Chapter Text
"There's a lake," Sirius mentioned offhandedly, a week before they were due to leave. "The first-years cross it before the Sorting."
Regulus kept his hands in his lap, his eyes on the castle, for the entire boat ride.
He was sorted into Slytherin.
Nobody had ever mentioned the windows into the water.
Leaving Hogwarts has always been a bit of a relief.
It's not that Regulus would rather be at home—home is stressful in its own way. But home is a townhouse in London where they almost never go outside, and all Regulus really has to worry about are ink spills and the contents of his goblet at meals. At Hogwarts, he is crushed underwater, green windows more a source of fear than interest, even when merpeople or the Giant Squid pass by.
The Hogwarts Express is unlikely to have raindrops trickling down its windows in June, so all Regulus has to do is walk past the Black Lake to board the train, and then he's safe for the first time in months. He didn't go home for spring break—OWLs were approaching fast, and the two full-day train rides could be time spent in the library. (Another safe place. Madam Pince is vigilant about people bringing in beverages, absolutely none of which are permitted. Regulus has been retreating there for years.)
It's not that he can't handle water. He just needs to be careful. Especially around other people.
He takes the window seat in the compartment and opens his book, which gets a Bertie Bott's thrown at him. It bounces off of his hand—a perfect shot, knowing Evan—and rolls under the bench, where it will most likely become dust-colored and grime-flavored.
"You said you'd socialize when OWLs were over." Evan settles into the other window seat, perhaps so he can better stare Regulus down, his Bertie-Bott's-eating uninterrupted by the maneuver. "You're out of excuses."
Being stared down by Evan is... not the most intimidating thing in the world, but that's not to say it's not worth noting. He excels at persuading professors that he really did accidentally drop his homework in the Black Lake this time, honest, Regulus can vouch for him—and Regulus occasionally resolves to tell him that he's not going to enable him anymore, but Evan turns from the professor in question to look at Regulus with the same expression every time, achingly earnest, with enough wicked amusement sparkling in his blue eyes that Regulus finds himself completely helpless to do anything except vow that yes, he did see Evan accidentally drop eighteen inches of parchment into the lake, just like he did two weeks ago, and last month, and back in February, and so on and so forth. Evan is remarkably effective at persuading other people to do things for him; he disdains physical methods of problem-solving, which only gives him more reason to be creative, and when a physical method is truly necessary...
"He didn't say he'd socialize with us," Barty points out, dropping onto the bench next to Regulus. "Regulus and his book are having a grand old time and we're interlopers, I think."
"Rules-lawyering only wins you grudging respect and enemies," Evan says airily.
"My two favorite things!" Barty leans over to see the book, which involves tossing one balancing arm around Regulus and hooking his chin over Regulus's shoulder. "A Complete Biography of Ethelred the Unready. Riveting stuff."
"The author has a loose and rather vitriolic relationship with fact." Regulus doesn't shove Barty off, the way he might have a couple of years ago, or freeze up entirely, the way he usually did in first year. It took a long time for him to recognize that the way his bones ached whenever someone touched him wasn't because he hated it, and longer still for him to actually communicate anything of the sort. He's grown accustomed to it now—the easy closeness, the affection, in some ways simple as breathing. Not that Regulus has always found breathing to be particularly simple. "You will notice that the title does not include 'accurate.'"
"Could we please not spend the next seven hours discussing authorial obligations towards historical accuracy?" Emma steals one of Evan's Bertie Bott's, investigates it closely, then makes a face and drops it back in the bag. "Or at least, if you're going to, find another compartment and leave me and Evan in peace."
"No authorial obligations if and only if no quidditch," Barty says immediately.
She looks incredibly affronted. "The World Cup is—"
"No quidditch."
"Fine. Terms accepted." Emma takes another Bertie Bott's and pops it into her mouth. "Quodpot it is."
Barty groans.
