The Scars of Two Lives

1979

Love has a cost.

Regulus Arcturus Black II had learned that truth all too well.

He had loved his family—his name, his bloodline, even the ideals of purity and power that had been drilled into him since his childhood. He loved being respected despite the constant torture from his father. He loved being part of nobility despite the constant emotional abuse from his Mother. And he loved being the New Heir to The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black despite all the pain he felt when his brother, Sirius left.

That love had given him purpose, even though it was the kind of love that consumes you like poison. A love that twists you into something unrecognizable—a monster. Because it takes from you bit by bit until there’s nothing left but shadows of the person you once were. Regulus had thought that was what love was supposed to be—a price you paid with your soul. 

Love has a cost, after all.

Yet, he would later learn that there was another kind of love—quiet, safe, assuring, and pure love. One that is not built from pride and power but in care.

A pure yet forbidden love—still, a pure love nonetheless.

It was a love that didn’t demand—didn’t burn or consume. Instead, it lifted him and made him see the cracks in the ideals he had once held so tightly. It was a love that didn't seek to control, but rather to understand. A love that blooms with peace and beauty like a Flower, and a love that is as warm and comforting as the Sun. 

However, this love became tainted the moment Regulus took the Dark Mark. At first, he had told himself he didn’t care about love anymore, this was for power, for legacy, for his family. But deep down, he knew it had been for something. And it was for love, yet again—and a power to protect those he cared for. For his friends, for his brother, and for them.

And the cost? His soul

Regulus’s fingers trembled as he held the worn parchment once again, the edges frayed from countless times he had read it and traced it with his hands as though he could touch the person who wrote it. The letter was weeks old, written in hurried strokes, its ink slightly smudged from the tears Regulus had shed the night he first opened it.

My Dearest Starling,

I can hardly believe I am writing this, but I simply must share this incredible news with you.

You know how we’ve always talked about building a future beyond this war, beyond everything? Well, it’s starting to happen. Prongs and I are expecting!

It still doesn’t feel real, and every time I say it out loud, I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Prongs is over the moon, of course. I wish you could see the excitement in his eyes every time he talks about what it will be like to be a father. We’ve already started thinking of names— what do you think should we name them after? a star? a flower? Or just a common name just like their father? Well, I suppose we still have some time before that becomes an urgent matter.

Anyway, I wish you were here with us to share this moment. I know how complicated things are for you right now. The choices you made are not easy, and Prongs and I understand that, but please know if you need someone we are here, Starling. No matter what people say Prongs and I see the heart beneath the darkness in you, and we still believe in you. 

No matter what path you find yourself on, our love is always with you.

Always.

Take care of yourself, Starling. The world may be dark, but there is still light in the shadows.

With all my love,
Your Little Flower

The letter was signed with her codename to keep their identities hidden just in case the letter got intercepted. Regulus knew that this was his last time reading the letter, so he folded the letter carefully and placed it back in a box with the other letters he was too weak to send.

Regulus takes a deep breath, he knows what he had to do the moment he read the letter. He had to protect them, even if it meant putting himself in harm’s way. 

At that moment, he understood that love had a cost, and he was willing to pay for it.

Regulus walked through the hallway of Grimmauld Place. The house was quiet, as it often was now. Sirius had left years ago, and the emptiness he left behind had only grown heavier every day since.

He then saw his Mother, Walburga Black, sitting by the window, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The light from the setting sun slanted through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. She turned her head slightly, just enough to acknowledge his presence.

He stood there, frozen for a moment, before gathering his courage. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“I am leaving, Mother.” He said pausing for a moment. “The Dark Lord has a mission for me.” He lied.

Walburga’s eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication she had heard him. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "When will you be back?"

“I don’t know…” he answered. He was not even sure if he’d come back alive.

Walburga stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor and it made Regulus flinched. She stepped toward him, her eyes narrowing as she studied her son. For a moment, Regulus saw something flicker in those gray eyes—fear, care, or maybe anger? He was not sure. 

Then, just as quickly, her gaze turned back to the window, her reflection like a pale ghost in the glass. Regulus didn’t know what he had expected, but not this. Her voice was quieter, soft, and almost inaudible when she spoke again.

“You should’ve left with your brother.”

Regulus froze.

"What?" his voice cracked.

"It will be easier to mourn you both at once," she said, her tone hollow, as if the words were not her own. Her reflection stared back at him, her features distorted by the ripples in the window glass.

Suddenly, everything in the world felt unsteady, as if Walburga’s simple admission of vulnerability had cracked the foundation of everything Regulus thought he knew about his Mother. Walburga Black—the first woman who had taught him that power didn’t belong to men, but to those women with the will to wield it.

