𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐎 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒

𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 sat in the dim light of his bedroom, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and candle wax. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of ancient tomes and scrolls, the accumulated knowledge of the House of Black. He had spent countless nights poring over these texts, and now, finally, the truth lay before him like a coiled serpent.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle.” Regulus muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "The great Lord Voldemort, the pureblood savior, is nothing more than a halfblood pretender. A child born from the twisted union of Merope Gaunt and a muggle. How utterly pathetic."

He let out a bitter laugh, glancing at the collage of newspaper clippings adorning the wall. The masked of Death Eaters, their hidden eyes gleaming with fanaticism, stared back at him. His gaze drifted to the Dark Mark etched into his own skin, a symbol of allegiance to a lie.

"All this time.” He continued, his voice rising with intensity, "I’ve been serving the impure son of a muggle and crazed whore! And he dares to speak of purity?" He shook his head, the absurdity of it all washing over him in waves. "What a fool I’ve been."

Regulus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He paced the room, his mind racing, teetering on the edge of the madness that haunted his bloodline. "I can’t believe I was so blind.” He whispered to himself. "Following him like some obedient dog, worshipping his every word. I’ve been loyal, obedient, and for what? For a cause that’s built on lies? For a leader who’s nothing more than a charlatan?"

He stopped in front of the family crest, the noble emblem of his bloodline, and stared at it as if seeking answers. "What would you say, Mother?" He asked the air, his voice dripping with irony. "Would you still hold him in such high regard if you knew the truth? The House of Black, deceived by a filthy halfblooded pretender!"

Regulus clenched his fists, anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. "I should have seen it.” He spat, his voice thick with self-loathing. "All those whispers of power, the seductive allure of the Dark Arts. It was all a façade, built on lies and deceit."

He turned sharply, addressing the empty room with a dramatic flourish. “Did you think no one would uncover your secret? That your little trinkets would remain safely hidden while you played puppet master?” His eyes narrowed, a cold fire of determination burning within them. “I wonder how many pieces you’ve shattered your soul into, Tom. How many atrocities have you committed to keep yourself immortal?”

The shadows seemed to close in around him, the oppressive weight of dark magic pressing on his mind. Regulus’ voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, filled with raw intensity. “But you’re not immortal, Riddle. Just a coward, clinging to life with your pathetic tricks.”

His thoughts raced, a whirlwind of plans and possibilities. He could feel the madness of his bloodline tugging at the edges of his sanity, the corruption of dark magic gnawing at his mind. Yet, even amidst the chaos, clarity emerged.

“I’ll find them.” He declared, his voice a mixture of fierce resolve and quiet rage. “I’ll find your horcruxes and destroy them. I’ll be the one to end you, to expose your lies.”

The weight of his decision settled over him like a cloak, heavy yet empowering. Regulus straightened, a regal defiance in his posture. “You’ve underestimated me, Riddle.“

He moved to the window, staring out into the night. The world outside seemed so still, so unaware of the storm brewing within him.

“I’ll show them all.” He promised, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a final glance at the clippings and the family crest, Regulus turned away, his mind set on the path ahead. “This isn’t over, Tom.” He vowed, a chilling smile playing on his lips. “Not by a long shot.”

And with that, he vanished into the shadows, his heart pounding with the thrill of rebellion and the promise of retribution. The night was his ally, and he intended to use it to its fullest.

In the stillness of the night, 12 Grimmauld Place stood silent, its formidable presence casting long shadows across the empty streets. Regulus moved quietly through the ancestral home, every creak of the floorboards swallowed by the oppressive darkness. His parents were asleep, the house his domain for the time being. He ascended the narrow staircase to the attic, each step a journey deeper into the secrets of his family’s past.

The attic was a treasure trove of history, a chaotic collection of artifacts shrouded in dust and memories. Regulus set to work, his fingers deftly sorting through the clutter. Each item he touched seemed to whisper stories of generations past, tales of ambition and power, of loyalty and betrayal.

As he sifted through the remnants of his heritage, Regulus found himself lost in thought. He was Regulus Black, the spare turned heir—a role thrust upon him by circumstance and expectation. The loyal son, the obedient son, the perfect son. Everything his older brother was not. Sirius Black, the rebellious spirit, the unfaithful son who had turned his back on the family legacy. Yet, despite his disdain, Regulus couldn’t shake the shadow his brother cast.

Sirius had always been the rightful heir, the one meant to carry the family name forward. Even in his defiance, he embodied the fury of their bloodline, a fire that burned brighter than any star. Regulus, named after the lion,couldn't ignore the irony. Sirius was the bold and daring, knighted in ruby and gold, while Regulus was the prince, crowned in emerald and silver.

The weight of his lineage pressed heavily on Regulus, a constant reminder of his place in the world. He bore the family’s arrogance as if it were a cloak, wielding it with the same dramatic flair and indulgence as his ancestors. The doctrines of pureblood supremacy had been his lullaby, shaping his beliefs with an unwavering devotion to family and legacy.

Yet, despite all this, he wasn’t Sirius. The thought gnawed at him, a bitter truth he couldn’t escape. Sirius had chosen his own path, defied the expectations laid upon him. And now, here was Regulus, standing in rebellion against the very ideals he had been taught to uphold. It was a rebellion not unlike his brother’s, yet it was his own—a quiet revolution born of revelation and resolve.

Lost in these reflections, Regulus continued his search. His hands brushed against enchanted objects and cursed relics, each one a testament to the power his family wielded. Among them, he hoped to find something—anything—that could guide him to the horcruxes. The task he had set for himself was monumental, but the stakes were too high for hesitation.

