It was true—Regulus had been fascinated by the Dark Arts from an early age. The promises of power, whispered in the dark corners of pure-blood households, had seemed irresistible. When Voldemort came calling, offering even more—strength, control, and the chance to shape the future—Regulus had been tempted. How could he not be?

The allure of glory, of standing at the side of the most feared wizard in history had drawn him in. But the reality of it all turned out to be something much darker than he'd imagined. Power came at a price, and Regulus soon found himself questioning whether he was willing to pay it.

And yet, even as he donned the black robes of the Death Eaters, Regulus couldn't shake the feeling that this was only a stepping stone—that his destiny lay somewhere beyond being a mere follower.

At first, he had considered it an honor to be specifically chosen by the Dark Lord to send his family's loyal house elf, Kreacher, on a mission. It was a mark of his importance within Voldemort's inner circle. But even then, there had been an unease bubbling beneath the surface.

Voldemort hadn't been exactly forthcoming about why he needed the services of an elf. It seemed like a small, unimportant detail, but Regulus couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Still, he had dutifully given Kreacher the order: obey, complete the task, and return home.

And return the elf did, barely clinging to life.

When the elf had appeared, battered and broken, something deep within Regulus snapped. The state Kreacher was in made Regulus's stomach churn with a sick, cold rage. He had found Kreacher collapsed against the wall, eyes wild and bloodshot, clutching his throat in silent agony. The elf's small body shook violently, yet no sound escaped him—not a scream, not a whimper.

That sight had dragged Regulus back six years, to a painful, buried memory—Sirius, bleeding and broken in this very house, on a night that had felt just as dark as this one. Back then, Regulus had been powerless, too young and too afraid to help his brother. But now? Now he was different. Older. Stronger. Skilled.

For weeks, Regulus nursed Kreacher back to health. He did it in secret, hiding the elf in a tiny storage space near the pantry. He couldn't risk anyone finding out—Voldemort had definitely left the elf for dead, and he didn't want news of the elf's continued existence making the rounds. Kreacher, too, was under strict orders not to show himself to anyone outside the family. The elf had barely spoken for a fortnight, and when he finally did, it wasn't much more than incoherent whimpers and sobs. Regulus tried to reach him, tried to coax him into explaining what had happened, but Kreacher's silence was unbreakable.

It was on one particularly bad night, when Kreacher's hysteria seemed to reach its peak, that Regulus resorted to desperate measures. He grabbed a few bottles of Butterbeer, figuring a little liquid courage might calm the elf's nerves. Three bottles later, the elf had finally begun to speak.

His words came in broken fragments, each sentence dragging with pain, as though dredging up the memories was a physical torment. His story was ripe with detail, each one more horrifying than the last. The events were relayed between racking sobs and sharp, breathless hiccoughs that shook Kreacher's small frame; until, exhausted by the effort, Kreacher quivered violently and fell into a deep, restless slumber.

Regulus was left sitting in stunned silence. He had expected something else—perhaps Voldemort was experimenting with a new Unforgivable Curse or some other twisted form of magic. But the locket Kreacher described caught Regulus off guard. It wasn't just any locket; it sounded suspiciously like the lost locket of Salazar Slytherin, a relic shrouded in mystery. Rumors of its continued existence had floated around pure-blood circles for years, but nothing concrete had ever come up.

His brother's face flashed in his mind—reckless, defiant, always charging headfirst into danger. If there was anyone in the world who would help him take on Voldemort, it was Sirius.

But Regulus knew this mission wasn't one to share. He could see where the path would lead—straight to death. As much as he wished for an ally, someone to fight beside him, he knew that involving Sirius would only doom them both. The fewer people who knew about this, the better. This was his battle, and he would face it alone.

He decided to start with the locket itself. As a Slytherin, Regulus had grown up hearing about Salazar Slytherin's infamous locket. Pure-blood circles loved their stories of ancient lineage, and rumors about the lost Slytherin heirloom floated through those same circles like ghost stories. Though no one had ever confirmed its existence, Regulus knew enough to trust that where there was smoke, there was fire.

He traced the locket's path back to the last known owners: the Gaunts. It was a family even purer than the Blacks, and just as unhinged. Marvolo Gaunt, the last patriarch, had been arrested and sent to Azkaban after a violent incident involving Ministry officials. He learned that the locket had somehow ended up in the hands of Borgin and Burke's, the notorious Knockturn Alley shop. Regulus had heard enough tales of Burke's dealings to go poking around in the exact circumstances involved. Shortly afterwards, the locket was sold to a Smith family.

The locket was found missing when an inventory of all the belongings of one Hepzibah Smith had been conducted, quite some time after her unfortunate death. The circumstances of her death had been quite sensational, her house elf had been implicated in some kind of a mix up involving a poison.

A pattern was emerging. The locket seemed to carry a trail of blood with it, a dark history of mysterious deaths and disappearances. The locket left a trail of mysterious deaths, seemingly unconnected to Voldemort. But Regulus, familiar with Voldemort's methods, recognized the murky, suspicious circumstances under which the Dark Lord operated best.

It took Regulus all of three months to track down enough information, digging through ancient magical texts and dangerous tomes on curses and enchantments. His search led him to places that would terrify most witches and wizards, corners of the Wizarding World filled with old curses, forbidden magic, and the kinds of horrors that stuck in nightmares. Every clue was like following a breadcrumb trail of death and decay, and each new discovery made him more certain: the locket was far more sinister than even he'd first imagined.

At every Death Eater meeting, Voldemort had thrown around cryptic phrases—"conquering death," "immortality." What once seemed like grandiose claims began to make sense. Regulus had heard whispers of ancient magic, the kind that could split a soul. The darkest of dark magic. A Horcrux. He couldn't believe it at first, but the more he uncovered, the clearer it became: Voldemort had created a Horcrux. And that Horcrux was the locket. This was how the Dark Lord had made himself invincible.

It was chilling. Regulus had always believed in Voldemort's promise of power, but this—this was monstrous. If the locket was destroyed, Voldemort's immortality would be shattered. He could be killed, just like any other wizard. One well-aimed curse—Avada Kedavra—and it would all be over. But Regulus knew better than to believe it would be that simple.

A Horcrux. Voldemort had created one—that's what made him invincible. Destroy it, and he could be killed, just like any other man. One simple incantation—Avada Kedavra—and the world would be rid of him.

But something still gnawed at Regulus. A different, almost mythical tale: the story of the Chamber of Secrets. According to legend, the Heir of Slytherin could unleash a monster within Hogwarts to purge those unworthy of magic. If Voldemort truly was Slytherin's heir, why hadn't he used this power?

A few well-placed memory charms on unsuspecting elderly wizards in Hogsmeade revealed that the Chamber had supposedly been opened before, and a girl had died. That was all Regulus needed. He was certain Voldemort had killed her and created a Horcrux. Regulus swore to avenge her death—and many others.

If Voldemort really was the Heir of Slytherin, he must have been related to the Gaunts. But there was no record of the Gaunts attending Hogwarts. The trail seemed to run cold until Regulus found one family member unaccounted for: Merope Gaunt, the daughter.

She had disappeared around the time her father and brother were sent to Azkaban. On a whim, Regulus dug into their arrest, hoping for some clue about Merope, but his research came up empty.

He had come so close, yet something was missing. If Voldemort was truly Slytherin's heir, it made sense that he coveted the locket. But why keep it hidden? Why not boast to the wizarding world about his lineage? Why the secrecy?