Unspoken

He can't hear the screams, but he hears the echoes. Distant echoes, wind through the cavern, whispers against the rock. He isn't moving, but he stops. Waits. Listens. The echoes do not fade.

Water laps quietly against stone. He doesn't look down, but he can see the pale faces beneath the lake, flaccid and distorted, lips twisted in lifeless, mocking leers. Shame and embarrassment fill him, cool green tendrils trickling down his throat and dripping over his skin, streaming through his fingers and down his face like rainwater.

Humiliated, appalled, he tries to wipe it away, but there is something wrong with his hands: caught, stilled, bound, too heavy to lift. A chain encircles his wrists, tarnished silver, rubbing a smear of green onto his skin. The locket swings like a pendulum over the water. He tries to pull it back, but he is not quick enough.

Below the surface of the lake, in the pale faces of the dead, their eyes open and glow with sudden green light.

The locket bursts into flames.

His hand and arm follow, flesh and bones falling away in the bright green flames. He begins to scream.

~ ~ ~

He woke just long enough to wonder how the healers kept the blood from staining their white robes.

Then there was a whispering voice, a wave of dizziness, nausea, panic, and darkness.

~ ~ ~

When he woke properly, dragging himself sluggishly from a potion-induced sleep, there was a healer at his bedside and an Auror guarding the door.

He saw the healer first: a pale girl in spotless white robes, only a few years older than him, blonde hair escaping her hat in messy curls around her face. She was bending over the bedside table, carefully pouring the contents of one glass vial into another, biting her lip in concentration. He opened his mouth to speak to her, to ask what happened? or where am I? or some other idiotic question that didn't need to be answered, but the only sound that emerged was a weak, rasping sigh.

The healer started, spilling some drops of the potion on the table. For one long moment, she stared at him, her eyes wide, then began to back away slowly. She spoke, but the words seemed garbled, not proper English. Her hands were trembling.

A figure loomed in the doorway. He recognised the man -- Quidditch, Hufflepuff, Neanderthal -- and he recognised the robes of an Auror. The man smiled, showing too many teeth, and he spoke. Gibberish, again, nonsense, nothing he could understand.

Then the man laughed, the young healer smiled thinly, and the words snapped into clarity: "Don't worry, girl. Look at him. He can't hurt anything now."

He tried to speak again but achieved nothing more than a desperate gasp that burned through his throat like acid. The Auror laughed again and went back to his post by the door.

The healer stepped forward; her hand was still trembling.

"Don't try to talk," she said quietly. "You'll only make it worse."

~ ~ ~

The potions tasted like ash. He tried to tell the healer when she made him drink them, every hour, on the hour. He tried to ask her what had happened to his arms, swathed in bandages and immobile by his side. He tried to ask her name, tried to tell her that he needed to speak to somebody. He tried to reply to the Auror's jokes about soundless, gaping fish with clever insults of his own.

No words made it past his lips.

When evening came and the shifts changed, the hulking Auror stuck his head in the door and said, "Nice talking to you, Black. Be sure to give a shout if you need anything from my colleague here." He laughed at his own joke, and he was still laughing as he walked down the corridor.

The pretty young healer spoke to her replacement just outside the door. He heard the words "Ministry" and "Death Eater" and "captured" and "dangerous."

He rolled his eyes. Stupid girl. He was about as dangerous as a flobberworm, barely able to lift his head, his voice gone and his hands wrapped up in clumsy stumps of bandages. But when both healers glanced into the room, their faces and robes stark white in the glaring light of the corridor, his amusement faded.

Then the healer met his eyes and said, "Tacitum Perpetuo." It was a solemn pronouncement, as much for him as for her colleague on the night shift.

A cold knot formed in Regulus' gut.

He remembered, finally, what had happened.

~ ~ ~

He dreamed again about the cave, the faces and the eyes, the locket and the flames, the echoing screams. When he woke, sweating, he told himself that it was the potions that muddled his mind so, melding those days together into one confusing nightmare.

He did not go back to sleep for a long time.

~ ~ ~

The Ministry came the next day. He heard them striding down the corridor, a steady, marching beat of footsteps. They sounded like an army, but when they appeared in the doorway, there were only four men. Crouch, Moody, and two more Aurors he recognised but couldn't name. Moody's face was bandaged. Regulus remembered somebody bragging about that, remembered remarking that the lucky attacker ought to have kept the eye in a jar as a token.

