It should have ended with the waves, the sea. That was how he had planned it. A home away from home, for all eternity. Purification, ascension, the end. He had had it all planned out. The perfect redemption story, even if no one would ever know of it but his irascible mother and Kreacher.
(And how it would annoy her. Hurt her. Both her sons swept up by revolutionary fervour and then lost to the wrong sides of the war. Such a failure. Such a disgrace. The beginning of the downfall of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
She would, of course, have been forced to weep at his funeral. Anything less and she would have found herself chastened by the gossip rags no less. The thought had amused him as he planned his escape – his salvation. How humbling for her, to be forced to weep for her son, for her youngest son, against her will. Despite his betrayal. How those tears would burn her later.)
He did not, however, count on the sentimentality of an old house elf.
The hands should have dragged him under and the waves should have engulfed him. Shades of death, the most beautiful colour, he had once called them.
Instead, two tiny hands grasped his leg and all the breath was sucked out of his body – cold clammy hands and her dress so beautiful – and then they were standing on the other side of that cave, looking out at the open sea.
(You shouldn’t have disobeyed me! The magic could have killed you!
Pardon, Master Regulus, but it is not magic which binds us to you. We have not been bound by magic for centuries now – not in the way our masters think, at least.
What – why – then why - why obey?
Because it is what we know.
Right.)
Well, not quite the open sea, but with even less appeal – Messrs Nott and Lestrange Sr, both eyeing him in a manner which could only be described as less than friendly.
“Kreacher leave,” he says and is thankful that this time, at least, the elf obeys.
They don’t need to know what he’s doing here.
“It’s funny,” he says conversationally, “That you’ll kill me now, instead of asking me what I know. Funny, because you’re slaves to those marks,” he gestures vaguely at them, “on your arms,” and then he smiles, “Though that’s not what you thought would happen at all, did you? If I were you, I’d let me go.”
Antinous Lestrange raises his wand and moves to kill him, but Nott is faster and stops him.
“Really, Regulus? Do you mean to tell me that if we murder you and throw your body into the sea, there is a package of letters full of incriminating evidence that will be sent to the Ministry?” Nott says, picking his words carefully, “When it is clear, lad, that you came here to die?”
Regulus laughs, “you’re good. No, see you’re going to let me go, because we both have the same interests and if you kill me now, you’ll never know what I could offer you in return.”
Nott and Lestrange exchange glances.
“Our allegiances lie with the Dark Lord,” Antinous says stiffly, “I fail to see how we share any interests.”
“I’ve been asking myself this question,” Regulus says, ignoring him, “Why would five, of the Sacred Twenty Eight no less, choose to follow a half-blood from nowhere?”
He notes the way Nott’s knuckles whiten.
“You thought I didn’t know? You thought I didn’t know, when they laid my father in his grave – and Abraxas Malfoy only a month before? Death under mysterious circumstances – unavoidable – my fucking arse,” he spits those last words, “You think I failed to notice the fact that at both dinners, Henry Mulciber sat on one side and Antonin Dolohov on the other, despite having been on your side – despite having heard? Mulciber, your clean-up man. You think I couldn’t put two and two together and so trace a pattern of sudden uncertainty and sudden doubts over the fate of a classmate they once knew, called Tom Marvolo Riddle?”
“You father –“
“Don’t,” says Regulus harshly, “give me excuses, or feed me more of your lies. I know the truth. Do you really believe he has the mark of greatness? His magical power? You and I both know that Dumbledore, even in his old age, could match him blow for blow. Parseltongue? We know that at any given time there are no less than forty or fifty wizards who can speak the language of serpents. His blood? Would you truly elevate the Gaunts above yourselves? Are you truly so unselfish? No,” and he grins, again, “You can lie to me all you like. But I know. Poor little Regulus. Poor little rich kid. Dutiful heir. Unseen, unheard, even right under your noses. There’s no greater power – of being invisible while visible. I’ve seen the way you five glance at each other, I’ve heard you whispering. So,” he spreads his hands out, “I know the answer to my own question. An unknown from nowhere, a Dark Lord to take the fall if anything should go wrong and power for you if it went right. But now, but now –“
Antinous Lestrange grabs Regulus and slams him against the wall of the cave, “insolence,” he hisses, his wand pressed to Regulus’ throat.
“Still keeping up your act?” Regulus mock-whispers, “See him?” his eyes flick to Charles Nott, “See his hesitation? He has secrets that even you, his lover, aren’t privy to,” he cranes his neck forward, “Wouldn’t you like to know, why he hesitates? Always writing letters, always silent, always cold and always stopping you from killing. Do you ever wonder? You do don't you - how many letters can one man write? Doesn’t it worry you sometimes?”
Antinous glances over his shoulder, where Nott is staring at nothing in particular, his hands twisting and playing with his robes.
“Don’t you doubt him too, sometimes?” Regulus whispers and then smiles when Antinous snarls, then flings him to the floor.
“Now what?”says Antinous, cold.
“Now,” says Regulus, getting to his feet and then dusting himself off, “I tell you about the little spanner in your fine plans. The horcrux – possibly, horcruxes – to be precise.”
He looks from Charles Nott, whose eyes have widened, to Antinous Lestrange who has gone pale. They didn’t know. They truly thought they had the better of him. Fools. Proud, proud fools.
“You let me go alive,” he continues, “And I tell you what I know and then disappear and we let my mother build a memorial to me. You let me go alive and yes, you should have kept the elf, because the elf knows I’m alive – and if I die now, he will deliver a letter to my mother, who in turn will take a trip to Gringotts and then, within a few days, the wizarding world will know everything,” he pauses and licks his lip, looking from one to the other, “Everything.”
“And you expect us to trust you?” Charles Nott’s voice is cold, ice-cold.
Regulus shrugs, “I told you. We both want the same things, you and I. A pure world. Power. Someone else to take the fall for us when we fail. To conveniently get rid of when finally, power is within our reach.”
Charles Nott lowers his wand. Antinous glares at him and Charles Nott takes him aside by the elbow, talking quietly into his ear.
Perhaps he will visit his own funeral and watch his mother’s humiliation; her forced tears and forced politeness at the sneers who are in the know – who will know that he died for some betrayal. Not that he lives, with a very different betrayal. It is almost worth losing his salvation, his purification: the thought that he will be able to attend his own funeral and watch his mother slowly begin her descent into brokenness.
Perhaps this kind of redemption is better. Tabula rasa. A new life to write from scratch, no strict and forbidding mothers to write it for him. A life without the weight of a name around his neck. Perhaps life is better than shades of death.
“Tell us,” says Charles Nott, interrupting his train of thought, “Tell us everything you know.”
(For the anon who wanted to hear about Regulus Black)