Regulus doesn't know the first thing about quodpot, and he learns over the next twenty minutes that Emma doesn't either, but she's making a very good go at pretending otherwise in order to torture Barty, who eventually resorts to a counteroffensive consisting of reading aloud passages from Regulus's book at the top of his lungs. No further fuss is made about Regulus's socializing or lack thereof, but then, Evan's occupied continuing to use sweets as projectile weapons whenever someone says something he doesn't like, so maybe he's just busy.
The conversation wanders on eventually, though, to the subjects they intend to drop next year (Divination is first on Regulus's list, no matter what Professor Shipton wants, to which Evan proclaims that the class will be boring without him and resolves to drop it as well), to Emma's plans to formally introduce her girlfriend to her parents ("They already know her," Emma mourns, "so why does it have to be such a big thing?"), to Barty's adventures in avoiding a summer internship at the Ministry (which Regulus has heard about in detail twice already, but Barty changes up the adjectives he uses to describe his father and the government every time, so it's almost like a new story), to Evan's complete and utter lack of any summer plans whatsoever (the long list of balls, soirées, and luncheons his family hosts every summer don't count, as they are apparently 'nothing special').
"I don't know," Regulus says when pressed. "I suppose I'll be at Rosier Manor rather frequently—"
"You'd better be," Evan, who is still not quite done grieving, declares. "I require entertainment."
Trust Evan to regard an enormous party as insufficiently entertaining. "And I imagine Malfoy Manor as well."
"Boo." (The Rosiers and Malfoys have been attempting to claw each other to death for the past ten years or so in pursuit of being undisputably the best and most influential socialites in the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Watching Lady Rosier and Lady Malfoy hold a 'civil conversation' is one of Bellatrix's favorite things to do at parties.)
"My cousin is married to their heir," Regulus points out, not for the first or second or eleventh time.
"Yes, and I offer my most heartfelt condolences, but there's no reason for you to be dragged down with her."
Which is unfortunately a little truer than Evan probably knows.
Regulus's actual summer plans, like Barty's, involve slithering his way out of his parents' choice of career for him. Narcissa will have undoubtedly enlisted Lucius in the cause of motivating Regulus to take the Mark as soon as he comes of age. That isn't for another year—three hundred and sixty-eight days, to be precise—but they have a harder time contacting him when he's at school, and Mother and Father would really prefer if Regulus could wrangle a Dark Mark before coming of age, just to distinguish him from those Death Eaters who weren't important enough to be Marked while their wands still had the Trace on them. Thus, when Regulus is at home, easy to reach, they'll all be trying to talk to him about it. Everyone is under the impression that Regulus will join eventually, an impression Regulus has worked very hard to maintain—but simultaneously, he has to persuade them that he will wait to enter the Dark Lord's service until he's of age, and possibly until he's done with NEWTs, if he can get away with it. The more time he can give himself to figure out another angle, the better.
He'd almost rather be dealing with Evan's summer plans. At least then, he'd only have to worry about the champagne.
The first sign of a problem is when Regulus disembarks from the train and sees Bellatrix instead of Mother or Father.
She's smiling, a wide, messy, red-lipped grin that wouldn't be particularly out of the ordinary if not for the fact that she's (presumably) waiting for Regulus on a crowded platform full of children and teenagers, instead of egging on a fight or stealing pieces of cake off Narcissa's plate or the usual circumstances in which Regulus sees Bellatrix genuinely smile.
Barty and Emma have already vanished with trunks in hand, off to find parents who tend to stay out of the maelstrom right next to the train, but Evan catches sight of Bellatrix and it's only the faint brush of his sleeve against Regulus's that shows how close Evan comes to stopping in his tracks.
Then he pushes forward, swinging his trunk carelessly as he calls, "Bellatrix, my favorite third cousin!"
Bellatrix tilts her head. "Cissa will be dreadfully displeased with you for saying that."