The men stood over him in the small, white room, their robes dark and expressions grim. He glanced past them -- not hopefully, not expectantly -- but nobody else followed.

Crouch cleared his throat. Regulus met his gaze evenly and waited. He wondered, idly, if Crouch knew that his son was a Death Eater. He wondered what would happen if he said as much right then -- if he could say it -- then decided that it probably wouldn't matter. Crouch would have made a good Death Eater himself; Regulus wondered if anybody had tried to recruit him.

"I have not come to interrogate you," Crouch said.

Well, yes, Regulus thought, resisting the urge to make a face. It is rather difficult to interrogate a man who can't speak.

"There is nothing I wish to ask you," Crouch went on. His voice was stiff and formal, as if he was reading from a text on speaking to dangerous invalids. "I do not know what you have done, or why you are injured but not dead--"

Been wondering that myself. Regulus swallowed, ignoring the sharp pain in his throat, and tried to guess what Crouch wasn't saying.

"--but it does not matter. Your previous actions speak for themselves. You wear his mark."

"Not anymore." Moody's voice was a growl.

Crouch ignored him. "The evidence against you is sufficient for a conviction--"

Regulus' heart began to beat faster. He struggled to sit upright, but his limbs were awkward and weak, refusing to obey.

Crouch's eyes widened slightly at his sudden movement, but he went on smoothly, "--and the Ministry is willing to consider a reduced sentence if you provide us with the names of the other Death Eaters."

Shaking his head, Regulus opened his mouth, forgetting that he couldn't speak until he produced only a high-pitched wheeze. One of the Aurors smirked at the sound. Raising his bandaged arms, Regulus began gesturing frantically, kicking at the sheets -- no, you bloody fool, you've got it all wrong, I have to explain, I need paper, I need to speak, I need--

Crouch stepped back quickly. To the Aurors, he said calmly, "He is raving. Restrain him."

A flash from one of the wands, and Regulus' body went limp. He fell back against the pillow, a pathetic heap, head lolling, unable to control his limbs, unable to move. He couldn't move his jaw to mime speaking or raise his head to look at Crouch. Sick, cold panic flowed through him, but he couldn't even tremble.

"When you are well enough," Crouch said, stepping over to where Regulus could see him, "you will be sent to Azkaban."

~ ~ ~

His mother came in the evening. The Restraining Charm had not completely worn off, but the pretty healer rearranged his limbs and straightened the sheets so that he could lie on his back.

After the healer left, Regulus heard the door open and smelled the familiar perfume, a faint scent of flowers that filled every childhood memory. He couldn't turn his head, but he didn't need to.

For a long time, she looked down at him, saying nothing. She wore dark green, as she always did, and her hair was neatly pinned under a scarf. There were droplets of water on the scarf; it was raining outside. He met her pale gaze and did not blink. He had never before noticed the wrinkles around her mouth, nor the grey in her fair hair.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead. "My son," she said, her voice as frail as antique lace.

Regulus closed his eyes. He had that much control, at least.

A few moments later, her footsteps retreated, and the door closed.

~ ~ ~

On the third day, nobody came. The pretty blonde healer was not working. The Neanderthal stood outside the door, joking loudly with the healers and orderlies who passed. A stern-faced old woman with cold hands brought his potions and held his chin so he could drink without spilling.

Sometime in the afternoon, there was a great commotion in the corridors, shouts and rushing and panic. He heard enough to understand: completely destroyed, Dark Mark, whole family, nothing but rubble, even the kids.

His fingers and forearms itched terribly. He imagined ants and maggots crawling beneath the bandages, burrowing into what was left of his skin. Regulus turned his head away from the door, away from the healers scurrying back and forth, away from the scent of smoke and blood and burnt flesh. The window in his room was small, but he could see that it was still raining.

~ ~ ~

On the fourth day, he awoke to find Albus Dumbledore sitting beside his bed.

Regulus made a surprised noise, then flushed angrily. He hated the small, useless sounds he made, hated that he kept forgetting that he could not speak. He clamped his mouth shut and waited.

