REGULUS BLACK

The water was a cold, crystalline green. At least, that’s what it appeared to be. Upon closer inspection, what was previously mistaken as white sand on the lakebed would begin to seem like bones forming. One might notice the overgrowing algae and reeds, stretching out threateningly like arms trying to entangle you and ensnare your limbs— ready to snap them in half and add to the pile of bones sunk deep within the lake.

Still, Regulus Black clambered into the boat. He thought grimly of James— laughing, talkative, golden James. His next bitter sorrow was Sirius. The brother he could never be— brave, defiant, and brilliantly bold. Everybody, except the Black family, liked him. But it had never seemed to matter to him anyway… by the time he’d been disowned, he was practically a Potter already. Regulus’ late-night tears and ink-stained letters hadn’t mattered then, and they certainly didn’t matter now— not even the unsent ones, hidden deep in the secret compartment of his drawer. The letters that held everything he could never say— the ones he instructed Kreacher to send in case of any kind of emergency. In case he didn’t return from this cave. Just in case.

The ratty house-elf, in question, was short and stout, bad-tempered except for when it came to his favourite curly-haired Black. “Kreacher,” said Regulus suddenly, a brave voice masking his fear.

“Yes, Monsieur Black?” Kreacher snapped to attention. Regulus pursed his lips but didn’t bother correcting him, for fear of the punishment Kreacher may bestow upon himself.

“Do you remember my orders?”

Kreacher shrank back. He remembered, all right. He never wanted to follow them, never wanted them to come true. He didn’t want to leave Regulus behind— not Regulus, the one Black that had ever truly treated him like family.

Not him.

“Yes, Monsieur,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

Regulus’ eyes shone with determination, uncanny for a 17-year-old boy— or so you would think. Grimacing, he looked down at his forearm and saw the black, slithering ink looking back at him. The Dark Mark— he’d received it barely two years earlier. It was a sign of his supposed loyalty to the Sacred 28 and Voldemort. The Bringer of Death. The new Grindelwald. The so-called “Peacemaker.”

The only peace he shall bring is to those noble of blood. The moment the formation is broken, another shot rings out, another two words spoken, another green flash and another thump as a body hits the ground. The same story, again and again. Never-ending, never changing.

He couldn’t let it go further than it already had.

His brother’s friend, Marlene McKinnon— her family had just narrowly escaped death mere weeks before. She’d been sobbing at the Gryffindor table when she received the news, loud enough for the whole hall to hear. Her body had shaken in terror, lamenting that if the day were ever to come, she may never get to say goodbye. Regulus had looked up to see Sirius’ eyes locked onto his, ignited with raw anger. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t have managed to look away, for his eyes were filled with a hatred so intense it burned up any of the silver found in them— turning it into molten steel.

How could you, his eyes spoke dangerously as they searched Regulus’. This is what you’re supporting. This is who you are. Monster.

It was only on the day he left that Sirius’ words came back to haunt Regulus. He had run after his brother, knowing what was soon to come, but not being able to do anything else. “Sirius!” he had yelled. “Sirius!”

He’d said the wrong thing, the only thing he thought might make his brother turn back. “Padfoot!” In an instant, Sirius’ wand was against his throat and all that was pulsating through Regulus’ heart, brain, veins, lungs, and eyes was fear, fear, fear. Fear of Sirius, of his brother— the one who was currently two words away from killing him.

“You will never call me that name,” Sirius hissed, venom dripping from each word. “Not now, not ever. You’ve lost the right to call me anything.” His voice trembled with rage. “You’re dead to me, Gold. You’re sick— twisted, and I hate you. I always will.” he paused, his face stern with a sense of finality. “You’re no brother of mine.”

Those last words had made Regulus go still— and like a punch to his stomach, exerted all air from his lungs. His heart ached with pain, but he only stood there, frozen. The loud crack of Sirius apparating away had been the only thing to knock him out of it. The Cruciatus that welcomed him from the walnut wood of Walburga’s wand didn’t compare to the yearning for his only brother. Nothing would.

Sirius had called him Gold. That name was always the worst thing Regulus had ever been called. Golden. The golden boy. The Black heir. The perfect one, the first, the submissive. Golden. He’d once pointed out to Sirius that he might have been called the golden child, but he had silver eyes. He was 11. Sirius had ruffled his hair, leaned down, and whispered quietly, “Do something with yours. Sois courageux, Reg.”

