Chapter Text
The cavern smelled of salt and decay, of old magic and death. The air, thick with dampness, clung to his skin like a second layer, cold and unyielding. His breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling. Not from fear or pain, but from something deeper.
(Something heavier.)
A kind of weariness that settled into his bones, that made him wonder how much of himself had already died before he even stepped into this forsaken place. The locket was clutched tightly in his fingers, the metal biting into his palm. A useless thing, heavy with curses, with whispers of torment, with the unbearable weight of the soul it contained. He had done what he came to do.
He had stolen what the Dark Lord thought untouchable, defied the one who saw himself as invincible. And now he would pay the price.
He had known, of course, that there was no escape. Even before he forced the vile potion down his throat, before his vision blurred and his limbs trembled, before his mind shattered into something raw and broken, he had known.
(Knowing did not make it easier.)
His thoughts, fevered and erratic, drifted to those he had left behind. The ones who had once been his world, before the war had carved them apart like flesh beneath a blade.
She would have understood. She always understood. His soul-sister, with her too-bright mind and knowing eyes, the only one who ever truly saw him. She would have laughed (softly, sadly) and told him she saw this coming. That she had known he was never meant to walk the same path as the others.
(Would she cry when she heard about thhis?)
(Or would she simply close her eyes and whisper his name to the wind, already mourning someone she lost long before this night?)
He thought of another, his brother in all but blood, the one who had once sworn to follow him anywhere. This betrayal would not be forgiven. Anger would eclipse grief, fury burning away sorrow. To him, this would be cowardice. Weakness.
(And perhaps, in a way, he would be right.)
But he had never been brave, had he?
Not like his brother, who had walked away so easily, and now he had a new family, a new brother.
Not like the girl who had stood tall, with her red hair moving to the sound of the wind, despite all the world had thrown at her.
Not even like the other, who now chased glory on a battlefield, fearless, reckless and foolish.
Oh, he hoped nothing happened to him. It was a selfish thought, a childish wish, but he clung to it nonetheless. He had lost too much already.
(He could not bear the thought of losing more.)
The water lapped at the edges of the cavern, dark and waiting. He knew what was coming. He could hear them, shifting beneath the surface, hungry and patient. The Inferi. Cold, dead hands waiting to drag him under, to pull him into the abyss.
The thought did not terrify him as it should.
(Perhaps because he had been drowning for years already.)
He thought of her, one last time, the girl with fire in her veins, the one who once called him friend. Would she mourn him, too? He doubted it. She had looked at him with disappointment for so long now.
(He had made his choice, after all.)
(He had followed orders.)
(He had bowed his head, spoke the words, and bore the mark.)
But it had never been his choice, had it?
It had been decided for him before he was even old enough to understand. It had been carved into his skin with every whisper of family duty, every reminder of what was expected of him. He had worn his shackles well, never once daring to break them. Until now, and the irony was not lost on him. He had spent his life following, obeying, doing what was asked of him. And in the end, the only real choice he ever made was the one that would kill him.
His body ached. His mind, already fraying at the edges, slipped further, drowning in memories.
Mother's voice, sharp and cold. Father’s silence, heavy with disappointment. The laughter of those who had once been his friends, now nothing more than echoes of a past life.
The locket pulsed in his grip before he gave it to his house-elf, who disappeared with just a second of hesitation.
He had done it.
He had stolen from the Dark Lord.
He had defied the one who thought himself eternal.
(And though he would not live to see it, though no one would ever know what he had done, it was enough.)
He let out a breath, slow and unsteady, before the grisly skeletal hands came, clawing, pulling, dragging him beneath the surface.
And Regulus Arcturus Black drowned.