Archive of Our Own ^beta

Grimmauld Place, 1967

The Black family townhouse stood like a mausoleum, all cold stone and silence. It creaked and whispered with old magic and older ghosts, and on days like this—overcast, grey, and bitter—the walls themselves felt like they were holding their breath.

It was the sort of day where the house ought to have felt full: a Saturday, after all. But Walburga Black had taken Sirius out shopping, their echoing footsteps and shrill voices long vanished beyond the heavy door. They hadn’t said goodbye to Regulus. They never did.

Regulus Arcturus Black, six years old and ghost-pale, sat cross-legged in the corridor, the hem of his tiny dressing robe soaked with dust. Kreacher had tried to wipe him down earlier, but Regulus had wriggled out of it with a quiet whine and toddled off somewhere between the parlour and the sitting room. Now he was halfway up the stairs, chin tucked to his knees, arms looped around his shins.

He hadn’t cried. He never did, not really. He didn’t know if he could.

No one had told him where Eomma and Hyung were going. But he had seen them—Eomma in her best robes, Hyung with that infuriating bouncing step, both laughing about something Regulus hadn’t heard, hadn’t been part of. He was never part of it.

Walburga’s attention, on the rare occasion it landed on him, was brief and bone-sharp. Her smiles were for Sirius, her scolding for Kreacher, and her silence for Regulus.

It made no sense. Regulus tried to be good. He stayed quiet, he ate his meals properly, he folded his hands and bowed when spoken to. And still, always, it was Sirius she loved. Sirius she looked at. Sirius who sparkled like a cracked-open star.

And Regulus—Regulus watched from the corner.

He shifted slightly, dust sticking to his bare toes. Kreacher had gone off to scrub something in the drawing room. The house groaned. Regulus sniffed once, rubbed his nose on his sleeve, and stood.

He wandered.

He liked wandering. The portraits didn’t yell at him as often as they did at Sirius. And the doors opened for him sometimes without needing to be pushed. He liked counting how many steps from the bannister to the cabinet. He liked tapping the walls for hollow spots. He liked finding secrets.

Today, a noise.

A soft, deliberate sound. A shuffle. A breath.

It came from the study.

Regulus froze in the hallway, tiny hand still half-raised to the doorframe. That room was never used. He wasn’t allowed in it. But curiosity bloomed in him like a warm itch. He padded forward, barefoot, silent as mist.

The door was open just a sliver. A light was on.

He peeked through the gap.

Inside, at the grand darkwood desk that had once belonged to Pollux Black, sat a man with sleek hair tied at his nape, shoulders stiff, back to the door.

Appa.

Regulus inhaled sharply, nose squishing against the wood.

Appa was home.

That never happened. Appa was always at the Ministry. Always out. Always a distant voice behind doors or a shadow at dinner. Regulus didn’t know if he’d ever spoken more than a few words to him. He was something mythical. A tall thing. Sharp. Unreachable. Not for him.

Regulus stood there for a long moment, heart thudding in his chest like a soft drum, and then—without quite thinking—he crept inside.

One step. Two. Four. Then eight.

He crawled the last few feet, knees sliding over carpet. He reached the edge of the great desk and slowly rose up on his tiptoes, fingers curling over the wood, nose just poking above it. Then wide eyes. Then a tuft of black hair.

He watched.

Orion Black was scribbling something with a quill, muttering under his breath. He looked frustrated. Tired.

Regulus didn’t move.

He didn’t dare.

And then—suddenly—Orion looked up.

His eyes locked directly onto the tiny pair staring at him over the desk.

Regulus squeaked.

He ducked back down like he’d been shot, pressing flat to the floor, hands over his mouth. His breath caught in his throat.

Silence.

Then a heavy chair scraping, slow and unsure. Footsteps.

Regulus didn’t breathe.

Orion leaned around the desk and blinked.

There, curled under the desk like a hiding kitten, was a child he barely knew. Pale face, too-big eyes, hair in need of brushing, fingers twitching at his side like he was unsure if he should run or stay.

Regulus.

Orion stared.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Sirius, maybe, loud and wild and shouting. But this—

This boy was quiet.

This boy was small.

This boy looked terrified.

Orion knelt awkwardly, hands on his knees. “...What are you doing, boy?”

Regulus stared up, wide-eyed, then pressed both palms flat to the floor and began to inch around the desk in a slow crawl.

The smallest, softest shuffle.

Orion arched a brow.

“Where are you going, hm?”

“...n-nonee…” Regulus whispered, crawling faster now. “Anio…”

“Ah,” Orion said, playing along now, voice amused and rich. “I suppose there’s no one under this desk. Must be my imagination.”

A little giggle escaped.

Orion paused.

That… was new.

He straightened his spine a bit, standing slowly and turning in an exaggerated circle. “Strange. I could’ve sworn I heard a tiny mouse…”

Another giggle. Higher-pitched this time. Laced with breathless glee.

Orion pretended to think. “Maybe it was a ghost. A very silly little ghost…”

The giggle turned into a squeal of delight.

Tiny feet pattered against the carpet.

Orion turned just in time to see a blur of child moving around the desk and stopping in front of him. The boy looked up, breathless, flushed.

“Boo,” Regulus whispered.

Orion blinked.

A long beat passed. Then—

“Boo?” he echoed, amused.

Regulus nodded, a small smile blooming. “Appa scary…”

“Oh, I’m the scary one?” Orion drawled, stepping closer.

Regulus laughed, hands smacking over his mouth again. “Appa is big! Big scary!” He held his arms out as wide as they’d go. “Like—like! Like dragon!”

Orion’s lip twitched. “Is that so?”

“Uhum!” Regulus bounced on his toes, then scooted forward on his butt, holding his arms up in silent request.

Orion hesitated.

The boy didn’t say anything—didn’t plead, didn’t fuss—but those arms stayed up. Open. Waiting. Quietly sure he’d be held.

That confidence—Orion didn’t know what to do with it.

But his body moved before his brain did.

He bent.

He lifted the boy.

Regulus squealed—a sound of pure, shrieking joy—and threw his arms around Orion’s neck, nuzzling in and babbling.

“Appa big! Big dragon appa! Silly appa, no scare me, hehe…”

Orion stood frozen, arms awkwardly adjusting around the warm bundle pressed to his chest.

“...neomu silly, appa… silly silly silly… bogosip-eoss-eo…”

Orion startled.

Korean?

He blinked down. “What did you say?”

“Appa silly,” Regulus said again in a sing-song voice. “Nooossss! Sillyyy!” He giggled and tugged lightly at Orion’s hair, babbling now, words half-formed but confident. “Appa scary but I win. I gotchu. Hehe. Appa scary but I’m scarier!”

Orion felt his chest crack open, something warm and slow pouring in.