As the hours slipped by, Regulus found solace in the quiet determination that filled the attic. The weight of his decision settled within him, a strange mixture of dread and exhilaration. He was no longer just the obedient son, nor merely the heir to the House of Black. He was now a seeker of truth, a hunter in the shadows, determined to dismantle the false god he had once revered.

The attic seemed to pulse with the energy of his resolve, the air thick with the promise of change. Regulus moved with purpose, a prince in his own right, his actions driven by an unwavering conviction. The night stretched on, the darkness a silent witness to his transformation.

As Regulus continued his feverish search, the air thick with dust and forgotten memories. His mind, a whirl of thoughts and revelations, barely registered the passage of time. The shadows deepened around him, yet he pressed on, driven by an unyielding determination.

Suddenly, with a soft pop, Kreacher appeared beside him. The ever-loyal house-elf peered up at Regulus with wide, worried eyes. “Master Regulus, Kreacher is concerned. Master Regulus have been here for days. Master Regulus has not eaten, slept, or drank anything.”

Regulus barely glanced at him, his voice sharp and impatient. “I’m fine, Kreacher. Leave me be.”

“But Master—”

“I said, leave!” Regulus snapped, his temper flaring. The madness clawing at the edges of his mind made his words harsher than he intended. “I don’t need you fussing over me.”

Kreacher’s ears drooped, his expression a mix of hurt and obedience. “Yes, Master Regulus.” He whispered before disappearing with a reluctant bow.

Regulus turned back to the clutter, his heart pounding with frustration. He knew he was teetering on the brink of madness, but he couldn’t stop now. Not when he was so close. He continued to sift through the artifacts, his movements frantic and unfocused.

In his haste, his hand brushed against a peculiar object. The world around him began to spin violently, a dizzying sensation pulling him from reality. He staggered, reaching out for something to steady himself, but found only empty air.

Then he was falling.

The sky rushed past him in a blur, the wind roaring in his ears. Panic surged through him as he tumbled through the air, the world a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. Regulus struggled to think, to focus, his mind a chaotic jumble.

His training kicked in, instincts honed through years of magical practice. With a desperate effort, he reached for his wand, fingers closing around it as he pulled it from its holster.

“Arresto Momentum!” He shouted, his voice nearly lost in the rushing wind.

The spell slowed his descent, the world around him steadying as he regained control. He landed with a heavy thud, the impact jarring but not disastrous. Groaning, Regulus pushed himself up, wincing at the ache in his limbs.

As he stood, he became aware of his surroundings. He was not alone. A group of people had gathered, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and surprise. Regulus straightened, brushing himself off with an air of dignity, despite the disarray of his appearance.

“Where am I?” He called out, his voice steady, betraying none of the confusion roiling inside him.

The onlookers exchanged glances, a murmur rippling through their ranks. Regulus waited, his patience thinning, until finally, a figure stepped forward, their eyes meeting his with a hint of challenge.

Yet before they could speak, Regulus’ vision swam again, the world tilting dangerously. He swayed, struggling to maintain his composure. Whatever magic had transported him here had taken its toll, leaving him on the brink of collapse.

Regulus blinked, trying to focus as the man before him began to speak. The words were lost in the pounding of his head, each syllable drowned by the relentless thrum of exhaustion and confusion. The world spun around him, and he struggled to maintain his footing.

Suddenly, a flash of green light cut through the haze—a spell Regulus recognized instantly.

The Killing Curse.

Instinct took over, and he dove to the side, the spell narrowly missing him. Panic ignited a fierce clarity within him, sharpening his senses despite the chaos in his mind. He didn’t know who this man was or why he was attacking, but the intent was unmistakable, he wanted Regulus dead.

Adrenaline surged through him, and Regulus retaliated, his wand moving with a fluid grace that belied his disoriented state. Spells erupted from his wand, a dazzling display of light and sound. His movements were wild, almost feral, driven by a primal instinct to survive.

The duel was a blur of motion and magic. Regulus fought with a manic intensity, his mind teetering on the edge of madness. His opponent was skilled, but Regulus’ raw power and desperation gave him an unpredictable edge. He dodged curses with an elegant fury, countering with spells that crackled through the air, each one a testament to his mastery of the dark arts.

The clearing became a storm of magic, the very air shimmering with the force of their clash. Regulus felt the familiar pull of his bloodline’s madness, the dark magic coursing through him like a living thing. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, a double-edged sword that pushed him beyond his limits.

Despite his instability, Regulus’ cunning and intelligence shone through. He feinted left, drawing his opponent’s attention, then struck with a curse that sent the man reeling. The momentary advantage was all he needed. With a final, decisive spell, he disarmed the attacker, the man’s wand flying into his free hand.

Regulus stood over his fallen adversary, chest heaving, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. The duel had taken everything he had, and as the adrenaline ebbed, he felt the crushing weight of fatigue settle over him. His vision blurred, the world tilting as darkness threatened to close in.

The onlookers, who had remained silent throughout the duel, watched with wide eyes as Regulus swayed on his feet. He tried to speak, to demand answers, but the words tangled on his tongue, lost in the fog of exhaustion. The edges of his vision darkened, and despite his fierce will, he felt himself slipping.

As he sank to the ground, unconsciousness pulling him under, the last thing he saw was the ring of faces surrounding him, their features a blur of curiosity and fear. The duel was over, but the battle within him raged on, a tumult of ambition and madness, light and shadow.

In that moment, Regulus Black, succumbed to the darkness, his mind a chaotic storm as he drifted into oblivion.