Spinning floor, spinning ceiling, spinning walls- what's going on? A circular room, the walls a blur, thousands of doors spinning past- rotating- faster, faster, he can't see anything-

They stop.

There are two doors on the far wall, with a brass handle. No lock. A good sign…or bad? There's a desk, at it sits a black man wearing brown-ish robes. Music is playing, it feels strangely like background music in a film (not that Regulus would have any experience with this sort of thing, of course). He can't quite make out the words….The black man looks up.

"Regulus Arcturus Black?"

"Er, yeah, that's me…" Regulus says, and walks over. The man gestures and a chair appears on the other side of his desk. "Excuse me, but who are you?"

The man nervously glances at a clipboard on his lap, then over Regulus's head at the two doors. "It is of no importance. Please, Mr. Black, sit down."

Regulus obliges.

"Drink?"

"Er, no thank you. Where am I?"

"They all ask that," the man says, a sad smile tugging his face. "Where do you think you are? What is the last thing you remember?"
He thinks back…a cave, water, poison, light, locket, Kreacher, locket, poison, Rocella…. "Well, there was this cave, I was drinking this…ah, stuff…to- well, because…you know who the Dark Lord is?"

"I have known many Dark Lords," the man says. "All of them fall. Even the Great One himself. Even he fell, in the beginning. He will fall in the end, too, or so they say when they bother to visit….Matthias is the only one who ever does, he brings me food from the tables in there." He gestures to the doors. "I think he feels guilty- he was my replacement, you see."

"Oh- really?" he asks, utterly confused. "Look, where am I? What's going on? What am I doing here?"

"Look at your arm," the man answers calmly. "Look and tell me what has happened to you. I know about your cave. I work for someone who knows all the answers."

Regulus draws up his left sleeve- because whenever someone tells you to look at your arm you can bet your life on it it's the Dark Mark- and it's more faded than it's ever been.

"You don't want it," the man says gently, "but you took it and you don't want to be rid of it, either. You and I, we both know treason. The ones who leave the Dark to follow the Light, they are immortal. Everyone remembers them, reveres them. But the ones who leave the Light to walk in the Dark, they are traitors. Why is it that the latter are traitors and the first are saved? Are they not just as treasonous?"

What the hell?

"I don't know what you're talking about," Regulus says; he stands up and pushes away his chair. "I want to get out of here. How do I get out? Which door do I take? Where do I go from here?"

"Why, that depends entirely on where you would like to go. And where do you care to go, Mr. Black?"

"Er- it doesn't much matter, I suppose." Suddenly he realizes precisely how odd this is, as if he didn't have the cues before. How very odd this all is. How he never expected to wake up after that last sip. How everything has vanished. How much he wants to be home again- last night, with Rocella there and only her- no, the night before that one, before Barty and before Horcruxes and before fairy tales that he has no wish to hear, before doubts begin to seep into his mind….

"Then it doesn't matter which door you take," the man whispers. Then a smile tugs at the corner of his face- oh, how long it has been since he has seen anyone smile! "Of course, you may want to know where you are. So you can make a better choice when push comes to shove. Wherever you choose you will remain there for essentially ever, so if I were you, I'd take the better door."

Regulus doesn't know where to turn anymore. Where to get off. Where to go. Where he's going.

The man sighs. He's done this too many times before, telling them where they are and what to do. He'd like to tell them which door to take, but unfortunately he's not allowed to. Besides, it's different for all of them. Some of them take the door on the left. Some take the door on the right. But everyone always ended up together, in some curious way he does not understand. He's given up on trying to understand.

The man's voice seems to come to Regulus from across a great, vast distance:
"So you're in a room, right? There are two doors- exactly the same, except one leads to heaven and one leads to hell…."

So which one do you take? "Which one do I take?" Regulus asks the man, only wanting to not be a traitor anymore and a strong drink and Rocella…and for things to be the way they once were, for Barty to maybe have told him how he'd felt, for the Dark Lord to never exist, for him to never exist, it's all his fault….

"Why, that is entirely up to you," he says, and Regulus is more confused than ever. Instead of choosing he settles down to wait, fully aware that time waits for no man- only now he's dead in some psychotic pseudo-waiting room and this man is asking him to choose between heaven and hell, but he can't tell the difference, and all he wants is….

