A/N: Hi folks! And we're back with a new chapter! Hope you all enjoy it. Picking right up where we left off and closing out this arc in Hogwarts. As always, I don't own Harry Potter unlike J.K.

Content Warning: Torture, Abuse, and Graphic Imagery.

The Tragedy of Harry Potter

By. Momento Virtuoso

Edited By: BoredBarrister, mymindisverycomplicated

Chapter 12

Black Blood and Cursed Minds

Bellatrix flew out of the Hospital Wing like she was shot from a cannon, maneuvering her way around the castle, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and conflicting emotions. Her cousin's words rang loudly in her head, "It was Mulciber and Avery who attacked me, but who attacked Harry?"

The witch had known it was potentially other Slytherins who were steeped in the Dark Arts and the pureblood movement, but it was impossible to know who after the Wilkes attack with no evidence left behind. The Lestrangres? Most likely. Snape? Not a chance. Parkinson? He didn't have the gall. She knew through several social circles that all the boys' parents and families were steeped waist deep into the pureblood movement, and it seemed they, themselves, were now getting their feet wet as well. She knew their leanings and their allegiances. It didn't take a genius to suspect who was capable of such brutality.

"Reg—" Bellatrix muttered under her breath, her mind racing. "He'll know—he'll know for sure which one it was. "She needed Regulus to finish the puzzle for her so she could direct her wand at whichever poor bastard it was.

Bellatrix ignored the two bickering voices on her shoulders, chiseling away at each side of her head. She wanted to rip out locks of her hair, besieged as she was by their chorused chirping, pressure building like an army battering at the gates. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as another thought flickered across her beleaguered mind. 'Could he have known?' She clenched her fists hard by her sides, her pace quickening in tandem with the beat of her heart.

Of course he could. 'He's one of them—he knew. But he must have been doing another job or something; surely they wouldn't send a kid to torture people like that,' she assured herself. Still, the nagging doubt wouldn't leave. She knew better than anyone the weight of expectation and the depths to which people became corrupted in such serpentine circles. Still, she was reluctant to believe her cousin could be complicit in such treachery without a reason.

She couldn't afford to guess or doubt, not with this. Not with Verona, and surely not with Regulus. But then, a third voice, her grandfather's, inserted itself into the debate, calm and commanding enough to cut through the storm like a sturdy ship and reiterating a lesson she had always been told to heed: "An educated guess is still a proper assumption." The voice of caution and pragmatism she had grown up idolising steeled her. Bellatrix grit her teeth, trying to suppress the thoughts and keep her focus.

Bellatrix cursed her aunt's insistence on involving Regulus. It wasn't their way of seeking advantage, cosying up to blood traitors—nor was it Regulus' duty to promote the family prestige in such a manner.

'It should have been Sirius— it should have been me.'

Bellatrix's thoughts blazed within her, a torrent of guilt, anger, and grim resolve. It was their duty as elders. Bellatrix would have stoically taken her younger relatives' place in the movement, putting on a performance for her family's safety. She could have pretended to be the muggle-hating fanatic her aunt wished her to be. Bellatrix wanted to believe she could have devoted herself to that role of venous zealotry, if it meant preserving the House of Black.

In truth, none of them cared about muggle-borns, except for her Aunt Walburga. They were wary, certainly, but not openly antagonistic. Her aunt's virulent hatred was quite the anomaly. Bellatrix knew it was foolish to believe that wizardkind could sustain itself without introduction. However, it was not a belief shared by many in her family outside of her sister Andromeda or perhaps even Sirius. The family's official stance had always been indifference—respectful distance from the muggle world, while coexisting quietly. The wizarding world still felt the quake and smelled the sulfur of the Blitz, just as the Muggles had. The power which they had harnessed in the recent decades was cosmic, according to the few news organizations capable of tracking their capabilities. The advent of nuclear power and weaponry had left everyone stunned.

"Atomic Bomb dropped over Japan, muggles and wizards claimed equal in the devastation."

The words printed on the newspapers that opened around the world in August of '45 gave the whole magical world pause. Even the frontlines of Grindelwald's campaign froze for a moment, considering the implications of such immense destructive power in the hands of muggles. The magical world lost its greatest weapon against their mundane neighbor only three months later. Grindelwald was defeated by Albus Dumbledore, who stood on a platform of co-existence and friendship.

But that wasn't the real root of the Blacks' disdain. No, it wasn't the muggle-borns or the muggles themselves which they scorned more than anything. It was blood traitors of the old creed and breed—before the term had been perverted in recent decades, those who had undermined the magical world from within.

A devotion bound the House of Black, tracing back generations upon generation in their crusade against those who sought the erosion of magic itself. It was believed in the family histories that their ancestor had sworn a blood oath to defend magic, staking his entire bloodline to the honor of bringing the many blood traitors of his time to justice for surrendering their peers over to the Witch-Finder Generals and mobs—to a fate at the base of a pyre with no recourse or ability to escape with their wands snapped. To betray another family to the machinations of another, resulting in the destruction of a magical line was the worst crime the Blacks could conceive. It also came with a steep price. To defy the oath was to surrender yourself to the speculated blood-curse. The family tree was littered with addled-minds and mysterious deaths; causes unknown for sure.

Bellatrix sought no price but her own tax of flesh, a sinister hope for a merciless end at the branch of her wand for anyone who betrayed wizard-kind, for the blood traitors who harmed her friend and cousin. She'd enact an inquisition and witch-hunt of her own machination.

Blood traitors who sought the corruption of her own blood and kin could not be allowed to survive, let alone prosper.

An image of a young smiling boy played in her head over and over like a muggle movie reel on loop. He was too young, much too innocent to be caught in the plots and plans which had seen Wilkes, Bones, Evans, Sirius, and Verona all hospitalized in some manner or another.

Bellatrix didn't want to believe Regulus was complicit, pushing the corrosive thought away from her mind. He knew what Verona meant to her. The girl was the only person who gave a damn about her for her that wasn't a blood relation. She had felt a brand sear into her flesh, beckoning her forward like a cattle prod into action at seeing her friend in her state. She felt the same brand for Sirius too, but another one of fierce conviction for Evans.

'He should have stopped it—he could have.'

