Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Status: Incomplete

A/N: This is non-canon compliant! Be aware, be warned.

Regulus went at night.

That was the only time he could get away from the house unseen and unheard. Mother had left for the evening, off to visit their cousins, Druella and Cygnus to plan for the coming months of war, and Father had left earlier that evening to dine with Lord Malfoy.

He had waited until after dinner, a roast of thick, creamy mashed potatoes, rashers and steak, his heart racing in his throat. He was sure that he'd adjusted his robes a hundred times around his neck, the stifling tie loosening until it was a messy knot at his collarbones. The silk fabric itched, and he wanted to tear it off himself, to light it on fire if it would get rid of the tantalizing prickling sensation under his skin.

After dinner, he'd retired to his chambers, and torn off his tie. He waited until he heard the crackle of the floo, and the groan of the old firepit to get dressed. He tugged on a green sweater, and kept his Hogwarts uniform on underneath, the white of the collar peeking out from beneath the jumper's hem.

His hands were shaking as he clutched the locket. The cool metal bit into his fingers, and he wondered for the thousandth time if he was doing the right thing. His heart beat quickly in his chest, and he felt a pinch of panic at the back of his throat, tongue tasting bitter in his dry mouth.

"I am doing the right thing." Regulus whispered to the empty air. "He hurt Kreacher. I am—I'm doing the right thing."

Somehow, the words made it seem all the more real, all the more concrete. The fear was whirling in his stomach now, echoing under his skin like spasms, and he wanted nothing more than to recede into himself, to take out an advanced Potions book and immerse himself in knowledge, but he knew he couldn't.

The Dark Lord had hurt Kreacher, for fun, with no consideration for his pain or agony, and Regulus couldn't stand behind a man who treated his lesser like little more than pests.

His words seemed so far away now, the promise of power seemed bleak and poisonous, and Regulus was afraid. He was so very, very afraid; because Mother and Father were throwing themselves head first into a future that Regulus was terrified of. His friends—no, no; allies, not friends—Mulciber, Avery and Yaxley were all revving to go, their anger and loathing frothing under the surface, and he knew they all yearned to tear into the Blood-traitors, Mudbloods and filthy, disgusting Muggles like the Dark Lord had promised them.

He had pretended, for years that the ugly little flower of uncertainty hadn't been blooming in his mind, quiet and undisturbed. His housemates were bloodthirsty for change, waiting for the day that they could take over power. The day that they could be proud of being Slytherin, of using the Dark Arts; of being curious of all aspects of magic without being labeled as bad, undeserving, untrustworthy.

Regulus himself had yearned for a day where his Mother would finally be proud of him; for following the pureblood traditions, for making all the right choices…for being her son.

After Sirius…had left….Walburga Black had never really been quite the same. Regulus knew, in the depths of his heart, that it had been Sirius who had been the favored son, despite his Mother's cruel words the last time they had seen his brother. He had been eager, desperate even, to show that he could be the one to make up for the stain that Sirius had left on their household, on the Black legacy, and he had thrown himself into the snake pit with vigor and rigorous excitement.

It had all come to a startling, lurching stop the day that Kreacher had come back, trembling, half-soaked and croaking of a fate worse than death. He remembered that day with perfect accuracy; the horror that had dawned over him, the terrifying realization of just what the Dark Lord had done, and the disgust that welled within him.

Horcrux.

The word had inspired bottomless fear, and Regulus had gone to bed after tending to Kreacher, terrified of what he could do to stop this horrifying, desperate, disgusting man who would split his soul to achieve his goals.

It was the soft creak of the door that pulled him from his whirling thoughts, and Regulus spun around to find that Kreacher was addling up to him, beady eyes narrowed in worry. He wanted to let out a sigh of relief at the sight, but he didn't dare breathe, for fear of letting out a sob.

Be brave, he thought. Be brave like Sirius would be.

"Master Regulus is sure?" Kreacher said, no louder than a whisper.

Regulus leaned over his desk, fingers racing across the wood, tracing the grooves his quill had left behind. His eyes were riveted on the frames; Slytherin paraphernalia, Quidditch teams, a picture of Slughorn's Slug Club everyone looking out with somber faces. His mouth thinned to a line when he spotted the edge of a picture sliding out from behind a snake mascot.

