Chapter 1
5th July 1976
Walburga seized Regulus’s hair with a savage force, her fingers digging into the strands so violently that he barely had time to process it before being yanked forward, his neck arching in pain. He tried to resist, but it was futile, as he was dragged down the dark corridor like a puppet.
The sound of his mother’s heels reverberated off the walls, each step echoing with such cold and calculated precision that Regulus could almost feel the intensity of her fury radiating from her, without the need for words.
At last, they reached an imposing door. Walburga didn’t hesitate for a second, throwing it open with a sharp movement and shoving him inside. Regulus stumbled, his feet failing to find stability, and he fell to his knees on the floor. The weight of her presence, crushing and inescapable, enveloped him instantly. He was still dazed, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening, but before he could react, she was already upon him.
“Stand up.” The command was curt, devoid of mercy. With visible effort, Regulus managed to rise, his trembling hands bracing against the wall as he straightened himself.
“Look at me.” She stepped forward, her expression growing fiercer, like a predator closing in on its prey.
He didn’t want to.
He couldn’t.
His eyes darted to the corner of the room, searching for anything but his mother’s face. But Walburga’s fingers, cold and merciless, clamped around his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“Explain yourself,” she demanded, her tone laced with impatience.
“I don’t know what—” Regulus began to protest, but the response came swiftly, leaving no room for further words.
The ring-laden hand sliced through the air and struck his face with a sharp crack, the cold metal burning against his skin. Pain radiated in hot, pulsing waves, but Regulus didn’t react. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, head bowed, tasting the bitter tang of blood pooling at the corner of his mouth.
“Explain yourself, or you’ll regret it bitterly.” Her hand, heavy and cruel, lifted again, the threat of another blow hanging in the air.
Regulus swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening with each breath.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mother,” he said, though even to his own ears the words sounded weak, hollow.
She leaned forward slightly, her lips curving into a narrow, venomous smile.
“Oh, you know perfectly well, Regulus.” She let out a short, humourless laugh. “I’ve heard rumours. Filthy rumours—that you’re… involved with a boy. And should I stay silent? Accept it as if it were normal?”
Regulus’s heart raced faster, almost pounding against his ribs as if it were trying to escape. Fear constricted around his throat, making his tongue feel heavy, as if something were suffocating him from within.
“This is an outrage! A sin.” Walburga continued, her voice growing more and more hysterical, as if she were drowning in her own fury. “How dare you stain our family with something so... repulsive? Do you think you can be accepted like this? That this behaviour will be tolerated? Not under my roof. Not beneath my ceiling.”
The silence between them was suffocating, but she was far from satisfied. She pressed on, more aggressive, more cutting. “I raised you to be better than this, Regulus. To be an example of purity, of honour. And now, what have you done to me? Lost yourself over a monstrous inclination, an abomination.”
The pain was almost physical, as if each syllable had been carved into his flesh, burning his skin and sinking deep into his gut.
Nothing Walburga said was accidental. It wasn’t a mistake; he knew that every word that left her mouth had been chosen with precision, made to cut deep, to wound. He was accustomed to this, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.
You see, Regulus had never entertained the illusion that his mother loved him. From a very young age, he knew that his worth in her eyes wasn’t measured by affection or tenderness, but by blind obedience to the expectations she had. He was nothing more than a replacement, someone there only to fill the space if Sirius failed. His brother’s shadow always haunted him, and he knew his only role was to live up to Walburga’s expectations—not for who he was, but for what she wanted him to be.
She didn’t love him—he was an extension of her own beliefs, a piece in a game of image and honour. Regulus never had the comforting words of a mother, the protective embrace that so many children take for granted, like an anchor in the chaos of the world. But he had learned to live with that, to bury the pain where no one could see it, where even he almost forgot it existed.
But then, why did it hurt so much? Why, despite everything, did he still find himself wishing that she saw something in him that wasn’t a reflection of her expectations? Why did he still feel that emptiness tightening in his chest with every sharp word she uttered, even knowing he would never be enough? She couldn’t love him, and he knew that—but still, the absence of that love consumed him, a silent and constant pain, like a flame that refuses to be extinguished.
An inexplicable urge to cry bubbled up in Regulus’s chest, so strong and suffocating that he could barely hold it back. The pressure was crushing, an invisible force that seemed to tear at his insides, and he felt the tears welling up at the edge of his eyes, hot and ready to spill.
