The Lord And His Servant
Regulus
Regulus wanted to die. He wanted to die, yet life still dwelled inside his heart, which had started to weigh unbearably in his chest, as if that vital breath inside it was begging to be set free.
He woke up every morning and barely had the time to blink once before reality crashed over him. Everything he’d done. His pain. The emptiness in his stomach. In his soul.
That morning, he didn’t want to get up. It had been two weeks since Evan and Barty had found out the truth, and he was still alive. He wanted to give up, he really wanted to. Though something had changed his mind on letting go so easily. No, not something, someone. Barty.
He’d entered Regulus’ room once, as he was reading a book by the window, and asked him whether they could talk. Regulus had nodded, and Barty had just walked to him, wrapped his arms around him, and started crying. Regulus had remained completely still, not knowing how to react.
“Please Regulus” Barty had begged, sobbing with his face buried in the hollow of his neck. “Don’t go. Please, don’t go. Not yet”.
“Barty, I-”.
“No” he’d shaken his head. “You don’t fucking understand. You said you were sorry for having hurt everyone you loved. Don’t hurt us too. The empty space created by your absence would be unbearable. Give yourself another chance Reg, I’m begging you”. So, Regulus had decided to listen to him, starting to eat again. Just the bare necessary to keep himself alive. Weeks later, swallowing every single morsel still felt like a torture. He felt so bad afterwards, though the last thing he wanted was to disappoint his family too. He had to hold on, at least for a bit.
Regulus let out a deep sigh, clutching the pillow to his chest. He genuinely didn’t want to get up. Perhaps he could try to fall back asleep and get a few more minutes of peace. He closed his eyes again, though the sweet oblivion he loved so much, that land between life and death he spent as much time as possible in, wouldn’t seem to pull him back in its obscure quietness. He brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, aware of the fact he actually had to start his day, especially since he had a meeting with the other Death Eaters that day. And not only them. The Dark Lord would be there too. Regulus had met him many times before, though he always felt nervous in his presence, especially now that he’d started to doubt his choices: he feared the dark wizard would look him in the eye and read something off his gaze, the most secret intentions he’d begun to consider that Voldemort simply couldn’t grow aware of.
Therefore, the last thing he wanted was to attend that reunion. Though he knew he couldn’t avoid it. Regulus sighed again, lying on his back. His stomach growled, he pulled the pillow over his chest, wrapping his arms around it. The hunger that had settled in the bottom of his stomach bothered him. And it had only grown stronger, more insistent, with those mere meals he had. However, he knew there was nothing he could do about it: eating that little already felt like an impossible mission every time, he knew he would never be able to go further. So, he simply had to live with it. He shut his eyes for another brief second, the hope of finding a tranquil darkness waiting for him, ready to sweep away his worries, still lingering in the back of his mind. It died quickly, just like a candle blown out in the wind. Regulus slowly sat up, resting his hands on the mattress. A cold mid November wind blew outside, the branches of a nearby pine tree rattled against the glass, as a light rain plucked on the windowsill, clicking on the marble. The cream coloured bed sheets had tangled up around his body, like a serpent wrapping him in its coils. He tossed them away, and the comforting warmth soon started to dissipate, replaced by a cold feeling, slowly, inexorably settling in his bones. A shiver ran down Regulus’ spine as he stood up. Luckily, he found a toffee jumper lying on the floor, right before the bedside table; it had probably fallen from the edge of the bed the previous night, though little did it matter. He swiftly put it on, letting the wool’s warmth ease his quivering, sinking in; then, he reached for the almost empty bottle on the bedside table and poured himself a glass, moistening his dry lips. After spending days after days in that room, it was starting to feel suffocating. He glanced around the pieces of clothing on the carpet, his messy desk, the books stacked upon it, others peeking from behind paper sheets and a t-shirt he’d left there. He was beginning to subtly hate that place. Air. He needed some air.
Regulus walked up the window and flung it open. A gust of wind blew straight over his face, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of rain and wet pine needles. Beneath him, the city slept, just for him, as if it had listened to his heart’s unspoken request. The breeze sprinkled drops of cool water on his cheeks as he sucked in a breath, held it in his lungs for a few seconds, and then exhaled. He closed the window briefly after, feeling cold again. He could do it.
