Regulus removes his memories of James, because even the best Occlumens could not conceal a love that formidable. He intends to return to them. He does not make it. He leaves a letter to guarantee their destruction. Harry finds it twenty years too late.
‘No,’ This couldn’t be right. ‘No.’
Harry stood in front of the shimmering cabinet, the glow bathing the dark, dank basement of Grimmauld Place in a halo of light, refracting off of each shining surface, blinding. They looked wrong, unlike the others Harry had seen. Usually a cool white, iridescent, like tiny pools of trickling moonlight. These were warm, burning, blazing. Like being very close to a living star. Trying to catch it in your bare palms. He’d never seen memories so bright.
A letter sat on the handles on the cabinet. Coated in a fine layer of dust and addressed to nobody. Harry picked it up, slipped it open, eyes running over the elegant scrawl. An air or resignation to it. An edge of desperation.
I suppose I am dead. I cannot find it in myself to be surprised. Know that to me it was worth it.
I find assurance in the thought it will be you who discovers this, as you are not corrupted by sympathy for me. I trust you will do what is necessary. I have made my peace with the aftermath of my performance. This is to ensure my reasoning cannot be misinterpreted as an uncharacteristic outburst of courage or selflessness. Both peculiarities, as you well know, I do not possess.
Mother has a temper to match the Dark Lord’s wrath. Neither of them can learn of my plan, nor the reason for its conception. It is not safe to love him as loudly as he compels me to whilst they rifle through my mind in tandem. One cannot conceal an ocean of aching this vast, nor truly alter a mind forged so fiercely by longing. So here lies the graveyard of my love, each glass tombstone inscribed with another reason as to why I have made my choice. I endeavour to resurrect these memories, restore them to the waiting walls of my mind, or to join them in death. If you have discovered them, I have at least succeeded in the latter. Know it likely did not hurt. Removing them has left me hollow. I cannot feel even the sun upon my skin.
My intentions are entirely self-serving, and I harbour no shame about this. Though, for the first and final time, our interests line up faultlessly. So, I ask of you this: do not let him know. Allow him to believe whatever falsity has been shared. If not for me, for him. He must live if there is to be hope in this world. Him and the child.
Destroy the memories. Set the house aflame. Do whatever you must. Look after him, Sirius. Despite our hatred, keep my heart safe.
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