It was as if his very soul were being torn apart, each piece of him exposed before her, unprotected. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, a futile attempt to hold back the tears.
"Look at me," she ordered again, her voice laden with an authority that brooked no refusal. Regulus kept his eyes down, his shoulders taut, as if shrinking within himself could somehow shield him from the weight of the words she was about to unleash. But, inevitably, he felt her fingers, forcing his chin up, compelling him to meet the gaze that seemed to pierce into his very soul.
"I said, look at me."
And he did.
Walburga’s eyes were fixed on him, brimming with such pure rage that it felt as though they could consume him. The hatred in her words was reflected in every line of her face, as if each cell of her body was steeped in contempt.
"I raised you to be someone who would bring pride to our family, not a... a deviation, a mistake." She spat the word as though it were poison. "You don’t understand. This isn’t just a choice. It’s a desecration of everything we’ve built, our bloodline, the Black legacy. How dare you?"
She adjusted her clothes with an impersonal movement, running her hands through her hair, tucking the strands that had escaped her hairstyle back into place. When she spoke again, her voice was surprisingly soft, yet laden with the same calculated coldness, as if each word were a sharp blade, poised to cut.
"You will forget this. You will give me your word that it was a fleeting mistake, a moment of weakness. And never—never again—will you make me endure this shame."
The threat hung in the air, more terrifying than any physical punishment she could inflict. She didn’t need to raise her hand to impose her will. Regulus knew better than anyone that her words were the true punishment, that the humiliation and contempt were the chains that bound him more tightly than any steel ever could.
Moreover, there was an immense weight in those words, a clear warning that he would pay a steep price if he dared to refuse. What she was suggesting was more than a simple demand; it was a sentence masquerading as a request. He knew that if he didn’t comply, the consequences would be severe, perhaps worse than anything he had ever endured.
But what hurt more than the fear of the consequences was the knowledge that, by accepting what she was asking, he would be relinquishing a part of himself.
He never wanted this. He never wanted to follow the path she envisioned for him: married to a pureblood girl—or any girl, to be fair—someone he was meant to consider a "good choice," with the promise of heirs who would grow up to hate him and be as bitter as he was. The thought of a life like that, filled with obligations and expectations, with no room for any real happiness, made him feel suffocated.
He wanted to be free. He wanted to be like Sirius, to live without the invisible chains that bound him. He no longer wanted to lose himself in a world that only offered empty promises and false images of perfection. He wanted something real, something that was his and his alone, without the pressure of family legacy, without the weight of traditions that only kept him trapped.
The idea of a life without that pressure, without constantly being judged, without being forced to conform to others' expectations, seemed almost like a utopia. But perhaps it was the only utopia worth fighting for.
He didn’t know how, or when, but something within him was beginning to break. An invisible thread that had bound his fate to that house, to that family, was snapping. And for the first time, he wondered: what if he simply let it happen?
Regulus didn’t answer immediately. He tasted blood in his mouth, still felt the burn of the blow marking his skin. He could say anything, any lie that would make this end here. But lies always had a price, and he had already owed so much to his own existence that he wasn’t sure he could afford more.
So, finally, he lifted his face and spoke, quietly, but with a new firmness:
"I can’t."
Those words fell into the air like a stone, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between them. Walburga did not move, but Regulus could see the cold gleam in her eyes, like a storm about to break. She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to decipher whether he was truly as foolish as he appeared.
Regulus stood there, head held high, even though the words forming in his throat were the last thread of courage he had.
"I can’t, mother. I can’t do this." His voice, though still soft, carried a determination he rarely showed. The pain in his body was a constant reminder, but the pain in his soul, caused by her, was even more suffocating.
"Do you dare challenge me?" she said, her voice now lower, but with an intensity that made it clear there was no room for doubt or disobedience. "Do you think you can decide what to do with your life? I created you, Regulus. You belong to me."
He remained firm, eyes lowered, but not faltering.
And then, without warning, she raised her hand. The sound of the impact seemed to explode in Regulus' ears, the pain cutting across his face with an intensity that blurred his vision. He barely had time to react before the second blow landed, faster, stronger.
Walburga narrowed her eyes, as if looking at him for one more second was a burden. Then, with a sharp motion, she raised her wand and pointed it at his face.
"If we were to divide the world between those whose absence would be a relief and those who still hold some value to remain here, there would be no doubt on which side you would fall. A failure so absolute that, to be honest, I’m surprised you still find reasons to keep breathing."