She had seen Harry send both of the Lestranges scurrying like the cockroaches they were. It wasn't farflung to believe that he'd have triumphed over them in this, Snape, or even Parkinson; the last fool couldn't even hold a wand straight. Bellatrix thought of the pound of flesh she'd extract from Evans another time.

She needed to find her missing cousin first.

Regulus curled into a ball on the dormitory floor, and felt very much like a small child hiding from the world. His limbs shook still from the torture that Avery had inflicted upon him, and shadows of what was once agony sparked through his veins. His mind was flashing from the pain, like red hot pokers fresh from the flames were piercing his nerves, trailing fire up his spine, setting each and every inch alight, rising ever upwards to his brain. His eyes remained scrunched tightly shut because even the light brought him pain from its exposure—like a dark, abominable thing that could never feel its warmth without receiving a burn for daring to bring itself up towards something better than the pit it was born into. It was how his mother's love felt now after she had bargained him off to a vocation where malice was of the essence, but still, he held none in the sequestered possession of his heart; his devotion to reach out for it still despite the pain it had inflicted on his person earned its attention and scorn in one contradictory embrace.

Pulling himself together, Regulus got up on his hands and knees, the four limbs shaking like that of a newborn calf in its first moments.

Gathering his strength, the calf tried to raise itself before the wolves returned, unsteady and careful. Falling over now meant death in the wild, but to Regulus it was a surrender. They were one and the same when it came to the matter of his soul.

It was too much for the young boy, for his resolve. He wasn't strong enough now, like he wasn't strong enough then.

Flashback

Regulus stood tall, his back ramrod straight, his face the perfect image of what it meant to be a pureblood heir. His expression was impassive, meticulously crafted in a masterful blend of confidence and aloof prestige, masking the chaos below the perfect porcelain surface of his blemishless skin.

The youngest Black stood in place with several other older boys, many from within his own house at Hogwarts, all lined up in a row. A tall man with that uniformly unique look of the well-to-do patrolled in front of them like a lanista within an ancient Forum, examining the newest stock of slaves they could turn into blood-craving gladiators.

Everything about the man was stunning, mesmerizing in eerie elegance. Everything except for the unsettling pallor of his pristine skin, which was such that the ivory of his countenance looked almost cold to the air—far from the touch. His eyes were red coals, glowing as if plucked from the embers of a fire and placed directly into his skull, all malevolence and power. His mouth was a thin line, rigid and unmoving, offering not an iota of insight into his inner-dialogue. In his long-fingered, graceful hand rested a white wand made of Yew, speckled with dark spots across its body—the beginning signs of its corruption to the dark magic its partner wielded so freely.

"You have been brought to me today because you are all exceptional. You harbor many qualities that I find appealing for our movement. You possess talent. You wield power. You champion ambition. You lust knowledge. You are all pure…" the man known as Lord Voldemort swept his ruby eyes over the group, landing briefly on each of them in turn. They were all hand-picked by those within his inner-circle to be the next generation of their ambitions. They would ensure the legacy of the world that he would build with their elders.

"You wield the names of your families and all who came before you—centuries of blood, of purity… of power. Would you see their hard work snuffed out by those who come to your table begging for the scraps and more afterwards? Would you welcome the vagabond, support the mendicant, serve the vagrant and destroy all that your ancestors fought to build?" Voldemort asked with a hiss to his words, curling from his lips longer than a constrictor.

Several in the line of boys shouted "No!" in return, while others opted to just shake their heads. Regulus was of the former.

The Dark Lord nodded his approval, a picture of satisfaction. And yet… there was something unnerving beyond his extraordinary appearance, a fleeting thing that flitted on the very wisps of the wind that surrounded them. It was hard to catch, and there were moments in which he wasn't sure if it really existed, but Regulus could sense it nonetheless. At last, he had put his finger on it. The pale wizard was nothing like the man he had idolized over the past few years, eulogized and mythologized because of his mother for the last few years now. He looked strangely mortal to the Black heir—not like what the dark whispers and rumors of the frightened made him out to be.

With a practiced gesture, Lord Voldemort beckoned forth one of his followers, a figure dressed in a deep black cloak with a silver mask covering their face. The Death Eater nodded to their lord and retreated from the room momentarily before returning holding a long chain. Attached to it were a group of prisoners—men, women, even one as young as the boys themselves. They stumbled in, beaten and broken, sharing nothing but defeated looks across their faces from whatever trial they had faced before being brought forth before their new tormentors. They all were chained together to ensure that if one fell, then they would all suffer the same fate.

It was symbolically cruel to Regulus, revealing to the prisoners their fate through their chains before it came to greet them in the form of a vicious smile from a teenage boy.

"What I do not know if you possess, however," the Dark Lord paused, his eyes flashing over and pausing momentarily over each face before him.

Regulus's heart pounded, a cold dread creeping into his bones as Voldemort's gaze swept over them. He felt an icy stab into his mind as the Dark Lord brushed against his imagination like a cold hand grasping for his every memory and thought, its claw-like tendrils prodding at the very fabric of his identity.

"... is resolve …" he finished in a frosty tone.

"These brought before you are the worst of our society. No one will look for them. They shall be missed by none. They have been dredged up from the gutter; beggars reaching up to bring down our prestigious way of life and pick at our culture like vultures," Voldemort explained, waving his hand to the bound guests he had rounded up and delivered specifically for this evening. "Mudbloods and the bastard spawn of blood-traitors—they are the vermin gnawing away at the very foundation of our glorious society."

The titles he had given them were a taint even on the Dark Lord's own lips.

"Is our history, our culture, our way of life a sick and wounded animal to be picked clean by scavengers and maggots?" the Dark Lord asked his gathered acolytes. "No!" chorused out once again, this time spoken by all. Some more softly than others still.

The Death Eater holding the chain of prisoners moved the captives so that one was in front of each young initiate. Regulus found himself staring into the eyes of the youngest captive of the lot—a boy his own age, perhaps even younger, pupils wide and terrified. He couldn't even spy the slightest wisp of hair on the boy's chin.

"Then you shall prove your resolve now. Prove your worth: to your culture, to our ways of life… to me." Voldemort's words echoed in his eyes, said with a permeatingly dark air of authority that filled the room with a sense of dread and power in equal, intoxicating measure.

