A Pureblood's Guide to Dating The Brothers Black

Chapter 35: The Dark Lord

December 31st, 1977.

The Dark Lord stood before Regulus in the formal sitting room of Twelve Grimmauld Place. Maybe it was the eerily dark walls of his ancestral home, but the Dark Lord looked far more wicked than Regulus knew him to be. Or maybe it was the fact that he was slightly fuming with anger, and the nervous energy surrounding Regulus was no better.

The Dark Lord was handsome; he had a sort of the Devil may care way about him, but there was something off about him this time. He wore all-black robes with a dark suit underneath. His face was gaunt, looking far different than the last time he saw the magnificent wizard. Regulus had followed the Dark Lord for years now through news clippings and other ways. And no, he wasn't stalking the Dark Lord, but ever since he saw him before Sirius (a few years ago), he knew right then and there that he would do anything to receive the Dark Mark.

He was powerful. The magic was pulsating—throbbing off of him in waves.

And maybe that was why Regulus' entire body seemed to tingle and ignite with the anticipation of receiving his Dark Mark. This was what he had been waiting for; it was months in the making. He was of age now—young, but still of age.

The youngest Death Eater.

Gods, it sounded good.

Today, he was wearing his finest robes. A dark, velvety material made from one of the best Pureblood tailors in all of Wizarding Britain.

"Kneel before your Lord," Tom Riddle commanded, the voice like ice against his skin.

Regulus obeyed, lowering onto his knees on the nearly thousand-year-old Persian rug in their sitting room. He didn't even flinch a muscle, keeping his head low and his knee glued to the floor. He stared at the loose red and cream threads on the rug, remembering when he and Lette were younger and how they would cut the loose ends and make bracelets out of them. Yet, that innate part of him itched to look up.

When he had entered this room just minutes before, several of the older Death Eaters circled him and his parents. They bore his mark and wore intricate masks of silver and iron. The details were even more enchanting up close. Judging by their stance and height, he could make out a few of them.

Sweet Salazar, Regulus had never been more awestruck in his entire life.

He wanted this.

No, Regulus Black wanted to be one of them more than the air that he breathed. It was almost as if this opportunity was a vital part of him. He would do it—he would do it all so he could receive the highest honor of their kind.

Tom Riddle circled him like prey, robes flowing behind him like water as he studied Regulus. "Tell me..." Riddle drawled. "Have you fully prepared yourself for me? Studied the Dark Arts?"

When Regulus didn't answer, there was a sound of annoyance from somewhere in the room of masked figures.

"You may rise, boy!" Riddle commanded.

Boy. The word stuck on his tongue. He was far from a boy but wasn't about to question his Lord.

Regulus slowly stood up, meeting the Dark Lord's dark obsidian gaze. He could have sworn that he saw into his soul right then and there, where russet endless pits remained on once chocolate irises. He'd seen photos of Riddle when he went to school with his father and uncle—with the Rosiers. He was still handsome, yes, but something rather unsettling throbbed around him.

Riddle arched a brow. "Nothing?"

He swallowed. "I have my Lord. The others—we, uh, have been practicing back at school and meeting every week. Dark rituals, and I have been taught by my family the secrets of dark magic."