Chapter 2: The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

Claremont Square had been reclaimed by a normal chain of events once deserted by cloaks.

Mr Bennet of Number Twenty-three had promptly called the police after he peered out of his shutters to find the street vacated by the noisy strangers, and then an ambulance when he saw Henry Spencer strewn across their front steps – motionless.

"Cause of death?" asked the senior officer of the seven that had been called to the scene.

The greying paramedic shook his head and looked up at the officer from where he crouched by Henry Spencer.

"We don't know, look –" the paramedic turned back to the body and took great care to not touch the ashen skin as he pointed "– not a mark on him."

The officer scratched his whiskered chin with the end of his pen, waving his notepad as he shrugged, "Poison?"

"There would have been signs of poison on his tongue, which we didn't find," the paramedic pushed up off his haunches and frowned down at Henry Spencer, "As far as I'm concerned, Mister Spencer is in perfect health… apart from the fact that he's dead."

Baffled as though they were, the paramedics eventually did their job and took away the body – the sirens and lights too – and Number Twenty-Four Claremont Square slipped into an undisturbed slumber behind its black gate.

One block over, at the supposedly non-existent Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the left downstairs window was a beacon in the dark night, completely invisible to those unaware of the bewitchments that laid beyond the front gate.

Upstairs, the youngest occupant of Number Twelve rolled over, his naked torso swathed in moonlight. The downstairs light could not be farther from his dream-filled sleep. Not even the sounds of the earlier skirmish could so much as stir an eye-lid flutter from the boy. He had only returned through his fireplace from France the day before.

There was a soft POP from the corner of the room and then a strange shadow swayed over his alabaster skin. Frowning, the boy shifted once again in his sleep, but found the shadow to be endless.

"Master Regulus,"

An incredibly small leathery hand gripped his upper arm, unable to close around it.

"Please, sir, I insist that you wake…"

Visions of being chased by hordes of riderless brooms in pursuit of a soaring sticky date pudding quickly left Regulus and his eyes snapped open.

Eyes the size of tennis balls watered behind a handheld candle, floppy bat-like ears twitching at his attention.

At the sight of his House Elf, Regulus fell back into his pillows and scrubbed at his sleep-crusted eyes, "What is it, Kreacher?"

Kreacher's spindly legs, less than a foot long, bent into his re-purposed pillowcase as he shuffled his feet.

"Mistress is needing you downstairs – dressed." said Kreacher, turning and clicking his fingers.

At the bequest of Kreacher's magic, Regulus' dresser drawers shot open. All the fixings of one of Regulus' most formal robe sets arranged themselves mid-air.

Regulus swivelled his legs over the side of his bed and stood on the cold floorboards; snagging his items of clothing out of the air, "Are there people here, Kreacher?"

Kreacher's head bobbed up and down, but his large eyes turned away from the light of the candle.

"Yes, Master Regulus," said Kreacher quietly, his eyes on the door, "And they are not patient this evening."

Regulus slipped his arms into his button up shirt and snagged his trousers next, his belt already threaded through the loops.

"Well, go on, get Sirius up too," said Regulus, breathless as he hurriedly poked one leg through his trousers, "You know what he's like…"

"Kreacher is under strict instructions to only wake the youngest Black," said Kreacher, more quietly and assessing the flame of the candle, "Kreacher will see Master Regulus downstairs."

Kreacher disappeared with a POP.

Regulus gulped – one leg in his trousers and his shirt unbuttoned – and paused for longer than he usually would have had his mother requested his presence. But, as if to make up time, once he composed himself he dressed in a hurry and smoothed his hair on his way out the door.

There were still light marks on the floorboards from when his older brother had brought his bicycle back through the house; marks that led to the boy barely older than Regulus.

"Sirius?" Regulus whispered down the hallway, shaking his head and turning to leave "I have to go, mother's asked for me."

"Don't let her ask too much of you, Reg."

Regulus halted once more and turned his head, his eyes on the portrait of one of his many Great Uncles instead of his older brother.

Only Sirius and Regulus knew that the portrait concealed a sizable dent in the mahogany panelling. It was a result of Sirius barging Regulus into the wall on their toy brooms to stop Regulus going off the staircase as toy brooms stopped working if they went any further than two feet off the ground. A five-year-old Sirius took the fall down the stairs himself instead.

Regulus supposed that his older brother was a Gryffindor before either knew what it meant. Four-year-old Regulus had convinced Kreacher to re-wrap the early-opened Christmas presents before Walburga and Orion came home and thought of a quick lie to explain Sirius' bruises.