"She should be displeased with the mirror. I've told her, I can't be held responsible for her life choices—or rather, I actually can't remember if I've said so to her face, but she should be very well aware, and I'm sure my sister has gotten the point across. Narcissa is half Rosier. It's an absolute betrayal." Evan fully drops his trunk on the ground at that point, having managed to secure a wide berth from the people who are understandably worried about it colliding with them, and spreads his arms. "You're here to bask in my presence, I assume."
Ah. That's his angle.
Evan and Bellatrix aren't close cousins, not like Regulus and Bellatrix are (Aunt Druella shares a set of great-grandparents with Lord Rosier), but they're close enough for the Rosiers to be more than aware that Bellatrix is a Death Eater. Evan asked Regulus last summer if becoming heir meant his family would also be pushing him towards taking the Mark—Regulus, who had had an uncomfortable encounter with his bathroom sink that morning, responded that they hadn't done so yet. He added that he didn't think they would—that it was riskier to have a child in the Death Eaters when they had no spare. Perfectly logical.
Just because Evan believed Regulus doesn't mean he's not going to be concerned about Bellatrix showing up where she's not expected.
"Reggie and I have an errand to run," Bellatrix tells Evan, so casually that Regulus immediately knows it's—well, if not an outright lie, at the very least a severe understatement.
Evan wrinkles his nose. "Oh, I hate errands."
"Lucky you, then!" She grabs Regulus's arm, tight enough that his sleeve crumples under her grip. "See you at the solstice ball."
"Please don't wear black, it's a festive occasion," is Evan's response, just barely gotten out before Bellatrix Apparates away.
They land in the foyer of Lestrange Abbey, a former crumbling medieval castle that House Lestrange commandeered and renovated several centuries ago, with a very particular aesthetic in mind. The portcullis is fully functional, the battlements revered. Furnishings, whether rugs or blankets or tapestries, favor dark, rich colors, and the images in the artwork remind Regulus a little too well of memories he doesn't have. Sneering or scowling or grinning figures look down on the inhabitants from stained-glass windows that display a mixture of scenes from wizarding history and Lestrange family stories (often exaggerated), splashing ruby-red on the walls and floors for every murder or blood casting honored in glass.
It's gruesome, but less claustrophobic than Grimmauld Place can get when it's in a mood, and the castle isn't a complete monument to wizarding might—it's lived-in, too, with plush carpets, a shocking array of heirloom cutlery, and, somewhere, a portrait of Bellatrix's childhood pet snake, which used to hang in her bedroom at Ironside House before she got married.
The foyer, though, has no such signs of life—just an arched ceiling high enough for a deadly fall, a set of ancient swords mounted on the wall serving as the only real decor, an enormous fireplace that provides much of the light, and a stone floor almost as smooth as the white marble ballroom at Malfoy Manor. Despite the fireplace, it's chilly, the cold, dry air sitting still and unmoving against Regulus's skin.
He hears Bellatrix's foot tapping before he sees it, sharp clacks that echo off the stone surrounding them.
"Reggie, Reggie, Reggie," she sighs. "You're not supposed to hold out on me! What happened to blood before all else?"
"I'm... not sure what you're talking about." It's even true, although that doesn't make him feel better. Regulus can lie to Bellatrix—Regulus is actually solidly decent at lying to Bellatrix, which is more than many people can say, because she loves to pull at loose threads until they snap.
But right now, he's starting to think that genuinely not knowing what she's talking about...
Bellatrix stares him down with shadowed hawk's eyes, and it's suddenly all Regulus can do not to look away. His palms are starting to sweat. If he tries to wipe them on his robes, she'll notice, and then the conversation will take a very different turn.
After an eternity, Bellatrix clicks her tongue. "We'll find out, won't we?"
That's not helpful, and he's debating whether to say so when robes swish against the floor and Narcissa glides into the room.
Narcissa, who does not live here.
