After the Fiendfyre's devastating cleansing had swept through the underground lake like the wrath of an ancient god, the scene that remained was one of terrible emptiness.
Where hundreds of Inferi had once lurked in the dark depths, now only fine gray ash drifted across the water's surface like melancholic snow. The lake itself seemed somehow cleaner, as if the cursed flames had purged not just the undead but the essence of corruption that had tainted these waters for decades.
Only Regulus remained on the rocky shore, his wet body still bound by the Devil's Snare—he was like the sole survivor of an army of the drowned, though survival was perhaps too generous a term for his current state.
Dumbledore stepped forward to the lake's edge, his purple robes still singed from the intense heat they had endured. He raised the Elder Wand in a series of flowing movements.
The stones scattered around the shoreline and those that had once formed the lake bottom began to respond to his call, rising from their resting places with a grinding sound of moving earth.
The stones moved through the clear water, reorganizing themselves with precision. They fitted together like pieces of an ancient puzzle, their surfaces smoothing and interlocking until they formed a sturdy stone bridge that spanned the entire lake in an arch.
Now, finally, they could openly approach the small island that had waited in the center of the lake, no longer needing to rely on whatever treacherous means Voldemort had originally provided for passage.
Near the stone wall on the shore, an old wooden boat nodded gently against the rocks, it was clearly the vessel that Regulus and Kreacher had used in their mission years ago. Though both Adrian and Dumbledore had noticed it, they paid it no mind.
The group made their way onto the stone bridge. The bridge was remarkably stable, showing no tremor or sway despite spanning such a considerable distance.
Adrian was impressed by the headmaster's casual display of advanced transfiguration.
The walk across took only a few minutes, but those minutes felt weighted with anticipation. The small island grew larger as they approached, revealing details that had been invisible from the shore.
It was indeed a stone island with a diameter of perhaps five meters at its widest point and it was clearly artificial, carved from the living rock of the lake bed and raised above the water's surface through magical means.
On a raised stone platform in the island's exact center sat a basin that somewhat resembled a Pensieve. The basin was filled nearly to its brim with an emerald green liquid, glowing with a sickly light that made the darkness around it appear even more oppressive.
The potion was crystal clear despite its unnatural color, allowing them to see straight through to the bottom where a golden locket lay waiting.
Of course, as they all knew, this was just the replica that Regulus had left behind.
"A trap of the most elegant cruelty," Dumbledore observed, leaning down to examine the basin more closely. His hands gripped the stone rim as he peered into the glowing depths.
"Only by drinking every drop of the potion can one retrieve the locket at the bottom. And I suspect the potion itself is designed to inflict maximum suffering upon whoever consumes it—physical agony, psychological torment, perhaps visions of one's greatest fears or regrets."
With that casual assessment, Dumbledore dipped his finger into the unknown potion and placed it on his tongue, smacking his lips thoughtfully as if sampling a fine wine.
"The taste of concentrated pain… despair," He commented.
'Casually tasting unknown magical substances is not a good habit, Headmaster,' Adrian thought. Only Dumbledore would treat potentially lethal Dark Magic like an interesting academic exercise.
Adrian ignored Dumbledore's little humor and immediately stepped forward, reaching his hand toward the stone basin.
Wait—Kreacher was about to speak out to stop him, but saw that Adrian had already easily retrieved the locket.
"Why...?" Kreacher stared with wide eyes, looking at this scene in disbelief.
You must know that he and Regulus had tried many times, but there was no way to get through the potion to obtain Slytherin's locket.
"It would be difficult to explain," Adrian said, toying with the fake locket in his hand. "To put it in simpler terms, all the traps that Voldemort designed for this place function as one integrated magical system. This pitiful perfectionist—as long as you break one link in the chain, the rest will lose their effect."
Adrian gestured toward the stone bridge they had just crossed, then back toward the abandoned boat. "When we chose not to take his designated vessel to reach this island, when we refused to follow the path he had prepared, we effectively bypassed the central assumption upon which all his magical protections were based. The moment we violated his rules, every restriction here lost its binding power."
