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HOGWARTS: REGULUS LORD OF THE STARS
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American Horror: Grind Edition
Crystal chandeliers hung upside-down from the ceiling. White porcelain cups caught the candlelight in soft reflections.
Three wizards and one house-elf sat around the long table. When they bowed their heads, faces fell into shadow beyond the reach of the lamps. Behind the hall curtains came faint rustling—foxes and rats slipping through the gloom.
No one spoke for a long time. The silence carried a quiet sorrow.
Dumbledore leaned close to the locket, studying it without his half-moon spectacles. "Admirable. A Death Eater who discovered Voldemort's secret… yet Regulus refused to join the corruption. Instead he struck back—with his life, with courage—making the Dark Lord mortal once more."
"Idiot!" Sirius snarled, wiping tears with the back of his hand. "Why drink the poison himself to swap the locket? Did he think no one else could handle Voldemort?"
"Idiot! Always an idiot!"
As the brother of the hero, he clearly couldn't accept such praise—couldn't accept the action at all. He sat at the head of the table, shoulders shaking.
Sirius Black—the family traitor, the "spawn of evil" in his parents' mouths—had spent his life despising every other Black. Stubborn. Decadent. Rotten.
He'd lived with that resentment for more than a decade. Only to discover his little brother hadn't been just another Death Eater. Hadn't died in some pointless skirmish. Had instead thrown his life against Voldemort like a spear.
Grief twisted into fury. He rounded on Kreacher.
"This is all your fault, you useless house-elf! Regulus ordered you to destroy the locket—and you wasted fourteen years without even scratching it! Even when I came back to this house, you still tried to hide it from me!"
The more he spoke, the angrier he became. "Damn you! You should be given clothes—get out of Grimmauld Place!"
Beside him, Kreacher's eyes were swollen red. He sobbed quietly.
"Kreacher tried… Kreacher tried every method… every method… but none worked. Not one. Kreacher used all his strength—couldn't leave even a mark. Kreacher knew Dark magic protected it… could only be destroyed from inside… but it wouldn't open."
"Kreacher punished himself. Tried again. Punished himself again."
"Kreacher failed the order. Kreacher couldn't destroy the locket!"
The elf's self-reproach grew frantic. He began slamming his forehead against the table edge—over and over—sobbing and shouting.
"Don't send Kreacher away! Kreacher didn't mean to hide it! Mistress went mad with grief… Kreacher suffered too… but Master Regulus forbade… forbade Kreacher from telling anyone in the family about the cave…"
"Including me?" Sirius roared. "If Melvin hadn't forced it out of you—how long would you have kept lying?"
"Ahem…" Melvin cleared his throat. He didn't look up from the locket. "Regulus hasn't been buried yet. Save the eulogies for the funeral."
His tone stayed even. "What matters now is fulfilling his last wish. Destroy this locket. Let his soul rest."
The locket was egg-sized—small enough to close in one palm, discreet enough to wear unnoticed. A lavish "S" formed from dozens of tiny emeralds. The gems caught the chandelier light—dull, ghostly green.
Melvin quieted his mind and extended soul-perception. In that other layer of sight the locket shone with crystalline magical radiance. Alchemical arrays flowed in rainbow colours. Layered runes nested inside one another. Yet deep within lurked a dark, twisted magical core.
Like a dusty, mummified heart—beating at an impossibly slow rhythm. Or a hibernating viper—coiled, faintly rising and falling. Even sealed, one could almost feel the evil soul's slow, endless breathing.
Dumbledore drew his wand. Pressed the tip against the fine seam. Pushed gently. Magic flared.
Alohomora.
Open Sesame.
…
A series of unlocking charms. Inside the locket came the faint click of tumblers turning—like metal teeth slowly meshing. For a heartbeat it seemed the lid would spring open.
Then black magic flowed along the seam—like a winter snake tightening its scales. The loosened locket sealed itself again.
