Regulus Black, Diary Entry, 3rd July 1978
Name: Regulus Black
Date: 3rd July, 1978
Format: Diary Entry
Relevance: Implies involvement in the abduction and torture of James Potter.
Blood. It’s always been about blood. His, pure as it may be, should have been a reminder of what he is, what his family stands for, and everything that he has done. Things I should have taken care to remember long before now. It should have made it easy. But no, of course not. Ever the contrary one, even when his very life is in danger. Instead he wore his blood like a badge: a reminder of his heart, not that which passes through it - that which we place so much value upon.
His blood should have been satisfying; punishment, perhaps, for those he is so faithful to. Instead it burned to even look at it, even though it was just a smear, not even my hand that spilled it. How ridiculous. It was blood magic, I’m sure of it. Dark magic to weaken the spirit and tug at the heart. They make such a show of protesting its use, but it must have been; why else would I flinch when I looked at him? I hate him for it: that I felt it at all, and that I feel it still, even though my hands are clean and the damp of the basement no longer stains my clothes. I burnt them all. Reminders of his blood, his love, which somehow withstood everything that was visited upon him. And it was for her. All for her. Such foolishness to expect anything else. And why would I? He disgusts me. I hate his blood and all its trickery. He can rot there with just his stupid, stubborn Gryffindor love for company, for all I care.
His blood and his love: they mean nothing to me. He deserved it. Whatever blood magic he might have cast, it has no power over me. I am not so weak.
I will go back and feel nothing.
Date: 3rd July, 1978
Format: Diary Entry
Relevance: Implies involvement in the abduction and torture of James Potter.
Blood. It’s always been about blood. His, pure as it may be, should have been a reminder of what he is, what his family stands for, and everything that he has done. Things I should have taken care to remember long before now. It should have made it easy. But no, of course not. Ever the contrary one, even when his very life is in danger. Instead he wore his blood like a badge: a reminder of his heart, not that which passes through it - that which we place so much value upon.
His blood should have been satisfying; punishment, perhaps, for those he is so faithful to. Instead it burned to even look at it, even though it was just a smear, not even my hand that spilled it. How ridiculous. It was blood magic, I’m sure of it. Dark magic to weaken the spirit and tug at the heart. They make such a show of protesting its use, but it must have been; why else would I flinch when I looked at him? I hate him for it: that I felt it at all, and that I feel it still, even though my hands are clean and the damp of the basement no longer stains my clothes. I burnt them all. Reminders of his blood, his love, which somehow withstood everything that was visited upon him. And it was for her. All for her. Such foolishness to expect anything else. And why would I? He disgusts me. I hate his blood and all its trickery. He can rot there with just his stupid, stubborn Gryffindor love for company, for all I care.
His blood and his love: they mean nothing to me. He deserved it. Whatever blood magic he might have cast, it has no power over me. I am not so weak.
I will go back and feel nothing.