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To live in a memory is to live alone. Tom Riddle knew this when he embedded a piece of himself in his old, leather diary.
It hadn’t bothered him at the time, the concept of loneliness. For his entire life, he had been alone—a boy in the shadows, a phantom amidst sheep. Yet, he also hadn’t known that same diary would be left on a dusty bookshelf in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.
As he lies dormant, he wonders if his living self knew truly what he was giving to the wretched woman that’s stuffed him here. Splitting the soul had been a mere tool, after all, the key to certain immortality and nothing more. He cared little about those splintered parts of himself once he created them. Their safety was pertinent for one reason alone.
Tom, only a memory, was a spare.
He lingers in the pages, trapped.
Almost two years have passed since Regulus Black took the Dark Mark—though it often doesn’t seem like it.
Once again, the Dark Lord’s Inner Circle meets at his table, only for Cousin Bellatrix to shoo him away the moment the topic skirts important business. He turns to his mother, hoping she will attest to his loyalty, but she presses her lips together and gives him a stern nod.
Over and over again, he’s proven himself to her. Over and over again, she chooses Bellatrix.
Knowing he’ll pay the price for eavesdropping, he scales the stairs and slips into his father’s study. Parchments and open books lay strewn across the desk near the old oil lamp, splattered with his father’s messy notes and drunken ink spills. Regulus resists the urge to snoop; his father has a penchant for casting Anti-Sneaking Charms on everything he owns. Regulus learned this the hard way when he was a boy, and a big, black “X” marked his forehead for the better part of a summer.
Instead, he sits on the floor and rifles through the bookshelves.
He’s read the majority of the tomes here, from Bolivian Blood Curses to Hexes of the House Black and most things in between. School breaks were for learning the other side of magic, his mother had always said, and he was keen to fulfill her wishes, so he did just that, soaking up every word he could.
His professors called these spells the Dark Arts. His mother ensured him there was no Light, nor Dark, only magic and those bright enough to learn its every form. Under her roof, he was even encouraged to practice, in spite of his age—and he did, though often not on the targets of her choice. Jinxing his brother was out of the question. Cursing Kreacher made him feel ill.
Spells of Great Harm: Ninth Edition glints gold lettering at him. It was from this book that he learned his first hex. His mother asked him to perform it on a stray cat in the garden.
He frowns.
Shoved between two fading titles is a leather-bound book with no title at all.
Curiosity gets the best of him. He pulls it out and opens it, only to discover the pages are entirely blank.
Confused, he leafs through, wondering if perhaps it was a messy grimoire, penned rushedly on whichever page its owner opened to. He had seen such things, after all, lying unused in the shelves in his Aunt Druella’s library.
Alas, there is nothing.
Dismayed, he begins to close it—until neat, spidery handwriting materializes on the page.
Hello.
Never in his life has a book greeted him like this, and on these shelves, it could mean anything. A trial to harness incredible power, an old ancestor attempting to contact him. The possibilities are endless.
Heart hammering, he scrambles to his father’s desk to find a quill and ink, resolved to wear an “X” on his forehead for the rest of his life, if he has to. In deep blue, he scribbles his response.
Hello. Who is this?
His nerves are alight as he waits for another reply, hoping with all hopes this isn’t some sort of trick. It would be just like Sirius and his little friends to leave a prank to waste his precious time, laughing to themselves about Sirius’s pathetic, Death Eater brother nosing about in strange books.
My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?
The name is familiar, as though it’s been whispered in corners he’s never quite been invited to. Yet, he cannot pin how he knows it. Nevertheless, he feels compelled to tell Tom Riddle every detail about himself, every modicum of what makes him interesting, because he must admit, he doesn’t think there’s much.
In fact, this moment is the most excitement he’s felt in ages.
He tells Tom his full name and ancestry, that he’s just graduated from Hogwarts and has no plans of working a job, but rather committing fully to a cause most important to him. Tom is something of an extraordinary conversationalist, for he knows just what to say and precisely when to say it.
Regulus hasn’t known a friend like this in all his life.
I’d really like to meet you, Tom.
Anxious, he awaits a reply.
Tom may simply be polite and charismatic, and the likelihood of that is quite high, as it seems impossible he could care so deeply about what Regulus has to say. The only living thing that’s ever truly listened to him is Kreacher, and Kreacher is an elf. It’s his job to listen.
I can bring you here, if you like.
