white light, white heat, white trash (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} xylodemon) wrote,@ 2005-07-19 23:50:00 |
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| Entry tags: | all fanfic, gen, hp fanfic |
FIC: The Fall of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Title: The Fall of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Character: Regulus Black
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Regulus comes to terms with his brother, his family, his Lord, and himself.
A/N: Spoilers for HBP. Kreacher's appearance is due to marksykins who put the (very good) idea in my head. Thanks to darkasphodel and happiestwhen for betas, encouragment and general hand-holding.
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i.
The air is crisp and clean, chilled just enough that Regulus' cheeks redden where they peek out from under his scarf, and his nose and ears feel numb. His breath fogs in front of his face, soft puffs that threaten the clear, January sky as they linger.
It stopped snowing just before the sun rose, and a thick blanket of white frosts the roofs, the trees, the ground. Hogwarts is picturesque, a dream, and inside it Sirius is out of place, a nightmare with dark hair and Muggle clothes and a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Regulus approaches Sirius cautiously, treating him like the wild animal he is, and when Sirius looks up his stomach knots, his insides colder than his skin in the brisk, winter wind.
"What?" Sirius demands, his face darkening. He hits his cigarette and passes it to Potter, waiting.
"May I talk to you?" Regulus asks.
"You already are, aren't you?" Sirius says. Potter offers him the cigarette, which he takes, lifting an eyebrow as he inhales.
"Alone."
The word hangs there, frozen in the January air, and just as the silence threatens to strangle them both, Potter glances at Sirius. They stare at each other wordlessly -- one second, two seconds, three seconds -- then Potter gives a nod Regulus almost missed for blinking and turns, eyeing Regulus with disdain as he passes.
"What?" Sirius demands, as soon as Potter is inside the castle.
"You didn't come home for Christmas," Regulus says quietly.
"Well spotted," Sirius says, gesturing grandly. "You'll be remembering your own name, next."
"Sirius."
"No, that's mine," Sirius snorts. "Yours is Regulus."
"Sirius, please."
"Please, what?" Sirius asks. He pulls another cigarette from his pocket, and lights it with the first. "I had a chance for a Christmas where no one slapped me, no one called me names, and no one sent me to bed without supper because I'm not of a mind to kill Muggles."
"She's never asked you to kill Muggles," Regulus says.
"Not directly, no," Sirius returns. He flicks the first cigarette away, and Regulus feels a quick flash of warmth as it whizzes past his ear.
"She's your mother."
"She's a shrieking, inbred hag."
"Blood traitor," Regulus snaps. It's automatic, almost involuntary, a mindless trained response.
Sirius' eyes narrow, dark and dangerous, but he smiles, a feral, twisted curve of his lips.
"Fourteen years in that house, and that's the best you can do?" Sirius taunts. "I would think with all the extra time she's had since I left, she could have taught you a new one. Child of filth, perhaps." He pauses, smoke trailing between his lips. "Shame of my flesh has a nice ring to it."
"Sirius, stop it."
"What, am I boring you?" Sirius asks. "Have you heard it all before?"
"I miss you," Regulus blurts, and it's true.
Silence spreads between them, heavy and thick, and Sirius watches him, studying him with eyes that burn and sear like the star he's named for. Regulus remembers when they still talked to each other, remembers when they had played together, remembers how when they were children, Regulus had thought Sirius was the most important person in the world.
"You had your chance," Sirius says quietly, pushing away from the wall he's been lounging against. "I asked you to come with me."
"I couldn't just leave, Sirius!"
"Why not? I did."
"She's my family."
Sirius pauses, his lips pursing, then nods.
"Yes, she is."
"She's your family, too," Regulus says.
"No," Sirius replies, shaking his head. He drops his cigarette and grinds it into the path with his toe. "James is my family."
"You deserve each other," Regulus snaps, angry and hurt. "He's as much a blood traitor as you are."
"If you like," Sirius says, "but he's worth a thousand of you."
ii.
His mother's eyes are icy and cold, and the look she gives him is as measured and calculated as the ticking of the grandfather clock behind her. He watches her silently, waiting to see if her pendulum will swing in his favour, but her face is smooth, a mask of pedigrees and bloodlines, her emotions veiled behind her perfect nose and brow -- the product of a Black marrying a Black.
Vindemiatrix Black refused offers from a Malfoy and two Lestranges before manipulating a proposal from her own first cousin. Julius Malfoy had attended the wedding, enraged that Vindemiatrix had turned him down for someone with less money. She'd told him that she'd not risk his dubious bloodlines for the comfort of a few more Galleons, declaring that her and Perseus' children would be the strongest, purest wizards the magical world had ever seen.
