Regulus sat along in the shadows of Hogs Head drinking his fire whiskey grudgingly, as he secretly prayed for some hope of escaping the mark that which burned feverishly on his arm. The Dark Lord was calling the Death Eaters again. The fear inside him rose and tossed about like the burning liquid that swished about in his empty belly, telling him to drop his drink and respond right away, and yet there he sat on the worn down stool. He downed yet another glass, wondering how he had come to this point.

All his life he had done all that he could to uphold the proud prestigious Black family traditions. He became a Slytherin, fell in love with a pureblood, and become a Death Eater for the great Lord Voldermont. His mother was certainly proud of him and he was greatly favored over his weaker thinking older brother Sirius. But now, as the war between his lord and the rest of the wizarding world still raged on, he was having serious regrets about staying a Death Eater. Sure, the tormenting mudbloods and muggles were fun and exciting, and the cause itself was something he was very much intune with, but as of late, the killing has gone quite dreary. Also, he has become very aware of his growing fears of being killed by aurors, tortured by his lord, or worse, getting himself captured and sent to live with Dementors in Azkaban.

He slammed down his empty glass and ordered another as he looked over his shoulder before returning to his thoughts. Over and over he rehearsed in his head how he would speak to his lord, asking, begging to be released of his duties. To bad, that in all the scenarios he thought up of, he's ended up being tortured by the Cruciatus Curse into insanity or instantly being Avera Kadavera'd into the realm of the dead. Perhaps if he had some sort of information that was worth his release from this lifetime of enslavement, he thought. But what possible information could he have that was worth it? The only thing he could possibly think of was either injuring himself to the degree of being no use to the dark lord, or turning himself in and pleading the imperius curse. After some thought with the scar in his arm still searing, and seeing that he did not want to lose any of his limbs… the imperius plea did not sound so bad.

Regulas pounded his head with his palm, if he did turn himself in… he would put to shame the prestigious Black name, and that his mother would have two sons to be ashamed of. His dear wife would leave him, and his fellow Death Eaters would hunt him down.

As his thoughts drifted, twisted and spiraled about in his small little brain, his wandering beady eyes caught the backside of Dumbledore. Curious, he crept over, trying to hone in on the conversation. Perhaps there would be something worth to Lord Voldermort, or even better, himself. He crept closer and closer till he was in earshot but also still out of sight. He strained his ears listening to the low, and found a hollow voice of prophecy speaking with Dumbledore from a raspy old woman with extraordinary large glasses.

"approaches.. born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"

A drunken old wizard who smelled oddly of goats with an empty glass clumsily ran into him, knocking him and taking them both down to the dusty floor. He hurriedly pushed the old man off who mumbled to himself. Regulas attempted to rise as he focused heavily on the low voice of the one speaking to Dumbledore.

"… he will have the power the dark lord knows not …"

Again the drunk wizard interrupted him with a heavy slur "Terriblllly sorry.. di'nt see ya dere."

"If only there weren't so many around so I can have the pleasure of killing you slowly you drunk," Regulas spat in a hushed voice.

He pushed that drunk down and to the side and tried to listen to the voice again.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"

The voice stopped and became silent. The woman blinked and suddenly began talking of how she would become a great asset as a teacher to Hogwarts. Regulus quivered with excitement, this was the information that could turn the tides on this war and finally end it. Anger flooded him, if that drunk hadn't interrupted him, he would have had even more of the prophecy to give to the dark lord. Combing his slick black hair back with his fingers, he quietly creped his way out of the bar, after dropping galleons next to his empty mug. Once out on the streets, he touched his Death Eater's scar, and was transported to the designated meeting place conceived by Voldermort. His thoughts were no longer upon how to get out, but how he could make the inner circle…