Velvet Bond

"Good evening, everyone."

These were the first words the Dark Lord had spoken at the meeting he had summoned them to. His deep voice boomed through the foyer, and conversations sputtered to a stop. Regulus clenched his hands; he hated being there.

The snake, Nagini, slithered up and down the table. A shiver ran down Regulus' spine. Nagini was a magnificent yet frightful creature, probably more intelligent than half the people in the room. Nagini could sense things, sense traitors, root out real rats—and he was one of them. But Regulus stayed calm.

He had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

He was skilled at building his own world and living in it.

Nagini slithered past him, hissing as she moved between their legs. Tonight was special. Not every Death Eater had been invited—only the ones who mattered. And he was one of them. Even Barty Crouch, important in his own right, wasn’t present tonight. He had other plans to execute for the Dark Lord.

"I have come to know of a prophecy, dear colleagues," the Dark Lord said, extending his long, elegant fingers as he gestured around the room, dressed in his usual black silk. He always seemed to relish creating a dramatic atmosphere. Something reverential. The crowd began to murmur, breaking the unnatural silence that had settled in.

Regulus rolled his eyes. What he used to revere as power, security, and strength had turned into something almost farcical.

A child?

The great and powerful Dark Lord wanted them to kill a child? Regulus nearly laughed aloud but caught himself. He was in the wolf's den. He couldn’t afford to slip up now, not with everything he had to do.

Snape glanced at him, as serious as ever. Regulus knew Snape could see past his mask, not because his defenses were weak or Snape’s Legilimency was strong, but because they were in the same situation. Double agents. Spies. Traitors. But Regulus couldn’t be sure.

He couldn’t trust Snape, not yet. Not ever, if he was being honest. There was no room for mistakes.

"After extensive research," Voldemort continued theatrically (and Regulus had to stifle a huff), "the prophecy points to a child born to powerful parents at the end of July. My spy—whom I will reveal in time—reported that the Potters recently gave birth to a child with the exact characteristics described in the prophecy." He paused, his voice thick with menace. At the mention of the Potters, Regulus’ pulse quickened, but he forced himself to remain still, keeping his breathing even, his eyes vacant, and his face serious.

"This child," Voldemort went on, "must die. And anyone who stands in the way will meet the same fate." Regulus’ breath caught in his throat. His hands clenched at his robes, knuckles turning white.

James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Dorcas—all of them would get in the way. And all of them would die. No. Not them. "My Lord—" Regulus began, unable to stop himself.

A child.

They were talking about a child. The whole idea seemed absurd. But Snape nudged his leg under the table, a silent warning.

"Regulus, my dear," Voldemort purred, "do you have any questions?" Snape shook his head slightly.

Regulus hesitated but couldn’t help himself. "Are you certain it’s the Potters’ baby? And should we really be worried about a baby?" His voice dropped at the last word, barely audible to anyone else, but the thought seemed to ripple through the room. Why was their Lord afraid of a child?

But Regulus didn’t have time to dwell on it.

"Crucio!" Voldemort screamed, and Regulus felt the familiar, searing pain. He was used to this treatment; anyone who questioned the Dark Lord’s decisions was met with the Cruciatus Curse. But Voldemort’s Crucio was unlike anything else. It wasn't just pain; it was a tearing, shredding sensation, like his very soul was being ripped apart. The Blacks were used to pain—it was part of their legacy, their training—but this was something else. Something darker.

"Crucio!" Again. "Don’t ever question me again, future Lord Black," Voldemort snarled, each word followed by another curse.

Regulus tried to hold back the screams, but eventually, the pain became too much. It broke him, like it always did. His body convulsed, his mind shattered. How much pain could a person endure before they were destroyed completely?

Finally, Voldemort ended the curse. "But I must commend you," he said mockingly. "The youngest among us, and still able to speak his mind—and endure the pain. Your family should be proud. But never question me again. I am always right." Regulus struggled to breathe, curled into a ball on the floor, trembling. He needed to get up, but he couldn’t.

"Of course, my Lord," he managed through clenched teeth. "I apologize, my Lord." He wanted to spit in Voldemort’s face, make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had just inflicted. But Voldemort didn’t feel pain. He was pain.

"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix chimed in, ever the sycophant. "We are proud of him, though he still needs to learn not to contradict your wise decisions." She practically fawned over Voldemort, and Regulus hated her for it. He needed to get up. He repeated it over and over in his mind, but it was so hard. His hands trembled, his stomach lurched, and his head felt like it wasn’t even there anymore.

"I think I like a bit of a challenge," Voldemort said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "But rest assured, I will personally deal with the child. If there is no reason to kill him, I won’t. After all, he’s only a baby." His smile betrayed him; everyone knew he was lying. But no one dared say it. Regulus finally managed to push himself up onto his knees, his eyes locked on the man who wanted to murder James Potter’s baby. Lily Potter’s baby.

