Chapter Three
It had taken everything for Regulus to keep his face neutral, to pretend he hadn’t seen those glances exchanged, and hadn't heard the muffled laughter between the Gryffindors. And Sirius—his defiance and ease with those friends at his side, friends who looked at him like he was invincible—brought a sting of something complicated to Regulus’s chest. They had their quarrels, he and Sirius, but Sirius’s presence was like a fire, burning and furious, that had always been in the back of Regulus’s mind. It was something he could always feel, no matter how far apart they seemed.
Now, though, with Sirius gone, the emptiness of the Slytherin table felt colder. Regulus leaned back in his seat, arms folded, and rolled his eyes as Barty launched into another one of his high-spirited rants. Barty’s laughter rang out like a clarion call, loud and unrestrained, and Regulus couldn’t help but shoot him a sidelong glance.
“Wow, Barty, your enthusiasm is truly inspiring,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mock sincerity. “I’m sure the ghosts are thrilled to be hearing about your latest ‘brilliant’ Quidditch strategies.”
Barty didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm, grinning widely as he continued, oblivious to Regulus’s eye rolls. Regulus sighed internally, feeling a mix of exasperation and begrudging fondness. He should be grateful for the distraction, really—having friends who could keep the atmosphere light was essential. Still, it was hard to focus on anything but the nagging sense of emptiness left by Sirius’s absence. He let out a silent huff, leaning in just a bit to catch snippets of Barty’s chatter, playing the part of a dutiful friend while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
"Regulus," Barty said with a grin, bringing backy Regulus’s attention that had drifted, "I hear the Gryffindors are planning something. Heard Peeves cackling in the hallway."
Regulus raised an eyebrow, feigning disinterest. “Let them. Peeves is their problem, not ours.”
Barty laughed, but it felt like nails on a chalkboard. “Come on, you can’t tell me it doesn’t amuse you a bit. Gryffindors bumbling around, thinking they’re so clever?”
“Amusement comes from seeing something unexpected,” Regulus replied coolly, his gaze fixed on his empty plate. He didn’t miss the way Barty’s laughter faltered. The simple truth was that he didn’t need reminders of his brother’s antics. He knew that each risk Sirius took was like dancing on the edge of something dangerous, especially with his current friends. And the thought that Sirius could so effortlessly surround himself with acceptance—while Regulus sat in stony silence at the Slytherin table—struck a raw nerve.
Barty finally shrugged, brushing off Regulus’s response with the usual nonchalance. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, turning back to Evan and Dorcas Meadows. As he did, Regulus noticed the flickering ghost of a Ravenclaw girl floating just beyond the table’s edge, her gaze fixed on him, a glimmer of curiosity in her transparent eyes.
It was Pandora Lovegood, drifting in her usual silent, haunted way. She had been watching Regulus more and more recently, drawn to him in ways he couldn’t fully understand. He glanced around the hall to ensure no one else noticed her, then gave her a subtle nod.
She drifted closer, her voice echoing softly in his mind, not quite loud enough for anyone else to hear. “You’re… uneasy,” she whispered, her words barely more than a breath. “The fire in your spirit, though hidden, burns as fiercely as anyone’s here.”
Her words made Regulus stiffen, but he forced himself to relax, disguising his reaction under a mask of disinterest. “Your insight is appreciated,” he replied, his voice low and steady. He didn’t know what compelled him to respond.
She regarded him with a somber look, then faded back slightly, watching the hall once more. “I will not linger, then,” she murmured, “but know that when you search for answers, some will come from within.”
Regulus didn’t respond. His eyes shifted to the high windows, sunlight streaming in, the chatter around him blending into a blur. His mind drifted to Sirius—his brother’s fierce grin, his brash laughter echoing as he strode out of the Great Hall, completely untethered by expectations. The Gryffindors may have been foolhardy, but the freedom they had was something Regulus could only wish for in passing.
His fingers tensed, clenched into a tight fist under the table. Part of him wanted to break free, to take one step over that invisible line and join that reckless joy. But he knew the cost—he had spent his whole life being molded into the perfect Black, a role he could not abandon without consequence.
“Regulus?” Barty’s voice cut in again, more insistent this time. “You’re brooding.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, forcing a faint smirk. “Perhaps I just enjoy the silence,” he replied, his tone edged with ice.
