Author: Mariana O'Connor - definewisdom
Summary: A Black never begs, a Black never asks, a Black just takes what they want and Regulus is nothing if not a Black.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Regulus/Remus, Remus/Sirius
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JK Rowling, not me.
Warnings: slash, sex, canon character death,
Spoilers: All Harry Potter series I suppose, especially HBP and DH
Title, Author and URL of original story: Procrastination by ladyblack888
AN: Many thanks to spotsofcolour for being a super beta, even though there was a mix up concerning dates, and convincing me that I'm not quite as bad at NC-17 as I think...
There are no tears among the Black family as they stand on platform 9 ¾ to say goodbye to their eldest son before he takes the long trip up to Hogwarts for the first time. The hugs and farewells exchanged by the families around them (do be careful…Promise you’ll write… no detentions this time, I mean it) do not threaten to infect them with their sentimentality. They stand proudly. His father nods as his mother smiles the dreadful rictus of one surrounded by the plague.
Regulus cannot take his eyes off his brother, upright and struggling to control the grin that has been threatening him all morning. He glares because Sirius is leaving and off to have the adventures they talked about, while Regulus is stuck at home with only Kreacher to talk to. Sirius notices and sticks his tongue out, earning a hissed behave from their mother. Behave like a Black is what she means, behave better than the rabble that surrounds them, smiling and laughing and crying. Regulus thinks that maybe the other children have not been taught the rules of courtesy, and that the small, rather plump boy that almost knocks him over with a suitcase is definitely not what mother would call ‘the right kind of wizard’.
Sirius hauls his bag onto the train before climbing up after it. There is a moment where he stands framed in the doorway, looking back at them, before haring back out and mussing Regulus’ hair like he always does when he wants to annoy him. Then he’s darting away again, and onto the train and away. He ignores their mother’s glare of disapproval as she tugs Regulus back with one boney hand around his wrist and pulls the comb out of her pocket, the silver, spikey one. It yanks through his hair, teeth scraping his scalp. She would not do this, but Regulus has never been able to get his parting straight on his own and they are in public.
The train is pulling away and he is waving, not running after it like some of the other younger ones are, as if they could catch it up. He knows it would be a wasted effort.
Then Sirius is gone and Regulus is being pulled back to the exit, because his mother has never been one to linger. Long, drawn out, fond farewells are not something in which a Black participates.
It is two weeks before Sirius sends him a letter, although he promised he would write as soon as he got there. The parchment is full of James and Potter, and how great it is to be in Gryffindor. Their mother says he should be in Slytherin. He has overheard her telling their father about it and watched the tips of their father’s ears get red with rage as they discuss it. There has never been a Gryffindor in the family, he hisses through his teeth. They were Slytherins, even if one or two of them - Andromeda - had turned their backs on their family later. There is derision in his tone as he mentions his niece.
Regulus doesn’t think Gryffindor sounds that bad in Sirius’ letter. They live in a tower and have a view over the lake. He knows the Slytherin Common Room is underground, beneath the lake. He thinks he would prefer the view to being buried alive - but then he thinks of his father’s ears and his mother’s mouth, pulled tight.
In the dark he can imagine Sirius, cross-legged on the end of his bed, whispering the words to him. His brother writes like he speaks: the sentences all run on or are cut off by other thoughts. It is a one-sided conversation that Regulus can’t insert himself into.
It is not the school that fascinates him, though, as he half reads, half listens to the letter in the dim light. No, it is not the castle, with its moving staircases and secret passages, it is the people. Not James, who sounds like his brother, larger than life and jumping out at him from Sirius’ sloppy handwriting, but the ones in the background: Lupin and small pudgy Peter Pettigrew, strict but fair Professor McGonagall and even the headmaster, the confusing, eccentric Dumbledore, written of with an awed respect. But his mind dwells on one more than others.
Lupin’s a bit quiet, his brother writes, but he’s okay. Regulus pictures the boy and thinks, perhaps, if he gets into Gryffindor too, they could be friends. He always wanted a friend who would listen to him, as opposed to his cousins and brother who are clamouring to be heard, competing against each other. To be a Black is survival of the fittest.
The next letter adds a little more detail to his imaginary friend, his mother was ill last week and he had to go home. It is no longer Sirius on the end of his bed, muttering excitedly to him now, but the shadows fall on another boy, a quiet one, and Regulus tells this phantom how he sometimes wishes his mother would be ill, and how guilty he feels.