Walburga had coddled the bruised and mildly concussed Sirius, and her first-born son was back to full health by dinner.

No one had noticed the moved floor-length painting; there were so many, it was impossible to keep track of them all.

That was before Hogwarts; when red and green were just colours.

"There's no such thing – now –" Regulus tightened his silk cravat beneath his collar, his back to Sirius "–if you'll excuse me, I have to go represent the House of Black."

The words left something tangible rising up between the brothers, parting them onto different sides of the hallway.

Sirius snorted softly and crossed his arms in the moonlight.

Regulus pursed his lips and made to turn for the last time.

"The last button of your vest is undone," said Sirius, quietly, one hand on his door frame, "Look sharp, Reg."

Regulus looked down and, lo and behold, it was undone. Frowning, he deftly wove the button into the embroidered opening in the fabric, and continued on. He heard Sirius' door click closed as he reached the staircase.

He didn't remember there being so many steps. Just when he thought he was near the bottom, more seemed to pop out.

Walburga Black was pacing outside the door to the ground floor sitting room, her eyes on the family portrait opposite the troll umbrella stand. They only lifted – wide and glinting – when Regulus' shoes made contact with the floorboards of the entrance hall. Panic pulled at his mother's uncharacteristic smile, lit by the sliver of golden light leaking out from the cracked open door.

"Regulus, my dear –" her dainty hand found his shoulder, and she steered him to the sitting room door "– through here."

The door was yanked open from the inside, and cascades of black curls greeted him; Bellatrix.

He was suddenly struck by how alike his family all looked; tall, pale, and dark-haired…

Regulus thought that her smile was a little too wide considering that the sun had not risen yet. And, because of his slowly lifting haze of sleep, he did not take notice of the glint in her eyes right away.

"It's him," Bellatrix whispered, trembling with excitement, "We have been honoured with his presence here tonight, dear cousin."

"That's enough, Bellatrix." said Walburga, with quiet shrill.

Regulus desperately wanted to be in his be back in his bed, but instead felt himself thrust forward into the firelight; like a precious heirloom to be appraised. Even by the hearth, he had never felt colder.

The emerald glow of the fireplace settled oppressively over the room. The door clicked closed and the house no longer felt like his own.

The conversation – if it could be classed as such – with Sirius upstairs felt like it could have taken place years ago. It seemed, to Regulus, very strange that something of the like could carry out just metres of wood away from his blood-traitor brother. If he only knew…

A man stood like a revered gold statue amongst a motley handful of his followers.

Regulus was burdened by the unfortunate affliction of being related to some of them, but not to the man that had blood-stained eyes and waxy, bone-white skin. He had never met the man, but there was only one person he could be.

"Regulus Black," his voice was high and cold, "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Regulus took a surreptitious glance behind Voldemort to his cousin and parents. They were nodding with white lips to urge him on, their eyes widening with every second that passed.

Regulus bowed his head and used his most sub-servant tone, "My Lord."

Regulus' skin prickled in the quiet that followed his words. He became acutely aware of everyone in the room; every twitch of a hand, every shuffle of a foot, every sideways glance…

There were only three people in the room looking at him; his father, his mother, and Voldemort. He could not conjure up a more intimidating trio.

Bellatrix was gazing raptly at Voldemort while her husband looked out the window into the street.

Malfoy had his eyes low, on the fireplace, unwilling to look at his fellow Hogwarts student.

"Yes… yes, he will do well…"

Regulus felt a spark of indignity deep in his gut.

The Blacks were a proud family; rightfully so with the oldest traceable ancestry of any pureblood family in Europe. And to bow down to anyone preyed on the infamous temper of a Black; a product of their habit of marrying their cousins, if the whispers of polite society were to be believed.

"I told you so, my Lord." said Bellatrix eagerly, her eyes flashing between Voldemort and Regulus.

"You truly are a credit to my ranks, Bellatrix," said Voldemort smoothly, and upon seeing her husband's stiff posture, he also placated him with a gracious wave of his hand, "And, of course, your husband, Rodolphus."

Rodolphus nodded once, still flaming with jealously behind his shadowed, beady eyes.

"Tell him." rasped Bellatrix, her large black eyes glittering in the green firelight.

Bellatrix was simpering against the side of Voldemort's robes, unable to get closer even if she tried.

Voldemort's lips were twisted in annoyance. He stepped away, pulling his robes form beneath Bellatrix's boots and almost tripping her, and began pacing in front of the fireplace.