He’d been asking him to rebel— to fight back. Sweet, young, precious Regulus never understood. He nodded innocently, quietly. Four years later, the same boy nodded with much more knowledge as he took the mark that sealed his fate.

The sloshing of the water brought the boat to the edge of jagged rock, and Regulus’ attention snapped out of his melancholy memories. As he crept up the stone ground, his eyes roamed until he spotted it. The basin. Sure enough, Salazar Slytherin’s locket lay inside. Even through the potion, Regulus could feel the aura emanating from the tainted jewelry. A pulse— dark laughter and sparked flashes of green light that Regulus knew all too well.

“Kreacher,” he said softly. “Bring me the goblet. And the fake.”

Dutifully, though reluctantly,  the house elf passed both objects over.

Regulus closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. One last goodbye, in case this was the end. It would not matter to the ones he loved anyway. It would never matter to Sirius, not anymore. James, his James, his wonderful boy who had once kissed him in the blazing snow could hardly look at him. Barty and Evan, his partners in crime. They’d get on without him, for the truth had been apparent— he was a nobody. He was forgettable. Dorcas had Pandora. Evan had Barty. Rabastan, Rodolphus, Bellatrix, and Narcissa all had each other. Walburga and Orion— well, they didn’t matter. They had no heart either way.

He would never be missed.

Except, perhaps, by one. By one who recognised his kindness.

It was the only face present in the cave that Regulus could see, yet his heart panged painfully at the thought of never seeing it again. But, what was he to do? He needed to go through with this. It was a part of the greater good.

Perhaps Sirius would finally be proud of him.

Hands trembling, Regulus picked up the goblet and swished it full to the brim with the silvery potion. “Kreacher, if I cannot drink, you must make me. You must force me, tip it inside my throat, do whatever it takes. You have to understand— this is an order. You must drop the locket in, but never let me stop. I shall drink until it is empty. Understood?”

A blank face stared back at him, Kreacher’s eyes wide and hesitant.

“Tell me you understand.”

Kreacher shook his head vigorously, fat tears pouring down his dirty face as he choked out “Yes, Master.”

Regulus gave him one last nod. He tipped the goblet back and pain.

A fire burned through his throat with a force that ripped his vocal cords to shreds, like the rocks that were killing his knees. He wasn’t sure when he fell, but the fire never stopped. The sound of Kreacher’s sobs entered his ears, a faint comfort that at least, he was doing the right thing.

Wave after wave of memory hit him, in hordes so dark and powerful and painful that he screamed to make it stop. He pleaded and begged to everyone and everything. Sirius, James, Barty, Evan, Pandora, even Walburga— yet the searing, excruciating pain continued for what felt like hours on end.

Anything to stop this. Please.

He felt pure hatred course through him, felt the sting of Sirius’ betrayal multiplied by a million, felt his heart shatter like he was sure Marlene’s had— and then there was nothing. A darkness. Empty and devoid of everything; of life, of power, of love, of feeling… all gone.

Dimly, he registered Kreacher's faint whispering. "It is done now, Master Regulus... the potion, it is gone... the locket, I have put inside— the fake, Master. You must get up now... please."

He struggled to sit up, and a raging storm ripped through his throat once again. “Water,” he croaked.

He needed it. He craved the cool salvation— the relief. Regulus reached for the goblet, crawled desperately towards the shore and attempted to scoop.

A hand, white and slimy, caught his wrist instead. More hands latched on, some biting, some gentle, all singing songs as they pulled him deep below. He vaguely registered Kreacher screaming, crying loudly for his Master.

He descended deeper and deeper into the water, cool darkness enveloping him. The last of the light left his sight, but it was fine. He knew it was done. The locket was safe.

For the Greater Good.

—

ARIANA DUMBLEDORE

It was a regular day in Godric’s Hollow. As with every gloomy, wintry day in the dregs of December, the sky was a smoky grey, the air hung thick with mist, and the graveyards lay, eerily silent. Ariana Dumbledore often liked to visit the graveyards. It was yet another thing that the boys from the village used against her when they taunted her; their eyes lit bright with malice as they threw rocks over the wall– jeering and howling with laughter. It was cruel, but so was life. She was used to it.

Albus and Abe used to protect her. Used to– when she was younger at least. Abe would scowl, tempted to use magic until goody-two-shoes Albus elbowed him and he would grumble, picking up a sharp rock and throwing it with scarily precise aim. Luckily, the boys would dodge and abandon the house for a good week or so.

