Confringo.

Such a small spell. Simple. Harmless, in theory. A basic incantation. One of the first they taught in the Black household once they decided you weren’t a child anymore — no, you were a weapon now. A legacy. A tool. And tools don’t fail.

But she’d said it wrong. Just slightly. The vowels caught on her tongue. The wand slipped — her grip too tight or not tight enough. Walburga’s voice came next, sharp as glass — disgraceful, ignorant, pathetic — followed by the sickening crack of a palm across skin.

Sirius heard it from upstairs.

The sound of glass breaking. Screaming. Then a door slamming. Then nothing.

That silence — thick, charged — was worse than the shouting.

He sat up in bed, bare feet hitting the floor. The moonlight carved pale silver shapes across the dark wood. He didn’t move at first. Didn’t breathe. Because in this house, every creak meant risk. But then he heard her. Steps on the stairs. Soft. Uneven. The kind of footfalls that came from someone trying very, very hard not to be heard crying.

He cracked his door just a sliver.

And there she was.

Tear-streaked. Wand clutched too tightly in her small hand. Shoulders trembling like a frightened bird’s.

Sirius didn’t speak. Just held out a hand through the gap — quiet, steady. A wordless gesture. Come in.

He shut the door behind her, gently. Grimmauld Place hummed behind the walls — always angry, always listening — but his room was a different world. Posters of Muggle rock bands curled slightly at the corners. A Gryffindor scarf drooped over the headboard. An ashtray overflowed beside a half-melted candle. His boots were kicked into a corner, forgotten.

It smelled like rebellion. Like cigarettes, leather, lavender oil — Lily had given it to him, laughing, saying his room stank too much like testosterone and rage.

He crouched down in front of her. Shirtless. Hair pulled back in the lazy ponytail Lily had taught him to tie. He looked up into her face like it held the whole bloody sky.

“Did she hit you hard?” he asked, voice low, gravelled. “Tell me where it hurts.”

There was a red mark blooming across her cheek — bright, raw. Sirius had seen it before. On himself. On Regulus. On walls.

Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry. Not anymore. Black children learned early how to cry quietly. Or not at all.

She just shrugged. That same helpless, heart-wrenching shrug that always made something inside him twist.

Sirius reached out and brushed his thumb under her eye, catching a tear before it fell.

“You don’t have to stay here,” he murmured. “You know that, yeah? When I leave, I’m taking you with me. Don’t care if she hexes me into next week.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she didn’t answer.

So he pulled her in.

Wrapped his arms around her and held her like a secret. Like something precious. His chin rested lightly against her shoulder, and for a moment — just one — the house felt less cursed.

On the other side of the wall, Regulus said nothing. His room was dark, untouched. Of course it was. He always stayed still. Obedient. Quiet.

Sirius had stopped doing that years ago. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

He held her tighter, jaw clenched like he could bite down on the rage and swallow it whole. Her body trembled in his arms, small and silent and exhausted. And Sirius — Sirius had never hated his bloodline more than in that moment.

“She doesn’t get to touch you like that,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

And maybe it was a lie — maybe they both knew nothing would change tomorrow. But in that room, in that moment, it was a truth.

Because she had Sirius.

And Sirius had her.

And that — for now — was enough to make the night a little less cruel.