Prologue
The pen moved furiously across the page, the streams of ink stringing together in painfully neat handwriting. There's a bin beside the desk, overfilled with crumpled parchment, as if someone could never put together the correct way to say what is on their mind. A mind so overfilled with ideas yet no easy way to thoroughly connect them properly. There's many broken quills, snapped due to the frustration of really wanting the message to stick. A force so even if the ink goes away you could practically feel the words throughout.
This was a man on a mission, his leg was bouncing up and down at his desk, a knee pressed against the drawer that's no one would ever be able to open. His hand twisted furiously in his curls, his face twisted in a strange melancholy expression and a simple photo clutched in his palms. His breath is heavy as if trying to keep the guilt crushing him whole and imploding him. He carries himself like a man on a mission as his hand trembles as he clutches the quill tightly in his grip.
This man is 17-year-old Regulus Black. He is what many would call the ideal poster pureblood child. The remaining heir to the house of Black, whose faith never wearied to others, his left forearm could attest to that. He had black curls never out of place, always neat nor frizzy. His eyes were piercing grey that never seemed to waver even in front of the dark lord. His gaze never faltered as he looked into the eyes of that monster, nor would he flinch as he would be hit with the cruciatus curse, even with his nerves begging to have some sort of relief he persevered. Yet the nerve replenishing potions he needs to be constantly stocked up on spoke volumes. He knew if he was kept longer, he'd be going mad. Just like his cousin, whose brain was already so scrambled she was on the verge of insanity.
But now, the stiff heir is furiously grasping his hair and trying to keep from hyperventilating as he writes. His usual prim and proper hair are now greasy, a frazzled curly mess. He hasn't left his desk in hours, nor has he left his room in days. His cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes are wide and tired. He's beginning to resemble his deranged cousin by the day and the thought terrifies him. So, for the first time in days, he forces himself off the chair and he simply looked around him.
There are books strewn about on the floor, there's parchment, upon parchment of notes on the floor. His textbooks for 7th year are forgotten as they lay haphazardly on the undone bed with blankets strewn about. A pile of books stacked up to his waist are next to it, each book darker in terms of magic. There are the prophets about the recent muggle attacks, next to the death toll of the war. It only solidifies what he needs to do.
Stretching his body and hearing the cracks from his tired body and he grimaces as he feels his hair with his hands. He walks to his dresser, pulling out a white silk shirt and black trousers. He opens his door and walks to the bathroom down the hall, he stops at the door with the name Sirius carved on it. He ponders for a second and shakes his head and walks to the bathroom.
He winces as he peels off the dirty clothes, he's had them on for almost 3 days now. He looks in the mirror, his ribs are more prominent than before. His once healthy self is now an empty husk, a mere shell of the boy he used to be. The tattoo he has under his rib of the Leo constellation shimmers with magical ink on his skin. He remembers sneaking out with his friend's 5th year to get it from Dorcas' uncle. Rosamaria has one hidden by glamours on her left forearm along with their friends, as Barty said, to symbolize the fact that their allegiance isn't with the Dark lord, but to him.
But Barty, has grown mad with the power the Dark Lord gave him, dedicating himself and Evan to the cause. He has been taken under Bellatrix's wing, as he now joins her in murdering and burning down muggle towns. He casts the unforgivable with no sense of shame, he manic. The water is scalding, but Regulus doesn't notice, he's lost in his thoughts again. Barty and Evan are in the cause, Pandora is hiding with Xenophilius, Dorcas is battling with the Order with Sirius, Sirius is under Dumbledore's thumb with the rest of his ragtag group, and Rosamaria.
Rosamaria, his love, is once again locked in her own home, sitting at her window like a bird in a cage, lost in thought. Dreaming of leaving her home, of their marriage, and of their daughter. They found out about her in June before they left for Summer. Only her mother knows as she is the only one helping her in the house. Her letter she sent him still sits at his desk, along with the Dark Lords when he asked to borrow Kreature.
A horcrux- The waters burning his skin now, he's lost in thought. His skin is turning red, and it is getting harder to breathe.
A horcrux, its filth, such a perverted disgrace to one's soul. The thing keeping the dark lord alive. The Locket.
He knows what he must do to keep his daughter safe from harm. For her to grow up safely and soundly, surrounded by the love of her family. In another life he would've lived to help raise her. Smile when he holds her beside his wife's bedside, with her small black hair on her head and the same brown eyes as his love, Rosamaria gazing up at him. He dreams of taking her to the Hogwarts express every year, and witnessing her accidental magic, watching her grow, seeing her learn how to duel under his instruction, turning away suitors, introducing her to his brother, seeing her walk for the first time and smile at him.
He mourns it all. Mourns the lost experiences, and the grief he's going to bring upon Rosamaria by leaving her to raise her alone.
He finishes showering, carefully getting dressed and doing his hair. He applies the product into his hair, trying to have a semblance of normality. But the way he trembles as he applies a glamour on the eye bags. He has to see her, he has too-
He knows what to write now.
He quickly went to his desk his mind racing as he sat back at the table and furiously gathered the parchment. His trembling hands began to furiously grab at the ink vials in his hands. His trembling hands furiously grasped the quill in his hand as he slowly raised it to the parchment. The words that flowed out were smooth, rapid, every word embellished with a flourishment that battled the rage and grief in his heart when he was dealt with the fact that he would never meet his daughter. He wouldn't hold her, he would miss every milestone and the beginning of her life. He'd never knew how she grew up.