"Some very unexpected things have been happening, these past days," Dumbledore said. His face was grave, but his voice was strangely gentle. "Much of it is quite difficult to explain, but I would wager -- if I were a betting man, as I was in my youth -- that your failure to die has greatly upset Voldemort and his followers."

It was an opportunity. Regulus saw that at once. The Ministry did not want to learn anything from him except names, but Dumbledore was offering a chance to say -- show, write, flail madly, whatever he could -- more. Slowly, Regulus lifted his hands and began to gesture. The motion caused the healing skin to chafe under the bandages, but he ignored the pain. He mimed the act of writing, glancing up anxiously to see that Dumbledore understood.

The old man nodded, a hint of light coming into his blue eyes. He reached into his robes and drew out a handful of items: some sweets, a bit of string, a wooden pipe, three black feathers, an ink bottle, a pair of scissors, and finally a quill and a piece of parchment. Dumbledore smoothed the parchment flat and placed it on the bed beside Regulus -- he remembers that I'm left-handed -- then pressed the quill into the bandaged hand.

Regulus dropped the quill twice before managing to grasp it between his thumb and palm. It hurt abominably, to close his hand like that; the pull of skin and muscle was like fire shooting up his forearm. He bit his lip and was silently grateful when Dumbledore's own fingers helped steady the quill. He considered for only a moment, then began to scratch at the parchment. The jerky motions spattered ink onto the white hospital sheets.

horcrux

"Ah," Dumbledore said, looking at Regulus over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "I see." He took the quill, dipped it into the ink, and pressed it again into Regulus' hand. "What else can you tell me?"

~ ~ ~

The Neanderthal Auror tossed the evening Prophet onto the bed and said smugly, "I hear they have family cells in Azkaban. You can be together forever."

Regulus fumbled to turn the paper over. On the front page, there was a photograph of Bellatrix walking between two Aurors, her arms bound behind her. Captured! screamed the headline, in bold letters. She stood straight and tall, her expression haughty. When she tossed her hair, her eyes looked directly into the camera; Regulus flinched and shoved the paper aside. It slipped to the floor, and the Auror laughed as he bent to pick it up.

~ ~ ~

At night, the hospital was quiet, though never completely silent, and Regulus could not sleep. The potions made it difficult for him to know memory from nightmare. When he closed his eyes he saw the pale faces of the submerged Inferi.

His hands and arms itched so persistently he thought he would go mad. After he waved the offending limbs in front of her face desperately, the pretty healer had understood his complaint, but she had merely smiled and said that was a good sign.

There were footsteps and quiet voices on the other side of the door. Probably time for another potion. He turned his head expectantly when the door opened, squinting in the shaft of light from the corridor. It wasn't a healer. It was Sirius.

He hesitated when he saw that Regulus was awake, but he stepped in and shut the door. A moment later, wandlight flared, filling the room with a pale blue glow. Sirius sat in the chair beside the bed, then placed a piece of parchment and a Muggle pen within reach of Regulus' left hand.

"We captured Bella," he said with preamble. "She was careless."

Regulus nodded. He watched his brother carefully, surprised at what he saw. Sirius looked exhausted, almost bedraggled, slouching in the wooden chair with none of his usual grace. There were dark circles under his eyes, accentuated by the wandlight, and his clothes looked as though he'd been wearing them for days.

"She told us what she did," Sirius went on, "and what she was supposed to do. To you."

Regulus' heart skipped. He looked away quickly, his face burning suddenly.

"But why--" Sirius paused, his voice changing from cold to -- to something else, something that Regulus no longer knew how to recognise. "Tacitum Perpetuo. That's -- Dumbledore says nobody knows how to reverse it. If she was supposed to kill you -- why?"

Dumbledore hadn't asked him that; Regulus had hoped they would all assume the obvious. Keep him quiet, shut his mouth, seal his lips. Forever. It was handy curse for that purpose, once a favourite among those whose servants were required to keep dangerous secrets, or simply had the habit of chatting too much.

But Sirius -- damn bloody-minded Sirius -- would of course ask.

Sirius' eyes narrowed, and Regulus realized that he was shaking his head, answering a silent no, no without meaning to.

"Why?" Sirius asked again.

