If asked, the Death Eaters would have this to say about Regulus Black….
The floo roared to life, and out through the green flames and smoke walked Regulus Black. His raven hair windblown, robes unbuttoned, and suspicious red streaks on his crisp, white cuffs, yet he was still the epitome of elegance. With a flick of his wrist, he vanished the fine layer of soot sticking to his clothes. The gathered Wizards eyed the newcomer warily.
“Ah, Regulusss, m’boy,” Voldemort called weakly from his place at the head of the table. He nodded at the spatters on Regulus’ shirt and hands, his lipless mouth twisted in some resemblance of a smile. “I take it you were successssful.” Voldemort was barely able to hold himself upright. Draped in his chair, his scaled features sallower than normal, he went from clutching the armrests in support, to placing his hands in his lap, then back. He still managed to strike fear in people. Few had noticed his weakening state, but Regulus had.
He joined their ranks at sixteen, making him the youngest to ever take the mark.
Taking his time, Regulus approached the oblong oak table, set for supper with the finest china and crystal. He reached over Crabbe and grabbed the linen napkin from the plate in front of him and used it to clean the blood from his hands and cuffs. It was an awkward production, as he still held his Blackthorn in his left hand. When he was satisfied, he dropped the soiled napkin back onto the plate, and turned to address the Dark Lord. “Very.”
A muscle in Crabbe’s jaw ticked, but whatever grievance he held for the younger man he wisely kept to himself.
He was Voldemort’s favourite, the most revered of his followers.
Wrapping his skeletal fingers around the armrest of his chair, the Dark Lord leaned forward in his seat, his hungry red eyes gleaming with excitement. “And…?” he asked eagerly.
Regulus reached into his pocket and withdrew his spoils — the wood of the three wands stained dark in places. He held them up for inspection.
While several of the Death Eaters were more vicious, more brutal than him, there was a coldness about Regulus that even the ones years his senior couldn’t compete with.
“Well done, m’boy. Well done.” Voldemort nodded proudly. He leaned back in the chair and glanced toward the fireplace. “Where are Yaxley and the Carrow siblingssss? They didn’t return with you?”
His expression blank, Regulus rolled the extra wands in his right hand. “They stayed behind. You know how they are. Always like to play with their food.”
They all hated him, for his favour with the Dark Lord, but although no one would admit to it, they also feared him.
Voldemort tittered, as if Regulus had told him the greatest joke.
Regulus’ expression remained flat, unamused. He toyed with the wand in his left hand, twirling it between his fingers.
At no point during the day, sleeping or awake, did they ever see him without a wand in his hand.
A house elf popped in; her large eyes wide and frightened, her tea-towel hanging off her hunched shoulders in filthy tatters. She tipped forward and quickly replaced the blood-soiled napkin. With a sneer, Crabbe pulled back his arm, and the little elf let out a terrified whimper before popping back from whence she came. The house elves worked hard to keep Nott manor up and running, regardless of their master disappearing a month before, but the decayed blight shown in the High back chairs’ worn and frayed dark green upholstery, in the white rings and heat marks that covered the once polished surface of the dining room table. Even the chargers, plates and utensils could not disguise the deep notches and grooves made by various weapons. The curtains, thinned by too many Reparos, looked more like delicate spider webs. The tableware was in pristine condition, only because the set had been brought back after one of their raids. The Dark Lord was famous for his bad temper whenever things didn’t go the way he wanted. They were on the fourth.
Regulus’ face didn’t change. If anything, he looked bored as he pulled out the chair and sat down in his rightful seat next to Voldemort.
He was an excellent occlumens. Even Voldemort admitted having difficulties getting through his walls.
Satisfied that everyone who would be joining them were in attendance, the Dark Lord lifted his hand from his lap to snap his fingers to call for the meal to be served, but he noticed someone else missing. He turned his icy gaze on Rodolphus Lestrange. “Where is your wife?” he asked coldly.
Rodolphus swallowed audibly. “Er, My Lord, I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Voldemort’s red eyes flashed dangerously. “What kind of wizard are you if you cannot even control your witch?”
He had an impeccable eye for detail. Even the smallest one. That was what made him so good at what he did.
Rodolphus flinched. He opened his mouth to defend himself but thought better of it.
