Regulus & the Chocolate Factory | a crack story tbh |

1: "Iompa Roompa," says the Chocolate-Craving nearly-drowned-to-death Wizard

"It's certainly an idea."

"Are you out of your mind!?"

"No more than I usually am, Kreacher."

"You nearly died in that cave, Young Master Regulus! Which reminds me — are you even in a fit state to be walking!?"

"Oh please, we have no time to stop and wonder."

"Why do you say that? We have plenty of time to stop and think properly!"

"No, we don't, because I'm rather craving some chocolate."

"Don't be insolent, Young Master Regulus! Oh dear oh dear, Master Orion and Mistress Walburga won't approve..."

"Frankly, Kreacher, I don't care one bit. I've just survived certain death. All I want is chocolate. Now, are you my mother, or are you my house elf?"

"... Your house elf."

"Great, then. Direct me to the nearest sweets shop, please and thank you."

Kreacher grumbles under his breath, but doesn't argue any further, disappearing with a pop. Regulus sighs; he can still feel the water soaked through his shirt.

The cave had been terrifying, pulsing with magic and brimming with the stench of rotten death. The water had been odd, as if opaque, and once learning what creatures lurked beneath it, cursed and bloodthirsty, the task to retrieve the locket had become increasingly more difficult.

But then, Kreacher had saved him; the one time the house elf ever disobeyed his master's orders.

"I can't go back to Grimmauld Place," Regulus tells himself, shoulders tensing. "The Dark Lord — Voldemort — will have me killed instantly. Maybe Crucioed or Imperioed too. I can't risk it."

When Kreacher appears once more, a loud crack announcing his arrival, he looks up at Regulus with as much innocence as one endlessly loyal house elf can manage.

"What is it?" Regulus asks, narrowing his eyes.

Kreacher pulls out a single measly piece of chocolate from the stitched-up pocket of his worn rags. "Will this do? The woman working at the sweets shop was horrid. I was only capable of snatching this bit of chocolate. I apologise, Young Master."

"Nothing to apologise for," Regulus assures Kreacher. "There's just one thing — we have nowhere to go. We were both supposed to die in that cave. Everyone will assume I'm dead." The thought made Regulus wonder of Sirius's reaction, and hesitantly, James's (though he'd rather go right back to the cave and drown than ever admit it).

"You could never pass away so unceremoniously," Kreacher sneers, defending Regulus a great deal more than Regulus imagined the house elf would.

"Ah, thanks. Truly insightful of you, Kreacher. Now, quick, how do I make a living whilst playing under a completely different guise so that I can convince everyone I'm dead?"

"You seem to always have the answer for yourself," Kreacher responds, raising a naked brow.

"That's true. But I need your opinion. I don't fancy going undercover as some joke of a Muggle." Regulus shudders. Not hating Muggles is one thing, but being wholly surrounded by them? Regulus felt doubtful.

"You'd make a fine man no matter what," Kreacher babbles, "but a dirty Muggle is no good, Young Master, no good. Only Mudbloods associate with their own filth."

Regulus smacks Kreacher then, right on top of his bald head, pleased when the house elf grunts in pain. "I'll hear none of that, Kreacher. We all bleed the same. Discriminating is what makes a person filth."