Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

**So, I'm up with a new story! **

**This will be a somewhat dark story, focusing on Regulus Black and his time with the Death Eaters, his friends and family and how his choices affected those who lived after him. **

**I am not JK Rowling and therefore, nothing of the Harry Potter world and its characters are mine. **

**Enjoy! **

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**Prologue: A shadow **

_Present, 1995 _

She knew she shouldn't have come here, oh she knew that all too well. But something was calling her here, dragging her by an unseen force. She had stood there long enough to see people come and go, dressed in muggle clothes to blend in and enter or leaving the house she could see but shouldn't be seeing. The Fidelius Charm was in motion; she knew or guessed that because otherwise they would have been more foolish than she thought.

The sky was slowly changing color from pink to blue, almost like the metamorphmagus who visited the house more frequently than some. The light inside the old house was dim, looking like some weak stars against the dark background. Stars. How fitting.

The August air was warm and she regretted wearing her long coat. But she couldn't be seen, oh no, too much was at stake for that.

She saw the outline of the plump red-haired woman, who had many children, in one of the windows. She seemed to be arguing with someone. A man: tall, thin and with an aura darker than sin. She could feel her throat tightened and eyes burning. The reason she had come here. The reason of her obsession. The reason she was unable to let go.

Both the plump woman and the man disappeared from view and her heart beat faster. 'Don't go', she wanted to shout to the man, 'don't.' He couldn't leave her. Not him as well.

The lights went out inside the house. The only remaining lights were from the muggle houses next door, the street lamps and from a few stars up on the deep blue firmament. She felt alone, but she wouldn't be for long. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she walked over the street until she stood at the house's front door. The silver handle glimmered vaguely, its snakelike shape too dramatic for the rest of the outside of the house.

She knew she couldn't go through the door and into the house. That would be stupid, reckless and she couldn't afford that. Instead, she let herself become one with the darkness, materializing to smoke, creeping in through the gaps of the door. It felt tight, but strangely free to become smoke. It was as though all her worries melted away.

The hallway was old and even if they had tried to clean it, it would always look dirty and unwelcoming. She took her normal form again, casually waving her wand and she could feel the sensation of the spell taking place: like someone had poured freezing water over her. When the spell was preformed, she was no longer visible.

Like a ghost she walked through the hallway, aware of every bit of magic in the air, of the portraits snoring and of the dust that hadn't been cleaned up. This house was dark, matching the owner's family name so well that she would have laughed if it wouldn't mean that she would be discovered.

She passed what she knew was the kitchen since her visit many years before. She could sense movements and she stopped. Was someone still awake? Carefully, she moved closer to the door, not making a sound herself. The closer she came to the door, the more she could hear a raspy voice mutter in no more than a whisper:

". . . . filthy bloodtraitor, acting as though she owns the kitchen. Kreacher's kitchen. Oh, what would poor mistress say?"

Kreacher. The house elf. She could glimpse him through the wide gap of the unclosed door. A tiny creature that looked older than he had done the last time she had seen him. It wouldn't be good if he noticed her now. They would talk later.

She moved away from the kitchen and the miserable house elf and up the long, narrow staircase. Up and up it went, to one floor after another. She could hear snores coming from some of the occupied rooms. When she finally reached the topmost floor, which she was aiming for, she paused for a moment. Something resembling to fear and grief overcome her, making it hard for her to breathe properly. She cursed herself for being weak as she determined walked so she was standing on the floor outside a door. You couldn't be weak. Not in this world.

The door was plain, the silver handle the most remarkable thing. A small sign was perched upon the door, demanding that no one would enter without the owner of the room's permission. She felt her lips tug into a barely visible smile. How childish it seemed to have a sign like that, even if the wording was more formally than what a child should speak like. It stung in her heart when she remembered how embarrassed he had been when he showed her this room the first time, many years ago. She was briefly curious if the room would look the same today as it had done all those years ago. Her invisible hand reached for the handle, but she let it fall before it could touch the cool, surprisingly polished, surface of the handle.

