Notes: This is for Sophy (SlytherinCat) for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza.

Sophy: I can't resist Regulus. I just can't. This just came to me effortlessly and I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

A shout-out to my eternal beta, Jess (autumn midnights,) who's probably tired of editing in all those Oxford commas.

The Seven Sins of a Good Man

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Pride: A high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority.

Regulus is surprised when the Hat quickly decides he's a Slytherin. He knows he's a Slytherin, and that Slytherin is the path he shall choose. However, deep down, he thinks he's obviously a Hatstall and is a little bit offended when the Hat doesn't regard him as such. He thinks Godric Gryffindor would've admired his bravery, Rowena Ravenclaw would've been astonished by his wit, Helga Hufflepuff would've thought him hardworking, and Salazar Slytherin would've been after his pure blood and unquenchable ambition.

But as the Hat puts it, all his good traits and his inflated view of them speaks of the pursuit of greatness, and greatness could only mean Slytherin. His parents are proud of him, for the first time ever. And for the first time ever it's not about Sirius. For the first time ever, his actions and thoughts matter.

And for the first time ever, he's proud of himself, not of the things surrounding him, things he has no control over. He's not proud because he was Sorted right, or because he has the right family name.

He's proud because he's not like that annoying Lestrange prefect, flaunting his family name wherever he goes. He's proud he's not like Severus Snape, who could be cool enough if he didn't threaten to curse everyone who looks at him wrong. Regulus is proud that he's willing to work hard, to put his cleverness to good use, and to stay real among people who are too eager to become something more.

Regulus is proud enough to be self-aware. He's proud enough to appear humble. And he learns quickly that he doesn't have to be violent to intimidate, and he doesn't have to be arrogant to impress. He's simply distant, laid-back, obedient...

'Be a good boy,' his mother had told him before he stepped onto the Hogwarts Express.

And Regulus is a good boy, if there ever was one.

Lust: Uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite.

"Good evening, Evans."

"Black," she greets, quickly wiping her eyes. A trace of mascara betrays her calm façade.

Regulus can't stand the sight of a crying girl, Mudblood or not. That's what makes him wordlessly search his pockets for his handkerchief. His handkerchief is gray, with the letters R.A.B sewn onto it in green, and he almost thinks she won't take it because of the colors. She's indeed wary.

"You carry a handkerchief," she says.

"And aren't you grateful." She huffs, a small smile escaping her as she takes his offer and wipes the tracks of her tears.

Regulus has always found Lily Evans beautiful – beautiful and unreachable, for more reasons than her being older than him, Snape's best friend, and a Mudblood. But Regulus finds nothing wrong with this train of thought –knocking on the door doesn't mean he's going to open it, after all- so he lets himself admire her white dress robes, her long red hair, and her smooth skin.

He knows he's not the only one. He can't possibly be. In fact, it isn't like Evans not to bring a date –or Snape, in lack thereof- to Slughorn's Christmas party. Regulus doesn't care much for Gryffindor gossip, but he knows she's the kind of girl who has blokes lining up to ask her out. But instead, she's crying in the stairway that leads to the party, and a tense silence rings in the air. He could leave her there, he reasons. But he very much wants his handkerchief back, so he draws the courage to ask his burning question.

"Didn't you bring a date?"

"Big fight. Not important." She shrugs, and Regulus feels a small hint of respect for her. Every other girl would've been in hysterics, but Evans's sorrow was quieter. "What bothers me the most is that I would've brought Sev, if Fawcett hadn't asked me out."

"It's still early. You can go get him."

"Early? You got here late, Black. Food is served already."

"I'm right on time, then." He doesn't mean to charm her – it's just very much like him to be smooth. Still, she smiles for a second time and he knows he's somehow cheering her up. Evans doesn't speak for a few moments, her now dry eyes regarding him with curiosity.

"You have the guts of showing up late and alone," she observes. "I like that, Black."

He can't help but smile back at her, appreciating the compliment. But he's got to have the last word.

"You have the guts of pointing out that I'm all alone, Evans. Shall I take that as a hint?"

He likes the look in her eyes, a look that says 'Are you really flirting with me?' with amusement and complacency. She doesn't respond, but he doesn't back down.

