Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Regulus looked into the undisguised fanaticism in Bella's eyes and felt nothing.

With someone like Bella, familial bonds were meaningless. Only a shared goal and mutual interest could sustain a relationship.

And that goal and interest was fealty to Voldemort.

He went along with her words: "Cousin Bella is absolutely right. I'll devote myself to improving — I won't let the family or the Dark Lord down."

Just enough positive reinforcement, no more, no less — exactly what would satisfy Bella.

Sure enough, Bella's grin widened: "I knew you were the sensible one! A hundred times better than that idiot Sirius!

When you're a bit older, we'll serve the Dark Lord together — and show the world what the Blacks and the Lestranges can do!"

After a few more pleasantries with Bella and Rodolphus, Regulus slipped away.

He could feel plenty of eyes resting on him. His performance at Hogwarts, coupled with the Black family's weight, had made him one of the evening's most sought-after prospects.

Now add Voldemort's attention to that. Some gazes carried genuine admiration. Others were calculating appraisals. A few held veiled hostility. None of it surprised him.

"Regulus." Lucius's voice came from behind.

Regulus turned. "Lucius."

"A private word?" Lucius tilted his head toward the west terrace of the main hall.

Regulus nodded and followed. At some point Narcissa had materialized at Lucius's side, standing as witness to the conversation.

The terrace breeze carried a chill, lifting the hem of Narcissa's white robe. In the moonlight the gardens lay hushed.

Lucius leaned against the railing, idly turning his glass between his fingers.

He glanced back toward the hall before drawling in the signature Malfoy cadence: "The champagne tonight is quite good. A French vintage — Father had it specially sourced."

Regulus stood opposite him, offering nothing. Waiting for the substance.

Lucius didn't mind the silence. "Then again, even the finest things need the right audience. Some people don't deserve them; forcing themselves into the picture only wastes what's good."

His eyes grazed Regulus's face. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Putting things to their best use — that's the principle." Regulus's reply was level: neither taking the bait nor rebuffing the gesture.

"Precisely." Lucius let out a low laugh, pace still unhurried.

"Unsettled times. There are always those who rush to show their hand, desperate for the world to know where they stand."

The implication was transparent — a sideways jab at families like the Lestranges who had gone all-in, and a simultaneous probe of the Blacks' bottom line.

"You must see the state of play. The Dark Lord's power is growing; plenty at the Ministry have already declared. We pure-blood families have a choice to make."

"The Malfoy family's choice is already plain enough." Regulus responded.

He looked up and continued: "Everyone picks their own road. Some like shortcuts; others prefer going steady."

"True — but choices come in degrees of depth." Lucius met his eyes.

Something clicked for Regulus. Was this the Malfoy family's actual position?

It sounded consistent with Orion's own thinking, but the details remained unverifiable. Words alone wouldn't suffice.

Still, the conversation could go no further. After all, they still had to earn their keep under Voldemort's watch.

Regulus glanced back at the main hall. Orion and Abraxas were deep in discussion, a cluster of family heads gathered around them.

"The Black family's position — Father is making it clear right now. Support the Dark Lord. Safeguard pure-blood glory."

"Surface positions — anyone can mouth those." Lucius shook his head.

Regulus looked at Lucius, then shifted his gaze to Narcissa. She was already watching him.

He understood: Lucius seeking out an eleven-year-old first-year for this kind of talk could only be Narcissa's doing. But it was exactly what he wanted.

Regulus suddenly broke into a smile and extended his hand to Lucius.

Lucius blinked — then smiled back, with noticeably more sincerity this time. He stepped forward, gripping Regulus's hand firmly and shaking it.

"You're more mature than I imagined." Lucius regarded him, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. "At eleven, showing this kind of insight — that's rare."

"You're too kind." Regulus answered with a smile.

He was smiling, but his mind had already drifted.

He looked at Lucius standing before him in his prime and couldn't help picturing a scene twenty-odd years hence.

