One foot in front of the other, Regulus thought as he practically ran down the corridor, then forced himself to slow, putting off the inevitable joining of his family in the room as long as possible. Besides, it wouldn’t do him any good to trip and embarrass himself in front of the others. He had a role to fill, and what did he do besides that.
It’s what he was good for, filling in the cracks Sirius had made, becoming the perfect son in his place. It was his duty, no, his birthright, to become a Death Eater. Who was he to fight against his birthright? He had no one to take his place, after all. Not like he took Sirius’s. But none of it was recognized.
The thing was, Sirius hadn’t left. Mentally, he was gone. Lost in his thoughts every time Regulus spared a glance in his direction. Though he only really spaced out when Walburga had gone on yet another rant about blood purity in the middle of a dinner feast, Bellatrix, Rodulphus, and Lucius expressing their agreements on the matter while Orion sat back and watched, Narcissa remaining particularly quiet. Regulus couldn’t blame him, he did the same.
Sirius almost had physically left the horrors of their home. Almost hopped onto his broomstick and flew away to Potter's house. Almost left behind the harsh punishments and beatings Walburga would give him for something as mundane as elbows on the table, or getting the wrong Hogwarts House.
Tough love, Regulus once thought. But whatever Walburga had for Sirius wasn’t love. More like hatred, or at the very least a strong, burning disliking that took over her heart, if she had one. Regulus didn’t know where he stood in his mother’s eyes. Some days he would be glanced at once in the entire day, then ignored for the remainder of his waking hours.
Other days, he’d be on the floor next to Sirius, doubling over in pain from whatever torture his mother had deemed fit.
He, for some reason, preferred the latter.
Perhaps it was because it showed Sirius he wasn’t alone in that house, despite the unfair treatment between the two brothers.
Sirius made sure Regulus wasn’t alone, he could at least try the same. Staying for Regulus was the most selfless thing Sirius had ever done. And Regulus was so grateful he didn’t know how to put it into words, which is probably what caused him to believe that he deserved the treatment their mother gave, as a sick and twisted sort of equal payback.
No one did.
He came to a stop outside a large wooden door. Leave it to Mother to be so precarious with tiny details. Ornate carvings detailed the wood with swirls and flowers, same as the others in the hallway, making him unsure if this was the right room. This house is too big he thought as he pushed it open slowly, slightly proud he had gotten the correct room once he had gotten a look inside.
A large table was placed in the center of the room, a dozen or so people sitting at it, all in the same robes, hoods down and masks in front of them on the table. He recognized a few, of course, though the chandelier above had been dimmed, casting the room and its occupants into shadows Regulus had once feared as a child.
Well, a younger child.
Being scared of the dark seemed so silly now. There were much worse things than the absence of light.
His cousin, Bellatrix, with her wild curls covering the majority of her pale face and sharp grin. Her husband sat next to her, looking around him proudly.
Narcissa and Lucius sat across from her sister, hands intertwined on the armrest of their chairs.
Druella and Cygnus, his aunt and uncle, sat closer to the head of the table, Walburga and Orion next to them, Orion and Cygnus discussing something quietly. A few others he knew by face but not by name sat, mostly quietly, some speaking in hushed tones with each other.
"Regulus, so glad you could join us."
The man at the head of the table spoke, someone Regulus didn't know, but the power and cold, dead fear radiating from the man he felt just by a few words told Regulus exactly who it was.
Voldemort.
Voldemort seemed to be an older man, aged down a few years to appear younger. He had short, inky black hair, slicked backward and against his head. His nose was slightly flattened, and his cheekbones stood prominently. Hollowed cheeks and minute purple eye bags under his eyes adorned his face, giving him a gaunt yet not unattractive look. Dangerously red eyes stared at Regulus, who ignored the urge to shiver while he bowed, as his parents "taught" him, but was really more beaten into him.
"Of course, my Lord. My pleasure." He spoke clearly but quietly, raising himself again to look back in those eyes.
Merlin, those eyes.
Voldemort seemed pleased and beckoned Regulus closer with a wave of his hand, to an empty chair at his left, next to his parents. He walked closer, sitting in it and ignoring the sick and deadly feeling that overcame him the closer he got to Voldemort. His mother and father looked at him proudly, smug looks written across their porcelain faces.
"Regulus, dear," Walburga spoke, gesturing towards the opposite side of the table. "See who's here."
It was her smile that made him look, the creepy upturn of her lips and her dark eyes crinkling in almost amusement, but not quite. Nothing was funny to Walburga, except perhaps her sons' pain and torture.
He turned slowly, afraid it was a ploy to get him unaware, but that happened anyway.
Sirius was there, glassy-eyed, but he was there. That didn't surprise him, he expected it, even though he hadn't come with them.
It was the boy next to him who caused him to momentarily lose focus, all thoughts of keeping his guard up gone.
Black hair, unruly curls, dark skin, silver-framed glasses, hazel eyes that shone golden in the light, the damned smirk that made girls and boys alike swoon.
What the hell is James Potter doing at a Death Eater meeting?