Kreacher listened to Adrian's explanation, still somewhat confused, but this was obviously no longer important.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, applauded with genuine appreciation from his position beside the basin. "A most ingenious insight, Adrian. You've identified the fundamental flaw in Voldemort's thinking—his inability to conceive that others might simply refuse to play by his rules."
Adrian smiled slightly, and opened the locket in front of his two companions.
A folded piece of parchment fluttered out from the locket. Adrian caught it, his eyes scanning the contents quickly before he handed it to Dumbledore with a solemn nod.
Dumbledore accepted the note. His half-moon spectacles had appeared on the bridge of his nose through some subtle magic. His eyes moved slowly across the words.
The contents of the note were as follows:
To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.
I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
-R.A.B
"R.A.B..." Dumbledore read the initials aloud, his voice carrying a complex mixture of admiration, sorrow, and something that might have been pride.
"Regulus Arcturus Black. The Black family bloodline has never lacked for courage—only, too often, that courage has been misdirected toward unworthy causes. But here, at the end, young Regulus found his true north."
Dawn was beginning to break over London as they prepared to leave the cave, turning the eastern sky in shades of pale gold and rose that seemed impossibly beautiful after the horrors they had witnessed underground.
The sun had not yet fully emerged from behind the city's sprawling skyline, but its promise warmed the air and brought with it the hope of a new day.
Through a combination of Apparition and careful levitation charms, Adrian, Dumbledore, and Kreacher returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, bringing with them the inferi of Regulus Black.
In the living room, the Inferius Regulus was tied to a single armchair, still struggling and shrieking constantly.
Dumbledore raised his Elder Wand with the clear intention of casting a Silencing Charm to spare them the horror of those inhuman sounds, but Kreacher immediately threw himself between the headmaster and his former master, his thin arms spread wide in desperate protection.
"Please," the house-elf whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Please don't."
"Regulus is already dead, Kreacher," Dumbledore said with gentleness. "I think you understand that deep in your heart. The creature before us now is merely a corpse animated by Dark Magic—it contains no trace of the young man you loved and served so faithfully."
Kreacher's shoulders shook with suppressed sobs.
Of course, he understood, logically, he knew exactly what his master had become. But understanding and acceptance were entirely different things, and his heart simply could not reconcile itself to treating this remnant of Regulus as nothing more than a magical construct to be silenced or destroyed.
Adrian was thinking about what to do next.
For a proper burial, they would need a reinforced coffin—something sturdy enough to contain an Inferius. Adrian was thinking about what to do next
At that moment, Adrian suddenly remembered his purification potion, which might have some effect.
He took out a small vial of potion from his inner pocket and walked forward to pour it on Regulus.
Sure enough, the moment the potion touched Regulus, a black mist rose and quickly dissipated into the air.
Regulus's body shuddered violently a few times, then became completely quiet. His fierce expression also became peaceful as he rested calmly against the armchair.
Dumbledore walked to him and gently closed the deceased's eyelids.
The sound of footsteps on the staircase broke the solemn silence that had fallen over the room.
Hermione appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her neat brown curls had achieved new levels of rebellion during the night, sticking out at angles that seemed to defy both gravity and good grooming.
She was wearing a practical set of pajamas and a thick dressing gown, clearly having been roused from deep sleep by the sounds of their return.
"Good morning, Professor Westeros, Professor Dumbledore," She said through a yawn, her voice still filled with sleep. Her greeting was automatic, the polite response drilled into her by years of proper upbringing.
But as her vision cleared and she took in the scene in front of her, her eyes widened and focused on the still figure bound to the chair. "This is...?"
"Regulus Black," Adrian replied straightforwardly. "Sirius's younger brother. But as you can see, he's already dead."
The simple statement hit Hermione like a uppercut blow. Her sleepiness vanished instantly, burned away by shock.
No matter how much she had read about death in her studies seeing an actual human corpse first thing in the morning was far too shocking for any fourteen-year-old girl to process easily.
