R.A.B.

A man stood in the yawning mouth of a cave. Shivering and wet, he wrapped his dripping cloak tighter around his slim frame and proceeded further into the quiet, algae-covered cave. Met by a dead-end, the man frowned and took the time to dry his robes with an ebony wand. He quickly dropped to his knees and started feeling around the rock walls, after casting a detection spell on his hands, that is. A slight warm, tingly feeling met his fingertips in a particularly dark corner of the cave but he continued searching extensively none the less, using several different spells and taking more than an hour before finally deciding to explore that corner more. This was it, definitely. The wall tingled with magic and when he performed the most powerful exposure spell he was able to something like the outline of an arch appeared for a split second. What would be required to break it? Maybe a password, or maybe there were recognition spells cast on it so that it opened for the Dark Lord and only the Dark Lord. Or maybe…maybe a payment of some type… Casting the exposure charm again, he quickly noted the outline of a few ancient runes and tried to decipher them, wishing furiously he had taken the N.E.W.T. level Ancient Runes, instead of stopping after his O.W.L. year. He cast the exposure charm several more times, becoming rather exhausted, and pondered for quite a bit what those runes spelled. Surely they didn't spell…blood? But, no, actually that would make perfect sense. Undoubtedly you had to shed some pure blood to gain entry, and it was at times like this that he looked especially fondly upon his entirely pure ancestry.

"Diffindo," he unnecessarily whispered, pointing the ebony wand at his left forearm. The effect was immediate: scarlet blood started leaping from his arm and falling to the ground below, staining it a dark color. Before he could even wonder where his pure blood should land, the wall became an arch-like opening, a rock at his foot disappearing in the process. Before entering the long and rather ominous tunnel, he cast a healing charm on the still-bleeding wound. The man, with his long legs, quickly reached an immense lake that was faintly glowing. Look for magic, he thought, Concentrate, just like occlumency or legilimencyA faint aura reached him; whatever it was, it wasn't hidden as well as the entryway. In the blackness of his closed eyes, he suddenly grabbed for the air in front of him, feeling his fingers wrap around something hard and distinctively metal: a chain. He tapped it with his wand for a quick analysis and surprisingly felt it wrap around his hand. With a yelp of surprise, he dropped his lit wand and was left to view the rising boat with only the eerie green light coming from the center of the lake. The dark. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. There was really nothing to be scared of in the dark, at least for the most part. The dark was like a childish boggart, playing upon your fears, having no effect once you at least partially mastered that emotion. He wasn't scared of the unknown, he nervously swallowed, he couldn't be scared of the unknown, he couldn't let himself be scared of the unknown. Boldly he stepped forward and took a seat in the small boat, lightly picking up his dropped wand on the way.

It immediately started moving across the still lake, causing nary a ripple. He took a deep breath and didn't bother relighting his wand. The man knew he got sea-sick easily, a pitiful weakness, so instead of looking at the walls or the eerily still lake, he clasped his hands together and stared at those. Painful memories started leaping to his mind during the long ride and despite his intention to ignore them, he failed at it miserably. His first raid…he nervously moistened his drying lips. He remembered it vividly, far too vividly. He hadn't officially been a Death Eater yet, just going along for the ride, curse a few people Muggles while you're at it, Bellatrix had told him. The commotion was terrible. Screams echoed through the air and liberal amounts of blood were smeared upon the once-clean walls. He'd seen them torturing one of the Muggle children, a look of insane happiness on their face, nothing but utter despair on the child's. She was crying out, screaming out for help, hopelessly pleading that someone, anyone would help her. No help came, no hope was coming, and she knew that, you could see it in her already dead eyes. He didn't want to admit it, but it had made him sick. He didn't like Muggles, certainly not, but why did they have to attack this particular family? Why did they have to kill innocent children who knew nothing? Why had they decided to kill this family compared to the next? Just rotten luck on the Muggles' part? How would it feel to be in that spot? He shuddered. To scream and scream and know no hope was coming…that would be a horrible feeling, leaving the world with that despair of being utterly alone. He still didn't like Muggles particularly, but he didn't like the Dark Lord much anymore, either. The thought of the night still made him sick and that memory, combined with the swaying of the boat, caused him to promptly empty the contents of his stomach into the lake.

He set foot onto a small, glowing island in the middle and took a calming breath. In the middle sat a pensive-like bowl upon a stone pedestal, both with a rather ancient look about them. In the stone bowl a green liquid sat, stirring itself ceaselessly and glowing ominously. He looked at the substance. Was the Horcrux sitting at the bottom? In all honesty, he didn't fully comprehend the importance of the Horcrux; all he knew was that if it was destroyed it would somehow injure Voldemort, whether directly or not he was unsure. But, hey, he figured, I'm going to go out anyway, so I might as well go out with a bang. Show him to kill me, he thought with a wry smile. After casting several analysis spells and attempting to touch the liquid, he still had no idea what it was, or what components it held. It was at this point something rather odd happened: a silver goblet inlaid with emeralds appeared quite suddenly out of nowhere. He managed to grab the newly appeared object before it hit the floor and saw that only with it in his hand could he reach the potion's surface. But surely…surely he wasn't supposed to drink it? Trying to avoid that thought, he scooped a bit of the substance up and attempted to throw it into the rather massive lake. It stayed quite stubbornly in the goblet and he realized the awful truth. I hope it doesn't kill me...he thought before tipping his head back and emptying the contents into his throat. It was tasteless, somewhat like green water, and at first it only caused a minor unpleasant feeling (although, admittedly, that could have just been nerves). He looked at the basin again. That was a lot of potion; even if it had been just plain water it would take have taken him a while to finish it. He quickly drank two more goblets, wanting it to be over as fast as possible. He was starting to feel queasy, a bit faint even. The scene in front of his eyes kept fading in and out, lines blurring, colors fading. A fourth goblet, wretched pain, Nothing compared to the Cruciatus curse, he forced himself to think as he swallowed the horrible substance. Gasping for breath, he filled a fifth goblet and drank it. The force was so powerful he felt like a huge boxer had just punched him. Memories, so many memories, swirling in his head, and at the same time this horrible pain gnawing away at his innards, as if some demented beast had been let loose inside him. Searing images became burnt into his retinas as he watched scenes from his life play out; he was 11 and had just received his brand new wand; a taunting, slightly cursed Bellatrix, was holding his school books above his head while he cried out, plaintively trying to grab them; he was 5 and it was Christmas, and there was his brother—

