A/N: For the wonderful Annabelle, yourstrulyrab, the person I have been Secret Santa to for the month of December. Here's a little treat for you!
(The quote, "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here," is from William Shakespeare's The Tempest.)
His breathing was sharp, the air dragging harshly in his lungs, though the night air was warm and heavy with the scent on oncoming rain. In a fist tightly clasped by his side was an octagonal locket, its sides digging into the pink flesh of the fingers that curled around it. The edge of cliff stretched out before him, yawning black and devouring all light save the occasional sweep of the lighthouse’s beam every so often. There was no moon.
Regulus Arcturus Black, the calm, quiet, self-possessed heir to his family’s fortune, was afraid. His heart pounded with the knowledge of what he was about to do, and Regulus searched his soul for some shred of courage – something his brother had. He’d always envied Sirius, envied how he was a hero, envied how he always did what was right. Sirius did what he must, and now so did Regulus. This is for you, my brother.
They disappeared suddenly, vanished as if with some cosmic sleight-of-hand, gone as suddenly as they were there. Anyone watching them would think it a trick of the light, that they were never there, but it was all a simple matter of relocation.
Regulus stumbled upon the landing, clutching an outcropping of rock to steady himself, scraping his palm in the process. A cave, that he would not know he was in if not for the dank air and the fact that the stars above were blocked out. The sea outside crashed against the rocks, a thin layer of saltwater that coated the floor.
The rock he leaned against flared white and became an archway, sending Regulus reeling back. “Young Master,” Kreacher began, but Regulus shook his head. This is for you, my brother.
“We go onward,” the Black heir said, and Kreacher had no choice but to obey, stepping forward first through the entrance. Within, a faint green glow shone from the center of a vast seemingly lightless expanse, which Regulus recognized to be water by the shimmering reflections. “It’s there,” he breathed, the fear at knowing his oncoming death making it difficult to speak above a whisper. “Kreacher, can you take me to the island there, in the center of the lake?”
The house-elf watched his master with worried eyes before snapping his fingers and disappearing, a pop echoing around the cavern. In a heartbeat he had returned to Regulus’ side. “Master, there are many enchantments lying around the isle, and I would not know if I could transport a wizard – ”
“Can you or can’t you?” Regulus demanded, his fear causing sharp words to spill from his mouth. This is for you, my brother.
Kreacher cowered. “I can, Master, but – ”
“Take me,” Regulus ordered, stretching a thin, long-fingered hand down to be clasped in the elf’s. “I must do this; you know that.”
Tentatively, Kreacher took his master’s hand and snapped once more. Upon landing, Regulus fell to his knees, his legs giving out from fear. “Reg – ” Kreacher begins, worry overcoming his wrinkled features, before he stops himself as Regulus struggles to his feet.
“The goblet, Kreacher?” Regulus’s voice was slightly hoarse. This is for you, my brother. Without looking at the elf, he took the goblet and approached the cauldron on unsteady feet, eying it carefully. “I was right,” the boy – for, though he was of age, he was no more sure of himself than one – murmured to himself. “It must be drunk.”
“Master Regulus?” Kreacher, at his master’s behavior, frowned.
Regulus spun slowly to face him. “You remember what you must do, Kreacher,” he said in clipped tones. “You must take the locket within the cauldron and replace it with this one; then you must leave me. Ensure I drink the entirety of the potion, Kreacher.”
The house-elf looked as if he wanted to disobey, but could not, opening his mouth to speak and then closing it. With a jerky nod, Kreacher complied.
Regulus took a deep breath, his nerves tingling and his heart pounding. The adrenaline in his veins screamed for him to flee, to leave, but he knew with every fiber of his being that he could not. Whatever mistakes he made in his life, they would be no more. He knew that at the end of his road lay death, and though he was afraid, there was nothing he could do but try to fix who he had been. His hands shook, but he calmed them. The question of whether he would be damned or not for who he was did not bother him. Hell is empty and all the devils are here, Regulus told himself, closing his eyes for a moment and then reopening them. My duty now is to play the saint as Sirius is, to become the martyr as I hope he will never have to be. This is for you, my brother.
So it was with a potioneer’s precise that Regulus dipped the goblet into Voldemort’s potion, with a calm face that raised it in a mocking toast to the man who started the war. It was with a slight smile that he let the solution pass his lips and succumbed to madness. This is for you, my brother.