"For this reason, you were raised up," his voice turned chillier still, and Regulus could have sworn a shiver ran the length of his spine. "To show the world Magic's power, that her name may be proclaimed in all the earth."

The air around them seemed to shrink under the weight of those words. It grew heavy, suffocating with anticipation, and Regulus's stomach knotted. Immediately, the older boys set to task with each prisoner that was placed in front of them. Spells and curses flew, a kaleidoscopic river of violence. Some slashed. Some broke. Some burned. A few selected darker and morose curses, such as the Cruciatus, and cries of pain filled every atom around them.

Regulus held his wand out before him, an instrument of eleven inches made of cypress wood with the core of unicorn hair. Its wood was light and unblemished. The wand shook in the young Black's hand.

The Dark Lord watched on as each young neophyte took to their task under his tutelage. His eyes stopped over one, though.

'A useless, cowardly boy,' Tom thought to himself. He had taken him in because he needed to begin the conversion of the Black family to his cause. He saw the opportunity for such in Walburga's fanaticism. Either through her husband or son, he'd have the Most Noble and Most Ancient Family.

Peering into the boy's mind, Tom saw that the child had no capacity for violence. He was too kind. Lord Voldemort despised the emotion more than others. He could have tolerated or even dismissed indifference—but kindness, the Dark Lord loathed most of all.

The Dark Lord watched as the young child of fourteen years looked up towards the galley, looking for the mother who had delivered him into this nightmare like a lamb to an altar. Regulus couldn't see his mother's face in the shadows. Despite knowing his mother could see him clearly from wherever she was overlooking the room from the second-floor banisters, he didn't feel her gaze on him.

Voldemort, tired of the boy's hesitancy, flicked his wand forward, a picture of nonchalance and casual cruelty. "Imperio!" he hissed with a parseltongue drawl.

Immediately, Regulus felt the anxiety of it all leave his shoulders, washing away in the Styx of his master's will. He was no longer worried about casting any spell that would harm the prisoner in front of him, the boy who looked about his age.

'Do as… you are bid…' hissed a voice in the back of Regulus's mind. The young Slytherin raised his wand as the voice asked. 'Show me… your resolve,' the voice beckoned, insidious and suggestive, a seductive whisper promising eternity and power.

But Regulus couldn't show his resolve—not the one he wished to. He couldn't fight it. His conscience, his will, everything that made him who he was, was buried under the weight of the curse. His very being was held in the oppressive embrace of the Dark Lord. A single tear slipped down his porcelain cheek from his gray eye, a single, silent protest against the inextinguishable flame of his fate.

"Crucio," left the mind-controlled boy's lips, and the voice sounded foreign to his bewitched ears; it was brutally vindictive, with all the intention from the Dark Lord's hold upon his mind. No idyllic anxiety expelling mist saved him from what came next.

Regulus watched from behind glazed eyes—trapped within his own mind—in horror as the boy before him collapsed, writhing in the throes of agony as he tortured the boy before him over and over till they were both driven mad from the dark magic.

End of Flashback

Unable to bear it any longer, Regulus lost his stomach, spilling its bilious contents upon the floor. He had no one now, not even the boys he had been sold into service with. He doubted if they were ever there to support him to begin with. The movement had always been cutthroat, each of them encouraged to pit oneself against another for the slightest favor.

As he lay on the floor of the dormitory room, Regulus clung desperately to a single, salvatory thought. Perhaps there was a soul he could tell, if only he had the strength to rise up once more.

Bellatrix wandered the castle for hours in search of Regulus, her frustration mounting with each empty space she checked. The usual haunts of the boy had yielded nothing—he wasn't in the main area of the Common Room, nor had anyone she approached seen hide nor hair of the fourth-year. She had nearly given up—until she passed by the Second-Floor girl's lavatory on her way back to the dungeons, hoping that Regulus had returned to the Common Room after luckily avoiding her in the passageways.

She could hear tears coming from behind the closed door, echoing off the stones slightly, a private concert of sorrow. She knew the sound. They were the same tears that had echoed through Grimmauld Place, on the very night that Sirius had fled from the family home, near his sixteenth birthday.

Her sharpened ears perceived the soft comforting words of another, a hushed mumble she couldn't quite discern, clearly trying to reassure her little cousin. Bellatrix reached for the door but paused, a singular elegant hand pressed against it. Thoughts flooded her mind, debating whether she should intrude on this moment of Regulus's, particularly given the presence of that gentle tone. In the end, worry and fury won out, and curiosity got the better of her.

Pushing the door ajar by the tiniest margin, Bellatrix pressed herself against the frame in an attempt to go unnoticed as she peered around its edge. Her eyes widened at the sight before her; Regulus was being comforted by none other than the ghost who haunted the stalls of the bathroom, Moaning Myrtle.

Poking her wand from her sleeve, Bellatrix cast a silencing charm over the doorway, to prevent Regulus from hearing her and anyone walking by from stumbling in on the scene like she had.

Myrtle whispered cooing words into Regulus's ear, assurances that this too would pass and all would be right again. In truth, the ghost seemed to barely believe herself but she was making an almighty effort for the boy, who had been seeking her company of late. Several times, as if she forgot she herself was dead in the throes of Regulus's grief, Myrtle tried to run a comforting touch over his shoulder. But everytime, of course, her opaque and transparent hand shifted through him ever so slightly, like a trick of the light.

Regulus sobbed once more into himself, curling his legs into his chest as he tightly held himself together—as if letting go meant more than just feeling all his guilt and anguish over the last few weeks finally heave themselves outwards but also to disperse in the air like he was never there to begin with.

His cry struck both Bellatrix and Myrtle as one from a small abandoned bird, left behind, with no recourse on how to return home to the nest—a death sentence in the wild.

"Regulus? What are—?" Bellatrix demanded, not minding her tone at the moment. Her inquiry rippled off her loud and blunt as an explosion of anger. She stepped fully into the bathroom, a shock settling over her like a blanket as her eyes examined the painting of his figure. Regulus's usual pale skin was ashen, nearly as see through as his companion despite the solidity of his tallowy flesh. His face was beaten, and flowers of violet were blossoming underneath his skin as if someone had gone Muggle on him. Bellatrix's eyes lingered a moment longer on the scarlet staining the color of his shirt and the off-centeredness of his nose. It might not have been quite so noticeable had it not been for the normal pristine nature of the Black features, but this only served to throw everything into starker contrast still.