Even the Elder Wand only achieved that much. Any ordinary wand would have received no response at all.
The Headmaster withdrew his wand. "This Horcrux is… different from the others."
Sirius and Kreacher—neither of whom had ever handled a Horcrux before—leaned forward eagerly.
Only Melvin truly understood. This one's craftsmanship surpassed the rest. The vessel and soul-fragment fit together perfectly. Two magics blended seamlessly—circulating, reinforcing each other.
The fragment's consciousness was far more active. Almost alive.
The diary—Voldemort's first Horcrux—needed writing to communicate.
The Gaunt ring and Hufflepuff cup required potions to manifest awareness.
The Ravenclaw diadem carried wisdom-magic—able to parasitise a raven's shade.
But this final locket was the masterpiece. Melvin had no doubt: open it without potion or parchment, and the soul-fragment would emerge unaided. A young Tom Riddle could step out and speak at any moment.
"Even the two of you can't open it?" Sirius clenched his fist—slammed it down on the locket.
"Young Master—don't!" Kreacher lunged—caught Sirius's wrist with surprising strength. The frail elf was nearly dragged off balance—but refused to let the fist touch the surface.
"Hm?" Sirius frowned.
Kreacher hesitated—mouth opening and closing.
"Among us, you touched the locket first, Kreacher." Dumbledore leaned forward, voice gentle. "Anything you've learned could help us fulfil Regulus's wish—destroy it."
Meeting those calm blue eyes, Kreacher looked away. He mumbled, "Kreacher discovered nothing. Only after Mr Levent took the locket did Kreacher notice."
"Notice what?" Sirius demanded.
"This thing… harms anyone who touches it."
"Curse? Poison?"
The words made Sirius flinch.
"Not poison—not poison!" Kreacher waved his thin arms frantically. "A strange emotion. It muddles Kreacher's mind. Makes Kreacher think things… makes Kreacher irritable, angry… resentful of Young Master Sirius… resentful of the friends Young Master brought… even think about…"
Kreacher shook his head violently—then leapt up—banged his skull against the table corner again and again.
"Bad Kreacher! Disloyal Kreacher!"
"Those thoughts… Kreacher always had them… but Kreacher never betrayed the Blacks—never, Young Master!"
Sirius grabbed him. The elf's face was smeared with blood, tears, green mucus.
"But the locket filled Kreacher's head with them. Kreacher thought it was old age—time to chop off Kreacher's head and mount it. But Kreacher hadn't finished Master Regulus's order… so Kreacher lingered."
He sobbed incoherently. "When Mr Levent made Kreacher give it up… one day and night without touching it… Kreacher's mind cleared."
Sirius fell silent.
Dumbledore studied the locket—then slowly reached out. Wrapped his large, veined hand around it.
Strong fingers—knuckles prominent, veins standing out—enclosed the entire thing with ease.
Everyone watched his face. His breathing gradually deepened. Brows furrowed slightly—as though enduring some hidden torment.
Half a minute later he released it. Expression cleared instantly. He exhaled like a man setting down a crushing weight. Opened his eyes. Stared thoughtfully at the emerald "S".
"What curse is on it?" Sirius poked the locket.
Melvin took it back. Held it in his palm. The surface was cool. Inside, hidden magic extended feelers—like tendrils—silent, insidious. Similar to Legilimency—slipping into the soul, plucking at heartstrings.
"The alchemical arrays are active. They influence through the link between soul and emotion. Voldemort's Dark magic isn't this refined. This is Slytherin's work."
A soft click. Melvin set the locket on the table.
"Slytherin in his later years explored the deepest mysteries of magic. His soul wasn't imprisoned by Dark Arts. His study of emotion wasn't limited to anger and hatred. Voldemort's Black magic defiled this locket."
"If it truly is Slytherin's…"
Dumbledore bent low—almost pressing his face to the locket. His lips moved. A soft hiss emerged.