‘It’s just another day. You can do it’, he mentally repeated. He had to hold on. For Evan. For Barty. He had to try, at least. He was confident he would find a way to end it, sooner or later. Breathing in again, Regulus started picking up his clothes from the floor, storing them back inside the wardrobe and chest drawers, then moved onto the paper sheets sprawled across the desk. He quickly browsed through them all, crumpling up the useless ones, and keeping every poem. He always kept poetry, no matter how shitty it could seem: his soul spoke through writing. It didn’t matter whether what it said felt futile or not, it was still worth being put down on paper. He piled up sheets over sheets and carefully secured them in a drawer, besides his old journals. He’d heard people say that a person’s room was the mirror of their soul, their personality, their mind: Regulus had to tidy up his messed up one, take some time to reorder his thoughts. Disappointingly, the sombre mist that had enfolded it seemed to have no intention of being dissipated. He let out a soft sigh, glancing around the empty space: it kind of felt bigger now. Tidier, though wider. He liked that. Satisfied with his work, he checked on the time on the matte copper clock on his bedside table: the hands had just ticked half past five in the morning. Regulus didn’t really feel like leaving his room already, knowing that the sound of his steps would probably wake the others up. He wanted to savour some last bits of quietness all for himself before having to face that day’s commitments. So, he reached for the book he’d started to read a few days before: ‘Wuthering Heights’, by Emily Bronte. He was really liking it that far, he’d just reached the exact half of the novel. Regulus sat by the window, bringing his legs to his chest, then placed the book on his knees, flipped the page to where he’d stopped the previous night, and began to read, resting his forehead against the window’s cold glass. His breath condensed on the transparent surface. His eyes travelled across the page, all his worries melted like snow under the first spring sun as he got captured in the story. He’d found out reading was a great way to simply shut everything out, put his mind at ease, stop the aching tangling of the knot that had formed in his chest, which grew tighter each day that passed by. He stopped existing in that world, on the brink between reality and imagination. Time went by, words ran under his eyes, his fingers brushed against the smooth paper. Perfect. That moment felt perfect. Unfortunately, Regulus couldn’t live a life of hiding, of refuge folded between book pages; in fact, the sun slowly rising in the sky, enlightening it with delicate shades of violet, pink and cerulean, reminded him that that state of suspension in the vacuum of no thoughts was destined to end. His stomach growled again, though that wasn’t what made him put the book down and finally decide to stand up, not as much as his dry throat. He’d finished the water inside his glass, and, to be honest, he didn’t mind having a warm drink. He descended the stairs, slowly, step after step, making sure not to make any noise but the muffled stomping of his socks on the wooden tiles. Barty and Evan were still sleeping, a reassuring silence enveloped the house. Regulus simply listened to the sweet melody of rain clicking on the windows’ glass while he opened the cupboard and pulled out a plain grey mug. Then, he chose a mint and raspberry tisane, and set a pot of water on the stove. It boiled after a few minutes, and he poured it in the mug. He was so focused on not spilling any water that he didn’t hear the steps coming from the door.
He was just dipping the small bag of herbs in the hot mug when someone spoke, making him flinch: “Regulus?”. He turned and saw Barty standing at the entrance, rubbing his eyes, hair matted with sleep. He was wearing one of Evan’s favourite sweaters. “What are you doing here so early?”.
“I couldn’t sleep” Regulus shrugged, twirling the tea bag’s string around his finger.
Barty’s eyes moved on the mug, then back on his. “I’ll make you one, if you want” he proposed.
Barty nodded. “Yes. Thank you”. Lemon and ginger. He already knew which one was his favourite. They sat at the kitchen table, mugs in hand. Regulus sipped on his under Barty’s attentive gaze, then placed it down. None of them seemed to be willing to begin a conversation. The last time they’d actually talked had been that day in his room, when he’d begged him not to give up. Now, that moment still lingered in the back of their minds, making it impossible for them to come up with a topic casual enough to talk about. The rain kept on pouring outside, reassuringly filling up the silence that would have otherwise felt unbearable.
They just gazed at each other, while Barty kept on mixing his tea with a silver teaspoon.
“You…” Regulus began. He cleared his throat, so that his voice wouldn’t sound too hoarse. “You got a new tattoo”.
