Chapter Text
Regulus Black had died. He knew he had.
The night he’d traveled to the cave, the waters were raging. He should have taken the warning, the echo of danger in the back of his head urging him away. And yet, he steered forward, boat rocking against the waves, threatening to send him over.
Regulus was a good swimmer. He kept his eyes forward, unrelenting.
Kreacher was blabbering desperately, pleading to go back despite Regulus promising no pain or punishment to befall him. He had told the house elf to return if he wished, remembering how when the dark lord had brought him back from this mission, he’d been seconds from death. Regulus’ last true family member, so close to death. It was a strange reason for him to be pushed over the edge, and yet, here he was.
But Kreacher held fast, refusing to leave until his young master did as well.
So, they reached the rocky shore, clinging to the edge as they inched along it. Kreacher was still weak, and Regulus refused to have him use magic to get them inside. Instead, he relinquished the whipping wind threatening to push him into the black depths of sloshing water inching towards his feet.
He’d been so sure he was prepared for his fate, but as he ordered his house elf to continue feeding him the thick liquid, and the poison took over his mind, he begged and pleaded for mercy.
His thoughts and words were incoherent, and yet when they reached the bottom of the cauldron, he still grabbed the necklace and shoved it into Kreacher's hands before crawling to the edge of the water, the echos of his house elf pleading and tugging on him in the back of his mind. He muttered about seeing his brother beneath the waves, beckoning him in. He grasped his hand for a final time.
He remembered filling his lungs with water in a way that had him realizing perhaps he wasn’t truly ready to meet this fate after all. That sent him back into the panic of his childhood, of flailing and kicking as if he could escape.
Even back then, he hadn’t been able to get away.
He grasped desperately for the surface as hands of others yanked at his clothes, at his skin, tearing at the robes; tearing at him.
He remembered how his memories had pathetically flashed through his head in his final moments. His brother. His friends. His love. Stolen kisses and hidden laughter.
He remembered how his lungs burned, forcing his mouth open in a last ditch effort of a gasp for air. He remembered water filling his lungs, weighing him down deeper into the water. He remembered his body relaxing as he allowed the hands to drag him down, down, down into the depths of the darkness he used to relinquish staying within.
He was a good swimmer, yet the waves of the water were unrelenting.
Regulus Black had died.
And then he crawled out of the depths of hell, clawing onto the surface, coughing and heaving and sobbing in a way he hadn’t since he was a child.
He dragged himself further up, away from the desperate clawing of hands at his ankles, soaked with thick water and blood. His clothes were tattered and torn and his lungs burning as he shuddered in breaths, chest wracking.
He forced himself up, stumbling, body burning and begging for him to lay down and rest as he forced himself forward, supporting himself on the caves jagged wall.
“Kreacher,” he calls out, voice higher and lilting in a way he hadn’t heard since he was young. His house elf doesn’t answer, gone. Had he been under the water for long? Had Kreacher done as he asked, took the necklace to destroy? Did he believe him dead?
Too many thoughts, too many feelings, his mind couldn’t keep up. He dragged his body further, and is grateful to see his boat still there, if nothing else. It is in ruins, perhaps from the storm- which seems to be long since over, the waters no longer raging as though hungry for his blood. A pat down assures him his wand is still safe and sound within his tattered pockets, hidden beneath the layers, and a quick wave of it has the ruined wood restored. He pushes it off, tripping inside, laying on his stomach for longer than needed before he pushes up and sets off.
…
It takes Regulus a long time of thinking before he decides where he is going. He is a traitor now, to not only his family but the Dark Lord. Perhaps they wouldn’t know yet, but the dark lord was no idiot.
Well, perhaps he was. Trusting Regulus to be his closest man and confidant after all he’d done to him.
His biggest downfall had been his ego- how he believed no one could best him. It is what had him taking Regulus’ house elf with him on his mission, and returning with a half drowned, half dead Kreacher. It was what had him believing that the fury hidden beneath Regulus’ smile would not blossom, and be his downfall.