"Regulus Black, you have been given great recommendation to join our ranks… glowing testimonies indeed…"

Regulus couldn't decide if he were terrified or gratified.

"You are, unfortunately –"

Regulus held his breath

"– too young to take the mark,"

The prospect of the whole situation suddenly felt a lot brighter, the air lighter to breathe –

"But, an unfortunate setback has occurred this evening… a girl; Katherine Spencer, has thwarted me now twice – a girl of fifteen years of age – a girl that will be arriving at Hogwarts later today,"

Voldemort's eyes landed pointedly on Regulus. He ceased his pacing.

"You will also be arriving at Hogwarts later today, Regulus Black, and it is most opportune that this will be. I would like to offer you a chance to help me in my quest to bring stability to our world that is in chaos… to tilt the scales favourably for us all,"

Regulus had the impression that this was an offer that could not be refused.

"You will have help from young Mister Malfoy, of course…"

Voldemort held out a long, waxy arm that glowed with the tell-tale precursor of an Unbreakable Vow.

"What do you say, Regulus?"

'No' rebounded around his skull on repeat, his instincts loud and sharp. But everyone was leering expectantly. So, Regulus endeavoured to conceal his apprehensiveness as he took Voldemort's long, spidery hand.

There was a thickness to the moment, and Regulus' mind was anywhere but on the Unbreakable Vow. He nodded when he needed to and said "I will" at the right time, but he had a niggling feeling…

The glow vanished from around their hands.

Voldemort promptly dropped Regulus' hand, cast a long look at Kreacher, and slipped through the floo.

Everyone else said their goodbyes and vanished through the emerald flames of the fireplace to some other place.

Regulus' feet carried him upstairs to his bedroom. He took off his robes, laid down on his bed, and did not sleep.

At around four in the morning, Kreacher had appeared with hot chocolate and vanished just as quickly. Two hours later, the sound of Sirius using the bathroom and clanking his trunk around almost lulled Regulus off to sleep – almost. At seven, Regulus rose from his bed and dressed in clothes suitable for the muggle world before journeying downstairs to the kitchen.

Sirius and their mother were pretending the other did not exist while being tensely conscious of exactly where the other person was.

Sirius drank deeply from a cup of tea at the long galley, not looking anywhere in particular.

Walburga was in the middle of giving Kreacher his orders between letters she was writing to her circle of ladies.

When Regulus rolled up his sleeves before reading the Daily Prophet, giving Sirius a good look at his unblemished left forearm, the room seem to rise a few degrees in temperature.

"Come on, Reg," said Sirius as he quickly sunk the last few drops of his tea, "We best get a move on."

"I wish you would cut it before you go," Walburga said out of the blue, her steely gaze intent on Sirius' hair, "It is getting silly, Sirius."

The thick, swopping black locks curled against the banded collar of Sirius' burgundy shirt. It seemed to be missing the top two buttons completely, and by design.

He was always a dab hand at muggle garb. It was one of the reasons Walburga Black dreaded the first of September each year, and the need for her sons to blend in at King's Cross station. Sirius had barely experimented his first three years at Hogwarts, just wearing the trousers he usually wore under his robes, a shirt, and a jumper. On a visit to the Potter's over the past two summers, he seemed to have finally gotten into a muggle store without supervision.

Regulus would have never thought of pairing it with camel corduroy trousers and a matching suede jacket, open to display the tight crotch-fitting way the trousers clung to him without aid of the belt he still wore resolutely as a matter of proper dress. If he were capable of growing facial hair, a shocking on-trend moustache would not look out of place. His dragonhide boots would go completely unnoticed in lieu of the rest of his outfit.

At least they weren't flares, Regulus thought to himself. The gaudy things did not suit a soul, muggle or not.

Sirius paused, deathly still, and took one look at Regulus – his face twisted with mirth – before looking back to their mother.

"No, thanks."

Sirius escaped easily, but Regulus was trapped by Walburga clawing into his shoulder with her deceptively delicate hand.

She neatened his hair and cupped his cheek before sending him on his way, "My son…" she said reverently in farewell.

"I'll owl."

Regulus hoped she did not hear how hollow the words felt.

The entire walk to Kings Cross Station – and through Sirius' riveting rendition of 'I spy, with my little eye, a muggle…' – Regulus wondered how a fifteen-year-old girl was a threat to the most accomplished dark wizard this half of the century...

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! :)