Regulus mistook Bellatrix's approach for a collapse of thunder and fury whirling towards him in blind, implacable wroth made manifest. His mind's eye summoned tidal waves of condemnation rolling off her dark curls and darker still eyes, and her stride seemed warlike and full of judgment, as vicious and cruel as Tantalus and every bit as dangerous as Achilles. Every single emotion seemed to flit across his senses at her sight, every one save the very concern filling her and fanning her like air stoking a fire. Shooting up to his feet, he drew his wand quickly in front of him, like a wounded animal bracing itself upon raised hackles. He panted in his place, his legs shaking, yet his feet were still as if ready to bound away at the slightest movement. Moaning Myrtle floated behind him, glaring at their intruder behind the thick, ugly glasses which had followed the bullied school-girl in death.

"Regulus?— Woah now, cousin… It's only me," Bellatrix eased slowly, holding up both her hands in a state of mock surrender, and for once in her life sought to de-escalate, her tone purposely soothing and calm. "Look at the state of you, Reg… put that stick away before you poke out your eye, too." Bellatrix's humor, despite the serious scene before her and its implications, remained unquenchable, its existence persistent and, on this occasion, meant lightly rather than the biting barbs she might ordinarily summon.

Bellatrix's eyes bounced up and down Regulus's person one more time, observing the state of fight or flight he was shifting between in the moment. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, the skin around them loose and puffy with and clearly irritated to an odd shade between pink and red. He shook still, stationary, and she could see his knees locking and unlocking above toes that twitched visibly even through the leather toe caps of his shoes. His breath, too, was ragged and hasty, and woefully irregular as though he knew not when he would next be able to draw breath. Even the tallowy fingers he had wrapped so tightly around his pointed wand shifted to dispel the sheen of sweat forming on them. She didn't want to draw her own wand to disarm him, though, despite her instinctual tendencies—doing so would only light the powder keg beneath her young cousin.

But the first action was swept from underneath the pair of Blacks.

"Leave him alone!" the apparition screamed, barreling towards Bellatrix through the air, all rage and protectiveness, and there was a vicious snarl on her teenaged face.

The ghost flew through the curly haired witch and spun around her, warping her intangible form around the living witch. It was a fruitless effort, but so was much in death.

"Oi! He is my cousin, you bespectacled specter! Leave us, Moaning Myrtle," Bellatrix hissed, waving her hand through the ghostly form of the student. She hoped the act hurt the spirit but it was impossible to tell with Myrtle's transparent features morphing in anger and hurt from her words. "Go flush yourself down your fucking toilet, why don't you?"

The two girls opened their lips to bicker further but each of their barbs were discarded from their lips at the third outburst in the room.

"Don't say that, Bella!" Regulus shouted, finally making his voice known in a harsh anger, uncommon and bitter on his ordinarily chaste lips, and the words smothered the air with heat and weight alike. "Don't say—call her that cruel jab. Her name is Myrtle Warren," he said one more time, quietly this time, steadfast and defiant, yet small all at once, like a child standing up to his bully for the first time. "She deserves our respect, Bella."

Regulus pushed himself forward in front of Bellatrix, trying to bring himself up to his full height and composure despite his state, but it wasn't to be. He looked nothing like the pureblood heir to Bellatrix's eyes. Neither was he imposing, nor intimidating like the others of his flock responsible for the madness in the castle. He appeared as a boy to her—a boy carrying all the hurt of the world, unable and unwilling to lessen his burden and reveal the truth of his pain to anyone. There was a pathetic tiredness in that act of supposed stoicism, a needless and disquieting exhaustion lingering behind dark, dilated pupils. Bellatrix's eyes flickered over to the ghost of Myrtle, who remained glaring at her over Regulus's shoulder; perhaps he had shared his sorrow after all, just not with the living, it seemed.

"Fine. Have it your way, Reggie," Bellatrix voiced condescendingly, seeking to gain back some measure of control of the situation warring inside her chest. She wanted answers, but she needed to be patient with Regulus for once, though of course she was utterly unwilling to baby him. She hadn't been that soft-hearted in many years.

Bellatrix clicked her tongue in that very particular frustration, conceding to Regulus's request as she turned her simmering ire once more to the ghostly figure floating irritatingly around the pair.

"Piss off, Warren—before I cast an exorcism on you and whatever drainage pipe you floated up from. This conversation is between me and Regulus now," Bellatrix intoned, trying her best to be civil but it was an herculean trial she couldn't overcome in her extravagant hubris and habit. The saying was true after all; old habits did indeed die hard.

Moaning Myrtle huffed in annoyance, her eyes flickering to the resigned Regulus, who only smiled and nodded at her without even an ounce of his usual subtlety and grace. With that consent gathered, the apparition seemed to do just what Bellatrix ordered earlier. She screamed in a blind fury, sailing up and around the room before she dived head first into the bathroom stall of her passing.

Now both scions of the House of Black were alone.

"Reg—what the hell happened to you? Did they do this?" Bellatrix questioned, her eyes counting every cut, bruise, and damaged cell adorning his ordinarily flawless skin. It opened a chasm before her; between her and Regulus. She attempted to close it by taking a step forward.

'Of course, he was attacked… Sirius, Verona, and now Regulus. Grandfather must have spat in the eye of someone important.'

She had read how Arcturus Black was a dissenting vote from the Hegemonist Party. That was a move which even Abraxas Malfoy wouldn't have left unanswered, regardless of the fear that he might have held for the family and her grandfather in particular. There would have been repercussions on the closest family member they could reach—of that, she had little doubt. Bellatrix had to consider that perhaps Sirius wasn't simply a victim of circumstance.