Abe had always been an action-based sort of person. Meanwhile, Albus dabbled in the art of literature. For him, the appeal was always in silky, elegant, flowing words— as complex and difficult as his penmanship was to read. Yet he also knew how to hurt with his words— to pierce you in the heart and evoke tears and shouts of “Brava, Brava!” More often than not, however, Ariana wasn’t worthy of his words. Ever since her father had gone to Azkaban— ever since Kendra had left, Albus had taken care of her. And he took every opportunity to make known how much he despised it.

As Ariana pondered on the memories of her dear brothers in the graveyard, the air seemed to stop, numbing and painful on her skin. It was always cold, of course, but there was a certain chill that dug its way into her skeleton, dug through her like— no, she wasn’t supposed to say. Not to anyone. That was what Abe had warned her about when he first saw her.

She couldn’t help it. She knew she wasn’t meant to, but the urge continued to overwhelm her. It was because of the voices, really. The voices that echoed in her head, loomed under her eyelids and whispered softly during the conversations that diagnosed her as perfectly normal, perfectly fine.

No. She wasn’t perfectly fine.

She knew because she’d asked her brothers. She’d asked them years ago when it first started— before their perfect family had reduced to rubble because of her. Abe had reassured her that she was alright, and Albus had echoed the words, but he’d had a bit of a faraway sort of look in his eyes. After dinner, Kendra and Percival Dumbledore had pulled her aside to tell her they were going to visit a specialist at St Mungo's the next day.

She’d heard the muffled shouting from Albus and Abe’s bedroom later, and she’d covered her head with a blanket to block out the noise. It didn’t do much. She wished she could cast a silencing charm, like Albus always did while he was writing, but she couldn’t. She’d tried— said the words and run her hand through the wand movement so many times she could do it in her sleep. But nothing came, no golden rush of magic, nor any ripple in reality.

A shiver brought her back to the chill. Startled, Ariana realised she’d moved again, her skirts spread on the ground and— with a sinking heart, she realised— covering a pile of dirt. They’d done it again, the voices. They had sensed her thinking of them and distracted her while they continued their way through her icy numb fingers that were stained with dirt.

Carefully, she knelt into the hole that she’d dug unconsciously, and— looking up at the grave— whispering a silent apology to Janine Gaunt.

The name sounded familiar along her lips, but she didn’t dwell on it too much. Instead, she dug around in the dark hole, a bare sliver of light from the lamp that burned slowly on the side illuminating a dim shimmer. Frowning, she gently lifted the object out.

A locket.

And a beautiful locket it was— Ariana thought with admiration. It was gold, once probably polished and pretty as a pin, but now slightly tarnished and damp. Still, it had a remarkable elegance.

“Perhaps you should put it on,” the voices whispered, the sound barely heard against Ariana’s heartbeat.

She nearly lifted it to her neck before realising who had spoken and dropping it immediately. No. No, no, no. She couldn’t ever obey the voices. She knew terrible things would happen. For if the voices themselves were terrible, how could anything that they wanted be different?

—

It had been four days since she found the locket, and every day, Ariana had been resisting the urge to go back and pick it up— to fasten it swiftly around her neck and feel its weight.

The voices had been getting stronger, louder. They whispered unintelligibly, consistently flooding her ears with nothingness and stealing her memories. She’d been seeing flashes too lately. Unsettling things. Once, it was a rock she thought was coming at her while out for a walk with Abe. She’d ducked and Aberforth had looked at her oddly. “Ari… there’s nothing here,” he’d said, concern prominent in his voice.

Ariana had laughed awkwardly, pulling her coat around herself. “Of course, Ab. A…a game. That’s all.”

The excuse had been as flimsy as Aberforth’s homework, which had mysteriously gone missing the day before.

A few times, she’d quite literally caught herself heading down the stairs, when just a moment ago she could’ve sworn she was in her room. Albus had given her a weird stare when he passed by, and she was just looking around with a confused look plastered on her face.

And once, at a terribly close moment, she’d closed her eyes and appeared in the graveyard once more, hunched over in the dirt. She could still feel her breath shuddering, the cold of the dirt seeping into her knees as she struggled to her feet, turned back and ran far away.

It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she be normal? Why couldn’t she go to Hogwarts like all the other children, cast a charm and transfigure a desk into a pig? Not stay here, cooped up in the house with a strange attraction to graves and a tired brother that hated looking after her.

