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“Are you certain you want to do this?” Master Regulus Black inquires with an edge of finality to his tone, a weight that is a reminder that this is something that can never be taken back or changed once completed.
“I’m certain,” Miss Lily Evans says.
Magical adoption is only possible once in a person’s entire life.
And magical blood adoption into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black will result in her being subject to the Black family bloodline curse. If she ever suffers from an unrequited soul-deep love after her adoption, her sanity will splinter.
It’s a risk that Lily is willing to take.
She knows it will be—in the eyes of many—drastic and reckless. Lily doesn’t care. She wants this. She wants it more than she has ever wanted anything else in her entire life. If she has to go back to Cokeworth one more time, stuck in the Muggle World where everything feels twisted and wrong, with a sister who hates her and parents who fawn over her as if she is a thing and not an actual living, breathing person … well. It will be ugly.
There is no shame in being a New Blood. There isn’t. Not in the least.
Yet, Lily cannot help how overwhelmingly lonely she feels in her magic. She doesn’t have family magic; she doesn’t have familial magical bonds. She’s all alone in a world where nearly every other person she sees and interacts with never is.
It’s hard to put into words, even in her own mind, how isolating it feels.
To be well and truly alone in a castle full of magicals is … an agony that Lily wouldn’t wish on Heir James Potter at his most obnoxious. It’s like having an empty well inside of her, or a bottomless pit, or a wretched void that’s swallowing her whole and—
Lily has been brave and strong and endured the situation. She, formidable as she is, has reached her limits. She can endure no longer.
Regulus kisses her forehead and hugs her tightly. “Nothing will be the same,” he states, both a warning and a fact.
“I know,” Lily replies as her mind spins wildly. The coming changes will be truly monumental. The ritual will change how she looks; she won’t be able to recognize herself in a mirror. It will change her birthday, her age—she might even be required to repeat her sixth year at Hogwarts with the appropriate age group.
If so, that’s a sacrifice that she is willing to make.
Lily wasn’t frivolous in choosing which wizard she would trust to adopt her as a blood and magical twin in ritual by slitting her throat over the family’s ancestral wardstone.
It would be easier, faster, simpler, for her to choose a future spouse and create a betrothal bond so that she would no longer be alone in magic. But that isn’t what she wants. Not at this point in her life. Lily doesn’t want a future lover waiting in the wings for years until she’s ready for that type of commitment.
She wants a brother, a family, people who will love and support her and ask of her only that which she’s currently able to give.
“Then let’s begin,” Regulus says.
There are few siblings as dedicated to one another as Heir Sirius Black and Master Regulus Black are. Lily has seen how they care for each other firsthand over the years—with a resolve that nothing in Avalon will ever be able to break. And though it might be greedy of her, she wants that same unshakable love and support for herself.
And yes, it might have been easier to ask Sirius—there wouldn’t even be a potential that the professors will require her to repeat a year of classes if she chose him—but she hadn’t been able to push away the quiet voice reminding her that if she chose Sirius, it was likely that Potter would be able to convince Sirius to grant him an exclusive courtship with her.
Potter is an honorable wizard. That being said, she isn’t the least bit romantically interested in him.
So, in the end, Lily approached Regulus with her bargain—a Slytherin cunning enough to understand the merits of her request and what she was offering in return. As blood and magical twins, their magic would pool, drastically increasing their power levels. And, in return, as her older twin brother, he could refuse all courtship requests for her until she decided she was ready to seriously pursue a romantic relationship; additionally, he would never grant anyone permission to court her without her approval.
It didn’t surprise her in the least when he agreed.
Regulus kisses her forehead a final time and inquires, “Are you certain that you don’t want the Calming Draught?”
“I’m certain,” Lily replies.
It would be easier, for sure, if she couldn’t feel the panic and fear of having her throat slit. Yet, she’s done ample research. The bond will be stronger and truer if she acts with complete faith—if she stays still and allows Regulus to bleed her dry over the Black family wardstone without struggling. A conscious, knowing sacrifice always enhances the magic of a ritual.
When Lily commits to something, she does so with a fullness of heart and purpose. She will never give less than her absolute best or be satisfied with a mediocre offering. Her future brother deserves nothing less than everything that she can possibly give to him.
“Kneel,” Regulus instructs, gesturing to the thick black velvet cushion that’s beside the ancestral wardstone that guards the Dukedom of The Misty Isles—the estate granted to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in Avalon during the time of Camelot by Mother Magic.
