Chapter Text
At some point, Regulus Black forced his eyes open, blurry vision settling on the dark expansive waters of the lake before him. Gentle waves pushed themselves onto the banks of the small island the boy found himself laying on and they looked green in the glow of the cave, light dancing delicately atop them.
Chaos swam behind his unfocused eyes and the fuzzy edges of his thoughts were ripped apart by an iron grip. His ears rang with shrill furious shrieks, a terribly familiar voice cutting through the haze with painful clarity. Regulus tried to block out the images burning in his mind with clenched eyes. Tried to will his shaking hands to rub the screams (failure! traitor! selfish!) from his ears. But in his mind, he knew only one thing would offer reprieve – and he clawed himself toward it.
His tongue was like sandpaper in his mouth. Potion still coated his throat and burned down into a furious ache in his stomach. He was thirsty. More thirsty than he had ever felt – had any right to be. His hands scraped raw against limestone as Regulus pulled himself to the water’s edge. Unsteady waves met an unsteady hand as he reached out, wishing he had less of his sensibilities, wishing he did not know what lay beneath the surface – salvation and damnation promised in a single breath.
Regulus paused for only a beat before dipping his fingers beneath the glassy surface of the lake – the screams in his head spinning together in a chaotic roar, pounding the inside of his skull. In the next moment, a slimy, spiny hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him forward – beneath the surface.
The world went suddenly and blessedly quiet.
The shock of the cold, icy water hit him first, causing Regulus to gasp – thick murky waters instantly coating his mouth and trickling into his lungs – the burn spreading from his throat into his chest and squeezing painfully. A desperate panic seized him, and he tried to wrench backwards. But Regulus’s world had become raking hands. He was met by a wall of bloated bodies. Cold fingers – dead – wrapped around him – reaching – grasping – burning. Something terrible clawed at his neck – tightening around his throat in a throttling grip, though it made little difference. He peeled open his eyes once more – dark blurry shadows lurked all around him – he squeezed them shut again, a desperate regression to a childish solution – as if darkness or denial offered any protection.
Every moment was filled instinctive pulling – furious thrashing – desperate flailing – pointless attempts to expel the pressure in his lungs, only to be met with more water, more hands, more darkness as he was dragged farther beneath the waves. Regulus could feel his limbs grow heavy, beginning to jerk in their holds, then twitch, then still completely. The darkness that had lingered in the corners of his vision encased it entirely; a final image seared in Regulus’s mind: the white eyes of the dead pulling him closer – deeper – colder.
Then darkness.
Suddenly, Regulus became weightless. The single feeling of a hand tightening on his arm – gripping – pulling – no. The grip was warm, yanking him the other direction – hard.
Regulus broke the surface of the water.
The first desperate bid for air staggered into a coughing fit that Regulus thought might never end, tightening his chest until he wretched up water. He found himself unceremoniously sprawled against something hard. His eyes opened with a salty blur, the sting causing fresh tears to spring in the corners before Regulus clenched them closed again. He could feel his heart thrumming in his head, waves beating relentlessly against the inside of his skull.
“Alrigh’, Alrigh’, give ‘im some room!” A booming voice sounded close to Regulus. Regulus tried to feel the ground beneath him, tried to focus on it – something solid. His fingers dug into a grainy surface with little give and it took him a moment to recognize what it was – wood.
Regulus gasped for air again, realizing for a horrible moment his body had forgotten to breath – forgotten that it must – that it was alive – that he wasn’t dead. Air filled his chest like it had never left – like his own lungs hadn’t just betrayed him. Regulus couldn’t let the breath out, desperation building in his throat like a dam – he couldn’t let go of it – couldn’t move – couldn’t breathe – couldn’t see. Water rushed around his head and the sting in his lungs came back with renewed rigor – burning at the feeling of liquid filling them – each desperate gulp making the pain in his chest tighter and tighter until –
Regulus let out the breath and then gasped in again. Air. In. Out. He was breathing. Great Merlin, he was breathing.
“There yer are,” the voice was still talking above him and a quieter, nervous buzz was fainter in the background, but Regulus could hardly concentrate on it. The rush of blood in Regulus’ ears made bile rise like the tide in his chest.
Regulus pressed the palm of his hand to the solid wood beneath him, holding it there until he stopped shaking, drawing unsteady breaths. There was commotion just beyond the reach of his thoughts, but he had no ability to focus on it. All he could do was stare at his hand pressed against the wood and wait for the storm in his head to settle. Dry air felt cool against Regulus’s skin and he willed himself to hold onto the sensation.