Not a chance.

"We’ll see each other soon," Voldemort said, his fingers brushing Regulus' chin, as if offering some twisted form of affection.

"Try to behave in the meantime. You are the heir to the Black family, and soon I will call on you to take up that role." Regulus nodded, avoiding his gaze.

"I live to serve you, my Lord." Voldemort’s thin, snake-like fingers brushed against his mind, probing. He was using Legilimency. On a wounded man. Regulus thanked his mother, in a twisted way, for teaching him how to shield his mind. "Wonderful," Voldemort said, patting his head as if he were some kind of pet. As the meeting ended, Nagini slithered past him again, hissing in a way that made his skin crawl. The snake seemed to speak to him through its demonic yellow-green eyes.

After Voldemort left, the others followed quickly, eager to be gone. Lucius and Rabastan gave him a nod of acknowledgment, their way of showing respect for what he had just endured.

"Did you really have to do that?" Snape appeared beside him, watching Regulus intently.

"He’s a child," Regulus muttered. It wasn’t a big deal to him.

"Careful," Snape warned, lowering his voice. "Or someone might think you’re not loyal to the cause."

"Like you?" Regulus shot back, equally quiet. They were playing a dangerous game.

"The child will be killed on the 31st of October," Snape said. "There’s a raid planned. The Order will be busy with other distractions, I think."

"You read their minds?"

"Not my fault they’re so incompetent."

"Right." Regulus surveyed the room, trying to piece together who knew what. Lucius? Bellatrix? Nott? He wasn’t sure.

"Why are you doing this?" Regulus asked, suddenly suspicious. It could be a trap. Snape could be lying.

"Lily," Snape replied, his eyes betraying something deeper. And Regulus understood. "If you can’t save the child, or the Potters," Snape added, "I don’t care. Just save Lily." Regulus nodded. He didn’t tell Snape that he cared about all of them—James, Lily, Sirius, Remus.

He loved them all, despite everything. He had to save them.

When he stepped outside, Barty and Evan were waiting for him.

"What was that?" Barty asked, his eyes following Snape’s retreating figure. Regulus collapsed into Barty’s arms.

"Just—tired," he muttered. "Did he use another Unforgivable on you? What did you do this time?" Barty asked, sounding more concerned than usual. I’m betraying him, Regulus thought, so that could be one reason. But even before that, the Dark Lord seemed to have it out for him.

"Don’t talk too loudly," Regulus warned, glancing around.

"Let's go home, Reg. How many days has it been since you last ate?" This time, he was the one who rolled his eyes. Sometimes he forgot to eat, but who cared? He didn’t need that. It actually made him feel better. They didn’t need to be his nannies. "And don’t roll your eyes, Reg. We’re worried. You're losing weight, and with everything else going on—" they both looked him up and down, concerned. "You should take better care of yourself."

"Yes, mother."

"Do not compare me to that bitch," Barty said, and then they Apparated home, to the little house they had bought to be alone and away from their families. Evan's dad had gone mad when Pandora married someone who wasn’t "good enough" for their family. And Barty Crouch Senior—well, he had always been pretty brutal toward Barty, so screw him. "So, what did they say at the meeting?" Even though the Dark Lord apparently hated him, Regulus had been included that evening with the higher-ups. Usually, it was Barty who attended those. He didn’t understand the Dark Lord. He didn’t know what the man wanted from him—was it for fame, because he was now the Lord Black, or something else? But it was useful, knowing things others couldn’t. It made you aware of a lot more, of the things they hadn't been when they first joined, still naïve and indoctrinated.

"He has to kill a child," he said as Barty placed a plate of food in front of him, watching him as if to make sure he ate every bite. Regulus wasn’t really hungry, but Barty’s gaze was so intense that he couldn’t do anything but comply.

“Oh, wow. That’s new.”

“Not really. He’s probably done worse than that.”

“It’s the Potter’s child,” he said then, and the room quieted down.

“So, you’re planning to do something incredibly stupid to save your brother’s friend’s family and what? Get yourself killed in the process?” Evan watched him closely, and Regulus nodded calmly. He had made his decision. Nothing would change his mind.

“Do you need our help?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Maybe he did—maybe he really needed help if he was going to face the Dark Lord. But he didn’t want to risk his friends’ lives. They had already done so much for him. This wasn’t their battle. He was the one who wanted to save the child, the mother, and the father.

“You’re not planning to die, right?” They sat at the table, clearly worried about him. They were fierce when it came to protecting him. They had gone to hell and back together. They had decided everything together. They were the best friends he could have asked for.