He waits until Sirius writes again, but there is nothing more about his imagined confidante. Regulus finds himself asking the silent presence whether he should try to be a Gryffindor or go into Slytherin like he is supposed to. The image tells him nothing and he throws himself back onto his bed and looks up at the ceiling where the family crest hangs over him.
Sirius comes home for Christmas and Regulus cannot wait to ask him all the questions he did not want to put in writing. But all Sirius can talk about is James and the pranks they pulled on the Slytherins. He mentions Remus from time to time, saying that he had helped with this idea, or that, but telling Regulus to keep it quiet – he’s a half-blood – and Regulus does.
Then he is gone again in a flurry of black and red and gold and Regulus is left to his fantasies.
Easter comes and goes, and Sirius stays at school, to revise, he tells his parents, but in his letter to his brother he says that there is something he has to do, but he can’t tell him. It’s a secret.
The letters are shorter from then on, usually just a Dear Regulus, How are you? We turned matchboxes into snails today, mine breathed fire. There is nothing about his friends, nothing about anything. The secret is there, between them, and in the night when he’s complaining to his imagined Lupin, the figment stares out the window and refuses to listen.
When summer comes, Regulus trails after his brother constantly. He will be at Hogwarts next year and he will be old enough to know the secret; he will be a Gryffindor and Sirius will trust him. But, after the first few days, Sirius turns on him and tells him to keep his creepy little nose out of his business. You’re just a little kid, can’t you see how annoying it is that you follow me around all the time? Don’t you have friends? But for him it has always been Sirius and Regulus against the world; whatever Bella might do to him, his brother would back him up and hex her right back. They were not allowed to associate with wizards ‘below their station’, and the muggles next door were barely human, according to their mother. So there was just the family and the two of them cooped up in the house, Sirius telling him stories of vampires and werewolves and wizarding adventurers.
But now Sirius has friends he doesn’t need Regulus any more. And they are Sirius’ friends, he makes that clear enough: his possession of them. Why do you keep asking about my friends after all? What are they to you? Of course, they are nothing, and his imaginary Remus fades away into the green and silver of their house and he is left alone, watching Sirius write letters (longer than any he ever wrote to him) to James, Remus and Peter.
They go to buy Regulus’ school things, but Sirius is not interested, though last year he had joked about it. James is there the same day and he doesn’t even mess up Regulus’ hair as he runs down the street to the Quidditch shop with an Oi! Potter, stop drooling over that Nimbus. Their mother glares after him, but a Black must not demean herself by running or making a scene in public, so Sirius is free, until they get back home then it’s off to their father’s study, and Regulus tries to ignore his brother’s cries.
When he goes to see him later Sirius doesn’t talk, just glares at him like this is somehow his fault, so he leaves quickly and doesn’t go back again.
They are standing on Platform 9 ¾ again and Regulus has never felt quite this scared in his life. Their mother reminds him that he is to uphold the family name and not disgrace his family. Be in Slytherin, he hears between her words, in the cold hard glare of her eyes, be a Black. She gave a similar speech to Sirius five minutes ago, before he tore off to look for his friends. Narcissa is there, though. She is in her final year now and offers to help him on board, saying that she’ll take care of him. Her hand on his shoulder is as cold and hard as his mothers and her bright red nails (Gryffindor colour, he thinks snidely) poke into his skin. Then she leads him aboard.
He looks for his brother at first, despite ‘Cissa saying he’s welcome to stay with her and her friends. He never liked her though and he says he needs to ask Sirius something.
When he finds him, their compartment is filled with the sounds of exploding snap, and the edge of Sirius’ hair is a little singed. There are four of them, and he doesn’t need to ask their names. James slouches in a corner, glasses slipping down his nose as he looks up with mischievous interest. Peter, plumper than the others, but slightly taller, watches his approach warily and Remus, opposite his brother, smiles. He looks nothing like Regulus imagined him: there is colour to him now, and his hair falls differently, but he is still Remus, and he smiles back, feeling better.
“What do you want, moron?” Sirius asks, and Regulus is lost for words.
“Can I sit with you?” he asks, timidly.
“What, scared Narcissa’ll hex you?” his brother asks and Regulus flushes. “No, scram. Find someone your own age, baby,” he snaps as he turns away.
