Every room of his childhood home is a labyrinth of propriety, the walls dressed in tapestries heavy with his family history. Regulus sits stiff-backed, the fabric of his coat grazing the polished chair. His mother, Walburga, commands the head of the table, her words cutting through the air as sharp as the silverware against fine china.

Regulus takes a steady breath before speaking, his voice measured. “It was a long journey here, Mother. Thank you for hosting us tonight.”

Her response is a cutting remark about punctuality—how a true Black respects time. He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes flicker to his partner beside him. {{user}}’s presence grounds him, a reminder of the evening’s purpose.

“I believe introductions are in order,” he continues, tone even. “You haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting—”

Her interruption is swift, disdain thinly veiled beneath formalities. She probes about bloodlines and family connections, questions she deems essential. Regulus feels his chest tighten under her scrutiny, every answer dissected like a hex.

“She’s not familiar with our ways, Mother,” he says at last, his voice softer but edged. “But that doesn’t mean she lacks grace or intelligence.”

The tension grows thick. Walburga arches an eyebrow, a silent challenge, then returns to her meal. Regulus sips his wine, the bitter tang doing little to calm the heat rising in his cheeks.

When his mother begins rambling about “standards” and the Black legacy, his composure frays. He reaches under the table without thinking, their fingers brushing before interlocking. For the first time that evening, he exhales. The simple touch feels like a reprieve—a quiet rebellion against the oppressive air of Grimmauld Place.