by Morgan
It was cold in the cave by the sea. The dark-cloaked man sat in the little wooden boat continued to stare at the small rock island in the middle of the murky green lake. Finally, the boat bumped into the rocky shore with a dull thump.
He hesitated for a moment, his face shrouded by his cloak’s hood. He was daring to do what he had once thought impossible: challenging the Dark Lord. It chilled him to the bone to know what Voldemort had done, had been capable of doing and what he would do to him once he found out the he, Regulus Black, had stolen his Slytherin Horcrux. But resolve had already settled in his heart, and the young man clambered out of the small boat and onto the island.
A huge chalice full of greenish potion sat in the very center of the black island. The youngest Black walked slowly, like a man being led to the gallows, towards it. He withdrew his wand and with a shaking hand began to prod at the great cup, testing, probing; he eventually found that he could not touch the potion at all.
“Oh, you are clever, my Lord,” he whispered harshly to himself. “But I found your secret. I know what can stop you.” He took a deep breath, and then began to rifle through his pocket, looking for something. Several minutes later, he withdrew a very old, folded piece of paper with neat, flowing handwriting. The eerie glow from the chalice illuminated the small paragraph:
Horcruxes art creationes so fowle an badde that thou wilt not bee tolde of them. I simplee wilt saye that too meke one ist a haynous cryme, an moor than one the unnaturel destrucshonne of the soule. To creayte Horcruxes in plurall woode be the ultimete sacrifise of thy humanitye, an the beginninge of madnesse. Mortalness is best compayred too the halft-liefe lieved bye Horcrux-mekers.
Regulus had found this scrap of fifteenth century manuscript in the great Welsh manor where Voldemort had resided for much of his rein of terror. He read it over and over again, recalling that moment many years ago when he had realized the terrible truth.
“But I won’t rest,” he growled into the silent darkness, “until you’re mortal like me, my Lord. When you are defeated….” But he did not continue. He folded the page and stuffed it back into his deep pocket, but something made him pause. He withdrew a heavy golden locket and caressed it lovingly. Regulus opened it delicately, and his shadowed eyes glistened slightly in the ghostly light.
Inside rested a small photograph of a young woman holding a newborn child. She was smiling joyously and the baby was laughing for the camera. Moving in the picture (as all wizard portraits tend to do), she kissed the baby’s forehead and waved at the photographer.
“He’ll pay,” he murmured to himself, tracing the woman’s face with a single thin finger, “for taking you away from me. And when he finds me and kills me, we’ll be together. You, me, and our baby girl.” And he kissed the photograph so tenderly the thick air seemed to resonate with his love.
He whipped around suddenly, the locket in one hand and his wand in the other. Regulus created a large goblet in midair and thrust it at the chalice full of potion. When the cup was brimming with the unnaturally glowing liquid, he raised it up as though he were toasting an invisible stranger.
“For you, my love,” he whispered, staring at his golden locket. And he drained the cup dry.
Then he began to transform. He grew taller, and his right hand withered and charred without any fire. His robes flowed and billowed behind him, except Regulus Black was not standing there anymore. Professor Albus Dumbledore stood in his place.
“NO!”
Harry Potter woke violently in his small room at number four, Privet Drive. His eyes were filled with unshed tears and his body was misted in icy sweat. Shivering uncontrollably, he ripped his way from under the blanket and began pacing up and down in his room. This dream, so unlike the others of his past, had also terrified him more than the rest. To watch Dumbledore about to be tortured by that vile potion when it was still so soon after his death… It was a fate not worth contemplating.
And who had that man been? He was most certainly R.A.B., the mysterious person who had found (and hopefully, destroyed) the locket in the cavern by the sea years before Harry and Dumbledore had found it. Deep within, Harry was very curious; he wished the man had lowered his hood so he could see who he had been.
“It was just a dream,” Harry whispered shakily to himself. He went to his window and looked out into the quiet neighborhood, whose streetlamps were not proving very effective against the summer fog. “Just a dream.”
Anxious and alone, Harry went to his desk and picked up a quill. He inked it and began to write down everything he remembered from the dream. Hermione had told him it might be good for future analyzing.
“A dream diary could also help stop the dreams from coming back,” Hermione had added. “When you get them, you’ll know how they turn out and you can fight them in your sleep.”
“How d’you fight a dream while you’re still sleeping?” Ron had asked. “You’d have to be psychic, or “”
“Stop talking, Ron.”
Harry grinned slightly at the memory. Then his grin turned to a frown as he continued his task. It took him nearly an hour to seek every detail from the corners of his mind.
But the face of the happy young woman and her baby would not leave his head.