Voldemort would not be stopped. Those were the words whispered in fear through the heart of London, murmured in taverns and coffeehouses, echoed in schools as children repeated the fears of their parents. The Dark Lord could not be stopped—he was capable of magic surpassing anything the wizarding world had ever known. He was no longer merely a wizard but something far more powerful, far more terrifying.
But they were wrong. Regulus Black tugged his hood up as he turned from the bustling Diagon Alley into the shadowed, twisting passages of Knockturn Alley. Voldemort was a mere wizard who could be killed. A few Horcruxes may have made him immortal, but that was merely temporary, as would his reign of terror be soon enough.
As he walked, Regulus checked for the familiar weight of his mask and wand, his fingers brushing against their edges as if in reassurance. He murmured a silent prayer to the stars, just as he always did before meeting the Death Eaters. It wasn’t practical—far from it—but it was one of the few comforts from his childhood he still allowed himself. The stars had always been his companions. He liked knowing they were the one constant he could rely on. No matter what this night might bring, they would still be there, watching.
He saw Bella and the others spilling into the White Wyvern, a pub that never bothered with IDs.
Regulus kept close to the shuttered storefronts lining the alley, avoiding the flickering gaslight pools cast by the streetlamps. As he moved, he mentally inventoried Bella’s crew: her husband and his brother, Corban Yaxley, Antonin Dolohov, and the Carrow twins.
He’d have to watch out for Yaxley—always with a sharp eye and an unhealthy mistrust of everyone around him. It made things complicated when he was trying to betray his master. The Lestranges would be easy enough, his cousin included. If this had been a few years ago, Regulus might have worried, but ever since she became infatuated with the Dark Lord, her judgment had been clouded.
He could hear the low hum of laughter and the clinking of mugs as he neared the White Wyvern. The pub’s windows were fogged over, and shadows danced inside, both inviting and ominous.
He reached the door and paused, one hand on the worn brass handle. He knew the risk of tonight’s meeting—there was a chance that once he stepped inside, there would be no going back. But the Dark Lord’s influence was growing with each passing day, and Regulus had seen enough to know that Voldemort’s thirst for power would not be satiated by anything less than dominance over the wizarding world.
With a sharp twist, he pushed the door open and entered the White Wyvern, his eyes immediately adjusting to the dim light. The group was clustered at a corner booth, their eyes glinting in the shadows as they spoke in hushed tones. Bella’s wild curls were unmistakable even from across the room, and her gaze flicked to Regulus with an unreadable expression.
“Regulus.” She called, her voice both welcoming and demanding. “You’re just in time.”
He nodded and made his way to the table where the others sat, their conversation halting as he approached. They regarded him silently—Yaxley narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Dolohov’s lips curled in a knowing smirk. The Carrow twins sat in silence, their cold eyes assessing him.
“Ah, Regulus,” Bella said with a teasing lilt. “The new recruit, coming to join us, yes?”
Regulus took a seat, his eyes carefully scanning the group. “You’ve got something for me?”
“Oh, we’ve got something for you alright,” Dolohov said, his voice low, amused. He leaned forward, his gaze sharp. “But before you go off to meet our master, we thought it’d be fitting to... have a little fun. You know, to test your resolve.”
Regulus stiffened, but kept his face neutral. He had expected this. The Death Eaters liked to test each other, to make sure no one was too weak, too hesitant. It was a game to them—a twisted, dangerous game.
“Fun?” Regulus repeated, keeping his voice steady.
“Yes, fun,” Bella purred. “We’ll see if you’ve got what it takes to truly serve the Dark Lord.”
The others exchanged knowing glances, and Regulus felt the weight of their scrutiny.
“Don’t worry,” Yaxley added, his voice laced with thinly veiled contempt. “It won’t be anything you can’t handle.”
The group stood, and Regulus followed, his stomach tight with anticipation. They led him through the winding alleyways and side streets, heading deeper into the heart of darkness. The further they went the air seemed to become thicker, choking him with every step into the possibly painful and definitely malicious unknown.
Finally, they stopped at a nondescript building tucked away in a forgotten corner. Regulus knew this place. It was where the Dark Lord held his most private meetings. His heart began to race. This was it.
“You’ve made it, Regulus,” Bella said, her voice colder now. “Time to meet your master.”
He followed her inside, stepping into the dimly lit room. In the center of the space stood a stone altar, and surrounding it were the dark figures of Death Eaters—silent, waiting.
“Now,” Bella whispered, her eyes gleaming. “Are you ready to prove your loyalty?”