Narcissa, who is wearing fine black robes, which despite the fashionable cut and shimmering embroidery are still black, a color she hates wearing because she says it makes her look ill, a color she swore never to wear again after becoming a Malfoy.
Unless she had to attend a funeral.
"Perfect timing," she says by way of greeting. "Congratulations on completing your OWLs, Regulus."
"Thank you." It comes out flatter than Regulus would have liked, but what is she doing here? What is he doing here, and why hasn't anyone told him yet?
"Bella, they're ready," Narcissa says. "I'm not meant to stay."
They're ready for what?
If Narcissa isn't supposed to be here for it, then it's not family business.
Which means...
No. Bellatrix isn't vague about Death Eater business—at least, not in trusted company, and she believes Regulus is interested in joining. She wouldn't conceal any sort of renewed recruitment effort from him.
But you're not supposed to hold out on me—
"Of course you aren't," Bellatrix responds cheerily. "You're welcome to return for dinner, though. Reggie, just leave your trunk here, the elves will take care of it."
Regulus fervently hopes that means that the elves have some sort of way to transport his trunk home, and not that he is meant to stay the night. Lestrange Abbey is not his idea of a fantastic holiday destination. Rabastan isn't horrible, but Bellatrix, not wonderful company at the best of times, becomes utterly intolerable around Rodolphus—they're best friends, and Regulus can only handle so much completing each other's sentences about how best to make use of the entertainment they have downstairs. Lord Lestrange and her wife are the indulgent sort, which means Bellatrix and Rodolphus will get a light rebuke for discussing torture at the dinner table at most. (Perhaps they had a family discussion about whether members of the household were permitted to kidnap Muggles and keep them in the dungeons.) Although if Narcissa attends, maybe she'll be able to enforce some decorum.
He sets his trunk down on the stone and follows Bellatrix.
House Lestrange doesn't often entertain, and when they do, it tends to be outdoors, so their guests can admire the moat around their castle—which used to be full of disease-ridden water and cruelly jagged rock, and is now full of eye-catching and usually poisonous aquatic flora and fauna, none of which are meant to live in the British climate, all of which Regulus has tried and failed to avoid so much as glimpsing.
They have a banquet hall, but Regulus hasn't entered it in years—maybe not since Bellatrix and Rodolphus's wedding reception when he was ten. He'd assumed it simply wasn't in use, but Bellatrix leads him straight to broad oaken doors carved with hundreds of twisted figures, human, reptile, everything in between. There are no doorknobs or handles; the doors are simply shut, the seam between them almost invisible, almost looking like an elaborate carved sculpture, but these are definitely the doors to the banquet hall. Regulus remembers the wolf, at his eye level the last time he was here, fangs bared over the neck of a unicorn contorted into something broken. The details are perfect, down to the unicorn's tangled mane.
The doors swing open at a touch of Bellatrix's hand, revealing a massive room with multiple fireplaces, grim tapestries hung on the walls, and a high, vaulted ceiling. When Regulus was here before, the fireplaces were accompanied by lamps that threw bright gold light over the room, but either the lamps are gone or they've been darkened. The fireplaces cast shifting shadows, making the stones in the floor and the figures in the tapestries almost seem to move as they're cast into the light. Maybe they do move, red sparks from a wand flickering green, flames from a bonfire lashing out farther than they should, a water nymph reaching out to throttle a shepherd instead of caressing him.
Regulus doesn't look. He's good at that.
He can actually feel the heat from the fires in here, albeit not well; tendrils snake out and do little more than make him think about how cold the room is, colder than it has any right to be in June, even if there aren't any windows in this room to let in the sun, and just as still and heavy as it was in the foyer. Mausoleum air—trapped and stifled and hidden away, not letting anything in, not letting anything out. There used to be a banner with the Lestrange crest hanging on the far side of the room; now, dark fabric ripples down from the ceiling in a breeze Regulus can't feel. A dozen or so people, all in black, are arranged expectantly on either side of a dais and a chair that are the only pieces of furniture in the room.