Lily kneels on the cushion, folds her hands in her lap, and uses her Occlumency shields to control her emotions. She will not disgrace herself by flinching and sobbing. If she is to be a Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, if she is to be renamed and reborn in blood and magic, she will not do so while shaming such a distinguished bloodline.
“Lily Rose Evans, do you knowingly and willingly forsake your name, your bloodline, and all members thereof of your own will?” Regulus asks, beginning the ritual, his magic rippling across his skin in bright silver waves.
“I do,” Lily answers, voice steady, her heart pounding with anticipation instead of fear. Soon, very, very soon, the familial void inside of her will vanish. She will be whole and—
“Unnamed Witch, do you knowingly and willingly consent to this ritual, accepting rebirth into the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?” Regulus asks, excited fervor in his voice as the Black family magic sings in the wardroom.
“I do,” Lily replies, desperate to feel that same family magic welcoming her home and sheltering her in its strength.
Regulus retrieves an athame—mithril, with a massive opal on the hilt—gently threads his fingers into her radiant red hair, and tilts her forward, her chin tipped downward. “I, Regulus Arcturus Black, Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, do hereby ritually sacrifice this Unnamed Witch, and accept her as my twin by the grace and blessing of Death,” Regulus states before calmly slitting her throat.
Blood doesn’t spray from her neck.
Agony doesn’t consume her.
Instead, Lily watches, awed, as the Black family magic draws her blood from her body in a steady stream, a smooth ribbon of liquid that eventually coalesces into a spinning galaxy mid-air. Her heart beats and beats and beats and—
Her heart stops.
Lily kneels on the cushion, Regulus’s warmth at her back, heart still in her chest, and watches the galaxy of her blood drift down to the wardstone, which absorbs it as a divine beast who swallows stars.
A cold prickling starts somewhere in her magical core, like the first bite of winter frost. A chill wind wracks her soul. It’s worse than the void ever was. It’s— Is this what it feels like to be a Muggle? A Squib? It is such a complete dearth of everything that Lily can’t understand how anyone could live in such a state and maintain sanity.
She breathes and wonders why it isn’t accompanied by a cloud of fog when it feels like ice has filled her empty veins.
A minute passes.
Two.
Three.
Most people would allow that to be enough, would allow a number as magical as three to be sufficient. Lily has never once in her life been satisfied by that which is merely sufficient. She knows that Regulus feels the same, that he strives, at all times, to surpass expectations and reach for goals that others would decry as impossible to achieve.
So, dutifully, she waits.
Four.
Five.
Frostbite gnaws at Lily’s soul. Her veins are full of the water from the Black Lake in the middle of January the day after a blizzard sweeps through Scotland. Lily feels—nothing. Nothing at all. The cold has devoured her ability to feel anything.
Six.
The last minute is interminable. It defies description. She doesn’t possess words that can express it in mortal words and understanding.
Seven—the most magical number.
Lily leans the rest of the way forward, kisses the Black family wardstone, and whispers on frostbitten breath through a sliced-open throat, “This Unnamed Witch petitions Death and the Black family magic to be found worthy of upholding the standards of Nobility and vows to never shame the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”
Skeletal, divine fingers reach through the gash in her throat and shatter the winter within her.
By My grace and blessing, Lily hears in her mind, each word filled with centuries of untold grief.
A galaxy of blood spins out of the wardstone, threaded through with silver magic. It seeps back into her body like Fiendfyre, scorching in the wake of the broken winter. The wound on her neck sears shut when the entire galaxy has blazed its way inside of her body.
“Rise, Lily Denebola Black, as my twin sister, a Lady of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,” Regulus states, completing the ritual.
It’s overwhelming in the exact opposite manner that she’s accustomed to. There’s suddenly everything, everywhere in place of nothing, nowhere.
It’s— Lily can’t— She doesn’t know how to— Morgana, if this is what it means to have familial bonds, to be sheltered within ancestral family magic … how does anyone ever become a Squib? How could anyone, anyone at all, choose to relinquish this for any reason whatsoever?
It wouldn’t be worth it. Could never be worth it.
Lily, who never shed a single tear through the entire ritual, bursts into tears as her soul lights up inside; the void within her is gone, the endless darkness and cold now filled with a black velvet sky that holds nearly a hundred stars, each a member of her new family. Regulus’s star shines brightest, an inferno of heat—protective, adoring, everything Lily has longed for and—
Regulus—her brother, her twin brother—hugs her fiercely, inundates her with love down their new twin bond, and says, “Welcome to the family, sister. I’ll treasure you until the day I die.”