magic of time
My head pounds relentlessly, each throb a drumbeat in a dark symphony. My vision swims, veiled by a cloudy haze that turns the world into a shadowy dreamscape. Blood trickles steadily, staining my awareness with its silent persistence, yet I feel no pain. Should I be alarmed by this numbness? A whisper of foreboding stirs within me, suggesting this could lead to trouble later. But now, I shove that thought aside; the present demands my attention.
I glance around. The air is warm, a faint echo of comfort, and I recognize my surroundings—my room. It feels oddly unfamiliar, as though I've been gone too long. But where had I been? The memory escapes me, slipping through my grasp like sand. Curiously, I’m not unsettled by the void in my mind. It feels... insignificant, like a puzzle piece I don’t care to find.
I rummage through the drawers, hoping for answers. My fingers brush against a photograph. I pull it out, studying the image. There we are—me and... my brother. No, not just my brother. Sirius. I can almost hear his name echoing in my mind, a mixture of warmth and unease. I must have been eight, and Sirius, a lanky teenager with that ever-present, mischievous grin.
In the photo, I look small and frightened, my face pale as I peer into the lens of a Muggle contraption. Sirius, of course, finds my fear amusing, his smirk frozen in time. He must have dragged me into this—his idea of fun. The memory flutters just out of reach, but the emotions remain vivid, tugging at something buried deep.
I couldn’t quite place the context of that photograph with my brother. Why was I even obsessing over such a trivial image? My gaze swept the room, searching for some clue, some anchor to its significance, but everything appeared perfectly ordinary. Frustrated, I abandoned the room, descending the staircase that spiraled me into the heart of my family’s legacy.
The walls, as ever, were adorned with the solemn faces of my ancestors—members of the ancient and noble House of Black. Each portrait seemed to echo fragments of those who walk among us today. My attention was drawn to Capella Black, a formidable figure whose life had ended in tragedy. She had fallen from a cliff during a duel, a dramatic and ignoble end. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to her cousin Bellatrix, though Bellatrix carried a more menacing glint in her eyes.
Setting aside my morbid fascination with these familial echoes, I reached the foot of the stairs, where my mother awaited me. Walburga Black stood there, silent and still, her expression unnervingly unreadable. For once, there were no cutting remarks, no caustic reprimands. Just silence. And somehow, that silence was more oppressive than any tirade she could have unleashed.
Deciding that lingering would yield no answers, I called for Kreacher, our ever-loyal house-elf. When he appeared, my concern deepened. He looked frail, his small frame trembling as though he bore the weight of an unseen burden. His haggard state alarmed me, for such a condition in a house-elf often signified an unnatural strain on their magic. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.
He guided Kreacher to the kitchen, a sanctuary untouched by his mother’s domineering presence, and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"What’s happening, Kreacher?" he asked, his tone a mix of concern and impatience.
Kreacher’s large eyes filled with tears as he reached into his tattered apron and produced a silver and green medallion, its surface pulsing with an ominous, dark magic.
"Master Regulus," Kreacher croaked, his voice trembling with emotion. "You got it... the medallion."
The sight of it struck Regulus like a thunderclap, unleashing a flood of memories. Images of a shadowy cave, the icy grip of Inferi, and the desperate struggle for survival surged through his mind, leaving him momentarily breathless. Stammering, he managed to ask, "How... how did I escape the Inferi alive? I was certain it was impossible."
Kreacher’s reply was resolute, his voice tinged with fierce loyalty. "Kreacher would never abandon Master Regulus in that cave. Kreacher did his duty, as a house-elf should."
Regulus nodded, the weight of those words sinking in. "Very well, Kreacher. Hand me the medallion. I need to analyze it and find a way to destroy it."
Kreacher hesitated for a moment before placing the medallion into a box crafted from an unfamiliar, glimmering stone, then passed it to his master. "Of course, Master Regulus."
With the pieces of his fragmented memory falling into place, Regulus realized the medallion’s sinister nature. Determined, he decided to scour the library for answers—a way to destroy the shard of the Dark Lord’s soul embedded within the locket.
The library felt like a forgotten relic of another era. Dust coated the shelves, and the air was thick with the scent of old parchment. Regulus set the medallion on a table, its presence almost suffocating in the confined space. He did the most logical thing first: he opened the locket.
The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. A surge of concentrated magic erupted from within, blinding him with a searing light. The power overwhelmed his senses, and darkness consumed him.
---
When he awoke, he found himself sprawled in a damp, shadowy alleyway. His head throbbed with a migraine so fierce it felt as though his skull might split. Clutching his wand and the medallion, Regulus struggled to his feet, his disoriented gaze falling on a crumpled newspaper at his feet.
He picked it up, brushing off the grime, and skimmed through its pages. Most of it was meaningless gossip, until his eyes landed on the date printed boldly at the top: August 20, 1943.
His breath hitched. The weight of that revelation pressed down on him, leaving him to grapple with the impossible. He had traveled through time.