Chapter Text
July 1977
It’s been nearly a month since Regulus joined the death eaters. Well, ‘joined’ is perhaps a bit generous. Rather, it’s been almost a month since Regulus stepped off the Hogwarts express after his fifth year and was carted home to a stifling dinner, where he stared at the hardwood table as his parents made small talk with the Dark Lord, and was later stolen into the drawing room to hold out his forearm as Bellatrix hissed in delight and clutched the back of his neck, poorly groomed nails pressing into the hollows behind his ears.
His mark still burns as though it was given to him yesterday, but he’s grown rather used to the pain now. It’s become almost comforting, as though he can pretend that the sting is the sting of his body rejecting the Dark Lord, instead of the sting of his skin stretching to accommodate his presence. Whatever works, he supposes.
Tonight, Regulus dresses himself in the new dress robes Kreacher has laid out for him; black, as usual, with delicate silver detailing, paired with sleek, black leather shoes, that look entirely the same as the last three pairs he wore for such occasions, though Regulus knows better than to assume them to be anything but brand new as well.
Tonight is Regulus’s fourth Death Eater meeting, the second hosted in his own house, and the first in which he is to meet the whole of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, likely including some altogether new members, if his assumptions are correct.
The first night he joined, while they were still on the second course the Dark Lord had boasted about the seventy-something followers he had gained in only the first few months of his presence in the public eye. But just the other night Regulus had found himself lingering by the doorway of his home’s Drawing Room and overheard Lucius Malfoy whisper fervently to Regulus’s father, voice dripping with glee and an uncomfortable tone of something akin to lust, that there were now over a hundred.
If at least thirty more people had joined in such a short time – especially over the summer holidays – then there must be at least a few Hogwarts students, and among them Regulus is certain must be at least one of his dormmates; at least one of his friends.
But he doesn’t want to think about that. Though he knows it to be true, or at least very unlikely to be untrue, the only thing that may come from him entertaining such probabilities is that he'll risk losing his composure, and he has scarcely a moment until he needs to be downstairs.
He finishes dressing, places the Black signet ring upon his finger, and stands in front of his mirror; not moving, hardly registering his reflection, just existing in solitude and silence for a minute. He already knows how he must look; polished, pressed, clean, pure. Every bit the Black Heir his parents raised. He lifts his wand to his ear and casts a murmured Concealment Charm on the lobe, feeling, rather than seeing, the small pierced hole disappear from view as his heart clenches and his hand twitches slightly as though in protest.
When Regulus was eight, his brother had woken him up in the middle of the night to enlist his help. He had in one hand half a small potato and in the other a long tailor’s needle he later, quite proudly, declared he had stolen during his most recent suit fitting.
Regulus had been nothing but eager to partake once Sirius described his plan, which, as you might expect, was to pierce his ear the way he had seen in a muggle rockstar magazine he had found on the pavement outside. After a great deal of nervous hesitation, and much coaxing on Sirius's part, Regulus managed to drive the needle through his brother’s earlobe and Sirius procured a small diamond earring he had evidently stolen from their mother’s jewelry collection, which Regulus went about securing into the hole.
When Sirius sprung up from the bed to review the finished product in Regulus’s mirror, he turned around with that grin of his and in his ear the stone caught the light and glinted dangerously, mirroring the shine of his teeth.
“It looks wicked, Reggie, thank you!” Sirius had declared, though Regulus hardly heard him. He stared at Sirius from where he still knelt on his bed, aware that this new accessory should look out of place, unnatural, but unable to bring himself to think so. The way Sirius’s face lit up the moment he caught sight of it, the way it fractured the light from the overhead chandelier and reflected fragments of glowing yellow onto Sirius’s cheek; it wasn’t like anything he’d seen on a boy before, but Regulus found that it looked nothing but natural, fitting, and so, so wicked. It suddenly seemed like Sirius would look incomplete without it. But all those thoughts came later, as for then, all Regulus could think was that he wanted one, too.