Regulus knew Korean. Walburga had never taught Sirius properly. Sirius had barely grasped any of it. But this boy… this one, so soft and small and smiling… he understood. He remembered.

This child, his child, was brilliant.

And here, in his arms, cooing and cuddling like it was natural—like it had always been allowed—was the quiet son he’d never known he wanted.

“You are…” Orion said, voice cracking slightly. “You are not what I expected.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Silly appa again.”

And for the first time in Orion’s entire life, he laughed. A low, shaking sound that startled them both.

Regulus beamed.

Orion held him a little tighter.

For all his life, Orion had never loved anyone. Not Walburga. Not Sirius. Not even his name. He lived out of duty. Out of image. He had never felt warm.

But this little boy—

This was his. Not Walburga’s, not society’s, not a name carved in a family tree.

His.

And something inside him vowed, quiet and fierce, that from this day forward, Regulus would never feel alone again.

Regulus settled into his father’s arms like he’d been born to fit there, soft and warm and feather‑light. Orion held him stiffly at first, the way a man might cradle a fragile, unfamiliar artifact—valuable, breakable, terrifying. But the little boy didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness. He simply curled into the warmth, small fingers poking at Orion’s collar, at his robes, at the edge of his jaw with a bravery that felt… impossible.

“Appaaa…” Regulus hummed, voice sugary and lilting. He tapped a gentle rhythm on Orion’s chest. “Appaaa, hehe…”

And he giggled—full‑body, breathless, delighted.

Orion froze, then slowly lowered himself into the worn leather chair behind him, the boy bundled securely on his lap.

Regulus immediately stretched out, tiny legs kicking lazily, soft curls bouncing. He reached up with both hands and carefully—carefully—petted Orion’s hair like a fascinated kitten discovering fur.

“Appa hair soft…” he murmured proudly. “Kippeuda…”

Orion blinked, heart jolting.

Pretty.
He had called him pretty.

Regulus poked his cheek next, then poked again just to watch the way the skin gave under the pressure of his fingertip.

“Honk…” Regulus whispered, entirely deadpan.

Orion choked on a startled breath. “What?”

“Honk,” Regulus repeated, and then—delighted at his own mischief—blew a wet raspberry against Orion’s chin.

Orion’s soul nearly blasted out of his body.

This boy.
This boy.

He had never held Sirius like this. Never wanted to. From the moment Sirius was born—screaming, kicking, demanding—Orion had felt only irritation. Walburga had swept the infant away, and Orion let her. Sirius was loud. Sirius was chaos. Sirius was hers.

Regulus… had been quiet from birth. A silent little shadow. A child who didn’t wail, who didn’t claw, who didn’t spit fire. A soft thing with wide eyes and tiny hands who had simply watched the world with cautious curiosity. And Orion—blind, stupid, uninterested—had never reached for him.

He’d assumed this one would be like the first.
He’d assumed wrong.

Regulus hummed, wiggling happily in his lap, feet bumping Orion’s stomach. His little dimples carved themselves deep with every giggle. There were freckles Orion had never noticed—dusty little stars across his nose. His eyes were bright, round, endlessly expressive. His lips were soft and plush, still baby‑pouty. His curls—so unlike Sirius’—sprung out in glossy black loops that brushed Orion’s wrists.

How had he never seen this child?

How had a boy this enchanting lived under his roof for six years without Orion ever once… looking?

Regulus rubbed his cheek against Orion’s chest, humming again—soft, tuneless, content. His fingers curled around the lapel of Orion’s robe. He kicked his legs again, and Orion realised the boy was absurdly tiny. Much smaller than Sirius had been at this age. Narrow shoulders. Squishy arms. Soft, plump little hands that folded easily into Orion’s palm. A little belly. Chubby thighs. A baby. Still a baby.

Still his.

Not Walburga’s.
Not in the way Sirius had been claimed—wrapped in her cold hands, sculpted into a creature of defiance and anger by sheer force of neglect and resentment.

Regulus was different.
Regulus was untouched.

Regulus was his.

A warmth Orion had never known—gentle, terrifying, overwhelming—crept up his throat and into his eyes. He tightened his hold just slightly, like he was afraid the boy might disappear.

Regulus cooed.

And then—without warning—the little menace flopped backward.

He arched himself in a clumsy backward bend, head dangling upside down off Orion’s knees, curls brushing the floor, arms spread like a fallen angel. His shirt slid up, revealing a tiny tummy. His legs kicked excitedly.

“Hehehehe!” Regulus squealed, upside‑down dimples showing. “Appaaaa—nan bwa! Nan bwa upside downnnn!”

Orion panicked.

“Regulus—!” He grabbed the boy’s middle instinctively, steadying him with both hands. “You’ll fall—don’t—!”

Regulus only laughed harder, shrieking with delight, his little feet thudding against Orion’s thighs.

“I’m dizzyyy,” he announced proudly, as if this was a desirable state of being. “Appa, bwaaaaaah!” He made a dramatic swoon noise. “Boing—!”

“What does boing mean?” Orion demanded, heart racing.

Regulus flapped his hands like this was the most obvious concept in the universe. “Boing!” he repeated, then wiggled his eyebrows. “Like—like boing!” And he jiggled his entire little body like gelatin.

Orion’s jaw dropped.
Then—slowly—he laughed.

Out loud.
A real laugh.
A warm laugh.

Regulus froze upside down, eyes going huge.

Then he grinned.
“Appa laugh,” he whispered in awe.

And then—curling forward like a tiny squirrel—he crawled right back upright into Orion’s lap and planted his hands on Orion’s cheeks, squishing them.

“Appa laugh again,” he commanded softly, tapping his father’s face like he was ringing a doorbell. “Again. Do it. Do it again.”

Orion huffed, caught between amusement and disbelief. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Regulus stared.
Eyes huge.
Cheeks puffed.
Tiny tongue sticking out in rebellion.

“Appa.”
He poked Orion’s cheek.
“Laugh.”

Orion tried not to. He truly did.

But one look at that ridiculous, earnest, stubborn little face—

He laughed again.

Regulus bounced in victory, clapping his hands and squealing. “Appa funny!! Appa play wif me now? Jebal, jebal—appa play?”

The request hit like a spell.

Regulus had never asked Orion for anything before. Why would he? Orion had never been available to ask.

And now the boy looked at him—hope shining, little fingers curled in his robes, legs kicking excitedly—as if Orion were someone worth wanting.

Someone safe.

Someone loved.

“...You want me to play with you?” Orion managed, voice low and unsteady.

Regulus nodded so hard his curls bounced, eyes sparkling. “Nae!! Appa play! Appa play wif me lots! Lots lots!”

Orion exhaled.

The weight of six years—of absence, of mistakes, of silence—pressed heavy on his ribs. But the boy in his lap… he didn’t care about any of that.