It's true he could've asked Rhoda Yaxley or –he gulps- Alecto Carrow on a date. Everyone had expected him to. But better dateless than in the wrong company, he thinks, and every company seems like the wrong company to him. He isn't, after all, interested on pursuing relationships – his future mate will be chosen for him, anyway.

But there's an intrusive thought that nags him, time and time again, that girls like Evans are more worthy than girls like Yaxley or Carrow. Of course he's noticed her before, when she hangs out with Snape or when they coincide on Slug Club meetings. He's never talked to her, but he has always observed.

And just now… maybe it's her beauty, her frailty, her temper, or her kindness. But at this moment, Regulus can't ignore the strength of the feeling that takes hold of him. He's just drawn to her. The only thing stopping him from thinking her perfect is the fact that she's a Mudblood, a filthy Mudblood. He should be spitting at her feet and ignoring her pain.

Then again, he's a good boy. He could pretend he doesn't think what he does, but deep down, he knows that his current thoughts about her are much more impure than her blood could ever be. And right then, he has a choice to be cold, or to be kind. It's not even a choice, because his hand is extended toward her before he realizes what he's doing.

"Let's just drink, eat, and dance, Evans. Just for tonight."

No matter who or what she is, she looks like a goddess and behaves like an angel, and the feeling of her hand in his is as divine as it gets.

Envy: A feeling of discontent or covetousness with regard to another's advantages, success, possessions, etc.

Regulus has always been glad he's not like Sirius, but for the first time in his life, he would trade places with his brother in a heartbeat.

The reason is simple – as of tonight, Sirius is free.

Regulus is not free. Regulus is trapped.

The feeling has been there ever since that Christmas party he platonically shared with the wrong girl, and the consequences it had. Regulus has no choice on any matter. He's certain Sirius thinks he's a bratty pushover – and it pains Regulus to realize that his brother is right. Oh, but he wants freedom. He wants that so bad. He wants to be the master of his own destiny and the voice that dictates all of his own actions.

Regulus wants to take control.

His mind drifts to the rising Dark Lord and the offer he's been extended. He's got all of two years to think about his answer. Or rather, he has two years to prepare to say yes, because a denial would mean facing mortal danger, and to attain freedom he has to be alive to experience it. He's had his road built for him, and there's no way out of it. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

Sirius is free. Regulus wants to be free.

There's still smoke coming from the tapestry when Regulus realizes that being a good boy comes at a price.

Sloth: Reluctance to work or make an effort; spiritual apathy and inactivity.

Regulus is going to do it, but a moment of hesitation proves fateful.

They've got the man tied down and they're only waiting for Regulus to kill, torture, hurt, and his wand is up and pointing but spells won't come out.

Maybe because he imagines a flash of red hair.

Maybe because he thinks it could very well be his brother in the man's place.

He's unable, unwilling, and he realizes quickly that it's not the kind of thing he cares to change.

I'm not a murderer, he thinks. I'm a good boy.

But something feels out of place. This is his role to fulfill, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot learn the lines. But he's done trying in this particular scene.

Regulus Black is not a murderer.

"Avada Kedavra!" It's Barty, young, thoughtless Barty, who kills without remorse. With a flash of green light, the look of horror on his face doesn't go unnoticed by Regulus, but also the fact that he's clutching his wand with confidence.

It's his first murder, after all – not his last.

As they run away, Regulus is aware that Barty –young, attention-starved Barty- just saved him. He doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to stay in the Dark Lord's good side if he lets others do the dirty work for him, no matter how much he wants it.

Once again, he's made a choice. Once again, he'll be punished for it.

But at that very moment, Regulus can't bring himself to care.

Greed: Excessive or rapacious desire, especially for wealth or possessions.

"The time has come for these relics to find a safer home."

Regulus is the second youngest among Voldemort's closest –and just a spy, after all- so he doesn't feel slighted when he's not chosen for the task. Lucius Malfoy is given a notebook, old but pristine, and is instructed to keep it safe in his Gringotts vault. All the questions in his eyes, his 'it's blank, my Lord' and his 'what for, my Lord?' are hushed with a 'later, Lucius' as the Dark Lord proceeds to give Bellatrix something that catches Regulus' eye.

