21 September 1979

1. Ill-considered

I'm afraid that hate has found me.
Because I'm drowning in the depths of this terrifying reality you've made for me.

- Jaycee, Under the Sea

Regulus Arcturus Black was expecting to die from the moment Kreacher had returned from the outing with the Dark Lord, delirious and moribund from a potion the dark wizard had made him drink.

Regulus held a certain amount of respect and fascination with the Dark Arts – the idea of cordoning off an entire branch of magic as "bad" seemed silly at best, and a ham-fisted attempt at establishing a dictatorship that routinely practised suppression at worst. However, soul magic was where he drew the line, and seeing his master rip his soul in half and deposit it in a piece of ostentatious jewellery after brutally murdering Dorcas Meadowes had solidified his already-wavering loyalty firmly on whatever side of the wall did not host the Dark Lord. That was before he'd nearly killed Kreacher, his only friend in the godforsaken house.

And so there he was, crossing a dark lake in a cave with his house elf. A rickety boat that cut through the glassy surface with unnatural precision. Regulus peered over the edge of the boat and suppressed a shudder at the sight of bloodless limbs and haunted faces rolling under the surface. Inferi, no doubt, one of the Dark Lord's favourite parlour tricks.

Regulus was starting to dread his inevitable demise. Expecting to die had very little impact until one was actually faced with the cause of their death.

They reached the rocky island in the middle of the lake far too quickly for his liking. He clambered out of the boat, finding his legs had forgotten how to work in the short trip. When he straightened and looked around, he wondered why he hadn't noticed the eerie green glow that the basin in the centre of the island was emitting before that moment. He stumbled forward, drawn to it by some compulsion, and Kreacher scrambled after him.

When he was standing in front of it, the glow seemed ominous; given the state of Kreacher when he had returned to Grimmauld some weeks earlier, it was not an unlikely assumption that the potion would cause great pain and suffering.

He reached forward experimentally and was unable to touch the surface of the potion with his hand. That was expected, but disappointing nonetheless because it meant he would indeed be drinking the vaguely menacing potion. Grimacing, he conjured a goblet and dove it into the basin. The goblet passed through the invisible barrier and slipped into the potion.

He brought the goblet to his nose and sniffed. It was fetid and bitter, burning his nostrils and making his eyes water. Kreacher looked with trepidation as Regulus tipped back the goblet and drained it, grimacing as it hit his throat and burned its way down to his stomach. His vision blacked for a moment and he sucked in a deep breath before dipping the goblet back in and gulped down the next cupful.

He'd drunk from the goblet four times before the effects began to take a hold of him. He dropped to his knees with a gasp, fearing gripping him as a brutalised corpse crouched in front of him, her chest ripped open to display her still-beating heart.

"You did this to me," she told him candidly, and he groaned, "You could have stopped him, could've rescued me."

"No," he moaned, "I didn't... I didn't kill..."

Kreacher had taken the task of emptying the potion into his mouth.

"Oh, you may not have held the knife Reggie, but this is as much your fault as it is his," she said, and then her eyes went blank and Regulus screamed as she gurgled blood from her mouth, her throat slit so brutally that her head was nearly severed from her neck.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. Kreacher tipped his head back and poured another helping of the potion down his throat, "I'm sorry, Meadowes."

"This is all your fault, you know," his brother said with a sneer, looking at him in disgust, "You killed Dorcas and you backed a madman. This is what you deserve."

"I do, I do, I'm sorry," his throat was on fire and his brother just smirked. Maybe he would kill him and put him out of his misery, "I deserve this, I deserve to die."

Kreacher retrieved the locket from the basin, dropping the replacement into it.

"Young Master, we have the locket. We be leaving this place," the elf insisted, trying to pull his master from the ground.

Regulus at this point was unhearing or uncaring; his throat had erupted in a wildfire that raged through his body with such fierce blaze that he felt sure that his organs were charring. The lake promised respite from the caustic feeling eroding his sight and boiling him from the inside out. He crawled towards the lakes edge, the crags catching on his robes and hands, causing his hands to bleed and robes to tear. Unheeding, he reached the shore and dove hands into the water, gulping it with greed as chalky limbs stretched towards him, dragging him into the water to join them.

Regulus didn't fight them, didn't even really notice that he was drowning, so relieved he was at the soothing water and blissful silence. This was, after all, the plan. Kreacher would leave, as he had been commanded, and he would die here. Not in vain; Kreacher would destroy the Horcrux, and someone would be able to kill the Dark Lord when he was rendered mortal.

His eyes were drifting closed, he was breathing in water. Slipping away, pulled into the depths of the lake by the animated corpses.

And then there was fire. His eyes snapped open as the Inferi let out inhuman screeches that echoed, even underwater, and reared away from the heat, letting him slip from their grip and bob to the surface limply.

He vaguely registered the splash of something else entering the water and barreling into him before his vision faded completely.

