Chapter 29: A Letter from Bella
The clamor of the Slytherin welcome tournament had not yet fully subsided. Students were drifting away in small groups, discussing the brief but decisive duel in hushed tones.
Regulus had just stepped clear of the central floor, heading for his dormitory, when a voice stopped him.
"Regulus."
Narcissa Black stood beside the archway leading to the girls' dormitories. Unlike her usual retinue of upper-year girls, she was alone — clearly waiting for him on purpose.
A few upper-year boys who had been about to approach the freshly crowned Head of First-Years saw the situation and tactfully hung back.
"Cousin Narcissa." Regulus halted and walked toward her. He was not surprised she would seek him out — only that it had come sooner than expected.
Narcissa said nothing. Her eyes motioned for him to follow.
They walked single file into a deserted stone corridor outside the common room. No portraits here — only cold stone walls and pale green torches burning at intervals.
Once she was certain they were alone, Narcissa turned. Her expression was a blend of concern and gravity.
She drew from her sleeve a black wax-sealed envelope. The seal bore the imprint of a leering skull with a serpent issuing from its mouth. An emblem not yet public, but already an open secret in certain circles.
"A letter from Bella — for you." Narcissa held it out, voice barely above a whisper. "She specifically instructed me to deliver it only after you were confirmed as Head."
Regulus accepted the envelope. The black paper was cool to the touch, carrying a faint, unsettling residue of magic.
He did not open it immediately. He looked at Narcissa.
She seemed to read his unasked question and sighed softly. "The winds outside are growing fiercer, Regulus."
Fatigue threaded through her voice. "The great gentleman — his influence is spreading fast. It is no longer secret meetings and petty skirmishes.
Inside the Ministry, inside the Wizengamot, even on the Hogwarts Board of Governors — he has his people, or people who fear him.
Some shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade have quietly changed hands. A couple of newsletter editors who spoke out of turn have 'retired for health reasons.'
And two officials in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who publicly questioned the misuse of the Statute of Secrecy were found last month in their homes, hospitalized at St. Mungo's after 'accidentally' triggering dangerous experimental magic."
She looked at Regulus. "He is shrewd and charismatic. Through promises, threats, and very real demonstrations of overwhelming power, he has woven an enormous web.
Among the pure-blood families, the Lestranges are already at the core. The Notts, the Carrows, the Yaxleys — they have shown their colors openly. Many more are watching. Weighing. The Malfoys..."
She drew a deep breath. "...the Malfoys are among them."
Regulus understood her meaning.
Narcissa Black might not fully endorse Voldemort's mad agenda of conquest and purging. But she was about to marry into the Malfoy family. Her position would be bound to Lucius Malfoy's choice — and to the Malfoy family's as a whole.
She had no choice.
This aligned broadly with the history he knew, only now the picture of the run-up to Voldemort's first rise was painted in sharper detail.
"Thank you for telling me, Cousin." Regulus said it calmly and slid the letter into an inner pocket of his robes.
Narcissa studied his unruffled face, seemingly hoping to find even a flicker of alarm or fear. She did not.
In the end she murmured: "Be careful of Bella. She is not the person she used to be. And be careful of what's in the letter. You are young, but that doesn't mean you can stay on the sidelines forever."
With a slight nod, she turned and walked briskly away down the stone corridor, the hem of her robe whispering against the flagstones.
The dormitory was empty when he returned. Avery, Hermes, and Alex had not come back yet.
Regulus drew his curtains, cast a Silencing Charm, and only then took out the black envelope.
He broke the seal. A scent drifted out — a blend of expensive perfume and, deeper beneath it, something acrid and scorched.
The paper was heavy parchment. The handwriting was wild, almost illegible, the strokes so forceful they nearly punctured the page — betraying the writer's elevated, unstable emotions.
"To my dear cousin Regulus:
I hear you have made your mark at Hogwarts and been crowned Head of First-Years in Slytherin. I am deeply gratified.