Sirius was able to pierce Regulus’s ear much faster than Regulus had pierced his, so fast that Regulus hardly felt it under the rush of blood to his head, the excitement in his twitching hands. Regulus gazed at the needle through his earlobe with awe through a small hand-held mirror as Sirius dashed off to fetch another earring. His heart had slowed slightly, and his hands no longer twitched with nervous excitement but clutched the mirror handle firmly as he solidified his belief that yes, this looks wicked.
He suddenly couldn’t recall a single time he had been able to make a choice over how he dressed, how he looked, or anything, really, about himself. Everything from the thread count of his bedsheets to the colour of his shoelaces had been pre-decided for him.
But this, this was his choice. Sirius had helped, but it was an independent decision, and in the mirror he caught himself covering a wide, blushing smile with his hand from where he sat in the otherwise empty room. His chest was swollen with pride to the point of discomfort and in that moment he felt so, unequivocally happy, that he lowered his hand and just let himself beam at his reflection.
But then he heard a crash down the hall, as if something heavy had fallen on the hardwood floors, and within seconds his chest was constricted and his smile had dropped from his face. He made to scramble off the end of the bed, perhaps to walk out the door, perhaps to turn off the light and pretend to be asleep, but he’ll never know which action he would have taken, since before his foot could reach the floor his mother’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, and beside her was Sirius, face scrunched in pain and silent tears on his cheeks as his mother dragged him into the room by the jewel in his newly pierced ear.
Regulus can’t recall much about what his mother said that night. He may not have been listening, or maybe he had but the words had just morphed and blended with the rest of his mother’s scoldings until there was nothing distinctive about them at all. But he doesn’t need words to remember the consequences of that night. As much as he may try, he’ll never forget the look on Sirius’s face as his mother ripped the diamond out of his ear; the pain and heartbreak in his expression as he cupped a hand to his bloodied ear, the look in his eyes when he finally directed them towards Regulus. Such a strange look, as though in that moment Sirius was feeling a most unfamiliar combination of emotions, yet regardless they were all aimed at him, and the only one Regulus could identify for certain was regret. Regret for letting Regulus help or regret for getting himself caught, Regulus doesn’t know. But it’s unimportant. His mother ripped Sirius’s earlobe open and didn’t heal it until he had suffered through two weeks of severe infection and no doubt blinding pain. But worse? She hadn’t done a thing to Regulus. She’d extracted the needle from his ear gently, healed the small, pathetic hole with a wave of her wand and sent him to bed. Regulus had tossed and turned all night. Sirius never woke him up in the middle of the night again, and Regulus doesn’t blame him for it.
Regulus asked Barty during his first year to re-pierce his ear, but not before issuing a book from the library and learning the Concealment Charm to perfection, one that he uses every other day at school, and every single day at home.
Now, he so rarely gets a chance to wear his earring that he wouldn’t be surprised if it’s closed up on its own. But still, erasing it as he has leaves a hollow ache somewhere deep in his chest, the same ache he felt the first time his mother erased it for him, and just like he did when he was eight, he swallows it down, closes his eyes and bows his head. To anyone else, it might look as though he was praying. But as it is, he smooths his pre-ironed robes, runs a hand through his hair, turns on his heel and ducks out of the room.
***
Regulus hesitates minutely the moment the voices from the dining room reach his ears. Suddenly everything feels far too close, too suffocating, and he digs two fingers between the clasp of his robes and the skin of his throat so as to open up some space to breathe. He takes one breath, then two, before dropping his hand and striding the rest of the way to the room.
His eyes snag immediately on a head of blonde hair as he enters, but he’s not foolish enough to let them linger. He lets his eyes rest only when they find the Dark Lord’s, so brown they seem almost red, and scrutinizing him from his position at the head of the table. Regulus drops his gaze to the floor as he gives a short, cursory bow with a tilt of his head.
“My Lord,” he greets.
“Ah, Regulus, so glad to see you could make it. We were beginning to worry you might not be coming,” the Dark Lord says, and Regulus lifts his eyes back to meet his as he straightens again.