And seated in the chair...
Regulus has never laid eyes on the man at the other side of the room before, obviously tall even when seated, shrouded in black robes, chalk-pale, with cheekbones as sharp as a skeleton's and black hair that seems as though it ought to be white.
He doesn't need to ask.
"Regulus Black," Voldemort intones, in a voice like scales sliding over raw silk. "You may approach."
It's an order cloaked as permission.
Regulus dressed comfortably that morning—gray robes he frequently wears for traveling, understated sleeves with no structure at the shoulder or gathering at the wrist, pockets big enough for a handful of coins and a few handkerchiefs, all he really needs on the train, especially if he uses a handkerchief as a bookmark. But now, crossing the banquet hall next to Bellatrix, surrounded by Death Eaters swathed in black, he wishes he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express in full armor—not that he has any, but his best dress robes, stiff-shouldered, full-sleeved, heavy black velvet and enough silver embroidery to weigh down the hems, would at least be better than gray and comfortable and summer-weight, with a few Knuts clacking together at every step since he got change from the witch who runs the trolley. The banquet hall is so silent, barring his and Bellatrix's footsteps, that Regulus is positive absolutely everyone can hear it. He echoes, the wall hangings doing nothing to muffle the sound, even the fires eerily quiet in their crackling, as if they're listening too.
His hands have gone from sweating to clammy, and he has the absurd feeling that people can see the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. There isn't even anyone behind him to see—the doors swing shut soundlessly, cutting off the pale light from the corridor, and Regulus saw the whole room when he and Bellatrix came in. The only people are arranged around the dais. There's nobody behind him. Just shadows, and tapestries, and Bellatrix at his side.
He doesn't wipe his hands on his robes. He doesn't look from side to side. He just raises his chin, stares at that dark satiny sheet hanging down at the other side of the room, and takes another step.
And another.
And another.
He was never supposed to see Voldemort, never supposed to let Voldemort see him— he had time, he was going to make a plan, he had three hundred and sixty-eight days to make sure this didn't happen—he's been able to change things, sometimes, depending on what they are, depending on how quickly he acts, and he'd thought he had time.
Regulus stops a safe distance away, just barely close enough to see the strange red gleam in Voldemort's eyes, like the sun setting behind stained glass of a suicide. Hopefully it looks respectful. Bellatrix pushes past him, takes up a position standing on the dais, opposite—
"How good to see you, Mr. Black," Professor Shipton says.
Voldemort smiles the same way blood wells up from a cut, slow, oozing, and Regulus yanks up an Occlumency shield before he can do anything so stupid as let his thoughts show on his face. That was his Achilles' heel, when he was little, the thing that always got him closest to shattering the fragile protection around his one perfect secret.
It is a composed, emotionless Regulus Black who nods to his Divination professor and replies, "And you, Professor."
Regulus almost drowned twice before his parents had the bathtub removed from his bathroom.
He hated that—he was fascinated by water the same way he was fascinated by the dragon skull in Father's study, and inhaling it felt right, in a way, like the obvious thing to do.
He had trouble remembering how old he was, those days, but when Mother talks about it, he's always six.
"Agatha claims," Voldemort says, calm and chilled, "that she has found me a Seer with a stronger Inner Eye than her own."
And it all clicks into place.
Regulus used to like Professor Shipton, as much as he could like anyone he was doing his best to remain utterly distant from. She's a competent teacher, and she lets them choose what type of tea they want when they read tea leaves, which was enough for him in third year. But despite his best efforts, he became her favorite student. It's why he intended to drop the class—three years of her paying attention to him are more than enough.
But dropping the class now would come much too late.
He never should've signed up for Divination. He should have taken Gobbledegook with Barty instead and stolen Evan's textbooks. It's not like Evan ever used them (or ever will).
