Regulus says, hating every word. He hates the man in front of him. Hates that he was trusted by so many and now all those people are dead. Hates that though he seems surprised, and though his first words were about his death, he probably knew he was very much alive. He hates how he doesn’t appear all that surprised to see him. He hates that Regulus will explain what he knows, and demand help and Dumbledore will twist everything to make Regulus another one of his pawns.
“Why?” Dumbledore asks, followed by another question, and then another, and another. Regulus doesn’t care to hear any of them. He won’t let Dumbledore lead this conversation.
Because Regulus has something he doesn’t. Of that, he is sure. “Horcruxes,” Regulus says simply, watching the face of his former Headmaster shift to something daunting. “The Dark Lord has made Horcruxes.”
“More than one?” The question doesn’t come out with the same tone as before. It seems somewhat weak and trying. Regulus finds it fitting. He too felt completely defeated when he came to that conclusion.He felt the weight of the entire magical world over his shoulders while his soul shattered with the knowledge of what had been done. How could someone do this to themselves?
“We have much to discuss,” Dumbledore tells him, lowering his wand.
Regulus doesn’t feel any safer but he needs his help. He is the only one that could help. He has thought about it for a while now, before the defeat of the Dark Lord. Dumbledore is powerful and capable of things no other wizard can even dream of thinking. If anyone could help him destroy a Horcrux, it would be him.
So he follows Dumbledore. He lets him take them somewhere Regulus feels more powerless. He answers all of his questions. He is honest in what he knows. He tells him everything from the moment he chose to betray the Dark Lord.
And then he lies.
“The locket is in the cave,” Regulus tells him. “When we find a way to destroy it, we can go collect it.”
Dumbledore doesn’t say anything to that. He doesn’t question Regulus on why he hasn’t gone for it yet. He doesn’t even acknowledge the decision as a good idea. For a moment, Regulus considers that maybe he doesn’t believe him. But if he doesn’t, he doesn’t say.
Dumbledore has very little to say about anything Regulus says, but he has enough questions that leave Regulus hating the sound of his voice more and more each second. “You are a Death Eater.” He brings up at one point. “You will face a trial.”
“I will not.” Regulus rebukes. “Because I am dead.”
“You are asking too much of me, boy.”
“I am giving you everything you need to kill him.”
“Voldemort is dead.”
“For now!” Regulus grits his teeth. “Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Dumbledore bows his head as a form of acknowledgment and then sighs before giving Regulus a pitying look. “I cannot allow a Death Eater to walk freely without a trail.” He says. “Do you not trust that I can keep you from a grave sentence?”
Regulus clenches his fists and holds his breath long enough to keep any explosive reaction in check. He feels his hands shake and his heart hammers against his chest. He feels his hatred swimming freely throughout every drop of blood in his veins.
“I will be trialled,” Regulus says, “after he is dead. After we have found all the Horcruxes and have destroyed them.” He breathes out. “Then I will accept a sentence deserving of a Death Eater.”
Regulus hates the looks Dumbledore gives him above anything else he hates about that man.
“Very well,” Dumbledore says. “You will stay dead until Voldemort is truly defeated.”
-o-
Regulus visits the Rosier residency on his twenty-third birthday.
It’s an empty manor, secluded from sunlight due to the tall trees surrounding it. No one lives here, Regulus knows, but there is an elf that seems to linger around the area, keeping the place clean.
Regulus has only been here once before. On his birthday, eight years ago. The place looked so different. It had so much life, so much light even amongst the gloomy-dressed extended family of one Evan Rosier.
“Why are they always dressed like the dead? It’s not even fashionable.”
“It’s plenty fashionable.” Regulus remembers saying, “it’s noble.”
“You’re such a pureblood.”
“Says the pureblood.”
“But you’re more of a pureblood. You’re the most noble and ancient-“
“Evan.” Regulus had cut him off. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” Evan had laughed. “Barty is the funny one. What a twat for missing your birthday.”
Barty ended up showing up later that night, barely gripping his mum’s hand as he looked around in excitement. When he spotted them, Barty tried to bolt over but his mum wouldn’t let him. Instead, they walked calmly, ignoring the few looks they got from the other guests in the house.