“My apologies, my Lord, I had not realised how late it was getting. It won’t happen again.” Regulus holds the Dark Lord’s eye as he gives what must be an almost imperceptible apologetic nod. He’s familiar with this routine, not once has Regulus actually been late to a meeting, or to a dinner with the Dark Lord, yet each time he arrives the Dark Lord makes an underhanded comment as though to imply his arrival has inconvenienced him and everyone else – late or otherwise. Regulus can only assume that it’s an intimidation tactic, or perhaps a way to test his composure, but he plays along regardless each time.
“Not to worry, child. Please, take a seat. We will begin shortly.” He extends a delicate hand and gestures towards the only remaining seat right at other end of the table, and Regulus steps forward accordingly and sits down.
He keeps his eyes on the wooden surface for a moment until he’s sure the Dark Lord’s attention has moved off him, before taking the opportunity to scan the rest of the room’s occupants. Adjacent to the Dark Lord, now engaged in low conversation with him, is a large man covered in thick, jagged silver scars, who Regulus can only assume is the infamous Werewolf the Dark Lord has recruited, Fenrir Greyback. Opposite him sits Lucius Malfoy. Further down are more unfamiliar faces, which, judging by the names Regulus has heard thrown around in the past few weeks, must include at least Mulciber, Avery, and Macnair. But the only person of any real interest sits directly across from Regulus, his eyes flitting undecidedly between Regulus and the tabletop.
“Evan,” Regulus greets stiffly as he feels his heart stutter and his head begin to swim.
Evan’s eyes finally still their crazed movement, locking onto Regulus’s and seeming to communicate about a thousand things at once. But Regulus allows his own to remain inexpressive, hardly manages it through the suddenly irregular pounding of blood in his head, as though his body can’t decide whether to deprive his brain of oxygen or overwhelm it. He doesn’t know how easily the rest of his composure may crumble if he lets himself read into Evan’s expression, let alone respond in kind, and he doesn’t wish to find out. Not here.
Beside him, Mr. Rosier indiscreetly nudges his son with his elbow, and Evan seems to realise he hasn’t yet replied.
“Regulus,” he nods, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Have you enjoyed your summer so far?”
“Very much so, thank you,” Regulus lies. “And you?”
“It’s been perfectly enjoyable thus far,” Evan says, though again his eyes seem to flash with a contradicting message that Regulus refuses to pay mind to.
Regulus opens his mouth but doesn’t manage to respond before silence befalls the room. At the head of the table the Dark Lord has risen from his seat and has his hands clasped in front of himself.
“Welcome, friends. Thank you all for being here today, and of course, thank you to our gracious hosts, Orion and Walburga.” He nods with a thin smile to the pair, who sit a few seats down from Greyback on the opposite side of the table to Regulus. Regulus didn’t even notice they were there; his eyes had glazed right over them. He frowns, imperceptibly. He knows how reluctant his mother usually is to advertise her political affiliations so publicly; he’s never seen her attend these meetings when more than a few select people are present. But still she offers him a short smile and a returning nod, as though there's nothing strange about the arrangement at all.
“Today,” the Dark Lord continues, “I’d like to introduce one of my newest and most valued subjects, whose alliance I believe will prove to be no less than crucial in the years and months to come as we work towards a better world for all.” As he speaks, he lifts a hand in Greyback’s direction and Greyback rises slowly from his seat, eyes roving hungrily over the people gathered.
When his gaze reaches the end of the table, Regulus curses himself for not looking away sooner as he finds his eyes suddenly locked with Greyback’s.
It’s as though claws are tracing ever so gently up his back under his shirt, scraping over each of his vertebrae and sending cold shocks through his nerves. He maintains eye contact, though, manages a short, somewhat jerky nod that he prays comes across as respectful and obligatory, before letting his eyes flick back to the Dark Lord as he continues.
“Now, I’m aware that some of you are unsure as to why I have asked you all to join me here today; usually we make a concerted effort to keep these meetings as... intimate as possible, to avoid the possibility of our words being heard by the wrong ears,” he pauses for a moment, eyes surveying his audience as though waiting for someone to swallow too loudly, or to bite the inside of their cheek slightly too hard. “But today’s discussion doesn’t require such discretion.”
