Christmas at the Blacks'
Regulus
By the time Regulus steps through the front door of Grimmauld Place, the chill has seeped into his bones. The house looms dark and oppressive, the only light coming from a few flickering sconces lining the hallway. Kreacher scuttles ahead to announce his arrival, but Regulus knows better than to expect a warm welcome.
Walburga appears first, gliding down the staircase like a dark shadow, her face a stern mask. Regulus straightens his posture, school bag clutched tightly in his hand.
“You’re late,” she says, voice sharp enough to cut. “Your father has already retired to his study. Did the train not arrive on time?”
“Yes, Mother,” Regulus replies, keeping his voice low. “There was... a delay.”
She sniffs disdainfully, eyes raking over him as if checking for flaws. “I hope you haven’t neglected your studies. We’ve planned a dinner tomorrow—family only. You’ll be expected to speak about your academic progress.”
“Yes, Mother,” he repeats, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.
She lingers for a moment longer, as if deciding whether he’s worth more of her attention. “Your room is as you left it. Make yourself presentable for dinner tomorrow. I will not tolerate you looking unkempt in front of your cousins.”
With that, she sweeps away, the hem of her dark robes whispering against the floor. Regulus stays still, counting to ten in his head, forcing the tightness in his chest to ease.
Kreacher returns, his large eyes fixed on Regulus with something like concern. “Master Regulus’s room is ready. Kreacher has made the bed with fresh sheets, just as Master likes.”
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Regulus murmurs, managing a faint nod before trudging upstairs.
His room is just as he left it—neatly arranged, everything in its place. But the cold seems to have seeped even into the walls, the fire barely doing enough to chase away the draft. He sets his bag on the bed and shrugs off his coat, folding it carefully.
He feels the weight of the house pressing down on him—the portraits muttering in the corridors, the thick, suffocating silence. It’s always like this when he comes home. No matter how much he tries to impress his parents or prove himself worthy of the Black name, it’s never enough. He always falls short—too quiet, too uncertain, too... human.
He glances at his bag and then reaches in, fingers brushing the folded parchment. James’s letter. Regulus pulls it out, staring at his own name written in that messy scrawl. He turns it over in his hands, biting his lip.
He doesn’t open it. Not yet. Part of him wants to read it immediately—clutch onto whatever warmth it might hold—but he knows better. Tomorrow will be worse. Family dinners always are. There will be cousins and aunts and uncles, all of them scrutinizing him, comparing him to Sirius even when they don’t say it outright.
Regulus shoves the letter under his pillow, as if hiding it will make it easier to resist. It’s a promise to himself—he’ll read it when he really needs it, when the cold and the silence feel unbearable. He thinks of James and how unsure he sounded while handing him the letter. He can’t help but be curious about what it says.
He sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly in his lap. A pang of longing flares up in his chest as he thinks of Sirius—loud, laughing Sirius, who would’ve already broken the suffocating quiet by now. He wonders what his brother’s doing. Whether he’s happy at the Potters’ house, surrounded by warmth and care. He hopes he is. Last year, Sirius was still here at Christmas. At least in the beginning before it escalated. He remembers being scared, no terrified for his brother when his mother lost it and hurt him badly. Regulus just stood there. He didn’t help him; wasn’t brave; wasn’t Sirius. He still feels guilty for it. When they left him there on the floor, Regulus helped him up and tried his best to comfort him but it wasn’t enough. Sirius packed his things and left; Not before begging Regulus to leave with him. Sometimes, he wishes he had.
Regulus sinks deeper into himself, folding his shoulders in, trying to make himself smaller, quieter, less noticeable. That’s how he survives here. If he’s silent enough, still enough, maybe they’ll forget he exists, and he can just endure it without drawing attention. Exactly the opposite of what Sirius did.
The fire crackles, but it doesn’t seem to warm the room. Regulus lies down fully clothed, curling on his side, fingers unconsciously reaching under the pillow to touch the edge of the letter. The paper is warm, somehow, despite the cold air. Typical. Everything James is always warm. His smile, his hands, his words, his hugs… Salazar, Regulus is only here for a few minutes and he already feels so lonely that he thinks of Potter.
Hm. It sounds wrong now, calling him Potter. Weird.
He closes his eyes, imagining what it would be like to be somewhere else—somewhere warmer, where people greet him with open arms and genuine smiles. Somewhere that feels like home.
When sleep finally comes, it’s restless and fractured, filled with half-formed dreams of laughter and firelight and a voice whispering, “You don’t have to be alone.”
It sounds like James’s.
---
Family dinner without Sirius there is…shit. It was with him as well but his brother always brought some sort of humor into that whole affair. Regulus should’ve appreciated it more. Today, there weren’t any toasts to incest, no snarky remarks about Lucius Malfoy’s mass of hair versus the lack of uncle Cygnus’s. Nothing even remotely funny.
