The summer dragged its belly through the heat like a wounded animal, slow and limping, bleeding tension into every hallway of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
It was always like this.
The curtains stayed closed. The dust was sacred. The portraits watched like prison guards. And the house creaked as if burdened by the weight of its own legacy.
Sirius was pacing. Again.
Dinner was served, if you could call it that—grey roast, wilted greens, potatoes boiled to death and back. The table was a slab of dark wood, oppressive in its silence. Four plates. Four bodies. A whole war of words just waiting to snap.
Sirius’s fork scraped the edge of his plate.
Regulus, across from him, sat like a ghost with a heartbeat. Hands folded. Eyes on the potatoes. Breathing shallow, like if he stayed quiet enough, he might vanish completely.
At the head sat Walburga, bone-straight posture, eyes like frostbite.
At the other end, Orion, thumbing through the Daily Prophet like nothing on Earth could possibly interest him less than his own family.
No one spoke.
A clock ticked in the hall.
Then Walburga’s voice cracked through the quiet like a whip:
“Sit up straight when you eat, Sirius. Are you an animal?”
Sirius didn’t blink. Didn’t even lift his eyes. “I’m sitting fine.”
“You’re slouching,” she snapped. “Slouching like some lazy Muggle boy on the street. You’ve no respect—”
“I don’t have any respect,” Sirius muttered. “That’s the point.”
Her nostrils flared.
“Sirius Orion Black,” she barked, her voice rising like the tide, “you will not embarrass this family—”
Regulus didn’t react. Still and silent, chewing slowly. He didn’t even look up.
Walburga’s glare went nuclear. “You think you’re clever?”
“I know I am.” Sirius pushed his chair back a fraction. “You’re just mad your favourite turned out as rotten as me.”
“I raised you to be strong,” she hissed. “To be proud of your blood, your name, your birthright. And instead, you whore yourself out to Mudbloods and traitors and—”
“Better them than this crypt,” Sirius growled.
“This crypt is your home.”
“It’s a mausoleum,” Sirius snapped. “You buried us before we ever got a chance to breathe.”
Orion cleared his throat. “That’s enough—”
“Don’t even,” Sirius snapped at him. “You don’t get to play peacekeeper when you’ve been pretending we don’t exist all summer. Go back to your paper.”
Orion returned to the Prophet without a word.
Regulus was still eating. Still quiet. Still watching his plate like it had the power to save him.
Then—like something venomous had just slithered through her mind—Walburga turned her eyes on him.
“And you,” she said, her voice sharp enough to draw blood, “just sit there. Hunched like a rat in the walls. No wonder no one sees you. What exactly is wrong with you, Regulus?”
He stilled.
Fork halfway to his mouth.
His fingers twitched, then settled.
“Don’t talk to him,” Sirius snapped.
“Why not?” Walburga said, sweet and cruel. “He never speaks for himself. Maybe he enjoys being spoken about.”
“Mum,” Sirius growled. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I should’ve sent him away instead of you,” she said, her lip curling. “At least you were loud. This one? He just hides. He skulks around this house like a curse. He embarrasses me. Whispers to himself like a lunatic. Maybe it’s time we dealt with that properly.”
Silence.
Everyone froze.
Regulus still hadn’t moved.
“What do you mean ‘dealt with it’?” Sirius said, voice suddenly low and dangerous.
Walburga leaned forward like a vulture.
“I mean we should put him somewhere he belongs. A place that handles people like him. They’d keep him quiet. Fed. Sedated.”
Something cracked behind Sirius’s eyes.
But before he could speak, before he could shout or break something or start throwing chairs like last time—
Regulus exhaled. Just once.
Lifted his head.
His face was pale as parchment. Eyes sharp as broken glass.
And then he said it.
Voice calm, cutting through the air like a scalpel:
“Someone should put you in a box and float it down the fucking river, you hag.”
Silence.
Utter, cataclysmic silence.
Sirius stared.
Walburga’s mouth hung open.
Orion lowered the paper.
Regulus blinked once. Then again.
Then dropped his head back and muttered, “Oh fuck me sideways.”
Sirius exploded into laughter.
Unholy, unhinged, wheezing laughter. His chair skidded back as he doubled over, slamming his hand against the table.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD—REG!”
Regulus just pinched the bridge of his nose.
Walburga had gone the colour of old bricks. Her hands twitched like she was about to hex the skin off someone.
Orion—stoic, granite-faced Orion—was covering his mouth with one long hand.
A snort betrayed him.
“Are you all laughing?” Walburga shrieked, her voice rising an octave with every syllable. “Do you think this is funny?”
“Fucking hilarious,” Sirius cackled. “He called you a hag. A fucking box-float hag. Oh, this is the best day of my life.”
Regulus whispered, “Shut up,” under his breath. “Oh, shut up, you idiot, I’m gonna die.”
“You’re already dead, Reggie,” Sirius wheezed, wiping tears. “Mum’s gonna kill you. Oh God, I hope I get to watch.”
“YOU UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!” Walburga roared, slamming her fist against the table. “You will not speak to me that way, you vile little—insane little—”
“Say it,” Regulus said quietly, looking up again. His voice was steady now, empty and cold. “Go on. Say it.”
Walburga sneered. “You’re mad, boy. Everyone sees it. You were born wrong.”
Regulus stood up slowly. Chair legs scraped the floor like a scream.
“I’m not the one who talks to paintings.”
Sirius collapsed into laughter again.
“You witchspawn!” Walburga screamed. “You’ll go to St. Mungo’s, I swear it. I will have you dragged there myself—”
“I’ll pack a bag,” Regulus said. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been locked in a room and drugged, would it?”
Orion finally spoke. “Walburga, enough.”
She turned on him like a banshee. “Don’t you start.”
“Regulus,” Orion said, quieter now, still firm, “sit down.”
“No,” Regulus said. “I think I’ve had my fill. Of dinner. Of this family. Of all of you.”
And he walked away.
Left his plate half-full.
Walked out with his back straight and his shoulders drawn like knives, past the portraits, past the heads of ancestors who’d rather see him chained than free, and up the stairs with nothing but Sirius’s howling laughter chasing after him.
Somewhere behind him, he could still hear Walburga’s voice, screaming after him.
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