Barty touched the pale skin of his collarbone, uncovered by the sweater’s thick fabric, where the black ink stood out. It was an E. Evan’s initial. Regulus couldn’t hold back a smile: that was the third tattoo Barty had gotten for his boyfriend: first, a small rose, on his left ring finger, then his name on the back of his right shoulder, now this. His mind went to his own tattoo, the only one he had: James’ initials. He’d never regretted it, he was sure he never would, though he wondered how could Evan and Barty be so sure they’re relationship wouldn’t end in shambles, that they wouldn’t look at themselves in the mirror and wonder why the fuck had they gotten those tattoos, indelibly embedded in their flesh.
“Yeah, I…” Barty shrugged. “I love him”.
“I know”.
That boy loved his boyfriend more than he loved himself. Regulus had felt that way too, years before. He still felt that way. That love was still burning. Consuming. It had set his heart on fire, and nothing would ever be able to put those flames out. He was destined to die in that fire, devoured by flames. He wished for Barty to never experience that. He wished for Evan to always be by his side. He wished for them to protect each other, create their own perfect world, fuck everybody else, why would they matter when they were all the other needed, when they were enough to cure the other’s wounds?
“I wish you the best, guys”.
‘I wish for this world to leave you untouched’.
“Thank you Reg”.
Oh, to have had a love like theirs: a long lasting love, destined to never wilt.
They fell silent again. As Regulus finished drinking his herbal tea, he could feel Barty’s eyes fixed on him. He could feel the hope lighting them up. The hope that he was getting better.
He wasn’t.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing ever would.
His fate was already sealed.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅
His loyal minions.
That was what the Death Eaters were for the Dark Lord.
Every single one of them had sworn him complete loyalty and bondage the moment he’d drawn the Dark Mark on their skin: a promise impossible to break.
Regulus looked down at the part of it peeking from the sleeve of his shirt, rolled up to half of his forearm. He was really beginning to hate it. He wished he had a way to get rid of it.
“Admiring your Mark, Black?” Lucius Malfoy asked in that insufferable grating tone. Regulus glared at him, pulling his sleeve down. “Yes. Definitely”.
Malfoy had definitely caught the really subtle irony in his voice, because he added: “You know, there are some of us here who are really genuinely proud of making part of his army” he glanced at Barty, sitting at the opposite side of the table, the closest to the head of the table, where he would sit. Evan was right beside him, talking to a young man sitting before him: Paul Fraser, was his name. Half-blood who’d entered Voldemort’s circle thanks to the right acquaintances, and the only one the three of them actually got along with. “Be careful, young Black: somebody might mistake you for a traitor” Malfoy whispered, leaning forward.
“Thank you Malfoy, but I don’t need your advice”.
“I was just trying to be kind”.
Regulus bit his tongue to keep himself from saying Lucius didn’t have to pretend he cared for him when it was obvious he despised him at least half as much as he hated him.
Then, the room fell silent as the tall gates opened. He walked in, escorted by his trusted right hand, Bellatrix, whose satisfied smile gained a glare from Lucius. Her husband stood right beside her, and took a place on her left as she sat next to her lord. Regulus clenched his fist under the table at the sight of Barty’s admiration. However, Voldemort barely deigned him of a single swift glance before moving onto everyone else: Evan, Dolohov, the Carrow siblings, Mulciber, Severus Snape, Rabastan and Rodolphus, Narcissa, Lucius, and… those stone cold eyes lingered on him for a second longer than needed. And, for a moment, Regulus feared he knew. He knew about his regret. He knew about his intentions. Luckily, he moved on.
Regulus and Evan exchanged a glance. His shoulders were stiff, jaw clenched, as he rested a hand on Barty’s knee. They would have both rather been anywhere else but in that room. Regulus barely listened to any of the Dark Lord’s speech until the topic averted on the Order of the Phoenix.
“...Someone revealed our position to them” Bellatrix was saying. “Two of ours got killed, another one’s memories have been erased. That Potter casted the spell”.
His heart skipped a beat. James.
“I almost got him this time, though that blood traitor found a way for them to escape. Dumbledore’s minions are starting to become a problem”.
Sirius. Sirius and James had almost died.
Barty searched for his gaze, which Regulus avoided. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fist around the rim of his sweater. “Is everything alright?” Lucius asked.
“Perfectly” he hissed.
He’d always had suspicions on him, which he wasn’t to nourish in any way.
Regulus loosened his grip, straightened his back.
They were still alive. They were still alive and that was all that mattered.
