Archive of Our Own ^beta

Regulus's first official Death Eater meeting took place in one of the Malfoys' numerous summer homes. The last week of August provided cover for the meeting — there was little suspicion to be had about a pureblood family seizing the last chance to bring the extended family together for a party before the new school year started and students were carted off to Hogwarts.

He spent an embarrassing amount of time making sure his appearance was immaculate before the big occasion — his hair up in a tight, meticulous ponytail; his black robes crisp with no wrinkle or stray lint in sight.

Stepping out of the fireplace, he was greeted by the hostess with two kisses on the cheek.

"Regulus," Narcissa chirped, "I'm so glad to see you. You must be very excited."

"I'm honored," Regulus corrected her gently. The way she said it felt infantilising — as if she had been talking about a child waiting to open Christmas presents. That was no way to talk about a soldier.

She smiled, perhaps a little indulgently. "Of course you are," she said. "Bella has been wanting to talk to you. She should be in the parlour."

Regulus wanted to ask what about — but if this was Death Eater business as he suspected, Narcissa would be of little help. She was privy to a lot of information through her husband and her sister, but she herself preferred to participate from the shadows.

"Thank you for letting me know." Regulus touched her upper arm in passing as he began walking towards the parlour. "I'll go find her."

Bella had been engrossed in a conversation with her husband when Regulus entered the room, but not enough to miss Regulus’s entrance. She beckoned him with a quick wave, and Rodolphus, from the look of it, quickly excused himself.

"The Dark Lord has a task for you," she began without preamble. "Don't ask what — I do not know yet. I trust you recognise the honor that this is, for a new recruit to receive an assignment from Him personally?"

"I do," Regulus nodded. He was nearly giddy with excitement. He was already being recognised for his talents. "I'll make Him proud."

Bella looked satisfied with his reaction. "Make sure you do."

It was only his excellent breeding and the long years of etiquette lessons that allowed Regulus to keep a facade of polite interest long enough to be excused from company without arousing suspicion of his borderline treacherous dissatisfaction. Now, back in the sanctuary of Grimmauld Place, he allowed his frustration to show on his face.

He ought to have felt honored, he knew that, but there was no use trying to reason with his wounded pride. His special task had turned out to be convincing someone in the year below him to join the Death Eaters.

He didn't understand.

Hadn’t his family proved their loyalty, their brilliance already? His cousin Bella was the Dark Lord's finest soldier; Lucius his voice in the Ministry; yet Regulus was only trusted to deal with schoolchildren.

He wanted to make a difference, to be out there fighting side-by-side with his comrades, purging the world of the filth of muggles and their bootlickers.

Had his family name meant so little? Perhaps it did, came the startling realization. Bella was a Black by blood but a Lestrange in name, and Lucius was only ever related through marriage… Regulus was the first Black in the service of the Dark Lord, and he had to contend with the scorch mark on the Tapestry that was — not was, he corrected himself hastily, had once been — his brother.

He slumped into an armchair, careful not to look at the Tapestry. His anger cooled as sudden as it exploded, and the whiplash of it left him drained, with the beginnings of a headache.

There was a shuffle in the doorway; the familiar sound of bare feet padding on the hardwood floor.

"Does Master Regulus require anything from Kreacher?"

"A glass of Father's strongest whiskey."

The elf's ears drooped. "Kreacher is not allowed to do that," he croaked.

Disappointing, but not altogether surprising. "Cognac? I heard the one Mother brought back from France last month is particularly lovely."

"Master Regulus is not of age yet, Kreacher cannot. Mistress expressly forbade it."

Well, it was worth a try.

"Perhaps Master would like some butterbeer instead?"

Regulus scowled. "Do I look like a third year on his first Hogsmeade trip?"

Kreacher flinched. Regulus felt guilt nagging at his conscience.

"It's not you I'm angry with," he said. "I'm just tired of being treated like a child. My family, now the Dark Lord… "

" Is Master Regulus not treated well?" The concern in his voice rang clear. Not the conclusion Regulus had intended him to draw.

"That's not it, " he said. Now, faced with saying his problems out aloud, they felt asinine. Childish. "I was just a little disappointed by my first assignment. I was expecting something more important than recruiting someone younger than me."

"Is this someone important?" Kreacher asked carefully.

"His father is important, yes. " 'Nuisance' would be a more accurate term for Crouch and his policies, but Regulus didn't feel like getting into the semantics of it.

"Then Master Regulus is doing an important task," Kreacher said, his bulbous eyes earnest.

Regulus supposed that was not untrue. Bringing more people into the fold would strengthen the Dark Lord’s forces, and the strategic advantage of bringing the son of the Head of Magical Law Enforcement over to their side was obvious.

Just… not as special or glorious as Regulus had envisioned.

"Anyone could do it," Regulus said with a dismissive wave, then faltered. That wasn't true; Hogwarts was the only place Crouch's kid could be approached without his daddy hovering over him. It had to come down to one of the two Hogwarts-aged Death Eaters: Evan or Regulus. " Alright, maybe not everyone, but Evan could."

"Kreacher hopes he can be forgiven for saying so, but Master Evan has the subtlety of an erumpment in a china shop," he croaked.

Regulus snorted. That was true enough. It made him feel lighter — not disparaging Evan, although a petty part of him did enjoy that too, felt it had served him right for avoiding Regulus at the party. Ultimately though it was the reassurance that Regulus was chosen for his skills and not for lack of a better choice that put his mind at ease.

He stood up. "I'm going to bed," he said, rolling his shoulders. "I have a lot of planning to do tomorrow. Goodnight Kreacher."

By the time the Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade station on the first day of September, Regulus was at peace with his assignment. He had yet to come up with a solid plan, but the more he mulled possible scenarios over in his head, the more daunting the task seemed to grow.

One wrong word could possibly send Crouch running for his daddy and consequently send Regulus to Azkaban. Perhaps the realisation ought to have scared him, but Regulus was pleased. It made him feel important.

During the feast, his eyes drifted to the Ravenclaw table, looking for a certain blond fifth-year. He found his target sitting towards the far end of the table, looking bored as the new Ravenclaw prefect, Byers, showed off his badge.

Regulus had never paid attention to him before — Crouch wasn’t in the same house, wasn't in the same year, he was not a Quidditch player, and their families rarely inhabited the same social circles. That sorted him firmly into 'boring plebeian' category in Regulus's mind.

On a first glance, Crouch Jr. was about as bland as unseasoned oatmeal; for all appearances the archetype of the snotty Ravenclaw. The only even remotely interesting thing about him was the incident last year, in which Crouch had used a hex that put a particularly annoying Gryffindor into the Hospital Wing for a weekend. That was a good laugh, although it was likely what cost Crouch the prefect badge. Regulus saw no other reason why a halfwit like Byers would have gotten it otherwise, but then again, in a world where James Potter is a Head Boy, he supposed anything was possible.