He just wanted his father.

“...Yes,” Orion murmured, brushing a curl from Regulus’s forehead. “I’ll play with you.”

Regulus gasped dramatically, hands flying to his mouth.

Then he lunged forward and hugged Orion’s neck with all the strength his tiny arms could muster.

“Appa best,” he whispered, warm and breathy against his skin. “Appa best in da whole world.”

And for the first time in his life, Orion believed he could be.

Regulus began to wriggle.

Not just the occasional happy kick or head-bob—no, this was full-body, purpose-driven squirming. Like something deep in his tiny toddler bones had decided it was Time, and Orion Black, dignified patriarch and exasperated observer of pureblood society, was now a vessel for that mission.

“Yah—yah yah yah,” Regulus whispered in rhythm with his wiggles, gripping the folds of Orion’s robes and trying to slide down his lap like a wet eel. “Appa—come onnn—play play play play!”

Orion choked back a laugh, hand instinctively moving to support the child’s back. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Down,” Regulus declared.

“I gathered that,” Orion muttered, lifting him easily. “And what happens when we get down?”

Regulus pointed forward like a tiny general.

Orion raised an eyebrow. “That’s… vague.”

“Forward march!” Regulus squeaked and kicked his legs like he was riding a horse. “This way! Appa follow!”

“I am holding you.”

Regulus giggled. “Then carry and follow! Hurry, slowpoke!”

Orion made a dramatic sigh and stood, settling the boy against his hip. “Very well. Commander Regulus, guide me.”

Regulus puffed up with pride, lifting a small finger and pointing down the hallway with ceremonial flair. “That way, appa. To da big room! Da pretty room with music!”

Orion frowned slightly as he walked. “The… music room?”

“Neh!” Regulus beamed. “Wanna show you. Wanna play!”

The music room was barely used. A long, cold space tucked behind enchanted doors on the east wing of the house. Orion hadn’t been in there since—Merlin, since before Sirius was born. It had been his mother’s domain once. After her death, it fell quiet, dust and time swallowing it whole. Regulus had no reason to know about it, let alone want to go there.

But he pointed, confident and bright-eyed. “Right dere!”

So Orion obeyed.

The door creaked open on memory.

The room was dim, curtains drawn against the weak November light. Furniture draped in white sheets. Dust motes danced in the stillness.

And in the center: the piano.

An old, deep mahogany thing. Slightly out of tune. Still beautiful.

Regulus wiggled. “Down, down, down!”

Orion set him down gently.

The boy immediately scampered around him in excited circles, then braced both hands on Orion’s thighs and pushed.

Orion blinked. “What are you—?”

“Sit!” Regulus demanded, nudging him toward the bench. “Appa sit! Sit piano!”

Orion raised both eyebrows. “You want me to play?”

Regulus nodded fervently. “Play music play! Big orchestra play! I show you!”

“You show me.”

“Neh!” Regulus squealed, then immediately turned to climb up onto the piano bench himself.

Except—he couldn’t.

He jumped. He whined. He stretched his arms and tried to wiggle up like a determined slug. The bench was too tall. His feet scrabbled against the side, his tiny fingers barely grazing the top.

Orion watched, utterly fascinated.

“Ah…!” Regulus gave a pitiful sniffle and turned big, betrayed eyes up to his father. “Appaaaaa… hewp…”

Oh, that voice. That face. That quivering little pout.

Orion gave in immediately, scooping him up and setting him gently beside him on the bench.

Regulus instantly beamed. “Appa best.”

“Yes, I know,” Orion said, utterly undone.

Regulus tapped the piano lid gently. “Play?”

“Any requests?” Orion murmured, glancing down at the dusty keys.

Regulus furrowed his brows in deep, dramatic thought.

Then: “Hmmmmmmm… appa play da soft song. Da one that goes duh nuh duh nuh. Like bird. Like feathers. Like sleepy cloud.”

Orion snorted softly. “You’re a poet now, too?”

Regulus nodded seriously. “Mhm. Bird cloud music.”

Well, then.

Orion lifted his hands and began to play.

Just a simple melody. Something delicate and slow, all lilting notes and soft pauses, like rain through an open window. The old piano groaned but followed, warm wood waking beneath his touch.

Regulus froze.

His hands went still in his lap. His eyes locked on the keys.

“Waaaah…” he whispered. “Pretty…”

Orion glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, half-expecting the boy to wriggle off in distraction. But no—Regulus was enraptured. Gently swaying. Lips parted. Watching his appa like he’d grown wings.

Then—he reached out.

Tiny fingers hovered above the keys. Hesitated. Then tapped one, a single high note chiming in the middle of Orion’s melody.

Regulus gasped.

“I play too!” he shrieked. “I play!”

Orion chuckled. “Go on, then.”

Regulus pressed another key. Then another. Then a third, grinning wildly at each sound, his tiny body bouncing with joy.

“Again!” he laughed. “Again! Me and appa play music!”

Orion adjusted slightly so the boy could reach better, and continued his part of the tune, letting Regulus join in with scattered, bright little notes.

It was chaos. It was beautiful.

And then—Regulus leaned against his side, pressing his cheek to Orion’s arm.

“Appa music… so pretty,” he murmured. “Like da stars…”

Orion froze.

His hands paused.

Regulus looked up. “Why stop?”

Orion blinked slowly. “Because… I think you just broke my heart, little one.”

Regulus giggled, reaching to poke Orion’s cheek again. “Boing?”

And Orion laughed.

For the first time, this house was not silent.

The house was quiet in a new way.

Not in its usual deadened hush, the silence of cold portraits and colder halls—no, this was a living quiet. The kind filled with breath and movement and purpose. A pause held between notes. A held breath before a prayer.

The kind of quiet only a child and a piano can make together.

Orion watched his youngest with something like reverence.

Regulus sat beside him, still nestled close, small shoulder pressing to his ribs, one hand poised awkwardly above middle C. His fingers hovered uncertainly, curling and twitching, unsure where to begin.

Orion hummed low in his throat. “Like this,” he said gently, shifting Regulus into his lap, arms wrapped loosely around the boy’s middle to guide him.

He took Regulus’ tiny hands in his own, thumbs resting lightly on the backs of them, guiding his pointer fingers into place.

“Your fingers go here… and here. You don’t need to press hard. Just… feel the weight. Let the key fall.”

Regulus nodded solemnly. He leaned forward just slightly, curls brushing Orion’s chin. He was so small—Orion could feel the full length of him, feather-light against his chest, legs dangling off the bench, feet nowhere near the floor.

Orion adjusted them both so they could reach the keys more comfortably, then placed his hands beneath the boy’s, supporting them.

He pressed one note with Regulus’ index finger.

A soft chime. A note hanging in the air.