Regulus did not move. He did not respond. His chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm, but outwardly, he remained impeccable—the perfect Black son, standing exactly where he was meant to stand, even though he knew he would never again be seen as one.
But he did.
He kept breathing.
"Crucio!" Walburga shouted, her face red with rage. The curse hit Regulus with the force of a hurricane. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t stifle the scream that tore from his throat, shattering the air. His body was thrown back, muscles contorting in excruciating agony, as if every cell were being ripped apart, shattered. He felt his vision blur, the world around him dissolving into flashes of blinding light and oppressive shadows.
But even at the height of suffering, he refused to fall. Even as his flesh burned, his spirit remained, defiant despite the cruel reality of his situation. Regulus Black was not weak, no matter what his mother thought, no matter what his father and Sirius said. He wouldn’t let her see his weakness—not anymore.
The curse kept hammering, but Regulus, with the strength he had left, clung to one thing: silence. He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t going to surrender. He couldn’t. No matter how the pain tore him apart inside, no matter how much he wanted to disappear from his own skin—he couldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him succumb.
"You’ll never be good enough," Walburga said, her voice laden with contempt. "And if I had been stricter, maybe you would have understood that earlier. But now, all you are is a burden. A shame to our family, just like your brother."
Regulus clenched his fists against the floor, trying to anchor himself to something—anything—to stop his emotions from overflowing. But it was futile. The pain spread like cracks in a windowpane, shattering everything inside him, making it impossible to maintain the mask he had spent his life building.
"I’m not Sirius," he whispered, his voice hoarse, barely recognising its sound.
Walburga laughed, cold and empty. "No, you're not. At least he had the decency to leave once and for all, rather than pretending he still belonged to this family."
Regulus felt the blood pounding in his temples. His brother's name had always been a ghost haunting his existence, a constant reminder of what he could never be. Sirius was the fire that burned without fear, while he was the ash left behind. But it was funny, wasn’t it? In the end, both of them were doomed to be rejected.
"I’d rather you were like him," Walburga continued.
"At least we have one thing in common, besides fucking boys," he said with a crooked smile, "the incredible ability to despise people like you."
And without thinking, he spat directly in her face. The saliva hit Walburga’s skin, and for a moment she stood frozen, the shock quickly giving way to a deep, controlled rage. Her eyes burned with fury, and with unnerving calm, she ran her fingers over her face and wiped the insult away.
"I gave you a chance, Regulus. What you call love, desire, is nothing but a distraction from what truly matters. Your name, your lineage, your honour. But you preferred to lose yourself in your whims, as if you were more important than everything that has built your life."
Her lips formed the name of a spell he couldn’t process, but the effect was immediate. A wave of dizziness hit him, his body twisting, his senses lost in the confusion.
The world around him seemed to collapse, as if space itself were bending beneath his feet. He struggled to keep his eyes focused, but his vision grew ever more blurry, clouded by a pain that made no sense, a pain that went beyond the physical.
It was a pain in the soul, a complete sense of loss, as if something essential was being ripped from him. He tried to move, to fight whatever was invading his body, but whatever it was, it spread like fire through his veins, burning without flames.
His stomach twisted, empty, but at the same time so full of something dark and unknown that he couldn’t process it. Each breath was a painful effort, the air feeling denser, heavier, as if he were inhaling something poisonous. The pain pulsed deep in his chest, tightening his lungs, making him feel like he was sinking into a thick sea, where each attempt to breathe drowned him further.
He collapsed suddenly, as if every force that had kept him standing had been pulled from the depths of his bones. The impact was dull, a cold thud against the stone, but what truly hit him was the sensation that his body was no longer his. The pain that spread through his limbs was so intense that it felt like every muscle was being forced to stretch beyond what it should, an unbearable tension that made him scream without sound.
"Six months. That’s all you’ve got."
Regulus gasped, his hands trembling, and realised that his mother was smiling. A small smile, satisfied, something that didn’t even resemble triumph, but relief.
"Unless someone loves you," she said, almost casually, as if mentioning a trivial matter. Then, she laughed. A hollow laugh, cruel, full of bitter conviction. "And we both know that will never happen."
She didn’t wait for the answer she knew he wouldn’t give. She simply turned, the black folds of her robes swirling in the air, and left. Her laughter was the last thing he heard before the next curses hit his skin. He couldn’t tell if it was the impact of the magic or the curse itself, but he fell, and the last thing he saw before everything went dark was the cruel glint in her eyes.