Memories
Corvus Regulus Black was born on the 30th of November 1979 on a particularly frigid Friday night to Walburga and Orion Black. The latter dying later the next month of the 21st of December of the same year.
His completely ordinary circumstances of birth meant he was completely out of the question for that silly little prophecy that had been floating around the dark lord’s inner circle, born nowhere near July and to parents who were frankly too busy stewing in their own problems to defy any lord. Entering the war-torn society at its peak of bloodlust was a perfectly acceptable reason for his mother to keep his existence quiet and would satisfy even the most extreme cauldron-stirrers of the wizarding world – after all, his mother had just lost her last son that very year! She had a right to be cautious!
Walburga caressed the precious documents with her fingers as a wide grin stole its way across her exhausted complexion. Indeed she had a right to be cautious, Harr- no, Corvus’ identity needed to be flawless enough to pass the scrutiny of ministry officials and conniving old men with noses far too large for their own good – had they been any other family they might have gotten away with a simple birth certificate, wizards weren’t known for their filing systems for a reason, but Corvus is to be the only heir to the house of Black. Once the news breaks the world will start to panic and plot around his existence, the saviour to house they thought they had escaped from. Walburga’s grin turned manic, the files now crinkling in displeasure from her crushing grip.
No, you cannot get rid of us that easily.
Still cackling like a manic jackal finding its next meal, she ran over her and Arcturus’ carefully curated plan in her mind over and over – everything had to be perfect for her little boy. There were still many things that needed to be tidied away for her child’s grand entrance, his pathetic little muggles needed their plain little memories ‘rearranging’ and the fact remained that they needed a way to complete the adoption ritual so Corvus could fully shed his skin and bloom into the beautiful heir she knew he could be. Sirius had started the ritual, so he needed to end it – there was only a slight problem with the fact that her son was currently imprisoned for life in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, but it was nothing she couldn’t work around. Restless now, she rose and strode up and down the lonely halls of her home, still painfully and intricately woven with the memories of a time of pain and fear, a time of anger and grief. A time of regret.
She opened and closed doors to observe the mess of dust covers and macabre decorations stored haphazardly and without care for their worth, she opened warded draws just to watch the violent displays of defensive magic protecting non-sensical objects from at least two generations ago – their owner’s long since aged and dead, and she tidied up the more dangerous objects scattered throughout unused guestrooms and dusty nurseries alike – she wouldn’t want Corvus hurting himself under her watch now would she?
But she still felt restless, she was missing something.
Her strained steps led her to the imposing closed door of the tapestry room, it seemed to tower over her, insistent that she face what she has ran from all these years. Shaking like a new-born foal trying to understand its world with fresh and bloody eyes, her skeletal fingers ghosted over the ornate doorknob, mocking her as she grasped its sharp silver edge like a warrior lost on the battlefield. It opened without a sound, welcoming her.
Look at what you have done. Look at what you need to do.
She listened, drawn in by whispers she should question yet deep down she knew they were right. Dust plumed from carpets waiting for her arrival, cold morning light stretched spindly fingers across the room caressing its centrepiece like a mother does to a child she loves. The tapestry hung before her, a list of her sins.
Andromeda. A day she could remember with cruel clarity, whispering the words of murdering ministers in Cygnus’ ear to give his daughter a piece of his mind, show her she should regret the day she laid eyes upon that filthy boy.
Sirius. He never knew what was good for him, always defied her rule, made her blood boil and thicken, stopping up the passage of her remorse. They were always far too similar for their own good.
Alphard. Her own brother. A perfect victim for her rage still simmering and volatile, in the wrong place at the wrong time helping the wrong son. Her anger did not care for who it struck, only that is struck true and deadly.
All that is left for her to grieve their absence is the charred remains of enchanted string, a shrine to misery and betrayal. Tracing their burnt bridges with lace gloves riddled with holes, she fell down never-ending pits of memories and remorse for the many arguments, curses and last goodbyes spoiled with hate. Her trembling hand paused over one name that widened the devastating cracks in her once impenetrable dam.
Regulus Arcturus Black
1961-1979
Flashes of that torturous night flash through her heart and mind, the worrying over her last shred of hope missing from home, the anger as she became convinced that he had run away – defied her, abandoned her – just like his brother, the rage as she tore towards the tapestry room – wand in hand – ready to bring down her lash of retribution upon the only one of her family she had come to love.
The strange emptiness as she looked into his fabric eyes just to see that he wasn’t living a new life, he wasn’t free. He was gone. Gone just like that.
All that pain was for nothing, years of fighting and clawing at each other’s faces and hearts and it was all for nothing. She would never get to see Regulus grow out of the boy he died as, never see him succeed and flourish like he deserved. But fate didn’t think he even deserved a proper burial, forcing her to weep over his mere memory in that cursed casket. It mocked her, this house hated her – defiler, unworthy and bringer of ruin – too blinded by her desire for control over her own miserable life that she tried to turn her precious sons into mechanical puppets, empty shells of life, something that would finally listen to her. But when did she delude herself into thinking a Black would ever let themselves be controlled?
