Chapter 57: Waiting for Your Downfall
Regulus studied the fervour in Bellatrix's eyes and felt absolutely nothing.
For someone like Bellatrix, family affection meant very little. Only shared aims and shared interests could keep a bond intact, and her interest had a single name.
The Dark Lord.
Regulus let his expression soften into the right sort of obedience.
"My cousin is right," he said. "I will work hard to improve myself and live up to the expectations of the family and the Dark Lord."
Praise, but measured. Agreement, but not fawning. Just enough to satisfy her hunger without feeding it to excess.
Bellatrix laughed, delighted. "I knew you were the sensible one. You are worlds better than that idiot Sirius."
Her grip tightened on his arm, possessive and proud.
"When you are a bit older, we will serve the Dark Lord together and show everyone the power of Black and Lestrange."
Regulus traded a few more pleasantries with Bellatrix and Rodolphus, then took the first clean opening to slip away.
He could feel the attention shifting as he moved. His display at Hogwarts, coupled with the Black name, made him a prize worth courting at a gathering like this. Tonight, there was something else layered on top of that.
The Dark Lord's notice.
Some eyes held genuine admiration. Others calculated, weighing him like a resource. A few watched with hostility tucked behind polite smiles.
All of it was expected.
"Regulus."
Lucius's voice came from behind him.
Regulus turned. "Lucius."
"A private word?" Lucius gestured toward the west side of the hall and began to walk, unhurried, toward a terrace door.
Regulus followed. Narcissa appeared beside Lucius at some point, quiet and composed, as though she were there to witness rather than participate.
The terrace air was cold. Wind worried at the hem of Narcissa's white robes, and beyond the balustrade the gardens lay still under moonlight, trimmed into silence.
Lucius leaned against the railing and swirled the wine in his glass with idle elegance. His eyes flicked toward the main hall before he spoke, slow and deliberate.
"The champagne tonight is excellent. A vintage imported from France. My father had it hunted down."
Regulus did not respond. He simply waited.
Lucius seemed perfectly content with the silence.
"Of course," Lucius went on, "even the finest thing depends on who consumes it. Some people do not deserve it, and forcing their way in only ruins what is good."
His gaze settled on Regulus. "Would you agree?"
Regulus answered without rising to the bait, and without insulting the hand that offered it.
"Making the best use of what one has is always sensible."
Lucius chuckled, the sound soft and controlled. "Precisely."
He tilted his glass slightly, as though indicating the room itself.
"Things are unsettled. Some families are desperate for quick success. They would parade every possession they have, terrified the world might not notice which side they claim."
The implication was not subtle. A critique of blind devotion, and a probe aimed at the Blacks in the same breath.
"You should understand the current reality," Lucius continued. "The Dark Lord grows stronger. Many inside the Ministry of Magic have already declared themselves. We, the pure blood families, must choose."
"The Malfoy family's choice is clear," Regulus replied.
He lifted his eyes and continued, voice steady.
"The path is chosen by the walker. Some prefer shortcuts. Some prefer to move carefully."
Lucius watched him with a sharpened interest.
"Yes," he said. "But choices have depth."
Regulus felt the point land.
Was this the Malfoy stance, truly, or merely the shape Lucius wanted to present tonight? The sentiment matched Orion's thinking, but words were cheap at a gathering like this. A few carefully placed sentences could be nothing more than a mask designed for the right ears.
And there were always ears.
Regulus glanced back into the hall. Orion and Abraxas were speaking, encircled by several heads of house.
"The Black family's position is being demonstrated by my father," Regulus said. "Support for the Dark Lord, and the defence of pure blood glory."
"Anyone can declare a surface position," Lucius said, and shook his head.
Regulus looked at him, then at Narcissa. She was watching Regulus with calm attention.
He understood immediately. Lucius would not be discussing these matters with an eleven year old first year without a nudge, and that nudge had Narcissa's shape.
It also happened to be exactly what Regulus wanted.
Regulus let a small smile appear, then extended his hand to Lucius.
Lucius blinked, surprised for a fraction of a second, then smiled too, this time with something more genuine in it. He stepped forward and clasped Regulus's hand firmly, pumping it twice.
"You are more mature than I expected," Lucius said, admiration flickering in his eyes. "Insight like this at eleven is rare."
"You flatter me," Regulus replied, smiling back.
While he spoke, his mind drifted.