'No', she thought and gave the door a dark look, repressing the temptation of leaning against the old wood, pressing her ear against it. 'I'm not here for this. Not today.'

Besides, she knew that the room behind that door would be as silent as the grave. Just like its owner. She walked pass the door, not looking back. She was raised better than that.

The next door was as plain as the first one, but the handle was scratched and worn, like someone had tried to rip the snake shaped handle off. There was a sign on this door as well, though much more modest and with a simpler description. She couldn't hear movements behind the door, but she didn't find it odd. She knew he was there. Where else could he be?

For a moment she thought of if she should simply open the door and give him a fright worthy of her reputation. But she decided against it. She could spare him this particular fright. She would give him worse.

Materializing herself to smoke again, she penetrated the old door quietly and entered the room behind it as easy and quickly as a deadly sickness. And like all the victims, he did not know what was coming.

She was still invisible as she took her normal form and sat gingerly down on a rickety, old chair. The room smelled old and dusty, dark and fresh, in a very poor attempt to make it more homely. The walls were not visible, covered in banners in a sun-bleached red and gold color and posters of motorcycles, cool and made for the Devil, and of bikini clad girls who were all muggles. They were staring lifelessly out of their pictures, looking cheap and dull. The room looked to belong to a teenage boy, not the man sitting on the bed. Yet it was his room all the same.

He didn't notice that she had entered; he had his eyes fixed upon a photograph over the bed. He stared at it so intensely, emotions flashing in his eyes and expression changing each second, like it was as if he would bring the picture to life – more so than it was now, with its occupants waving and laughing like they didn't have a care in the world – with his gaze. Or better; go into the picture himself.

She ought to feel sorry for him. It was quite a sad sight and he looked truly miserable. A part of her thought he deserved it and that part would never go away. Though she also knew he had been through Hell. She had been there with him.

"You deserve it, you know", she said softly, her voice no more than a whisper. "You know it as well as I do."

He turned his head around, black hair falling into his gaunt face, and grey eyes wild with certain madness to them. They searched the room, but couldn't see her. He never could.

"Go away", he whispered hoarsely and for a minute it was like they were back in Azkaban. "I might deserve it, but they didn't. Go away."

He buried his head in his hands, shaking it while doing so, wanting her to get out of his head. Only she wasn't in there, but she didn't bother to tell him that. A part of her liked to see him in pain.

"I will never go away", she said as quietly as before, though she didn't sound happy, just stating the truth.

The cold and harsh truth.

The man took deep breaths before looking up from his hands. He looked straight at her and she was sure he could see her. Those eyes were so familiar, yet they weren't. They were always wild of emotions, desperate or laughing. But it still burdened her heart to see them, to see him.

Of course he couldn't see her and his eyes swept over her within merely seconds. She took a deep breath herself, readjusting her position so she could sit more comfortable. Then she said, now sounding bitter like a dark, thundering cloud poisoning the sky:

"I'm a shadow of your past, Sirius; the one you can never run away from."

The man didn't answer, but stared at the photograph once more, hands clenched and shaking.

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**So, that was the prologue. **

**I would love to hear what you thought of it. **


	2. A walk in a deranged park

**Chapter one, everyone! **

**Thanks to anyone who has read the story and a special 'thank you' to the one following & having this story as a favourite. It means a lot to me. **

**I don't own Harry Potter and his world, JK Rowling does. I only own my Oc. **

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 1: A walk in a deranged park **

_June, 1978_

The mansion was huge, looking like a crooked shadow against the dark sky. Its grounds were equally large, a mystery of hedges and bushes, grotesque statues and fountains with their musically water.

Two figures were walking on the narrow pebbled road that slithered through the garden, a grey river of stone amongst well-kept, green grass. They walked slowly, like they had all the time in the world.

