The Little King's Road

Start of April 1996

He never finds out what prompted the first dream – why then, why there. He'd had dreams before, nightmares even. Like everyone else, he dreamt of falling off brooms and playing on clouds. He dreamt of disappointing his father and of lording over Harry Potter. And like everyone else, his dreams make sense when he's drowning in them, and lose all meaning upon waking up. Most, he doesn't think of twice.

This one though, is different. He doesn't recognize the place, he doesn't recognize the elf, and he doesn't recognize the man. Right from the start he knows that he does not know where he is or what is happening. He's somewhat aware that it isn't real, that he's just watching everything, maybe from a pensieve. He feels distant to it all. Funnily enough – not that there's anything remotely light about the dark ghastly setting he finds himself in – it also feels much more real than any dream. It's not just the images; he can smell, he can feel, he can touch. And the contradiction is what gets to him.

The cave is large – and Draco knows large and impressive. He's grown in large and impressive, but nothing quite so raw. Draco knew priceless villas; this, with its stalagmites and putrid air, was like stepping into the gargantuan mouth of an ancient Leviathan.

A young man who could only have been a few years older than Draco was walking further in. He holds himself most gracefully, with an air of aristocracy that Draco saw in his own family. There's no doubt that the man was from a correct upbringing. His long black hair is tamed, his robes without a singly crease, and his wand, the only source of light in the cave, holds an intricate and expensive design. Curiously though, Draco has never seen him before. Perhaps he comes from overseas, or from a more reclusive pure-blood family.

Limping next to him is a house elf, one of the most vile Draco has ever seen. It looks weak, and the creature – shame on it – is tightly holding on to its master's robes for support. Why the young wizard tolerates such behavior is a mystery, but there's no sign he's the slightest bothered by it. In fact, he walks slowly, as if to accommodate the creature.

The young man stops at the edge of the lake within the cave.

It is quiet.

The water doesn't move, and it is eerie. There is no wind, and for all it is humid, no drop falls to disturb the lake. The lake is so calm it is unnatural, even for a lake shielded by a dome of rock. The young man knows this just as much as Draco notices it; he crinkles his nose and takes a step back.

He is calm, he is controlled, but he is tense. Afraid. Wary.

There's something in his movements, a reluctance that Draco picks up on. The man wants to be anywhere but in this cave, but still he continues his way and summons a boat from the depths. Something is pushing him to continue, preventing him from turning back. And it's not a choice. It's not determination. It's not courage in his eyes, it's disgust and resignation.

The boat, or rather, the rotting bark that serves as a boat, sails smoothly over the water, glides, really. The ripples are too weak for what they are, and somehow Draco get the feeling that the water is heavier that it should be, more massive. It's a whale instead of a school of fish. There's something there. Something weighing it down.

They get on a small island, which looks like it is made of crystals.

"Kreacher," the man says, in a cool voice. He speaks clearly, but softly. He enunciates perfectly, and words come easy to him. "Remember what I asked of you. You must make me drink everything – what I say under its influence is not my will."

"Kreacher does as Master wishes," the elf responds with a miserable bow. Speaking those words seems to bring him even greater pain than whatever it is that already plagues him.

The young man nods, "if worst is to come, leave me behind."

"Master…!"

"I mean it," the young man's words are final, "I cannot go back – I can't. It's gone too long. I cannot live like this anymore. If we fail at retrieving the locket, then nothing changes. My wish, my greatest wish, is to destroy this locket. You will see it through – with or without me. And no one can know. That is an order."

His face remains passive, but his voice betrays the depth of his emotions with a small hitch that shouldn't have come from the man. Draco recognizes that face too. He's been taught to wear it, warned to cover his truths behind it. Whoever this man is, he's acquired a better mask of indifference than any other noble Draco knows, but one that seems permanently attached to his face.

There's a dark liquid pooling on top of one of the crystals, and the man takes a scoop. The elf looks concerned, terrified for his master. The man however, just stares. Had he been of any lesser birth, Draco guesses he'd be gulping, or breathing heavily. But he swallows it one sip like it's sweet cider.

And then the man, the pinnacle of composure, crumbles. The elf is quick to follow the movement, to try and catch his master and ward off any injury. The man is clutching at his throat now – rasping. Horror is openly displayed on his face, and Draco wants to get out. He doesn't want to see this. But he can't shut his eyes, for they were never open to start with. He feels the burn in his mouth, feels his stomach dissolve, just as the man in front of him curls up.