Not expecting another interruption, Voldemort lifted his hand once more and pressed the tips of his thumb and ring finger together. Before he could do anything else, the door slammed open hard enough to pull it off its hinges. And there, framed by broken pine, stood Bellatrix Lestrange.
She was a formidable woman with long, dark hair, and heavily lidded eyes. Her hips swayed slowly as she entered the dining room, dragging someone behind her. Her prisoner had a sack over his head, but narrow waist and broad shoulders were visible underneath the dirtied robes, and his wavy raven hair hung limply around his shoulders. Whoever it was didn’t appear to have been tortured yet — Bella had left it for her audience. Voldemort always did enjoy a show with his supper. “Kneel for the Dark Lord, blood-traitor,” she spat, pulling him by an invisible chain.
But what they didn’t know…
Unsteadily, the man struggled, but managed to push himself to his knees.
“I planned it for weeks, my Lord. For weeks and weeks I planned, and then I set the trap and voila,” she said triumphantly, terribly butchering the French word. She tore the sack from the man’s head and cackled maniacally. “I caught Sirius Black.”
Long seconds passed without a hint of sound until Regulus dropped two of the three wands. They hit the floor with a loud clatter. Then obnoxiously loud cheers broke out across the room.
Being Voldemort’s favourite offered him a certain amount of leniency, allowing him freedom to do as he pleased.
Voldemort opened his mouth to give praise, but Regulus beat him to it.
“Oh, Bella,” he said, in not much more than a whisper. The moment he spoke, everyone quieted, “Vous avez fait une erreur.”
Bellatrix stiffened, her back turning ramrod straight, and her head snapped in his direction so fast it had to have hurt her neck. She narrowed her steel grey eyes, shining with insanity. It was a doublesnub on Regulus’ part, and he knew it. While she, just as he and his brother, had grown up learning French, Bellatrix had never become as well versed in the language as he had. This left her with two utterly distasteful choices. Either she had to answer him in English, thus admitting that she wasn’t as worldly as she liked to think and pretend that she was, or she could butcher the language Regulus spoke so beautifully. It was bad enough to put her on the spot that way, but implying that she would ever stoop to making a mistake infuriated her. “What,” she gritted through her teeth, “mistake would that be?”
While he had willingly taken the mark at one point, now he used it to destroy them from the inside.
Regulus rose to his feet, accidentally kicking the wands, sending them flying across the floor. Unlike his cousin, he never raised his voice. “You’ve always lacked imagination, dear Bellatrix. No finesse, so of course any plan you’ve made would have holes in it.”
He was indeed the ruthless killer they thought he was. Every single Death Eater, missing or presumed dead, had been eliminated by his hand.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Regulus continued to stalk closer, until the toes of his boots came in contact with the two seemingly forgotten wands. “You overlooked something in this plan of yours.”
Bellatrix lowered her wand, breaking whatever spell she’d used to tether Sirius to her. “What are you on about?” she shrieked.
When he’d learned about the horcruxes, he had formed a plan. And after months of research, he had destroyed them all, every last one.
The other Death Eaters stared curiously, eager to know what Regulus saw that they didn’t. Regulus’ fingers flexed around the wands in his hands. Barty tensed and tightened the grip he’d had on his since the moment he saw who Bellatrix’s captive was. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Evan doing the same. They were prepared for a fight, to back up their friend, but Regulus looked too relaxed, too unconcerned.
Regulus took another step, sending the wands flying once more. They came to a stop, just a hand width away from Sirius. “When devising this plan, there is one thing you didn’t consider. One thing you should never, ever forget when planning something like this. Something important that you should have been expecting when going after Sirius Black.”
“What are you doing?” Sirius hissed through the corner of his mouth.
With his eyes trained on his cousin, Regulus’ answered his brother, “I’m about to do something really stupid and possibly dangerous. Trust me?” he breathed.
Even though they were estranged, he loved his brother fiercely…
“Always.”
Bellatrix was too blinded by her own incandescent rage to pay attention to the quiet conversation going on in front of her. “I demand you tell me. What did I forget?”
Too fast for anyone to catch the motions, Regulus held Bella frozen at wand point. The second wand he aimed at Voldemort himself. Sirius scrambled to his feet, grabbing the discarded wands on the floor as he rose to join his brother. Barty and Evan quickly followed.
And, he never missed.
“Me.”
.
.
.
“Avada…”
The End