Just as his breath began to even, large hands seized Regulus under his shoulders and pulled him up – away from the floor, making his eyes shoot open and his legs scramble beneath him. Absently, Regulus realized there was something wrong with his body as he stood – he was shorter than he should be, by at least a foot. He had little time to dwell on the observation, though, taking in the sight before him. A huge haggard face half eaten by a bushy brown beard stared worriedly at him, setting him back down on wobbly legs and gripping his shoulders as if to steady him.
“Nothin’ ter worry ‘bout,” the half giant said gruffly. Regulus mouth popped open. His first thought that this was another cruel hallucination from the potion was immediately wiped from his mind as he stared up at the towering figure of Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Even the cruelty of the potion could never dream up something this strange.
“I’m really sorry,” another voice said to Regulus’ left and Regulus whipped his head toward it, stumbling at the sudden movement. A boy, maybe the age of eleven, with sandy blond hair and light brown eyes was staring at Regulus with unabashed concern.
“S’not yer fault,” Hargid said to the boy, though he didn’t seem assuaged by Hagrid’s words one bit. If anything, the boy looked even more miserable. Regulus was struggling to focus on anything over the pounding of his heart in his ears – he was certain his heartbeat had not always been this loud.
“Enchantment mus’ be warin’ off,” Hagrid said, suspiciously eying something behind Regulus. He could barely concentrate on Hagrid’s words, breath once again unsteady and coming out in panic bursts. “Ol’ Dumbledore ‘ill come ter fix it later.”
The boy with sandy hair was staring at Regulus still, distress evident in his expression. Even if Regulus had a desire to mitigate the guilty look, he couldn’t seem to find it in himself to catch his breath, much less form words or coherent sentences.
“Come on,” Hagrid said, patting Regulus on the back hard. Hagrid shot Regulus what might have been an encouraging smile but for the nervous crease on his forehead. “Professor McGonagall can dry yer off up at the castle. Best not linger an’ longer or they’ll start the ceremony without us.”
Regulus’ mind couldn’t seem to catch up to what was happening. Without the salty sting of the water in his eyes, his vision was startlingly clear, crisp, even in the shadows of the night. It was nothing like the blurry film that had been swimming about him – allusions conjured by that wicked potion burning his insides and –
Regulus could not feel the familiar buzz of the potion’s hallucination. The pounding inside his chest was fading to a regular beat, nothing at all like the fearful drum that damnable green liquid had brought. The boy standing to Regulus’s left was pale – but he did not resemble anything near the slimy white bodies of inferi that surrounded him before.
Regulus had been on the train that morning, heading to a house that had long stopped being a home. Heading to death. But no. He had been on the train that morning. Venturing from home for the first time, had he not? Regulus’s brain felt scrambled, shreds of coherent thoughts caught in a storm. He had been on the train to (or from?) …
Regulus stared past the boy, eyes catching on the castle that loomed just beyond the foreground and all at once, his heart ached. No, this wasn’t the potion, but it was just as cruel. It was Hogwarts. Ivy covered towers reaching out and brushing the night sky, a thousand windows, glowing with golden light, like stars that had been pulled to earth.
A hand touched his arm and Regulus flinched away from it, stumbling back on the wood – a dock, he was on a dock – world crashing back to him. The blond boy withdrew his hand hastily, worried look still alight in his eyes.
“Erm, sorry,” he said. Hagrid was already climbing up toward the castle, as if expecting the two boys to simply follow. Regulus stared after the half giant for a moment and then looked back to the blond boy as if expecting some sort of reasonable explanation.
The boy looked familiar, in a distant sense. Not someone Regulus had known, but perhaps someone he should have?
The boy made a jerking movement to follow Hagrid and then stilled, as if realizing Regulus had no intention to do the same. Mind still spinning, reeling from whiplash of this situation, Regulus simply stood there, wishing the pounding of blood in his ears sounded a little less like rushing water.
“And, er, sorry about the boat,” the boy continued, as if thinking it was his uncertain attempt at an apology that was keeping Regulus rooted to his spot. Regulus glanced down instead at his hands, pulling them toward his face. These were not his hands. He looked at the small, nimble fingers in front of him, still rounded with youth. Delicate, without the calluses that would grow around his wand. That morning they had yanked his already packed trunk from the foot of his bed, dragged it down the stairs, and clasped themselves behind his back. They had shaken as he dipped a conjured cup in an unfamiliar green potion. Regulus had no fucking idea if these were his hands or not.