"Do you fancy him?" Evan asked suddenly.

Regulus startled, both at being addressed and the bizarre conclusion drawn. It was the first full sentence Evan had said to him in the past month — he supposed the chance to tease him had been too tempting to miss out on.

"What— no," he denied hastily. "Who are you even talking about?"

"Crouch, of course," Evan said, resting his chin in the palm of his left hand. "You've been staring at him for aaages. I suppose he did fill out decently over the summer."

Evan's assessment was hard to dispute. Crouch had lost the awkward gangliness that clung to him throughout the past year, leaving him quite decent looking, while the blue of the Ravenclaw tie brought out the color of his eyes —

"It's not like that," he protested, feeling unreasonably flustered.

While he was relieved that Evan had finally gotten over himself and was back to being his annoying self after weeks of sulking about Regulus — a sixth year— getting chosen as the Quidditch Captain over Evan — a seventh year—, there was a minor drawback. Evan was one of the most infuriating people he knew.

"Then what is it like?" Evan asked with that cheeky drawl of his.

Regulus chanced a look around. He really shouldn't. It was confidential, but well… Evan was in the know, being a fellow Death Eater.
The students around them seemed immersed enough in their own conversations that he dared to lean in and whisper into Evan's ear. "It's a task for Him."

Evan's face sobered up immediately. "That makes sense," he said slowly. "The kid does have ears in useful places."

Regulus nodded. "I was tasked with bringing him into the fold," he said. "The problem is, I have no idea how to approach him."

Evan hummed. "What about the Slug Club? I imagine Slughorn would have invited him as well."

How did Regulus not think of that? That was the perfect excuse — afterall, Slughorn’s parties were all about getting to know each other and making connections.

"He is," Regulus said, mind racing with possible scenarios. "Now that you mention it, I think I've actually seen him attend a few times…. That's perfect."

"You're welcome," Evan sing-singed.

Regulus spent a little longer getting ready for Slughorn’s Halloween party than he normally would. He was glad he didn't share a dorm with Evan — he would never live down the teasing. He could practically hear the jokes about Regulus dolling himself up for a date, and other juvenile nonsense Evan would surely come up with.

Half an hour into the party, his social quota had already been reached for the rest of the term. He'd ran into Slughorn almost as soon as he stepped foot into the room, and his Head of House just had to introduce him to the captain of the Wimbourne Wasps.

At last, he was free to go, but instead of joining his usual crowd, he began scanning the room for Crouch. He was standing close enough to a table of punch that Regulus had a perfect excuse to walk over.

Crouch seemed to be entertained by Berthold Smith, a Hufflepuff who graduated the year prior.

"Really, as I was saying, in a time like this, the least the Ministry could do is lowering the requirements for Aurors. I mean, five Outstanding NEWTS? Madness!"

"I'm sure the Ministry would take your infinite wisdom into consideration, if only you just graced them with an owl," Crouch drawled.

If the sarcasm registered, Smith showed no sign of it. "Well, it would surely sound more urgent if it was coming from the son of such an esteemed man as Mr. Crouch…" he continued.

The polite expression was wiped from Crouch's face under the blink of an eye.
"Just take a hint and bugger off already," he snapped.

That was interesting. As he watched Smith storm off with a scandalised expression, Regulus filed the interaction away for later consideration.

Crouch turned, and caught Regulus looking.

"That looked fun," Regulus noted drily. He would have preferred observing him a little more, but it was as good a chance to approach as any, albeit the look he received in response was hardly welcoming. "Do you reckon all Hufflepuff are imbeciles, or do you — and I, for that matter— just have rotten luck with them?"

Crouch huffed. "I don't even know why I bother coming anymore. I honestly had enough of talking about my father."

Ah. So mentioning Daddy was out of the question.

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. "What about company that could care less about your father?"

Crouch gave him a glance over, a slow, head-to-toe inspection. It left Regulus feeling off-balance; normally, he would be the one doling out the judgment.

"I suppose I have nothing better to do," Crouch said, even as he failed to hide a bit of preening.

Regulus jerked his head in the direction of the dancefloor. "The gentleman over there is particularly fetching, I heard he still has open dance slots," he jested, just as they watched some poor girl get her foot trampled by some fifth-year Ravenclaw. On a second glance, Regulus identified the girl as a fifth year Gryffindor whose name escaped him — but that rather unfortunate looking mug was unmistakable, so all feelings of sympathy were quickly gone with the wind.

Crouch raised his hand to his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't make me swoon." Then, almost as if he was struck by a bolt of lighting, he suddenly straightened."That was so gross to even think about," he said with an exaggerated, full-body shiver. "I share a dorm with that cretin. He's revolting. He only changes his underwear every three days."

"Do I want to know how you know that?"

"It's the smell. And by his own admission, but it's mostly the ungodly stench."

" I think I just figured out why the Transfiguration classroom smells like pickled arse every Tuesday, when we have class after your year."

Crouch snorted. " 'Pickled arse' is one way to put it. We've been trying to figure out what's his deal is — is it some kind of numerology thing? Byers reckons he might be running from a Grim and the smell is the only thing keeping it away."

"Just think of the poor house elves who have to clean after him," Regulus said. "One of these days, they're going to revolt and ask for wages. The economy shall collapse, the muggles will conquer us all, and at the root of it, it'll be a gross Ravenclaw boy."

Crouch sniggered.

Regulus wandered to the back of the library, where he caught sight of a familiar straw-blond head. He approached, mind come up with a smooth opening to initiate conversation, when his eyes landed on the title of the book.

"Interesting choice," he said in lieu of a greeting, taking the seat opposite of Barty.

Barty jumped in his chair, looking distinctly guilty.

Upon seeing Regulus, his body relaxed somewhat. Still guarded, but something to work with. "It is," Barty said.

Regulus contemplated dropping the subject for a millisecond, just so the awkwardness would dissipate, but dropped the idea instead. The Dark Arts were too good a topic to not utilise — and being a Death Eater went hand-in-hand with practicing dark magic. If Barty's interest was more than passing curiosity, it would be a good opening.

"Are you sure you should be reading that?" Regulus asked, head cocked to the side.

"Why shouldn't I?" Barty shot back. The defiance on his face was clear; he was ready for an argument. Maybe even ready for a fight.

The vehemence took Regulus's by surprise. "I'm just intrigued, is all," he said, hands raised in what he hoped was a placating gesture. " I had just assumed someone of your background would have little interest in such a thorny topic. It is usually left to the big, bad Slytherins afterall, so perhaps you can understand my surprise. "

"Big bad Slytherin — such as you?" Barty asked with his eyebrows raised.