His fingers trembled as he edged it out of the hiding slot. A five and seven year old Sirius and Regulus stood at the steps of an ancestral home, both beaming brightly. Sirius waved, a laugh escaping him as five year old Regulus slammed into him, arms wrapping around his waist.

"Yes." Regulus said sternly. He slipped the picture into his trouser pocket and turned to face his house elf. "I am ready."

Kreacher looked impossibly terrified then, his eyes going wide in fear, his lower lip trembling. His hands came up to tug at the large, bat-like ears and he muttered something to himself, a garble of words that sounded a little like, "Master is sure, 'tis not Kreacher's place."

Regulus watched him for a moment, cold, bitter fear tasting like pennies across his tongue and wondered how he was going to make this happen. He thought of everything that could go wrong. Thought of how the Dark Lord would torture him to death if he found out. Thought of Bellatrix's feverish, crazed eyes and how she would relish in tearing him apart for daring to disobey their Lord. Thought of his Mother who would be so disappointed…

And then he thought of Kreacher, of Sirius and his friends, who would die in a bloody war if he did not try to stop the madman at the helm of this frenzied revolution. He thought of all the people that would suffer, and how Slytherin wouldn't be the saviors but the evil ones and he set his jaw, determined.

Be brave, he reminded himself once more, be brave like Sirius.

"Let's go, Kreacher." Regulus said, and his elf snapped his fingers, his coat materializing out of thin air. He put it on, tugging the collar tight and wrapping a warm knitted green scarf around his neck.

They stumbled down the stairs, and Regulus looked around the dark home once more. He took in the moving portraits, the heavy lace curtains, and closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of home one last time.

Then, he swept out of the front door, stepping onto the Muggle street for the first time in ten years. It hadn't changed much; the street lamps were on, bathing the pavement with dim, yellow light. The houses were still disgustingly muggle and he could hear the static of their machines in their homes, blaring out into the silent night.

It was bitingly cold outside, the wind dragging across his cheeks like sharp knives, and he dragged the scarf closer to himself. He sucked in a breath, and then turned to Kreacher who was tugging at his ears in worry.

"Kreacher, if you will?" He asked politely.

"Of course, Master Regulus." Kreacher answered, taking his hand. The elf's skin was leathery, and his clawed hand almost surprisingly brittle. It wasn't warm. Nor was it cold. "Kreacher is taking Master Regulus to the Cave, just like Kreacher promised."

With a snap of his fingers, and the feeling of disorientating dizziness, they disappeared with a sharp crack.

~.~

As the sun descended behind the buildings, a shock of white snowflakes fluttered down to the front steps of Grimmauld Place. Someone exclaimed in happiness, and children ran to the windows, joyful smiles hurting their cheeks as they pressed hands against frozen windowpanes.

What a happy day, they all thought. Christmas was coming.

~.~

They landed with a snap on a steep outcrop of rock, just as a wave broke against the cliff, spraying salty water across Regulus's face. He shivered as the cold, freezing wind blew through his coat, chilling him to the bones. The sea churned restlessly, roiling against the rocks like an ill-restrained wraith and for a moment, Regulus swayed on the ledge, the vertigo making him stagger.

A bony, clawed hand dragged him back by the trousers, and he stumbled over his feet, sprawling across the icy rock with a thud. He groaned, hands stinging with cold and wet, fingers numb in the frozen air.

"Kreacher is sorry, Master Regulus—"Kreacher began to lament, a fist raising to slam down on his head, and Regulus caught it before he did any damage.

"It's my fault, Kreacher." He rasped. His words fell from his lips in a puff of white cloud, billowing up into the air like a trail of smoke. "Wasn't paying attention."

The house elf hovered, hand still clenched in his trousers, and Regulus groaned as he hefted himself up. Wiping his hands on his coat, he shook himself. Fear made him nervous, panicky, and he wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, to apparate back to Grimmauld Place and slide under his covers and close his eyes until the nightmares would leave him.

Then the wind whipped at his face and the tears that had slipped out froze on his cheeks and he was once again reminded that he was here for a reason. He would be brave, he would be brave like Sirius and Andromeda who had sacrificed everything to gain a little bit of happiness.

Turning to face the cliff face, he tightened his grip on his coat, hand sliding into his pocket to grip his wand. His hummed a little in response, and he felt reassured for a moment, as the warm feeling welled in his chest.

He had the locket and the note. He had the locket and the note and Kreacher, and he would be safe.

He would be fine.