“Never been in one before,” the voice of the boy felt distant now, as Regulus stared at his hands. Small. Like a child’s. There was a sudden lurch in Regulus’ stomach and without thinking he tore at the left sleeve of his cloak, wrenching up the thick wet cloth, peeling it away from his forearm. Pale skin stared back at him, almost glowing in the moonlight.
Pale, unblemished skin.
The boy was still talking, oblivious to the irrevocable and absolute shift of the ground beneath Regulus’ feet. He didn’t know how he was even still standing. “I suppose that might have been why it flipped. I know Hagrid said the enchantment or something was wearing off, but I still feel terrible about it.”
There was no Dark Mark on his arm. Regulus could feel tears spring to his eyes. He ran his fingers across the skin, as if worried that perhaps his eyes were betraying him. But it was smooth.
“Erm, you’re okay, right?” The boy was asking, and Regulus tried desperately to ground his swirling thoughts, even as he gave an absent nod. Okay? Was he okay? He was dead. He is dead? Regulus didn’t know. He should be dead; he was nearly certain. That he was not . . . Regulus didn’t know what to think of it.
He was certainly not okay.
It took a second for Regulus to process all the words the boy had spoken, and he finally followed the boy’s eyes and turned around, glancing at the end of the dock they were standing on. Ten small wooden boats floated in the water, yellow lanterns glowing on the end of them, all except for one that looked like it was turned over. He stared at the boats for a long moment, hoping perhaps that there was another explanation, any explanation other than the one that sprung so readily to his mind. The ceremonial boat ride to Hogwarts that all first years took. The eleven-year-old boy who stood next to him. Hagrid who had towered over Regulus taller than he should, giant blood be damned.
“Is your brother up?” his mother’s cold voice sounded from the doorway.
“Well, I certainly wasn’t talking to myself,” Sirius replied cheerily, and Regulus felt his bones frost over. He scrambled up from Sirius bed and shouldered his way past his brother. Walburga glowered down at them.
“I’m here, mother,” Regulus said quietly, trying to will the tension from the air. Not today, he pled silently. Today was special. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. He was not going to allow it to be ruined because Sirius couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
Walburga stared at him for what felt like forever, dark eyes boring into his own.
“Get dressed,” was all she said, turning on her heels and striding from the room.
Regulus finally let out a breath, life leeching back into the room.
“Good morning to you too,” Sirius grumbled from behind him.
Regulus stared at the sinking boat in the lake, dark waters pooling around it, creeping up the hull, seeming to try to drag it beneath the waves.
Regulus shivered.
“Blimey, you must be freezing!” the boy said, making a jerking motion toward Regulus like he wanted to help but then seeming to think better of it. “We should get up the castle. Maybe get you in new robes or something?”
Regulus turned back to the boy, trying to sort through the mess that was his thoughts. Now that the boy mentioned it, Regulus was cold – he couldn’t stop shivering. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but nothing came out. After a moment of standing there, mouth gaping like a fish, Regulus simply nodded.
The boy flashed a grin and turned toward the school, taking only a few steps before glancing back, as if making sure Regulus was following. Regulus scrambled after him.
“Dirk,” the boy said, glancing over and Regulus just stared at him blankly before realizing it had to be a name. “Cresswell,” he added after a moment.
The name rang a faint bell, but Regulus’ mind was in too much turmoil to sort through it.
“Regulus,” he replied instead.
“Rubeus!” A shrill voice rang out as the boys drew closer to the school, finally catching up to Hagrid’s huge form as the three entered a large courtyard that stood before towering double doors, propped open to allow light to spill into the night.
“Where – oh there they are,” a stern looking woman in emerald green robes was rushing toward them, a severe frown rippling across her otherwise smooth features. She had velvet black hair pinned tightly in a bun.
“Mr. Black, can’t say I’m surprised, and Mr. Cresswell is it not? Come along, now come along,” she circled around the two boys and began ushering them through the large doors and into a wide room with a vast set of moving staircases that stretched upward into the tower above them. The boy next to Regulus paused, jaw gaping at the sight.