There was no need to sound so derisive, Regulus thought sourly.

"Such as me, obviously," he said, bristling.

"And what does the big bad Slytherin have to say about such a thorny topic?"

" This is really not the place to get interesting reading material — Dumbledore purged the entire library when he became Headmaster."

"Where else should I be getting them, then, hmm?"

" At the risk of stating the obvious, Knockturn Alley has some interesting shops," Regulus quipped.

Barty rolled his eyes. " My face is enough to send vendors running there," he said with a huff. Regulus could see why that would be the case. " I can't say I blame them, but it leaves me with limited options. At least good ol' Sluggy lets me borrow whatever I want from the Restricted Section. It's almost worth sitting through his parties."

Good ol' Sluggy indeed, enabler most supreme.

"He is useful to have around," Regulus agreed. He felt a twinge of guilt over not contesting the almost derisive tone Barty talked about his Head of House. For all his faults, Regulus did genuinely like Slughorn.

He spent a little too long mulling over what to say, and the moment passed; Barty was glancing back at his book.

"I can get you some interesting books." Regulus blurted out. "The library at my house is quite lovely."

Barty closed the book, leaving one thumb between the pages to mark the page. "Define 'lovely'."

" An array of books on the Dark Arts - hexes, jinxes, poisons and plenty of curses. We even have the original Maleficium book."

Barty leaned forward. "The original — as in bound in human skin?" He looked as intrigued as Regulus hoped he'd be.

"That's the one. The Ministry has been giving my family grief over it for the longest time."

"You had me at plenty of curses," Barty said, " But I'd sell my nails in a Knockturn Alley for a chance to hold that book."

" I'm positive my Father would sell my spleens in Knockturn Alley if he caught me trying to smuggle it out of the house," Regulus said. "It's his pride and joy. I believe its the reason he made the house Unplottable. You'll have to come over if you want that one."

How convenient that was. The best part was that Regulus wasn't even lying — the book couldn’t even cross the threshold of the library without summoning Orion Black. He had tried once, along with— with Sirius, and they'd both agreed they had never seen their father so angry before, or since then.

"No offense, but there's no way my father is going to let me go over to your house," he said with resigned disgust in his tone. "He and I have a different definition of acceptable company. I almost wish he could see us now, it'd give him an aneurysm."

It was becoming more and more apparent with every interaction that Barty held little love for his father. Publicly, at least. Regulus did not quite dare to test the extent of the apparent dislike just yet — he didn't want it to blow up in his face if it all turned out to be smoke and mirrors.

He elected to redirect the conversation instead. "How close is he watching you? My house is within walking distance from Diagon, if you could convince him to let you go there alone you could just hop over."

Barty began chewing on his quill in thought. "That could work, if we can fit it in before Christmas," he said after a while.

"Before Christmas is good," Regulus assured him.

"Are you sure practicing fire spells inside a classroom is a good idea?" Barty asked, seated on top of the teacher's desk, a copy of Picking up Pyromagy V.: Inferring the Inferno in his hand. 

In a rare show of affection, Bella had mailed the book to him, accompanied by a curt yet heartfelt note.

I've come across this and thought of you. The spells I've marked are some that I've found to be particularly useful.

You're welcome.

"Absolutely," Regulus said, levitating first all of the chairs, then the desks towards the sides of the classroom to clear up space in the middle.

Bella's gift was lovely. He'd always been fascinated by fire, and while saying he'd found kinship in Bella would be an exaggeration, she was quite decent at pyromagy herself. What's more, she always encouraged Regulus’s interest. Anything even tangentially related to the Dark Arts was worth learning in her books, and fire lent itself to offensive magic with laughable ease.

He'd read the previous installments of the Picking up Pyromagy series, however the fifth — and last — book was quite hard to come by, having been banned for containing mostly illegal curses, among them detailed instructions to cast Fiendfyre and Protego Diabelica. 

Normally, Regulus would invite Evan to practice new spells, but this time, he decided to try his luck and ask Barty to accompany him. He figured a bruised ego would be the worst thing that could happen, since Barty appeared to appreciate banned books as much as Regulus did.  

Fortunately that hadn't come to pass. Barty had looked pleasantly surprised and readily took Regulus up on his offer, which is how they found themselves in an old classroom on a mid-November Saturday night. 

"You do realise it's full of wooden desks and chairs, right?" Barty asked. He was beginning to look like he regretted coming along. 

Regulus's spirit remained undaunted. "That's the best part! It's like an obstacle course!" he said with a grin.

"I can't believe Sluggy had agreed to this."

"He loves me. I've been attending nearly every Slug Club meeting this year; I reckon at this point he'd help me hide a body if I asked."

In truth, Regulus had neglected to explicitly tell his Head of House that he had been planning on practicing illegal fire curses inside a classroom without adult supervision. He suspected Slughorn had an inkling that this wasn't necessarily something he would approve of — he had shooed Regulus away rather nervously after he signed his permission slip. 

Plausible deniability was the name of the game, and Slughorn was the grandmaster of it. 

"At least tell me you're not planning to cast Fiendfyre," Barty pleaded. 

"Not yet," Regulus said. 

He had every intention to learn to cast Fiendfyre, preferably before the end of the school year, he just had to work his way up to it. Baby steps starting with enchanting fire to mimic animals and conjuring semi-sentient flames were the key to not getting burned alive, but that just wouldn't cut it for now. Winter break was fast approaching and he wasn't going home without learning something impressive. 

"There's something I want to try first."

That something was one of the spells Bella had marked. Flagellium. A whip of fire. Wasn't that the coolest thing ever? Bella had impeccable taste. She had never let Regulus down.

The spell came to him easy; the whip materialised in his hand on the first try. He cracked it experimentally, and to his delight, it cracked with a loud thunder.

He began swishing it, his eyes following the blur of fire with excitement he hadn't thought himself capable of since he was a child. His movements grew more steady, more rhythmical, and soon he was spinning the whip in circles above his head. The ring of fire was mesmerising; he thought he could spend the rest of the night just watching the flames. 

When he was satisfied with his control, he turned to Barty — of whom he nearly forgot about.

Barty had been looking at him, but he looked startled by the sudden eye-contact. Flustered even, if the redness of his cheeks was anything to go by. 

"Conjure me some birds," Regulus said, " I need target practice."

"Alright." Barty looked like he wanted to say something more. Regulus cocked his head expectantly, waiting for him to go on. 

Instead, Barty raised his wand, and a flock of gray doves shot out of it. 

Regulus zoned on the last straggler. He thought it was a bit like playing Seeker, if Quidditch involved whips. 

He spun the whip above his head, then struck out; a viper striking at its prey. The dove disintegrated immediately upon contact, scattering a thin layer of ash over the surrounding area. 