"Is there an entrance?" Regulus asked after a moment; his eyes roved over the jagged cliff face and the yawning mouth, jagged rocks descending into a maw of darkness.

On the horizon, the sun was already drifting further and further down the sky, red light flickering across the water, painting the landscape in swathes of red, orange and dark pink. It looked like an impressionist painting; a tranquil, peaceful place. Of course, behind him, the outcrop of rock looked bleak and desolate, the stone so dark and slate-colored that it turned the barren colorless ledge into a scene from a nightmare; Regulus was sure that someone had died here, and he shivered, glad that there were no visible phantoms that lingered to haunt the place.

The Dark Lord was truly sick, he thought with renewed disgust.

"Of course, Master Regulus," Kreacher croaked, words nearly swept away by the biting winds. His tunic flapped at each gust of cold, chilling wind and his skin looked gray and washed out in the light of the dying sun.

Regulus bit down on his tongue to stifle the whimper that threatened to loose his tongue and took a step forward. The air was muggy and held down by the smell of rotting seaweed, the stench of dying, decaying things pungent in the sheltered cave. The steps were jagged and broken, as if carved out by very reluctant erosion, and he was careful not to linger too long on the slippery, algae-congealed rock, terrified of slipping all the way down.

When they reached the end of the steps, Regulus let out a sigh of relief. The tangy scent of salt reached his nose and he breathed in, steeling himself against the panic that he felt against his breast.

Remember, he willed himself, remember why you are doing this—for a better future, a better life.

There was a little lake of water, roiling from the outer sea, and the choppy waves lapped against the rock, chipping away at the foundation. Whispering a lumos, he squinted, trying to see the other side. In the murky, ill-defined darkness, he spied the gleam of wet rock and slate-colored cave wall that glittered at the edges of the spell.

The light flickered out, and Regulus was once again surrounded in darkness.

"Where now, Kreacher?" Regulus asked, voice barely a whisper.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to raise his voice in such a desolate, gut-wrenching place. As if the little lake and wet, moist cave walls had seen far too many things, far too many atrocities to disgrace it with loud, cluttering noises.

He shivered, the feeling of disgust making a shudder run up his spine.

"There is the gate, Master Regulus, on the other side." Kreacher rasped, gripping his cloak. "Kreacher will take Master to the entrance."

There was a woosh of air, the familiar feeling of being sucked into a tight tube, and Regulus was suddenly standing on the other side of the lake, in front of a high, rock wall, one with no entrance in sight. He lifted a hand, placing it on the rock, frowning. The stone was cool; the moisture in the air making it wet, and his hand came off damp.

"Master must make a sacrifice." Kreacher's words were taking on a panicked edge, and Regulus could see that he was trying his hardest to do what he had ordered, even if it meant going back to the place where the Dark Lord had tortured him.

Regulus's stomach dropped to his shoes. "Blood?"

A blood rite is the most vulgar and dark magic, he remembered his tutor saying, Respected wizards do not use it unless absolutely necessary.

His mother had sent the man away, after she'd seen him take out a muggle fairytale to Sirius's insistence, but Regulus would never forget the look on his face as he'd spat those words; fear, pure unadulterated fear.

Regulus knew that there were levels to blood magic. Rites and pathways and wards were considered mundane, light even. Anything that had the user slit a knife across their wrist was dark. He'd raged against the argument once; thinking that it was unfair to label magic as such, unfair to discriminate against any and everyone who used it, unconcerned with intent.

As he stood in front of the black rock, his hands in his pockets, wand poking into his wrist, he knew different.

This wasn't the Blood Magic used the way it should have been. This was different. This felt wrong.

"'Tis vulgar." Kreacher whispered, drawing Regulus from his thoughts, a shudder wracking his elfin body. "The Dark Lord made Kreacher make the sacrifice."

With shaking hands, Regulus drew his wand and rolled up his sleeve. His skin chilled, goosebumps erupting in the cold air and he gritted his jaw as he pressed his wand against his palm.

There was a spurt of red, and then the wall of rock glittered with scarlet, beads of blood trickling down its surface. Pain lanced up his arm and Regulus pressed his lips together as he muttered a healing spell, closing the skin up as fast as he made it.

The skin still pulsed, an ache that would recede in a couple of hours.