“Mr. Black, you are wet,” the woman said, drawing Regulus’ attention back toward her, a surprised look on his face. Wet – he had almost forgotten the water, the endless pressure on his chest, the hands that yanked him every which way but always down – down into the darkness.
The woman pointed her wand at Regulus and before he could manage a flinch, she gave a small flick of her wrist and his clothes immediately warmed and dried, almost lifting from his skin. Warmth spread through him and the feeling seemed to clear his head, a calm he had not thought possible to feel settling over him like a warm blanket.
Minerva McGonagall peered down at him over her square framed glasses, dissatisfaction evident in her leering expression. She pursed her lips, turning to the boy next to Regulus – Cresswell, Regulus reminded himself – and gazed at him with the same unimpressed stare.
“Follow me, then,” she said briskly, giving a sharp turn and leading the two boys into a small room in the offshoot of the Great Hall. Cresswell trailed after her without hesitation but it took Regulus a moment to kick his brain back into action.
He was eleven. He was at Hogwarts. In his first year. About to get sorted. An uneasy feeling rose in Regulus stomach once again as he forced his feet forward after Cresswell and McGonagall.
Regulus felt like he might be sick, the tie around his neck suddenly a noose. His nausea brought the rush of blood between his ears and his thoughts felt like waves crashing over his head. The soft echoes of footfalls sounded like water rasping hungrily against the shore and Regulus forced his eyes closed once again but he could not see anything but the green glow of despair against black water. Could not hear anything except the siren sound of the lake. Could not taste anything except salt thick in the sea air. Regulus feet felt rooted to the floor and he wished he could sink into it. Dread built in his chest. He did not want to go forward. He did not think he could walk into the Great Hall. He did not think he could stand to look at the green and silver trim robes and not think of death.
You will make your family proud, Regulus, his mother had said just this morning. Or perhaps that was seven years ago.
You know what you must do. The wishes of a dead man. Or maybe not.
You know whatever happens tonight, you’ll always be my brother, right? What a terrifyingly simple thing for a child to promise.
He did not know how he was going to survive it.
“Mr. Black,” McGonagall’s impatient voice cut through the spiral of Regulus’s thoughts as she held open the door before him, the dark robes of other first years rustling inside.
Regulus took a deep breath and forced his feet forward, giving the stern woman what he hoped was an apologetic smile. It took all his energy just to put one foot in front of the other, to stare straight ahead, to not collapse where he stood. Regulus could have been imagining it through sheer desperation, but he thought her look softened ever so slightly.
There was a blur of black cloaks and nervous chatter when Regulus entered the small room that the other first years had gathered in. It felt claustrophobically small, his lungs tightening unbiddenly and Regulus forced himself to take another staggering breath.
“Oi, Black!” A voice sounded and Regulus whipped his head toward the sound, stumbling back as he saw a hand reach out toward his arm, flinching. A frown ripples across the face of the boy in front of Regulus – curly brown hair and bright blue eyes pinning him as a Nott. It took Regulus another moment to find his name – Terence?
“Did you really fall into the lake?” a girl nearby asked, joining into the conversation without invitation. Her nose crinkled as she said it, like she too could smell the saltwater that stung on Regulus’s tongue and stifled his breath. Another boy next to her snorted, clearly trying hold back laughter, straw blond hair falling into his face. Regulus’s eyes darted over to him and he froze.
Barty. Regulus’s throat tightened at the sight of his friend – his eleven-year-old friend. The boy looked small – smaller than Regulus remembered, with skinny arms and a thin jawline – both of which Regulus somehow knew would broaden with age. He looked at Regulus with his face pulled into something akin to a sneer, blue eyes darting up and down, taking in the boy in front of him but his gaze missing that familiar spark of recognition.
Regulus knew this boy. He was a complete stranger.
“The boat tipped when I got out,” Cresswell cut in suddenly and Regulus jumped a little, not realizing the other boy was still hovering around. Cresswell’s eyes darted over to Regulus and he tried to give the boy an appreciative smile. “Mr. Hagrid said the enchantment must have worn off.”
The girl snorted in laughter, leaning away from Cresswell and looking him over, nose still pulled like she smelled something rotten.
“Yes, well if Mr. Hagrid said that,” she repeated derisively and Nott next to her barked out a laugh. Regulus could see Cresswell’s cheeks redden, confusion on where he stepped wrong evident in his gaze.