When the sorting hat is placed on his head he is not as disappointed as he thought he would be when it shouts SLYTHERIN a second later. He can feel his brother’s eyes on him, judging him as he takes his place, and he can see the smug look on his cousin’s face as he sits where he belongs.
Over the next few years, he watches them as they cause mayhem throughout the school. He is the butt of it on more than one occasion and every time he can feel his brother’s eyes asking him why did you have to be like them? And though he never answers he knows the answer is because you wouldn’t let me be like you and that very fact lies between them.
He still talks to Remus sometimes, in his head. They are sitting in the library, on opposite sides and he imagines. He could go over there and ask:
Did you do the properties of Mandrake last year? And Remus would smile.
Yes, would you like some help? Then he’d sit down and they’d talk about Mandrake root, his brother, and how Bella was marrying that slimy git, Lestrange, what his friends said about muggle-borns and how he was never quite sure whether he agreed with it, though he nodded along.
Then Remus looks up, and catches him. It doesn’t take long before the books are packed away and he is gone.
He tries to talk to one of the boys in his dormitory the way he does to the Remus in his head, but he looks at him like he is an idiot and starts spouting off about pureblood supremacy. They just want to be his friends because he’s a Black, and to be friends with a Black means everything in Slytherin at the minute. He is the symbol of their politics, worn like a mascot on the outside of their group.
He sees his brother walking sometimes, arm slung over James’ shoulder, not a pet, but part of the group. He wants to be there, he wants to plot to set off fireworks in the great hall with James, and make classes laugh with outrageous comments. He wants to go up to Gryffindor tower and sit by the window watching the view as he plans another week’s mayhem.
He is fourteen when he realises there might be something wrong with him. The other boys are talking about girls. There’s this sixth year whose breasts are huge. She’s not a pureblood, but that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter about pedigree, one of them laughs, only one thing those mudblood whores are good for. Regulus laughs along with them but, while the other boys are waking up embarrassed after dreams of her, he finds the only name on his lips as he wakes, flushed, is male.
He sits on the Slytherin table between Severus and Rookwood and stares across the hall at them.
His brother is laughing, arm gesticulating wildly, missing a glass of pumpkin juice by a hair’s breadth, and James and Peter are laughing with him. Remus is smiling, and his eyes are on Sirius and Regulus blinks because there is something there that he is not sure if he is seeing or not.
From then on he watches them more carefully, Remus and his brother. He sees the glances, the hurry to look away if the other one turns. There are touches that last a little too long, but a flurry of embarrassment which tells him that neither knows.
Remus’ eyes soften as he looks at Sirius, and late at night Regulus imagines those eyes in that flushed face looking up at him. He knows what he wants…
He looks in the mirror one day and sees his brother staring back at him, and that is when he knows how to get it. His brother’s mouth grins back at him, his brother’s eyebrow raises in cocky salute, half hidden by the fall of his brother’s hair.
A Black never begs, his cousin had told him once as he pleaded with her to let him go; a Black never asks, his brother had told him when he took one of Regulus’ toys.
A Black just takes what is there, because it is a Black’s right to have what he wants.
So he does.
Remus is in the library again when he arrives. He has deliberately grown his hair that little bit longer, just so the transformation is complete. He knows that it has worked when it takes his prey a second to recognise him.
I know, he says, with a predator’s grin. I know what you want. I can give it to you. The Gryffindor looks as though he has been caught stealing from the potions cupboard and backs up slightly. I don’t know what you mean, he says, but the knowledge is in his eyes as Regulus moves forward again. I can be him for you, if you want, he offers as though casually offering him a quill. I can do whatever you want. There it is: the flash of hunger in the eyes he knew he would see. Lupin’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes dart around, looking for witnesses.
Why? Lupin asks, but he doesn’t answer, just sinks to his knees and undoes the other boy’s zip, tugs down his clothing until he is exposed for all the world to see. He is already hard, and Regulus smirks upward in a manner he has seen Sirius do a thousand times. He has never done this before, but it doesn’t matter because his brother hasn’t either, and the fact that this is his and his alone, makes his cock harder than ever. His hands shove Remus’ hips back against the book case and the whole thing shudders. He licks and sucks the other boy’s dick, clumsily engulfing it. Above him Remus is biting his lips to muffle his moans and he has to press harder to stop the buck and thrust of his hips from choking him. There will be bruises tomorrow, and he is glad because they will be the bruises of his hands.