Worse than that is the fact that Regulus actually has to talk to people now, being the heir and all. He’s not good at small talk and socializing. And, well he also really hates everyone here except for Cissy, maybe. Everyone he liked was disowned by this “family”.
Uncle Alphard, Sirius, Andromeda.
Maybe that should get him to thinking. It does, a bit. He doesn’t want to be here at all. He is though. It’s been alright, so far. He’s talked about potions, school, that he plans on becoming a potioneer after school. He’s been keeping his mask on and he tried to be charming. He probably didn’t manage that.
The dining room is dimly lit, the long table set with silver dishes and emerald-green napkins. Regulus sits near the end, shoulders drawn in, keeping his head down as the adults talk over him.
He can feel his mother’s eyes on him every so often, making sure he’s sitting properly, eating with the correct etiquette. He picks at his food, forcing bites past the tightness in his throat.
Bellatrix’s laugh shatters the murmur of conversation, wild and grating. Regulus winces, his fork slipping from his fingers and clattering against his plate.
Narcissa raises a perfectly arched brow, eyeing her sister with faint disdain. “What’s so amusing, Bella?”
Bellatrix smirks, her dark eyes glittering. “I was just thinking—without Sirius around, these family gatherings have become unbearably dull.” She leans back in her chair, swirling her wine. “At least when he was here, there was some excitement.”
A heavy silence follows.
Regulus feels the words slice through him, the air thickening with tension. It’s the first time anyone has mentioned Sirius all night, and he almost wants to thank Bellatrix for saying it out loud.
Narcissa looks away, like she’s hoping no one will follow up on it. Walburga doesn’t even flinch, calmly cutting her meat as if nothing was said. After a few seconds, she speaks in an unnervingly calm voice.
“Sirius Black is no longer a concern of this family. Regulus is our only son now—the only one who upholds the family’s honor.”
Regulus’s hands clench around the edge of the tablecloth, knuckles going white. His mother’s words should make him feel proud, validated. Instead, a hot, sick feeling coils in his stomach. He is not their only son and he doesn’t want to uphold the family’s honor. He doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t.
“That disgrace,” Walburga continues, voice still coldly controlled, “has chosen his path. We no longer speak of him.”
Regulus feels anger burning up inside of him and the strange urge to defend his older brother. He is not a disgrace and the path he has chosen is definitely better than this.
Bellatrix just smirks, clearly entertained. “A shame. I did so enjoy watching Mother lose her mind when he pulled some stunt or other. At least there was some spirit to him. Now there’s nothing but...” She waves her hand dismissively. “Obedience.”
Something cracks inside Regulus. He realizes that this isn’t how he wants people to see him. Obedient. He wants to do the right thing for once; Fuck the consequences. Sirius deserves this. His nails dig into the cloth, and his voice comes out sharper than intended. “Maybe if any of you had bothered to understand him instead of treating him like a disappointment, he wouldn’t have left.”
The room freezes. Walburga’s knife clatters against her plate, and Orion, who’s barely spoken all evening, looks up with a frown. Bellatrix’s smirk gets even wider, and Narcissa’s eyes are big.
Regulus knows he should stop—knows he should shut his mouth and bow his head like always. But he can’t. The anger is too much, clawing at his ribs, demanding to be heard.
“I’m not your only son,” he says, voice wavering. “You can’t just pretend he never existed. He’s still—”
“Enough,” Walburga snaps, standing abruptly. The force of it makes Regulus flinch. She stares at him, eyes blazing. “You will not speak of that blood traitor in this house. Have you forgotten what family loyalty means? Or have you taken up his filthy, rebellious ideas as well?”
Regulus bites down hard on his lip, tasting copper. His hands tremble, but he can’t stop the words. “Maybe family loyalty means actually caring about your family. Maybe it means not pushing them away because they don’t fit your perfect, pure-blooded shit!”
There’s a rush of movement, and Orion stands as well, his face hard and unforgiving. “Regulus, that’s enough. Go to your room.”
Regulus can barely breathe, his chest heaving with the force of words unsaid for too long. Walburga’s hand tightens around the back of her chair, but she doesn’t look at him—doesn’t even acknowledge his anger, just gestures to Kreacher, who appears instantly.
“Take him upstairs,” she orders. “I don’t want to see him for the rest of the evening.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Kreacher mumbles, looking at Regulus with worried eyes.
Regulus doesn’t resist as Kreacher leads him out of the dining room. His feet feel heavy, and his head throbs with the aftermath of his outburst. He keeps his mouth shut, even though his heart screams at him to go back in and keep shouting, to make them hear him for once.