“Bet he’s a mudblood,” Nott mock whispered to the girl. “Even the enchanted boats are confused by his magic.” Both erupted in laughter at that and started to turn away, evidently boring of the conversation. Regulus barely glanced over, barely heard anything they had said. He was still staring at Barty, mouth half open but mind completely blank, searching for something to say to his old friend.
“Come on, Reg. Smile for once in your life. We’ve made it,” Barty teased, the rumble of the Hogwarts Express starting beneath their feet. Regulus let his friend pull him into an empty compartment on the train.
“Proper adults. NEWTs behind us. Graduated.” Barty’s voice lowered, “on the path to doing great things.” Regulus only offered a weak smile, nausea settling over his stomach.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how strange you’ve been acting,” Barty’s voice was light but tinged with real concern, eyes narrowing.
“I’m just,” Regulus forced out, gesturing vaguely. “Thinking.”
Barty rolled his eyes. “Oh, bother. What have I told you about doing that?”
Young Barty turned away, oblivious to the memory circling in Regulus’s mind, movement in the front of the room drawing his eyes. Regulus could feel the moment slipping through his fingers, the urge to reach out and grab this boy’s arm – the gut-wrenching desire to pull back, to run away, to get as far from this confrontation as he could. Regulus’s mouth felt dry.
And then, in an instant, the moment passed, and the doors in front of them pulled open and the relative quiet of the room was met by the din of the Great Hall. The tall form of Professor McGonagall walked primly through the doors, leading the other first years who fell into something resembling a line, trailing after her and glancing around the glowing golden walls in wonder.
Regulus could hear his heart pounding again in his ears and the sound of waves crashing against rocks filled the inside of his skull. His legs felt shaky beneath him as he forced himself forward, falling into the crowd. Barty fell a few people ahead of him, saying something the girl behind him briefly, gaze down and voice lowered. Regulus followed the sandy blond hair – Cresswell, Regulus remembered – in front of him, trying to pull his mind to the present. Trying to make sense of the scene playing out in front of him.
Regulus could feel his hands tremble and he clenched them in tight fists. He barely glanced around the Hall, ceiling showcasing stars that glow like fireflies against the vaulted walls of a tomb. He couldn’t make out the murmurs of the student body, so similar to the sound of liquid lapping against porous stone and he had to tell himself he was imagining the steady dripping noise coming from somewhere off to his left.
Without intention, without even thinking about it, Regulus’s gaze drifted over to the table to the far right, red and gold banners hovering above it, the crimson gleam of trimmings sparkling against the golden walls of the Great Hall, a sea of excited chatter lost in the din. Regulus’s eyes immediately find his own pale grey gaze staring back at him.
Sirius.
Regulus’s breath caught and he suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. Sirius’s slightly curious face melted into something akin to concern and the pit in Regulus’s stomach only grew worse at the sight.
The last time he had seen Sirius . . . the last time he had seen him there was smoke and rubble and terrible words between them and as much as his traitorous eleven-year-old self wanted to run over and grab on to Sirius’ robes, he forced his feet to stay. That smoke was only the air at King’s Cross, that rubble just the gravel underfoot, those words only of farewell. I can find the compartments myself. I am not incapable. Regulus’s heart was pounding again, and he desperately wanted to glance away, to shake that piercing grey gaze from his mind. But he couldn’t.
A boy with sandy brown hair and hard scars across his face leaned close to Sirius, whispering something Regulus had no chance to hear, even without the roar of the ocean back in his ears. Regulus thought he might always hear the crashing waves of the sea in his mind, always choke on the wet sting of salt as he breathes. Sirius’s lips twitched up in a smile and he fell into a small laugh, shoving the other boy away. Lupin. Remus Lupin. And Regulus somehow knew that he was looking at the sharp face of an apex predator, hidden beneath the skin of a twelve-year-old-boy. There was a stab of longing in his chest he refused to acknowledge.
Sirius glanced back to Regulus and gave him an encouraging smile; one the younger boy could not find it in himself to return. A terrible, horrible, longing that he had no right to feel pulsed in his chest. Regulus must force himself to glance away because he knew by the end of the day the two boys would be back into their rolls as Family Disgrace and Dutiful Heir, cast upon them ever since Sirius first donned that blasted lion’s crest.
Perhaps he was dead. Maybe this was hell. It was this thought that gave Regulus the strength to walk down the isle of the Great Hall, to steel himself against the roar of waves, to swallow the lingering salt still coating his cheeks.