“Why’d you invite all these old people to your party?”
Those had been his first words once he was close enough to talk to them. Evan had laughed and Regulus had shaken his head exasperated. Evan’s mum came then, joining them to greet Barty’s mum and drag her away. Evan then grabbed both Regulus and Barty’s hands and took them somewhere away from the crowd.
He took them to the room Regulus is now standing in, eight years later. Though instead of there being a fireplace warming the area and a charmed violin playing a soft tune, there is an empty room and nothing to bring back any of the warmth Regulus felt that day.
“My family is celebrating my cousin’s engagement.”
“But it’s Reg’s birthday.”
“That’s clearly irrelevant.”
“Reg!” Barty and Evan had chastised.
“This is clearly the most important day of the year!”
Barty had nodded along to Evan’s words, a grin plastered on his face. “You are, after all, the most noble and ancient-“
“Merlin.” Regulus had interrupted with a snort. “I’m just fifteen.”
“I’m twenty-three,” Regulus tells the empty room while pushing his memories away, “and I know now that you died for a half-blood.” He chokes. “You died for a lunatic who tarnished his soul.”
Regulus falls to his knees, and as he shakes, he places the ring he carries on the floor in front of him. “I’ll kill him, Evan.” He says, eyes glaring at the Gaunt Heirloom. “For you. I’ll kill him.”
-o-
Regulus learns about his mother's death after finding the Hufflepuff cup. Dumbledore tells him about it, taking the cup from Regulus’ hands while he stands frozen at the news.
“You are now the head of the House of Black.” Regulus grits his teeth and watches as Dumbledore secures the cup in a box before making disappear into his bookshelf. “You have inherited the Black fortune, as Walburga’s will states.”
“I don’t want it.”
It matters not, what Regulus wants. He knows that. But for some reason, he felt the need to inform Dumbledore. The headmaster simply nods and says nothing else on the matter.
The room goes silent. Regulus is busy trying to process the information he just received while Dumbledore just watches him, calmly waiting for Regulus to say something.
Regulus doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t even know what he is truly thinking. Is he happy? Upset? Relieved? Surprised? Mourning? Walburga was the woman who gave birth to him and raised him. She was not a loving mother or a caring parent but,
But she apparently had cried when she learned of his death.
What is Regulus supposed to do with that?
“Regulus,” Dumbledore calls, interrupting his thoughts. “I have a request.”
Regulus squares his shoulders and stands straighter than before. His eyes focus on Dumbledore’s aging face void of emotions. “A request?” He asks. “A favour?”
“Yes. You could call it that.” Dumbledore replies, unbothered by Regulus’ tone.
He is up to something. Regulus thinks, but his current emotional state leaves no room for him to figure out what. Meaning Regulus can’t prepare for whatever manipulative move Dumbledore is about to throw at him.
“What is it?” Regulus asks incapable of taking another second of the suffocating silence.
Dumbledore pulls out his wand and with a flicker, he calls forward a piece of paper from somewhere in his bookshelf. The paper floats in front of Dumbledore for a moment before it moves toward Regulus. Regulus blinks as it comes to hover right over his head before it slowly falls to his awaiting hand.
“What is this?”
“An address,” Dumbledore says, “I wish you to visit.”
“A lead?” Regulus asks, studying the folded piece of paper. “Another Heirloom?”
Dumbledore shakes his head and smiles. “I suggest going in the afternoon. Right before the sun sets.”
Regulus frowns and bites back his retort. He nods his head and meets Dumbledore’s eyes one more time, hoping the Headmaster can read how much this little request is going to cost him. They aren’t friends, even though it's been years since they’ve formed some sort of alliance.
Regulus has learned to work with him, to tolerate him. He has learned that his aloof personality and his annoying way of never elaborating, of never explaining himself is something he has to work around. Dumbledore doesn’t make things easy. Another thing Regulus hates about him.
This request, this favour, is going to cost him.
Regulus looks down at the paper in his hand and unfolds it. He glances over the address written. Muggle England, he gathers and thinks nothing of it.
Tomorrow, before the sun sets. Privet Drive.