He suddenly remembered that he could not just sit and watch these images play on the inside of his eyelids. Struggling with the pain, and the flickering memories that obscured his vision he filled a sixth goblet before falling flat on his back again. He hastily drunk it and now there was more pain, more searing pain and strong memories; he was having a yelling-fight with Narcissa and oddly enough he heard his voice bouncing off the walls of the cave; he was being punished with the Cruciatus curse and fresh screams were being released from his mouth; he was at Hogwarts and—

No! The potion, it must be finished, some recess of his mind recalled. Forcing himself into a kneeling position so he could reach the potion, he took another goblet and drank half of it before collapsing further and grabbing onto the base of the stone pedestal. Another half and tears were leaking from his eyes as he attempted to restrain his screams of agony.

Another, the eighth, and he succumbed to the memories entirely. Pain and sorrow in every one; physical fights, painful curses, shattered relationships, all of these reflecting in the unintelligible babble and screams he heard issuing from his own mouth and echoing against the cave's desolate walls.

He could barely see the cave in front of his very eyes, the memories were so thick. Yet some part of him, some driving, inexhaustible engine, wouldn't let him forget the green substance that had to be drunk. It valiantly fought the part of him which desperately wanted to cave in and succumb entirely to the memories. Cries and moans of unheard agony emptied themselves from his mouth as he once again forced himself to crawl up to the stone basin.

The ninth goblet, filled with a trembling hand, was added to the already never-ending memories and unendurable pain. But this time he wouldn't allow himself to slide to the ground in agony, for he knew it would mean another climb up. Think…of him…of your… brother...strength …his mind helplessly thought words which he hoped could provide him with strength. Ten goblets filled and the basin was empty. Forcing the green liquid into his mouth he felt a sudden seizing up of his lungs and throat. He was going to die, he knew it. He had failed at his goal and now everything was fading in and out, the memories still playing very quickly in front of his closing eyes. With a shudder he laid flat on his back, eagle-spread. His head lolled over the edge of the island, some of his short black hair becoming wet, and suddenly everything became very distant. Close your eyes, just for a moment, his exhausted thoughts told him. Obeying, he was swallowed by the blackness.

And all of a sudden he was awake and alive, awoken so suddenly it was as if he had just been freed from a horrible nightmare. Dry and rasping lungs and throat coughed forcefully and he suddenly felt as if he would choke—or something of the like—if he did not drink water immediately. Instinct told him to stick his head in the lake and drink directly from it, and so he did. Gasping for breath and slicking back his now soaking hair, he became of rather ominous movements within the lake. Inferi, he realized, with a stab of terror. Feeling infinitely weak, he timidly held up his now-lit wand and almost fainted when he realized how many there were. So many, all coming towards him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to successfully escape them. Inferi, Inferi, how did one defeat them?

"Augh!" he screamed with surprised when a slimy hand grabbed his ankle in a very tight grip. "Incendio!" he yelled, grateful that his mind still worked during moments of panic. The Inferi immediately let go and returned to the inky depths from which it had come. "Incendio! Incendio!" he roared again and again, until his voice was hoarse and the Inferni had finally stopped rising, even if only temporarily.

Taking a long shuddering breath, he reached into the now-empty stone basin and felt his fingers close around a small, cold, object. The locket. Slytherin's locket. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a necklace that looked somewhat similar, although it was missing the distinct "S." Opening the imposter pendant he had brought, he took out a minuscule scrap of parchment and conjured a quill to use for writing the message he had planned.

Taking a long shuddering breath, he put quill to the parchment and started writing, making sure to use his best handwriting.

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.

Throwing the silver goblet he had used to drink the potion and quill in the lake, he sealed the pendant and carefully placed it in the stone basin. Not looking back once, he returned to the boat and left the cave successfully. His brother, the elder of the two of them, would have been proud. Somehow he hoped that his brother would get an inkling of his doings, but probably not. Tomorrow, he was going to flee England and the Dark Lord. He would be killed, of course, but he had long ago come to terms with that. Undoubtedly he would be scorned as a coward of a Death Eater, with neither side siding with him, but somehow he had even accepted that. If only his brother could find out the truth…then he would know that his younger brother had changed his ways, and, maybe, he would even know that he had helped. Him with his Gryffindor morals, and his refusal to back down to their parents had somehow set a model: what he could do if he tried. Now he had tried and succeeded, due in a very large part to the hope his older brother had given him.

Tears stung his eyes in the salty, ocean wind. No, that would do no good. Blacks didn't cry. He quickly apparated away from the empty sea cave, leaving nothing behind except a fake pendant, a scrap of paper, and the initials R.A.B. Regulus A. Black.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or his world.

A/N: So, this is my one-shot on what I think R.A.B. could stand for. Please tell me what you think about it and what your opinion is on the mysterious initials. Thank you!