Then another.

And another.

Regulus didn’t giggle this time. Didn’t flail or babble. He was serious, brow furrowed in focus, lips slightly parted, eyes flicking between the keys and Orion’s hand.

“You’re learning fast,” Orion murmured, unable to hide the awe in his voice.

Regulus didn’t respond. He was deep in it now, mind working hard behind those wide eyes, memorising the shapes, the sounds, the movements.

He pressed two keys on his own. Then three. Orion let go a little—still there, still holding his wrists gently, but looser now, letting the boy explore.

And Regulus… adapted.

Quickly. Gracefully. Beautifully.

And then, without a word, he began to hum.

Softly at first.

A little melody—just a thread of sound, pure and delicate, carried by the breath in his chest. A hum that floated above the notes they were playing together, twining through the keys like smoke.

Orion stilled.

The boy began to sing.

Not words, not anything recognisable—not childish babble or nursery rhyme—but something else.

A low, whispered stream of sound. Unstructured but somehow elegant. Gentle and poetic, like the hush of wind through curtains or water slipping down a stream.

The voice of something older than his years.

“…neowa hamkke nan noraehanda…”
Regulus barely breathed the words, his voice light as snow, almost unsure.
“…bitnaneun byeolcheoreom, jageun sori…”
(With you I sing… like a shining star, a little sound…)

Orion’s hands froze above the keys.

Regulus kept playing, pressing one note at a time, in rhythm now, in melody, in something real.

His voice wavered but never faltered. The made-up song spilled out like a secret, like it had always existed and he was just unearthing it now with each note.

“…gipeun bam, kkumeuro…”
(Deep night, in dreams…)

Orion’s throat tightened.

He had known this boy was different. But this—

This was something else.

This was something otherworldly. Something divine.

His son—his tiny, quiet, squishy son with sleepy eyes and freckled cheeks—was composing music in real time, humming a lullaby for ghosts, singing a hymn for a home that had never sung back.

Orion stared.

Regulus pressed another note, then turned just slightly and whispered, “Appa… your turn.”

It broke him.

Orion blinked hard, cleared his throat, and played again.

They took turns now—note by note, call and response. Regulus’ voice soft above it, spinning a verse from the spaces between chords, the quiet around the song.

“…sori eobs-i saranghae…”
(I love you without sound…)

And he smiled.

Not a silly smile. Not a mischievous one.

A soft one.

A warm one.

The kind that cracked something open in Orion’s ribs and let the light in.

He guided the boy through a gentle arpeggio. Regulus matched him. He tapped two notes together; Regulus tried and missed and tried again until he got it.

Every mistake was a discovery. Every sound a gift.

They sat there—father and son, one a stranger, one a star—sharing music in a room that had forgotten it.

And Orion Black, a man who had never loved a single thing in his life, realised with a quiet and terrifying certainty:

He would give up the entire world to keep this song alive.

The last note faded into the still air like a sigh.
A hush fell between them, not empty—full. Reverent.

Orion didn’t move.

Regulus blinked slowly, as if waking from a spell, his small hand still resting on a piano key, eyes dreamy and faraway. The silence settled between them like snow. Then—soft and proud—Regulus whispered:

“Done.”

Orion exhaled.

And then, without thinking, he turned the child in his lap, spun him around to face him, and cupped his little cheeks in both hands.

Regulus let out a startled squeak, eyes wide, curls bouncing.

“Appa…?”

Orion just stared.

This child—this child—had composed music, real music, just now, right here, in real time.
He had learned in real time, too—watching, listening, absorbing, imitating, adapting.
He had hummed and sung and harmonised, matching the piano like he'd done it a hundred times before.

At six.

Not just clever. Not just sweet.
Brilliant.

A genius.
His genius.

Orion’s thumbs brushed over Regulus’ cheeks, over the smattering of freckles that dusted them, down to the soft curve of his pouty mouth, now twitching into an uncertain smile.

“You…” Orion whispered, eyes wide, voice low. “You are…”

Regulus tilted his head, curls falling into his eyes. “I’m Regulus,” he said simply, as if reminding him.

Orion laughed, voice raw with awe.

“Yes, you are,” he murmured. “You are Regulus. My Regulus.”

Regulus beamed. He pressed both palms to Orion’s chest and gave an enthusiastic little tap-tap. “I made a song! With you! I made it with my mouth and fingers and ears!”

“I know, sweetheart,” Orion said, stunned. “You made it. Off the top of your head. How do you—how did you…?”

“I dunno,” Regulus shrugged. “It just go boop! In my brain!”

“Boop,” Orion repeated faintly.

“Neh!” Regulus giggled and leaned into his hands, cheeks squishing in Orion’s palms like warm dough. “Boop boop boop!”

“Boop indeed,” Orion said, voice catching.

He didn’t know what he’d expected when he started the day—but it hadn’t been this. Not this delicate little miracle in footie socks, inventing beauty like it was breathing. Regulus could barely tie his own shoes, but he was already speaking music in a language most grown men never learned.

What else could he do?
What else did he know?
What else would he become?

What could a boy like this grow into if he was seen?

Orion leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead—gently, reverently, like sealing a promise.

Regulus giggled and cooed in reply, babbling delightedly. “Appa~ kissy~ so squishy~ so niceee~”

Orion choked on a laugh.

And then—

The moment shattered with a loud, tragic, theatrical groan:

“Appa…” Regulus pouted, smacking his hands against Orion’s chest. “Appa… hungry.”

“Hmm?”

“Hungryyy,” the boy whined, dramatically collapsing against him like he was fainting from famine. “Stummy go growwwwwl. Make it stoppp. Hungry die.”

“Oh, you’re dying, are you?” Orion smirked. “Just like that? Tragic.”

“Starvinating,” Regulus added solemnly. “Gon’ be bones. Little baby bones.”

“Little dramatic bones.”

Regulus clutched his stomach and stuck his tongue out with a sad whimper.

Orion exhaled slowly, looking toward the door.

He could call for Kreacher. That’s what he always did. That’s what everyone in this house did. Regulus was fed. Looked after. Survived.

But suddenly that didn’t feel like enough.

Orion looked down at the little boy in his lap—curled up, still warm, still so his—and something inside him shifted. Set.

“No,” he said aloud.

Regulus blinked. “No food?”

“No, we’ll have food.” Orion stood up, cradling the boy against his chest with one arm. “But not Kreacher. Not this time.”

Regulus gasped in awe. “Appa make food?!”

Orion smirked. “We’ll make it together.”

“Me too?!”

“You too.”

Regulus shrieked in joy, fists clenching with excitement. “WE GON’ BE CHEFS!!”

“Fear us,” Orion said solemnly.

And together they marched to the kitchen.
One little genius.
And one father, finally learning.