Often, she took her reputation as one to be feared for granted; the culmination of the bullies left in her wake had left few willing to raise a wand or even level a barb towards her. Sirius was protected by the appearance of his being the heir despite her inner-knowledge that he was publicly no such thing, combined with a close-knit group of friends, one of whom being the heir to another great family—and neither he nor James Potter were slouches with a wand. But Regulus had no protection to him except his surname. Who had to fear the second son? It was unclear even in most gossip circles who was deemed to be Orion's heir: Sirius the outcast, or Regulus the dutiful son. Many had assumed that Regulus had been promoted in light of Sirius's running away—others would maintain that by natural law Sirius would still inherit, albeit on condition of his return—but only Bellatrix knew for certain her Grandfather's will. The question remained: who was willing to hurt someone who was thought to be an heir like Regulus. Who would dare lift a finger against her kin? Even if the infamous wrath of Arcturus had been tempered by time, as some small groups whispered very quietly, and now possessed its limits… if anyone from their house were willing to harm a scion of Black, she'd have to unrestrain such fury for herself.

"No one—nothing happened," Regulus dismissed, taking an involuntary step back as he put more distance between himself and Bellatrix. "It doesn't matter, Bella." Regulus implored, turning half his face away from his cousin, unable to look her in the eye. He feared the words on the tip of his tongue, the confession and whether it might bring penance or absolution.

Bellatrix snorted in amusement, shaking her head slightly at his childish performance. Crossing her arms over her chest, she shook her head sternly at Regulus. If he wished to play the little boy, then perhaps she would play the mother. Merlin knew he hadn't had much of one.

"Bullshit. Like nothing happened… you look like you've picked a fight with a Hippogriff and you're none the better for it. And it does matter! You stupid child."

Bellatrix's shoulders had slowly been tensing the whole conversation since Regulus's dismissal of the ghost. Try as she might, calming herself had never been her forte.

"It's not over. Not for you. Not for me—even that mutt of a brother you have to claim. They attacked Sirius—and then you! How can you even say this is over? After they dare—" Bellatrix asked, leaving her words hanging like an axe and her gaze a swordpoint to Regulus's throat.

Regulus turned quickly to Bellatrix, his eyes wide in horror. "Sirius—?! No. No. They can't have—it was supposed to be Amelia Bones. Only Bones." Regulus shook his head fiercely, twisting fistfuls of his dark hair in his hands as if to shake his head more. His wand was forgotten in his fingers, its tip near his ear, and she could have sworn she saw strands of his hair wrapping haphazardly around it, torn loose.

"They shouldn't have… They shouldn't have… They shouldn't—" Regulus repeated over and over as if it were a prayer. He looked like a man on the edge, leaning over to inspect the dark swirling water of the sea or the patchwork craftsmanship of the concrete below before leaping.

Bellatrix cocked her head to the side, her eyes picking apart every bit of Regulus's soul before her. "You don't know… but you knew about the attacks? But you didn't know about Sirius? He was with Bones, Reg. They put him in a hospital bed too; Sirius himself said that it was Josephius Avery and Brutus Mulciber… How could you have known about one but not the other?" Bellatrix queried, not understanding the pieces slowly lining up before her. Surely, a plot instigated by the upper echelons of Slytherin wouldn't involve a fourteen-year old child, regardless of his status.

Regulus could only focus on the faces of the two boys he had helped flee from the school—away from justice for their actions, away from justice for his brother. Already he was sickened by his own hand in the events but now his blood clotted and blackened as if he was plagued. All he could think about now was Sirius lying broken in a bed—the same as Jeanne Wilkes. Regulus felt like he had been Imperiused all over again. Even in the few moments he thought he had control, the strings of his betters were still firmly mounted into his flesh, like vile fishhooks piercing and yanking his flesh this way and that at every whim.

"Regulus, how did you know about one but not the other? You knew Avery and Mulciber attacked Bones—do you know who attacked Verona?" Bellatrix bombarded the stunned boy with questions again, at last igniting the fuse on the one that she had sought him out for. She set aside for a moment her frustration and burning curiosity as to why he was battered and bruised.

Regulus turned away again, unable to answer or to meet his cousin's piercing gray gaze. He feared another attack upon his Occlumency shields, and an attack from Bellatrix would be one he wouldn't be willing to defend against. The young boy gulped momentarily, everything from the past few days, weeks, and months flashing in his head. It was too much.

"It was… I'm sorry, Bella… I didn't—" Regulus mumbled under his breath, half the words of his confession finding themselves misplaced in the space between him and Bellatrix, lost in the fissure.

Bellatrix shook her head, not able to understand the immense confession from his lips.

"Speak up, Reg. You know better than to mumble, Grandfather taught us better than that. Out with it—who attacked Verona? Avery and Mulciber apparently left the school grounds already, but maybe the third or fourth accomplice is still here. Was it either of the Lestranges? Rodolphus? Rabastan? Snivelling Severus? Or that flux Jaxian?"

Regulus turned, finally meeting Bellatrix's sharpened orbs. His spine straightened, and for the very first time since Bellatrix had entered the bathroom, he looked every bit as proud and steadfast as their noble ancestors. He knew the damning words out of his mouth would be enough to earn his spot on the Family Tree burned off in condemnation. He was a blood-traitor now—but for the moment, at least, he was still a Black.

"It was—me. I did it. No one else, Bella. I performed the attack on Jennings and Evans," Regulus admitted. Yet, his lips still trembled under the weight of his own confession. "The one you're looking for, it's me. Not either Lestrange, not Snape, nor Parkinson. I did it, Bella. I'm the one who attacked Jennings and Evans." He repeated for a second time, more clearly and calmly, and though it didn't seem possible, his shoulders straightened and relaxed ever so slightly.

Bellatrix's mouth popped open in a stunned silence, she shook her head not once or twice but thrice in denial. "No. You—couldn't have. You're not a part of this. They'd never let you—you're a kid!"

Bellatrix cackled in dismay, trying to convince herself of Regulus's innocence. She shook her head again at seeing Regulus just nod in resigned confirmation once again. She couldn't deny though that the puzzle before her was beginning to show a clearer image.

"You're not some assassin—you're not a blood traitor."

Regulus offered her no denial. The silence stung Bellatrix worse than his prior admission. She could have forgiven a misspeak, she could have ignored it even if he offered her words. But silence was too much to push away, like a bell it's toll was bellowing.

"You—they made you? They forced you, Regulus; they had to. You're my cousin, a Black. You know what that means—you know what she means to me! You wouldn't have—" Bellatrix tried to reason but no alternatives were before her.