The tallest figure was a man. He was dressed in black robes, which matched his slowly greying hair. His skin was pale; it was almost as if he glowed. His eyes were scarlet, dangerous and his features sharp. The man reeked of powerful magic.

The shorter of the two was barely a woman. She was also dressed in black. Her hair was long and dark. She was also pale and they could have been mistaken for family had it not been for their faces. While the man could be called handsome, the woman could not. Her eyes were hazel, bordering to gold, and the only beautiful thing in her appearance.

A scream cut through the air and the woman flinched. The man acted as if he hadn't heard it or couldn't be bothered with it. In the distance, they could still see smoke rise, the only reminder of the previous fire.

"It was very rude of them", spoke the man and his voice was as soft and calm as the summer air. "To create such havoc on their hosts' grounds. Disrespectful."

"They were only celebrating", replied the woman while staring at a flowerbed of roses. Her voice was empty of any true defense.

Another scream rang through the air, leaving the two of them in an eerie silence afterwards. The woman didn't move a muscle this time and the man looked as bored as before.

"Still", he said. "It was foolish and what am I going to do with fools under my command? I need loyal friends."

"You don't have any friends", said the woman, still not looking at him. "You only have servants."

The man stopped and the woman automatically did the same. He looked at her with narrowed, red eyes, but she refused to look at him. Her gaze was on the great shadow that was the mansion further ahead of them.

Suddenly, the man let out a high, cold laugh. It wasn't humorous and it was as horrifying as the screams before.

"True", he agreed and started to walk again, the woman obediently following him. "I don't have friends. I only have servants. But you are the only one of them who has the nerve to speak to me like that. I do hope you don't start to get hubris, Nimueh. You know what I think of people who don't know their place."

The woman, Nimueh, didn't answer. She was well aware of what punishments disobedience gave. She wasn't stupid enough to think that she would get any special treatment, no matter how long they had known each other, no matter how long she had served him.

The company of two had arrived at a statue of a gigantic troll who was wringing the neck of what Nimueh thought was a muggle. It was a ghastly piece of art, but she didn't think much of the Lestranges' fashion sense. The man watched the statue as well. His eyes were taking the sight in, but his lips were curled in a sneer.

"What did you want to speak with me about, my Lord?" Nimueh asked quietly and her eyes followed the stone creations structure and lines.

The Lord acted as if he hadn't heard her question. Instead, he said something else:

"You didn't try to stop him."

He made it sound like a statement, not a question. Nimueh knew what he was talking about. She tore her eyes away from the statue and stared over the huge garden. It laid in shadows, the sky only brightening a few shades in the horizon. Smoke was still rising over the hedges far away and a scream swept through the warm, summer air, leaving a slimy silence behind.

"How he wants to redeem himself from his sins is up to him", Nimueh chose her words carefully, her body stiff and tense, not looking at him. "Why should I prevent him from doing what he pleases?"

"Sins?" the Lord said and his cold voice was sharper now.

Nimueh bit the inside of her cheek, glancing at her feet, then at him. She held his gaze, making sure that her mind was unreachable for him.

"Yes, sins. If Rosier saw it fitting to be pure again with the help of fire, why shouldn't he? Those who got drunk back there. . . . How many of them do you think drank because they were proud of the result of the muggle raid and how many do you think drank because they wanted to forget?"

The man's expression was cold now and his red eyes furious; burning like the fire Rosier had stepped into and almost died in. Nimueh drew back her shoulders, taking a defense position. For a moment, they only watched each other. Then the man's face changed to something aching to satisfaction.

"But you didn't drink. You didn't want to forget."

"What good does forgetting? The past is everything. You taught me that."

The man smiled and they started to walk again. Nimueh's face was expressionless again, but her heart pounded maddening in her chest. That was a close call; she could feel it in the air; that salty, heavy and musky feeling in the air that almost made her sweat.