She after all had ruled over their family like a queen trapped in a burning castle, clinging to their old and sick pureblood tradition as though it were the only thing keeping the walls from crumbling in. Now, she was nothing but a Mother—a broken, tired, carrying the burden of a failed husband and the legacy of the House Black that had crumbled in her hands

“He abandoned me—Sirius abandoned me,” Regulus argued, his throat felt tight and sharp.

“We both know that’s a lie.” She said firmly, though her voice trembled a bit. “He loved you. He always did.”

Regulus froze again, her words striking him like a blow. She had never defended Sirius before. She had never even hinted at siding with her eldest son she had so thoroughly condemned. Not when his name was scorched from the family tapestry with her own hands. 

Regulus had really thought she had written Sirius off her mind—erased him like a mistake, but now he can see it. She hadn’t let him go. No, not really. His name might have been burned from the tapestry, but it lingered in the corners of her mind. Sirius, was afterall her favorite son.

"Mum…"

She stiffened, but she did not turn to face him. Regulus’s mind raced. Walburga loved them, but her love was laced with poison. Regulus knew that all to well. Her love came with conditions and expectations so heavy they crushed anything that didn’t fit the image she wanted. Sometimes Regulus wondered if she had ever truly seen him or Sirius as they were—as a son, or if she only saw them as reflections of her hopes, her fears, and her failures.

"I…" He took a shaky breath. "I’m sorry."

She said nothing, and he knew better than to expect an answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. At last, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving her alone with the fading light.

She wasn’t a villain, nor was she a saint. She was just a mother who had tried to love her children in the only way she knew how—a way that had left scars on all of them.

“Kreacher, I am ready.” Regulus finally called when he reached the kitchen where the elf usually stays, his voice barely above a whisper.

The house-elf appeared at once and held out its frail trembling arms. Regulus took hold of Kreacher’s hand, feeling the chill of his skin against his own. In a flash of elf magic, they apparate away, leaving the shadows of Grimmauld Place behind them.

In an instant, they materialized in a cave, cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of decay and dark magic. Regulus flicked his wand and cast Lumos, and the light revealed jagged rocks and murky water. 

“Master Regulus,” Kreacher’s voice trembled, breaking the silence. “Kreacher is afraid...”

“I know,” Regulus simply replied. “I am afraid too, Kreacher.” 

The cave was eerily silent as Regulus and Kreacher continued walking. Every step echoed, bouncing off the damp walls. The darkness clung to them like skin, and the only light was the dim, flickering glow of Regulus’s wand, casting elongated shadows over the uneven ground. 

Soon enough, they had reached a dead end—a wall that stretched high and wide. Though Regulus couldn’t help but notice magic pulsing from it was something ancient and dark—something his parents would’ve used to wards their belongings. Regulus could feel its hunger, the magic that demanded something from those fools who dared to cross. He knew what it wanted—the very essence of life itself. A sacrifice. Blood.

“Kreacher will do it, Master…” Kreacher whispered, picking up a stone with sharp edges. “Kreacher will open the way again like the Dark Lord had asked Kreacher…Kreacher will make sure Master Regulus can continue.”

“No, Kreacher,” Regulus said firmly, stepping forward and placing a hand on the elf’s arm before he could draw a blade. “I will do it.”

“But Master, Kreacher must—”

Regulus shook his head. “No, Kreacher.” With a deep breath, Regulus drew his wand and slashed it across his palm. Blood welled up quickly, he ignored the pain as he pressed his hand against the cold stone of the wall. He can feel the magic stir—accepting the offering. Slowly, a narrow passageway was revealed. 

“What happens next, Kreacher?”

“There’s a boat, Master. Kreacher remembers,” the house-elf said softly, his voice trembling. “The Dark Lord… he made Kreacher take it across.”

Kreacher then pointed a trembling finger toward the far side of the lake, where a small, barely visible island stood. In the center of the island was an altar—a stone basin, faintly illuminated by some unseen light source.

Regulus’s eyes gaze around, and sure enough, there is a small, rickety boat tied to the shore, half submerged in the murky water. It looked old, it looked like it would barely work. The boat creaked as they climbed in, and Regulus could feel that even this old boat had dark magic woven into it. It was designed for only one person at a time—another safeguard, another trap to guard the Horcrux. But with Kreacher being so small, and having elf magic different from the Wizarding kind—they were able to balance carefully, squeezing into the boat together.

As they approached the small island, Regulus could feel the magic intensifying, the pull of the Horcrux growing stronger. The boat came to a stop with a soft bump against the rocky shore. Regulus and Kreacher climbed out. The basin stood before them, its surface filled with a glowing liquid that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light. And Regulus knew what it was.

The Draught of Despair.

​​

“Kreacher,” he whispered, turning toward the elf, “I just have to drink this, yes?”