Malfoy Manor reduced to Voldemort's stronghold. Blood on the stone walls. The great hall heaped with Death Eater corpses. Wanton slaughter everywhere.

Lucius stripped of his wand, kneeling abjectly before Voldemort, groveling to keep his family alive.

Everything he possessed now — none of it would remain his.

Fate is fickle. Between the pinnacle of power and the abyss, there often lies a single step.

The Malfoys could be cultivated — but not yet.

Abraxas was still alive, and the Malfoy family's decision-making power was still in his hands. Abraxas's death would be a watershed.

It would mean not only a Malfoy succession but potentially a signal that Voldemort was purging dissenters and consolidating control.

Only once Lucius truly held the reins and felt Voldemort's oppression firsthand would genuine, deep cooperation with the Blacks become possible.

"Lost in thought?" Lucius noticed his distraction.

Regulus snapped back and turned to Narcissa. "I was thinking about what to send as a wedding gift for my cousin."

Narcissa's smile bloomed like a white rose kissed by a warm breeze — a few degrees of genuine warmth opening at once.

"How thoughtful of you." She pressed a fingertip lightly against the corner of her lips, the smile touched with girlish shyness yet retaining every ounce of aristocratic poise.

"Lucius and I haven't set the date quite so soon."

Lucius glanced at her sideways, a soft warmth passing through his eyes.

Then his gaze circled between Narcissa and Regulus, and he nodded to the younger wizard: "Having the Blacks here does us credit."

Regulus didn't look at him — only at Narcissa, a degree gentler in tone: "Of course. Cousin and I have always been close."

Lucius's fingers paused on the glass for a beat — then he gave a quiet chuckle.

Narcissa caught the meaning and let her smile deepen: "When the invitations are ready, I'll deliver yours to the old house personally."

......

Back in the main hall, Regulus had effectively become the center of the social orbit.

Cantankerous Nott approached with his son in tow. The elder Nott wore a deep-black robe, a fine silver-grey crest at the collar, eyes sharp, authority innate.

He was the reputed author of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight" registry — blood purity an obsession etched to the marrow.

Young Nott bore Regulus a covert hostility, though he dared not show it.

Regulus remembered him. During the Quidditch corridor standoff, this was the one who'd questioned his place.

Cygnus Rosier arrived with his daughter, smile gentle, manner elegant. The subtle pattern on his robe was the Rosier family's signature thorn motif — understated opulence.

Among these people, some sought friendship sincerely. Others extended gestures purely for family advantage. A few carried concealed malice.

Regulus sensed it all with crystalline clarity. One wizard, smile warm, handshake gentle —

yet Regulus could feel the ill intent threaded through his magic, practically leaking, like poison that refused to stay bottled.

That sort of person was either foolish or useless.

A truly skilled wizard could mask their emotions and intentions flawlessly — smiling to your face while readying the knife behind your back.

Someone who couldn't even contain their hostility would never amount to anything. Worth noting; not worth worrying about.

Just then, a more conspicuous wave of malice hit him — yet entirely unthreatening.

Regulus traced the sensation. Alger Travers stood a short distance away, champagne in hand, face ashen, glaring at him.

Regulus met his stare — gaze calm, even carrying the faintest hint of provocation.

Several of the people he'd been speaking with noticed the shift, followed his line of sight, and grasped the situation in an instant. The feud between Travers and Regulus was an open secret in pure-blood circles.

The elder Nott gave a discreet cough, tone clearly taking sides: "That Travers boy — what is he doing standing there like that?"

A Yaxley junior snorted. "Probably still hasn't recovered from what happened at Hogwarts."

Every eye in the vicinity swung to Alger Travers — amused, mocking.

Alger's face flushed scarlet. The hand holding his glass trembled. He wanted to erupt, but his father gripped his arm just in time.

The elder Travers wore a pained expression. He managed a stiff nod in Regulus's direction, then forcibly marched Alger away.

Watching Alger's humiliated retreat, Regulus found the whole thing mildly amusing.