Afraid to blink, afraid to breathe, Regulus rolls up his sleeve.
The mark is black, sinuous, a poisonous combination of ink and spells that creeps across the soft flesh of his arm. The skin around the edges is red and raised, like Sirius' Muggle tattoo had been before it healed. His mother lifts a delicate hand, slim fingers hovering above the mark, but she stops just shy of touching it, pulling her hand away and folding it neatly with the other in her lap.
She studies it, meeting the stare of the skull's empty eyes, and the barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her flawless, crimson-stained mouth.
"Is this what you want?" she asks.
Regulus thinks of the half-blood girl, rigid with a Stunning Spell and frozen with shock and fear. He thinks of her wide, terrified eyes and the silent screams that had never made it past her lips, thinks of the bonds that had cut sharply into her skin and the blood that had wept sluggishly from her wrists.
He nods, because he doesn't trust himself to speak.
"Do you understand your responsibilities?" she asks.
Regulus thinks of the Muggle boy, blue-eyed and round-faced and scarcely older than Regulus himself. He thinks of the way he'd twitched and shook under Crucio, screaming until his voice had gone hoarse and cracked, thinks of the way he'd curled in on himself and cried for his mother before Regulus had cast the Killing Curse.
He nods again, because he has no words left.
"You are the heir to this house, and you are my only son."
Regulus doesn't reply, because he doesn't need to, because her words, while grave and important, have not changed a single thing. He's been the only son since Sirius left, and he became the heir the day Sirius was Sorted into the wrong House.
iii.
Smoke hangs in the air, heavy and thick, stinging Regulus' throat and eyes. The wall to his left has crumbled in on itself, admitting the night, the midnight sky painted red and orange by the fire burning on the roof.
He hears a scream -- a girl -- and laughter -- his Lord. There is a pause, the silence broken only by the crackle of flames and the snap of charred wood, then the familiar thud of a body dropping lifelessly to the floor.
Pain flares in his arm, a throbbing and burning centred around the mark, and he turns, because it's as much of as summons as his Lord calling his by name.
There's a body on the hallway floor, a Death Eater by its hood and cloak. It stirs as Regulus draws near, struggling to sit up, and Regulus pauses long enough to pull his wand.
"Avada Kedavra," Regulus says quietly, stepping over it at is slumps to the floor.
He's lost track of how many people he's killed in the last two years. He consoles himself with the knowledge that close to half have been from his own side.
Lord Voldemort is waiting in a bedroom at the rear of the house, five Death Eaters crumpled around him on the floor. A young man is at Lord Voldemort's feet, twitching as he strains against a Full-Body Bind, and as Lord Voldemort raises his wand, Regulus recognizes him as Fabian Prewett, whose last year at Hogwarts has been Regulus' first.
"Avada Kedavra Horcrutius."
Blinding green light erupts from Lord Voldemort's wand, but shifts before it hits Prewett's body, changing into a sickly, bloody red. Prewett stiffens, then stills, but the light lingers around him, glowing red and orange like his body's on fire, burning from the inside.
Something forms around Lord Voldemort, forms from inside Lord Voldemort, something heavy and grey like the smoke in the halls that shapes itself into a parody of a shadow. Regulus watches it, tranfixed and terrified, then with a muttered spell Lord Voldemort banishes it, trapping it inside a gold locket dangling from Bellatrix's fingers.
Lord Voldemort smiles, deadly and cruel, and Bellatrix laughs, a sound as sharp and cold as ice. The locket catches the light in Fabian Prewett's chest, red and gold, and Regulus thinks of Gryffindors.
iv.
The basin glows like Avada Kedavra in the centre of the cave, harsh emerald light stretching in vain to touch the ceiling. There is blackness, aside from the green glow and the light from Regulus' wand, and just where the shadows swallow the light a pale, withered hand breaks the water to claw uselessly at the rocks.
With a sharp Incendio the hand retreats, white fingers wiggling like ghostly worms before disappearing into the lake. He watches the ripples in the water slow, then stop. He's never feared the Inferi; he'd been present when Snape helped Lord Voldemort create them.
He dips the goblet into the basin, filling it to the brim. The crystal shines green as Regulus extends his arm, and Kreacher accepts the poison with the faith of a child.
"Drink," Regulus commands.
Kreacher is quick to obey, draining the goblet in one, long swallow. He drinks the second one just as readily, and it's not until Regulus hands him the third that he baulks, his snout-like nose wrinkling and his large eyes bulging and wet.
"Drink," Regulus commands again.
