Instalment 11

When he was summoned, all he felt was numbness. Where there should have been anger or denial there was simply emptiness. Throughout his meeting with the Dark Lord, he nodded and gestured his agreement, but the entire time he knew he ought to be feeling something. Rage, pain, something. Something that would prove he had a heart. Anything but this all-consuming hollowness.

"Your wife was a loyal follower." His master's voice broke through the indifferent shell, and Regulus finally felt something. Henrietta had been more than just his wife; she had been his best friend. And she had worshipped the man in front of him and he didn't even know her name. For the first time since the fight, Regulus felt something. A shard of anger flashed within him.

"She was, my Lord."

"I understand the auror was your brother."

Another flash of anger. It was true, but it wasn't Sirius' fault. When Regulus' mask had fallen, Sirius had hesitated, faltered, his spell ricocheting off, to where Henrietta had been standing. Regulus had heard his brother swear, saw him stumble backwards, dropping his wand. By rights, Regulus should have hurt Sirius. But his brother had spared him, and Regulus felt he at least owed him the same.

"I need your elf."

And that was it. Less than twenty words said about Henrietta, the woman who had died for their cause, the woman who had been carrying his child, the woman who had held him when he was scared. Regulus felt the anger swelling up within, realising in that instant that this man didn't care about them. They were his tools to create a future built on bloodshed. Nothing more. They weren't friends or colleagues or partners. They were weapons, slaves. As he left the chamber, he let himself think about the people who would have to die for their vision. Not just the mudbloods, not just the muggles, not just the squibs. But the believers as well. The crusaders.

Once he was back at his childhood home, he ran to what had been his father's study. He traced the family tree, looking at the burn marks. He allowed himself to think of Andromeda, the cousin who had left when he was too young to understand why, the cousin who had escaped, the cousin whose child would be killed if Voldemort succeeded. He allowed himself to think of Sirius, the brother who had tried to fight for him, the brother who couldn't kill him even though he was the enemy, the brother who had picked the right side. Finally, he traced the tree to his own name and Henrietta's next to his and then to the empty space where their child's name would have gone. What if he had been a squib? Regulus couldn't have killed his son. And then, unbidden, the faces of all the children he had slaughtered flooded his mind. All those children who wouldn't have fitted into his perfect world. Tears began to roll down his cheeks as he realised exactly what he had done. By the time he had regained control of himself he knew what he had to do. And it meant sending Kreacher with his fallen master.