Y/n knelt between towering stacks of boxes, each filled with the detritus of the Black family's dark legacy. Her fingers were smudged with dust from sorting through tarnished silver, moth-eaten robes, and artifacts that seemed to pulse with residual magic.

From the bottom of a particularly heavy box, something slid free—a sleek black journal with silver initials gleaming in the dim light: R.A.B.

The spine creaked softly as Y/n opened it, the pages smelling of old parchment and something faintly floral. The early entries were what one might expect from a Hogwarts student—classes, quidditch, family tensions.

But then the tone shifted. The handwriting became more urgent, the words more poetic.

She makes me want to write poetry. Quite embarrassing, but perhaps I should.

Page after page unfolded a secret romance, detailed with such aching tenderness that the dust-filled room seemed to fade away, replaced by stolen moments in the astronomy tower and secret smiles across the Great Hall.

Then Y/n reached the final entry—a love letter that was also a goodbye. The words were so raw, so final, that the journal felt heavy with unspoken tragedy.

As Y/n set the book aside with reverence, her hand brushed against something cold and metallic hidden beneath yellowed linens—a flash of gold chain, intricate and familiar.