Oh, how Regulus would have let himself be dragged beneath those waters again to see the face of the one and only Voldemort when he realized what Regulus had done.
Okay, perhaps he would not go that far, but he would cut off his left pinky and gift it to the gods in exchange for such a view.
So, after as much careful consideration as a man bleeding from multiple gashes on his body- and maybe with a little brain trauma- could muster up, he walks up the steps of Black manor and opens the door.
The halls are quiet, the portraits covered. His brows furrow as he limps inside, tracking his blood and dirt and mud onto the carpet. He leaves it, instead of spelling it away, despite the fact it very much might get him caught and murdered. He's too tired to turn back, too skittish to stray from his path.
He heads to the stairs, trying to silence his breaths and pants of pain as he pulls himself up them. He hadn’t truly planned to survive this far, and now his plan was falling flat. What did he do now? Where would he go? Traitor to all, he did not have very many viable options. He could go to one of his friends' houses, beg them for help, but could he really put them at risk?
Not to mention, two out of four of his friends hated him, one had a dark mark and worked closely with Voldemort himself, and the last he could never even consider pulling her into this madness. Dorcas, he was sure would close the door in his face if she ever saw him again, (he remembers very vividly the look of disgust and pain on her face when he had revealed the black ink twisting along his forearm.) Barty had once been his closest friend, at one point more than even that, but every year he had grown a little more twisted, a little darker. Unlike Regulus, who had despaired in being forced to get the mark at the ripe age of sixteen and a half- Barty had all but jumped at the idea once Regulus had revealed he was now part of the death eaters to them. He was not far behind in Regulus to being close to the dark lord. So now, doubt twists in his gut at whether he could truly reveal himself to his oldest friend without the risk of being revealed to the rest along with him.
Guilt also twists in his gut as a little voice whispers in the back of his head, telling him if it wasn’t for him, Barty would never have been pulled into any of this to begin with.
Then there was Pandora.
Regulus knew, without a moment's hesitation, Pandora would help him. But he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t fathom sweet Dora ever being pulled into such danger. Couldn’t imagine leading another of his friends into their doom.
That left Evan. Strongwilled, durable Evan. He had been less than pleased when Regulus had revealed his mark to the group, had spit words of venom at him, but he knew if anyone was to understand the burden of being pureblooded and forced into positions less than desirable, it would be him.
The only difference was, Evan and Pandora had been brave enough to refuse.
Perhaps if Regulus showed up now, Evan would take pity on him. Would let him seek refuge in the home of an old friend.
Regulus scratches his nails up and down along his forearm, ignoring the burn and pain from the scratches deep in his skin from other nails. He didn’t dare steal a glance at the black ink twisting there, now on full display from his tattered robe. He hadn’t looked since he’d dragged himself from the waves.
A blood traitor with the darkmark forged along his arm. He would not be welcomed anywhere.
Who was he now?
So, Evan was at the top of his list of who he might, possibly, probably not pay a visit. If he had to, then he was sure Evan was the safest bet. He wouldn’t allow himself to get caught in any trouble.
A gasp sounds behind Regulus, and he whirls, almost knocking himself off his feet. Kreacher stands before him, a tray of dirty tea cups clattering from his hands and shattering along the ground.
“Master… Regulus…” Kreacher gasps out, large, blobbing tears trailing down his cheeks. Regulus shushes him in a hiss, grabbing the sobbing elf's wrist and dragging him into the room Regulus had been seconds from stepping into. His room is… a mess. Ravaged completely. The usual neat, perfect setting is in ruins, books strewn about and letters yanked from the dresser. It is all Regulus needs to see to know; they know.
He’d expected nothing less, yet fear slithers down his spine. How long had he been gone? How much time did he have to grab his things and go?
He remembers the blubbering elf behind him, and quickly turns to grasp his shoulders. The house elf wails, and Regulus clasps a hand over his mouth, silencing him with a soft groan.