Regulus stared at the empty spot in the air for a second, ignoring the rest of the birds that scampered over the room in fright.

"Score?" he said uncertainly. He chanced a look at Barty. For some reason hitting a quasi-living target hadn't felt as victorious as he imagined it would, and he was filled with trepidation at the prospect of Barty’s reaction. 

He needn't worry. Barty looked delighted. 

"That was so cool," he breathed. The intensity of his stare as it bore into Regulus was intimidating and exhilarating at once. "Now take down the others," he instructed.

Emboldened, Regulus obeyed. He cracked the whip and began striking the birds down one by one in a shower of ashes, until only one was left. He wanted to go all-out with this one, wanted to make a spectacle out of it.

In his eagerness, he put a little too much force behind his strike and the fire not only burned through the dove but also left a deep, scorched mark in the ceiling.

"Sluggy is going to love that," Barty commented dryly. 

A handful of debris fell, as if to punctuate his words.

 Regulus carefully smothered down his embarrassment. "You know him — he won't have the slightest clue what could have possibly happened here. Now, it's your turn."

On the 23rd of December, at two in the afternoon, three firm knocks resonated through Grimmauld Place. Regulus had been sitting on the stairs for a few minutes already, and he shot up to let his guest in. He hesitated in the doorway, acutely aware how desperate it would look to open the door before Barty even retracted his hands.
He counted to ten — surely that was enough time to not look too eager — and only then did he open the door.

Barty was laden with shopping bags. Regulus's greeting died on his tongue, and all he could do was grace Barty with a questioning look.

"Christmas shopping was my cover story," Barty began, walking in. "I had to tell my Mother I wanted their presents to be a super awesome secret to stop her from coming along. She was so touched, she didn't even tell me at what time I'm expected home. The downside was that I had to get something nice for my Father too."

"Martyrdom, is what it is," Regulus said sardonically, then gestured to the stairs. "Come on, the library is this way. Would you like tea? Kreacher made scones to go with, they're great."

"I'm famished," Barty said. His eyes landed on the severed house elf heads, and he stopped in his tracks. "Are those…?"

"My family's old house elves, yes," Regulus answered cautiously. It was a rather controversial piece of decoration, even within the family. His Aunt Druella was always beside herself when Christmas was hosted at Grimmauld and she was forced to walk past them — tasteless, she'd called them.

"That's mental," Barty said, but his tone was more amused than disturbed. Regulus would count that as a win. "I love this house already. Care to give me a tour first?"

Regulus shrugged, although the easy acceptance left a warm feeling curling in his stomach. He hadn't even realised how anxious he'd been about Barty’s reaction until that moment. "Sure. Up the stairs is the drawing room — we have a bunch of cursed trinkets there, my Mother and my Uncle Alphard are both collectors, and they're actually at an auction right now in Zagreb–"

For all Barty's enthusiasm to get to the book he came for, he was easily side tracked. His wonder was contagious; Regulus found himself looking at the trinkets he had grown up around through new lenses.

That was, until Barty began examining a certain animal pelt on the wall.

"Is this what I think it is? A werewolf pelt?" Barty asked, rubbing the tufted tail between his fingers.

Regulus's stomach churned. He hated looking at that thing, the catalyst to the argument that had made him an only child. "It is," he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone.

"Cool," Barty said, letting go of the tail and running his hand through the fur, across the whole length of the pelt until he reached the snout. "Did your family hunt it?"

"No, Mother brought it at an auction in — either Budapest or Bucharest, I'm not sure. I always mix them up."

"Do we know anything about it?"

"It had attacked a family. The parents tried to protect their two children, and they had managed to hold it off until help arrived and it got put down, but they both died from their injuries. The witch who made the kill had been allowed to keep the pelt as a prize, but she decided to sell it and donate the money to the family instead, to help with the cost of raising the children."

"That's…" Barty paused, searching for the right word. "... thoughtful. Making the best of a shitty situation. "

Regulus thought so too. Sirius had not — he'd called it barbaric and then called their mother a variety of names that couldn't be repeated in polite company for being complicit. That night had ended with Sirius jumping out of his bedroom window and running away to go live with his precious pet blood traitor Potter, and with Mother burning off the shame of her womb from the Tapestry.

Kreacher popped into the room to let them know that the tea was ready, saving Regulus from souring his own mood further.

They took their tea in the parlour, and Regulus entertained Barty with anecdotes about curiosities located in other Black properties, which inevitably led to anecdotes about the occupants of said properties.

"You'd like Bella," he said. He was sure of it; she'd approve of Barty's interest in the Darks Arts. She'd be even more pleased at how driven he was.

"Bella — the same Bella who sent that pyromagy book?"

"That's the one."

"I'd love to meet her," Barty said earnestly.

Eventually, they filed into the library. Regulus retrieved the purpose of the visit from its place: a thick, ominous book, bound in heavily scarred human-skin. It was the infamous Maleficium: Dark Magic Most Foul by Garvyn the Ghastly.

A reverent expression came over Barty's face as he gingerly took the book. His fingers traced the rough surface of the cover, ghosting over the ridged.

" They really do look like curse scars," he muttered.

"That's because they are curse scars," Regulus said, pulling out a chair from the table first for Barty, then for himself. Once they were both seated, he continued. "What you're holding is the last remains of Garvyn's apprentice. I forgot his name, but he supposedly tried to steal the notes on Garvyn's newest spell, Milincisum and got caught in the act, and Garvyn decided to, I quote, humour his interest and tested the curse on him. It's a curse that covers the victim's entire body in papercuts — excruciating but not usually lethal."

Barty snorted. " Apparently this bloke didn’t get the memo," he said, tapping the cover.

"Non-lethal in its final version," Regulus corrected himself. "The early version of the spell left lacerations deep enough to cause fatal blood loss. However, Garvyn thought half the fun of cursing people was making the victims live out the rest of their lives disfigured, so he tweaked the spell to only leave papercuts."

"That explains why the ridges are so deep," Barty said, dipping his index finger into one of said ridges.

"Garvyn wrote about it in the book, if you're interested in the whole story," Regulus said. "It's been a while since I've read it, so I might have missed a couple of details."

"Noted," Barty said, then opened the book.

Regulus picked up the book he'd started the day before on blood curses. However fascinating the chapter was — the effects of birth order on the manifestation of symptoms — he found his eyes lingering on Barty more than his reading material.

Barty had first skimmed through the pages, jotting down the page numbers that seemed most promising on a piece of parchment, before returning to read them properly. His freckled face scrunched up in concentration was a pleasant sight to look at; Regulus thought he could stay sitting there all day memorising each freckle on his face.

Barty asked for his input in a few places, and although Regulus knew him to be a clever, insightful person, he was still caught off guard by his sharp mind. It made him delightful to debate with, and as they slowly devolved into banter, Regulus was startled to realise how much they had drifted into each other's space.