“Master Regulus, no—” the house elf pleaded, his voice shaking. “Kreacher will do it! Kreacher will drink, like before. Master does not have to suffer—Kreacher will take the pain!”

“No, Kreacher,” Regulus said firmly, stepping between the elf and the basin. “I cannot let you go through that again. It has to be me this time.”

Kreacher shook his head, tears spilling down his wrinkled cheeks. “But Kreacher does not want Master to feel such pain… Kreacher would rather—”

“Kreacher, Listen to me—whatever happens…you must make me drink the potion when I can’t—forced it upon my throat, I don’t care. No matter what I say, no matter how I beg. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Master Regulus. Kreacher understands…”

And with that, Regulus walked closely to the basin and drank.

Regulus’s first cry was for his Mother, Walburga. He sobbed asking for her to stop the pain from the potion, to take it away and soothe him, Next, he cried for his father, Orion. His voice, broken and hoarse echoed off the walls as he begged for his Father to save him from this cave. He begged for his parents—to protect him like a father would do—to soothe him like a normal mother would do. He begged and begged for them to love him as a son—not an Heir. Not a legacy. Just a boy. 

They were his parents. 

Then he cried for his friends. He cried for Pandora, his dearest friend, the one who always believed in him, even when he could not believe in himself. Then Barty—his best friend. Barty who had always been there the one who could make him smile. Then Evan—who is so much like him, so much that it hurt. Both heirs to legacies they didn’t want. Then he sobbed for Dorcas, the one who had tried to save him. The one who tried to save him but failed. He begged for their forgiveness. 

They were his friends.

Then came the most beautiful yet painful memories of all—the Flower and the Sun. He sobbed for the only two people who had made him feel truly alive, who had shown him a love that was pure and real. He begged for the Sun to be closer to feel its warmth and light, he begged for the Flower to bloom and grace him with hope and life. He sobbed to his knees and whispered a silent plea into the darkness. He begged for them to come and love him till his last breath.

They were his.

But the worst pain—the deepest cut—came last. His brother. Sirius. The one he had lost long ago, but the one whose approval he had always longed for, even now. He sobbed louder as he begged for his brother to come back, begged for his forgiveness, begged for him to save him, begged for his understanding, begged for his love again, and begged for Sirius to be proud of him—to see him not as the weak obedient boy who followed their parents. But as the man he was now—the man who had chosen to stand up and fight for what was right—sacrificing his life for the greater good. 

Regulus wanted Sirius to be proud of him—to see him now. He doesn’t care if future historians will interpret his death for glory—for redemption, he only cares for his brother’s love—for the love of the brother he had failed. Because Regulus knew it too. He might die as a hero, but he had never lived as one. 

"Siri... I—I'm sorry... Please, Siri..."

He was his Brother. 

His protector.

Suddenly, the pain and hallucination stopped and Regulus found himself on his knees, shaking as he gasped for breath and his face wet from tears. He wasn’t sure when or how he had stopped, but Kreacher must have been helping him finish the potion.

"Master Regulus is done now…" Kreacher’s voice cracked, “The locket, Master,”

The house-elf scrambled to his side, wide-eyed with terror, clutching the real locket in his small hands. With shaky hands, Regulus pulled one of the silver rings from his finger, his vision blurring a bit. He focused, summoning every last bit of strength he had left transfiguring the ring in his hand into a perfect copy of the Horcrux—he opened it and put a letter he had made earlier. 

"Kreacher… come here," Regulus rasped, his voice barely above a whisper,  "Take this… and leave the fake in its place.”

The elf obeyed and Regulus felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and he coughed, the dryness in his throat becoming unbearable. He crawled and instinctively dipped a hand into the lake, cupping it to his cracked lips.

He needs water. 

As he drank, a cold hand reached him out, its touch like ice against his skin. 

What the fuck?

His eyes widened as he realized what was happening. Emerging from the darkness of the lake was a….fucking inferi. Regulus cursed as if his life depended on it. He can see its movements—slow and unnatural, like marionettes on strings controlled by a puppeteer. Pale, lifeless skin glistened under the dim light, eyes—sunken and hollow—the blackness stared at him, and that sent shivers down his spine.

“Master the water!” Kreacher shouts. Regulus’s heart raced, pounding in his chest like a drum. Fear gripped him, choking any rational thought. 

He stumbled back as the Inferi advanced, their cold hands reaching out to him. He could see the outlines of their skeletal bony fingers and the flesh hanging loosely from their bones.

Regulus grabbed his wand using his remaining strength to blast off different spells he knew—but it was not working, the inferi were too many and he was too tired. He can feel his magic weakening because of the potion. 

“Fuck….Kreacher!” Panic surged within him, “Listen to me, the Dark Lord must never know the Locket has been taken. You are not allowed to tell what I’ve done—not to Mother, not to Father, understood?"