If his Inner Eye were useful, it would have shown him how to avoid this. It would have shown him this, early enough that Regulus would have plenty of time to make sure Professor Shipton never even knew his name.
But Voldemort is watching. Regulus has to respond.
"That is a compliment indeed, although I'm not sure how deserved," he says—because if he can turn this around, make Voldemort think Professor Shipton was either wrong or exaggerating, then maybe things will turn out alright. "I have never had reason to believe that my success in her class was due to anything more than diligence."
"Modesty." Voldemort smiles again, or maybe it's not a smile at all, exposing teeth just for the sake of it. "No, she is quite certain, Regulus."
The sound of Regulus's name in his teeth makes Regulus's skin crawl—not a name Voldemort should have known, much less spoken, so familiarly that Regulus aches to dig his fingernails into that chalky face, pull until he sees red, an image he first saw in a bowl of broth—although it wasn't Voldemort being ripped to pieces then.
"In fact," Voldemort says, "your professor is willing to stake her life on it."
A chill creeps up Regulus's spine.
But he can't make himself be surprised. Not when these are the terms on which the Death Eaters have always operated.
None of them react with anything like the sort of gravity they should have—Professor Shipton is calm, confident, not a flicker of surprise or concern, and Regulus could change that in the blink of an eye, but can he?
Telling his parents he wants to focus on school is one thing.
Sending someone to their death with one lie is another.
She got him into this—she could have just kept her mouth shut, it's not like Regulus ever told her—and if he follows that line of thinking, he'll be able to talk himself into it. Lying. Swearing up and down that he isn't a Seer. Finding out what the consequences are.
He was going to drop Divination anyway.
Rarely, very rarely, Regulus truly wants water. There's always a part of him that searches it out, in every room, on every surface, but he's learned to suppress that instinct—turn away, drink from goblets without looking at them, carry handkerchiefs with him everywhere, wash his face with his eyes closed. Too many times, he's seen something he couldn't shake, whether something he wasn't supposed to know or something that haunted him the same way the Grim does.
But right now, he wants water.
And if he had it, Voldemort would instantly know the truth.
"I don't pretend to know all there is to know about the Sight," Regulus says, directly to Voldemort, as if this is a real conversation in which he gets a say. "I confess myself somewhat surprised by Professor Shipton's claim, as we have never discussed the matter."
"Identifying and mentoring young Seers is my job, Mr. Black," Professor Shipton says, not unkindly. "The gift is rare, but those who have it are drawn to using it. In my experience, those who are told they have the Sight begin to overthink their predictions, rather than trusting their intuition. One should never mar a Seer by telling them of their power too early. However, I believe you are sufficiently experienced with divination to begin using it for a true purpose."
And there it is.
Regulus's fingers itch to spill ink, swirl a goblet, things he absolutely cannot do in this company, or in any company at all.
He used to like Professor Shipton, yes, but never enough to show her what happens when he lets himself look.
There is nothing he can do. This is no wobbling, rippling vision, changeable if he dips his hand in and pushes it the right way. He is standing in the banquet hall of Lestrange Abbey, surrounded by Death Eaters, facing Voldemort, and there is no way he walks out of here without some sort of pledge, Marked or otherwise.
So Regulus looks Voldemort in the eye—this is not how he dies, this has never been how he dies, he has to cling to that—and says, "And what would that purpose be?"
Mother and Father will be pleased.
Dinner is a blur—of course Bellatrix saw fit to invite the whole family, or at least, the ones she thought would be in a celebratory mood, Mother and Father and Narcissa and Lucius and Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella and Aunt Cassiopeia and Regulus can't remember seeing anyone else, besides the Lestranges, but that doesn't mean they weren't there, just that he wasn't paying attention, because he wasn't.
Voldemort does not attend. He knows this much, because when Voldemort rose and departed from the banquet hall, vanishing behind that rippling black veil, Regulus's Mark longed to follow.
