Chapter Text
First, a memory.
JANUARY 1973
-
“Where are we going?” He asked, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“We’re going to a party,” Bella responded, singsonging. She neatened up the front of his dress robes, grinning at him, “At my future husband’s house.”
He wanted to know more, like if anyone else his age, or at the very least anyone he knew was going to be there, and whether Mother had given permission, but Bella just told him not to be silly, and handed him a small mask. This was the sort of thing she’d usually recruit Sirius for, he thought mournfully.
“It’s going to be a masquerade ball, Reggie!” She spun around, giggling, throwing her layered dress out into the air around her. Her own mask was clutched to her chest, like she was afraid someone would take it from her. “You won’t be able to tell if you know anyone there!”
“I’m going to be so much shorter than everyone, they’re all gonna know who I am.” He grumbled, looking down at the silver mask in his hands. It was ornate, and would cover the whole face. He could also see a mass of charms writhing around on its surface if he squinted, which didn’t exactly put his mind at ease.
“I know you’ll come,” She looked at him slyly, “The Dark Lord is going to be there."
With that, she had him.
-
They apparated in together, and they spent some time chatting to a man with shoulder-length blond hair that was obviously Cissa’s boyfriend. He recognised a few other people from their hair (or ears, in one case), but it seemed like everyone had the same haircut. The crowd was shifting and anonymous, and his instinct was to cling to Bella.
“Shoo,” She whispered to him, halfway through the night, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “The adults are talking, go find some playmates Reggie!”
He wandered off to a corner, a darkened edge of the ballroom, beside a table covered in desserts and champagne flutes. What could he have in common with these people? The youngest was at most twenty. Lowering himself down, he sat cross legged beside the table, watching.
A chink of light filtered out of a door beside him as someone slipped out. His instinct was to investigate, so he tiptoed out behind them.
They passed into a corridor running parallel to the hall, which was lined with stern looking, red-haired portraits. Lestranges, his brain supplied. He hadn’t taken the time to consider whose manor this soirée was being held in. Guillaume Lestrange looked down at him with bored disdain. “Children at balls.” He muttered, lightly shaking his head.
He frowned.
“I find manors like this to be such an embarrassment. They communicate wealth and power most effectively, but… but…” The person stood in the hall, muttering to themselves, “There is a rot in these places. See, this is how muggle aristocrats conduct themselves too, squirrelling wealth away into sprawling palaces, full of empty rooms.”
“What does it say about us, us gifted creatures, that the best we can imagine for ourselves is a parody of the riches our muggle counterparts lust for?” He can’t see the figure’s face, but their high voice is marred by disgust.
Who is this muggle-lover, he wondered. The muggle ascendency was a parody of theirs, not the other way around- anyone with a decent history tutor would be sure to know that. He continued to watch the shadow, listening carefully for anything more. When their hand reached out to rub their fingers against the painting, true indignance rose in his chest, and he found himself striding out of the dark towards them.
It is the height of poor manners and breeding to show such disrespect for someone’s belongings during a visit to their house. “You shouldn’t put your hands all over the portraits like that.” He sniffed, slightly breathlessly when he reached them.
“I’m sorry?” The man , he could see it was a man now, if a very androgynous, attractive one, turned to face him. This wasn’t a question- it was a cloaked fuck off, what are you, ten? But, whatever this stranger’s feelings on the painting, or his interjection, what he was doing was wrong. Vulgar.
“I said, it’s wrong to touch your host’s belongings like that.”
The stranger’s serene composure faltered slightly, a twitch appearing in his right eye. Regulus’ eyes darted to the man’s wand hand instinctually. His fist clenched and unclenched, like he was dying to hex him, but Regulus doubted he would do anything that drastic in polite society.
In the time it took for him to look back up, the threat had passed. The stranger’s mask of tranquility had returned, fixed firmly in place.
“The Master-of-the-House has shown he has no issue with me touching his belongings , but I thank you for your concern.” He said, brusquely. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he was making a joke. He promptly turned his back to him in a way that was explicitly disrespectful.
Regulus felt his eye twitch- what did that even mean? He harrumphed and marched back to the ballroom to tell Bella what had happened. He didn’t connect the nasty stinging hex he suffered in the dining hall later on with the stranger for a very long time. Longer still to realise he’d corrected Lord Voldemort on his conduct.