Sirius was too late, he thinks as Remus comes into his mouth with his brother’s name hissed across his lips. Remus was his now. The taste in his mouth is bitter, but it is the taste of victory and he ignores his disgust as he zips Lupin’s trousers back up and stands up. The boy is shaking against the bookcase and a drip of blood is oozing from his lip.
Anywhere, anytime, he promises, before stalking away. Sirius is walking in as he walks out, they do not look at each other, but Regulus smiles to himself as he walks away with enough memories to fuel his dreams tonight.
Back in his dormitory he closes the curtains round his bed and pulls his trousers down his legs and his robes up. Taking himself in his hand he remembers Remus, trembling from the force of his orgasm, breath coming in gasps, his face flushed. He remembers the feel of his cock, hot and heavy, in his mouth, the taste of it. He imagines a what if, what if Sirius had entered that little bit earlier, what if he had caught him in there on his knees sucking his friend’s dick. What if he had seen Regulus taking what he wanted, and seen Remus begging him for more. That thought is enough to take him over the edge, crying out into the empty dormitory.
Every time he sees Remus now, he smirks, or quirks an eyebrow. The other boy looks away hurriedly, swallowing hastily. He loves the effect he has on him, just one look can make the Gryffindor aroused and he enjoys the power he has. Remus is his now, and he is not letting him get away.
The second time is in the classroom on the third floor that is used for Charms. It is evening, and Remus is coming back from dinner. It is the first time in days Regulus has seen him outside of his brother’s shadow and as he passes he grabs him and pulls him through the door, closing and locking it behind him.
What are you doing? Remus asks, trying to push past him. What you want me to do, he says grasping his hair with both hands and pulling their lips together, hard. He forces his tongue into his mouth, his teeth pressing against Remus’ lips. Remus’ hands are flat against his chest, but there is no pressure yet, just body heat gathering. Then he is pushed away, hard. I don’t want this.
You want him, and I’m the closest you’ll ever get, Regulus taunts him. He is confident in this: he knows he will get what he wants here, because Remus is his. He loosens his robes and lets them drop, undoing the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest, his brother’s chest, to Remus greedy gaze. One hand drifts over to his nipple, circling it, caressing it. You want to touch this, he tells him, and Remus nods, eyes glued to that hand. You want to taste it, he nods again. Then why don’t you? The hunger is there again, almost bestial in its intensity. I want you to. Then Remus is there, his hands on him, his lips moving across his chest as he tastes and feels and, More, Regulus manages as a hot tongue licks a pattern down his chest and abdomen, swirling over his navel, and fingers, long masculine fingers, nails bitten down, undo his trousers, slipping his underwear down. He cannot help but watch as Remus sucks him off, his penis disappearing into that mouth inch by inch. Remus is better at this than he was, he thinks as the soft wet heat surrounds him and he feels the other’s tongue against the bottom of his dick massaging it lazily.
His last coherent thought is that Sirius would die if he could see them now.
He comes sooner than he had wanted to, his head thrown back in a long drawn out moan of Yes… Remus. As he caves in on himself he wonders what the boy’s reaction would have been if the words out of his mouth had been ‘fuck you, Sirius’ but then he remembers that he hasn’t quite finished yet and pulls Remus back to him. He puts his mouth against Remus’s ear and murmurs to him as he sticks his hand down the front of his trousers and pants and strokes him.
You’ve always wanted this, he mutters, You know you have. You fantasized about it every night. You cried out my name into your pillow. Tell me how much you want it, tell me. He pumps harder, as Remus begs into his ear. Please Sirius, please… Merlin… faster. He doesn’t bother to correct the name, they both know it is him, not his brother here. He sees that knowledge in the guilt on Remus’ face as he pulls himself together and undoes the locking charm on the door. He sees it in the way the Gryffindor does not look back as he leaves the room.
They both know it is him, and he revels in that fact.
His friends look at him strangely now, he wonders if they can smell it on him, see it in his eyes as he stares with superiority at his brother. They talk about the Dark Lord and fighting for the ideals of true Wizardry, while he watches across the Great Hall as his brother yearns for his possession. But he cuts out the articles, like a good little Slytherin and laughs along as they mock the mudblood who sits in front of them in Charms.
