The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix - Part One

Nexus Anima Mea

Note: This chapter's a little intense. I edited quite a bit from it, and feel what remains of the scene is important to Regulus's story.

Regulus Black did not flinch. He did not need to be told to keep his eyes open, or to uncover his face. He did not look disgusted, nor did he pull away when Voldemort leaned close enough to his face that he could smell the putrid breath that escaped the Dark Lord's nose. Rather, he sat, stoic and staring at the young man lain prone before him, his eyes glazed like all of the other Death Eaters around the table.

Alabastar Jackson.

Fenrir Greyback grinned from his seat, his fingers steepled, eyes wickedly filled with entertainment.

Alabastar was gasping for air, his chest so constricted by Voldemort's huge serpent, which wound and wound and wound her way around the boy, her dark brownish-green scales standing out against his pale white skin.

"Pureblood. It is a terrible thing to spill it... but this blood traitor... a son of one of my very own followers... has turned from the true ways. He looks upon Muggles with... mercy." The last word fell from Voldemort's mouth as though it were dirty. He walked patiently behind the Death Eaters, his hands sliding over his wand as he walked, the robes at his ankles swishing with each step. His voice was colder than the air in the room, which was incredibly icy considering outdoors it was summer.

Voldemort leaned close as he came up behind Regulus, his palms adorning the chair back upon which the boy sat. "But spill it I must when a traitor turns their back on the good and righteous cause of Lord Voldemort."

Regulus stayed still. Externally, the whisper in his ear, deadly cold and threatening, did not affect him in the slightest. His mind did not let the words in past the wall he had built up in his mind. Voldemort was not going to have the satisfaction of a reaction from Regulus Black, he decided, and he stared at Alabastar as though the boy was nobody to him, as though he did not know him, or else knew but did not care, even as Alabastar struggled from the coils of the snake. His face was badly bruised, his limbs scarred and torn where Greyback had teased and snapped, and his frame so slight, the only word that Regulus could assign him was "wasted".

"But the pureblood shall be used for a good cause, the spillage not waste..." Voldemort breathed, leaving Regulus's chair.

Regulus watched Voldemort move, snakelike himself - and he tried desperately to think up some plan, some idea to cause a distraction, to get Alabastar out of there before Voldemort could strike... but also to keep his mind closed to Voldemort's constant, sinister prodding, a continuous attack that he could feel inside of his mind, ever scratching on the outside of his self-imposed walls. It was like the Dark Lord's fingernails were scraping against the barriers that Regulus had built, trying to find their weak spot, and right at that moment, the weak spot was there, laying right in front of them, making Voldemort's proddings all the more persistent. Regulus tried not to look at Alabaster, who gazed at him, singling him out from the others, with occasional glances in the direction of Severus Snape, the only other face at the table that had ever been friendly with him.

"Tonight, my friends, you will witness something that I have never shown to any... Something incredible..." Voldemort's words were but a hiss of breath. He leaned close to Alabastar's face and the boy's eyes twitched and bulged, the snake wrapping her way around his neck. "You will die in the process, but because your blood is pure, I will give you honor in your death, boy. Your soul shall become mine and through your death, I will live forever." He ran his fingers over his other hand, greedy.

Regulus stared at Voldemort, the words catching his interest.

"Nagini," he whispered, and the snake closed tighter 'round Alabastar's neck as Voldemort motioned with his fingers... tighter... tighter... Alabastar's pale white face had turned a soft shade of lavender-blue, like the colour of a flower that Regulus had once given to Maryrose...

He closed his eyes, he could not think about Maryrose.

He opened his eyes, he could not close them or else Voldemort would think him weak.

He could not be weak, he was strong.

Or he had to try to be, if nothing else.

Alabastar was choking now, and Voldemort raised his wand and the words he next spoke were soft, hissing - not parseltongue, Regulus didn't think, but similar in the way they came from his mouth. "Nexus anima mea..." and the words seem to coil out of his mouth and as they fell they became a black smoke that formed a ring around Alabastar's mouth and then dropped into his gaping open mouth as he struggled for air. The smoke disappeared inside, no whisp of it left behind, and Voldemort smiled and reached for Alabastar's jaw, pushing it closed. At first, nothing happened. Regulus thought maybe whatever spell Voldemort had cast had been wrong, or perhaps Alabastar was somehow immune to whatever effects it was supposed to cause... But then Alabastar's eyes seemed to haze over, and Regulus thought of the milky white of Mopsus's blind eyes except this was black, like soot, or smoke that rose up from a chimney, and Alabastar's struggles intensified against the snake for a moment, and she tightened, one last jolt and -- the body was still, but still alive.

The Body was the only way Regulus could think of it now. Alabastar was not there, that much was clear... and what was there... he didn't know, but it was neither alive nor dead, but an entity whose existence chilled Regulus to his very core. The evil in the room was palpable.

Voldemort leaned forward, his eyes full of malice, and he raised his wand. "Patentibuspectus." He drew the tip of his wand down the Body's septum, from the base of his throat down to just above his belly. No blood poured out, though it should have, but every exposed vein was clouded with that black smoke, every surface... and Voldemort raised his hand, shaking the sleeve of his robes down about his elbow, and he reached into the cavity he'd created and a moment later his fist came up, clenched around a still beating, fleshy heart.

Greyback leaned forward, practically salivating at the sight of it.

Voldemort turned his wrist, inspecting the heart, and he laughed as he looked into the blackened cavity of Alabastar's chest, the smoke filled eyes staring at him still, though even more dimly than they'd been a moment before. "Sacrum finite vas," he whispered, and he opened his mouth and ---

Regulus could be stoic no more, he turned his head and looked down at the floor, his palms dripping with sweat as he squeezed his fists around his black robes, his own heart clenching at the thought of what he'd just seen, trying to make sense of it in his head, to put the pieces together... But the ritual had been so practiced, so smooth... Voldemort had been his most terrifying, his most sinister that he'd ever been... There had honestly been times that the Dark Lord had seemed almost comical to Regulus - especially when his brother was making his wand spout ducks or flowers or whatever during a battle - but this version of Voldemort was chilling, to the very bone, and there was nothing - no Riddikulus or other ridiculous spell - that would ever take the image from his mind.

When he looked back, the Body was completely limp, the black smoke gone from the eyes, the body freely bleeding... and Voldemort instead held something small, something solid, something around which his palm closed tightly, and he grinned about at his followers at the table, most of whom were still looking away. Even Bellatrix Lestrange had diverted her gaze. Even Greyback. And the Dark Lord laughed.