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place had never been used for anything so mundane as lunch.

Meals appeared at the table. Prepared. Served. Vanished again. The hearth burned only when the elves deemed it necessary, and even then, the light never touched the walls with warmth. It was a room for function, not for family.

But today—

Today there was light.

The door creaked open. Heavy boots stepped in. A tiny pair of socked feet kicked in the air.

Orion carried his son like a prince and set him down gently on the countertop with both hands around his waist.

Regulus kicked his legs and looked around with wide eyes. “It smells like nothin’ in here,” he announced.

“That’s because it hasn’t been used since… well.” Orion tilted his head. “Possibly the 1700s.”

Regulus nodded solemnly, clearly accepting that with full historical gravity.

Orion crossed his arms and leaned on the counter across from him. “Right, Commander. What’s the request?”

Regulus immediately bounced upright. “Phasghetti bognees wif cheez!”

Orion blinked. “Pardon?”

“Phasghetti bognees,” Regulus repeated slower. “Wif cheeeeez.”

Orion squinted, then snorted as it hit him.

“Spaghetti Bolognese… with cheese?”

Regulus nodded proudly. “Yes!”

Orion chuckled. “That’s a very complicated request for a nearly-bones little boy.”

Regulus grinned. “Me smart.”

“That you are.” Orion ruffled his hair, still grinning. “But let’s work on that pronunciation.”

He held up a finger. “Say: Spa.”

“Spa.”

“Ghe.”

“Guh…”

“Gheh.”

“Geh!”

“Ti.”

“Tea!”

“Spaghetti.”

“Spaghettiiii!”

“Good! Now: Bol.”

“Bol!”

“O.”

“O!”

“Nyaze.”

“…yoghurt?”

Orion burst out laughing. “Bolognese, sweetheart.”

Regulus scrunched his face with deep, offended focus. “Bo…lo…naise.”

“Close. Say it together?”

Regulus took a deep breath, puffing up like a balloon.

“Spaghettibobo knees!”

He immediately froze. His eyes went huge. His jaw dropped.
“…noooOOoooOoo,” he moaned dramatically. “It got worse!”

Orion wheezed, steadying himself against the counter.

“Appa fix ittt,” Regulus whined, flopping dramatically backward with a hand to his forehead like a tragic hero.

Orion leaned in and kissed his cheek. “You’re perfect.”

Regulus peeked from under his hand. “Even if I say it all wrong?”

“Especially then,” Orion said fondly. “Spaghettibobo knees is officially the new house term.”

“Yay!” Regulus shot back upright and threw his arms in the air. “Long live bobo knees!”

“I’m regretting this already.”

Orion chuckled, then turned and began rummaging through the cupboards, muttering to himself.

“Right. Pasta… meat… tomato… Merlin, where is anything in this house?”

Regulus sat swinging his legs, occasionally humming and once trying to lick his own elbow.

Eventually, Orion laid everything out on the table—carefully, hesitantly, as if unsure the ingredients might curse him on contact. Then he found an old Muggle cookbook buried in a drawer, opened it with suspicion, and squinted at the instructions.

Regulus leaned over curiously. “You can read muggle?”

“Of course I can,” Orion huffed, then whispered, “Sort of.”

The boy giggled.

“All right,” Orion announced. “You, young man, will be my sous-chef.”

“Like a shoe?”

“No. Like a helper.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Think you can handle that?”

Regulus sat up straight. “Yes, Appa Chef.”

They got to work.

Orion read from the cookbook aloud, making slow, concentrated efforts to follow the steps. He gave Regulus small jobs—passing ingredients, sprinkling cheese, helping stir (with both hands on the spoon and Orion’s hand over his).

He guided Regulus through tearing basil leaves. “Like this,” he murmured, showing the boy how to pinch and tear gently. “We’re not destroying it. We’re… coaxing flavour out.”

Regulus blinked seriously. “I will coax it!”

“Good. Threaten it a little if you must.”

Regulus leaned in close to the basil. “I coax you,” he growled. “Or else.”

Orion laughed, deep and rich.

It was awkward, messy, and slow. Orion burned the onions. Regulus dropped a tomato and then mourned it for three minutes. But slowly, the room began to fill with real smells—garlic, herbs, rich sauce.

It felt… right.

Warm.

Orion stirred gently, watching his son sprinkle cheese like it was stardust, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing as he hummed a little nonsense tune to himself.

Orion couldn’t stop watching him.

He thought of his mother. Melania Black. She’d died years ago, long before either of her grandsons were old enough to remember her. She had been sharp and poised, but there’d been gentleness in her too. A kindness that never made it to Walburga.

She would have loved him, Orion thought, throat tight.
She would have adored him.

She would have cooked with him, sung with him, told him he was special and meant it. She would’ve braided his hair and taught him all the old songs. She would’ve seen him. The way Orion was only just now beginning to see.

He would never forgive himself for how long it had taken.

But here. Now.

It wasn’t too late.

“Appa,” Regulus whispered, tugging on his robe.

Orion looked down. “Yes?”

“I love cooking wif you.”

Orion’s breath caught. He reached down and brushed his fingers along Regulus’ cheek.

“I love everything with you.”

And Regulus—sweet, brilliant, silly little Regulus—beamed like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Somehow—somehow—they finished the food.

Orion stared down at the two steaming plates of Spaghettibobo Knees in stunned disbelief, a wooden spoon still clutched in one hand like a weapon. The kitchen looked like a warzone. The stove had cheese on it. The counter had tomato sauce on it. Regulus had cheese and tomato sauce on him.

But the food was real. It was hot. It smelled good.

And no one had died.

Regulus was bouncing on the balls of his feet beside him, proudly poking at the plates. “We did it! We made da phasghetti!”

Orion cleared his throat, amused. “Spaghetti Bolognese.”

“Spa…spabeggibobo knees,” Regulus grinned.

“Close enough.”

Orion handed Regulus a spoon and crouched to his level. “All right, helper—shall we dish up properly?”

Regulus nodded seriously and got to work, scooping clumsy helpings onto the plates with great care. Orion had to stop him from tipping half the pot onto his own.

“That’s… that’s a bit much for a boy your size.”

Regulus blinked up at him. “But I’m very hungry.”

Orion sighed and set aside the mountainous plate Regulus had started, replacing it with a smaller one. “How about we start with this? And if you’re still hungry after, we’ve got more.”

Regulus considered this. “Deal.”

He proceeded to sprinkle cheese—liberally—onto both plates.

“Lots for Appa,” he muttered, tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. “And lots for Reggie…”

“Thank you, Chef Cheese.”

Regulus grinned. “You’re welcome, Chef Noodles.”

They stood back and admired their work. Two plates, one large, one little. Steaming, fragrant, chaos-born masterpieces.