Regulus turns to look at the door behind him. The Inner Circle is two floors away, and there’s no saying when they may suddenly need him. He isn’t meant to abandon his post—not when war looms so near.
His mother’s voice rings in his ears, shrill reminders to serve the Dark Lord at all costs, even when he doesn’t want to.
He slams the book shut.
Tom Riddle must wait.
Merciless ennui has finally met its end.
The youngest of Walburga’s boys, Regulus, has discovered Tom in an unexpected turn of events, and Tom is suddenly thrust into a feeling he hasn’t known in some time: intrigue.
Unlike his mother, Regulus knows when to speak and when to listen. He chooses his words thoughtfully, penning them with as much care as Tom pens his own, and while he is proficient in the Dark Arts, he cares not about power, but about finding his place.
Tom cannot relate to that, for he has always known his place, but there is no lordship in his world, no way to fulfill his ambitions.
He merely floats on old, unchanging memories, repeatedly watching the same picture film until it drives him to certain madness.
So when Regulus wants to meet, Tom is eager.
It’s days later when he receives a response.
I’m sorry about before. There was something important happening and I couldn’t slip away. I’d still like to meet you, if you’re open to it. I can fly, or Floo.
Tom informs him that such measures won’t be necessary. Memories are intricate magic, and as a Horcrux, Tom has learned his powers stretch far beyond that of the average stoppered strand—especially when he’s on his own, away from the prying eyes of his ever-present peers and professors.
Of course, there’s no sense in telling Regulus everything before he even arrives. For now, to the youngest Son of Black, Tom is just another wizard, capable of unusual magic not so different from his own.
Preying on gullibility is one of Tom’s more common tactics. Strangely, it feels different this time.
I’m willing to try it. I’m eager to see you, Tom.
The energy it takes to create the portal is immense, but Tom forces through the pain, gritting his teeth to complete the spell. The atmosphere above opens, melting away at the edges like opalescent flame.
Regulus Black is pulled inside, and within seconds, the two young men are in Tom’s quarters.
“Hello, Regulus.”
“Tom,” Regulus breathes, dumbstruck. “I erm—I didn’t realize—”
“It’s complex magic,” Tom interrupts. “It’s wonderful to meet you, at last.”
“Yes, you too,” Regulus says quietly, though he doesn’t sound as though he means it. He looks around the dormitory and draws his eyebrows together. “I guess I didn’t know you were still a student.”
“I’m afraid my story is more complicated than that.” Tom gestures to the nearby armchair. “Please, do sit.”
Regulus does as he’s told.
Tom watches him with interest as he folds his legs and laces his hands, that same proper way Walburga always does. He is rather handsome—an unlikely result of two cousins marrying, though the House of Black is known for their looks.
His mother was beautiful too, until one got to know her.
“Are you a professor, then?” Regulus asks.
“Someday, I hope to be,” Tom replies smoothly. “Goals are important, wouldn’t you say?”
“Incredibly important."
"You have your own, yes?"
Regulus nods. "As I explained before, I’m married to a cause most dear to myself and to my family. I've been training for it all my life."
“Tell me more about this cause.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Regulus replies, seriously.
“I see.” Tom hums. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has been fighting for the same cause for centuries; it’s how he enticed them to join him in the first place. Little do they know, he’s actually a half-blood. “You know, your mother, Walburga—she was quite involved in a cause too.”
“You know my mother?”
“Naturally. We were in the same house in my time. She was a year or two above me, of course."
Regulus stands and raises his wand. He's suddenly the boy that mastered the Unforgivable Curses before his fifth year, rather than the simpering hopeful he's come to know. He would lose to Tom in a duel if it came to it, but Regulus Black has heart. His chest heaves as he asks, “Who are you?”
“Tom Riddle, as I’ve already said.”
Trembling, Regulus keeps the wand aimed at him, prepared to do his worst if he must. Tom finds it particularly amusing.
“Now, now, Regulus, there’s no sense in that,” he tuts. “After all, I believe it’s my cause you follow—assuming dear Walburga didn’t stray from her ideals over the past few decades.”
Regulus stares at him, mouth ajar.
He lowers his wand.
“My Lord?”
“Indeed,” Tom replies. “Of course, the version of me you know is different than myself, so it’s fair you didn’t recognize me. This me, however, is a memory, a piece of a single soul stashed away in my boyhood diary.” His smirk grows, toothy as ever. “How lucky it was you to find it.”
