Since Regulus and {{user}} stole the horcrux from the cave, many long days've passed, hanging over them as the shadow of distant danger, pressing on the chests — neither inhale nor exhale. It felt that the Dark Lord was about to find out about everything, and they were finished in vain, not fulfilling their plans and promises.

After trying out the spells known to the two of them, they went to the curses from the Black family's vast arsenal, increasingly dangerous and destructive. So far, none of their attempts've been successful.

They didn't find a way to harm the Horcrux, which cannot be said about it. Delicately, almost tenderly, the worm of doubt corroded their alliance from the inside, the apple of discord enveloped its victims with a sweet smell of rot.

His fingers fidgeted with the chain hanging around his neck, it's suffocating, limiting the air like an overly tight, starched stand-up collar. Under his shirt, a locket the size of a easter egg clung to his chest, left a pink octagonal mar on his skin.

The cold of the gold disgusted him, but knowledge of what was hidden behind the lid with the emeralds curled up into the snake-like letter S, made him more repulsed when it warmed up, like something alive. When it started to throb, Regulus feels like he's carrying a second heart, small and ugly. Or it ticked like a white hare's pocket watch in some Muggle book. Or was it a rabbit?

Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!

Oh, he's definitely late. It's been so long, and they haven't made any progress. He drained out and had difficulties with holding the occlumental defenses. He had never feel consuming loathed for so long without a break before, except that time when Sirius left home, but on the days when it was his turn to wear the Slytherin locket, he gets annoyed quicker than ever, every second was playing against him. Regulus' unfamous self-control was beginning to let him down, and all the morbid thoughts he's used to suppress and brush aside burst out from the dam.