Perhaps sensing his surprise, Barty looked up from the book. Their gaze locked. The sudden proximity was startling, but as Regulus stared into cornflower blue eyes, the overwhelming desire to kiss Barty was even more so.

It'd be so easy. He'd only have to lean in a few inches, and then he'd know if Barty's lips felt as soft as they looked.

Regulus bit his lips, and Barty’s gaze flickered down to follow the movement, and lingered there. Something in Regulus snapped — his restraint, his cautiousness or perhaps his sanity as a whole—, and he gave into the overwhelming urge.

The kiss was chaste; almost teasingly so. Regulus pulled back almost immediately, to gauge Barty's reaction, his frantic heartbeat pounding in his ears. Barty appeared to have other ideas, grabbing Regulus by the collar and pulling him back.

"A proper snog," he'd murmured against Regulus's lips.

And a proper snog it was; they kissed until Regulus's world narrowed down to Barty's taste, his smell, the heat of his body as he'd half-way crawled into Regulus's lap.

The sudden creak of the door was the only warning that they were about to get company. Barty clambered off of Regulus and quickly sat down into his abandoned seat, clearing his throat. Regulus reached up to smooth down his hair.

"Regulus," his father began, a subtle look of surprise crossing his face as his eyes landed on Barty. "Is your guest staying for dinner?"

Was it that late already? He didn't think Barty was allowed to stay out so late. He turned to his …. friend and asked, "Are you staying?"

"I would love to," Barty said, glancing at the clock on the wall, then back at Regulus. He looked nervous. "But I'm expected at home for dinner. I should be going now," he said apologetically.

"I'll walk you out," Regulus offered quickly, rising from his seat. His father was glancing between them with an odd look on his face; Regulus couldn't shake the feeling that he somehow knew, even though he couldn't have seen anything.

They picked up Barty's shopping bags and trekked through the house in an awkward silence. They stopped on the porch, Regulus shutting the front door behind him

"Sorry about him," Regulus said.

"Do you think he saw us?" Barty sounded even more nervous now.

Regulus was torn between wanting to reassure him and not wanting to lie. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Barty's neck. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I think he suspects something, but it's hard to tell with him."

Barty's hands came up to rest on Regulus's waist. "If he does know — is that going to be a problem? For you?"

Regulus tilted his head as he mulled it over. "I don't see why it would be," he said at last. "He doesn't care what I'm doing as long as I keep it discreet and it doesn't end with half-blood bastards. My mother is the same. "

"That's good," Barty said, looking relieved.

"Right," Regulus agreed, distracted. If such thing was possible, Barty's lips looked even more inviting now that he'd tasted them. He wondered if it would be appropriate to kiss him again.

"I really need to be going," Barty said. Contrary to his words, he appeared to be in no hurry. He remained right where he was standing, showing no inclination to leave.

"One more kiss?" Regulus asked.

Barty wordlessly pressed their lips together.

They'd parted eventually, and Regulus watched Barty's parting silhouette until it disappeared around the corner. He walked back inside, rubbing his arm. He hadn't noticed how cold it was out there.

He found his father lingering at the base of the stair.

"Father?" He asked uncertainly.

"I put the books away in the library," Orion said. He sounded awkward. Stilted.

"Thank you. I was just on my way to clean up," Regulus said politely. Mentally, he was bracing himself for whatever it was that his father was working himself up to.

"The boy…" he began, then trailed off. He looked like he didn't quite know what he wanted to say. Regulus was silently begging him to spare them both the torture and let it go. "Is he pureblood?"

Regulus nearly sighed in relief. "Of course," he said. He couldn't believe that was even a question. " I believe his great aunt is on the Tapestry. Charis Crouch."

"Acceptable," was all his father said before bidding him goodnight and leaving Regulus to his thoughts.

"Reg, here," Evan waved from a compartment. Regulus could see Shafiq with him.

"I'm sitting with Barty today," he called back.

He hoped he would, at least. Barty was not a social creature, preferring solitude to company. He'd once told Regulus he liked to board the train early to ensure he had a compartment for himself. Regulus rather counted on that habit of his so they could have a private moment.

See, it hit him that albeit they parted in an elated mood and had exchanged owls daily throughout the remainder of winter break, he had no idea how Barty was feeling about what transpired during his visit. About the kissing, and (probably) getting caught by Regulus's father.

Barty had been rather reserved in his letters, sounding as if someone had been looming over his shoulder as he was writing. Regulus suspected that could actually be the case. He'd been subjected to countless rants about the Sr. Barty Crouch, and they all painted an unpleasant picture.

Monitoring his son's private conversations sounded like something he would do. So Regulus followed Barty's lead and remained vague in his own letters, sticking to safe topics such as Quidditch and commiserating about the awfulness of OWLs.

Still, he couldn't help but worry that he was being paranoid and Barty had simply regretted kissing him.

So, in a last-ditch effort to save his sanity, he foregone his usual company to search for Barty instead. He found him at the back of the train, scanning the crowd from the window.

He rapped his fingers against the glass of the compartment door, catching Barty's attention. The way Barty's face lit up nearly made him melt into the floor with relief — that was not the face of regret. 

"Hey," Barty said, hesitating only a moment before pulling Regulus into a hug. "It's so good to see you."

The train whistled.

"Hey yourself," Regulus said, pressing a kiss to the corner of Barty’s mouth, enjoying the way he flushed. "Is everything okay? Your letters sounded a little… off."

"Sorry about that, I know they sounded like I was Confounded. Father didn't buy the Christmas gift story, but couldn't prove shit. He was so frustrated by it that I worried he'd go through my mail."

"I didn't think my opinion of him could get any lower, but here we are."

"He works hard to be as awful as he is. A very diligent man, he is."

They sat down next to each other, and Barty rested his head on Regulus's shoulder as they watched the city giving way to the countryside.

The pattern they'd fallen into had been almost idyllic. It had been the happiest time in Regulus's living memory; he'd never felt so content as he was with Barty. His assignment from the Dark Lord had been a distant, looming dark cloud on the edge of his consciousness he tried his best to ignore, a threat to the little bubble he'd built with Barty.

Not yet, he'd told himself, laying awake at night with crippling anxiety at the mere thought of suggesting Barty join the Death Eaters. He's not ready yet.

He'd been terrified of losing Barty. Perhaps even more so than of disappointing his comrades, his family or even the Dark Lord, which was in itself a terrifying revelation.

Of course, Regulus had been a naive fool for thinking good things could last.

There had been something unspoken threaded between them on that day in March; something charged as they agreed to meet up in their usual spot. Their parting kiss at the end of lunch break lingered just a little too long, until they were both late to class; Barty's gaze as he'd said later felt just a little more heated than usual. It had occupied Regulus's mind all day, and he'd been impatiently glancing at the clock all day throughout his classes. He'd even splinched his finger during an attempt at Apparition, something he'd never done before.