What does he want?

Does he deserve punishment, for his crimes, or beauty for the one small night when he turned around and fought back? What does he deserve? What is he going to get? And does it even matter anymore?

All that matters is that it's over.

"In the end, whether you have followed the Dark Road or the Light does not matter as long as it is done with a clear purpose."

--Clive Barker, Abarat

"I'm free

I'm free

And freedom tastes of reality"

--The Who, I'm Free

He enters the dimly lit basement kitchen and starts opening cupboards, looking for a drink. There's a creaking from the cupboard under the sink and Kreacher comes out.

"Does Master Regulus want anything?"

"I'm fine, Kreacher." Regulus glances at him and notices Kreacher's expression is very, very afraid. "Kreacher, what's wrong? Is everything okay? Is- is Rocella all right?"

Kreacher looks up at his master with wide, pale eyes. "Everything is all right, Master….But Kreacher was worried, Kreacher was remembering…Kreacher told Master, about the lake; Kreacher was scared…."

The lake.

Kreacher went to a lake with the Dark Lord…the Dark Lord attempted to harm Kreacher, and why, why, was it for no logical reason—pain is beautiful, causing pain—or did he have something to hide?

Regulus falls into a chair.

"Master--?"

"Get me a drink," he orders, and Kreacher knows where the stronger drinks are kept, and that this is the time.

"Here, Master," Kreacher says, handing him a cold goblet, but Regulus has already stood and now he is walking almost running to the library with Kreacher following behind him, trying to shove the drink into his hand.

He unlocks the door and takes his drink from Kreacher. Then, on second thought, he shoves it back at the elf, and gestures for Kreacher to follow him into the room.

"Now," he says, "I want you to tell me everything you know…."

He's still cold and clammy with shock. So this, he thinks, this is what it feels like to have everything you thought you knew shown to be false in one fell swoop. So this is how Barty feels.

But Barty is a homicidal maniac (so am I) and Barty doesn't feel like normal people. Serial killers don't have feelings: this is fact, proven by the Department of Mysteries. But I'm a serial killer. "A serial killer kills more than three people in the same method and feels no remorse."

But I feel remorse.

Of course I do. Now. Too late. Too late to bring back all the lives I've sent away into the endless world, too late to turn back, too late to turn around and see my own shadow on the wall behind me. He turns around and sees his own shadow on the wall behind him. And somehow his shadow is the same, exactly the same, as every shadow of every person he's ever killed or seen killed.

It's still too late, Reg, you fool, he reminds himself silently.

Barty didn't kill him. Barty didn't want to kill him—no, he did want to kill him, but he didn't do it. Friendship? Barty hates him, he said so himself, and this is one line that Regulus really can believe. Because, well, he doesn't exactly know how it feels—but he knows.

And if Barty can do it, so can he.

There's only one way to fix it. He killed, Merlin, how many? Wizards and Muggles and everything in between alike, indiscriminatorily. The blood of one coward can't make up for all of them. Too much blood combined. Too little in his own body.

But his blood, and the water that will fill his lungs, filling his lungs until he dies, now that will be enough. Blood and water and the tears that somebody somewhere has to shed for him and sweat—sweat, he can't think, what sweat—and then he knows, the sweat from his body when he ran or hid or felt his own heart pound like a cannon whenever he killed.

He can fix it.

He can't fix it.

He must.

Later, he's not so sure. He was brave enough down in the library, planning his plan (tomorrow night Kreacher will take me, I'll go, I'll drink, I'll die) and adding to it with almost every pacing step he takes (leave something there so the Dark Lord knows—no, not enough that he knows, but that I know—don't let Kreacher tell—they'll think I ran away—I ran away and also ran to the welcoming arms of death—don't let them hurt Rocella—they won't—they will—I can't—I have to--). But now he's terrified.

Rocella, beside him, sleeps; inside her, something else sleeps. Unless she goes into early labor, he won't ever know what that something is. And what if they kill Rocella—kill both of them, he can't bear the thought.

He whispers her name and she is awake beside him, and there they are, both of them, possibly the only ones awake on this humid summer night.

