BORN TO DIE | R. Arcturus Black

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Chapter Seventeen: Regulus 'A Tragedy' Black

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Like an unstoppable wildfire, Janet Lupin spread over acres, hellish flames devouring everything in their path. But where Janet was heat and destruction, Regulus Black hummed the melodies to cold and death. Like a blizzard that lashes out with icy snow daggers, his presence swept away hope and replaced it with unrelenting fear, casting an endless night of despair.

But even though the wrath of a blazing inferno was relentless and destructive, there was a strange comfort to its warmth and light. From a distance, it was almost beautiful, as if the chaos and fury were a necessary part of the natural order. And yet, even in the midst of winter's relentless, desolate darkness, there was still a sense of grandeur and majesty. The snow-covered landscapes, the glittering stars that splattered like paint across a clear night sky, and the delicate dance of winter ice all held a beauty of their own.

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From the moment he entered a room, like a great general planning his next battle, Regulus studied the people around him, analyzing their moves and carefully considering his own. To him, life was a game of chess, and he was always several moves ahead of the enemy. It was a skill that he had honed from a young age, studying every detail, every nuance, every micro-expression all that might reveal an opponent's secret.

He was a Black, after all, and as such, he was born to win.

He favoured it this way, always in control, always in charge. He believed that everyone had a role to play, but it was up to each individual to choose what role they would take on. And he had taught himself to be whatever he needed to be to succeed.

He could be the pawn, the knight, the rook, the king, and even the queen - whatever role he needed to fill to get what he wanted. Just as a soldier cannot put his complete faith in one sword, neither would Regulus put his trust in a single strategy.

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Regulus sat silent, his gaze distant and unfocused, as his family gathered around him. The chatter of the drawing room seemed to echo in his ears, as if he were underwater and every sound was muted. He could hear every word, every laugh, every slight shift in the chairs, but it all blended together into a muffled roar that left him feeling restless and out of place.

All he could think about was the wrecking ball that had consumed his life, the endless heat and flames that threatened to burn him to his very core.

She had come into his life out of nowhere, like an unexpected guest at a party he had no interest in attending. The young orphan girl with no memories was a story he refused to believe. She was too intellectual - he'll give her that -, too cunning. If she hadn't been who she was, he might have considered her a worthy ally, perhaps even a friend. 

But as it stood, there was a barrier between them that he couldn't ignore, over a distance that he couldn't bridge. And yet, there was something about her that he couldn't neglect, an allure that he couldn't resist.

He was dragged out of his musings when his grandfather, Arcturus, slammed the daily paper down on the table with a thud. "Nonsense," the elder Black patriarch muttered angrily, shaking his head. "These mudbloods interfere in wizarding politics. It's a total disgrace."

"The other day at the club, Abraxes was telling me how Harold Minchum wanted to look into investing in the representation of muggle-borns in the Wizengamot," His father added, his tone making it clear on his view of the idea.