The Bug Collector | marauders

No Flowers For A Guilty Sadist

t.w. mentions of torture, unhelathy family dynamics, playful aggression(the urge to squeeze/harm something/someone cute), and sexual themes

September 1st 1978, 12 Grimmauld Place

Regulus woke, and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the dimly lit room an overwhelming emptiness rushed to his chest as it did almost every morning.

He'd spent the night prior in his family's dinning room in a rather unusual Death Eater meeting. There had been whisperings of a traitor among them, and everyone was questioned ruthlessly.

The past night had been his turn.

He spent the night restrained to a chair, the other Death Eaters looking on.

His parents looking on.

They all watched him expectedly as The Dark Lord himself pried for information. One painful curse after another.

He didn't scream. He gridded his teeth together so hard he thought they might shatter in his skull, but he didn't scream. Not a whimper feel from his lips. He would allow any of them the satisfaction of hearing him mutter and cry.

He wasn't meant to look the torturer in the eyes as he was interrogated, but he did. When the pain ran through his veins he stared deeply into the eyes of the man administrating it. He wanted to share the pain with him, but the only bit of life he saw in those eyes was his own reflection looking back at him. It was filled with hate.

To endure it all, Regulus had to remind himself that one day he would have The Dark Lord's blood on his hands. If that creature even had blood, that is.

When it was over, and it had been decided that Regulus was not in fact the traitor, which was laughable, his mother looked proud.

It was only the second time he could recall her seeming truly proud of him.

The first time was also during a Death Eater meeting, mere days before.

This time, Regulus was the one doing the torturing. He never wanted to do such a thing, but it was a direct command. Some werewolf was to join their ranks, and Regulus was entrusted to indoctrinate him.

At first, when he saw the scars written upon the man's face and body he was reminded of his brother's lover, and a pang of sorrow coursed through him.

This man was not Remus, however. He was far older, and WANTED to be a Death Eater. Technically werewolves couldn't be, but he was decided to be useful and so, he would be indoctrinated the same way the rest of them were.

With searing pain.

Instead of having the burning sensation in his left arm the poor bloke felt it everywhere.

The Cruciatus Curse works precisely the way the spell caster intendeds it to.

Regulus was commanded to make it feel like a raging fire within every drop of the recipient's blood.

As he casted the curse for the first time, the man bared his teeth and grinned wildly. It was repulsive.

The werewolf's dark laughter filled the room as he looked back at Regulus.

Isn't this suppose to hurt, little man?

The werewolf had asked, before cackling.

Regulus had tried to be kind, he'd focused the curse far gentler than he'd been instructed to.

And his kindness was met with laughter.

So, Regulus focused on the curse a second time, worsening it little by little until the man's agonised screams filled the room, and then, Regulus smiled. Granted, it was more a snarl than a smile, the look a dog gives before it bites you.