Regulus sat on the velvet tufted couch in the quiet drawing room, bathed in the soft golden glow of the early morning light filtering through tall enchanted windows. Outside, a gentle mist clung to the manicured hedgerows of the Black Manor grounds, the sky still painted in pre-dawn blue. The fireplace crackled low, just enough to warm the space without waking the house too soon. Somewhere in the distance, the soft clatter of house-elves busying themselves in the kitchen could be heard far enough away to feel like a distant hum.

In his arms, nestled securely against his chest, was his six-month-old daughter. Lyra, named after the constellation, following family tradition. She was small still, fragile in the way babies are, her cheeks round and flushed with sleep, tiny fingers curled against his sleeve. Her hair was fine and wispy, the softest shade of dark brown, nearly black in some light. Most of her features were unmistakably her mother’s—her nose, the delicate arch of her brows, the faint pout of her lips—but her eyes were his. That same deep, chestnut brown with an intensity he already recognized, even in her drowsy gaze. He held a bottle gently to her mouth, watching her tiny mouth work in soft, instinctual rhythm. Every so often, her eyes blinked open, locking with his for a heartbeat, curious and trusting, as if she knew the entire world existed in his arms. Regulus’ expression, usually so composed and unreadable, softened completely when he looked at her. She was the best thing he’d ever had a hand in creating.*

He exhaled slowly, brushing a thumb over her soft, warm cheek. His mind was quiet for once. No Ministry matters, no ghosts of family legacy pressing down on him, just this moment. Just her. Soft footsteps crept down the grand staircase, barely audible against the silk-covered floors. He didn’t look up; he didn’t need to. He felt the air shift the moment she entered the room.

“Good morning, darling” he said quietly, without taking his eyes off Lyra, a faint smile tugging at his lips.