“Kreacher, please,” he says, exasperated and in pain and- were the edges of his visions darkening? He shakes his head, catching his breath. “Kreacher, tell me, did you destroy it as I asked of you? Hurry, you silly elf, we do not have long,” his voice is not harsh, anything but so, and Kreacher sniffles, still staring at Regulus with those large, starry eyes, like he couldn’t believe he was standing there in the flesh. His eyes run over the cuts littering his body, at his robes left in tatters, and begins blubbering all over again.
“Oh, young Master Regulus. Kreacher waited so long for you to resurface, but he did not go in as you asked of him. Kreacher waited so, so long. And yet young Master Regulus did not come up,” he cries, and Regulus frowns.
“Kreacher, I am here now, so tell me, the necklace?” He whispers, and the elf sniffles again, rubbing his nose with his large ear.
“Kreacher tried very hard to destroy it, as you asked. But… it would not,” he goes to let out another wail, but Regulus is covering his mouth once more before he can. His mind circles on that- he should have known. Of course it would not have been destroyed so easily. It was a horcrux after all, containing pieces that would keep the dark lord alive. He would not have made it so easy to get rid of him.
“It is fine, Kreacher. Fetch me the necklace.”
Kreacher reaches beneath his tattered tunic, and pulls out the golden necklace. Regulus gapes, lips parted. Kreacher smiles watery as he says, “They did not think to look so close beneath their noses. I learned that from you, Master Regulus.”
Letting out an incredulous laugh, he takes the necklace, examining it. The energy that hums off it is dark, and he shudders. He fiddles among the sides for a moment, before opening it.
The note tumbles into his palm, paper folded neatly.
"To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more."
R.A.B
He lets out a soft laugh before placing it back in. So, did the dark lord not know of Regulus’ betrayal? He passes the necklace back into the palm of his elf for now, questions circling his mind he doesn’t dare voice in the moment. Not when he is so short of time.
“I must change, and pack my bag, and-” and then what? He didn't know, “and leave before they get back.”
“No! Master Regulus must sit and rest and heal! Kreacher will get a healing tonic! Master Regulus must sit down because Master Regulus looks seconds from keeling over!”
Lips twitching in amusement, Regulus stares down at his house elf before shaking his head. “I must go, Kreacher. You have been free for a long time now, yet you have remained here in loyalty, and so not to get me in trouble for doing such a thing. But… I dismiss you now. I am telling you to-”
“Kreacher is free, so Master Regulus can not tell Kreacher of anything. Kreacher will fetch medicine for Master Regulus,” and before he can argue further, there's a crack and Kreacher is gone.
…
Regulus stares down at his skin as it knits back together. He had bandaged his arms- without looking down at them to see the damage of his past choices or the new ones- but he can feel the skin beneath them mending as well. Soon, all that is left is thin, pink shimmering scars, standing out against his pale skin. Not as sickly as it had once been. Was it because of all the medicine Kreacher was all but force feeding down his throat?
Speaking of that, Kreacher shoves another vial under Regulus’ nose, this one a deep dark blue that twists into black under the dancing of the shadows. Regulus feels bile rise in his throat, and he finally turns his head away in refusal. “Kreacher, you have mended my bones, my skin, my head, my throat, my lungs, my temperature, and fed me almost every potion I’m sure even potion masters would not be willing to make. I am well,” He insists, exasperated, and Kreacher frowns as Regulus pushes up onto his elbows. It was true, after almost three hours of laying in bed and being nursed back to health on the brink of death, Regulus was feeling rather… peachy. He felt alive in a way he hadn’t since he was young; perhaps the aftermath of dying. You cannot get much more alive until after you experience death itself, no?
“I am more worried of when the residents of this house will return,” his parents, “and wish to make a swift exit before they do so.” He rubs at his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones.
“Master Regulus need not worry of his parents. They often disappear for meetings for days on end without return, and they only just departed yesterday.”
Regulus mulls on that for a moment, his elfs words circling through his mind. ‘Days on end.’