"You must drink, master," the elf insists, presenting him with another cup, hands trembling, and by Merlin, can't that incompetent creature see what it is doing to its master? "You must!"

The man grabs the second cup shakily, and drinks it. The first mouthful with wince, the second quicker, but with a sob.

And it doesn't stop. By the third cup, the young man is suppressing bouts of spasms. By the fourth he starts refusing. By the fifth he's angry. By the sixth, he's pleading.

Why.

Why was he subjecting himself to such torture?

Why was he lowering himself to such humiliation, and in front of lowly elf no less?

But despite his protests, he continues, and continues, and continues, and eventually the black liquid – the poison, to call it what it is – is gone. The young man is weakened. Relieved, but not nearly enough. The elf has switched the locket that had been at the bottom of the poison for an exact replica, and it's now at its master's side, tending to him.

The man attempts to get up, but his legs give in. The elf offers its support.

"Water…" the man manages. His clear voice has become harsh and dry. He's stopped using complete sentences six cups of poison ago.

"Master shouldn't," the elf denies him.

"Water!"

And as he roars the command, the young wizard frees himself from his elf and collapses on the border of the island. He's in a frenzy, no longer capable of reasonable thought. The poison has made him desperate for water – at all cost. But he shouldn't have disturbed the water.

He knows as much as soon as he has.

The inferi surge from the lake, and things only get worst. Their sight alone is deathly frightful. It's a storm of white bony limbs that breaks and crushes the lake's sleep.

Now there are countless of hands scratching and grabbing and ripping, and Draco can feel them get hold of his own limbs. He sees cloth and flesh being torn apart. He feels trapped, suffocating, just like the young man in front of him. He feels the fear he sees in the man's eyes.

The elf is yelling, pleading for his master to be let go. It's sending spells at the inferi – powerful, elven spells that few wizards could even match. But the dark magic puppeteering the inferi bounces it all off, and the young wizard slowly disappears, limb after limb, cry after cry.

The last Draco sees of the man is an arm shooting up, and that's when he notices the details. The Dark Mark on his arm. The Black family crest on his signet ring.

"Go, Kreacher!" he shrieks, "Go!"

The elf hesitates. He shouldn't have, as a master's order is absolute, but Draco gets the feeling that it's not just a master he's losing. Yet in a blink, the elf is gone.

And then Draco is having trouble breathing. He feels icy cold water penetrating his lungs, and his panic melts to soreness, his struggle to sluggishness, the sounds around him deafen, the water falls back into rest, and slowly everything numbs away, as he sinks deep and deeper.

And then Draco Malfoy wakes up. He feels the usual wave of relief that comes after a nightmare, the handful of seconds it takes to collect oneself.

He doesn't forget the dream. He doesn't forget the young man.

He's still thinking about it when breakfast rolls around.

Crabbe and Goyle have been talking about the Easter holidays as if they were there for weeks already. It's customary with them. They've no doubt long stopped studying, thinking there's no point in cramming so close to the break, but it probably made no difference to their academic performance. There's a saying about reaching rock bottom, somewhere, but these two are quite capable of digging further.

Well, they leave today. Draco can't say he's not looking forward to it all.

Theodore Nott is the one who catches him lost in thought.

"I'd think your new title and the upcoming holidays would make you happier," the boy points out, sipping his coffee.

Draco absentmindedly fiddles with his new badge. Inquisitorial Squad – of course he's proud. He's been nothing but smug these past few days. There were just days where you felt like liquid luck, and by Merlin he had. Unfortunately it doesn't last. Draco always thought he had the stomach for gore, but now he isn't so sure. He can't stop seeing the young man's horrified face, hearing his screams. It ices his blood. Churns his stomach.

He's wary of the hands buttering up toasts around him, and of the black coffee in his own mug.

"Malfoy?"

"Feeling a bit under the weather, that's all," he admits, knowing he won't be able to keep a charade all day. Not in front of the other Slytherins, at least.

He must look pale, because Nott accepts the reply without raising an eyebrow.

How must it look like for him to be down at that moment? They'd just managed to get Dumbledore kicked out of the school, and busted Potter's secret clubhouse just four days ago. He should be celebrating; he had been, the night before.

Somewhere, he's angry. Angry that his victory is tainted by that dream.

Dreams usually vanished from thought quickly enough. So why was this one sticking?

His mind goes back to the drowning. He pushes away the horror, makes a conscious effort to focus on the important. The signet ring. The Black signet ring.