Regulus's eyes gave her the answer she didn't want the cold resolve in them withering her attempts to reconcile his actions.

"You wouldn't have… You're a Black, Regulus! You're loyal—you wouldn't have done this!"

The breath in her chest felt stale, like the air was no good for her. It was toxic in Regulus' presence, and her throat had turned scratchy. The reality before her felt like it was being sewed onto her soul with a needle, slow and poignant and ever so putrid.

She looked for any perfections to hold against Regulus's malformation of character in the light, but she found none. In the shadows of the bathroom, even the crown of his Black family features, his gray eyes were imperfect, dull and lifeless.

"Blessed Morgana, maybe you would have…"

"At first, I didn't have a choice. They forced me! He forced me! The boy—Jeanne Wilkes! Gods, I don't even know his name!" Regulus despaired. "I didn't want to! But I had to… even when I was myself. I didn't have a choice—they gave me her name, Bella. On a piece of paper, Verona Jennings. She was targeted after her father's display in the Wizengamot weeks ago. Her and Bones."

Tears sprung from Bellatrix's eyes, the droplets staining the top of her dress and pinging off the stones of her feet. "How many more? Wilkes, Bones, Verona… surely that can't be all? How much blood is on their hands—your hands, Reg?" Bellatrix questioned, trying to under the full-scope. She needed to know how deep Regulus had tread.

Regulus shook his head. "I don't know—they were just the ones in the school. There are other lords whose heirs are being targeted all over Britain. At their employment—in their homes. Friends or family. I can't say the full scope… I'm not—I wasn't told."

Bellatrix cocked an eyebrow at his words. "Not told? Or didn't ask? How could they recruit you—force you—and not reveal the full picture afterwards as a means to break you? You said it yourself, Reg. They forced you—at first." Bellatrix quoted back.

Regulus flinched as if struck. "It was either her or me! Her or someone else! That still wasn't a choice!" Despite possessing his free will during the attack, he had been incapable of limiting the damage. Was it ever even a choice? The damage had been done.

"Wasn't a choice? You just said clearly that it was! Which is it, Regulus?! Did you or didn't you?" Bellatrix hissed, the match beneath her well and truly lit; she was beginning to boil over. Either he had attacked her friend of his own free will or he hadn't. There was no middle way.

"Bella—I—I don't—I didn't mean," Regulus tried to confess.

Bellatrix immediately snapped, believing the boy was going to deflect once more. She was through listening to more of his roundabout reasoning.

"DON'T! Don't you dare, cousin… You had a choice, and you chose your little cult over me! Over blood!" Bellatrix screamed, pointing an accusatory finger at the boy as she took a menacing pace forward. Her other hand twitched slightly for her own wand, long left alone despite his being drawn. She felt the maddening call within her to curse the welp, but she stayed her itching hand—she wouldn't brand herself like him.

Regulus saw the subtle twitch of her finger; fearing for the worst, he snapped his wand back up in fright at Bellatrix, his heart pounding a vicious rhythm like a war drum. Bellatrix's nostrils flared at the unsaid threat. She was growing ever so tired of foolish boys pointing their wand up at her. First Rabastan, then Evans, and now her little cousins.

"Going to curse me too then, itty… bitty… Lil' Reggie? Come on then… what's one more pureblood in a hospital bed, eh? What's another injured and attacked Black?" Bellatrix's words were like knives to Regulus, sharpened by her mocking, child-like tone. She licked her lips expectantly, preparing for the moment she'd need to spring into action, like a puma. She knew that she should hate thinking of him as prey, but she didn't—she almost relished it, her instincts baying for blood at the merest sign of danger. How dare he raise his wand at her? Was Verona not enough for him?

Regulus grimaced at the thought of Bellatrix lying in a hospital bed like all the others—like his brother was now. He didn't want to curse her. He didn't want to curse anything truly. However, there was a piece of him which would. He had had to for his missions, though it rankled and pulled at him like chains on an anchor—the only other reason he could summon was to protect his family. But Bellatrix was his family; it was all so confusing.

"Come on then, Reggie. You know some spells! Like, let's say—an Unforgivable—Imperio," Bellatrix clicked her tongue several times, the note cracking off her lips and echoing off the walls.

"Naughty, naughty, Lil' Reg. Wonder what you were thinking, trying to do that spell now on Evans? Wanted to turn his wand on Verona, did you? Keep your hands clean from any of the blood under your fingernails?"

Regulus's blood chilled at Bellatrix's accusation. "Wha— No! I mean—yes! I used the Imperius Curse. I had to! He was there… it was supposed to look like he had done it! I didn't—I couldn't..." He denied the end to Bellatrix and himself, unable to speak the words they both knew were so close to slipping out.

"Turn into a blood traitor."

"I didn't want to do it… I couldn't do it myself at first—so they Imperiused me. I couldn't not do it. I had to—I never wanted to…" Regulus whispered; his words were a frantic stumble.

The blood was pumping loudly through Bellatrix's slowly reddening ears, and she could only just make out the words of his meek little mumble. What did it matter, anyway? He had attacked her friend.

"Never wanted to… but you did! You turned your wand on witches and wizards! Pureblood and muggle-born! You think just because you got Imperiused it's okay?! You think because you could force someone else to carry out your plot for you—that you aren't complicit?!" Bellatrix screeched, a serrated edge filed on her words as they scraped over her rows of perfect teeth. " …Never wanted to—NEVER WANTED TO?! YOU DID EVERYTHING THEY ASKED AND MORE, YOU FILTHY BLOOD-TRAITOR!"

At some point, her wand had found its way into her hand. She didn't know when she had drawn the tool in her anger, not realizing it's placement until a low-level curse left the dipped tip. The spell hurled itself towards Regulus, closely missing his body and instead scorching the tile and shattering the stone beneath.

Flinching away from the flying debris of ceramic and dust, Regulus drew his own wand, sending a disarming jinx at Bellatrix. His eyes widened at seeing Bellatrix catch the spell with her wand before flinging it back towards him. Each had their own styles, a reflection of their grandsire's tutelage.