He gestures quietly for Greyback to sit back down, as he steps out from his position and begins to circle the table, pale hands trailing over the back of Lucius’s chair. Regulus sees Lucius suppress a flinch as the Dark Lord’s fingernail caresses the wooden carvings.
“Today, I’m here to offer an opportunity to you all.” Some lift their chin proudly at this. “As I’m sure you all know, my friend Fenrir here is the leader of the Northern Werewolf Pack–” some eyes stray around the table uncertainly, not at all used to such things being stated so plainly “–and if we wish for them to remain such loyal allies,” the Dark Lord continues, “it is only fair that we make some sacrifices of our own. Offer them... a token of appreciation, shall we say? After all, as part of being aligned with us they have agreed to target coordinated attacks on certain people of interest, some of which have already proved invaluable.”
By now he is almost halfway down the table, his hands tracing the back of Rodolphus Lestrange’s chair. Beside him, Bellatrix listens in rapt attention, though she doesn’t attempt to make nearly as much eye contact with the Dark Lord as she has been known to.
“So, as a way to strengthen both the Werewolf pack and our relationship with them, I have decided to offer Fenrir and his friends the opportunity–” Regulus’s blood runs cold before the Dark Lord even finishes his sentence “–to claim one of our own.”
There was scarcely any menace in his voice at all. He did not say it in such a way that seemed intent on frightening or revolting his audience, rather as though he was doing nothing more than recounting the strangeness of the weather the previous week.
Yet despite this, the effect is immediate. Eyes widening, shooting down from the man standing to the polished walnut wood of the table. Sharp, involuntary intakes of breath, no more than weak whistles of stale air. Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus spots even Bellatrix shift in her seat and turn her wide eyes to her lap.
“Of course,” the Dark Lord’s voice is much closer now, “I would like to give each of you the opportunity to volunteer for this honour. I’m sure you can imagine just how... appreciative I would be of your sacrifice, and there is no doubt that your devotion will be rewarded, should you choose to come forward.”
When the room remains still and no replies are forthcoming, the Dark Lord tuts quietly from where he stands behind Dolohov’s chair. Beside him, Regulus can feel Dolohov trembling ever so slightly.
“I must say I find myself... disappointed by your silence. If not unsurprised. But no matter, if nobody is willing to accept my generosity, then the decision will be made for you. I’m sure Fenrir will be more than happy to make the selection himself. We’ve all heard how... particular his tastes can be.”
Regulus’s eyes shoot up and find Evan’s just as the Dark Lord curls a long-fingered hand around the back of his chair. Everybody knows just how particular Greyback’s tastes can be. Bite them young , wasn’t that his awful phrase? He preys on children and teens, turns them to wolves and does Salazar knows what else to them. If the hunger in his eyes when Regulus caught his gaze is anything to go on, he’s hungry for a lot more than a single bite. There can be no doubt that if Greyback is to make the choice he will choose the youngest person he can find in the room, and so far he’s only looked at Regulus. His stomach turns over and bile threatens to climb up his throat. Evan seems to be having a similar realization, though he won’t hold Regulus’s gaze.
Suddenly far more aware of the Dark Lord’s presence, looming over his back like death himself, and of the Werewolf’s eyes piercing his skull as though they wish to brand it, Regulus lets his eyes fall closed, as the last of his composure crumbles silently, like a castle wall, muffled by the very same gunfire that brought it down.
He hardly hears the Dark Lord invite Greyback to make his choice, the words lost to the silence of his mind as though a chasm has opened between his senses and his consciousness. But he feels the atmosphere of the room shift once again. Nobody breathes, trembling hands still and pupils dilate as eyes lose focus. He’s sure there are more pairs of eyes on him now; everybody has drawn the same conclusion.