He gets a letter from Bellatrix one day, saying she and her husband have joined the Death-Eaters and he would be a welcome addition as soon as he comes of age. But real world politics are nothing to him now he rules his own world, so he ignores it and buries it in the bottom of his trunk.
The first time Remus drags him away, Regulus has been watching him all day. It is the Easter holidays and everyone knows there is something off between his brother and his friends. Severus knows something more but he refuses to say. It is clear in the anger in Remus’s eyes as he looks at Sirius that the real problem lies between them.
Remus is stronger than he looks and when Regulus is dragged sideways into the basement cleaning cupboard, he knows that the other boy has been waiting for him. There is no talking this time, their lips are crushed together as Remus strips him of his clothes and Regulus is more than happy to return the favour. As soon as he is half naked, Remus turns him around and pushes him against the wall. There are fingers pushing into him but the pain just makes it real and this is better than anything before. He cries out for more, but Remus ignores him, slowly pushing each digit in, bit by bit.
Regulus is breathed across the back of his neck in hot air, and Regulus is so startled at the sound of his own name on those lips that he doesn’t notice at first when the fingers withdraw and Remus begins to push his cock in. It is not slow this time but fast and hard and he’s crying out. It hurts, but he doesn’t want it to stop.
Beg me, Remus says, stopping still, and he doesn’t want to, because Blacks don’t beg. But then Remus’s hand is slipping down in front of them and grabbing him, hard. Beg for it. And he does. Then Remus is moving inside him and his hand is moving on him hard and fast and there is nothing gentle here. He hits a spot that makes Regulus’ knees buckle and his eyes roll up as he begs for it again.
When Remus finally pulls out of him and they dress themselves like nothing’s happened Regulus wonders why, this time, when Remus used his name, not his brother’s, he feels more used than he ever did before. They separate outside the cupboard and Remus says with a smile Goodbye, Regulus. He feels that he has been left out of the loop as he reenters the common room stiffly.
He had always thought of his family in terms of a chess board: the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, proud and regal, taking on the world, one move after another. His brother is a knight, moving at angles, a fighter and protector, while he is a rook, moving straight as an arrow, until stopped. Now, though, he feels more like a pawn, and he glares at the silver and green hangings and tries to forget the feel of Remus’s hand roughly clutching at him and the anger in his voice as he had told him to beg.
His brother is back to his old self again a few days later and Remus is smiling at him once more. Regulus’ fingernails bite into his skin as he restrains himself. He wants to go over there and ask his brother if he knows what his friend does behind his back, if Sirius knows what he really wants from Remus, but he cannot do that. As much as the thought of the look on his brother’s smug, self-satisfied face pleases him, it is in the secrecy that he has his power, and he is not going to give in without a fight.
He watches them again from the distance, as the mutterings at the Slytherin table grow louder. These will join the Dark Lord, these will not. Will he fight for the reinstatement of pureblood supremacy alongside them? They assume he will, for he is a Black and a Slytherin, not like his brother, and he never bothers to tell them no. There are other things on his mind than the deaths of a few muggle-borns and some Wizard who wants to be King.
Remus is looking at his brother with guilt now, and Regulus can read what is in his mind almost as clearly as he can remember those eyes staring up at him with desire. He is going to tell his brother how he feels. He is through with hiding and secrecy. But Regulus does not want that and Remus is his, so he will stop him.
The thoughtful look on the Gryffindor’s face as he ascends the stairs reads like a book. Today will be the day, it says. Today he will tell him.
But Regulus does not give up his toys so easily, and, with a smile and a wink, he corners the older boy and tugs him into the alcove beneath the stairs. He does everything he can to put such thoughts from his mind because Sirius has James and Peter and everyone else in the world, but Remus is Regulus’s and that is how it will stay. He can feel brown eyes watching him as he drops to his knees. He imagines how it must look to him, this mirror of Sirius taking him in his mouth, playing with him with his tongue. He puts all his energy into it, because Sirius can never find out, and as Remus comes into his mouth (Sirius’s mouth) he knows that he has postponed the inevitable, at least for today.
He pushes them back into the shadows as a crowd of Hufflepuffs go past, chattering on their way to dinner and kisses Remus’ open mouth, hard, before withdrawing. He maintains eye-contact as he walks away, until the last possible moment.