"What happened?" She asked, her voice smaller than usual, her face draining of color until she looked nearly as pale as the figure in the chair. "How did he...? When did...?"
Dumbledore moved to Hermione's side. He placed a gentle, reassuring hand on her shoulder, his touch conveying both comfort and stability.
"Wait just a moment, Hermione, I think it would be better to explain everything properly once Sirius arrives."
He turned toward the house-elf who stood vigil beside his master's chair, still wiping tears from his cheeks. "If you would be so kind, Kreacher, please summon Sirius."
Kreacher's expression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession—grief for his lost master, disgust at having to interact with Sirius whom he had never considered worthy of the Black name, and a reluctant acceptance of necessity.
"Yes, sir," He managed to say through gritted teeth.
With a sharp crack, Kreacher disappeared.
Hermione frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the house-elf's attitude, but at the moment she was more concerned about the quiet corpse on the sofa.
Adrian handed Hermione a Calming Draught. Hermione gratefully accepted the bottle, took a small sip, and her complexion immediately improved considerably.
In less than three minutes, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the house's corridors. Sirius burst into the living room.
His hair was disheveled, his dressing gown carelessly thrown over his body—clearly, he had just been awakened from sleep.
"Professor Dumbledore, what's happened—" His voice cut off abruptly mid-sentence as his gray eyes focused on the figure in the chair. The words died in his throat, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was his sharp intake of breath.
Time seemed suspended as Sirius stared at his younger brother.
"Regulus?"
The single word contained a lifetime of complicated emotions, childhood rivalry and brotherly affection, disappointment and lingering love, regret for words never spoken and reconciliations never attempted.
Dumbledore stepped forward to fill the terrible silence, his voice gentle but clear as he related the full story of their morning's expedition.
With each word, Sirius's expression grew more complex, cycling through disbelief, horror, pride, and grief in rapid sequence.
This was not the brother he remembered, not the weak, vulnerable boy who had been seduced by Death Eater propaganda and pureblood supremacy.
This was someone who had found the strength to defy the most dangerous wizard of their age, someone who had chosen death over continued service to evil.
"That was Regulus's doing?" Sirius asked when Dumbledore finished, his voice carrying a tone of wonder. "My little brother—the one I always thought was too weak to stand up for himself?"
From his position beside the chair, Kreacher let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
"The noble, rebellious young master doesn't even know what his own brother accomplished," The house-elf said, his voice dripping with decades of accumulated resentment.
"At least now you might show some respect for my brave master, who died trying to right the wrongs that your precious rebellion was too proud to acknowledge."
"Shut up!" Sirius was somewhat displeased but didn't say much more.
Although Sirius had always looked down on his younger brother, dismissing Regulus as weak and easily led, learning what his sibling had actually accomplished left him with emotions he couldn't easily name or process.
Pride filled with guilt, admiration and regret, and underneath it all was the knowledge that he had never really known the person Regulus had become in those final months.
In this situation, perhaps he should say something philosophical, give a tribute or speak words of forgiveness and reconciliation. But instead, he simply stood there in a daze for a long time.
The funeral arrangements were handled quickly. Regulus was laid to rest in the family's private cemetery, a small plot of ground hidden behind ancient protective wards in the countryside outside London.
Kreacher personally prepared everything for the funeral service, and his devotion to the task was touching. He polished every piece of funeral hardware until it gleamed, arranged flowers and ensured that every detail was perfect according to both wizarding tradition and his own standards.
More importantly, he would not allow anyone else to interfere with these preparations. This was his final service to the master he had loved and failed to protect, and he intended to perform it with all the skill and devotion at his grasp.
When offers of help were extended, he politely but firmly declined them all.
And so, in a quiet corner of the Black family cemetery, beneath a simple headstone that bore only his name and dates, Regulus Arcturus Black was finally granted the peace that had been denied to him in life.
The inscription read:
Regulus Arcturus Black1961 - 1979
He chose the harder path
It was, perhaps, the most fitting epitaph for a young man who had discovered that true nobility lay not in the purity of one's blood, but in the courage to stand against evil, regardless of the cost.
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