“Kreacher…” he murmurs, eyes drifting along the ruins of his room. How long had it remained in such a state? “How long was I there? Under the water? I mean… how long have I been… gone?” Dead. How long had he been dead, because he’s sure that's what he had been.
Kreacher wrings his ears nervously, swallowing thickly. Those tears from before bubble back to his large eyes, and he hics, ducking his head. “Master Regulus has long since been believed dead. Oh, how long I waited at those waters for young Master Regulus to resurface.”
Regulus’ brows furrow, and he exhales a shaky breath. “How long? A month? Four?”
Kreacher wails, clinging to Regulus in a hug, and Regulus tilts his head down at the elf, awkwardly patting his head in his most comforting motion.
“It has been two long years since Master Regulus disappeared beneath those waters.”
Two long years. Two long years. Two long years.
Regulus feels nauseous. He feels as though he is drowning beneath those waves once more, being dragged down. Two years? How was that even possible? His lips part and close as he tries to recollect his thoughts, as he tries to process this news.
Two years.
“Two years,” he repeats, and Kreacher nods in despair, bottom lip trembling. He hushes the elf softly before he bursts into sobs again, mind still reeling.
Okay. Okay. This was fine. This was fine. Perhaps this might even work in his favor.
Two years. Two years he has been away from his life. What of his friends- Dorcas, Evan, Barty, Dora? What of… Sirius?
James?
He shakes his head, pressing his palms to his temples as he sucks in a steady breath. This was fine. He could work with this. Two years of being gone.
“And… they believe me dead, then?” He murmurs, voice lacking any specific tone. Kreacher hesitates before nodding.
“Young master's parents believe him long dead. The dark lord was suspicious, but he would have been able to track you from…” he trails off, and Regulus clutches his arm with a curse. Could he still track him? Could he sense him, risen from the dead, even now? Fear twists into his gut, but he pushes it down. Now is not the time to panic. Now is not the time to freak out and get ahead of himself. One thought at a time. A step instead of a leap into a plan.
“So they believe I am dead. This will work for me. I am already dead, why would they suspect me of anything now?” He murmurs, and Kreacher swallows nervously again, tugging at his ears.
“There is another thing, Kreacher has yet to inform the young master since his return,” he says nervously.
Regulus freezes, nerves on end, every touch of particles sending electricity through his wound up veins.
“Yes, Kreacher?” He tries to keep his voice calm, lacking of any fear or anger.
“Young Master Regulus looks… young.”
He furrows a brow, lips pursing at the elf before him.
“Ah… right?”
Kreacher wrings his hands now, humming out a nervous breath. “Young Master Regulus looks… younger than the last time Kreacher has seen him.”
Regulus runs a hand down his face- feeling the fullness of it, the liveliness. Yet drought from true despair and agony he was so sure he’d faced his whole childhood. Over his eyes, not yet sunken from dread. He thinks back on every new strange feeling that wasn’t quite new, just… resurfaced.
He stands jerkily, stumbling over to his bathroom. He throws open the door, clinging to the sink as he stares deep into his reflection.
Young.
He was young.
Not so young, like a child- but he was. At eighteen, Regulus had grown spindly, thin, sickly. In such a short time from a youth he was still supposed to be in, he’d changed in not just mindset but appearance. He’d started chopping his curls shorter, stopped caring for the way his skin shined, stopped eating. He’d grown into a skeleton, someone who was already dead and yet continued to walk on dragging feet.
And yet… here he was, back to when he’d thought he had faced the full extent of the meaning of despair. With his curls that brushed just past his ears, round eyes and lips, and cheeks with a soft sharpness to his cheekbones. He’d always been skinny, but his collarbones did not protrude from his skin, and you could not count each of his ribs, and even his skin was less sickly pale and more of a shade of pretty fair.
He exhales, lips parting. He tilts his head, watching his reflection mimic.
Peculiar.
He glances down to his wrapped arm, and he does not give his trembling fingers permission to begin undoing the bandages.
…
The skin of his forearm was smooth, fair, and blank, beside from the new pink scars twisting along it.