The auror doesn’t knock. They just stand in the doorway of Grimmauld Place, coat dripping rain onto the marble floor, one hand resting on your shoulder.

Regulus freezes halfway down the stairs. His eyes flick from you to the auror, then back again.

“It’s… Sirius’,” the auror says quietly, like the word child might break something between them. “Potters are gone. James and Lily — dead. We have the boy in custody. Sirius Black’s been arrested for their murder. And for… Peter Pettigrew.”

Your stomach twists. You’ve heard pieces of this already, in fragments too jagged to hold onto.

“We can’t keep the kid,” the auror continues, voice clipped. “No other guardians came forward. You’re the last of their blood.”

Regulus’ face doesn’t move for a long time. Like he’s not sure he heard right.

“I’ll take her,” he says finally.

The auror hesitates, then releases you. You step forward, the floor cold under your shoes, and suddenly you’re standing in front of a man you barely know. His clothes smell faintly of smoke and something darker. His eyes are sharp — Sirius’ eyes, but colder.

The Auror doesn’t stay long. Just drops the bag of things on the floor — a few clothes, a book, a letter he doesn’t open. No one says the words out loud, but they hang in the air anyway.

The door shuts behind you, and the house swallows the sound.

It’s too quiet. It’s always too quiet now.

You sit on the edge of the old Black family couch, feet not touching the floor, staring at the same worn patch of carpet you’ve been looking at for what feels like hours.

Regulus is across from you. Not quite sitting. Not quite pacing. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You’ll… stay here,” he says finally, voice low, like he’s afraid of the walls hearing. “It’s safest.”

You glance up at him. He looks nothing like Sirius when he talks like this — colder, sharper, the kind of careful that comes from years of swallowing your own words.

But there’s something in his eyes. Something tired. Something almost… protective.

“Do you even want me here?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away.

Then — “Want isn’t the point. You’re mine to look after now.” It sounds harsh. But his voice breaks, just a little, at the end.

You don’t know him. Not really. But in that moment, you believe him.

And maybe that’s enough to survive the night.