Regulus stood tall, his mind a whirl, but there was no turning back now. He could feel the weight of the Dark Mark about to be branded onto his skin, and he knew that this was just the beginning. Soon, he would have the power to betray them all.
Voldemort would not be stopped. But Regulus would find a way to stop him.
The pain hit him like a lightning bolt, searing through his body, twisting his muscles and bones unnaturally. The Cruciatus Curse wasn’t just torture; it was the very essence of pain, designed to break the spirit as much as the body. Regulus gritted his teeth, refusing to give in. He’d endured worse in his life—his father’s temper, his family’s expectations—but this was different. There was too much at stake for him to falter now.
The others stood around him, watching in silent anticipation, their faces expressions of cold amusement. He felt himself slipping, the agony threatening to overwhelm his mind, but he pushed it back, clinging to the small shred of control he had left.
How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? He couldn’t tell. All that mattered was enduring, lasting longer than the others thought he would. He wouldn’t be broken.
Finally, the curse lifted, leaving him trembling but intact. His vision blurred, his body refusing to obey, he fell to the floor, conscious but barely. Bella’s voice broke through the haze of pain.
“Good, Regulus. Very good.” Her smile was dangerous. “You lasted longer than I thought.”
Regulus didn’t respond, his usual indifference slipping over him like a mask. He could feel the cold sweat on his skin, his body screaming in protest, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Yaxley gave him a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “Get him moving.”
Regulus stood on his own, unwilling to show any more signs of weakness. He followed them as they led him out of the room and through winding corridors, each step heavy with the anticipation of what was to come. He thought they were taking him to the Dark Lord. He thought this was the moment—his initiation, the final step before receiving the Dark Mark.
They arrived at the Lestrange mansion, the familiar cold, oppressive air wrapping around him as they passed through the large doors. Regulus had been here countless times before, but today felt different. The house was eerily quiet, the shadows long and foreboding.
They led him into a dimly lit room, and there, tied to a chair, was a woman—her eyes wide with terror, her hands bound behind her back. Regulus froze, his gaze flicking between her and the faces of the Death Eaters around him. He felt his mask crack for the first time in years, confusion breaking through his usual detachment.
Bella’s grin widened, almost predatory. “It’s a game, dear cousin.” She purred, her voice dripping with malice.
Yaxley’s sharp gaze flicked to Bella, a flicker of anger crossing his face. “It’s not just a game, Bella.” He growled. “It’s a test.”
Regulus didn’t respond, just continued to stare at the woman in the chair. His pulse began to quicken as the reality of the situation set in. Bella rolled her eyes, as though his hesitation was an annoyance.
“She’s a Muggle.” Bella said, her voice flat, as if the answer was obvious. “A filthy Muggle.”
The weight of her words hit him like a punch to the gut, and Regulus felt his stomach churn. They wanted him to kill her. To prove his loyalty to the cause, to Voldemort, and to them.
The world seemed to slow down around him. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to react. His mind screamed for him to turn away, to refuse, to fight back. But the cold weight of what was at stake pressed down on him, suffocating any chance of turning back.
His hesitation lasted too long.
Dolohov, ever impatient, stalked forward with a sneer on his face. He grabbed the woman by the hair, his fingers twisted cruelly in her locks. “Let’s make this more interesting, shall we?” He snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
Before Regulus could react, Dolohov shoved her toward the door. She stumbled, her eyes wide with terror, her breathing shallow as she scrambled toward freedom. Regulus had only a split second to make a decision—to act, to stop her, to prove his loyalty.
But the woman was faster. She reached the door, her hand brushing the handle, and then—
The dull thud of her body hitting the floor echoed through the room.
The sound reverberated in Regulus’s head as his heart sank into his stomach. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he couldn’t move. The woman’s lifeless form sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath her.
A slow clap came from behind him, breaking the silence. Regulus turned, his eyes meeting Bella’s, and for the first time, he saw something different in her—a look of approval, mixed with something else, something almost maternal.
“Well done, Regulus,” Bella said softly, her voice far too sweet for the situation. She stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug, catching him off guard. He froze, unsure how to react, unsure what to make of the warmth in her embrace.
No one in the Black family had ever hugged him. Not his mother, not his father. But here she was, her arms around him, as though this were a moment of familial affection.
Her grip tightened, and Regulus couldn’t help but feel like a pawn in a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing. He stiffened in her arms, but she didn’t release him, her voice soft but insistent. “Welcome to the family, cousin.”
Regulus was motionless, his mind racing. He had just killed a woman—a Muggle. He had taken a life, and not just any life, but one that had been forced upon him as part of a game. He couldn’t even process the weight of it, the depth of the darkness that had just swallowed him whole.