Kreacher hesitates, but obliges, watching Regulus over the rim of the goblet as he swallows, coughing and sputtering when he lowers it from his mouth. The fourth goes down as well, but Kreacher begins to weep halfway through the fifth, large tears rolling down his sallow cheeks, his hand shaking so violently the potion sloshes over the rim of the goblet.
Regulus rescues it before more than a spoonful hits the floor. He steadies Kreacher by the ear, and tips the rest of the potion down his throat.
The potion is both horrific and ingenious, a draught of Snape's own design. In small doses it makes a person feel guilty and paranoid beyond reason, and usually results in madness. In large amounts, it perfectly mimics the fear and mental anguish of a Dementor attack before eventually causing death.
Kreacher is screaming now, cowering on the floor with his face hidden behind his thin, spidery hands. Regulus lifts Kreacher from the floor, resting him on his hip like a small child, and pours the potion in his mouth, drowning out his litany of yes Mistress no Mistress Kreacher will never do it again Mistress.
Regulus' ears ring with Kreacher's wails, desperate, broken things that dissolve into gurgles and sputters with each goblet of potion forced down his throat. He wonders what Kreacher is thinking of, wonders what kind of horrors a House-elf would relive in his mind, but he doesn't stop, even when Kreacher begs, because he has no other choice.
The goblet scrapes the bottom of the basin with a harsh, caustic sound, and the last drops tipped into Kreacher's mouth silence his pleas for Regulus to kill him. Regulus lowers him to the floor, and locks him with a Full-Body Bind to keep him from crawling into the lake.
He hits Kreacher with a curse that causes vomiting until countered, hoping Kreacher can purge some of the potion from his system. Regulus knows that madness is inevitable, but Kreacher retches enough he may not die, and that will just have to be enough.
The Horcrux rests at the bottom of the basin, a thick, gold chain pooled around the locket itself. The ornate S etched on its surface glitters in the wandlight, and seems to move, seems to twist and writhe like a snake, threatening to bite Regulus if he reaches in to touch it.
The replacement in his pocket is smaller, lighter, and bears none of the proper markings. He'd braved Muggle London to purchase it, scouring shop after shop for a locket that best matched the one he remembered, paying with Obliviate because he'd not dared to tangle with the money.
It's an imperfect replacement, but it will suffice, because it won't be noticed until it's too late. Lord Voldemort's arrogance is enough that he wouldn't think to check on something he believes is well and cleverly defended.
The Horcrux is even heavier than it looks, a solid weight resting in the palm of Regulus' hand. The replacement hits the bottom of the basin with a thin, metallic sound and the Inferi stir, the water rippling loudly as a several white, wrinkled hands slither up the bank.
The hands are followed by arms and shoulders, then heads, hairless and round, and it takes several rounds of Incendio to coax them back into the lake. At his feet, Kreacher whimpers, convulsing as his empty stomach attempts to heave. Regulus releases him, adding an Evanesco to banish the sick, and hauls Kreacher to his feet.
An Obliviate erases the accusation from Kreacher's eyes, but once his memory settles they remain glassy, unfocused. Regulus had known Kreacher's sanity would be too much to hope for, but he decides, all things considered, it is the least of his crimes.
v.
It's well past the middle of the night, and Grimmauld Place is dark. Moonlight slips through the cracks in the heavy drapes, meeting with the fire Regulus has lit to create shadows that dance across the sitting room floor.
Upstairs, Vindemiatrix Black sleeps, and Regulus fancies she's dreaming of her favourite son rising to a place of power inside Lord Voldemort's ranks.
He knows she's never imagined that he would defy her, that he could dishonour himself and his family in a way that pales in comparison to Sirius being Sorted in Gryffindor.
Regulus opens one of the glass cabinets lining the walls and places the locket on one of the dusty shelves, between his mother's pincers and Uncle Sargas' silver snuffbox. It looks out of place as the gold catches the firelight, glittering yellow and orange through the surrounding shine of silver.
He weaves a spell around, hiding it, shrouding it from unsuspecting eyes. The spell requires a keeper of sorts, someone who can locate the object underneath the enchantments, and after a moment of deliberation he chooses Sirius, the one person he knows will probably never set foot in Grimmauld Place again.
The Horcrux shimmers and fades. Regulus reaches out to touch it, and his fingers brush nothing but ancient, dusty wood.
His stomach knots, ice settling cold and heavy in his gut. He's not afraid of Lord Voldemort, but of himself, of the way secrets have a habit of spilling under Veritaserum and Imperius and Crucio.
The belladonna and asphodel swirl together into something bitter and sour, but it tastes like freedom on Regulus' tongue. A sickly heat spreads through Regulus' chest, but it doesn't chase away the chill that came the day he lost his brother's love.