“It’s not in my plans, so—no—I don’t think so.” But with the Dark Lord, anything could happen. He wouldn’t have risen to such power if he were stupid. Still, sometimes the Dark Lord got too confident. Too sure of himself. They nodded, though still a bit unconvinced by his plan. But the conversation ended there. And he loved them for that—when he needed them, they were there, but when he didn’t, they were still there, quietly supporting him. He didn’t feel pressured, as he often did with others. He needed to feel free. And he was sorry he hadn’t trusted them from the start, when he first decided to defect. He was sorry because he knew now that he shouldn’t have doubted their friendship or their trust.

-----------------------------

He had been following Voldemort and his little rat friend all day—and what a surprise to discover that it was none other than Peter Pettigrew—though at this point, very few things could surprise him.

The war was changing everyone. Every person was different now, and Voldemort was both terrifying and convincing—if torturing people for days on end could be considered a "convincing" quality. So, well, Peter wouldn't be the last member of the Order to fall into the Dark Lord’s army.

It wasn’t odd that Peter had changed sides, but to Regulus, it was the collapse of an empire. The mighty Peter Pettigrew, the marvelous friend, the trustworthy man, had betrayed his friends. And their rat friend—literally, the worst kind of rat—didn’t even seem sad about it.

He was about to make a child die, to make his best friend disappear, and there wasn’t an ounce of regret in his eyes. On the contrary, Peter continued to grovel at Voldemort's feet, not the least bit remorseful. He kept feeding him all of their plans, all of their tactics, all of their safety measures.

“You piece of shit,” Regulus muttered as he transformed back into his human form. He had been in cat’s form all day, and his bones were protesting, aching and shaking.

“My Lord, I’ve managed to convince them to make me their Secret Keeper. The way is clear for your arrival. They’ll never know it was you,” Peter said reverently, and Regulus felt bile rise in his throat.

“Un morceau de merde,” Regulus repeated through gritted teeth. He couldn’t believe this man had been a Gryffindor. That this man had once been one of James and Sirius’ best friends. He couldn’t believe Peter had gained their trust only to betray them like this. But why Peter? Why not Sirius? He knew for certain that Sirius would rather die than betray James, Lily, or their son. He was sure of it. Sirius would die for them, because when they loved, they loved fiercely, and if that meant sacrificing themselves, so be it. They had suffered all their lives; death wouldn’t change much.

“Wonderful, Peter, wonderful,” Voldemort grinned, and for a moment, Regulus thought that Voldemort could have been a handsome man if he hadn’t been so utterly corrupted by dark magic. His eyes were almost black, his grin devilish, and his aura was... wrong. Everything about him was wrong.

“With your permission, my Lord. I’ll take my leave. Thank you, my Lord,” Peter knelt at Voldemort’s feet, and Regulus grimaced, nearly gagging. It was a disgusting sight, but to Voldemort, who craved adoration as if his life depended on it, this was the most beautiful thing someone could do.

“Fucking traitor,” Regulus whispered again, waiting for Peter to walk down the path before following him in his cat form.

“What are you?” Regulus nearly jumped when he heard the voice directed at him. What? What? What? Could Voldemort see through his Animagus form? “Oh—just a cat. Disgusting beast,” Voldemort sneered, kicking him in the stomach.

Regulus felt the impact and went flying to the side of the road, narrowly avoiding a passing car as he meowed in pain.

But now he was late—too late.

He heard screams from the house.

There wasn’t enough time. A name. Harry.

He had to go.

James, James, James. Not James, please, not him.

“Bombarda Maxima!” Regulus shouted, hoping the explosion would distract Voldemort long enough for James and Lily to escape. But even he was caught in the blast. He couldn’t see well; blood was dripping down his face, blurring his vision. Everything was too blurry. But he could still hear screams, so they were still alive.

He had to fight. He had to keep fighting. He tried to run toward the house, but he was too slow, too tired, too wounded.

Go, Regulus—go.

Please.

He made it inside and saw James on the floor, blood pooling around his head. Regulus didn’t have time to check if he was still alive. And fuck, he left a piece of his heart there with him. He was dying to know if the man he still loved was dead because of him—because he hadn’t been able to stop Voldemort. But he had to save the baby.

At least Lily. She probably hated him now.

He was a Death Eater, a monster. He had betrayed their trust. He had become everything they feared. He was no better than Peter. He was just like him. They had trusted him. But at least he wasn’t handing over their child. At least he wasn’t pretending to be something he wasn’t. They knew who he was, what he had become. He had never hidden that.

But maybe, by saving her or her son, he could make something right in his life. He ran up the stairs and saw Voldemort first. The good news? He had injured him—his Bombarda Maxima had actually done something.

