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The Peace of Madness


“Kreacher has done his bidding,” said the house elf, appearing with a crack in Regulus’s bedroom. Regulus was crouching in the corner of the room, his knees pulled to his chest, face buried in his arms. He’d been there since Kreacher had left, rocking himself slightly. Kreacher stood a few feet away, awkward, and he wrung his fingers. “Master Regulus, Kreacher has done it, he has done his bidding,” he repeated again, trying to make his master happy.

Regulus nodded, though, without speaking, continuing to rock himself.

Kreacher crept closer. “Kreacher does not like it when Master Regulus is crying.”

Regulus murmured, “I’m not crying.” He really wasn’t. Yet. But he wanted to. Oh how he wanted to. He didn’t dare. Not here. Not in the Noble House of Black. The walls here could feel weakness, he was certain of it, and it seemed to Regulus that all he had done lately was be weak...

How long had he dreamed of meeting this Dark Lord that his parents spoke to highly of? He’d wanted nothing more than to impress Voldemort, to earn the man’s trust as one of his followers, to make his parents happy and be Great just as Mother said. He’d wanted to be the son that they wanted, the son that Sirius would never be… but it seemed like every time he was in the presence of the Dark Lord, he saw or heard something that made him sick to his stomach with the injustice of it.

He’d seen things that disturbed his soul and put him on edge tonight.

Even the memory of it made him rock even harder in the corner of the room.

It just just been so unfair, so wrong...




The Dark Lord had tortured Honey Pettigrew in his usual way, but when she still refused to call her son to her, he had hissed and turned away. “There’s nothing you can do to make me do it,” she’d said firmly.

Voldemort’s smile had grown. “Nothing? Nothing you say?”

Honey had stood her ground. Well, figuratively speaking, of course, as she was laying in the cage, trembling.

That was when the girl had come in, with thick, pretty blonde curls, wearing a pair of soft pink pyjamas. She was Regulus’s age and her eyes were dull with defeat and seemed soulless. She had shuffled in slowly, as though sleepwalking…

“Maggie,” Honey had choked the name out, “Maggie. No, no, not my Maggie. No.”

“Then call. Your. Son.” Voldemort hissed.

Tears had poured over Honey’s cheeks like great waterfalls.

“Very well.” Voldemort raised his wand to the little girl’s head.

“NO!” Honey screamed, “No, no. Please. No… anything, I’ll do anything…”

“Call. Your. Son.”

“Please --”

The Dark Lord looked across the room. “Release the imperius curse.”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Druella Black, standing wild-haired and eyed beside her daughters - well, two of them, at least - Bellatrix and Narcissa.

The horrible witch drew a deep breath and instantly the vacant expression in the little girl’s eyes dropped away and she blinked in surprise and fear as she looked around the dark room at the flickering torches and the looming, terrifying faces of the Death Eaters - some of which were wearing black masks with gruesome faces under their hoods. She panicked, frantic, and backed right into the Dark Lord, who hissed horribly at her and held his wand all the tighter against her head, making her freeze as he squeezed her arm to hold her in place, wrenching her shoulder up in an awkward way. “Mummy?” Maggie croaked, her voice raw form disuse.

“MAGGIE!” cried Honey, “Maggie, my baby, Maggie…”

Without hesitation -- “Crucio,” Voldemort said, whispering the word -- wand still touching Maggie Pettigrew’s pretty little head…

It was so much worse than Regulus could ever have expected. He turned, unable to stop himself, and he’d pressed his face into his mother’s arm. It was all he could do not to throw up on the spot. She’d nudged him quickly and when he’d looked up at his mother, she had mouthed the word watch to him and turned his face forcibly with her hand. But Regulus had noticed it was trembling.

“NO! STOP! STOP IT! PLEASE! MAGGIE!” Honey wailed, reaching through the bars of the cage, her hands grabbing at thin air, inches from Voldemort’s robes, unable to do anything but scream and cry and beg. Maggie’s entire body convulsed and fell to the ground as Voldemort released her arm and laughed. He actually laughed.

Regulus’s fists balled as tight as they ever could.

“This little squib child… worthless… worthless in this plan, worthless every day of her pitiful little life…” Volemort’s wand stayed trained on Maggie, but he looked at Honey with flashing eyes so dark brown that they were nearly red in the irises, and he smiled wickedly and his voice dropped low, “I understand how it is that you’d be willing to sacrifice her for your son… who would want a squib for a daughter?”

“STOP...PLEASE…” Honey sobbed. “CURSE ME, CURSE ME INSTEAD! PLEASE!”

Voldemort cackled, then leaned closer to Maggie, kneeling on the floor so that his wand was touching her again and he hissed, “Mummy’s made her choice, little one, she’s chosen your brother over you…”

“I haven’t!”

