It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when Regulus had stopped adhering to the toxic ideology of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, fellow blood purists. When he saw Lily Evans step in to stop her fellow Gryffindors from harassing the Slytherins in the halls, despite the hate and name-calling her house hurled at her, perhaps, or perhaps when a muggle-born in his year gave him an extra quilt when he lost him without asking for thanks and compensation, or perhaps when he walked away and watched his psychotic cousin torture an innocent muggle. Looking between Bellatrix, who was throwing her head back and laughing, and the muggle, who had done nothing but was still writhing on the floor and screaming a high, terrible sound, he wondered who was the 'impure".
As soon as the first thought of betrayal crossed his mind, the cracks in the glass began to show. Regulus was smart and prided himself on his brain, his logic, intelligence, and creativity. The concept of pure-bloods being inherently superior to half-bloods or muggle-borns just didn't hold up when he looked closer, the blinding effects of his parents whispering lies in his ear as a child fading away. He was surrounded by mediocre pure-blood wizards, children of the Sacred TwentyEight without spectacular intelligence or magical power to show for it, while there were half-bloods and muggle-borns like Evans and Lupin who had both to spare
When it came to muggles and the so-called superiority of wizards, the issue was much more difficult. For a long time, even as his views on Blood Purism changed, he clung to the idea that muggles were inferior, the only remaining vestige of his parents' teachings. It seemed irrefutable that wizards were just better, because they could do magic and muggles couldn't.
When it came to muggles and the so-called superiority of wizards, the issue was much more
difficult. For a long time, even as his views on Blood Purism changed, he clung to the idea that muggles were inferior, the only remaining vestige of his parents' teachings. It seemed irrefutable that wizards were just better, because they could do magic and muggles couldn't.
But once he ventured into muggle London the summer before the sixth year, newly Marked and
Desperate for evidence to prove his claims, he found that his experience only served to prove him wrong again. muggles didn't have magic, but that didn't mean they were any less. They went to the moon even before Regulus was born; he knew of no spells or magical trinkets that could accomplish such a feat. They had weapons that could have catastrophic effects, such as bombs that were similar to the Explosive Curse and weapons that, in some cases, could kill as quickly as a Killing Curse. Their skills with technology allowed them to combine and replicate what magic could do.
But the Dark Lord does not accept any letter of resignation and has made it clear what fate awaited traitors to his cause.
So when Kreacher returned from his mission soaked and shivering, babbling over a basin filled with a terrible potion and a medallion placed submerged, the first thought that crossed his mind was, finally, a way out.
"Kreacher," he said, crouching beside the trembling elf and placing his hands gently on his
shoulders, "I need you to tell me what happened."
He pieced together the truth several nights later, replaying Kreacher's gruesome tale in his head and consulting the darkest books in Grimmauld Place's extensive library. It wasn't a pretty truth, but then again, hidden truths when revealed rarely had any beauty in them.
The Dark Lord had made a Horcrux.
The Darkest of the Dark, so Dark that even his family library had little content on them.
Destroying your soul, tearing it apart just to live forever... it was sick. Regulus looked at the Mark on his left forearm and wondered how he had blindly followed such a man, so lightly believing his sweet words and promises.
A plan quickly emerged after that, though it was barely a plan.
With Kreacher showing him the way, Regulus entered the Dark Lord's great hideout, the island of rocks with a cave in the middle of the ocean.
"Master Regulus shouldn't be here," he muttered
He offered her a wan smile and took a deep breath. Your friend wouldn't like your next set of instructions.
"Kreacher, I'm going to drink this potion."
"Master Regulus!
"I will drink this potion," he said again, louder, "and when I am too weak to do it myself, I order you to force me to continue," I order you to not attempt to stop me from drinking the potion, and make me drink it until the last drop is gone and the locket can be removed. So I order you to exchange the genuine locket for this locket "he held up his manufactured counterfeit "and leave me behind."
"Master"! Kreacher was crying, and he felt his eyes sting, but he continued.
"I order you to leave with the royal locket and try to destroy it by any means possible; do not delay and try to save me. I order you not to tell my family about what happened tonight, even if they ask you about it. These orders override any I give while under the potion's influence. Do you understand me, Monster?
"Kreacher can't," he wailed.
"You must," Regulus said, squeezing the goblet tighter. "Do you understand me?"
There was a long pause as he struggled against the orders, but the magic didn't budge, and he gave a small nod, "Kreacher understands," he chirped, his face wet.
"Okay," Regulus said, clenching his jaw and staring at his reflection in the emerald green potion. He looked painfully young, with dark curls tucked behind his ears and wide silver-gray eyes.
There was so much more he wanted to do. He wanted to fall in love, he wanted to look into someone else's eyes and dance with her under the stars and map her body with his touch. He wanted to reconnect with his brother, he wanted to hug Sirius again and call him brother, no spite
seeping into the word, he wanted to attend his wedding and eat at his table and watch him grow into the good man he always knew what would it be. He wanted to see the world without war. He wanted to see a better world.
[...]
Waking up was a mix of surprise and sheer agony. Regulus was sure, that as soon as that underworld grabbed him, he was going to die. A sacrifice to destroy the evil that plagues the world - such a Gryffindor way to leave this world - with the certainty that everything would be all right.
Her body was burning from the inside as much now as it had been when she drank the damned potion from the basin. When he closed his eyes in that cave he was sure he was going to die, now, he is looking at a high ceiling with a white light fogging his sight while his whole body protests against conscience.
Dying hurt, he knew that, but what happened? Has he become a ghost? Ghosts weren't blinded by light or in pain. At least that's what he always thought, but maybe all the pain is just penance for all the mistakes he's made.
Voices floated around her, briefly familiar. Regulus took a deep breath, the images of a lake in flames and the inferis scratching, grabbing, and pulling him into the black waters, as he struggled and felt his body burning from the potion or from the water he swallowed from the lake when he was submerged, he wasn't sure.
Gathering his courage, he tried to open his eyes again, but the emptiness washed over him before he could.