Regulus suddenly perked up. “Appa?”

“Hm?”

“Can we eat it wif telly?”

Orion blinked. “Telly?”

Regulus nodded, curls bouncing. “Da big talking screen. Kreacher puts it on for me when I’m alone.”

There was a pause.

“…We have a television?”

Regulus nodded again. “Neh. S’downstairs. In da sitting room. No one else uses it. Jus’ me.”

Orion stared at him, speechless.

He had never seen Sirius use it. Or Walburga. Merlin, Sirius probably didn’t know they had one.

“…How long have you been using it?”

“Long time,” Regulus shrugged. “Kreacher puts it on when I’m all alone an’ he has to go do stuff for Eomma. I said it’s okay so Kreacher doesn’t get yelled at. Reggie’s a big boy.”

Orion’s jaw clenched. He forced himself to inhale slowly, then bent and picked up the plates, balancing one carefully in each hand.

“All right,” he said gently. “Let’s go eat with the telly.”

Regulus squealed in joy.

Orion passed him the cutlery—a spoon and a fork wrapped in a napkin—and Regulus clutched them like they were treasure.

They made their way to the little sitting room tucked near the back of the house, a place rarely used, quiet and forgotten.

Orion set the plates on the coffee table, fetched drinks from the kitchen—milk for Regulus in a chipped glass with flowers on it, water for himself—and settled in.

He crouched, dragging a small cushion over to the table and gently sitting Regulus down on it. He adjusted the boy’s plate, tucked the napkin into his collar like a bib, and placed the milk glass within reach.

“There. Fit for royalty.”

Regulus beamed. “Thanks Appa.”

Orion moved behind him, sinking into the old velvet sofa with a quiet grunt, plate in his lap. He looked around.

“Right,” he muttered. “The… TV.”

It stood in the corner. Small. Boxy. Dusty.

He reached for the dial and twisted it.

Nothing.

He frowned. Twisted again. Flicked the switch.

Nothing.

“Bloody hell, what’s wrong with this thing?”

Regulus gasped.

“Appa,” he said gravely. “That’s a bad word.”

Orion winced. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Appa meant… darn.”

“That’s better,” Regulus nodded, very serious. “Gimme, I know how.”

Orion stood up to let him pass. Regulus toddled over, still gripping his spoon, and expertly clicked two knobs, gave the side a little bop, and twisted a third.

The screen flickered to life.

“There we go!” Regulus announced proudly. “Telly fixed.”

“…How on earth do you know how to do that?”

“Kreacher showed me. Sometimes it doesn’t listen. Gotta bop it.”

“Of course.”

Orion sat back down and peered at the screen, flickering with a black-and-white image of some strange puppets bouncing on strings.

“…What in Merlin’s name is that?”

“That’s The Woodentops,” Regulus explained, mouth already full of spaghetti. “They’s silly. Like puppets. But not scary ones.”

Orion squinted at the screen. “What else is on?”

“Sometimes we get Andy Pandy, or Watch with Mother, or the shapes one. I like da shapes.”

“…Shapes?”

Regulus nodded and accidentally whacked himself in the chin with his fork. Orion bit back a laugh and passed him the napkin again.

He watched as Regulus munched happily, sauce on his cheeks, noodles dangling from his spoon. He drank his milk with both hands, like it might escape, leaning so far back that Orion had to reach forward and catch him by the back of the shirt before he fell flat.

“Easy,” Orion murmured, chuckling as he wiped a stripe of cheese off the boy’s chin. “You’re going to drown in dairy.”

Regulus grinned, cheeks puffed out. “Milky milky milk,” he chanted softly.

“Appa too eat,” he added through his spoon. “You gotta eat too.”

Orion blinked, caught off guard.

Then—softly—he smiled. “Yes, Reggie. I will.”

He took a bite.

Warm. Cheesy. Just the right amount of spice. Imperfect, uneven, a little undercooked—but somehow better than anything he’d had in years.

Regulus, halfway through his own plate, kicked his legs in delight and hummed along to the puppet song playing on the screen.

Orion reached out and gently ruffled the boy’s curls.

Regulus leaned into it without thinking.

They ate like that—quietly, content—father and son, side by side in the glow of a dusty television.
And for the first time, the house at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place felt like something other than a tomb.

It felt like a home.

It wasn’t long before Regulus went back for seconds.

"Still hungry," he mumbled around a mouthful of cheese and noodles, toddling up with his plate and holding it up proudly. "Can I has more bobo knees?"

Orion chuckled. “You can have more bobo knees.”

He served him another—slightly smaller—helping. Just as Regulus liked. Orion finished off the last of it on his own plate, not because he was hungry, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of letting the boy’s hard-earned meal go to waste.

They sat back on the floor, Regulus nestled between Orion’s legs, leaning on his chest as they watched the glowing telly. Puppets now replaced with a BBC nature programme. Something about otters.

Reg babbled the entire time.

“That one with the big nose is my favourite—oh! Sometimes the puppets fall down and it’s so silly, and there’s a girl one who always says the same thing and I say it too and Kreacher says I’m very clever—oh and one time the screen went all fuzzy and I thought it was snow and I tried to eat it, but it wasn’t snow. It tasted like nothing. But I’m not silly.”

Orion listened to every word.

He nodded. He asked questions. He hummed in the right places. He wiped sauce from Regulus’s cheeks, caught the dripping milk from his cup, and chuckled when the boy flopped back onto him like a sleepy starfish.

Eventually, Regulus blinked toward the window and gasped dramatically.

“Appa!” he whispered. “It’s night time!”

“So it is,” Orion murmured.

“Bath time! And jammies!”

Orion blinked. “Already?”

Regulus nodded with all the self-importance of a king. “Mhm. S’my schedule.”

“…Your schedule?”

“Yah-huh,” Regulus said, hopping up, dragging his blanket with him. “S’important. After telly and dinner is bath and jammies. Then calm down time.”

And just then, right on cue—Kreacher appeared in the doorway. He froze upon seeing Orion, eyes going wide with panic.

The elf bowed low, voice raspy. “Master Orion, sir… forgive Kreacher… Kreacher did not know—”

Orion stood slowly, the soft clink of dishware echoing behind him. “It’s fine.”

Kreacher cast a sideways look at Regulus, who waddled over and slipped his hand into the elf’s. “I explained da schedule to Appa. He didn’t know,” he whispered.

Kreacher’s ears twitched.

“This is your daily routine?” Orion asked carefully.

Kreacher nodded. “Yes, sir. Master Regulus has kept to it faithfully.”

“And you—”

“Kreacher tends to Master Regulus. As instructed by Mistress Walburga. When she is… away.”

Orion’s face hardened.

Regulus looked between them, sensing the shift, and frowned. “We go bath now?”