Once inside his room, Kreacher closes the door softly behind them. Regulus just stands there, trembling. He can still hear murmurs from downstairs—Orion’s low voice, Walburga’s hissed commands—but it all blends into static.
Kreacher wrings his hands, his expression pained. “Master Regulus shouldn’t make Mistress angry. It is not good for Master.”
Regulus just sinks onto his bed, pulling his knees to his chest. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge Kreacher’s words. Fuck. He’s going to get punished for this later. Was it worth it? Regulus thinks it was.
He reaches under his pillow and pulls out James’s letter, his fingers brushing over the folded parchment. For a moment, he just stares at it, thinking of James’s worried expression at the station. He saw him glancing over at him. He could open it now—just see what’s inside, maybe feel a little less alone.
But instead, he carefully tucks it away again. He needs it later, after his punishment, whatever it’ll be. He hopes it won’t be too bad. He needs to save that little bit of warmth for when it hurts the most.
Kreacher whispers something about bringing him tea, but Regulus barely hears. He lies down, curling in on himself, and tries to imagine the warmth of a fire somewhere far away—a place where people laugh freely, where being yourself isn’t a crime.
A place with his brother in it.
I miss you, that’s what Sirius told him in that corridor. The last time they spoke.
“I miss you too”, Regulus whispers into the quiet room, his voice barely even a whisper. A stray tear forcing itself out of his left eye. He wipes it away.
Crying right now will make him look weak and Regulus Arcturus Black is anything but.
---
“What,” Walburga says after closing the door to Regulus’s bedroom, voice a dangerous whisper, “do you think you’re doing? Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?”
Regulus swallows, his mouth dry. “I—”
Before he can finish, her hand swings out, and the slap echoes through the room, sharp and brutal. His head snaps to the side, and pain flares hot along his cheekbone. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from gasping.
“You ungrateful little wretch,” she hisses. “After everything we’ve done for you. After your brother abandoned us, we gave you everything, and this is how you repay us? With insolence?”
Regulus straightens, even though his cheek is throbbing. “Sirius didn’t abandon me, he left because of you” he says quietly. “You pushed him away. Just like you’re doing to me.”
Walburga’s face twists, and before he knows it, her hand is in his hair, yanking his head back. Pain sparks along his scalp, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to show weakness.
“You are nothing without this family,” she snaps. “Without our name. Do you think anyone would care about you if you were just some useless half-blood? Or a filthy blood traitor like your brother?”
Her grip tightens, and Regulus clenches his teeth, the bitter taste of copper still on his tongue. He doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead, trying to make his mind go blank.
“Answer me!” she screams, shaking him so hard his neck strains.
“Yes, Mother,” he says, his voice hollow. “You’re right.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re weak, Regulus. You pretend to be strong, but I see through it. You’re nothing. You’ve always been nothing.”
Regulus swallows against the pain in his throat. “I’m not weak.”
She lets out a bitter laugh, letting go of his hair only to slap him again—this time harder, with her knuckles. His head whips to the side, and he stumbles, catching himself against the bedframe. He tastes more blood.
“You think you’re brave now?” she sneers. “You think you’re like him? You’re not. You’ll never be anything like Sirius. You’re just a pathetic little boy pretending to be strong.”
He wants to scream back at her, but he knows it’ll only make things worse. He just glares at the wall, refusing to wipe the blood from his mouth.
Walburga pulls out her wand, pointing it directly at his leg. “Maybe a little reminder of your place will help.”
Before he can react, she mutters, “Lacero.”
Pain explodes through his thigh, like hot knives slicing through flesh. Regulus bites back a cry, his legs buckling. He drops to one knee, clutching at the searing wound as blood soaks through his trousers, hot and sticky.
Walburga leans over him, voice low and vicious. “You will not disgrace this family. You will not turn out like that traitor. Do you understand me?”
Regulus nods, not trusting himself to speak. Tears blur his vision, but he refuses to let them fall. He won’t cry. He won’t.
“Good,” she spits, and with a flick of her wand, she unlocks the door. “You will stay in this room until you remember what loyalty means. Kreacher will bring you food when I see fit.”
And with that, she sweeps out, slamming the door behind her. Regulus hears the click of the lock, and he knows she’s cast a silencing spell, just in case he tries to call for help. Not that anyone would help him if he did.
He waits, forcing himself to breathe evenly, even as pain throbs in his leg and his face feels swollen and bruised. He wants to scream, to cry, to break something. But he can’t. That’s what they want—to see him shattered.
Slowly, he crawls onto the bed, pressing his hand against the bleeding cut, trying to slow the flow. His whole body aches, and his head pounds. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat.
With shaking fingers, he reaches under his pillow, pulling out James’s letter. His hands are still slick with blood, but he doesn’t care. He unfolds the parchment carefully, like it’s something fragile and precious. It probably is. He breathes in deeply and looks at the letter.