Regulus dove to the side, the sound of glass shattering filled his ears as the shot-back jinx barrelled through the place where he had been stood and crashed into a mirror. In a frantic breath, Regulus kicked himself into gear, scurrying his feet back underneath him. The shards of the mirror had cut his hands and knees in the effort, and droplets of blood sprinkled the bathroom floor.

Bellatrix forced an emotionless mask over her face at seeing her young cousin bleed. Her anger wavered at the sight, but she shored up her conviction by fueling its furnace with the image of a broken Verona. In a flurry of wand work, she sent several more jinxes and hexes careening for Regulus, embracing the duel that she had accidentally started.

"Bella—stop!" Regulus cried out as he deflected another volley. The spell fire scorched the stalls and blasted through the marble of the large wash basin in the center of the room. Water began to spray across the room creating a thin mist of sorts from the exposed pipes.

"Stop?! You want me to stop?! Why should I when you never did?!" Bellatrix countered, her eyes mad with rage as her arm flew this way and that in her attempts to all but dismember Regulus. "Did you stop, cousin? Did you stop before you Imperiused Evans? Did you stop yourself before or after you broke Verona—and vanished her bones?! Any time, Regulus! You could have stopped at any time! Stood against them! You could have come to me! You could have stopped at any point! Sought help and advice! But no! So here we are—Black against Black! All because you didn't seek another choice… you were forced to act, but never to choose."

Each accusation was punctuated with a curse, and in her anger they were multiplicitous and vitriolic, thankfully steered more frequently off-course by the wrath guiding her vengeful hand, but she finally stopped, her breathing coming ragged and heavy. 'Let him condemn himself even more,' she thought.

Regulus shook his head like a dog trying to snap a rabbit's neck. "No—no. Wait—I couldn't come to you now could I?! I attacked Jennings—I couldn't let them do it, so I chose to do it!" Regulus admitted, a final admission leaving his lips a mere half a second afterward. "I did it so she could be safe!"

Bellatrix possessed a fire within her capable of scorching the Earth, to torch the life from its surface she deemed unfit, and only by dint of desiring more could she stay herself from making that fire manifest.

"Safe? Safe?! You expect me to be grateful she isn't brain-dead like Wilkes?! Is she safe because of you, Regulus?! In a bed with half her bones missing? What else did you do to her, you fucked-little-magicide!" she spat.

"I mixed her mind! "Sētekio-rūnir"—a false memory. I forged a false memory in her head in case Avery, Mulciber—fucking whoever went poking around. They don't trust me… I couldn't in the past. So I had to do it this time, but I couldn't! So I did the next best thing. That's all I swear, on my magic and blood!" Regulus swore, cutting the distance and tapping her wand onto his chest.

Bellatrix waited for anything. For Regulus to drop dead, an explosion, a crack of thunder; any sign from the heavens that he was lying. When none occurred, she felt a bitterness overtake her tongue. She puckered her cheeks at the unseemingly flavor, gratitude mixed with betrayal in a sour concoction.

In a fury from the mixture infecting her, Bellatrix blasted a stall off its hinges, destroying the wood and porcelain toilet and sending a small cascade of water to mix with the blood and debris on the floor in a twisted tapestry of torment. A wretched scream of anguish, frustration, and pain escaping her throat. Lowering her wand, Bellatrix threw it across the room, afraid of what she could and would do to Regulus if she possessed it a moment longer. She wrung her hands in frustration, a new urge to fill them with Regulus' throat in her magical medium's absence.

"EVERYTHING HE TAUGHT US—have you forgotten every lesson of Grandfather's by his knee, you addled little child?! Blood, Regulus! That is what matters most in the world! The blood shared by family! The only certainty, the fire between us and the fucking dark where the dragons lurk! We don't turn on our blood! But more importantly, we don't turn on our kind!" Bellatrix said, hoping the lesson would sink this time around for Regulus from her bludgeoning it between his eyes.

"Toujours Pur, O cousin of mine! Always Pure!— honorable words till you inherit them!" Bellatrix cackled mockingly, but then her eyes sharpened into daggers, no longer finding Regulus's actions remotely amusing. "Toujours Pur!" The family motto hissed once more with the venom of a serpent, spite rolled off Bellatrix's tongue like a currency. "Those words are meant to mean something—especially to you—you were supposed to be better than your foolish brother. But it seems you idolize that blood-traitor mutt enough to betray your own family too. You're supposed to support your family, Regulus! Not thrust a knife in the back of your own kin! In me!"

Regulus could bear it no more. He was unable to stomach the accusations of betraying his blood.

"You don't understand… Why don't you understand?" Regulus asked, wondering how Bellatrix couldn't see the answer before her "I did it for family! Our family! I did for you and Sirius! For mother and father! Grandfather! For all our kin! I did it all for all of you! For a greater good! FOR ALL OF US! Don't you see!? He'll kill you all… Mother… Father… Grandfather… Sirius," Regulus' tortured vocal cords pronounced each name like he was already reciting their eulogies over marble gravestones.

"If I don't serve him, it'll be one of you he makes me torture and kill next… I couldn't—I can't stop him," Regulus said meekly, breaking down once more into a fit of tears. Animalistic sobs echoed off the walls—silencing themselves upon the doorframe where Bellatrix's silencing charm sat.

The boy's legs shook, and he collapsed to the watery floor. "I had to. I—had to. I had—to," the young boy hiccupped over his words as tears fell from his eyes; forming rivers down his cheeks and broke off into streams once more at his chin line.

"You haven't felt it—seen him—what he's like… You don't know what it's like to see death in the face," Regulus whispered.

Bellatrix remained silent, not wanting to express that she had seen death only once but it wore a different face than the person Regulus was describing. Whatever tonic frustration she held in her chest at Regulus turned to dust in the wind. It was intangible compared to the new feeling growing in her chest that the witch could not comprehend yet. Bellatrix was unsettled by the weight over her, as if it was her who failed to act rather than the small boy before her.

"You could have told me… you could have asked for help…" Bellatrix stressed once more, wishing that the boy had come to her first. "You shouldn't have done this alone—it's not your burden." Bellatrix thought of her role and Sirius's, how they failed their young cousin and brother, how Walburga had sold his soul to the devil in place of the son who had run away from the 'honor' of it.