There was a flash of light, a groaning sound that echoed around the little lake, and Regulus stepped back, arm on Kreacher's shoulder, as a bone-white arch materialized in thin air. In front of them lay an expanse of glittering black water, as gleaming as a mirror. It was still, eerily so, and there was not a ripple that disturbed it.

"Is this the right place, Kreacher?" Regulus asked in a low voice. He stared at the dark lake, and inched his way towards the water's edge. The black, bottomless pool lapped at the rock's edge, and Regulus didn't dare move any closer for fear of slipping in.

Something was unhealthy with this place, something that made the hair on the back of his neck raise and his flesh pimple with the sheer wrongness of it all, the overwhelming feeling of fear and loathing—it just felt wrong.

Behind him, there was another flash, and the arch was sealed.

His breath stuttered in his chest, as he became submerged in total darkness.

Regulus was overwhelmingly glad for Kreacher's presence and he pretended like he hadn't gripped the elf's shoulder harder than necessary.

"Lumos Maxima," he hissed, and with a flick of his wand, the lake was illuminated once more.

"There." Kreacher pointed to the lake. "That is where the Dark Lord takes Kreacher."

In the middle of the lake, there was an outcrop of jagged rock. Misaligned layers of stone made for a shifty platform, and there was no easy way to climb it, not without the chance of slipping, and drowning in the eerie black lake.

Regulus wanted to cry. He wanted to turn around and run all the way back home, to tell Kreacher to forget it, to bring him back, bring him home. He would still make it to Hogwarts that evening and he could sit down in the Great Hall and have some delicious pudding and wake up early for classes' tomorrow morning.

He didn't want to die on the last day of Winter Break.

Regulus could already imagine the funeral now. Walburga would sob and cry and scream out her grief, anger and loss twisting her ageing face into a horrible expression and she would sink to her knees before his coffin and beg for her little boy again. Orion would be stoic and still, his eyes red, mouth devastatingly severe. Narcissa would cry for him, because they were always strangely close. Bellatrix would mutter something about loyalties and sniff that her cousin had died for what was right, for what he believed in.

He could do it, he knew. He could turn around and pretend this didn't exist, pretend that he didn't know of the Dark Lord's horcrux.

But he couldn't.

He had hurt Kreacher.

He would do it again.

So, he swallowed down the debilitating fear, the horrible heat of tantalizing temptation and gripped his wand tightly. The locket burned in his outer pocket, and he thought of the taunting note stuck in its case. A wan smile stretched across his face as he imagined the Dark Lord's fury, his devastating rage.

"You'll get yours." He muttered under his breath.

Then he turned to Kreacher, determined.

"How do we get there, Kreacher?" he asked, hands trembling.

His elf looked at him, beady eyes wide and panicked, and pointed a finger to the bottomless water. "There's a boat, Master Regulus. The Dark Lord leaves it there for later."

Regulus swallowed, and turned towards the water. As he reached for the water, Kreacher dragged him back. The elf was trembling, his bat-like ears quivering and he was wide-eyed in panic. His words were rasping and stuttering as he asked to, "Please let Kreacher do it, Master Regulus."

He nodded and Kreacher leaned forward, hand slipping into the water and gripping something invisible. He muttered something under his breath, and then a chain flickered into vision, the metal swallowed by the algae, rusted and corroding under Kreacher's touch. It slunk through the elf's hand and curled itself onto the rock floor, clinking against the stone, echoing across the silent lake.

A boat broke the surface of the water, and Regulus watched with baited breath as the water around it rippled. Something flashed underneath the surface and his gaze sharpened on the movement, breath catching in his throat.

The feeling of unnaturalness returned, and the hair at the back of his neck rose once more.

"Master Regulus is to be taking this boat to the rocks," Kreacher rasped out. His hands had begun to shake.

"Kreacher." Regulus cleared his throat and looked down at the elf, head on. "When we get to the island, I want you to replace the locket with the one I have here—"he drew the locket out of his cloak pocket and placed it into the elf's awaiting hand, "—and then I want you to apparate out of here."

"Master Regulus—!" The elf began to wail, tears welling up in his black eyes. "Kreacher is to be protecting his Master, Kreacher must not be leaving Master Regulus—"

"Kreacher," Regulus said firmly, voice just a touch too harsh. "Your word as an elf of the Noble House of Black."

Kreacher let out another wail. It echoed loudly in the dimly lit cave; there was a twist of movement under the water, but this time, Regulus paid it no mind.

"Kreacher is giving his word," the elf sobbed. "Kreacher is to be promising Master Regulus."

