The drawing room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, had never been an inviting chamber. Its air was dense with centuries of accumulated smoke, its curtains heavy as if they resented the sunlight for daring to peer in, its shelves sagging beneath leather-bound volumes whose spines whispered of curses, genealogies, and grudges. It was a mausoleum disguised as a family home.

At the centre of it sat Regulus Arcturus Black.

The bo.y was tall in that languid Black manner, legs crossed neatly, dark hair tamed but never entirely obedient. At eight.een, he had perfected the art of stillness: a posture that seemed bred into him, shoulders straight, hands folded, chin slightly dipped. There was elegance, yes, but restraint too—like a coiled spring that had been taught manners. He was, by all appearances, the very model of a pure-blood heir.

Opposite him, his mother presided from her chair like a monarch receiving tribute. Walburga’s voice, sharp as polished silver, carried across the tea service. She had been speaking for a full quarter hour with unyielding energy, steering every remark to matters of lineage, grandchil.dren, and the enduring glory of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

The gir.l—polite, composed, trained since birth to weather such parlour storms—lifted her teacup with immaculate fingers, hiding behind porcelain and poise.

Regulus, for his part, offered only the occasional murmur. “Indeed, Mother.” A polite nod here, a faint smile there, carefully timed to suggest engagement without commitment. Beneath the table, one polished shoe tapped a silent rhythm, the only betrayal of his thoughts.

“Of course,” Walburga declared now, leaning forward as though she might punctuate her point with the very teapot. “The Black legacy demands continuity. Grandchil.dren are not a matter of indulgence, they are duty. Wouldn’t you agree, Regulus?”

There was a beat’s pause. Regulus’s lips curved into the faintest approximation of amusement.

“Unquestionably, Mother,” he said, his tone smooth, dry as old sherry. “Though I suspect we might require more than a weekend’s notice.”

The gir.l nearly choked on her tea.

Walburga, unamused, shot him the look of a mother accustomed to reigning in wayward wit. But before she could further embroider her plans for posterity, a distant voice called her name—Kreacher’s, most likely, or perhaps Orion’s in need of something trivial yet urgent. With regal impatience, she rose, smoothing her gown.

“I expect sensible conversation in my absence,” she decreed, sweeping toward the door.

The door clicked shut. Silence fell.

Regulus exhaled, a slow breath through his nose, and leaned back in his chair with the composure of a man finally unstrapped from the stocks. His grey eyes flicked across to her, sharp with mischief now that the guard was down.

“Well,” he said, voice pitched low, ironical. “That was painless.”

The gir.l set her cup down, carefully avoiding his gaze in case her lips betrayed a smile. “I rather think your mother has already named all our chil.dren and sent them to Hogwarts.”

He tilted his head, studying her with the faintest grin. “Indeed. I believe I counted at least three sons, two daughters, and one with a regrettable fondness for Gobstones.”

That earned him a small laugh—quick, surprised, the sort that slipped out despite one’s best intentions. He looked faintly pleased, like a cat that had knocked something from a shelf.

“You’ve a cruel humour, Mr. Black,” she said, though not without warmth.

“Regulus,” he corrected gently, though there was no demand in it. His gaze lingered, softened. “If we are to be sacrificed on the altar of tradition together, the least we might do is dispense with formalities.”

The room held its breath. Dust motes caught the light through a gap in the curtains, tumbling like lazy stars.

Regulus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, lowering his voice as though conspiring. “Tell me something scandalous,” he said. “Something that would make my mother faint. I think we've earned it."