Chapter Text
Dorming in rural Italy might just be your last expectation on how you spend your holidays, after hallucinating a phantom and almost going crazy - but that’s where Regulus finds himself. However, these pureblood camps are a good reminder of how purebloods should behave, and reminds him of the societal role he is expected to bear as the Heir of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black. It’s 4 in the morning on December the Twenty-Fourth, and he’s already suffering from the havoc of blood supremacists.
“Black! Do you care to join us down at the lake for a sacrifice?” Asked Avery, who just coincidentally happened to join the same camp as him. Reluctantly, the curly haired boy stretched out his bed and slipped on an overcoat to his pyjama robe. Regulus groaned at the thought of having to endure blood and anguish early in the morning, but it was better than being trapped with Walburga. In the meantime, Avery and some other boy who went by Leviticus sauntered down the steps snickering as if this was their first ritual. Leviticus seemed more mousy and timid than most of the other purebloods but in front of Avery he returned back to the socially pompous pureblood. From the certain pronunciation of words, Regulus had deduced that the boy was of some sort of North African descent he was guessing Algerian based on the slight hint of French in the accent, but also that he clearly was of wealth and status judging by his overly detailed wand. On the first day, the boy turned to try to spark some sort of conversation with Regulus which was sweet but also in itself pathetic. Regulus did not speak unless mandated by his own needs and desires.
As they started to head out of the building he noticed how vast the surroundings were, how the shadows concealed the figures within as they made their way towards a clearing in the woods. As his eyes crossed upon a stray dog napping by the tree, he couldn’t help but think about the strange encounter with the boy and the dog who turned invisible in the blink of an eye. The memory seemed too vivid to simply be a reverie, and the more he thought about it the more the boy had resembled Potter. Maybe it was the cheeky grin plastered over his face or maybe it was Regulus’ growing feelings for a boy who would never love him back. As they walked through the clearing, they approached men dressed in golden robes, robes which looked similar to the plates that Potter wore at the party.
It was like Regulus couldn’t stop himself, he was obsessed with the unattainable.
Slowly, the three boys hovered around the fire and the small congregation of about ten people greeted them. Some slender figure approached from behind the trees as if counting the number of people watching, Regulus had found the ringleader.
“Shall we begin?” Announced the figure, and suddenly the people went silent. Instinctively, they all circled the fire holding hands, and began to chant:
‘Father who sees all, father who says all, father who reveals all; hear our prayers.’ Chanting was somehow the least disturbing part of this process. Regulus knew exactly what would come next. Muggle sacrifice.
A few meters away, a screeching voice could be heard.
‘I’m so done! I’m so done with you!’ A woman yelled, presumably at her significant other. A muffled man’s voice could be heard, soon it came louder and louder as the muggles came closer and closer, disrupting the ritual.
“Well my fellow intellectual believers of our Lord and Saviour Voldemort, looks like we found our bait!” Exclaimed the hooded figure, clearly excited as if it was his first time leading such a sacred ritual. With the flick of his wand and a silent incantation, the two muggles were levitating, the girl still screaming at her boyfriend.
“Peter you couldn’t have picked any other time other than now? Only now that you could decide for us to go out together? With these freakshows-” She was suddenly cut off, her lips sealed as if she were choking.
—---
Even two hours after that incident, his heart was pounding. It was 7.30 and Regulus was laying in his bed. Nothing could erase the screams of the muggle being engulfed by the fire while everyone around her told her she was to be burnt in hell for disrupting our lord above’s natural order.
However, from a lot of inference, Regulus gathered that the leader’s name was Volkhv and that he had some sort of slavic origin based on the accent. He was one of the four young youth masters who led and organised his trip, and he had apparently handpicked a select few from his group to partake in the ritual as well as encouraging the selected to bring their friends from the other group. Leviticus had been one of the handpicked. Luckily Regulus was put in another group with the Youth Leader Rosalina, who seemed less intense than Volkhv. In Regulus’ eyes, she seemed to be the most cheerful and liberal one of them all as she did not directly spew supremacy rhetoric but equally implied indirectly she was anti-muggleborn integration by the Wizarding society.
As for today, Regulus knew he was to be exploring the Catacombs which seemed rather intriguing. Of course, this wasn’t his first time but previously on family holidays he would go alone as his parents weren’t too keen about muggle history when they could take secret assignments in the good of our Lord and Saviour. Slowly Regulus slumped out of bed and picked out a fresh pair of clothes from his suitcase and headed to the bathroom. As per his routine, he slathered on his snail mucin moisturiser, added styling gel to hold the definition of his curls and then slipped out of his robe.
As he stood bare chested in front of the mirror noticing the few scratches on his neck from the night prior. As they were evacuating the fire, he had slipped up and his delicate skin had been torn from a few brambles. Instinctively, he ran his slender flingers down the wounds, feeling a weird sensation with the half healed skin. Scars nicked his neck, and he had to use some concealer to hide the horrendous aftermath to ensure not to be questioned - the last thing he wanted was to be accused of being a werewolf.
Slowly he buttoned his crisp shirt, straightening the collar and smoothing the ends of the cotton with his digits, slipped on some grey slacks and secured it with a rich leather belt - even on camp he refused to look anything short of formal and perfect.