“I—I don’t understand,” Regulus stammers. “I’ve heard rumors, but—but I didn’t know—”
“Some are likely true, others less so. That’s the funny thing about rumors, isn’t it?” Tom stands and approaches the other young man, unruly thoughts spinning in his lonely head. “I think you ought to visit often, Regulus Black.”
And he does.
Only fueling Tom’s fascination, Regulus returns nearly every day for weeks. All things that Tom wants, he finds a way to have, and Regulus Black is no different. Their connection supersedes planes of being, and as Tom prepares tea, he gazes into eyes of silver, plotting his next move.
“I must inquire, why do you choose to see me here instead of out there?”
Regulus flushes. “Well, erm—I’m not—I’m not what you call Inner Circle. Essentially, you’ve not yet decided—”
“—that I can trust you, yes, I’m familiar with the term. I coined it when I was fourteen.” Tom hands Regulus a teacup and sits beside him on the bed. “I assume, then, that you now understand that what happens here doesn’t change the me in your world, and that whatever happens here stays between us.”
“Of course, My Lord, I would never betray you!”
Tom nods and brushes an errant hair from Regulus’s face. His eyes travel to pink lips as he whispers, “Good.”
“You’re to join us this evening,” Cousin Bellatrix barks.
Regulus glances up at her from over the edge of A Thousand and Two Poisons, astonished. She was nearly silent coming into the dining room, but it’s not her presence that surprises him.
The meeting tonight is meant for the Inner Circle alone, which means—
“He invited me?” he breathes.
“He’s planning something for you. You’re not to ask any questions,” she explains, sounding most irate. She seizes an apple from the fruit bowl. “Embarrass me and I’ll flay you alive.”
With that, she saunters out of the room, leaving Regulus to wonder if, perhaps, the Tom in his world knew more than his Tom realized.
“You were right about him not knowing me like you do,” Regulus laments. He lays across Tom’s bed, his hair mussed and his robes hanging loose.
If he spoke of any other subject, Tom may have lost his sense of control and taken him right there, but he speaks of the other Tom—Voldemort—and he cannot help his jealousy. So often, Regulus speaks highly of his other self—the version that pays the boy no attention at all.
This is their world.
Voldemort left them both destitute.
“Elaborate.”
“I was finally invited to an Inner Circle meeting,” Regulus explains. “They talked as if I wasn’t there the whole time. I kept looking at him, wondering if maybe he’d remember me . . . I know you said he wouldn’t but . . . it’s well beyond strange, sitting at a table with a man I talk to every day! He looks different, sure, but under all that, I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought . . . I guess that maybe somehow it all connected.”
“As I told you before, it doesn’t,” Tom says impatiently.
“But it makes no sense. If you’re him in 1944, how is it he doesn’t remember everything happening here? I’m basically in another timeline, right? A memory?”
“You’re in a memory,” Tom replies. “That doesn’t mean you’ve time-traveled.”
“So if you’re his memory, why doesn’t he remember everything you do?”
“Because I split away from him long ago. I am but a fragment of soul,” Tom whispers. He tilts his head to look down at Regulus. On the edge of the bed, he has the perfect vantage point, a position from which he can do anything he pleases, but it isn’t that type of power he craves. No, the power he wants over Regulus Black goes much deeper than that, permanent and calculated. “A fragment stored away, meant only for you.”
Regulus looks up at him, his eyes wide and metallic.
“For me?”
Tom nods and leans down, pressing his cool lips to the other young man's, drinking him in like buttered rum, sugar-laden and punishing. At once, Regulus reciprocates, threading long fingers into Tom’s curls.
Power has never felt so sweet.
Cousin Bellatrix arrives hours before the meeting. Her mood is more erratic than usual, and she flounces and storms around Number Twelve, a bottle of merlot in hand. One moment, she's cooing compliments; the next, she barks indignation. By dinnertime, she’s kicked Kreacher twice.
Something is amiss.
“I do suspect Bellatrix has something she isn’t sharing,” Regulus’s mother mutters, her arms folded as she glares across the sitting room. Bellatrix lounges in her line of vision, draining the last of her wine. “Prepare yourself, my son. The Dark Lord confides in her before all others.” She sniffs. “Especially lately.”
Regulus buries his aimless envy and awaits the others. It's nightfall when they arrive.