“Then call your son and I’ll give the girl the peace she deserves,” Voldemort snapped. When Honey didn’t reply, Voldemort whispered, “Call him - now - or I’ll kill her.”

Honey could stand it no more. “PETER! PETER! PETER!!” she shrieked the name as loud as she could, and it echoed from her gut, desperate and trembling and horrific. The moment the name was out of her mouth, Voldemort lifted the wand from Maggie’s head and the girl’s body went still very suddenly. Honey was grabbing through the cage bars, trying to reach her daughter, but unable.

“Very good, Honey,” whispered Voldemort. “Very good.” He looked across the room at Mopsus, who stood, leaning against his cane. “Now show it to the Boy.”

Mopsus’s milky white eyes closed.

Honey was sobbing, “Please. Let me see my daughter. Let me see that she’s alright. Please.”

Maggie still hadn’t moved. Not at all. Regulus was staring at her, he hadn’t torn his eyes from her, he couldn’t. Every muscle in his body was tense, his stomach clenched so hard from the effort not to throw up…

Please… let her be okay. Please let her be okay. Please. Don’t let her be dead, he was begging whatever gods would hear, whatever gods might listen, calling out to any and all angels…

Voldemort walked over and roughly grabbed the girl’s arm… turning her over roughly, and - a relief, momentary, rushed over Regulus - her eyes blinked open… but they were even more vacant than they’d been before…

“It is said that a strong enough cruciatus curse will destroy the mind… oh, but there’s a certain peace in madness,” whispered Voldemort, “When your mind has been broken and you’re no longer responsible for the weight of the world’s cares…”

Bellatrix Lestrange clapped and cackled.

Walburga grabbed hold on Regulus’s arm and squeezed tightly, possessively, protectively, as Honey Pettigrew’s cries became even more guttural than they’d yet been, as though her very soul was being ripped from her body, “What’ve you done? What’ve you done?” she sobbed.

Voldemort looked at Mopsus, ignoring the shrieking woman, ignoring the vacant eyes of the girl, “Bring me the Boy, Mopsus. My patience is waning.” He swept from the room, his robes swishing about his ankles.

Bellatrix Lestrange clapped and cackled and hissed as she danced about around the girl, who was still sitting quite stupidly on the floor… her mind gone, never to be returned to her…




Regulus had thrown up quite violently the moment he’d gotten home to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. His mother had sent him to his room and gone to her library, slamming the door behind her as Orion stood in the hall by the door, staring blankly ahead, all of them thinking about that little girl… Regulus had paced his room, end to end, and he remembered that fat little boy - Peter Pettigrew - remembered seeing him about the halls of the castle. He was a Gryffindor, but everyone in the castle questioned why - he was a known coward. He’d overheard multiple people mocking the boy, saying that he only clung on to James and Sirius because of what a coward he was, because James and Sirius were very brave, very strong figures that little Peter could hide behind… Regulus could not for the life of him figure out what it was about the Pettigrew boy that Voldemort wanted so badly. What did Peter Pettigrew have to offer that would possibly be worth all of the trouble and planning and fighting that Voldemort was doing? What key would Peter Pettigrew play in Voldemort’s terrible plans?

That poor little girl, her eyes - those split second when they’d been clear of the imperius, but not yet vacant from the destruction of her mind - had locked onto Regulus’s in the second before the Dark Lord had cast the curse… and Regulus had been reminded of that elf, Tizzy, locking eyes with him just before she’d been murdered. Regulus couldn’t take it, he couldn’t handle it. He was being driven mad himself with the thoughts spinning ‘round about his head…

What if they were all wrong?


What if Voldemort wasn’t the savior of the wizarding world that his parents thought?

What if Voldemort was the one that the wizarding world needed a savior from?

And what was he, Regulus, going to do about it? Could he do anything? Should he do anything?

He paced and paced and paced and paced for almost an hour before he realized there was one thing he could do. However small it might be now, perhaps it would be the first step - the first in many that he would have to take… He called out, “Kreacher.”

And Kreacher appeared, “Master Regulus, Kreacher is here to serve you…” the house elf bowed low and his ears flapped with deepest respect.

“Kreacher, I order you to go to Hogwarts, to the Gryffindor common room, find Sirius, and tell him -- tell him that his friend is in trouble. But don’t tell him I sent you. Do not mention me at all.”

“Yes, Master Regulus, Kreacher will go and tell Master Sirius this message.”

“Go,” Regulus commanded before he could change his mind.

There was a CRACK and Kreacher had gone…

And now, Kreacher was back from doing his master’s bidding and there was no turning back now. Regulus had done it, he’d warned Sirius, he’d acted against the Dark Lord, and he was surprised to find that, despite the fear and the anguish that twisted and wove its way through his body, a sort of odd bit of peace had also come over him… He’d done something, however small, to fight for what he really believed was right.