They followed the winding path. Nimueh grew more and more anxious after the minute. When they arrived by a small pond with fishes of jewels, glittering in the light from the stars, the man sat down on the perfectly iron wrought bench. He beckoned to Nimueh to do the same. She carefully did so.

As soon as she touched the bench, he reached out to her with the speed of an attacking snake. He took a firm grip around her wrists with his delicate, pale fingers. Nimueh shivered at the touch. His skin was soft, but oddly cold.

He pushed up her black sleeves, leaving her wrists bare. His eyes gleamed at the sight.

Nimueh's left forearm bore the Dark Mark, a skull with a snake slithering through its mouth. That was his mark. Lord Voldemort's mark. She also had three scars around her wrist, like bracelets; one was a faint pink, almost white, like a scar that had been there for a long time. The other two was red, almost as if the wounds hadn't completely healed yet.

On her right wrist, the scars were the same. Putting them together, it would look like she was chained with these scars. Which she was.

Nimueh despised those scars, but Voldemort found them brilliant. He stroked the scars with his thumbs.

"You are loyal, Nimueh", he said coolly. "Even if I had to take precautions for you to be it."

A chill spread through her body, like floating ice. Her hazel eyes turned to slits and her lips curled disdainfully.

Voldemort looked up at her, still holding her wrists in an iron grip.

"We're getting four new recruits", he informed her and he sounded pleased. "And I've decided that I want you to take one of them as your apprentice. You've got experience enough."

"It's an honor, my Lord", Nimueh spoke carefully, trying to seem unbothered.

Voldemort snorted, though it sounded more like a hiss than anything else.

"I believe you are qualified enough. Don't prove me wrong."

"Who are the others giving this task?"

"The Lestranges' have both proved their loyalty. We're in their home now, after all."

Nimueh repressed a grimace, only to seconds later having to repress a smile. They wouldn't like that one bit. Nimueh could be bothered with the pair if that meant that her presence annoyed them to no end.

Voldemort smiled cruelly, as if he could read in her eyes what she was thinking.

"Yes, I believe that you and the Lestranges will have to come to some sort of agreement. I don't want fights to occur amongst us. Save it for the mudbloods and bloodtraitors and the other filth."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Nimueh waited until he had calm down, locking away his fury for now. He turned to look at her again and she could've sworn there was amusement in his eyes.

"So, Nimueh", he drawled in his cold voice. "I've got you, Bellatrix and Rodolphus. Who shall the last one be?"

"You're asking me, my Lord?"

Voldemort sighed in annoyance and Nimueh felt for curse herself for asking such a simple and obvious question.

"Yes, Nimueh, I'm asking you", Voldemort said patiently. "You know my Death Eaters; you are one yourself. So tell me; who of them should get the honor of training a new recruit, to precede our legacy?"

Nimueh didn't answer at first, because she hadn't an answer. She looked up at the sky which was now turning a deeper shade of blue. There was only a few twinkling stars left. It was quiet, creepily so.

If Nimueh should be honest – which usual was good to be, because the punishment was far worse if you lied – she didn't see any of the Death Eaters' particularly fit for teaching. But then again; she would never have seen herself as a teacher, but if Voldemort commanded anything, it was best to obey.

"I'm waiting."

"What about Lucius Malfoy, my Lord?" Nimueh suggested, though somewhat reluctantly.

"Lucius Malfoy. . . .", Voldemort said thoughtfully.

He stood up, his black robes bellowing like shadows around him. Nimueh followed his lead. They slowly started to walk again.

"He's young", Voldemort said eventually.

"He is", Nimueh agreed. "But so am I. He's older than me and I think that young recruits would learn more if their _teacher _is closer to them in age. It would make them feel closer to each other. . . ."

"How do you know that the recruits are young?" questioned Voldemort with a hint of a smile of cruel amusement. "And I don't drive a kindergarten here. Friends. . . ."

"It's easier if we can agree", Nimueh interrupted, losing her patience. "We avoid more _accidents _amongst us if we do so."