"As you all know," says the Dark Lord, "Albus Dumbledore has been recruiting."
"Filthy blood traitors and Mudbloods," Bellatrix scoffs drunkenly.
"Powerful witches and wizards," he admonishes. "They will put up a worthy fight." His ruby eyes scan the table, as though determining who of his followers is serious about the cause. Lucius Malfoy straightens his spine. "That is why we must remove their leader."
"Please, My Lord, let me," begs Bellatrix. "It would be my greatest honor!"
He holds up a hand.
"No, Bellatrix. As you know, I've made my decision." An evil smirk stretches across his face. "This mission is for Young Regulus."
Dumbstruck, Regulus turns to his mother for direction, to understand what this all means. She's gone white as the tablecloth.
"You will kill Albus Dumbledore," he says at last. "And you will do it alone."
Tom pales.
"He asked you to kill Dumbledore ?"
"I'm meant to do it before month-end."
"And you're to receive no help at all?" Tom presses, violence in his tone, knowing good and well there's little he can do. "Not even Walburga?"
"He explicitly said I'm to go alone," Regulus answers. "I haven't the faintest idea where even to start, let alone defeat the man."
Tom balls a fist. While he knew Voldemort wasn't partial to Regulus, he hadn't expected a death warrant. There is no world in which Regulus Black can win a duel against Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort is acutely aware of this, because Tom is aware of this.
Dumbledore is the only man he daren’t fight himself.
"He wants you dead," Tom whispers.
Regulus takes a stuttering breath and nods. He knows.
"I was afraid of that . . ." he says softly. "I think my mother knows too. She's been crying all night."
Tom takes Regulus's hand in his own, and presses his lips to it. Their world is crumbling.
He must keep it whole.
"I fear, sweet Regulus, things are changing."
"I fear it too."
Something drastic must be done—something Tom never thought he would consider.
"Your brother, Sirius," he starts, "he is on their side, is he not?"
"Yes, but he won't help me kill him . . ." Regulus draws his eyebrows together, as though he'a realizing something for the very first time. "In fact, I'm rather certain he'd kill me first."
"You aren't asking him to assist you with the assassination. What you need, my darling, is protection."
"From Dumbledore?"
Tom shakes his head grimly.
"From Voldemort."
There has never been a decision more difficult than the one Regulus faces now.
Since he was a boy, his mother preached never-ending loyalty to the Dark Lord, to follow him even if it means certain death.
Now, the Dark Lord himself—or a version of him—is begging for his betrayal.
Albus Dumbledore is the only wizard the Dark Lord fears. How is Regulus Black, a wiry youth of eighteen, supposed to kill him?
His mother is just as unsure as he is.
"Perhaps, you can find him asleep," she suggests, but her voice cracks. "The man can't withstand Avada Kedavra , and you know the spell."
Regulus does know the spell. He's been using it on insects since he was twelve.
Albus Dumbledore, however, is not an insect. He's one of the greatest wizards in history.
"I don't think I can do it, Mother."
He whispers his admission, petrified of how she may respond.
She only pats his hand.
"It is your task, my dear. You know what will happen if you do not complete it."
Regulus nods.
She sucks in a shaking breath, and it's the first time in years that Regulus has felt her pain. It's palpable in the air, like shattered glass pricking his skin.
"Very well," she says softly. "You'll tell him tonight."
All eyes are on Regulus. The Inner Circle awaits his news.
"It's my understanding you have something to share, Young Regulus," lilts the Dark Lord. "Please, do enlighten us."
Regulus glances to his mother for support. She gives him a small nod.
Bellatrix watches from across the table, idly toying with her wand. It's an obvious threat, but Regulus knows there's no alternative. Lying isn't an option, and attempting to kill Dumbledore isn't either.
He can only face the consequences.
He clears his throat.
"I erm—I'm afraid I'm unable to complete my mission," he announces.
The Dark Lord stares, a silent rage stirring in the air around him. The other Death Eaters all eye and elbow each other, preparing for what's to come next.
Bellatrix stands first, slamming her palms against the table. Her wand sounds sharply against the wood.
"HOW DARE YOU?" she bellows. "How dare you fail this task? I'm ashamed to share blood with you, you're a blight on the House of Black! He bestowed you with the greatest honor ever given! You've squandered it! You've—"
"I can handle this myself, Bellatrix," the Dark Lord warns.