He woke up retching, rolling to his side to expel the water he had inhaled and the potion before that. It was no longer glowing, curdled in his stomach and diluted by the water. Once he had evicted the contents of his stomach onto the ground beside him, he dragged in a deep breath and looked around.

He was on a cliffside with the wind beat around him, cutting through his wet robes and down to his bones. The view was heart-stopping; beautiful and harsh. The waves crashed into the cliffside some hundred metres below and he inched away from the edge on his hands and knees, shaking from the cold.

At this point, scanning the inward horizon was his next step. His gaze slid over to land on a figure not far from where he had been laid. Short and waif like, a woman or a girl probably. Human, definitely.

She turned around, meeting his gaze. She wore pants and a blouse in a fashion that was undoubtedly Muggle, but she held her wand aloft as she approached him. Her clothes were dry, he noted with a little envy as another gust of wind rattled his bones.

As she got closer, he noted she was examining him with intelligent eyes the colour of cinnamon, her hair whipping wildly in the gale. He raised his arms in surrender and winced again at the cold.

She sighed at this, wordlessly casting a charm that dried his clothes in an instant. He immediately felt warmer. She indicated for him to follow her and seeing as she was the only person around and seemed to know what she was doing, he saw no reason not to follow her.

She led them into a copse, the wind calming down the further they got from the cliff. Once they passed the treeline the silence was almost deafening. He watched as the witch poked her wand into the air and a small cottage shimmered into existence. He followed her into the single room, sighing in relief at the wood stove. He crossed the room immediately to stand with his back to the stove, the heat seeping into his muscles.

The woman crossed her arms and pursed her lips as she faced him. She was very small; his first impression had been correct. She stood a foot and a half shorter than his 6-foot even but somehow still managed to be imposing. She was also quite young, 20 at the oldest, and slender almost to the point of underfed. Her collarbones jutted out of her tawny skin and her cheekbones were sharp.

"You're an idiot, Regulus Black," she huffed, clearly irritated. He was taken aback – he was fairly sure that he'd never met this witch before, but she was speaking as though she knew exactly who he was and what he'd been doing.

"I'm sorry," he said, finding his voice raspy, "Do I know you?"

"No," She gave no further explanation, continuing her reproving, "Imagine going after the soul container of one of the most powerful dark wizards to ever live, and not having a back-up plan."

"I wasn't planning on living through it," he said defensively, "It went exactly how I thought it would."

"And that's why you're an idiot," she shot back, "Did you read nothing on Horcruxes? What made you think a house elf would be able to destroy it?"

"Kreacher is very powerful," He came to the defence of his servant, "He's perfectly capable of-"

"Not unless he has a supply of Basilisk venom or the ability to control Fiendfyre," she said flatly, "Leaving something that Dark to your house elf was a fool's plan. Are you a fool, Mr Black?"

"No," he said, feeling that maybe he was a fool, actually.

"And either way, the job's not done yet," she continued, her tone indicating that she probably agreed with his internal assessment of himself, "There are three others currently in existence and he has plans for three more."

He had to physically snap his jaw shut to stop himself from gaping at her. He stepped aside as she moved to put the kettle on the stovetop.

"Tea?" She offered, summoning a pair of mugs and some tea leaves seemingly from nowhere. He nodded.

"How do you have it?" she asked.

"Black with one sugar," he responded, "Tell me, how exactly do you know the Dark Lord has more than one Horcrux?"

She didn't reply while she finished preparing the tea.

When it was sitting in front of them, sitting opposite sides of a small table, she tilted her head and scrutinised him carefully.

"You look very much like Sirius," she said finally.

He stiffened but did not say anything.

"I was born on the 19th of September 1979," were her next words, wholly aside from anything he had thought she might say.

There was a beat of silence between the two.

"Two days ago?" He confirmed, and she nodded. "Well, they say girls mature faster than boys."

She snorted, "Yes, well."

He took a sip of tea.

"Am I to assume you have travelled back in time?" He asked after a moment.

"Yes," she said, simply, "Though if you want answers as to how exactly, that may have to wait until after I have figured it out myself."

"Yes, that complicates matters," he agreed. He hadn't planned this far ahead, given he had thought he would die in the cave, so the apparent addition of a time traveller to his current existence was negligible in the scheme of things.

"As for the Horcrux issue, the point at which I left my original timeline I was searching for the remaining. He had made, by that stage, seven."

"Seven?" asked Regulus, torn between horror and disbelief. One had been bad enough.

She nodded, understanding his reaction.

"Then I think it would be prudent to collaborate," he concluded, his expression hardening, "You clearly know who I am, can you enlighten me as to who you are?"

"Hermione," she replied with an inscrutable look on her face, "I've come from 1998."

Authors note: Hi everyone! I'm starting a new story despite having two going already, because I've got an itch to scratch about Regulus Black.

Please read and review if you like it!

~Alycat