When at last it was time for their meeting, he wasted no time pressing Barty down at the nearest desk as soon as he walked in. Regulus kissed him with a desperate fervor, and Barty returned the sentiment just as eagerly, arms wrapping around Regulus's waist to pull him closer, until he was in Barty's lap. Then Barty's hand slid lower, grabbing Regulus's arse, and he was pulling him closer still, until their crotches were pressed together.

Regulus's breath hitched, and he dipped his head to mouth at Barty’s neck. He wanted more still; wanted more of Barty, more skin to touch, to kiss. He reached up to Barty's collar, beginning to undo the buttons of his robes.

Barty caught his wrist in one hand. Regulus wondered if he'd overstepped, and he opened his mouth to ask if everything was okay, but Barty spoke first.

"What's that? Do you have a tattoo?" he asked, frowning at— at the Dark Mark. Merlin's saggy left ball, Regulus forgot to cover it up.

He ripped his arm from Barty's hold and backed away; an instinctive, if futile endeavour. The Mark had been seen, and Barty apparently intended to kick up a fuss about it.

"That's the Dark Mark, isn't it? Why do you have that tattooed—" Realisation was rapidly dawning on Barty's face now, and Regulus noted the accompanying horror with a sinking feeling.

"Regulus — are you a Death Eater?"

Protocol in such cases was to deny, lie, misdirect, accuse, attack — anything to divert attention. However, insulting Barty's intelligence did not sound like the best course of action.

Taking a deep breath, Regulus steeled himself and looked straight into Barty's eyes as he answered, "I am."

There. Now all that was left was hoping Barty would understand, or Regulus would be carted off to Azkaban.

Barty stared at him like he didn't recognise Regulus at all. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he settled on what to say.

"I can't — I can't deal with this," he forced out at last, turning towards the door.

"Barty, please," Regulus pleaded. "Don't —"

"Don't touch me," Barty snapped. Regulus recoiled, pulling his hand back.

"I don't —" Barty sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Don't look at me like that, I just can't deal with this right now. It's just too much. You can't just tell me you're a dark wizard, a Death Eater and expect me to get over it!"

"What, did you think I was studying the Dark Arts for fun? Well, I don't. And I don't think you do either."

Regulus had seen how taken Barty had been by dark magic. It was no mere interest, no. It was something deeper.

"Academic interest doesn't mean I would use them on innocent people," he protested. He looked troubled by the implication. Guilty.

"I'm not doing that, either," Regulus said. He forced himself to calm down, pushed down the blind terror that threatened to lash out.

"Really?" Barty asked with a snort. "That's why the Prophet is filled with Death Eater attacks day after day, right?"

"The Dark Lord's enemies are hardly innocent people," Regulus argued. "These people are so scared of change they're dragging society backwards, where we're forced to hide like sewer rats."

"Regulus, you're part of a terrorist group," Barty said slowly.

"Terrorist is such a gross exaggeration," Regulus protested. " We're radical, yes, because change never from the moderates," Regulus said." The only way to raise a new society is to burn off the diseased parts first. Cauterisation. He will make that happen, and we who stand with Him, will get the front seat."

Barty looked at him with an uneasy expression. "Do you even hear yourself?" he asked, shaking his head. "You know what? Don't answer that. We're done here."

With that, he left, the door slamming behind him.

Regulus spent the next week waiting for the Aurors to show up and march him straight to Azkaban at wandpoint. He couldn't believe he was so stupid to come clean to Barty, who was specifically targeted for being the son of the Head of Magical LEP.

Barty had claimed he had no love for his father, but Regulus suspected he had yet to free himself from dependency on his approval. It wasn't hard to imagine how pleased Barty’s father would be if even just one active Death Eater was apprehended.

On the rare occasions they passed each other in the corridor, he somehow succeeded in precisely avoiding Regulus without even looking into his general direction. It could have possibly given Regulus an opening to initiate conversation, and they couldn't have that, could they?

Not that Regulus knew what he'd say if given the chance.

Was he supposed to apologise? The truth was, he was only sorry he was caught. He loved being a Death Eater; it was a dream come true; his biggest accomplishment; the Dark Mark on his arm his pride and joy.

The days trickled by, and somehow, miraculously, no auror appeared to arrest him. Although classes, Apparation and Quidditch kept him plenty busy, there was a Barty-sized void in his schedule that left the world feeling dimmer, bleaker. He had come to care about Barty a great deal — he might have even been a little in love with him— and he missed their banters, Barty's voice, his brilliant mind, missed kissing him breathless, missed his presence as a whole so much it hurt.

The stale-mate was broken on the last week of school before the spring break.

Regulus stepped onto the Quidditch pitch and the team gathered around him.

"There's someone in the stands," Shafiq commented. "D'you think he's spying?"

Regulus turned to look. Tall, fair headed, wearing a Ravenclaw scarf — that had to be Barty, no question about it. The question was what he was doing there. The last time Regulus checked, they had been broken up.

Noticing Regulus's glance into his direction, Barty raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, leaving no doubt who he came to see. How curious that was.

Regulus nodded at him, then turned back to his team.

"Alright — into position. Shafiq, Parkinson, keep aiming at the chasers. Travers, Greengrass, Rosier — practice the decoy pass we'd discussed in the locker. I'll be right back."

Evan glanced between the stands and Regulus and did an obnoxious eyebrow wiggle. "You know riding his broom doesn't count as Quidditch practice, right?"

"Rosier, twenty laps after the scrimmage is over," Regulus snapped, cheeks flushing.

"That's an abuse of power."

Regulus didn't have the mental capability to deal with him. He gave a rather unprofessional one-finger salute, and after having safely deposited his broom on the ground, he made his way over to the stands.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Barty greeted, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Regulus could relate.

"What brings you here?"

"We need to talk," Barty said, finally making eye-contact. "After practice, if that's okay with you."

That was surprising, coming from someone who spent the past weeks ducking into random classrooms —and on one occasion into a girl's lavatory— just to avoid having to look at Regulus's face.

"Of course," he said, trying not to sound too eager. Desperate was not the look he was going for, even if he was in fact pathetically desperate to talk to Barty again. "We're just getting started, the practice will run until 8. You're welcome to stay if you wish, but you can just come back if you want to."

"I'll stay," Barty said.

"Alright."

Silence settled over them, heavy and awkward. There were so much he wanted to tell Barty, yet none were appropriate under present circumstances.

"I should go," he blurted out finally, when the silence had grown too suffocating.

"You probably should," Barty agreed, staring at the ground.