Kreacher gently began to lead the boy away. Regulus went to follow, dragging his blanket behind him—

—but then—

“No,” Orion said, sharper than intended. He stepped forward, heart stuttering. “I’ll do it.”

Both Kreacher and Regulus blinked.

“Appa?” Regulus asked, wide-eyed.

“I’ll bathe you. And dress you. Just…” Orion looked at Kreacher. “Come with us. Show me what to do.”

Kreacher bowed, stunned. “Yes, Master Orion.”

Upstairs, Regulus toddled ahead, leading them toward his bedroom.

Orion slowed as he reached the door.

It was… small.

Smaller than he remembered. Smaller than Sirius’s room by far. No toys. No bookshelves. No decorations. Just a tiny bed, a narrow chest of drawers, and one stuffed dragon sitting crooked on the pillow.

He swallowed hard.

Regulus climbed onto the bed and began rummaging in the drawer. “I’ll pick jammies!” he said proudly.

His hand reached for soft blue cotton ones with little moons on them.

Orion spotted something else—something hidden at the back.

A green fleece dinosaur onesie, complete with tail and snout and tiny padded claws at the sleeves.

He reached for it.

“…How about this one?”

Regulus blinked. “That’s my dino!”

“You’ll be a very scary dinosaur,” Orion said smoothly. “RAWR.”

Regulus giggled and agreed, flopping dramatically onto his back. “RAWRRRRRR I gonna eat your toes.”

“Please don’t.”

Kreacher fetched the towels, setting them by the bath as Orion filled it. The warm water steamed. Gentle bubbles formed under Kreacher’s enchanted soap.

Regulus stepped in without fuss, plopping into the bubbles with a tiny splash.

He played quietly, scooping water with a cup and humming to himself. Orion sat on the edge of the tub, resting his chin on one hand.

“You’re very good in the bath,” he murmured.

Regulus beamed. “I’m a good boy.”

“You’re the best boy.”

But then—

Hair-washing time.

Kreacher passed the little jug over. Orion braced one arm gently behind Regulus’s neck. “Okay now, little star. We’ve got to rinse your hair—”

Regulus’s eyes went wide. His lip wobbled. “No tip back…”

“I’ve got you.”

“Don’t wanna—don’t wanna—scary, Appa, scary—!”

Water hit his curls and he flailed, whimpering, his hands scrabbling for Orion’s robe.

“Shhh, shhh, baby, shhh… appa’s got you,” Orion cooed, pressing kisses to his forehead, arms cradling him tight. “Gwaenchanh-a, ibkkum-iya… byeolcheoleom yeppeun ai…”
(It's okay, it’s just a dream… my beautiful star…)

“Appa, Appa, no water—!”

“Gwaenchanh-a, ja-giya. Salanghae… naneun neomu salanghae…”
(It’s okay, baby. I love you… I love you so much…)

Regulus trembled and cried softly, fingers clutching Orion’s collar. But Orion kept rocking him, whispering soft Korean lullabies, cooing into his curls until the water had rinsed away every last trace of soap and fear.

He lifted him out gently, wrapping him in the biggest, fluffiest towel Kreacher had. Regulus giggled as Orion ruffled his hair dry, squeaking as he was lifted like a sack of potatoes back to the bedroom.

After pajamas came the hair routine.

Which, to Orion’s horror, was extensive.

“What is—what is all this?”

Kreacher began listing products. Oils. Creams. Detanglers. Special brushes. “It must be done nightly,” he said. “Or his curls matt.”

Regulus sat on the stool, towel around his shoulders like a royal cloak. Orion kneeled behind him and carefully followed Kreacher’s instructions—brushing section by section, adding oil, coiling the curls with his fingers.

He had never even thought about it. Neither he nor Walburga nor Sirius had curls. But Regulus… Regulus had a mane.

And it needed care.

Of course he did it himself. Of course no one else had.

When they were finished, Regulus turned in his dinosaur onesie, all snouted and clawed and absurdly adorable.

“Time for calm down now.”

“Calm down now?”

“Mhm. Sit wif blankie. Read book. Listen to radio. Cuddle.”

Orion stared.

Regulus tugged on his hand.

They returned to the telly room. Orion dimmed the lights. Kreacher lit a few low candles. Regulus climbed onto the sofa and curled into a little dinosaur ball, blanket wrapped around him, milk in one hand and a picture book in the other.

Orion sat beside him, pulled him close, and opened the radio.

Classical music filled the room—soft, soothing violins.

Regulus yawned.

“This,” he whispered, snuggling under Orion’s arm, “is my bestest day ever.”

Orion kissed the top of his head. “Mine too.”

Regulus rubbed his eyes with a closed fist, tiny whimpers and sniffles of tiredness escaping. “Love you, Appa.”

Orion’s breath caught.

He stared down at the warm, sleepy boy in his arms. The one no one had wanted. The one no one had seen.

And now, in the softest voice he had ever used, he whispered:

“You are the only person I love.”

The house was dark now, quiet again. Not empty—resting.

The radio whispered soft lullabies from the sitting room shelf. The light from the fireplace danced gently across the walls in flickers of orange and gold. And curled tightly in Orion’s arms, warm and full and wrapped in his dinosaur onesie, Regulus Arcturus Black slept.

Not lightly. Not cautiously.
He slept like a child who trusted.

Orion stood there, swaying softly, one arm under his son’s legs, the other across his back, cheek resting against soft curls still faintly scented of honey soap and curl cream. Regulus made the tiniest sounds in his sleep—soft breaths, the occasional mumble, the tiniest “mm” when his face pressed closer to Orion’s chest.

Orion had rocked many things in life. Battles. Strategies. The weight of his name. But this… this was the first time he’d ever rocked a child to sleep.

He didn't want to stop.

He didn’t want to put him down yet—not while he was so small, so warm, so very his.

Then—

The door burst open.

Boots. Cold wind. Harsh voices.

Sirius came barreling through the entry hall, scarf askew and cheeks red from wind. Seven years old, wild-eyed, stomping. Walburga followed behind, draped in silk, scowling.

And both of them stopped short at the sight in the sitting room.

Orion. Standing in the firelight. Holding the youngest Black child in his arms like he was something sacred.

Walburga’s face twisted. “What in Morgana’s name is going on?”

Orion turned slowly, his arms tightening protectively around the sleeping child. “Keep your voice down.”

She scoffed, already stalking closer. “Why are you here? Why is he out of bed? And—what are you doing holding him like that? Kreacher was meant to—”

“I told Kreacher not to,” Orion snapped. “I did it. I bathed him. Fed him. Put him in his pajamas. We read. He’s asleep.”

Walburga stared, baffled. “Why? Since when do you—”

“Shut up, Eomma,” Sirius grumbled, shouldering past her. “Dad doesn’t care about kids. Why’s he even touching Reggie?”