Regulus looked down. He thought of Bellatrix's low, sultry laughter, of his own panic as he flinched away from the rats scampering across the floor, her long fingers running down the front of his robe, her wand pressed to the base of his throat. Do shut up, Reg. You're spoiling my fun.

He took the pen in his hand, awkwardly, and pressed it to the parchment, hard enough to punch a hole on the first letter.

screaming

He didn't look up.

There was a long silence, then Sirius asked, "Why did you change your mind?"

Another hole punched. He tried to steady his hand.

tired of it all

Another long silence.

"She thinks that somebody helped you. Somebody Stunned her, that's why she didn't get around to killing you. Do you know who it was?"

Regulus shook his head. He still stared at the parchment, shakily tracing the a with dark blue ink.

"There was nobody else there?"

He shrugged. Then, because it was getting easier, because it was better than silence, because he didn't know how much Bella had told Sirius, he wrote:

only rats

Sirius exhaled loudly, and Regulus finally looked at him. He didn't understand the expression on Sirius' face: thoughtful and worried and intense. He wondered, a little bit awed, when his brother had grown up.

Abruptly Sirius pushed his chair back and stood up. "Rats? Are you certain?"

Confused, Regulus nodded.

"I have to go. I'll -- I'll be back," Sirius said. He reached out hesitantly, as if to touch Regulus' shoulder, then pulled back and repeated, "I'll be back. I promise."

He grabbed his wand and dashed from the room without another word.

The room was dark, but Regulus didn't need to see well. He could feel the parchment under his hand, the smooth cylinder of the pen in his clumsy grasp.

Carefully, so as not to punch more holes in the paper, he pressed the tip down, then hesitated.

Sirius had said he would be back. Promise. Regulus shut his eyes, ignoring the hot sting of tears. I'll teach you to ride a broom later, I promise. I'll tell her it was my fault, I promise. I'm never setting foot in this fucking house again, that's a promise. In the corridor, someone was sharing a joke; the laughter carried through the closed door.

Regulus took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and began to write a list of names.

~ ~ ~

The pretty healer kissed him chastely on the cheek before discharging him from St. Mungo's. Surprised, Regulus looked up from fumbling with the clasp of his robes and blushed.

She laughed and patted his arm. "You'll be back, to get those bandages off," she said. "We're not done with you yet."

He couldn't help but smile in return. Everybody was smiling these days, as ridiculous as it was. They were still fighting; they were still dying. But the rumours that filtered into the streets, shared hopefully in pubs, gossiped in shops, was that it was suddenly becoming quite inconvenient to be a Death Eater in England. Having one's name published on the front page of the Prophet had that effect. There were trials and testimonies to look forward to; his left hand was cramped from writing so much, answering every question anyone thought to ask him.

If he was going to be a traitor, he had decided, penning that first list of names, he might as well be a thorough traitor. There was no sense in only going halfway.

Regulus was sceptical. He knew the Death Eaters; he knew their lord; he knew they wouldn't give up. But he let himself smile goodbye to the pretty healer -- her name was Maria, he'd finally managed to ask her with a hastily scribbled question -- and he forced himself to walk confidently down to the exit, not wavering or pausing despite feeling ill enough to fall over.

The hospital staff watched him, and they whispered. They all knew the deal he had made with the Ministry. It wasn't supposed to be public knowledge, but that was how these things worked. He ignored them.

Only when he reached the front door of St. Mungo's did he pause.

"Need a lift?"

Regulus turned, slowly, and raised an eyebrow.

Sirius smoothed a hand possessively over his black leather jacket. "It's the style, you know. Besides, you look like shit, so I don't think your opinion matters."

Rolling his eyes, Regulus made a gesture that was quite clearly understood in any language.

Sirius laughed. "So, do you need a lift?"

Regulus hesitated.

The laughter faded from Sirius' voice. "Where are you going to go?"

Regulus shrugged.

"Did she come to see you again?"

He shook his head, turning away awkwardly.

"C'mon, then." When Regulus still hesitated, Sirius said, without any trace of guilt or apology, "They want to keep an eye on you. The Ministry doesn't trust you. It's easier this way, if you come with me. Let's go."

Regulus looked up then, glanced at his brother's outstretched hand, met his calm grey eyes. He nodded and followed Sirius onto the street.