The Heirloom

He had waited years for this day, and now it was here.

As he touched the hilt, he remembered the first time he had seen it, on that long-ago day.

He had been a small child. When his mother's back was turned, he had stolen into the drawing room to investigate the cabinet. A hour's dusty work later, his explorations had uncovered the dagger at the back, behind a phial of dark red liquid and several tattered books.

He had reverently withdrawn the dagger from its shelf to examine it more closely. The hilt, in the shape of a serpent's head, was tarnished silver, as was the mottled snakeskin-patterned sheath. As he had grasped the hilt to slide the blade from its sheath, the faint light from the window caught the emeralds set into the serpent's eyes, causing them to glow with an eerie, unearthly radiance. He had held his breath as the blade was revealed, a silvery wavy-bladed kriss.

He had never seen anything like it. The sight transfixed him.

He was still staring at it when his mother entered the room some time later.

He cringed slightly. He froze, then made as if to hide the dagger with the edge of his robe. His mother had never reacted well to her sons touching things without permission.

She laughed. "So you like that, do you, Regulus?"

He dared an upward glance even as he braced himself for the blow he was certain was coming.

To his astonishment, she was smiling. "I haven't seen that in years," she said, holding out her hand. "May I?"

He slowly, carefully, handed her the dagger and its sheath.

She had accepted it, then turned it slowly to examine it from all angles. "Kreacher will have to polish this later," she murmured. "It should never have been neglected this long."

She had sheathed the dagger, then drew up a chair and seated herself. "Come, my poppet," she said, patting her knees. "Let me tell you a story."

Even as he marvelled at his good fortune (for his mother was rarely openly affectionate with him), he knelt at her feet and leaned his head against her knees. Her long fingers stroked his dark hair soothingly, enchantingly, as she wove the tale of the dagger.

It had first been carried during the Middle Ages, it seemed, by a long-forgotten ancestor of the House of Black. He had been the court magician of one of the European kings, and this was his personal dagger. Though many at the court considered it an affectation, that a magician should carry such a dagger, he made good use of it. Many small animals (and some not so small) were offered to ensure his king's army's survival while at the wars, all with the blade of this dagger.

Because of its use as a sacrificial knife, the king decreed that this dagger should be used for no mundane purpose. Indeed, any attempt to use the dagger for any other reason, say, to cut a slice of bread, resulted in the user's blood being spilled. By accident or design, the dagger itself had developed a fondness for blood. It would not let itself be used without first making a blood offering.

When his time came, the magician passed the dagger to his son and heir. He had long since explained its nature to his son, and his son vowed to use it for no other purpose. Despite his training from his father, however, the son had a dislike for spilling blood and privately vowed not to use it at all. He stayed in his quarters after his father's death, avoiding the king.

But the days of mourning passed quickly, and the son soon had to present himself to the king to assume his father's role. A month later, the king requested the son's assistance for an upcoming war. He fought inwardly to find another way, but there was no alternative.

The moment the dagger touched the sacrifice (a particularly fine bull), a shudder passed through his soul, causing his hand to slip. He nicked his finger, his blood mingling with the blood of the bull.

There was no escape. He was blood-bound to the blade.

Even when the family had come to England in later years, the dagger came with them and the cycle repeated itself. The dagger may lie in dust and tarnish for decades, but once each generation, when it is needed, it comes to light.

"For always," she told him in a low voice, "there is one in the bloodline to whom the dagger calls, whether they will it or not. It chooses its next wielder, you see."

He looked up, staring wide-eyed at her.

"Yes, my lamb, it would appear it has chosen you."

"But how can this be, mother?" he asked anxiously. "Sirius is older, he should be the heir."

Her face had twisted at the mention of her first-born son. "Sirius is not truly one of us, not as you are, Regulus. He has foolish notions that blood purity doesn't matter, that wizard blood counts for very little. But he shall find out the truth one day, my darling, or we shall break him."

"And as you can see," she continued, looking deep into his eyes, "the dagger has chosen you, not him. It called to you, you brought it back into the light. And one day it will be yours to wield."

And it was his now.

His mother, her eyes glowing with pride, presented him the dagger.

"You will have need of it," she proclaimed, "when you fight at Lord Voldemort's side to rid the world of Mudbloods and Muggles. Let the sacrifices ensure that our way of life continues forever!"

He accepted both the dagger and his mother's fierce embrace. He stood a little straighter as he hung the dagger from his belt. His head was swimming with the importance of making his family proud, whatever the cost.

FIN