Orion’s eyes darkened.

Sirius pouted, fists clenched at his sides, scowling. “You never carry me.”

“I don’t recall you ever asking.”

“Well he didn’t ask!” Sirius snapped. “He’s a baby! A dumb little baby!”

Orion turned his head slowly. His voice was ice.

“Do not speak about your brother that way.”

Sirius flinched. “He’s not even that cute,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Enough.” Orion’s voice dropped to something deeper, firmer. He adjusted Regulus carefully, holding the child close even as he leaned down toward Sirius. “You will not insult your brother again.”

“Why not?” Sirius burst out, face red. “You don’t even like me!”

Walburga stepped forward at that, snarling. “Don’t you speak to your son that way, Orion—he’s right!”

And her voice—

Her voice rose.

Sharp. Piercing. Too loud.

Regulus whimpered in his sleep.

A tiny sound.

A quiet shuffle. A twitch of fingers. He pressed his face into Orion’s neck, a tiny dino whimper escaping as he flinched.

Orion turned on Walburga in an instant.

“Be quiet.”

She blinked.

“You are waking him.”

Walburga scowled, opening her mouth again.

“Don’t,” Orion warned lowly, stepping back and rocking Regulus again, whispering gently in Korean beneath his breath.

“Jalhaess-eo, jageun byeol… shhh… appa iss-eo… neowa hamkke isseo…”
(You did well, little star… shhh… Appa is here… I’m here with you…)

Regulus slowly settled again, soft curls pressed under Orion’s chin.

Sirius stared, arms crossed, lip wobbling but angry.

Walburga fumed silently, glaring between her husband and her eldest.

Orion ignored them both.

He kept rocking.

He didn’t put his youngest down.
He didn’t speak again.

Not until Regulus sighed softly in his sleep—safe, quiet, held.

And then, without looking away, Orion whispered to the boy in his arms:

“They will not take this from you.”

The moment Regulus settled back into sleep, warm and heavy in his dinosaur onesie, cheek pressed soft to Orion’s collarbone, the room cracked apart.

“What have you done?” Walburga hissed, stepping forward like a storm on heels, her voice a razor cutting through the firelight. “You’ve spoiled him. You’ve coddled him like some common bastard child!”

Orion turned his back to her. Quietly. Deliberately.

He reached up with one hand, fingers glowing faintly, and pressed them gently over Regulus’s ears. A silent Muffliato spell spread around the boy like a shroud, and another charm laced through it—Somnus Sano—softening sound and soothing nerves. A shell of quiet for his sleeping son.

Regulus stirred but didn’t wake.

He would not hear this.

“Don’t you ignore me,” Walburga snarled, marching closer. “He’s my son. I decide how he’s raised—”

Orion turned, slowly, face carved from marble.

“No, Walburga. He is ours. And you’ve done nothing but neglect him. You left him to the elf. You left him to rot in that broom cupboard of a room while you paraded your golden child around Diagon Alley.”

Sirius had crept in now, standing near the doorway. His arms were crossed, jaw tight.

“I’m the golden child?” he said, voice hot and confused. “Since when? You never—”

“Not now, Sirius.” Orion’s voice snapped like thunder.

Sirius blinked, stung. “You never talk to me—never—he gets one hug and suddenly you’re playing family?”

Orion’s glare darkened. “You do not speak of what you don’t understand.”

Sirius puffed up, face red. “You don’t get to tell me what to—!”

“Enough!” Orion barked, the air vibrating with the weight of it.

Regulus whimpered in his sleep.

“Sirius. Go to your room.”

Sirius flushed in fury, looking between both parents, but Walburga grabbed his arm roughly and snapped, “Do what you’re told.”

He wrenched away, stomping out. “Fine! Whatever!”

Silence dropped for half a second.

Then Walburga stepped forward again, voice seething. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“No,” Orion said coldly. “I’ve found my son.”

“You think playing house with the quiet one makes you a father?”

“I am a better father in one afternoon than you’ve been in seven years.”

“You pompous, soulless—”

“Say one more thing,” Orion warned, his wand flicking to levitate a blanket over Regulus’s back, cushioning him against his chest. “Say one more fucking thing and I will turn this into a blood duel.”

Walburga’s face twisted in fury. “You think you can throw me out? Me? This is my house—”

“No. It is mine.”

She froze.

“I am the heir of the Black family. I am Head of House by blood, by law, by magic. You married into this name, Walburga. This house. This legacy. You are not its master.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“I would.” His voice dropped low. Dangerous. Cold. “You’ve done nothing for this house but fill it with hatred and rot. You turned your back on our youngest. On our son.”

He turned away from her, beginning to walk.

Walburga followed.

“You cannot be serious. This is my home! My children—”

“You can take your belongings. Sirius’s. Nothing else.”

“I raised Sirius!”

“You poisoned Sirius.”

Walburga hissed and reached for her wand—only to flinch when the wards of the house flared around her, unwelcoming.
Cold. Final.

Orion paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Kreacher,” he called gently.

The elf appeared, blinking in. “Yes, Master Orion?”

“You answer to me now. Only me. Not Walburga. Not Sirius. Me.”

Kreacher’s ears twitched. He bowed low. “As it should be.”

“Help her pack. Her things. Sirius’s things. Nothing else.”

“Yes, Master.”

Walburga stood there, trembling with rage, and looked around the house—her house—for the last time.

She took nothing more than what she was allowed. Clothes. Jewellery. Toys and robes from Sirius’s room. She yanked Sirius out of his door by the wrist.

He didn’t fight it.
He didn’t understand.
He just looked back once. Confused. Angry. Jealous.

And then they were gone.
The front door slammed shut behind them.

And the house—finally—was still.
Still.
And silent.
But not empty.

Orion walked slowly through the corridors, Regulus asleep in his arms, soft curls brushing his chest, breathing even and gentle.

He climbed the stairs. Passed the portraits. Passed the ancestral sneers. Passed Sirius’s room and Walburga’s boudoir.

He stepped into his own chambers. Large. Cold. Dark.

He lit the hearth with a flick of his fingers.

Then—slowly, like setting down something holy—he lowered onto the bed, Regulus still curled in his arms.

The boy shifted a little, one small hand gripping the collar of Orion’s robes even in sleep.

Orion pulled the blankets over them both.

And for the first time in his life, he held his son in the silence of his own sanctuary, head resting against the pillow, warmth pressed to his chest.

He exhaled.

A long, slow, broken breath.

His hand settled gently in Regulus’s curls, fingers brushing through them like a prayer.

“…You’re safe now,” he whispered, voice rasping.

The fire crackled.

And Orion Black—heir of the house, master of the wards, man of silence and storm—fell asleep holding the only thing he had ever truly loved.