Dolohov stepped forward, his expression almost mocking. “And now, the prize.” His voice was cold, final.
The weight of the moment lingered in the air long after the woman’s body had fallen. Regulus felt his pulse race as the others exchanged looks—satisfied, cruel, calculating. His stomach churned with the sickening weight of what he’d just done, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his face an unreadable mask. Bella had released him from her embrace with a tight smile, as though she’d just bestowed upon him some great honor. She glanced at the others. “It’s time,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, her voice carrying a predatory edge.
Yaxley, still stern and unyielding, motioned for Regulus to follow. “Enough of the games,” he muttered, his eyes glinting with a cold intensity. “The Dark Lord is waiting.”
Regulus blinked, a sharp pang of dread lancing through his chest. So, this was it. The Dark Lord. The moment he’d been waiting for, the reason he’d endured the pain, the tests, the cruelty. Voldemort was here. This was where he would prove his loyalty, his true place within this world of darkness.
He followed without a word, his feet dragging despite the urging glances from behind. The sounds of the Lestrange mansion faded as they moved down a narrow, shadowed hallway, the air growing colder, thicker with malevolence. The silence weighed on him, pressing against his chest. He knew where they were going, but the weight of the night was almost too much to bear.
They arrived at a door at the far end of the hall—black, heavy, foreboding. Bella opened it with a quiet but deliberate motion, and Regulus was ushered inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of candles that cast long shadows across the walls. In the center of the room, seated high upon a stone throne, was Voldemort.
His pale, serpentine features gleamed in the candlelight, his red eyes gleaming with an unreadable intensity. The room felt suffocating, as if the very air around them was thick with dark magic, a presence that pressed against Regulus’s skin. It was more than fear—it was power, the raw, unrestrained force of the Dark Lord himself.
“Ah, Regulus,” Voldemort's voice echoed through the room, a slow, deliberate sound that chilled Regulus to the bone. “You’ve come far, haven’t you?”
Regulus stiffened, his heart thudding louder in his chest. The Dark Lord’s gaze swept over him, measuring, assessing. The silence stretched too long, and Regulus had to force himself not to look away.
“Yes, my lord,” he said, his voice steady, though he could hear the tremor beneath it.
Voldemort’s lips curled into a thin smile. “And you understand what it means to truly serve me, to prove your loyalty?”
Regulus hesitated, his mind replaying the woman’s bloodied body on the floor, the feeling of her life draining away in his hands. His throat tightened, but he nodded stiffly. “I do, my lord.”
Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. “Then it is time to make you truly mine, to mark you as one of my own.”
Regulus felt a chill run down his spine as the Dark Lord raised one long, bony hand. The air around him crackled with dark energy, a deep hum that resonated through his very bones. He stood motionless, his body betraying him with a quick tremor of fear, but he refused to move, refusing to show weakness in the presence of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort’s voice was a soft hiss. “The Dark Mark is a symbol of power. A mark of those who are truly loyal to me, those who understand the cause we fight for. Do you understand, Regulus?”
“Yes, my lord,” Regulus replied, the words slipping past his lips without thought.
Voldemort’s cold eyes fixed on him, and with a mere flick of his wrist, Regulus felt the burning sensation pierce his skin. The Dark Mark seared into his forearm like fire against flesh. Pain flared through him, sharp and unrelenting, as if something dark was carving itself into his soul. Regulus grit his teeth, his body stiffening, his knuckles turning white as he fought to remain upright.
He could hear the others in the room, watching, waiting, the air thick with their silent approval. But Regulus focused only on the Dark Mark burning into his skin, the promise of it—the reminder that he had crossed a line, one that would never be undone.
The pain subsided as quickly as it came, leaving only the searing heat of the mark behind. Regulus stared down at it, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he finally allowed himself to look at the others.
“Now,” Voldemort’s voice broke through the tension in the room, a cold command. “You are one of us, Regulus Black.”
Regulus looked up, meeting the Dark Lord’s gaze. The weight of what he had just done settled around him like a cloak, heavy and suffocating. The terror, the hatred, the bloodshed—it was all part of it now.
As Voldemort stood, his robes flowing like a snake’s tail, Regulus could feel the others closing in, their gazes sharp and assessing. It was a step toward something he couldn’t take back. A moment in time that would define the rest of his life.
And yet, in that fleeting moment, there was a sense of finality, of completion. This was the point of no return. Regulus was now part of the inner circle, marked for life, bound to a cause that made his stomach churn with revulsion but which he was now bound to in a way that couldn’t be undone.
The Dark Mark burned on his skin, but it was the mark on his soul that weighed him down.