Barty narrowed his eyes, clearly debating how far to push. “Fine, fine. We wouldn’t want the perfect Regulus Black to be anything other than completely composed,” he sneered, but he backed off, his tone wary.
Regulus sighed, returning his gaze to the hall as he drifted into his own thoughts.
The tension at the Slytherin table grew denser as breakfast wound down, a palpable anticipation settling over Regulus and his usual circle. Barty kept shifting, eyes gleaming with something close to excitement, though his fingers tapped restlessly against the table’s polished wood. Regulus could sense the charged undercurrent between them—a reminder of the initiation that loomed ever closer, like the edge of a precipice they were all about to plunge over.
Evan sat across from Regulus, his expression unreadable. He seemed more reserved than usual, his gaze darting between Regulus and Barty, as though assessing both of them, waiting for someone to voice the growing weight between them. He, too, was on edge, caught between anticipation and dread. Regulus knew that Evan felt the draw of power, of being part of something monumental, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, one that Regulus caught whenever he looked away from the table, lost in thought.
"Tonight," Barty finally whispered, a wicked grin flickering at the edges of his mouth, leaning in close to Regulus and Evan. "It's finally happening. I’m not sure about you two, but I think it’ll be bloody glorious."
Evan’s jaw tightened slightly, his gaze darkening as he looked away, the lines of his face sharper in the dim hall light. "Glorious, is it?" he muttered, voice laced with bitterness. "Only you would find it glorious, Barty. It’s not exactly... a light stroll."
Regulus didn’t say anything, but his mind was already racing through what awaited him that night. He’d been preparing for this moment for years, molded and sculpted into a weapon ready to serve his family’s cause. And yet, the idea of it settling into reality, of him crossing that line, brought an unfamiliar chill that seemed to grip his very core. His mother’s words echoed in his head, the promises of power, of belonging, a place by the Dark Lord’s side. This was his destiny—or so she had told him countless times since childhood.
But a small part of him, the part that still remembered Sirius’s rebellious streak, whispered doubts he tried to silence.
Barty leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with a dark enthusiasm. "It’s finally your turn, Reg. No more waiting on the sidelines, no more bowing to others. You’ll be part of something real."
Regulus forced a nod, feeling the weight of his own silence. He’d accepted his role long ago, had convinced himself that he wanted this, that he was ready to join the ranks of those who bore the Dark Mark. But now, as he sat beside his friends, the reality was sharper, more oppressive, and somehow, it felt wrong.
Evan caught his gaze, his expression unreadable but intent. “And what do you think, Regulus?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that it was barely more than a murmur. “Are you ready to pledge yourself to him?”
Regulus’s gaze drifted to his hand resting on the table, fingers clenched. A ghostly memory of Sirius’s scoff, of his open mockery of everything they stood for, flickered in his mind. He forced it away, forced himself to don the mask he’d worn for so long, a shield against the expectations that weighed on him like iron chains.
“Yes,” he said, his voice steady, though something twisted painfully in his chest. “I’m ready. I have to be.”
The words felt hollow, as though he were speaking from a distance, and yet, they were his lifeline, the only thing grounding him in the face of what was to come. The mark he’d bear would be a permanent reminder, a declaration of his loyalty. There would be no turning back, no choice to make once it was done.
“Excellent,” Barty said, his smile widening as he clapped Regulus on the back, oblivious to the tension lingering in the air. He turned to Evan, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The Dark Lord himself will be there tonight. Can you believe it?”
Regulus felt his stomach twist again, a strange sense of foreboding tightening around him. He knew what he was supposed to feel—pride, honor, even excitement. But all he felt was the heavy pull of something darker, something that felt too close to chains clamping down on his soul.
Across the room, he caught sight of the Gryffindors as they re-entered, their laughter filling the hall. His eyes found Sirius, bright and carefree, seemingly untouched by the weight of family legacy, by the expectations that had shaped Regulus’s every step. He felt a pang of bitterness, the wound of their estrangement raw even after so many years. Sirius, who had abandoned them, had somehow found a freedom that Regulus could only envy in silent agony.
But he quickly tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the impending initiation. It was the path he had chosen.
Regulus tapped his fingers idly against the table, the sound echoing like distant thunder in the Great Hall, where a feast had just begun to settle into memories. He slouched back in his seat, projecting an air of indifference as Barty, ever the agent of chaos, leaned in closer, a manic grin stretching across his face.