His forearm burns, the pain doubling if he turns his wrist, and Bellatrix giggles whenever he winces and says that means it's taking very strongly—hers hurt for seven hours— six hours and fifty-two minutes, Rodolphus says, to which Bellatrix asks why on earth he just happened to check the time at the exact moment that she received the Mark, and it was seven hours, and Regulus lets their bickering fade into the background and focuses on sipping from his flute of champagne just often enough that his family will think he's enjoying it.
Only Voldemort's inner circle knows why Regulus was personally recruited. He doesn't wish to make it common knowledge that he has a Seer. Professor Shipton's role is more... honorary, a reward for her bringing Regulus to Voldemort's attention—and maybe she's at dinner too, but Regulus really can't remember, and everyone keeps talking, and he keeps thinking about his arm and forgetting to turn his face away from his champagne and the bubbles distort the visions but they're there, flashing at him, urgent, and not knowing is killing him but Regulus cannot possibly have a vision at dinner surrounded by family members—worse than meals in the Great Hall—and eventually he gives up on eating and just sits there, holding the cold cut-crystal stem of his champagne flute, letting people talk at him, hoping each breath is one breath closer to this being over.
Five courses. A massive cake, each tier a different flavor, coated with dark chocolate ganache that's almost black—Evan would love it—well, the cake.
Regulus takes bites almost too large to be proper, chews dutifully so nobody will expect him to speak.
It tastes like chalk.
He's not expected to stay the night at Lestrange Abbey. Another small miracle, although it's nearly midnight by the time that he and Mother and Father Floo home anyway.
Regulus claims to be exhausted and tries not to trudge upstairs and then, finally, he can shut his bedroom door and take a breath alone.
His arm hurts.
There are Hogwarts students who desperately want to take the Dark Mark. There are new graduates who spent the last week of the term talking about joining, finally being able to do something, proving their mettle in the test that turns recruits into initiates—not that any of them know what it is—Regulus doesn't either, he doesn't need to—and drawing Voldemort's particular attention, rising to the top of the Death Eaters, becoming trusted and influential and even authoritative—not that they say all of that, but Regulus can put together the pieces of the fantasy as easily as if he'd read it in their teacups, and he never joined in those conversations, and yet...
Testing for everyone else is in a week, Bellatrix said as she was walking them to the foyer— don't miss it, Reggie!
If he's lucky, they'll assume he just got a Mark early because of Bellatrix, and they won't pay him very much attention.
His Mark still stings, as if it's trying to tear through his skin, however many hours it's been, however long ago Voldemort left, and he gives in—nobody said whether running cold water over it would help, but Bellatrix wouldn't dream of trying to lessen the burning, not with the way she was treating it like a badge of honor, and besides, water is different for Regulus than it is for other people.
To the bathroom, then.
His trunk is at the foot of his bed, his bed perfectly neat, the chair at his desk pushed all the way in, and it strikes Regulus how uninhabited it all is—dim and clean and untouched, waiting to be given a temporary purpose of some sort. His life at school has felt more real for years.
But school will end two years from now, almost to the day, and this will be what is left.
Regulus goes to his bathroom and rolls up his left sleeve and holds his forearm under the tap and turns on the water and does not close his eyes.
Immediately, the burning cools a little, as if it were nothing more than a sunburn from outdoor practical Herbology or a garden party or Evan dragging all of them to the Black Lake. The Mark is scalding red around the edges, like a brand, but perfectly smooth—if someone were to touch his arm without looking, they wouldn't even know it was there.
The water running over his arm flashes with fingers, nails, grayish, pulling and tearing, and red clouds bloom in the basin just as the jaw of the skull breaks open, the snake is ripped to shreds, and more and more hands swell forward until all Regulus can see is soaked, sickly skin.
He turns off the tap.
No blood. No ripping, tearing hands.
Just a pristine Dark Mark, fresh and raw.