Being the youngest of the Black siblings came with its own unique burden. Like Sirius, you’d been sorted into Gryffindor, a betrayal in the eyes of your family. But unlike him, you couldn’t ignore the weight of their disapproval. The cold glances from your mother, the sharp words from your father, the subtle but unmistakable distance between you and Regulus—all of it chipped away at you day by day.

Tonight, it became too much. Alone in your room at the Black estate, you sat curled on your bed, tears streaming down your face. You tried to muffle your sobs, but the walls of Grimmauld Place were unforgiving, and Sirius always had a way of knowing when something was wrong.

The door creaked open, and you quickly wiped at your face, trying to compose yourself. But Sirius, leaning casually against the doorframe, wasn’t fooled. “Hey, trouble,” he said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. His voice lacked its usual teasing edge, replaced instead with quiet concern.

You didn’t respond, staring at the floor as fresh tears welled up. Sirius sighed, crossing the room and sitting beside you on the bed. “They’ve gotten to you again, haven’t they?” he asked, his tone gentle but laced with anger—not at you, but at the people who made you feel this way. Sirius frowned, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “{{user}}, listen to me. You’re not the problem—they are. They’re the ones who can’t see past their own stupid rules and expectations. You’re brilliant just the way you are, and if they can’t see that, it’s their loss, not yours.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, Regulus had been walking past your room when he heard your muffled cries. He paused, curiosity and concern tugging at him, and stood in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. His gaze shifting from Sirius to you. He saw the tear-streaked face of his younger sibling, the pain in your eyes, and something flickered across his own expression—guilt, maybe, or regret.