"You're back."

"I'll always come back." Till the one time I don't.

"I know."

Silence.

"It's going to be a boy."

"You're just saying that. I would know. You just want a boy."

"Who doesn't?"

"You mean, who wants a boy more than a girl? You. Every other pureblood male between the ages of x and y. You're included in that category."

"I am not insulted."

"Of course not. You're you."

Silence.

"Everyone wants to live forever."

"Not me. Too long. Too—always the same. And what if you didn't?"

I am already amongst the stars—Zeus himself didn't even have to put me there. I will always be there. I think. "I would. For you, I would."

"What about yourself?"

Silence.

"A name. We need a name."

"Mine's Rocella, and yours is Regulus. Black, also. I like that one. It sounds—morbid. But it's nice."

"A name. For it. It's a boy, by the way."

"Liar, liar, robes on fire."

"Oh?"

"Quiet, you."

"Make me."

"Just you wait."

I don't have forever to wait. "One for a boy, one for a girl."

"John. Stella. Dull enough for you?"

"Too much. One for a boy, one for a girl. Go on."

"Right, then. Let me think. Dum de dum de…oh yes, we want it from the family tree. Phineas. Nice name. Best name on there. Middle name, middle name, I need a middle name—"

"You mean my name isn't the best name on there?"

"Anyone who names their child after themselves deserves to be hanged."

"Anyone who uses incorrect grammar deserves to be married to the wizard with the most fantastic name on that tapestry, and you know it."

"Middle name, middle name, I'm thinking, I'm trying to come up with a middle name. Oh! Yes. You'll like this one."

"Say it."

"Not telling."

"Rocella."

"Sirius."

"Meh—gah—what?"

"Hah. One for a girl. If you even try to use your mother's name I will quietly divorce you. Very quietly. But very finally."

"I love you too. Girl's name, girl's name, I can't think of anything." Because my mind is too full with imagining every second of my death.

"Bellatrix. If we're staying in the family, I like her."

A killer? I won't have my daughter bear the names of two killers: Bellatrix, Black. "Kind of. Keep thinking."

"Well, I like the first bit. Bella. Bella. A suffix—ism, -cracy, -ly, -ive, -ion, this sounds so idiotic—"

"Pick a number, one through twenty-six."

"Five."

"E."

"Fourteen. Three. Nine."

"N, C, I. Let's see. NIEC, NICE, NECI, NEIC, NCEI, NCIE, CNEI, CNIE, CENI, CEIN—"

"Sounds Welsh, somehow—"

"Is that a problem?"

"Spell Cymru."

"C-U-M-R-Y?"

"C-Y-M-R-U. No Welsh names."

"But if we add an 's' or we stick on a 'p' or a 'b' at the beginning—"

"It would be verch or ferch—"

"Okay, going on, CIEN, which sounds French, like the end of ancien, I guess that would be ancienne, though,CINE, ECNI—"

"Bella. Bellacine."

"Sounds good. Actually, I like it."

"And if you want you can have a star for the middle name."

Silence.

The night gradually fades to dawn. He gets up sometime around seven, too much adrenaline to lie in bed any longer. The day passes—some parts quickly, some parts slowly enough that he can press them into his mind like photographs—his heart pounds.

Kreacher is the best actor Regulus has ever seen. Not a word but "Yes, Master."

Damn the clock. Damn the minutes going by. Damn the tolling echoes every fifteen minutes. He storms around, pointing his wand at the grandfather clocks. They fall silent. If anyone tries to tamper with this imposed silence, they'll get a bolt shot at their abdominal cavity. Except Rocella.

Last walk through the house. Last meal. Last time clutching his arm, but this time he's only pretending that his scar sears. He can't bear the thought—but it's the way things must be. Rocella thinks that the Dark Lord is summoning him. Later, she'll think that he died in battle.

I'm not a hero, I'm a coward.

Last time feeling this unseen living creature kick beneath his hand. Last kiss.

"You're crying."

"I'm not."

Last time slipping out the front door. Last time running down a London street to the safe alley where he can Disapparate.

Last time realizing that he forgot to say I love you.

A/N: Sorry for the long silence. And for the screwy formatting. Best I could get.