I walked past the family tree, for the last time.
It stretched across the wall in an ancient sprawl of silver and gold, each name stitched with a precision that belied the brutality behind it. The history of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, preserved in silk and magic, woven with centuries of expectation.
Two names were missing.
Andromeda's—burned away for the crime of love.
Sirius'—obliterated in an explosion of fury, for daring to run.
I had been here the night he left. I had watched, frozen in the doorway, as Mother screamed herself hoarse, as Father sat in silence, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, as Kreacher tried in vain to calm her rage.
I had said nothing.
I had believed, then, that Sirius was a fool. That he had thrown away everything—his family, his legacy, his place in the world—for nothing. That he was selfish for leaving me behind.
"You don't even see it, do you?" he had spat at me, his face twisted in fury. "This family—this name—it's a cage, Reg. And you're locking the door yourself."
I had thrown his words back at him. Called him a traitor, a disgrace, just as Mother had. And yet, standing here now, I could not help but wonder—had he been right?
What did it mean to be a Black?
We were meant to be powerful. We were meant to be great. And yet, here we were, bowing before a madman who had carved away his soul, piece by piece, until nothing remained but hunger and shadow.
And I had followed him.
Not out of fear—at least, not at first.
I had wanted to believe.
I remember my Sorting. The cheers when the Hat had barely touched my head before declaring, Slytherin! My first night in the common room, surrounded by the gleam of green and silver, the murmurs of welcome, the warmth of belonging. I had felt chosen.
Sirius had sulked at the Gryffindor table, his shoulders hunched like a storm cloud. I had met his glare across the Great Hall, lifted my chin, and let my robes swish behind me as I took my place at the Slytherin table. I had been proud.
I had been naive.
It was easier, then, to see the world in absolutes. To believe that strength was the only currency that mattered, that purity of blood was more than just a convenient lie. That power meant control, and control meant freedom.
I believed it still, even in my third year, when Lucius Malfoy had pulled me aside after a Quidditch match, his hand firm on my shoulder.
"You'll be great one day, Regulus," he had told me, his pale eyes sharp with something like approval. "The Dark Lord values those who understand what must be done."
I had been proud. Had basked in the weight of his words, in the promise of something more.
By my fifth year, I had made my choice. I had spoken the oaths, felt the fire of the Dark Mark sear into my skin. I had whispered the promises, believed in the cause.
It had all felt so certain, so inevitable.
How easy it had been to mistake a gilded cage for a throne.
Uncle Alphard had been the first to warn me.
"You think being a Black means following rules written in stone," he had said one evening, sipping firewhisky as he watched me practice my dueling stances in the drawing room. "But maybe it just means knowing when to break them."
I had frowned at him, lowering my wand. "That's what Sirius says."
He had laughed, dry and bitter. "Smart boy."
I had bristled. "Mother says he's a disgrace."
"Your mother says a great many things."
I hadn't understood, then. Not really.
I had thought Alphard was a coward, soft and bitter from his exile, too weak to hold onto his place in the family. It was not until years later—too late—that I realized he had been the only one who had truly been free.
The realization came in pieces.
The first crack formed the day I saw what the Dark Lord was willing to do for power. When I stood before a screaming Muggle woman in a darkened forest, her blood splattered across my robes, and felt nothing but a hollow sort of nausea curling in my gut.
Another came when I saw how easily my supposed "brothers" discarded the weak, when they laughed at suffering, when they fed on pain like leeches.
The final crack, the one that broke me entirely, came when I saw the Horcrux.
I had thought the Dark Lord immortal. Had thought him greater. But the thing he had made—things, I corrected myself, because I knew now it was not just one—it was not greatness. It was not power. It was fear. It was weakness.
He had not transcended death. He had fled from it, gnawed away at his own soul in terror of what lay beyond. And I had followed this? Had placed my faith in this?
It made me sick.
I had dreamt once—naively, foolishly—of what my future might be.
A wife of noble blood, perhaps. A son to carry on the Black name.
But not like this.
Not in a world where my son would be forced to bow before something less than human. Not in a world where he would be told that servitude was power, that cruelty was strength, that hatred was a virtue.
Had Sirius ever dreamt of a family? Of a son?
Would he have raised him with love instead of expectation? Would he have given him freedom instead of a name heavy with chains?
I would never know.
And my own son—if such a thing had ever been possible—would never exist at all.
The Black line ended with me.
By dawn, I would be nothing but another scorched mark on this tapestry.
Mother would weep, but not for me. Not for her son. She would grieve only for the legacy I had betrayed.
I wondered who would burn my name away. Would she do it herself, fingers trembling over her wand? Or would she order Kreacher to do it, as if my death were just another stain to be scrubbed from the floors?
It did not matter.
I reached out, fingers grazing the embroidered names, following the path of silver thread. I traced my own, Regulus Arcturus Black, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest.
I had wanted to be great.
I had wanted to be more.
Perhaps, in the end, this was the only way.
I let my hand drop.
And I turned away, for the last time.