[Regulus nods tensely, and is quiet for a moment, listening to the kettle begin to bubble. At last, he pushes up his sleeve.]
[The Dark Mark is still there. It's one thing he doesn't seem able to shapeshift away. It sits on his pale arm like an accusation, oozing an odd darkness from the flat and no-longer-enchanted lines of the tattoo.]
[He presses his lips together, and doesn't meet Sirius' eyes.] I'm assuming you may have guessed that part, as well.
[He clears his throat, tugging his sleeve back down and reaching for the kettle. It hasn't quite boiled yet, but it's close enough, and he just wants something to do that doesn't involved looking at Sirius.]
I joined up officially when I was sixteen. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It really did. He...
Persuasive arguments were made. I was a true believer. I know you don't understand how it would follow, and in hindsight I'm not sure I can even remember why it made sense to me, but... but I thought we were making the world a better place. I honestly did. A sacrifice for the greater good.
[He realises, belatedly, just how defensive he sounds - just how defensive he is. Making excuses for something he can't excuse to himself. It's pathetic.]
[He clears his throat again. Shadows swirl around him, agitated tendrils of darkness.]
That's not the point. I'm not... you aren't here to hear me talk about that.
Suffice to say, I started to doubt. I don't know when. I suppose it crept up on me. The... the violence of it, the things He said that didn't add up, the lack of thought or respect for the traditions we were supposedly fighting for. All kinds of things.
[He's given up on making the tea. It's taking too much focus to keep his voice level and low, and to keep his form vaguely solid, and not to shroud the whole room in hungry, heavy shadow.]
I suppose it came to a head a month or two before I turned eighteen. The Dark Lord demanded something from me. Someone, actually. Kreacher. He wanted him to run an... errand, he said. A mission for the cause.
[His voice isn't entirely level now, and a shiver of darkness runs through him, the room dimming noticeably. Some guilt is hard to tie down into a human shape.]
He told me nothing. Nobody ever told me anything. When the Dark Lord tells you to do something, you do it. He's not someone who asks. So I lent him Kreacher, and Kreacher did as he was told, and Kreacher...
He could've died. He was meant to die. I sent him to die. He trusted me, and I nearly killed him.
no subject
[The Dark Mark is still there. It's one thing he doesn't seem able to shapeshift away. It sits on his pale arm like an accusation, oozing an odd darkness from the flat and no-longer-enchanted lines of the tattoo.]
[He presses his lips together, and doesn't meet Sirius' eyes.] I'm assuming you may have guessed that part, as well.
[He clears his throat, tugging his sleeve back down and reaching for the kettle. It hasn't quite boiled yet, but it's close enough, and he just wants something to do that doesn't involved looking at Sirius.]
I joined up officially when I was sixteen. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It really did. He...
Persuasive arguments were made. I was a true believer. I know you don't understand how it would follow, and in hindsight I'm not sure I can even remember why it made sense to me, but... but I thought we were making the world a better place. I honestly did. A sacrifice for the greater good.
[He realises, belatedly, just how defensive he sounds - just how defensive he is. Making excuses for something he can't excuse to himself. It's pathetic.]
[He clears his throat again. Shadows swirl around him, agitated tendrils of darkness.]
That's not the point. I'm not... you aren't here to hear me talk about that.
Suffice to say, I started to doubt. I don't know when. I suppose it crept up on me. The... the violence of it, the things He said that didn't add up, the lack of thought or respect for the traditions we were supposedly fighting for. All kinds of things.
[He's given up on making the tea. It's taking too much focus to keep his voice level and low, and to keep his form vaguely solid, and not to shroud the whole room in hungry, heavy shadow.]
I suppose it came to a head a month or two before I turned eighteen. The Dark Lord demanded something from me. Someone, actually. Kreacher. He wanted him to run an... errand, he said. A mission for the cause.
[His voice isn't entirely level now, and a shiver of darkness runs through him, the room dimming noticeably. Some guilt is hard to tie down into a human shape.]
He told me nothing. Nobody ever told me anything. When the Dark Lord tells you to do something, you do it. He's not someone who asks. So I lent him Kreacher, and Kreacher did as he was told, and Kreacher...
He could've died. He was meant to die. I sent him to die. He trusted me, and I nearly killed him.