Regulus had made the grave mistake of not letting his mother turn a cold shoulder toward him and {{user}}. He thought letting her in would be better. It is not.

After his daughter was born, Walburga made it her mission to visit at every possible moment. Demanded a room be set up for her. Insisted the Floo connection stay open at all hours. Regulus hadn’t argued—not then. And now he saw it—the way she looked at Lyra. Disdain, laced with something sharper. Determination. Because Lyra is not an heir. Not a son. So not enough.

It’s unbearable to watch. The way Walburga scrutinises her. How tense you become the moment his mother enters a room. Even Lyra squirms in discomfort when she’s held by her grandmother.

She’d reacted better to Barty. Even to Evan. That said something.

The kitchen was quiet. The kind of quiet that listens.

A single light above the two of you flickered every so often, casting dull shadows on the floor. Regulus sat still, but on edge. You beside him, just as rigid. Both of them watching Walburga cradle Lyra like she was inspecting something flawed.

The resemblance was undeniable. Black hair. Pale skin. Grey eyes. His family’s legacy written across her face. But there were softer things, too—your warmth that blurred the sharp edges of the Black family. A mole on her face. Just like yours.

“I don’t like this,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Neither did he. Not the silence. Not the scrutiny. Not the absence of his father, who should’ve whisked Walburga back home by now. And not the way Lyra looked seconds away from crying, all swaddled up with nowhere to hide.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “I know, love.”