She sits down, embarrassed tears brimming in her eyes.
"I'm sorry, My Lord."
The Dark Lord folds his hands.
"You know the consequences of failing a task, within these ranks," he says softly.
Regulus gulps.
He knows. He braces himself.
The Dark Lord speaks again.
"Walburga, it will be you, carrying out the curse tonight."
Bellatrix cackles with glee. Lucius Malfoy smirks. Snape's lip curls. Orion Black, Regulus's own father, mutters in agreement.
His mother, on the other hand, freezes.
The atmosphere has a terrible, sudden heaviness, and Regulus feels as though he's going to be sick all over his own table. Torture is fair in this world—punishment for cowardice and failure. But his mother has no part in this, she's the reason he came forward. He wouldn't have, had he known—
The Dark Lord watches her, impatient.
"We are waiting, Walburga."
"I—but—" She swallows hard. "Yes, all right."
She trembles as she lifts her wand, and Regulus knows what's to come. Her pain radiates from her.
"I'm sorry, my son."
The Cruciatus Curse leaves a stain.
It stains the soul of any who casts it, and all who receive it, a pinprick of fear and agony that lingers for weeks, sometimes years, sometimes to certain madness, and even death itself.
Regulus fears his mother has cursed herself, just as much as she cursed him.
He limps to his father's study.
Only one man can balm his wounds, and for all that Tom Riddle says that he isn't, he is more.
He is comfort and power, he is warmth and icy vengeance. He is all the things Regulus wishes he could be, and all the things he thought the Dark Lord was .
He was wrong.
The Dark Lord left the best of himself in a diary in a bookshelf at Number Twelve.
Regulus reaches for where he last left it—the same place he first found it, in order to keep his father off his trail. He frowns. The book that's there has lettering on the frayed spine.
He panics and starts to search frantically, desperate for even a moment away from this feeling in his gut, away from reality, but the diary is nowhere, it's lost, it's—
"Master Regulus?"
Wild-eyed, Regulus whips to see Kreacher, rocking back and forth on tiny heels. Concern lines his deep, wrinkled brow.
"Kreacher," he breathes. "Kreacher, tell me, have you seen a book? A leather one, with no title."
Kreacher looks confused, then nods.
"As a matter of fact, Kreacher did see a book like that."
"Where?" Regulus splutters. "Where is it?"
"Lucius Malfoy left with it, nearly an hour ago."
"Brother."
His voice is stilted. Tobacco smoke billows into the air through cracked lips.
"Hello, Sirius. Ahem. It's good to see you."
Sirius hollows his cheeks around his cigarette, then tosses it to the ground. He's displeased, distant.
"Suppose it would be." He sniffs. "You need help."
Sirius warned him this would happen. Regulus had always denied it, but this is the moment his brother had foreseen far before they were edging into war.
Regulus must admit his faults. He forces a nod.
"Yes," he says, his voice small.
"Right. Well, I'll set up a meeting. I can't guarantee they'll go for it, though. You're Inner Circle now, little brother. It isn't as simple as it was before."
"I can only ask that you try."
Sirius plucks another cigarette from his pack. It's a Muggle brand. Their mother would curse him for less, but Regulus utters not a word.
Blood traitors are his allies now.
"That bad, is it?" Sirius asks.
"I wouldn't be alive if it were any worse."
The stories of Alastor Moody ring true. He is scarred and puffy-faced, with wild hair and a permanent scowl. He glowers down at Regulus.
"How do we know you aren't here at the behest of your master?" he growls.
"Because he is here alone, Alastor," Dumbledore says.
"Doesn't mean they ain't coming! Could be leading them all right to us!"
"I assure you he isn't," Dumbledore replies calmly.
"You don't know that, Albus. You're too trusting."
Dumbledore tips his head, gazing at Regulus over half-moon spectacles. "Young Regulus was presented with an opportunity to climb Voldemort's ranks. He is here because he chose not to seize that opportunity."
Regulus isn't sure how Dumbledore could know this, as he hasn't even detailed this information to Sirius.
It must be intuition.
"Is that so?" Moody asks, curious.
"Yes, Alastor, it is. Voldemort ordered him to kill me. Regulus chose not to, and he faced great recourse."
Regulus frowns. He doesn't feel the sting of Legilimency, but the old man knows more than he should.
Perhaps, it doesn't matter.
He's here for help, and nothing more.