“Nothing but a little bother we won’t get rid off” the Dark Lord waved the matter off. “Dumbledore has no chances against me. He can try as much as he wants, he’ll never get to me. He won’t be able to kill me” Regulus wondered how he could sound so sure about that. The wizard’s eyes flickered on him once again before moving to the man sitting between him and Regulus’ cousin. “Right, Fraser?”.
“O-of course” he looked nervous, far more than usual. Regulus’ curiosity grew as the Lord continued. “Dumbledore’s army will never defeat mine”.
“You are way stronger, my Lord”.
Voldemort intertwined his pale fingers, resting on his wand. “Why?”.
“W-what?”.
“You heard me, Fraser. Explain why I’ll win. After all, it seems like you know quite a lot about Albus Dumbledore’s plans, or don’t you?”.
Fraser’s face blanched. “How could I ever know-”.
“Don’t waste the little time you have on pointless lies. Dumbledore isn’t the only one to have good spies”. He would kill him. Regulus knew he would kill him. Fraser knew too.
He shook his head. “No, you’ve misunderstood-”.
“Oh, trust me, I haven’t” Voldemort interrupted him. “Come on, then. Tell me what we all want to know, and perhaps I’ll spare you”. He would never do.
“I’m not a spy!” Fraser blurted out. “I would never betray you!”.
The Dark Lord sighed, closing his eyes for a second. “You have two options. Either you confess, or my dear Bellatrix here will cast a curse on you. Pain will get you to talk”.
She pulled her wand out, Fraser shook his head again. “I’m not a spy, I swear!” he repeated, almost desperately.
“Good then. Bellatrix” Voldemort gestured for her to go on. She pointed her wand at him, and was just about to utter the spell when he stopped her. “W-wait!...” he lowered his gaze on his shaking hands. “I-I… I’ll talk…”.
Barty shot an astonished glance at him, betrayal evident in his eyes. Bellatrix never lowered her wand, as the young man spoke. Silence ruled in the room, broken only by his feeble muttering. When he finished, they all turned to the Dark Lord, waiting for his final verdict.
“Lower your wand” he told Regulus’ cousin, who bitterly obeyed.
His eyes were still fixed on Fraser’s pale face when he spoke again. “Bartemius”.
Barty snapped up to attention, taken aback by that sudden call. “Yes, master?”.
Master. My Lord. He always addressed him in such ways. How he hated that.
Regulus could see Lucius glaring at his friend with the corner of his eyes: Lord Voldemort never called anyone by his first name except for his dearest collaborators.
“You’re here because you believe in my cause, aren’t you?”.
“Yes sir” Barty vehemently nodded.
“And because you’re loyal to me. Because you honour me and respect me”.
“Yes sir”.
“You’re here to serve me”.
“I am”.
He never hesitated before answering. Evan’s grip on Barty’s knee tightened, as if wanting to warn him. He ignored him, too busy focusing on his lord.
“Then, prove it. Do me a little favour, would you?”.
“Whatever you ask for”.
“Kill him”.
Barty’s eyes widened, darting from Fraser to Voldemort, just as the first one complained: “You said you would spare me!” he screamed, voice hoarse.
“I said ‘perhaps’. And oh, Fraser, you should have known traitors have no place between my rows”.
“But master-” Barty tried to protest. After all, Fraser was a friend of his, the only one he had there apart from Regulus and Evan.
“What is it, are you taking a step back? Perhaps I’ve been wrong, you’re not the loyal soldier I expected you to be”.
“I am”.
“Then, kill him, and don’t make me repeat myself any longer. Don’t you think traitors like him deserve a lesson?”.
“Yes, but death is…”. Too drastic. An extreme decision. Unfair.
“The best way to prevent others from running into the same mistake, isn’t it? Wasn’t that what you planned on saying, Bartemius?”.
“Yes. Exactly” he said, head low.
“Kill him”.
Barty drew his wand before him, Evan grabbed his wrist. “Barty…”.
They exchanged a quick glance, talked through their eyes, aware of Voldemort’s attention fixed on them. Evan inched back, letting go of him.
“Barty, please, we’re friends, the two of us, you’d never hurt me, right?” Fraser pleaded, a last hint of hope glimmered in his eyes.
He hesitated, then clutched his fingers tighter around the wand. “I’m sorry…” he mouthed.