Draco knew where the Malfoy signet ring was; right on his father's finger. Who'd be carrying the Black one though? Traditionally, it would stay with someone carrying the surname. The only Black alive however, was Sirius Black, and he'd been disowned. His parents would never have handed it to him. Closest relations? Draco's aunt Bellatrix, and his own mother. Draco himself is a legitimate contender to inherit the Black family, a generation later.

But the one he'd seen had been a young man, with handsome features and slick black hair.

"Who is the head of the Black family nowadays?" Draco asks.

That, has Nott curious.

"Taking interest in a family that's not yours?" he teases, "No one, officially, I suppose. It's possible a few Black artefacts or houses may recognize Sirius Black as their owner, but legally he's not legible for any of it, not while he's on the run. 'Sides, no other sane family would recognize that prison mutt as the heir."

That made sense. Sirius Black could have inherited the ring with the rest of his family's belongings, in a magical sense.

But Sirius Black was a middle-aged wizard. The one he'd seen was barely out of Hogwarts, if he'd been out at all.

Draco collects his thoughts. He's taking this way too seriously, obsessing over something that has probably never happened. It is infinitely more likely that his brain concocted the twisted scenario. It couldn't have been real, because if it had – and the weight was starting to make itself known in his heart – then he'd just watched someone die. No, it must have been the face of someone he's walked across in Diagon Alley, an elf he's caught a glimpse of at someone else's house, and a subconscious reminder of the blood that runs through his veins from his mother's side. That has to be it.

Yet a few hours of docking points from whoever crossed his path later, he startles as a black skeletal horse nudges him.

Most of the Hogwarts student population is pouring into the carriages to go towards the Hogwarts Express. As it is every year, it's a mess, albeit an organized one. Everyone is fretting about, looking after their friends and stuff, and no one has time to pay attention to anything else.

It is fortunate, because Draco isn't too sure how schooled his face is as he stares at the creature before him. He'd seen drawings of them, sketches, but the real thing was unnerving. It was gaunt, with pale pearls for eyes. Black – but save for that, the horse equivalent of an inferi, and Merlin had Draco enough of inferi for the day.

He takes a step back, and the creature takes one forward, playfully.

Thestrals.

He'd known. With this particular being however, seeing was altogether different. Seeing meant – well, there was no particular science behind it. How would one define 'witnessing death' anyways? Perhaps Draco's imagination had been detailed enough that it counted. Some scholars believed it was the understanding of death that made the cut. Draco was intelligent, it made sense for him to comprehend the subject at an early age.

"I am going to kill you!" A fuming third year yells at a snickering first year, and it makes Draco uncomfortable.

He makes a lot of jokes like that. About mudbloods being better off dead, blood traitors who should have perished in the war. He jokes about mastering the Unforgivables and using them on his worst enemies. Even in his own head, he fantasizes about it, about holding power over all those who defy him. He thinks they're clever. Most of the time, he honestly believes he'd rather see some people dead. They waste oxygen that should be kept for those who deserve it.

But this hyperbole makes him squirm today.

Death – he imagines something like that happening to him, and suddenly it isn't quite as fun as it used to be. It's ugly, and disgusting. The fear clings on to him. He could wish it on his worst enemies – he does – but then he thinks of them wishing it on him, and he can't – he can't entertain the thought. He doesn't want to take the risk. He doesn't want to – Merlin, death had been such a glorious thing in his mind, but it just doesn't suit the aristocracy as well as History makes it seem. Death is primal, barbaric, uncouth.

Scary.

He's never been one for sympathy and pity. He knows that as long as it doesn't happen to him, he cares not what happens to others.

Death though, death happens to everyone.

Hiding his discomfort, Draco shepherds the students with snide remarks. A lot of them fear him already, and the pride that swells from it temporarily occupies his mind instead. But it's not a long reprieve – he's already thinking about it again in the train.

He makes himself a promise. Whatever is to come, wherever he would stand, he would not share that wizard's fate. Draco's safety comes first, and the rest of the world second.

I have a shit ton of other fics I should be writing instead of this, but of course I have a new idea, so I must write it. Ugh, why am I like this.
Well, it was always going to happen. Regulus Black has always been the character that's most intrigued me in the HP universe, and I can't believe I've waited so long to write a fic about him (or publish one rather. I do have a lot of fics about him gathering dust in my computer), even if the main character is technically Draco Malfoy.

This is just the prologue, so it's shorter than future chapters would be, and the tone is a bit more passive, but feedback would be appreciated anyways!