"Good." Regulus said, even though the word tasted like ash on his tongue.

Don't leave me, he wanted to shout, to yell. Please don't leave me alone.

He had screamed those words all his life, and he'd never meant them more than he did now. The fear was debilitating, paralyzing. He wanted to cry, to sob, to scream. He wanted to collapse onto the ground and never wake. He wanted to forget that a Dark Lord ever existed, and live out a peaceful life on the edge of a moor, forever surrounded by bubbling potions, and the smell of mildew.

He wanted Sirius to come home, and to look at him like he'd once done: as a brother. He wanted his Mother to stop caring about Muggles and Mudbloods and Creatures. He wanted his Father to come out of his study and stop looking down his nose at everyone with lesser blood; to look at Regulus like he mattered.

Regulus wanted to live.

He blinked hard, and then rose, stepping hesitantly towards the boat. It looked like it would pitch right over, leaving anyone who boarded to drown. Righteous determination burned through him as he stared out at the glittering, black lake and he stepped onto the boat.

It groaned, and for a single, terrifying moment, Regulus genuinely thought he would drown. Then it stabilized and he sat down, and gestured for Kreacher to come with. The elf sat on the boat, claws digging into the wood. They rowed slowly, carefully, neither daring to breathe a breath too deep, or too fast.

When they finally reached the outcrop of rock, Regulus breathed out a sigh of relief.

He scoured the rock slowly, making great care not to slip up on the moss, and rotting seaweed, hands digging into the slate stones as deeply as he could. When he finally hauled himself up to the top, he stilled as he spotted the chalice; a glittering, marble white, carved stone; opaque water that was menacingly still.

"Is this—"Regulus sucked in a breath. "Is this it, Kreacher?"

Kreacher, trembling, looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes and a stuttering mouth. "Y-Yes Master R-Regulus. 'Tis being the ch-chalice."

He took in a deep breath, his shoulders rising to his ears, and taking half a step forward, he peered into the chalice.

It was clear.

Inside, there lay a glowing locket, the glimmer of gold catching on the light of his spell.

There was something enormous building in the back of his throat as he stared down at the shimmer of gold, the clear, unmoving water, untouched by wind or air. It looked untouchable there—a case of ice, never to be broken.

Something wet and slick pressed into his hand and Regulus looked down to find Kreacher handing him the half of a conch shell. His elf's lips trembled, and his beady eyes were so wide they looked painful.

"Thank you, Kreacher." He croaked.

The fear made him dizzy as he stared into the chalice, but he glanced back to Kreacher, "I have to drink?"

"Y-Yes Master," Kreacher nearly sobbed, clutching his dirtied shift. He looked miserable, terrified. The elf's ears were flat against his head, and his little heart beat a tattoo against his sagging throat.

"All of it?" Regulus pressed, even though his hands were shaking.

He didn't know what the potion could be. He didn't know if it even was a potion—or if it was simply poison. He didn't know if he'd even be able to drink it all, or if his throat would clench around his breath and choke him.

He stared at the glimmer of gold once more. It sat there, unaffected, and Regulus wondered how Voldemort had slipped a piece of his soul into this tiny, little, insignificant relic. Who he'd killed to do it. Was it a muggle? Or a Mudblood?

…A pureblood?

Regulus didn't know, and that alone terrified him to the core.

He swallowed.

Alright, he told himself, no more stalling, now, Reg, you've got to finish what you've started.

Sweat gathered at his temples and the nape of his neck, dampening the ponytail he'd pulled it in.

His hands shook as he lowered the conch shell into the chalice. It broke the water, ripples spreading out like a spiderweb, and out of the corner of his eye, Regulus saw movement. He paid little attention as he drew the shell back out, letting it hover before his lips.

Kreacher seemed to rasp out a pleading, but Regulus brought it to his mouth and the cool, thick, potion ran down his throat.

For a moment, he felt fine.

And then—

Fire.

He was on fire. Pain lanced through his spine, and he stood rigid, hands trembling, as he dipped the shell back into the potion once more.

He lost track of time as he drank more and more. Nausea rose in him, like a tide of fear, and he moaned in pain as the potion brought him to his knees. It brought him no relief from the pain that rang throughout his body; his fingers ached, his joints old and cracking. He wanted to die, he wanted to have never come here.

His pants echoed around the cave, and he pressed his forehead against the cold of the chalice.