He feels his eyes open involuntarily and move, as though magnetized, towards his mother and father. They stare passively ahead, as though the most interesting thing in the room is the wallpaper opposite them. The only indication that they have even been listening is the unnatural tightness in the very corner of his mother’s mouth. He feels a plea rise in his throat; look at me, why won’t you do something? I’m not dead yet, why won’t you save me? Speak! Move! Cry, just do something! But it never makes it to his lips, and he never thought it would. Because then, so quickly the words almost fall through the chasm, Greyback speaks.
“I’ll have the Rosier boy.”
Regulus feels his eyes snap back to Evan, but he doesn’t really see him. His plea has died and swollen in his throat and suddenly he can’t breathe . There’s bile in his mouth and his heart has stuttered and his lips have parted though no breath escapes them.
He thinks he hears the Dark Lord move from his chair, going to stand behind Evan and rest a sharp pale hand on his shoulder.
He watches from somewhere in the back of his mind as Evan’s expression shutters, hears a breath escape him as though punched out of him. He sees Evan’s head turn ninety degrees to look at his father, eyebrows raised as though to plead and mouth open as if to speak, but his father’s gaze remains fixed on the tabletop, hands folded in front of him and the Rosier family ring resting securely on his middle finger.
Funny, how somebody can wear their family’s crest so confidently, place it upon the finger where it will be seen most easily and let it glint magnificently upon a varnished tabletop, and yet while their own son sits beside them and a madman wishes to hand him off to a bloodthirsty werewolf, that same person sits still, silent, bowing their head as if by refusing to watch it happen they can erase the role they played in its completion.
Regulus watches, from the back of his mind, as Evan nods once to the side of his father’s head, closes his eyes and lets a tear track silently down his cheek as he faces forward once again.
In the outskirts of Regulus’s vision, Greyback rises from his seat and prowls down the table. The Dark Lord steps to the side to allow him to bend over Evan’s chair as he lays a predatory hand on the back of his neck and brings his lips to Evan’s ear. He whispers, so quietly it almost fails to reach Regulus’s ears, “Come along then, pet.”
Regulus doesn’t see the way Evan’s face shutters once more. Doesn’t watch his eyes screw tightly shut and his mouth pull downwards as he dips his head and moves to push his chair back. All Regulus can notice is the horrible screech of his own chair against the floorboards as he stands, hands at his side and mouth twisted before Evan can shift his own chair back more than an inch.
“I’ll do it,” he hears himself say. Everybody’s eyes are on him, each one leaving a small pinprick in his skin, just deep enough to draw blood. He feels them as though they do, feels the small wounds start to dot his body and stain his clothes as he stands there, unsure why his arms suddenly feel so heavy or why his fingers suddenly can’t move. The Dark Lord stares at him, and he can do nothing but stare back.
“Regulus,” he says, unsettlingly quiet. “So good of you to offer, but I believe Fenrir has already made his choice. Unless...?” He directs this last part at Greyback, who has once again levelled his gaze on Regulus, eyes travelling up and down his upper body from where they stand on opposite sides of the table. From this distance, Regulus is suddenly so much more aware of his size. Greyback is a hulking figure of a man, he must be almost eight inches taller than the Dark Lord, and at least a foot taller than Regulus.
The room shrinks as Greyback seems to consider his options. There is no noise, save for the blood pumping in Regulus’s ear and the grandfather clock echoing from the hallway.
Greyback lifts his hand from Evan’s neck and the tightness in Regulus’s chest eases ever so slightly, only to return double when Greyback moves to step around Evan’s chair, past the end of the table and to where Regulus stands. Every fibre of Regulus’s being urges him to take a step back, step away as he advances, put as much space between them as he can. But somehow his feet remain firmly planted to the floor, and he doesn’t so much as flinch when Greyback draws up close to him and lifts his chin with the same calloused fingers that were just on Evan’s skin.
“This one will do,” he murmurs, not releasing his hold on Regulus’s chin. His eyes dance as they bore into Regulus’s, and Regulus doesn’t allow his own to close until Greyback has stepped away and ducked from the room.
He doesn’t need to be asked before he follows.