"What's being asked of you, Regulus, is unjust; it's cruel and cowardly. No mother should burden their child with such, not willingly. Not at the price you claim is the toll," Bellatrix said slowly for them both, as if talking down a person from a roof or calming a raging dragon, which, she supposed, were both the case.

Regulus looked up at Bellatrix from the tiled floor. He had never looked younger to her. She felt a stab of guilt from behind, as if a horseman of Empathy had ridden her down and speared her through. She had tried to curse him, she had tried to harm her blood, a boy who could barely defend himself in his woes.

"I couldn't—if I have to pay this—suffer this for the family. Then whatever good that comes out of my agony is worth it. Anything is worth it," Regulus stressed.

Bellatrix shook her head, her eyes glossing over in sadness, the rage leaving them. "No, Regulus. No greater good is worth our family—not a single member. It isn't worth you," Bellatrix admitted, letting her anger go like an enormous snake uncoiling within her gut. "We are the most Ancient and Noble House of Black, Cousin. That's what's most important—that we stand together. Toujours Pur," Bellatrix stressed one more time to her young cousin.

Regulus's façade fully cracked, and the young boy threw himself into his cousin's arms. He knocked the wind out from Bellatrix, causing the witch to release a huff of air.

"I'm—sorry. I'm sorry—I'm so sorry…" Regulus repeated over and over with his tear-stained face pressed hard against his cousin.

Bellatrix, out of place and further still out of her comfort zone, not knowing what to do, did the only thing she could at that moment for a boy that was as broken as Regulus Black. She held him on that bathroom floor in silence, vowing to herself never to let those monsters harm another pureblood like they had done to Verona and Regulus.

'They'll bleed. I'll make them wish they never turned against us… blood-traitors,' she thought, preparing to extract her own toll from those who had wronged her family. She wrapped her arms tightly around Regulus, mumbling a silent vow under her breath to repay every ounce of blood spilled with two more of flesh.

So she started a list. 'Josephius Avery, Brutus Mulciber, Rabastan Lestrange.'

Sayre Journal
Chapter 16 - Curſes That Lieth in the Blood

One of my deepeſt regrets in life is that I could not protect thee, deare Niece, from the curſe of blode traitors, who inflited decay upon our ſocietie with their reprehensible wayes. If I could have burnt them roote and ſtemme from our world, I would have done ſo, for thee.

We oft deſcribe muggles as the mongrels without our doores, demons who ſeeke our downfall that they might plie our magick from us for their own purpoſe. It is all lies. Feare not the muggle, Isolt. Feare the wizard and witch, but more importantly feare the blood traitor; they are capable of the moſt immodest evils. They are not worthy of their magicke.

It is for theſe cauſes that I took meaſures 'gainſt many of them. I curst their blood, tainted their lines, even as they tainted ours with their encroaching filth.

Not all of mine plots were as grand or compelling as the submiſſion, humiliation, and torture I infliĉted upon the Pembrokes. After their Yule feaſt, I was the huſht whiſper at many a ball, all patrons fearing I might grace them with mine preſence too.

But as magickal as I am — was — even I cannot hold back a river's flowe. I choſe another course: I damned the river itſelf. I deviſed ſeveral curſes to inflict upon bloed traitors and their families. Some were ſubtle, their magic fading over generations 'til only ſquibs were born. Others were far more pernicious.

One was a maledictus curſe, which I caſt upon the Greengrass line, for daring to ſeize profit from their neighbours' ruin, claiming titles o'er the aſhes of burned estates. I crafted it to lie hid within their generation, ſtaying the birth of males and leaving but one daughter to their line. Any ſecond child conceived would inherit my gift, which ſlowly rotted the babe from within. The Greengrasses, cunning as they were, found waies to limit its effect — much to their avail.

I perfected another curſe upon a fouler claṇ of wizards, the Vengals. They bowed lowe when I visited them one eve after they committed maſſacre in an ancient blood feud. The curſe I refined for them, taking inspiration from lycanthropy, cauſed that any male born to their line would be a beaſt, an untamable wolf, clawing its way out of the womb. Within a generation, their line was decimated, and within the next, extinct.

Finally, I bound more than one family to mine will — to eaſe the burden of mine inquisitions. Moſt notable among them were the Blacks. An Ancient and Moſt Noble Houſe indeed. After ſeveral slights, I forced their heir to swear his line's loyalty to me, to magick itſelf. Knowing I was not eternal, I needed a succeſsor of ſorts, and Lord Black swore to do such.

The curſe I laid upon the Houſe of Black is perhaps greateſt among the blood curſes of my creation, capable of bringing about untimely death, the proliferation of ſquibs, and the infliction of madneſse. It is ſubtle, targeting individually, so one black sheepe slayeth not the whole flocke. I was preciſe in mine control of their houſe. I could not risk the slowe decline of noble blood, even for their offences 'gainſt mineself and thy mother.

Entire familie lines were ſcorcht in the wake of my cruſade, their genealogies burnt betwixt my fingers as they watched. And yet, in mine olde age, I ſee the world with different eyes than I did in mine youth. In my war 'gainſt the evil I saw in this world, I ſtared too long into the abyſse and became the very thing I moſt hated. Though I have never ſtruck down a wizard or witch who firſt did not raise their wand 'gainſt me or ours, how many did I doom to their graves? How many more did I deny heaven's pleaſure, miſuſing their bodies for mine own ends?

Truly, I was no better.

But thou, dear Niece — thou muſt be better. Let not the work of thine aunte goe undone — but do not loſe thy soule in its completion.

A/N: That's all in Hogwarts for now. Next chapter we're taking a trip outside of the school to hear/see the events that all this has been for. Did I write 10K of Regulus for this one scene with Bellatrix and to cement the Black Family's behavior in my AU? Yes. Was it worth it? I hope so. I'm glad you're all enjoying the fic and willing to leave long reviews about it; good and bad. I'm reading them, and taking notes. It's all a work-in-progress. Quite literally. Believe it or not, there is a method to this madness. I'm a first time writer so not everything is going to stick the landings but we're making improvements across the board in a lot of things I'd like to hope.

Fun fact: As of last chapter's publication, Harry is present and involved for 79k of the story. A little over half at the moment. Regulus is just shy of 15k as of this publication.