“No, please…”.
“Avada Kedavra”.
Regulus shut his eyes close as a green light flashed. The second he opened them back, Fraser laid on the cold marble pavement, lifeless, eyes still wide open.
“Great job. You’re on the right path” Voldemort patted Barty’s shoulder. When he sat back down, his fingers were still trembling. He kept his eyes low, as not to have to look at the corpse of the man he’d once called friend.
He searched for Evan’s hand under the table. Evan moved it out of his reach.
Barty glanced at him, hurt readable in his eyes. Evan didn’t look back at him, eyes fixed on a point on the wall behind Rabastan, lips drawn in a tight line.
“Evan…” Barty murmured.
“Don’t say anything, Bartemius” his voice was sharper than a blade. Barty drew his hand back, clenching it in a fist on his lap.
Shit.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅
Regulus wanted to go home.
He simply wanted to go home and forget that day had even happened.
Seeing Barty kill a man right in front of his and Evan’s eyes, obeying Voldemort’s orders so blindly, had been too… much. Just too much.
For that reason, he felt relieved when they finally stood up, calling the meeting to end. He definitely wasn’t expecting Lord Voldemort to approach him of all people. After patting Barty’s shoulder once again and throwing one eloquent glance at Evan, he walked straight towards him and Lucius, who instantly held his chin up, expecting to be the one he wanted to talk to. Well, he was wrong.
“Look who we have here” he said, averting Regulus’ attention from his friends. Barty was whispering something to Evan, who still looked bitterly upset.
“My Lord” he said, trying to sound as sincere as he could. Probably not enough, still.
The Dark Lord’s eyes trailed down his edgy cheekbones, the sweater hanging loosely over his bony shoulders, his pale skin. He didn’t like that judgmental survey. Regulus stuffed his hands in his pockets, so that Voldemort wouldn’t see his clenched fists. “Walburga and Orion’s son, little Regulus”. Of course, among the Death Eaters he was none other than his parents’ child, member of one of the most relevant pure blood families, which approved of all of Voldemort’s ideals. They knew his name. Nothing about his story. Nothing about who he really was.
“So young, how old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen?”.
“I’m actually eighteen” Regulus corrected him.
“Still really young. Just like those two friends of yours. Bartemius is definitely the most enthusiast. He really believes in what we’re building, and that makes me glad. I wish I had more allies like him”.
Bartemius. Regulus hated how Lord Voldemort used Barty’s first name. The same name he’d hated all his life, because he shared it with his father. He had never corrected the Dark Lord after using it, not even once.
“That boy, Rosier… he’s fine. Not as trustworthy as his friend, though I don’t feel like I’ll ever have to worry too much about him. But you…”.
He slightly leaned forward, Regulus swallowed. He could almost hear Lucius’ smirk of satisfaction as Voldemort continued. “I’ve got my eye on you, little Black”.
“You have no reason to worry over me, master” Regulus had to force the last word past his lips. “I don’t bite, like some other serpents here. I’m totally innocuous”.
“Don’t play with fire”.
“I’m not doing anything”.
Regulus held his gaze, then gasped at his cold touch around his wrist. He lifted the sleeve of his shirt with the tip of his wand, uncovering the Dark Mark. “Remember which side you’re on, boy”.
“I do”.
The Dark Lord let go of him, taking a step back. “You could do great things, you know? If only you put a bit more effort in proving your loyalty to me. You could stand out from the crowd. Stop being a… a nobody”.
Those words sunk in, the knot in his chest tightened a bit further.
“A useless pawn in a game way bigger than you, that’s what you are. Maybe, someday you’ll be enough. Maybe not. And you know which fate awaits you if it’ll turn out you’re not”.
Regulus swallowed, then bowed his head, locks of hair to mask the disgust in his eyes. “I’m your obedient servant, master. You command, I execute”. He hated every single one of the words that came out of his mouth.
“Come on, then: prove me you’re actually worth something”.
He didn’t allow Regulus to respond, giving him his back.
“Worthless liar” Lucius whispered, walking after him. Regulus watched him, eyes burning with rage.
He hated him. He hated the Dark Lord. He hated himself.
Because they were right. Both of them. He was nothing but a ‘worthless liar’, a ‘nobody’.
He wasn’t destined to ever be enough.
Not for them.
Not for his family.
Not for himself.
Not for James.