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THEREWAS A PHRASE that said every house ever invented would later in time become home to the demise. Lilith de Fitzroy believed this saying to be true. The cottage in France, where she spent the first five years of her life in, was now home to the dead. Decades ago, it was lovely dwelling of her parents — Antionette and Sebastian de Fitzroy. The French couple had been long gone for years now, having been murdered before getting the chance to witness their little girl fully grow up or marry the man she wanted. One of the Ambrose Manors — the previous residence of Fiorella and Atticus Ambrose — was now an abode of the perished.
Over time, every building ever designed would be known as a home to the dead. Some would belong to those you once knew — possibly the residence of past loved ones or lovers. No one ever cared to finish that phrase by mentioning the colossal waves of fresh hurt it would wash upon someone. After years of trying to push something or rather someone so far back, those waves could tear down Colosseums if one wasn't too careful.
Everything about Twelve Grimmauld Place fit into that meticulous description. It was home to Walburga Black, a vile woman who was now only a shrouded, enchanted portrait affixed on the wall. It was home to Regulus Black, the youngest Black son and Heir who never received a complete funeral. How could one have a true funeral to begin with when there was no body to ever bury?
Around every corner of the dark building, in every crevice of the walls of the eerie Noble House of Black lingered the ghost of Regulus.
To most that may have been considered unnerving. To someone like Lilith, it resonated solace. As she tread through the corridors where she once played hide and seek in, vague images of her younger self alongside Sirius and Regulus running around, coursed her mind. As she sauntered through the corridors — passing the displays of the past house elves — she began to revisit her past. Memories of herself and Regulus were the strongest; she had hoped they wouldn't be. The pair used to waltz in these halls for the fun of it, avoiding any madness from the hands and mouth of Walburga.
The hazel eyed witch could still discern the faintness of his voice and laughter. As much as she tried to forget him — it was merely impossible. It's far from easy for one to forget someone who once meant so much to them. She had never wanted his laughter to become something she could recognize anywhere.
Though, Lilith was quite glad the memory of Regulus Black was not obliterated — not fully anyways. There were moments she was pained at how difficult it was to push away the memories, good and bad, shared with him. There were times occurrences in her daily life made her remember him.