If she would resent him horribly. Or that she would mourn him all the same. He wouldn't chase off suitors, nor would he dance with her at the coming-of-age ball she would have. He'd miss so much. And its not like he could pour out everything that's exploding in his brain in a single letter, no he needs to write more. He needs to tell her quickly, while it is fresh in his mind. He needs to tell her everything, he needs her to know that he wasn't always known as the evil heir of the House Black who pledged his very soul to a mad man. Maybe, for this once, he could do a good deed in the eyes of everyone, for his daughter, for his family, for the wizarding world.
.
.
.
My Dearest Daughter,
If you're reading this, then I haven't come back, and my time in this world has run out. I'm writing this before you're even born, before I get the chance to see your face or hear your laughter. There's so much I wish I could tell you in person, but life has chosen another path for me. More than anything, I hope you never feel the ache of my absence, though I know that might be impossible. Leaving you was never my choice; it was something I had to do.
He threw on his cloak, he checked his reflection in the mirror and used a disillusion charm on himself to sneak out of the manor, evading the wards with sufficient ease. He quickly apparated outside of Lestrange manor, using a quick transfiguration charm to change some buttons into flowers, suddenly quite thankful for the O he got in his Owls in the subject. And he knocked on the door, revealing Marie Lestrange, a kind face in the harsh and cold family of the Lestrange's. She hastily opened the door and leveled him with a glare
Oh shit, she knows.
"She's in her room upstairs," she states as she nods at the stairs, "she's been at the window most of the summer."
"Thanks Lady Lestrange," he says as he smiles at her. He rushes up the familiar stairs of a house he's more familiar than his own home, spending many summers here became the norm for them. His heart is beating with anticipation as his body relaxes due to the door at the end of the hallway coming into view. He looks at the walls, the portraits turn their nose up at him in discontent. As if they knew what he had done, that the sole heiress to be used as a marriageable pawn, now the future mother of his child, unwedded as well. He can only hope his family doesn't realize for they will try to remove her from their care.
You're due in March, when winter melts into spring. You'll arrive with the blooming flowers and the songs of birds, the world gently welcoming you in a way I never can. I wish I could be there. I wish I could hold your mother's hand, cry as she holds you for the first time. I want to see your first smile, hear your first giggle, even wake up to your cries in the middle of the night. Two months after you're born, your mother and I were meant to wed under the willow tree on the hill in Colmar. I wanted to introduce you to my brother, to show him that something so pure and beautiful could come from someone as broken as me. He would love you dearly. Your mother would keep you close, fussing over you with that endless, anxious love of hers. I hope you have her smile, her eyes, her hope, her dreams.
He approaches the door, his footsteps light as his heart begins to calm from the previous anxieties plaguing his brain. He can't deny that at a mere thought of her his heart races, or his heart stills for a moment for her smile renders him speechless and his heart feels full of peace. She's worth more than this war could ever mean to him, dying is worth it if it brings peace to her. The warm feeling in his heart expands as he slowly reaches out and opens her door gently.
And yet, when she realizes what I have done, that I am never coming back, Rosamaria will be beside herself in grief. She will cry for me, for you, for the life we were meant to have together. She will curse my name in sorrow, and still, she will love me. I do not deserve that love, but I hope you will give her all of yours, for she will need it. Hold her close, my love, be her light when mine has gone out.
He sees her, her gentle presence sitting by the locked bay window. She sits there, her legs tucked under her thighs as she simply gazes outside, her expression peaceful. Her long dark hair is tossed over the shoulder of the white gown she wears that highlights the small bump on her abdomen, a sign of the love they shared together. Her hand was pressed onto the small swell of her abdomen, her perfectly manicured nails tapped against it.
For most of my life, I was blind, trapped by the expectations of my family, the weight of our name, the traditions that bind us. But I see clearly now, and it's for that truth that I give my life. There's darkness in this world, one I once thought I belonged to. I was wrong. And now, I do what little I can to fight it, to leave behind a world where you can be free of the shadows that have plagued our bloodline for far too long.
She snatched her hand back from her bump, laying them against her lap as she quickly turned to the door. A soft smile stretches across her face as she sees her love there in front of her. Her face lights up with her soft and loving gaze. Matching the same lovestruck expression on his face. The way he seems entranced, like he's never seen someone as beautiful as her. He would miss her dearly, but she deserves a proper goodbye, a reason
You are my greatest hope. Even though I will never meet you, I believe in you more than I have ever believed in anything. You are more than a Black, more than the weight of our past. You are your own, and I know you will carve a future far brighter than the one I was given.
He stayed with her that night, gently running his fingers through her raven black hair. He held her as he ran his fingers through her raven black hair. He held her as she cried into his chest, soaking his shirt but he didn't care. When he left that morning, he left a stack of 20 letters on the vanity, all in brown envelopes with melted green wax with the imprint of the Black family crest on them. They were all labeled, My Dear daughter Celeste Black.
Toujours Pur was not written on any envelope.
Don't let them define you. Don't let the world tell you who you're meant to be. Choose your own path, my love, and walk it with pride. And if you ever feel alone, know that my love will always be with you. It will live in the stars above, in the wind that whispers your name, in every moment of courage you find within yourself.
I love you. I always will.
Your father, Regulus Arcturus Black