"To kill you!" Moody exclaims. "And you agreed to meet him? After all I've said about vigilance—"
"Regulus is not here to complete Voldemort's task," Dumbledore interrupts. "Are you?"
Regulus shakes his head.
"No, sir. I came here because I wish to flee from him," he explains. "The Dark Lord is growing more dangerous. I'm afraid—" He pauses and takes a deep breath, memories of Tom clawing to the forefront of his thoughts. "I'm afraid I don't recognize him anymore."
Moody mutters something under his breath, but Dumbledore pays him no attention. Instead, he reaches for Regulus's left arm.
"May I?"
Regulus's breathing hitches, but he nods nonetheless. Dumbledore pulls up his sleeve, exposing his Dark Mark.
"I fear there is no escaping your master's hold, so long as that is on your arm."
Tears brim Regulus's eyes. It's what he feared most. If he cannot get away, there is no way forward. He will die by the Dark Lord's hand.
Sometimes, he thinks it's preferable to living as his servant.
There has to be an alternative, some other path in the middle.
Tom would know what to do.
Yet, there is no way to reach him, not while he is not in Voldemort's good graces. Lucius Malfoy has stolen the diary away, an act of thievery likely plotted by the Dark Lord himself.
He swallows hard and nods.
He knew this was a possibility. All he can do is accept it.
"There is," Dumbledore begins, "however, a way to remove it."
"Sir?"
Regulus had been told there was no way to rid himself of it, that it would poison his skin forevermore.
The Dark Lord is full of lies.
"It will not be easy, I must warn you," Dumbledore cautions. "However, if you still wish to join the Order of the Phoenix, you will be welcome if you complete this task."
"Of course," Regulus breathes, desperate. "I'll do anything."
Moody glares at Dumbledore, but the older man pays him no attention. He levels his gaze on Regulus.
"You must kill the Dark Lord, Voldemort."
Waves batter the sea below. Regulus's heart is battered too.
The Sword of Gryffindor is strapped across his back, and he is set to destroy yet another splinter of Tom Riddle's soul, one that contains not his Tom, but a different Tom altogether—one that resides in a locket that once belonged to Salazar Slytherin.
He climbs into the boat, an invisible vessel that took him hours to discover. The water he paddles through is murky and black, with Inferi hands attempting to pull him into the obsidian depths.
"Imperio!"
The Inferius stops and pushes away the others, distracting them long enough that he can force his way to the small island within the cavern.
As Dumbledore said, he finds a basin there, filled to the brim with something ominous and green—beside it, a shell.
At the bottom, the locket glistens.
"Accio!"
He cannot draw it out.
He attempts to Vanish the potion. There isn't so much as a ripple.
The shell remains untouched. His heart thunders as he stares at it, willing himself to do what he must.
He dips the shell into the elixir. When he raises it to his lips, it tastes of misery and decay, but it isn't the flavor that's everlasting.
It's the pain.
Agony unlike any he's ever felt courses throughout his veins. From tongue to toe, it stings as though he's being burned by fire and his skin is being punctured by the fangs of a thousand snakes.
Worse yet, his most foul memories rush through his head.
His mother cursing Kreacher.
His father jinxing him for crying.
His brother leaving him alone with them.
Voldemort must die for what he's done.
He takes another deep drink, and the pain grows stronger, more excruciating than before. Blood and gore streak his every thought.
Tom is trapped, screaming for help, begging for Regulus to find him—
He drinks more.
His mother circles him, her wand trained on his forehead.
"Filthy blood traitor!" she hisses.
He lets out a sob. Bellatrix cackles in the background.
Still, he drinks.
"You are nothing, Regulus Black," Tom whispers.
"I'd rather die than have you as a brother," Sirius growls.
Regulus vomits all over his shoes. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and downs more.
"I want you dead," Tom says coldly.
"You're the shame of the House of Black," his mother says.
"You will die a painful death, my son, and you will deserve it," declares his father.
He takes his final drink.
The visions cease.
Suddenly, he's the thirstiest he's ever been, but time is of the essence. He seizes the locket. It's frigid in his fingers.
Love dies with this act.
He must do it anyway.
"Goodbye, Tom," he whispers.
He draws the Sword of Gryffindor and raises it above his head, prepared to destroy it, to destroy the Dark Lord—
"Goodbye, Regulus."
It's the voice of Voldemort at his back.
He ends with emerald light.