"Parseltongue!" Sirius exclaimed. "Harry said only he could speak it!"
"Oh, I'm just imitating." Dumbledore smiled mildly. "I heard it a few times when the Chamber was opened. Memorised the sound. Melvin should be familiar with it too."
"'Open' in Parseltongue," Melvin confirmed—glancing at the Headmaster.
The locket buzzed. Vibrated. Like a hibernating rattlesnake waking. The chain writhed. A crisp click—the golden lid sprang open.
Kreacher's eyes widened. Breath stopped.
Inside the locket—two eyes stared back.
Originally tiny glass windows—meant to hold a photograph and keep out dust. But no photo waited behind them. Instead—living eyes blinked. Pupils black and bright—like Riddle's eyes halfway to becoming serpent slits.
Grey-black mist billowed out—filling the room in an instant.
"I see your heart," a voice hissed from the Horcrux—cold, rasping. "It belongs to me."
"I see your past, Albus Dumbledore. I see your regret. Everything you feared has already happened. Yet the truth you refuse to face… is the worst of all."
The chandelier's faint light vanished—swallowed by fog. Refraction twisted the mist into a familiar silhouette.
A handsome, elegant young wizard. Lean cheeks. Jet-black hair immaculately combed. Smile perfectly judged—warm, approachable. Every inch the model student greeting a favourite professor.
Dumbledore met the eyes calmly. "Long time no see, Tom."
"Professor Dumbledore…"
Riddle bowed—polite, never servile. Like the heir of some ancient pure-blood house.
"I see your heart. I see your past. You hide forever in the Hogwarts office—even afraid to remember—because you flee the mistake you made long ago… In your memories I saw the true murderer."
"You."
Riddle stared straight into those blue eyes—tearing open the deepest scar.
"It was your curse that killed Ariana. Your sister."
"Dumbledore…" Sirius said—worried.
The room fell deathly quiet. Riddle's shade locked gazes with the old Headmaster.
"Young and brilliant—frustrated that your genius was chained. Dragged down by a sick sister and a useless younger brother. Trapped forever in Godric's Hollow—never able to see the world…"
"Ariana died—and deep down you were relieved. The burden was gone. No one left to stop you chasing greatness…"
"But your closest friend left you. You took opposite paths. You suffered because of his fall—his crimes. If you hadn't killed Ariana… you could have changed the world together—the right way. You caused everything that followed…"
Melvin frowned—about to intervene.
"Occlumency, Dumbledore," he said quietly.
Dumbledore remained calm—still gazing into the shade's eyes—or perhaps through the mist—at the living eyes inside the locket.
Seeing no reaction, Riddle's face twisted with frustration. The silhouette rippled—split—like soap bubbles.
Two heads emerged.
A bright fourteen-year-old girl. A seventeen-year-old blond boy.
Ariana and Grindelwald—distorted mirror reflections—swaying.
The rest of their bodies slowly filled in—like branches sprouting from a twisted trunk.
Dumbledore's expression finally changed. Looking at those young faces—memory, sorrow, regret—all flickered across his features.
"Why did you kill Ariana, Albus? She was good. She never stopped you travelling. You could have taken her—hidden her in a compartment, in a suitcase. Just let me out occasionally to feel the sun."
[Ariana] stared at him—plaintive. "Undetectable Extension Charm would have been easy for you. You wouldn't even do that? You still thought I held you back? Kept you from seeing the world?"
"Dumbledore," Sirius called—alarmed.
"Do you know why I ran, Albus?"
[Grindelwald] smiled mockingly. "Because I realised you killed her. I didn't want you to carry the guilt—so I let you blame me. We were best friends, Albus."
"You betrayed me. Imprisoned me in that tower!" His voice turned shrill. The blond boy's face warped—aged in seconds—into a gaunt old man—glaring with fury.
"Albus!"
Like a vengeful ghost—chilling to the bone.