"This is much more than a valued relic, Bellatrix." And to Rodolphus, "I trust you'll keep it safe."

"There's no vault in Gringotts more secure that the Lestrange vault, my Lord." It's Bellatrix who answers. "I-we shall not fail you."

But she tosses it on her purse, and while Regulus thinks he sees the Dark Lord frowning, it's he who objects.

"That's Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Bella. Be careful."

Bellatrix rolls her eyes –Regulus is sure she's calling him a know-it-all in her head- before she turns to the Dark Lord. "Is it true, my Lord?"

A smile is drawn on his face, and Regulus can't tell if he's amused or tense.

"Indeed. Collecting such relics is an old pastime of mine." His hand traces the chain he's wearing – a chain that holds a locket. "Regulus, I can tell you're… interested."

Regulus's eyes are on the locket, and he's too stumped to answer. He's seen pictures and counterfeits; he's heard speculations and stories about its whereabouts. Every Slytherin has - he's certain everyone has noticed as well, but no one has the nerve to inquire about it.

"Hand the cup to the boy, Bellatrix," he orders brusquely. "Let him take a good look at it. I'm not about to demean your cousin's thirst of knowledge by denying him something so simple."

Regulus takes the cup being handed to him, well aware that the Dark Lord's words are never in vain. Regulus knows he's being tested, and is certain that the Dark Lord must've noticed the direction of his gaze. More than that, he must've read his mind. Regulus realizes that he'd let his excitement at seeing such valuables get the best of him, so he makes a point of not locking eyes with the Dark Lord. Instead, he examines the details on the cup instead while he concentrates on putting up his defenses.

Ironic, he thinks, how my best weapon in his favor is my best weapon against him. Occlumency is one of the things that the Dark Lord has taught him himself. After his first and last fiasco, the Dark Lord was merciful enough to let Regulus become his spy inside of Hogwarts, thanks to his strong mind and impeccable record. Such a development came with a price, of course, but not the highest price he could've paid.

So his defenses are up, but he still resists the urge of shooting his glance up at the notebook that rests on Lucius Malfoy's lap. The Dark Lord can't know what's going through his mind. He cannot know he's only trying to understand what the locket, the cup and the old notebook could have in common.

"Now don't be greedy, Regulus." His voice is most definitely tense now, almost angry. "Give it back."

He wordlessly obeys. He keeps himself from staring at the locket again, his mind racing, but he feels confident enough on his defenses to look at the Dark Lord's eyes. And he shudders, because those eyes are dark red; they're oddly shaped and almost inhuman. At that moment, there's something about the Dark Lord that makes Regulus feel as if he's staring into the eyes of a man who's not a man at all.

That's where it hits him.

He knows exactly what the Dark Lord has done.

Regulus has heard, after all, the word 'Horcrux' whispered with reverence, or anger, or curiosity, by family members who were indiscreet enough to talk of such matters around children. They whisper it with different tones, but never without a reaction. Coincidentally, or maybe not, Regulus is all about causing reactions – reverence, or anger, or curiosity, something, anything. And being prone to all of those, he'd made it a mission to find out what was about that sole word that even his parents couldn't help but react to.

And find out he did.

Regulus doesn't blame them all, because it's the first time he feels that something is intrinsically wrong with the Dark Arts and that a line is crossed. Maybe he's still a good boy, after all, because his reaction is one of pure revulsion. Nothing is more grotesque to him than splitting a soul.

Take it, leave it, but have it whole.

Looking at the Dark Lord, Regulus realizes that the clues had been there all along. There's the inhuman appearance, the allusions to immortality, and now the missing puzzle piece: the coveted objects, which the Dark Lord suddenly has the urge to keep safe, too safe in maximum security vaults like Lestrange's and Malfoy's.

And now any of us can know, he realizes. I guess he trusts us enough to let us know, he thinks with a slight dash of pride. But then why not tell us straightforwardly? Why blatantly give away these objects, while at the same time flaunting them? Why throw around the fact that he's practically immortal?

The only explanation is, he concludes, that the Dark Lord doesn't believe anyone's knowledge could ever reach that far. He's arrogant enough to believe no one knows. He's mocking us. He's… he's underestimating us.