Regulus twitched, spasms rocking his body as he begged silently for relief.

"M-Master," Kreacher rasped. A cool hand came to touch the back of his neck. "Master must continue."

He sobbed. "Please, Kreacher, Please let me stop."

The hand shook. "N-No Master. Master must continue."

Regulus shook his head, crying, sobbing; hysteria rose in him like an iron fist, and he felt the conch being pried from his fingers. It hurt to let it go, it hurt to curl his fingers into fists, it hurt to breathe—

A cool, dull edge met his lips.

He'll do it again, he thought, delirious, he'll hurt Kreacher again.

Regulus swallowed.

Kreacher sobbed as he forced him to drink. Regulus pleaded, and begged, and thrashed as he desperately tried to stop drinking. He wanted to die; his lips were bloodied from begging, and his skin felt like even the slightest touch would break him. He wanted to die—

"Master must continue," Kreacher would croak.

And Regulus would swallow.

Let it stop, he begged and he wasn't sure if he was screaming in his mind or out loud. His throat ached. His hands were raw. His mind felt blank, and broken, like someone had crushed all the life from his body.

Please, please, kill me, kiLL ME!

He swallowed again, throat aching.

Tears dripped down his cheeks, mingling with the clear potion, and salt bloomed on his tongue like an old friend.

Stop, please stop, no more, no more, nomore—

"Al-Almost done, Master Reg-Regulus." Kreacher soothed. "Almost done, Master, almost done."

No, please no, please no—

He was boneless. He was desperate and gasping and flush against the cold, stone floor.

Water, he wanted to gasp, but stopped himself.

Something smooth and cool fell into his grasp, and Regulus barely had the strength to pry his eyes open. Gold glimmered in his hand. Regulus sobbed out a laugh, blood dripping down his chin.

He rose his gaze to Kreacher, who looked back at him anxiously.

Regulus's body throbbed as he lifted a shaking hand and pushed the locket back into Kreacher's grasp.

"Kreach—Kreacher…" he rasped. "Take…Take the other…other locket…switch—"

Regulus coughed, his whole body wracked with the force of it.

He closed his eyes when he saw Kreacher nod, and faraway, he heard the clink of metal on glass. Peace filled him, and the fear left him for the first time in three weeks.

And then Kreacher screamed, a hysterical wail of terror filling the cave, and Regulus bolted up, eyes shooting open, ignoring the burn of his joints, and the throb of pain against his temples.

A naked, wet, pale creature had grabbed the elf. Its eyes were gone, rotting caverns of skin falling away at Kreacher's frantic touch. Its body was skeletal, and yet it was fiercely strong, its rotted mouth twisting to form a terrifying snarl. It wailed, high and fierce, and gripped Kreacher's tunic harder.

The spell left his mouth before he could think, "Expelliarmus!"

The thing went flying back, body ripping apart like it was parchment, and crashed into the water with a massive splash.

"Kreacher—" Regulus started, and the elf rushed him.

The feeling of wet, cold, dead flesh on his own made him stop in his tracks. He snapped his head around, a scream loosening from his throat as the smell of dead carcass filled his nose; another one had climbed onto the outcrop, and Regulus felt like his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

All around them, the pale creatures were moaning, groaning as they slithered onto the rock.

It was a split-second choice, but to Regulus it felt like an eternity.

The fear, heady and bitter pressed on his tongue and he wanted to lie, he wanted to go home so badly, he wanted to live. He caught sight of the glimmering gold in Kreacher's hands, and thought of course. His mouth twisted bitterly. Of course, he thought, and remembered vivid red eyes, and too-pale skin. Remembered smug, haughty looks and furious tempers. Remembered seductive promises, made from exalted lips.

The Inferi's grip was immovable.

"Kreacher!" he bellowed, "I order you to leave!"

A desperate, high-pitch wail cleaved itself from Kreacher's lips.

Fear drove him to brutality, "Now!"

He heard it, not a split-second later; the crack of apparition.

Regulus opened his eyes, and then screwed them shut.

He didn't want to see—he didn't want to know.

He smelt the dead carcass on his skin, and felt the thick, choppy water against his legs, and then—

Regulus felt the grip of the creature on his throat and thought,

At least he will be stopped.

{And once it left, once the thought fled from his mind, he thought no more.}

A/N: This is not complete! Also, once again, this is not canon compliant!