Regulus had faced down death itself and came out the other side. He knew what awaited him. A creaking boat. A small island. A green potion.
Regulus’s mind snapped back to the present when gasps filled the Great Hall surrounding him. Dumbledore had long since ended his welcoming speech and a hat – the Sorting Hat, of course, Regulus reminded himself – finished off his own song, ending in a roar of laughter and applause that sounded far too much like crashing waves for Regulus to do anything but clap mutely along.
At last, he forced his gaze away from Sirius and toward the front of the room, where McGonagall held the dilapidated Hat with an impressive measure of prestige.
Regulus just had to remember that he was nothing more than a dead man walking, even without the Mark that burned across his forearm as if he were nothing more than chattel. He was already as damned as he was at eighteen – at sixteen – at eleven and if he had to do it all again, for the first time, then that was simply what had to be done.
Another deep breath.
“Abbott, Henry!” was the first name to be called and Regulus felt a rush of trepidation, wondering if he would be able to keep his feet steady when he climbed those steps to sit under the Hat.
“HUFFLEPUFF” the Hat shouted a moment later, long before Regulus was able to find his nerve and he tried for another steady breath, hoping tension would, at some point, morph into cool, steely determination.
“Aubrey, Bernadette” was sorted into “RAVENCLAW” almost immediately and the thrum of Regulus’ heart picked up again as the croaky voice of the Hat rang out, “Black, Regulus!”
There was no grainy soft wood beneath him to press against, no time to make sure his even breath didn’t hitch into something more shaky, no cold air to ground him, so Regulus forced a blank mask to fall upon his face as he climbed the steps to where the Sorting Hat sat and told himself his legs didn’t feel like jelly and his hands weren’t shaking as he slid onto the small stool and let the old hat get placed upon his head.
Perhaps this was simply his life. A peak into what awaited him. A dare to see if he would still do it. Still make every mistake, every terrible choice, just so he could eventually make the right one.
Regulus forced his gaze to the floor, ringing ears dimming to silence. For a moment, Regulus was only surprised he had made it to the seat. Then, a hoarse voice whispered in his ear.
Oh dear, the Hat said. Well, this is certainly different.
You have to sort me in Slytherin, Regulus thought harshly. I have something that I must do.
Yes, yes, I see it here, the Hat said. A cave. A lake. A green potion.
The white arms of death.
Regulus felt ill. Something you must do you say? Why must you be the one to do it? The Hat questioned.
Regulus fought down a rush of irritation. His heart was pounding, and he didn’t know why this blasted hat was making this so difficult. It is my duty. My destiny.
The Hat seemed taken aback by the response. You presume much if you presume to know your destiny, it finally mused, though the Hat did not seem offended by Regulus’s claim. To the contrary it sounded almost . . . thoughtful. Your destiny is to die? The Hat challenged.
Yes, Regulus steeled himself with a deep breath. We all die anyway. This is the only way to defeat him. I must destroy the locket.
Regulus kept his gaze glued to the floor, but he could feel tension bubbling in the air around him.
The Hat hummed in disapproval. Bright, you’ve a sharp mind. You’re no stranger to loyalty either. Though, I suppose considering how you die, Hufflepuff might not be the house for you after all. Regulus’s breath stuttered at the words. The Hat continued, You would do well in Ravenclaw, though, it said. Clever, a strategist to the bone. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be placed there?
Regulus considered and dismissed the thought in the same moment. No, he thought, pushing down something that was dangerously close to regret. He prayed the Hat did not see it. I have a job to do. No matter if it scares me. I must be in Slytherin.
The Hat was quiet for a moment. You know you will die there, and you are willing to do it anyway?
Regulus felt himself growing truly impatient now. Yes, he bit out. It is worth it. I don’t care. Regulus clenched his fists to stop them from shaking, clamping to his side and hoping they did not give him away.
That fear you are pushing down is a powerful tool. The Hat said. Regulus felt his cheeks burn, irritation again sparking at being so easily read. Some use it to wield power, but I don’t think you are interested in that. No. Daring, with a fair bit of nerve. You don’t let anyone sway you from what you believe, the Hat said smugly. Regulus felt a flicker of unease and had just enough time to desperately think –
Don’t you dare –
before the Hat bellowed, better be –
“GRYFFINDOR!”