Regulus has never had a moment of clarity as strong as this one.

As the Dark Lord answers Lucius's questions about the notebook, Regulus does his best to keep his thoughts in check. It's obvious to the Dark Lord that he would've given his right hand for such precious objects, with such a priceless history behind them. He wouldn't wave them around as carelessly as the Dark Lord and Bellatrix were doing. He wouldn't burden them with the worst kind of weight… and that's exactly what he must hide from the Dark Lord.

He's shocked, but at one point he forces himself to push all of those thoughts out of his mind, for he fears the Dark Lord might even hear their echo. He keeps his mind free, but as the Death Eaters are dismissed, Regulus has a parting thought.

How dare you, he wants to shout. How dare you deface such precious objects with the burden of your tainted soul!

Wrath: Strong, stern, or fierce anger; vengeance or punishment as the consequence of anger.

Regulus holds Kreacher in his arms as Kreacher agonizes.

I shouldn't have stared at the locket. This is most definitely my punishment. And how could it be not? Regulus hadn't been the only one to volunteer his house-elf –they all knew they were expected to- but the Dark Lord did choose Kreacher.

And now Kreacher is suffering. Kreacher, who has given him nothing but kindness and who could have died for his mistakes.

How dare he?

Regulus is not a crybaby, but he's crying. He's angry, angrier than he'd ever been. Angry at the monster he's merely a servant of, and angry at himself for letting it come this far. He's not going to let that man who calls himself invincible hurt what's most precious to him.

Regulus is taken by anger, rightful anger, and he knows he must act on it.

"You wanted to take what I love the most," he whispers. "You, in your delusions of invincibility…"

Kreacher tenses as Regulus lets out a scream; it's a pained, angry scream that says everything he never could.

Third time is a charm, and this is the third time that's clear to Regulus that nothing good ever comes out of the choices he makes.

Regulus makes a choice, anyway.

Gluttony: Excessive eating and drinking.

This is the greatness the Hat talked about.

This is Regulus Arcturus Black, for the first time in his life, taking his destiny into his own hands.

Regulus knows he's not living to see another day, but he can't say his goodbyes. The only thing he can give Kreacher now are instructions, because they both know what's going to happen and a goodbye is redundant.

He deeply regrets those facts as he stares at the glowing green potion.

He doesn't want any of it, but he forces himself to drink.

Regulus shuts his eyes and tries not to think of Sirius. He tries not to think of how Mother would punish him and the back-and-forth screaming that was habitual in the Black household. But he thinks, and hears and cries, because it's everywhere, and nothing has ever hurt as those echoes luring him to insanity and burning his insides. Kreacher's screams are genuine, but he can't hear them above his deluded mind.

More.

He agonizes about the Evans debacle – Bellatrix's torture, Potter's beating and Snape's harassment, only because he dared to eat, drink, and dance with a lovely girl. He's screaming 'stop it, leave me, I didn't do anything wrong.'

More.

But he feels the burn of the Dark Mark on his arm, as if it was happening just then, and the lives he should have taken, and Barty's face when his eyes had lost their spark. He feels, as if it's happening again, the agonizing torture he experienced after failing to kill. The world is slipping away from him but Kreacher's pleas are actually a reminder.

More.

And he drinks in pain. He drinks as the image of a barely-alive Kreacher tortures his mind. He drinks as he realizes that he could never be anything more than a wrecked good boy, a twisted good man, forever trapped, always at a loss.

More.

But there's no more, and Regulus is confused as well as thankful, because he's dying and he's glad for that little bit of mercy. He's dying, anyway, but he's too delirious to think of a farewell. He has collapsed and his whole body screams for water – the same water that surrounds him. He's doomed; Regulus knows he's doomed, because he's certain water will be the death of him, but he's dying anyway and he's not above taking the risk. So Kreacher's sobs are distant echoes as he crawls toward the edge of the lake. He hears nothing, feels nothing other than the splash of his hands into the water and the single, heavenly gulp he manages to take.

More.

But there's no more, because a hand grabs him by the wrist, and by the hair, and by his clothes, and they all pull. As he's dragged down toward his death, the only coherent thought that flickers in and out of Regulus's mind is that, for the first time in his life, he's completely and utterly free.

More.