"Yeah." He turned to leave, feeling strangely reluctant to move. Who was to say Barty wouldn't change his mind by the time practice was over? Two hours was a long time. Regulus loved Quidditch more than Barty did, but even he'd get bored watching another team flying drills.

After the rest of the team filed out, Regulus and Barty settled into the locker room.

"Why did you join?"

That was not a question Regulus had been expecting.

"Because I love Quidditch?" Regulus asked, trying to win himself time to come up with something good, something convincing that could possibly sway Barty into joining the Cause.

"You know that's not what I meant."

He chanced a look at Barty’s face — there was no judgment there now, unlike the last time they had been this close to each other. There was only open curiosity on Bartys tired face, mixed with mild annoyance at the deliberate obtuseness.

Regulus willed down the urge to reach out to run his thumb over the dark circles under Barty’s eyes. That would be too intimate a gesture; a privilege he was no longer afforded.

"I want to see this world change — where wizards no longer have to bow to muggles and scurry in the shadows like rodents, hiding our very nature. The Dark Lord promised a new world, and I want to help him achieve it."

"Tired of living in the shadows, huh?" Barty asked with a huff. "Do you really think Voldemort is the answer?"

"I do," Regulus said.

"I'm tired of living in the shadows too," Barty admitted. His shoulders slumped, like he was admitting something shameful. " My father… I'm tired of being treated like his extension. I don't even have my own name because even that belongs to him. “

Regulus hoped he didn't look as guilty as he felt — he had only approached Barty for his family name, much like everyone else. He learnt better of course, saw Barty for the beautiful, bright person he was.

"I want to make myself known," Barty continued, the conviction in his eyes taking Regulus's breath away. In that moment, his mind's eye could clearly picture Barty in Death Eater garb, standing tall and glorious. " I want to be my own person."

"He would help you," Regulus said quietly. He only hesitated a moment to take the risk of reaching out to cover Barty's hand with his own.

"Would he?" Barty asked. The skepticism was palpable, but he wasn't shying away from Regulus's touch.

"You're clever and driven and talented, anyone with half a brain can see you will go far in life. He would be delighted to help you reach your potential."

"My father is the Head of Magical Law Enforcement."

It was odd that Barty would think that was a disadvantage. Something told Regulus to thread carefully here, to not tell Barty he'd been given an invitation precisely for that reason. It was not the right time for such brutal honesty, no, something more gentle was needed here.

He squeezed Barty's hand. "You're so much more than your father." Then, emboldened by the lack of resistance, he brought Barty's hand up to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "All you need to do is to ask, and He shall open a whole new world for you."

Barty held his eye-contact. The reddened cheeks did little to soften his penetrating, searching gaze. Regulus could only hope his face held the answer Barty was seeking.

After a long moment, Barty gave a sharp nod and pulled his hand free.
He opened his mouth to say something — something monumental, by the look of it, but he changed his mind.

He swept out of the room with a mumbled 'good night', looking no less troubled than he looked coming in. Regulus was left wondering if this counted as a victory or not — they had a civil conversation, had they not? They hadn't reached a satisfying conclusion, but at least Barty opened up to him. What's more, he'd been open to hear Regulus's reasoning. That had to mean something, but whether that something was a good thing remained to be seen.

Regulus's fork stopped halfway to his mouth when he noticed Bella's owl, Lamia speeding towards him. It was a great, dark thing, somewhat demonic looking with her sinister glowing eyes. That could have been Regulus's biases colouring his perception though — he had been on the receiving end of her temper a few times as a child, a temper that was dreadful enough to match her menacing look.

Regulus quickly looked for something to bribe her with. He suspected nothing sans the drained blood of a human sacrifice would truly please her, but an offer of cooked meat was enough to escape an encounter with all fingers attached to their rightful place.

There was one slice of ham left, and some second-year boy was already reaching for it. Regulus slapped his hand away and snatched it up, ignoring the protests.

The owl landed, knocking over a few goblets of pumpkin juice. Regulus would bet money she did that on purpose; that was just the sort of thing both Bella and her owl would find amusing. Regulus would have too, if he hadn’t been so terrified.

"Here," he murmured, holding out his fork with one hand, while his other was working on freeing his letter.

"I'll send an answer after class," he promised Lamia. "I don't have the time before classes. "

The owl gave him a reproachful look. She spread her wings and opened her beak — posed to attack. With a resigned sigh, Regulus stabbed the last sausage on his plate and held it out as a peace offering.

The owl cocked her head, then gobbled it all up. She spared one last disgusted look at the room, then took off, leaving Regulus to his letter.

"Is she gone?" Evan asked in a stage-whisper, halfway under the table.

Regulus rolled his eyes. "She's not that bad," he lied. Now that the threat was gone, he felt a bit foolish for getting so worked up.

"Says you," Evan muttered. "I'm pretty sure she's my boggart."

When they were little, Evan had woken Lamia up from a nap for a dare. She had not been impressed and spent an hour chasing an increasingly more and more upset Evan around Aunt Druella's garden.

He'd never been the same since.

Regulus turned to his letter, and noted the wax seal with some trepidation.

Bella only ever used that seal when she was writing as his mentor — his link to the Dark Lord. Direct correspondence with Him had been limited to a select few Death Eaters, and Regulus, being still at Hogwarts under Dumbledore's thumb, had naturally been excluded.

That left dear Bella to be the messenger and keep him updated, since there was nothing suspicious about him receiving regular letters from his doting cousin.

Regulus,

Don't think I haven't noticed how tight lipped you've been about your task.

Well, Regulus certainly wasn't going to willingly confess that he had screwed his mission up so utterly and thoroughly. Bella would have to torture that out of him.

This better be because you're saving the good news for when we meet in person over Easter — or else we shall be very disappointed.

As if Regulus hadn't dreaded the rapidly approaching break enough already. He could always count on Bella to make him feel welcome.

Your loving cousin,

Bella

On Slughorn’s Easter Party, Barty had taken a seat next to him wordlessly. Well, wordlessly as in not speaking to Regulus directly, because Barty did need to displace a Hufflepuff boy from his seat.

"Get lost, pipsqueak, or I'll turn you into a hedgehog, " he snapped, and the poor kid scampered.

Regulus remained silent, waiting for Barty to say what he came for.

"We need to talk," Barty said finally. "In private."

Barty led him to the classroom that used to be their usual spot. Regulus tried not to get his hopes up on what that could mean.

"I want in," Barty said without preamble.

That was not what Regulus had been expecting, not at all.

"Why? You've seemed awfully scandalized by the very idea only weeks ago, I seem to recall."

Perhaps he shouldn't have been looking the gift Abraxan in its mouth and should have started arranging the preparations — his mission would have been completed with this, which was arguably more important than this little affair between them, but he found himself faltering.

