The Hunt | Regulus Black

God-daughter

– A month earlier –

A circle of vapid opinions that poison impressionable minds.

The six of them gathered around a table, each in the large antique chairs in a study chamber shrouded in darkness, the air thick with an oppressive aura of power and malice. The room itself seems to cower beneath the weight of his presence, its walls adorned with sinister symbols and relics of dark magic.

As his closest disciples assemble before him, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of torches, there's a palpable sense of reverence and fear in the air. They bow their heads in deference to their lord, their eyes reflecting a mixture of adoration and trepidation.

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, cold and commanding, as he addresses his loyal followers with a tone of disdainful superiority. His words are laced with venom, each syllable dripping with the promise of retribution for any who dare to defy him.

As the meeting progresses, Voldemort outlines his plans for domination and conquest, his words echoing with the sinister promise of a world plunged into darkness. His followers hang on his every word, eager to prove their loyalty and earn his favour.

Yet beneath the surface, there's an undercurrent of tension and unease, as each member of the inner circle vies for Voldemort's favour, knowing that failure could mean the ultimate price. It's a dangerous game they play, one where betrayal lurks around every corner and trust is a rare and precious commodity.

"There's a prophecy" Voldemort says as he stands and begins circling the table, each step as daunting as the next.

"A prophecy my lord?" Lucius Malfoy questions.

"Snape here" Voldemort smirks as he stands behind Snape's chair, "Overheard a conversation between Dumbledore and Trelawney, the new half blood divination professor".

"And? What was this prophecy" Cassian Nott asks.

Snape turns to face Cassian, "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... borne to those who have thrice defied him, borne as the seventh month dies".

"This is about who?" Bellatrix questions.

"That's what I want you all to figure out" Voldemort smirks.

His words hang over them like a dark grey cloud brewing a storm. As they all know, that if they don't figure this out they would be killed.

Each concealing their fear, almost as if wearing a mask, hiding the storm of emotions raging beneath a facade of composure and calm. Outwardly, they all appear stoic and unaffected, their expressions carefully neutral, their movements deliberate and controlled.

Their voices may remain steady, their words measured and precise, betraying no hint of the turmoil churning within. Some forcing a smile, their lips curving upwards in an attempt to mask the tension that gnaws at their insides.

But behind the facade, their hearts beat a frantic rhythm, their breaths coming in shallow gasps as adrenaline courses through their veins. Their muscles may tremble imperceptibly, their hands clenched into fists to stave off the urge to flee.

Their minds race with a million thoughts, each one a testament to the fear that grips them - a fear of failure, of rejection, of the unknown. Yet they push these thoughts aside, burying them beneath layers of determination and resolve.

And so they each soldier on, their fear locked away behind a facade of courage, hoping against hope that no one sees the cracks in their armor, the chinks in their facade. To reveal their fear would be to expose their weakness, and in a world that values strength above all else, that is a risk they cannot afford to take.

As they all trickle out of the study, leaving Atticus and Voldemort behind. Hokey pours the pair a tumbler of whisky, as they stare at each other. A quizzical look across Atticus' faces as he takes a sip of his drink.

"You're worried" Atticus says bluntly.

"This prophecy, Atticus... It's not something I want to leave to chance" Voldemort replies.

Atticus nods as he looks down into his glass, "Theodora might be able to help".

"It's hard to trust someone who is so attached to the Black's boy" He answers.

"She's your god daughter, Tom" Atticus says as he stands up and faces the fire.

"I'm aware" Voldemort says, "She can be so free spirited... Just like her mother".

"Leave Diane out of this" Atticus spits.

"I'm just saying" Voldemort leans back in his chair, "Just keep an eye on her".

"I trust her, I raised her, I know her Tom" Atticus sits down in his chair.

Voldemort nods in agreement.

"I'll have Hokey keep an eye on her" Atticus sighs.

The pair sit in their chairs, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy in the air between them. They've just weathered a difficult conversation, one that dredged up emotions and laid bare the complexities of their relationship.

Now, as they sit in companionable silence, there's a sense of peace that settles over them, like the calm after a storm. They don't need words to communicate - their presence alone is enough to bridge the gap between them, to remind each other of the bond that has stood the test of time.

The silence is comfortable, enveloping them like a warm blanket on a cold winter's night. It's a refuge from the tumult of the world outside, a sanctuary where they can simply be themselves without the need for pretence or explanation.

Their eyes may stray to the window, where the world outside continues to spin on, oblivious to the weight of the emotions that have passed between them. But here, in this moment, time seems to stand still, allowing them to savour the simple pleasure of each other's company.

Occasionally, one of them may break the silence with a soft sigh or a gentle laugh, the sound echoing through the room like a melody. It's a reminder that despite the challenges they've faced, there's still joy to be found in the simplest of moments, in the quiet spaces between words.

"Thrice defied him, huh?" Atticus chuckles over his words.

"Can't be many" Voldemort maniacally laughs.

"There's always the Tonks', she betrayed her family" Atticus suggests.

As the Atticus' suggestion sinks in, a heavy silence descends upon the room, punctuated only by the sound of soft breaths and the faint rustle of shifting fabric. It's as if time itself has slowed to a crawl, allowing the weight of those words to settle upon the hearts of those who hear them.

In the stillness, there's a palpable sense of gravity, a realisation dawning like the first light of dawn. Emotions swirl and churn beneath the surface, each person grappling with the implications of what has been said.

Finding themselves lost in thought, their brows furrowed in contemplation as they wrestle with the weight of the truth laid bare. Glancing at each other with knowing looks, their eyes betraying a shared understanding that transcends words.

For a moment, the air feels charged with a quiet intensity, as if the very atmosphere crackles with the electricity of unspoken emotions. It's a moment of profound significance, a turning point that marks the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

"I'll tell Bellatrix" Voldemort says bluntly.