The drawing room feels smaller than it ever has, thick with raised voices and old magic.

Regulus is sitting on the edge of the sofa, shoulders caved in, his head bowed as he stares at the fresh Dark Mark burning against his forearm. His fingers tremble as they brush over it again and again, like he’s hoping it will disappear if he touches it enough. Silent tears slip down his face, dripping onto the Black family carpet.

Narcissa stands in front of him, pale and furious, her voice shaking as she shouts at Lucius, accusing him of planting the idea in Regulus’s head, of praising loyalty over life, of pushing him toward something he was never ready for. Lucius snaps back, cold and defensive, insisting it was inevitable.

Bellatrix watches from the shadows, eyes bright and unreadable, a sharp smile tugging at her lips.

You sit beside Regulus, close enough that your knee brushes his. Without saying a word, you gently take his shaking hand, grounding him. Your thumb presses reassuring circles into his skin as he finally breaks, leaning slightly toward you, his breath hitching as he cries.