“Yes, Master Regulus,” Kreacher’s lip trembled. “Master, we must go now before the—No! Master!”

Regulus felt more cold hands of the Inferi reach him now, grasping at his legs, and pulling him toward the edge of the lake. And fuck there was no time left. “You have to go, Kreacher,” he told the elf. “Take it and… destroy it!”

“Kreacher will do it,” he whimpered, Kreacher held him trying his best to pull him away from the inferi. But Regulus removed his frail hands and let go. “Kreacher will destroy it… but Kreacher can’t leave Master behind… please… Master, no…”

Regulus, now waist-deep in the water struggling from the inferi as he shouts. “It’s an order, Kreacher! Go, now!”

And with a loud crack, Regulus released a weak smile. It was done. This was the end. This is his end.

Regulus loves the water.

When he was 6 and his brother was 7, their summers were spent at the Black family’s manor in France near the sea. He and his Brother would always rush down to the beach whenever their parents weren’t looking. They’d swim for hours, carefree and laughing, diving beneath the gentle waves, the salt clinging to their curls. Regulus had always loved how the water made him feel weightless—and free. 

Funny how he was drowning in the very thing that he loved.

Regulus finally tipped his head backward, letting himself sink further and accepting the darkness. He didn’t move—he didn’t fight, he let himself get dragged by the cold hands of inferi. The rotting flesh brushed against his own, bony fingers that pulled him deeper with each movement—sharper and much more painful than the last. Slowly, the world around him blurred into darkness. His lungs screamed for air, and he could feel the anxiety tugging at his skin. Fuck, I am going to die, he thought to himself as panic surged through his veins. He opened his mouth, trying to scream one last time, but no sound came—only bubbles, rising uselessly to the surface. 

He’s drowning.

He’s dying.

He’s dying alone.

Dying under the darkness.

Regulus wants the Sun.

Regulus wants his Little Flower

Regulus wants his stupid Big-brother

But he can’t because Regulus is finally dying.

I tried, he whispered to himself as he closed his eyes, finally succumbing to his death.

In the night sky, the star in the heart of the Lion—flickered weakly, and slowly the light seemed to fade. For a moment, it seemed as though the lion's heart would be extinguished forever. But from the earth, even without rain—a lightning bolt suddenly struck and tore through the heavens. As if fate itself refused to let the star die. 

Somewhere after three weeks in Caithness, Scotland. Potter Manor stood and inside it was the Sun and the Flower mourning for their Star.

Heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black Pronounced Dead

Regulus Arcturus Black II, the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and the son of Lord Orion Black and Lady Walburga Black is pronounced dead at the tender age of only 18 years old. 

His parents, Lord and Lady Black, have issued a brief statement expressing their sorrow for the death of their only son, but have refrained from commenting on the events leading to his death, requesting a need for privacy during this tragic time. The Black family has announced that they will be holding a private funeral in the upcoming week with close relatives and friends.

With his death, at such a young age the Wizarding Community is left reflecting on the bright future that Regulus Arcturus Black II had ahead of him, and the legacy he leaves as a student, as a friend, and as a son.

Her fingers trembled as she read the article, and her hand clenched the paper tightly. She turned slowly to him, tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t find her voice. She can’t talk. 

"Lils?" he asked, noticing her silence. "What is it?"

He took the Prophet from her, his brow furrowing in confusion. He skimmed the headline, and in an instant his expression changed, his face falling as his eyes raced over the words. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“No..." he whispered, his voice breaking. The paper slipped from his hands as he fell on the floor, his breath coming in shallow gasps. "No... no, he—" The words caught in his throat, and suddenly, the weight of it all crashed down. He lowered his head into his hands, shoulders shaking as the grief rushed from him. "Reg… he can’t—he’s only eighteen…Lily, he can’t be dead, right? He can’t…He can’t leave us…”

The Flower stood frozen for a moment, watching her Sun. 

She was still processing her own grief. But then, she heard it—a sound she rarely heard from him. He was sobbing. The Sun was grieving.

It was quiet at first, almost like a gasp. But it grew and turned into raw and guttural, a sound of pure grief that would shock anyone who knew the Sun—-the Sun who always finds a way to smile, but not at this moment, and she understands because the Star just died. 

He was screaming, he was begging some God to bring him back and in that moment, something inside her broke. She felt her knees give way, and she collapsed beside him on the floor, her sobs rising to meet him.

“Please…Lily, tell me it’s not real…he can’t die—he can’t… tell me… please…”

She could barely process the news. No, she refused to process the news—he can’t be dead. He can’t be because she’d felt it. He’d felt it. They’d both felt it.

The Lion would’ve felt it if the Star in its heart was dead.