Blacks were wild, bursting at their very seems with ambition and old magic thought as long since lost – with minds meant for plotting schemes like omnipotent Gods and blood that ran thicker than scorching lava. Cold, aloof and arrogant; or were they simply just superior? A thousand years of cultivated wealth and knowledge bestowed upon minds not yet knowing of a world beyond their parent’s embrace – containing magic so savage and vicious they appear to be children possessed by fallen angels wishing their home of hell upon earth.
And she tried to smother such beauty, tried suffocating the wildness in these gifts from Lady magic herself to conform to the confines of her twisted mind. It was painful, it frightened her the way she could hear the memories of her own voice spewing slander and blasphemies at her own expense. She was a fool, and should she make the same mistake twice she would revoke her right as a witch.
She would do it right this time or die trying.
“Mother?” She took a deep breath and tore herself from the excruciating torture of her own mind, schooling as soft a smile as she could manage, she turned around to face her means of redemption – her little boy, her son.
Corvus was peeking around the door of the tapestry room, eyeing its ancient splendour with eyes filled with love a child may only hold for sweets and chocolate, he was dressed smartly In Sirius’ old robes that she had never gotten around to burning – his rambunctious curls laying semi-tamed thanks to the help of several hair-care and hair-growth potions that left it reaching down past his shoulders to his back. But more importantly, he had gained a healthy rose colour to his now full cheeks, the life of neglect and abuse at the hands of ignorant muggles evaporating off his being at the first chance of care and kindness. It had been just over a week since she liberated him from that horrific life of servitude to beings lesser than him, and she was glad to see that he had taken to his new life like a duckling does to water – of which he greatly resembled with his wide eyes and puffy hair – and he took his discovery of magic in an even greater stride. Within two days he had already broken into the extensive black library without any of them noticing, his plot was only discovered when Kreacher found him napping amongst his stolen books in a well-hidden alcove, and Walburga couldn’t be more proud.
He puffed his little chest out and straightened up to his full and very modest hight as if he had heard her own thoughts, “Can I go in the garden today?”, Ah that’s why, If he did not want to frolic around the cursed shelves of the library, he wanted to play amongst the exotic, man-eating plants that dominated the small patio garden housed within Grimmauld place; a place so hazardous that even Walburga refused to venture into without Kreacher there to carry a multitude of antidotes.
She tried not let her apprehension leak into her already uncertain voice, “Hmm, maybe later today Corvus, I have some important business I need to attend to.” He immediately drooped like a kicked crup while Walburga mentally kicked herself and placated him with whispered promises she was sure to regret later.
Yes, she had important business to do, or more accurately, to see.
Azkaban was icy, as always, the taciturn tower keeping its unwilling subjects contained with battered and harsh walls. The muggles used to say that the ninth circle of hell was frozen, and if it truly was Sirius must surely already be there.
His lungs felt painfully constricted by the cold air that forced its way in and barbed and tore at his airways, his was forced to watch as his body deteriorated and rotted before his very own eyes, and he could feel every slip and stumble of his mind as it slowly but surely fell into the depths of despair and madness.
He was colder now, the dementors were nearby.
He drew into himself, like a child beaten by his surroundings and forced to search inward for comfort – but there was no comfort for him to find. Reeling still from the cold-hearted betrayal of a man he helped shape, helped ties his shoelaces, helped him do his homework, helped to ride his first broom – and who paid him back with a knife jammed in from behind and straight through his heart. He sure knew how to pick them.
His mind was in shambles, in ruin, but it didn’t bother him as long as he stayed as a dog, as long as he ignored its crushing weight. A dog’s mind was simple, it didn’t understand the complexities of his damnation – of a betrayal on all and every side to those he trusted and to the very laws that were supposed to protect the innocent. But he wasn’t innocent, was he? He had arrived at that cursed alleyway – hands and robes still stick with blood from cradling the cold corpse of what had once been James, his first friend, his brother – and the only thing on his mind was ripping every paw and tail from that traitorous little rat and revelling in his gushing blood and his screams of anguish and repentance that would surely follow. But the rat wasn’t finished, no, if a Black was powerful then a Pettigrew was patient. He was doomed the second he left Harry behind to pursue pointless revenge, he fell right into his trap.
The cold was becoming unbearable.
The dementors were here. Why?
Why did you leave him behind?
Why did you fall for his pathetic plots?
Why didn’t you listen to Lilly?
Why did you kill them?
He clutched at his ringing skull with skeletal hands, groaning as his mind tore itself apart beneath his fingers. But through the haze of torture and voices who only linger to torment his sleep, he made out a face behind his bars, veiled, but the air of haughtiness and cruelty was unmistakeable – he laughed, a twisted and shrill shriek not unlike the woman’s before him. Yes, fate was especially cruel today.
He managed to command his failing voice box to at least give him one pleasure in life before it was all ripped away from his very soul once more.
“Fancy seeing you here – mother.”