“Can you believe this place? It’s like a bad play where everyone thinks they’re the star,” Barty quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If the Dark Lord wants a show, I’m ready to burn the stage down. Literally.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow, letting a smirk slip through. “You’d probably just light yourself on fire trying, Barty. But hey, at least you’d be the star of the ‘Oops, I Did It Again’ special.” The jibe masked the tightness in his chest, a reminder of the expectations and burdens he carried, the kind of weight that made every casual remark feel like a balancing act. Barty was here to rattle cages and annoy his father, while Regulus adopted a nonchalant demeanor, hiding the way the world around him often felt like a stage where he was forever playing a part he hadn’t chosen.
Evan sat nearby, trying to maintain a semblance of composure as he stifled a laugh. “If you two keep this up, we might actually get detention for your theatrics,” he said, shooting a playful glance at Barty. There was a spark in the air, a teasing tension that made Regulus roll his eyes, even as he felt a pang of envy for their carefree banter.
Barty leaned closer to Evan, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Oh, please, detention sounds delightful. Just imagine us, locked away together. I could show you my finest collection of contraband—like these notes from my last class. They’re absolutely scandalous.”
Evan’s cheeks flushed, caught off guard by the flirty implication. “I’d prefer not to get expelled for you, thank you very much. I have enough trouble keeping my head above water without adding your antics to the mix.”
“Aw, come on. A little chaos never hurt anyone. Just think of it as a bonding experience!” Barty shot back, winking at Evan, clearly enjoying the banter.
Regulus rolled his eyes but felt a flicker of something—a fleeting envy mixed with the warmth of their camaraderie. He often masked his own pain behind a veil of sarcasm, deflecting attention from the deep-rooted trauma that gnawed at him. Watching Barty and Evan trade barbs reminded him of the innocence he’d lost and the tightrope he walked daily.
“Just don’t trip over your own ego, Barty,” Regulus chimed in, smirking. “You’ll need it intact for whatever grand scheme you’re concocting next.”
“Please, Regulus, my ego is the only thing holding me together. Without it, I’d be a pile of ash,” Barty retorted, laughing.
Regulus took a breath, letting the laughter wash over him, even if it was momentary relief from the weight he felt. He kept his thoughts guarded, a mask of sarcasm firmly in place, but inside, he was constantly navigating the labyrinth of his trauma—a battle waged silently amid the noise of their reckless youth.
As the table filled with chatter and laughter, Regulus couldn’t help but feel that perhaps there was something in this chaotic little circle that made the fight a little more bearable.
“Getting nervous, Reg?” Evan muttered, leaning in with a smug grin, as if he’d seen through Regulus’s calm act. His elbow rested casually on the table, his posture relaxed, a stark contrast to the tension roiling beneath Regulus's skin.
Regulus quirked an eyebrow, the very picture of nonchalance. “Please. Nervousness is reserved for the insecure and the unprepared.” His voice dripped with mockery, a familiar mask slipping over the unease that threatened to bubble to the surface.
Barty laughed, the sound ringing through the hall, loud enough to turn heads. “Spoken like a true Black. I’d expect nothing less from you, Reg.” The praise lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken expectations, like a noose tightening around his neck.
Inside, Regulus felt the weight of that approval pressing down on him, a reminder of the duality he inhabited. To everyone else, he was the picture-perfect heir to the Black name: disciplined, powerful, dangerously loyal. He let them think that. He let them see only the pieces he wanted them to see. Let them believe he cared about power, about family honor, about loyalty to blood above all else. It was safer that way, for all of them.
“Do you ever think…” Regulus started, casting a half-lidded, almost bored gaze over the table, “that some of us may have drawn the short straw in this grand, supposedly glorious destiny?” He leaned back, a smirk barely hidden at the corner of his mouth. “Or am I the only one here with a functioning sense of humor?”
Barty rolled his eyes, undeterred. “You’re just being dramatic. The world is ours for the taking. Isn’t that worth a little… discomfort?”
“Discomfort?” Regulus repeated, his tone laced with biting amusement. “You do know who we’re dealing with, don’t you? Or do you just not care?” His words dripped with disdain, but the underlying fear gnawed at him like a wolf at the edges of his sanity.
Barty shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. “We’ll be on the winning side, Regulus. Why not take a little pride in it?”
