The Black Heir

Prologue

Prologue

August 22, 1972

Diagon Alley

London, England

When Lily was twelve-years-old, she had met a boy. A spectacularly beautiful boy with the most lonely heart she had ever seen. There were scars left unseen behind his dark-gray eyes, scars he did not wish for anyone to know, lest of all his brother. He carried himself with an elegance only those of the upper-class knew how to, spoke like he was a character in those trashy, historical romance books her mother liked to read — when their mother wasn't looking, she and Tunia often sneaked and stole the book away for a good, brief read.

He was so awfully polite. So polite that she wondered if he was even capable of the rudeness most people are capable of. Lily thought not. His each word was carefully chosen. There wasn't a single word that he found unnecessary. Lily could not help but to think that if she had been anything like Petunia, she would have surely thought she had just found her prince charming. He was so perfect. Even though she had only known him for a mere five minutes, Lily could tell that much. It bothered her greatly. For, Lily knew the only reason people tried to appear perfect was because they had secrets to hide, the things that made him less perfect than he appeared to be. Perhaps those secrets had something to do with the scars that clearly laid within his skin. Perhaps those scars were his secret. Lily would not know. She never had any secret to hide.

"I am Regulus, by the way." There was that smile again. The smile that clearly indicated that despite his appearance, he was nothing but a trouble. Lily had a feeling they would get along just fine.

"I am Lily." She smiled back, and the hand that grasped her own was both bigger and softer than she could have possibly imagined. "Lily Evans."

July 31, 1980

The Longbottom Residence

England, London

Truth to be told, unlike her sister who had already thought of and imagined her entire family by the time she turned eleven, Lily had never envisioned herself as someone who would be someone's mother. She didn't think of herself as the type. But the minute her son opened his green eyes from across the bed they both laid in, Lily couldn't help but to think that the entire reason she was even alive to begin with, was to give birth and to mother this painfully, familiar looking dark-haired boy.

His father may not be alive enough to be there for him — she would forever curse the gods for having taken him away from her welcoming embrace — but she was here, and that should be more than enough to have him live a peaceful, ordinary life. Except, of course, who was she even kidding here? He wouldn't have an ordinary life even if he wished to. He was a Black. It was simple as that. They didn't have the fancy to afford a simple, meaningless life. Besides, they were in the middle of a freaking, bloody war. She wasn't living a fairy tale here. Chances that she would get herself brutally murdered were quite high, much to her misfortune. And though Frank — Regulus had always called him Francis despite how many times the older boy had asked him again and again to call him Frank — and Alice may try to reassure her they would never let anything of the sort happen, but that was a promise none can afford in those times, was it not? Nobody can predict the future. Except maybe the seers. All she could hope to do was try not to anger anyone, not fall into anyone's radar. It was the only way she could hope to survive.

"Have you decided on the name?" Alice asked her as she sat on the edge of the bed with an uncharacteristically sweet-looking smile as her gaze fell upon her dark-haired son. Neville was nowhere to be seen. She must have left her son with the father. "As I find, the name is quite essential."