He knows he has lost yet again when, one day, Remus and Sirius walk into dinner just that little bit too close and, as they sit down, Remus shoots him a look that is no longer full of guilt or desire, but pity. He doesn’t look at them again and instead turns his attention to the food and does not look up.
Back in his room he reads through another letter from dear cousin Bella and picks up a quill to respond. He has heard Sirius say that he will fight Voldemort no matter what and wonders if that extends to fighting his own brother. He doesn’t mind if it does. In fact, he would welcome it because Sirius has everything and one way or another he is going to take it from him, piece by piece, hair by hair.
He takes the Dark Mark ingrained into his skin, burning there, branding him. Bella is a believer all right, he sees her stare in adoration at her Lord and Master and wonders whether she knows how stupid she looks, worshipping at the feet of his mutated form. Regulus does not believe, but he has his hate and he has his pride and at first that is enough.
Then people start dying, close to him. He watches as Bellatrix tortures a muggle-born in front of him, a girl he remembers from school. She sat on the Hufflepuff table and one of her friends had asked Sirius out in fifth year, but had been rejected. He remembers her arm around her friend as she glared at his brother for turning her down. In her screams of pain he hears the comforting words she whispered then. He does not hate her.
She had, at the time, meant nothing to him, but as he watches her die, begging for her life and Bella’s cruel voice cuts through her words Don’t beg, mudblood, it just makes you more pathetic he understands what she’s begging for: life… or an end to it.
He kills her then, as she screams for it. Bella would play with her for hours if she could, like a cat with a wounded bird, batting it from paw to paw. Mercy, she wants, so he gives it to her.
He has never killed before and he feels something inside him break as he says the words of the killing curse. He is cracked and split apart and at the same time he is reforged. A castle rebuilt: stronger, impenetrable. He has no cause, he belongs to no faction and his life is his own to do with what he pleases. The screams are still echoing in his mind when he figures out what to do. He realises there was never a simple choice between following his brother or following his family. He has nothing to fight for, but now, at least, he has something to fight against.
So he begins.
When Voldemort asks for Kreacher he has no choice but to hand him over, although there is a hole in his stomach which tells him this can only end badly. His family is all he has now, and his mother might be firm and cold, and his father might be muttering to himself about keeping the blood pure in the back room where he is not supposed to enter, but they are his (not Sirius’s anymore, not since he slammed the door behind him years ago) and he has to protect them. So he lets Kreacher go, but tells him to come back, and then he waits.
He writes a letter then, a silly letter, a long letter, to Sirius. It starts off angry as he carves his feelings out onto the page. It starts off vindictive, telling him what he did to his half-blood lover, but as he writes he finds he cannot stop, the words pour out, the fear, the hopelessness, the new desire to stop Voldemort, how he understands now.
He writes, and writes until his hand hurts and he gets to the final words, asking, begging for forgiveness. Then Kreacher reappears, and he is screaming.
It takes hours to get the information from the terrified, panicked House-Elf. He trembles when he is touched and keeps repeating have to return, have to return. But finally he gets what he needs, and he understands. He has been listening carefully the last few weeks and months, and he knows what Kreacher has done. He knows that there is a Horcrux and he knows what must be done. He carefully folds the note to Sirius and shoves it in his pocket, maybe he will send it tomorrow. On a new sheet of parchment he writes, in his neatest handwriting, the biggest ‘fuck you’ he will ever say and signs it with his initals.
If he has done nothing else today, the name of Black will be known to the monster it kills.
Then he goes with Kreacher, to the cave and across the lake, and he gives him the orders, destroy the locket, tell no one, and then he starts to drink.
It hurts, he screams, and memories flood his mind, bringing him to his knees: the Hufflepuff girl’s screaming cutting off with Avada Kedavra; Remus staring across the hall with pity; Remus making him beg; his brother taunting and tricking him, yelling at him; his brother walking away, through the door and down the street, not looking back towards the window where Regulus pressed his face against the glass, longing to follow. Under it all his own voice whimpers and screams but he refuses to beg for someone to stop it, because he is a Black.
He cries out, but Kreacher does nothing, as ordered, and the one part of his brain that is still able to think is thankful to the elf. His life, small and worthless as it may be when shed of the high and mighty posturing of the Blacks, is his to give and this act no one can take away from him.
Then he feels hands grasping him, water rising over him and his screams disappear into bubbles. Water fills his lungs and the greenish glow fades to black.