Regulus’s smile thinned, his eyes narrowing. The very idea of “winning” in this arrangement was laughable to him. But he let Barty and Evan have their victory lap, their blind loyalty to Voldemort’s promises of glory. It was better that way—better if everyone around him saw him as just another Black desperate to fulfill his legacy. He gave a careless shrug, deflecting with an air of lazy interest.
“Sure, Barty. I’ll take pride in it,” he replied, letting his smirk grow, a jagged edge of bitterness gleaming beneath the surface. “And when we’re all drowning in that victory, I’ll personally remind you who said this was a good idea.” His words were light, but the bitterness lingered, a reminder of the cost of this so-called victory.
Evan barked a laugh. “You’re a real piece of work, Regulus.”
Regulus raised his goblet in mock toast, his smirk as sharp as a blade. “Well, someone has to be.” The goblet clinked against the table, a hollow sound that echoed the emptiness he felt inside.
As the Great Hall gradually emptied, the remnants of laughter and chatter faded into echoes, leaving behind a charged silence that thrummed in the air. Regulus’s gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table, where Sirius still lingered, surrounded by his friends. Sirius’s laughter rang out like music, his expression brighter and more carefree than Regulus had ever seen at home. The sight sent a rush of heat through Regulus, a confusing blend of admiration and frustration swirling within him.
His chest tightened as he watched Sirius toss his head back in mirth, the boy so effortlessly embodying everything Regulus longed for. How could he protect someone who had already chosen to turn his back on their family? The resentment simmered, and Regulus felt a strange mix of pride and bitterness settle inside him. Sirius could live his life freely because Regulus was here, making sure the Black name had an heir to carry it forward. It was for Sirius… wasn’t it? The question loomed, dark and unanswered, gnawing at the edges of his consciousness.
The laughter from the Gryffindor table twisted in his gut, a reminder of everything he was sacrificing. As much as he wanted to shove it down, the truth hung there like an insistent ghost—he couldn’t escape the shadows cast by his family.
As if sensing his gaze, Sirius turned slightly, catching Regulus’s eye for a fleeting moment. The warmth of his brother's smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. Regulus quickly looked away, focusing instead on the way Sirius interacted with his friends, who seemed to envelop him in their carefree joy. Regulus felt an ache settle deep in his chest, a longing to join them in their laughter, to step away from the suffocating expectations that chained him to his family’s dark legacy.
“Ready to go?” Evan asked, breaking into Regulus’s reverie, oblivious to the internal chaos unfolding within him.
“Lead the way,” Regulus replied, masking the turmoil behind a façade of indifference. He followed Evan and Barty out of the Great Hall, his heart heavy with unshed thoughts, clinging to the familiar rhythm of their banter. Each laugh felt like a dagger, a reminder of the path he was about to tread.
As they stepped into the dimly lit corridors, Regulus couldn’t shake the feeling that every moment was a step further from the person he wanted to be. The flickering torches cast elongated shadows on the stone walls, as if the very castle conspired to reflect his internal conflict. He had spent too long hiding behind his family’s expectations, too long pushing down the chaos within him.
“Reg, you’re too quiet,” Barty teased, nudging him with an elbow. “What’s on your mind? Plotting your escape?”
Regulus forced a laugh, but it felt hollow in his chest. “Of course. I’m just waiting for the perfect moment to become a hero.”
“Good luck with that!” Evan quipped, his grin wide and unbothered. “You know that’s not how this works, right?”
Regulus’s heart raced at the thought of what lay ahead. They were all blinded by ambition, too focused on the glittering promises of power to see the shadows creeping ever closer. And yet, he knew he had to play along, and had to maintain the facade. It’s safer this way, he reminded himself, even as the words twisted in his mind.
As they reached a shadowy corner of the corridor, Regulus felt a presence lingering just beyond their circle of light. He glanced around, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as if something—or someone—was watching. He shook off the feeling, attributing it to the lingering remnants of anxiety.
“Let’s just focus on our own survival,” he said, forcing a grin despite the gnawing dread. The deeper he sank into this world, the harder it became to disentangle himself from the darkness.
Each step echoed through the dim hallways, a reminder of the choices he would have to make. Regulus felt the weight of the Black legacy settle heavy on his shoulders, a mantle he couldn’t shake off. He had a role to play, and for now, he would play it well, even if it meant sacrificing everything he held dear.