James’s handwriting is messy, looping, and a little smudged in places. Typical James.
He sits up against the bedframe and starts reading.
Regulus,
Alright, so I’m not great at writing letters and putting my thoughts into words. My parents always complain about my short and clipped letters. Writing everything I want to say is exhausting, honestly, so… You can feel special. I’m trying to make this less clipped and short only for you Reg. I know you don’t want me to call you that but you’re not here to tell me ;)
I wanted you to have something to hold onto while you’re stuck in that house. If anyone could use a bit of Gryffindor optimism, it’s you.
First off, you’re brilliant, you know that? Probably don’t hear that enough, but it’s true. Whatever they say, however they make you feel, you should know that it’s bullshit. Except of course, if they tell you you’re brilliant and amazing and deserve the world, but knowing what your parents are like… I doubt they do. But I figured someone should. Reg, you’re brilliant and amazing and you deserve the world.
Second, if it ever gets too much, if you just need to breathe or get away or even yell at someone who’ll take it, I want you to know that my offer still stands. The floo is always open for you. I know you don’t need saving and blah blah blah. But I just want to make sure you know. After Sirius left, my mum tried to get you at as well so if you’re scared you’ll be a burden or some nonsense like that, you really wouldn’t be. We want you here, really. Mum would probably fuss and feed you a year’s worth of food, but you might actually enjoy that. Just…you don’t have to be there if it’s suffocating. You don’t have to go trough that. You deserve better, Reg.
Of course, I can’t and don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you do want to, the offer is there. But if you’re only reading this for a distraction… Well, imagine me attempting to cook without Mum’s help. (It usually ends in fire.) Or the one time I tried to charm my glasses to stop fogging up during Quidditch and somehow I ended up blinding the entire team. (I know you remember that, Reg. You’re team won because of that and if I remember it correctly, you were laughing rather loudly. Not that I can blame you.)
Hang in there, Regulus, I’d really like to see you happy. Or at least less miserable. You deserve it. You’ve got this. And if you don’t… well, I’ve got you.
James
Regulus wipes the tears that spilled over when reading the letter from his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowing the sob that’s lodged in his throat.
Merlin, why does James have to be like that?
Regulus stares at it, his hands trembling. James’s messy handwriting is smudged where his fingers gripped the parchment too tightly, but he doesn’t care. He reads it again, and again, the words sinking deeper into his chest with every pass.
It’s almost funny—James has this way of being so unapologetically himself, loud and careless and hopeful all at once. Regulus can’t decide if he hates him for it or if he’s just… grateful. It’s not like anyone has ever said those things to him before…except for Sirius.
Brilliant. Amazing. Deserving the world.
It doesn’t make sense. Not when his mother’s voice is still rattling around his head, cutting him down to nothing.
You are nothing.
You’ve always been nothing.
But then there’s this letter in his hands that says the opposite. That calls him by a nickname and jokes about burning kitchens and blind Quidditch teams. It’s so—James—and Regulus hates how much he wants to hold onto it. How he doesn’t want to let go of that spark of warmth in his chest.
He leans back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He can hear the faint sounds of the Christmas party still going on downstairs—laughter, raised voices, Bellatrix’s shrill cackle. It’s suffocating just to listen to it. He wants to disappear. To vanish from this house entirely.
And that’s when it hits him.
This is the moment. This is where he should really think about what he wants.
James told him, just a few weeks ago, that he lives his life for himself and no one else. Regulus hadn’t understood it then. How could he? All his life, he’s been taught that his duty comes first. Family, blood, legacy. But Sirius understood it, and James lived it, and here Regulus is—stuck between wanting to do something for himself and being too terrified to take the first step.
But this letter in his hands—it feels like a hand reaching out, telling him that it’s okay to want something better. That it’s okay to leave.
He’s so tired of feeling small, of feeling trapped and worthless and angry all the time. He’s tired of being the heir his parents want instead of the person he could be. Sirius left. Sirius broke free. James lives like he doesn’t owe the world anything, and Regulus… Regulus has never let himself dream of that.
Until now.
He glances at his bruised reflection in the mirror across the room, the cut on his leg still burning. His mother’s words still sting, but James’s are louder, clearer—pushing back the cold with a stubborn sort of warmth.
He deserves better.
Regulus swallows hard and sets the letter down on his bedside table, his hand lingering over it. This is it. He knows it. The moment when he either chooses to stay in this house, to be the dutiful son and waste away, or to leave. To fight for something different. To finally live for himself.
He takes a deep breath, and for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel so terrifying.
He’s going to leave this shithole. One way or another.
Well… probably another, considering that he’s locked inside of his room.