The bad news? He hadn’t injured him enough. Voldemort was pointing his wand at Lily, and no—no, no, he couldn’t let this happen. The child deserved at least one parent. Sirius couldn’t lose two of his best friends in one day. The Order couldn’t lose Lily or Harry. He was just a child, for fuck’s sake!

Regulus cried out, reaching for them as Voldemort screamed his curse.

“Impedimenta!” he shouted, and Voldemort finally noticed him. His eyes widened, clearly not expecting one of his best men to betray him. And with that, Regulus’s cover was blown.

Goodbye, being a spy.

But right now, he only hoped he wouldn’t die.

“You—” Voldemort began incredulously. Regulus was lucky Voldemort hadn’t brought Nagini. That snake was always a pain with her hissing and biting. Her poison was deadly. Their colliding spells created a lethal burst of energy, blowing everything up again. Regulus was thrown back, and along with him, Voldemort and Lily. Fuck—Lily. The baby? Harry—he’d heard James scream earlier. He couldn’t make sense of anything; his head felt like it had been kicked repeatedly, and his insides were churning. But Voldemort was getting up—again.

Was he invincible?

Regulus crawled toward the child’s bedroom, where Lily lay slumped beside the crib. “Lily!” he croaked, the sound strangled and painful. Fuck—Lily, don’t joke, not like this. He dragged himself over to her, checking for a pulse— At least Lily. Please, at least Lily. Please, Lily. You’re strong. Don’t die on me, not like this.

There—it was faint, weak, but there was a pulse.

She—Lily—was alive. He still had something to fight for. Then he looked up and saw Harry’s green eyes gazing at him from the crib. And what he felt was pure love. Harry wasn’t his—he never would be—but still, it was magnificent. He was so innocent that it almost felt wrong for Regulus to be there.

“Regulus, Regulus, Regulus,” Voldemort gasped, entering the room, and Regulus struggled to stand, placing himself between the crib and Voldemort. If necessary, he would be a shield. Anchor and salvation. “Out of everyone, I thought you were the smartest. Like me—an equal.” Voldemort sneered. "You were always so neglected by everyone. Your parents couldn’t stand the sight of you, and your brother ran away. You were so lonely. But when I gave you attention, you collapsed at my feet, desperate for more.”

Regulus didn’t want to hear this.

He didn’t want to listen, because it was true. It was all true.

After Sirius left, their parents had treated him like dirt. They hated him, punished him for the smallest things, and kept him under constant control. He had only wanted someone to see him—to recognize him as a person, as a living being.

And then Voldemort had come. He had praised Regulus, appreciated him, applauded him in front of everyone. For the first time, someone had seen him. Voldemort lifted his chin with two long, unnatural fingers, locking their gazes.

“You were perfect for me. I trained you, made you the best. You could have gone far, Regulus. But today, your life will end because of a child.”

“I’m not the problem if you’re the one afraid of a baby. Where’s your greatness now?” Regulus smiled through the blood in his mouth. Voldemort squeezed his lip, causing him to groan in pain. Regulus leaned against the crib; his body could no longer support his weight. And then, he felt a tiny hand clutching his torn robes.

Harry.

He tore himself away from the monster's grip and reached for his wand.

Harry needed protection. Now.

"You don't understand, Regulus. That's why you'll never reach my greatness. The child must die."

"And this is your so-called greatness?" he coughed, breathing hard, spluttering blood everywhere.

Their wands crossed again. Their spells mingled in the air, neither of them willing to back down. But with Lily unconscious, Regulus knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. It had to end quickly. He had hoped—though he didn’t know how—that James would be more present, that Lily wouldn’t be lying on the floor, unconscious, and that maybe, just maybe, Voldemort would be tired enough to falter. But Regulus had never been that lucky.

Never. He was facing the most powerful wizard alive, alone, with nothing more than the bravery of his eighteen years. Wonderful. Things were looking great.

"Crucio!"

"Sectumsempra!"

And there it was. The spell hit Voldemort. It was a relatively obscure curse, one Snape had invented in their sixth year, but it was enough to distract him. Regulus threw himself at Voldemort, trying to drag him out of the room, trying to get him away from the baby, but he was too weak, too tired, too wounded.

Now Voldemort had his wand pointed at Harry.

No, no. Please, anything but Harry. Not him.

"Avad—"

"NO! Protego!" Regulus screamed, throwing himself in front of the crib.

And then he felt it. His bones shattering, the searing pain ripping through him. He screamed and screamed. He couldn’t tell if he was crying or if the liquid running down his face was blood. He didn’t have a body anymore. He was nothing but pain.

Was death like this?

It was fucking awful.

Everything exploded again, and in the chaos, all he could see were Harry’s green eyes. And then, everything went black.

What lovely eyes.

They were so alive.