“Find the locket, find the locket,” the voices chanted.

“No,” She thought firmly. “Not while I’m still in control.”

That only made the voices laugh harder.

—

The flashes were getting worse. She’d sighted the Grim outside of her window and screamed only two nights before. Albus had burst in, wand out, as she sobbed and pointed at the window.

Nothing had been there.

Albus had dropped his arms in annoyance, sighing resignedly as he left the room. It had been Abe who had crept in a few moments later, hugging her and reassuring her.

Perhaps it was the lack of magical ability that made Abe like her so much. He still had magic, yes, but he certainly wasn’t the best at it. Maybe it was that similarity that made them so close— closer than she’d ever been with Albus.

Though, a week later, Ariana had had enough. The stupid locket was doing too much. She didn’t know what it was, but it was clear that the foreign object was exceedingly important to the voices. That’s how she knew it was bad news.

She snuck out of the house an hour ago. Now, she was slowly walking into the graveyard, a simple silver glow coming from the lamp at her side. “Janine…” she whispered hauntingly, illuminating the graves as she walked. Somehow, it seemed that the grave had disappeared. Which was impossible, of course.

Because if a person is dead, surely they couldn’t just stand and walk away?

Eventually she came to a pause, peering carefully at the rows of graves and appearing to spot a J-A-N-I when—

“Ana?”

She startled, swinging the lamp and stumbling, kicking up a clod of dirt onto the grave behind her and disfiguring the name.

“Al?” she spoke in confusion, her voice startled in a high pitch. There, Albus stood, looking half angry and half incredibly bemused, his friend Gellert by his side. They were quite close, she knew.

Gellert leaned beside him, looking suspicious and confused at the girl. “Ariana, why are you in the graveyard?” he questioned with demand, a tension filling the space between them.

“Don’t answer, don’t answer!” The voices shrieked into her ears.

“I— I fancied a walk,” she said, the words tumbling out. Albus narrowed his eyes at her, and then suddenly, Ariana felt a sucking at her brain which made her stumble, dropping to her knees and shattering the lamp as she clutched at her head.

“What are you doing to me?” she wailed.

Gellert placed an arm on Albus’s shoulder, his expression never changing from that balanced, scaringly normal face. “Al. Don’t.”

Albus glared at her deeply, but the feeling— the pain, it stopped. “You’ve been digging up graves?” he hissed angrily. “And the voices are back? You were supposed to tell me if they were back!”

“No! Not when you would do— do that!” she cried out in fear, struggling to get up. “What was that, Albus? Was it dark magic?”

“No!” Albus bit out.

“What did you do to her?” A new voice yelled out. Ariana’s favourite voice.

“Abe!” she gasped. Oh, no. Nothing ever went good or right when Abe and Albus argued.

Aberforth turned on Albus and Gellert after helping her up. “You sick bastard,” he hissed. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing!” Albus retorted. “I just– I–”

Aberforth’s eyes went wide. “You used legilimency.”

In all her life, Ariana had never seen Albus look scared. And she had never imagined that she would see it happen because of Aberforth.

“I only— ” he started, but it was too late. Aberforth had already fired a curse, a crackling red stream of light that Albus quickly dodged, his face becoming enraged.

“You dare try and curse me!?” he screamed, firing off rapid spells in quick succession that Aberforth diverted.

“Why are you here?” Aberforth yelled. They were all yelling now.

The voices were cackling. “Yes, yes…let them destroy each other!”

“No!”

“You— ” Aberforth said in between curses. As Albus dodged a deadly green light, Gellert’s expression turned fierce. All of a sudden, he had joined the fight, ugly and ruthless curses being screamed and lightning sharp light bouncing everywhere. It was too much, all of it was too much.

“You’re both dabbling in things that you shouldn’t. The muggles haven’t done anything and now you’re hurting your sister! Once they're gone, there’s no need for her to even be hidden— she can live normally!” Gellert snarled, flinging curses with inhuman speed.

She could sense the perspiration on all three men’s faces. Someone was going to get hurt.

“Albus! Aberforth! Stop it!” she cried out, picking up her skirts in a desperation to move forward through the mix of light.

“Gellert! Please, make them stop!” Ariana pleaded with a sob as she burst into the fray.

She only heard a trembling, horrified scream before dropping to the ground. And just like that, for the first time in years, the voices went silent.

Written by Sara Rowan.
Edited by Daphne Clarke.
Proofread by Hazel Antler.