Anger leaked through her voice and Voldemort smiled to himself in satisfaction. They had history together and he enjoyed knowing that he still had the advantage after all these years. Not that he had ever doubted it.

They followed the rest of the garden path, pebbles being crushed under their feet. The bushes grew thicker here and though the sky started to brighten, the garden still seemed dark. A few of the bushes had been shaped into different forms of magical creatures. There was a gigantic bush of a dragon; the currently deep green leaves making it look as if the dragon really had scales. There was also what Nimueh suspected was a thestral, looking dark and desperate with its thin body and horse like face.

The scariest bush of them all was the one that looked like a basilisk. The large snake was curled up on the ground, just as poisonous green as a real one and it had two yellow flowers as eyes. Nimueh had no clue what kind of flowers they were, but the effect was successful. She avoided its eyes, almost afraid that it would kill her with its staring. She felt pathetic. It was only a bush.

Voldemort seemed to enjoy the sight, but he moved on and Nimueh followed, just like she had always done.

"I'll take your advice into mind when I decide the last tutor", said Voldemort and broke the silence with his cold, soft voice.

"You do that."

Nimueh pulled her jacket closer to her body as if to protect herself from his cold voice. The movement got Voldemort's attention. He looked her over with disgust in his eyes and a sneer on his pale face.

"When tutoring a new recruit", he began, "robes are obliged. I won't have you run around in clothes belonging to muggle filth. Do not test me, beautiful."

Nimueh felt her body go cold. 'Beautiful' was his nickname for her, an insult he loved to use and always had. He only said it when he was serious about something that would bring her harm in the future. Pain was ugly and horrible for most, but to him, it was beautiful.

Swallowing a retort about how much better and comfortable muggle clothes were, she succumbed to him. The retort tasted of blood and bitterness.

They walked further down the path, entering a part of the garden that was full of flowers. The flowers all looked dead in the light of the coming dawn. A few fairies was dancing around the flowers, enjoying their beauty and the last of night. As soon as Nimueh and Lord Voldemort came into their view, the fairies disappeared. Nimueh guessed that Voldemort brought a darkness with him that not even the fairies could reside in. It was a shame because Nimueh found the fairies' light to be fascinating.

As they passed the land of flowers, they walked in a labyrinth of trees. Their branches hung low, black and ghostlike, looking as if they would grab the passers. Nimueh wished she had pulled her hair into a bun or something before passing there.

"Ah, look", said Voldemort emotionlessly, breaking a silence that had been hanging between them. "We're back."

It was true; they were back to where they had begun their walk. There was a large, black spot on the ground where it had once been green summer-grass. The air still smelled of smoke after the fire Rosier had started. Nimueh could still hear his screams ringing in her ear, but she felt nothing. Every alcohol bottle, however, was gone from sight.

"It seems as if Bellatrix took the punishment of Evan inside", stated Voldemort and his eyes hungrily drank in the leftovers of the scene in front of him. "I should join her. Perhaps they will all understand that this isn't a child's play."

He turned on his heels and Nimueh was about to breath out a sigh of relief, when his voice rang out again, turning the mild summer's air to ice:

"Remember that, Nimueh."

Nimueh didn't move a muscle. Her hazel eyes were as hard as two topazes. She could hear how the doors to the mansion opened and closed with a foreboding 'boom'. Only then did she breathe out, drinking in the dirty air.

"Oh, but it is a play", she whispered into the air, looking out over the Lestranges' grounds that were hauntingly beautiful.

With one last look at it all, she turned on her heels and Apparated away to a better place, any place at all. A scream was heard from the magnificent house as Nimueh disappeared with a 'pop', leaving nothing behind but the sunrise that couldn't make the darkness go away.

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**That was that. **

**Please leave a review so I can hear your thoughts on the story. **

**Happy Early New Year! **


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Harry Potter, Drama, Hurt-Comfort