The noble blood of the House of Black runs in your veins, and you have not disappointed me — nor the family — nor the great gentleman!
This is a glorious age, Regulus!
The old order is crumbling! The decrepit Ministry is run by cowards and Mudblood sympathizers, desecrating the rights and the glory that are ours by birth!
But dawn is at hand!
A true sovereign has risen! He shall lead us in cleansing this filthy world and rebuilding an eternal order for pure-blood wizards!
Power! Glory! Dominion! These are what we deserve!
You have shown talent, but that is far from enough! You must grow faster — become stronger, more resolute!
Slytherin's little games are only the beginning. The real battlefield lies beyond the castle!
The great gentleman needs loyal and powerful followers. The House of Black must claim the most illustrious seat in this new hall!
Do not be beguiled by weak sentiment! Do not be shackled by false morality!
Power is truth, and truth belongs only to the victor!
I have reported your situation to the great gentleman. He is most interested. A Black so young yet so demonstrably gifted — he sees potential.
Remember this attention, Regulus. It is the highest honor. Let it be the engine that drives you forward. Do not waste it!
Stand ready, Cousin. When the summons comes, prove yourself worthy of the Black name — worthy of serving a cause greater than yourself!
— Your loyal and expectant cousin,
Bellatrix Lestrange"
Regulus set the letter on his knee, face expressionless.
The fanaticism, the obsession, the craving for power through violence — they spilled from every line of Bella's writing, stronger even than he had anticipated.
This was no mere follower's zeal. It was pathological devotion and worship.
The coercion in the letter was equally plain. Bella — or rather Voldemort behind her — had not written off an eleven-year-old.
The mention that Voldemort had noticed him and was "most interested" — that was anything but good news.
It typically meant close surveillance and ruthless testing — and, should expectations not be met, possible destruction.
He had assumed there would be at least a few years of buffer to build strength in relative calm, to feel out his own path.
Now it seemed time was tighter than he had imagined. Voldemort's web was contracting, and the House of Black was already tangled deep within it.
A cold, sharp irritation — alien to his usually tranquil inner world — surged through him.
When Regulus stepped out of the dormitory, the common room was still busy.
He spotted Alger Travers at once — the fifth-year who had been publicly humiliated on opening night — surrounded by a knot of pure-blood cronies.
They had claimed the chairs around the fireplace and were talking in deliberately audible tones, eyes flicking now and again toward the dormitory corridor.
Seeing Regulus emerge, Travers pitched his voice a notch higher.
"...So as I was saying, talent or no talent, he's still a baby who needs minding. Head of First-Years — what does that even mean?
Real Slytherins think long-term, think about actual influence. A bit of cleverness and a splash of luck, a pat on the head, and he actually thinks he's somebody?"
His lackeys supplied a scattering of sycophantic laughter.
Several upperclassmen who had lingered — including some neutrals — looked over, entertainment on their faces.
They knew the history between Travers and Regulus, and they understood that Travers was jumping in now to cut the new Head down at the peak of his momentum.
This sort of theater was nothing new in Slytherin.
Avery and Alex sat on a sofa nearby. Avery frowned, looking from Travers to Regulus.
Alex was plainly uneasy.
Even Hermes, who had been lurking in a corner, shifted toward Regulus, stopping about five meters away to stand and watch in silence.
"Travers," called a sixth-year girl — the same one who had praised Regulus earlier. "Enough. He's only a first-year."
"First-year?" Alger Travers scoffed. He finally turned to look squarely at Regulus, face draped with undisguised malice and the cockiness of a man holding all the cards.
"A first-year who already knows how to use backstreet tricks against his elders? A first-year who has certain people swooning and orbiting?
I'm only stating facts. When you're young, you should know your place. Learn to respect your seniors. Not strut around on a scrap of talent as though you own the world.
Does anyone truly believe the First-Year Head title is some great achievement?"