He couldn't bring himself to just toss Barty to the wolves like that, not without making sure that was what he really wanted. It was a commitment — lifetime service.

"And you seemed awfully eager to convince me, is what I seem to recall," Barty said with a sardonic twist to his mouth. Seeing Regulus's unimpressed expression, he sighed and schooled his face into something more serious."I do not care for mudbloods or muggles. I have no love for them, but they're no skin off my nose either. All this time, I've believed that being a Death Eater was just about eradicating them. It felt… pointless." He paused, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. It was mesmerising; Regulus wanted nothing more than to be the one nibbling on his lips.

" What you said — when he builds a new world for us… it made me realise how short-sighted I had been. You are right — the old world has to be burned, for the new one to rise from the ashes. I want a first row seat to that. I want to see history happen, no, I want to write history. Make my own legacy. I want to step out of my father's shadow. If things remain as they are I'll never be anything more than his son. I refuse to accept that."

"It's a good thing you don't have to," Regulus said softly. His heart swelled in his chest with joy. "He'll make you greater than you can imagine."

Regulus sent a letter to Bella to prepare Barty's initiation that very night. With some luck, the Dark Lord could free up an hour or two in his schedule while they were home for the spring break. Smuggling Barty out of Hogwarts was doable, but it would be a lot of hassle.

Bella's response arrived in the morning, containing a date and the address.

It'll be a private ceremony, she wrote.

Regulus Apparated into the Yorkshire countryside at half past ten. It wasn't something he was supposed to be doing, strictly speaking, being unlicensed with his exam still months away. However, at nearly seventeen, the idea of being chaperoned made him want to die of embarrassment.

He made the short trek into the nearby village, keeping the church towering over the rest of the buildings in sight. Barty had suggested they meet there, and indeed, Regulus could see a tall, hooded figure standing with crossed arms.

" Barty, hey-"

"No time," Barty said, grabbing Regulus's arm. "Let’s go, before they notice I'm missing."

Ah. Regulus had wondered how Barty was going to explain to his father that he urgently needed to be somewhere at 10 in the night on Easter Monday, but he apparently chose the easy route and snuck out.

"Alright," Regulus said. He'd hoped he'd have some time to work up the nerve to side-along someone for the first time, but that was not to be. Perhaps it was better he wasn't given the chance to feed his anxiety.

They popped into a forest at the edge of a small property. A small, unassuming hut stood in the middle — where the Dark Lord was most likely already awaiting them.

He chanced a look at Barty. He was staring straight ahead, eyebrows pulled into a slight frown. Regulus put his hand on Barty’s hand still holding onto his arm, startling him into looking at Regulus.

"It's going to be alright," he said.

Barty smiled — a feeble thing that barely lasted a second. Regulus didn't press the issue. He'd not been Marked for a year yet; the memory of how nerve-wracking the waiting was still fresh in his memory. Instead, he wordlessly plied off Barty's fingers off his arm, only to weaved them together with his own fingers.

Barty latched onto him like a lifetime, and only let go when they stopped in front of the entrance. Regulus knocked, and the door opened under his touch.

He suspected that was as much of an invitation to enter as they were going to get, so he motioned to Barty to follow after him.

The door closed behind them with a soft click. They traipsed through the non-decrepit hut until they arrived into the kitchen, where the Dark Lord sat at the end of a table.

"Bartemius, welcome. Do take a seat," he said, then turned to Regulus. "Regulus, well done."

Try as he might, Regulus could not keep a pleased smile off his face.

"Now, you may go. I'll notify you when your presence is needed."

The smile disappeared as fast as it came. In the periphery of his vision, Barty was giving him a slightly panicked look.

"My lord?"

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Don't look so alarmed. We're just going to talk. We do need to get to know each other if we're to work together successfully, don't we?"

He hadn’t done that with Regulus, but he supposed Barty's background warranted the extra scrutiny.

That didn't mean Regulus had to like it.

The door opened, as if daring Regulus to argue.

He dared not.

He forced a pleasant expression on his face. "As you wish, my lord," he said with a bow. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile to Barty, then left.

Back at Grimmauld, he hopped down in an armchair with a huff. He watched the minutes trickle by on the grandfather clock, fingers drumming on his knees.

I should have argued to stay, he thought to himself sourly.

Now, he'd have to wait to talk to Barty until the end of the break. It was unfair.

He couldn't help but wonder what was being discussed. Barty's father would be mentioned, he was sure, and the hatred Barty harbored towards him. Barty's interest in the Dark Arts too. The Dark Lord would be pleased with the newest addition to their numbers, Regulus could feel that much in his bones.

He wondered if the Dark Lord would tell it was Regulus' assignment to bring Barty over to their side. He'd kept his praise vague in the back there, which made Regulus hopeful, but it could have just been a coincidence as easily as deliberately vague.

The clock chimed eleven. Were they done yet? Did they have that much to talk about?

Knock knock knock

Regulus jumped up from his seat. He had an educated guess who that could be. He hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time and ignoring the chiding from the portraits along the wall. He tore the door open, and there Barty was, standing there with a grin, his left hand covering his right arm.

"Are you..?"

"A Death Eater, yes," Barty said. He couldn't keep the grin off his face. "How could I not be? You're right, He is wonderful. I pity the fools who do not see the Dark Lord's greatness."

Regulus hushed him. "Not so loud," he hissed. "How did you get here?"

Barty fished out a small swan figurine from his pocket. "He made me a Portkey. I wanted to talk to you, so I told him to make London the destination."

"Thank you," Regulus said. " I would have gone insane if I had to wait until we're back at school to talk."

"Me too." He made a face. " My father is definitely doing to monitor my every move after this."

"Should I take you home? Do some damage-control?"

"Nah," Barty said with a dismissive wave. "We're past that point. He's going to have a meltdown regardless. I'd rather stay the night, if that's okay with you."

Regulus wasn't presumptuous enough to have considered that possibility. He certainly wasn't objecting though. He grabbed Barty by the wrist and dragged him inside. "Come in, then. We don't want to wake Mother."

He led Barty up the stairs, up to the top landing and into his bedroom. The door clicked shut, and Regulus pressed Barty against it.

"Show me."

Barty pulled the robe sleeve up to his elbows, turned his arm – and there it was, the Dark Mark, all in its blood red glory.

"Beautiful," Regulus murmured, leaning down and kissing the skull on Barty's arm. He could not think of a single thing that was as beautiful as Barty with the Dark Mark on his skin.

In response, Barty tugged on Regulus's sleeve. He took the hint and pulled his own sleeve up, putting his arms next to Barty's.

"It really is beautiful," Barty said in a quiet, awed tone. He looked almost giddy as he ran his fingers over first Regulus's Dark Mark, then his own. 

They were in this together now, bound by their shared cause until their dying breath.