Lucius looked high spirited tonight, confident, untouchable in the glow of Malfoy influence. Regulus could not help seeing another scene layered over this one, a memory that did not belong to the present.
Malfoy Manor turned into a lair. Stone splashed with blood. A hall filled with bodies. Killing done casually, as though life were an inconvenience.
Lucius without his wand. Lucius kneeling before the Dark Lord, trying to keep his family alive by sheer obedience and luck.
Everything he held tonight, all of it, gone.
The world turned quickly. The highest peak and the deepest pit were often separated by a single misstep.
The Malfoys were worth winning, but not yet.
Abraxas still lived, and the Malfoys' true authority still sat with him. His death would be a turning point, not only for the family's internal power, but as a sign that the Dark Lord was tightening his grip and cutting away anything that did not bend easily.
Only when Lucius truly carried the weight of the Malfoy name, and felt the Dark Lord's pressure directly, would deep cooperation with the Blacks become possible.
"What are you thinking about?" Lucius asked, catching the brief distance in Regulus's eyes.
Regulus returned to himself at once. He looked to Narcissa.
"I was thinking about a wedding gift for my cousin."
Narcissa's smile opened like a white rose touched by warm air, genuine warmth rippling across her features.
"You are thoughtful," she said. Her fingertips brushed the corner of her lips, a hint of girlish shyness peeking through her poise. "But Lucius and I have not set a date with such urgency."
Lucius glanced at her, and for an instant a softer look passed through him.
Then his gaze moved between Narcissa and Regulus, and he nodded.
"It honours us that the Black family has come."
Regulus did not answer Lucius directly. His attention stayed on Narcissa, and his tone gentled.
"Of course. I have always been close with my cousin."
Lucius's fingers paused on the rim of his glass. Then he chuckled, as though he had heard exactly what he needed to hear.
Narcissa understood too, and her smile deepened.
"When the invitations are finalised," she said, "I will deliver them to the ancestral home myself."
When Regulus returned to the main hall, he found that he had become a quiet centre of attention.
Cantankerus Nott approached, leading his son. Nott wore deep black robes, a dense silver grey family crest embroidered at the collar. His eyes were sharp, carrying an ingrained authority that did not require raised voices.
He was suspected to be the author of The Pure Blood Directory, and the obsession behind that work seemed woven into his marrow.
Nott's son held himself rigidly, hostility flickering behind his gaze, though he did not dare show it openly.
Regulus remembered him. During a conflict between their houses over Quidditch, this was the boy who had questioned Regulus's place.
Cygnus Rosier arrived with his daughter. Rosier wore a gentle smile and carried himself with refined ease. Dark patterns curled across his robes in the Rosier thorn design, expensive in a way that refused to shout about it.
People came in waves.
Some truly wanted friendship. Some offered goodwill for the sake of interests and future favours. Some carried malice beneath their civility.
Regulus could tell the difference.
One wizard shook his hand with a friendly smile and a soft, careful grip, yet the malice threaded through his magic was almost comical, thick as poison that could not stay contained.
That sort of person was either foolish, or weak, or both.
A truly dangerous wizard could hide himself perfectly. He would smile to your face and make you feel safe, then place the knife where it could not miss.
Someone who could not even conceal his spite was not worth fearing. He only required notice, not worry.
Then a sharper hostility rose nearby, louder in its intent, yet harmless in its threat.
Regulus turned toward it.
Alge Travers stood not far away, champagne glass in hand, staring as though he could burn a hole through Regulus's skull. His face was livid.
Regulus met the glare without blinking. His eyes were calm, and in them sat a small, deliberate provocation.
Nearby conversations faltered. Several people followed Regulus's gaze and understood immediately. The conflict between Travers and Regulus was no secret in pure blood circles.
Cantankerus Nott gave a light cough, and his tone carried an unmistakable bias.
"The Travers boy. Why is he still standing there like that?"
A younger member of the Yaxley family sneered. "Perhaps he has not recovered from Hogwarts."
The surrounding attention fell on Alge Travers at once, mockery and amusement sharpened into something cruel.
Alge's face flushed crimson. His hand trembled around the champagne flute. He looked as though he might lunge, or shout, or do something profoundly stupid.
His father seized his arm and hauled him back before he could.
The head of the Travers family wore a dreadful expression. He gave Regulus the barest nod, tight and forced, then dragged Alge away through the crowd.
Regulus watched the retreating figure and felt a small spark of amusement.
It was not satisfaction, exactly.
More like patience.