Sirius had known better than to come home for the holidays.
He wasn’t sure why he had thought, just this once, things might be different. Maybe it was the bitter chill of December, the way the snow blanketed Grimmauld Place in an illusion of purity, or maybe he had simply let himself hope.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he knew he had made a mistake.
His father noticed first. Orion Black’s cold, calculating gaze swept over him like a predator sizing up its prey. It landed on Sirius’ hands—his fingers, the ink-black polish glistening under the dim candlelight of the entrance hall. A gift from Marlene, who had painted them herself just before he left, laughing as she did so, teasing him for how much he fidgeted. He had liked them. He had liked feeling like himself.
His father had not.
“What,” Orion said, voice like iron, “is this?”
Sirius barely had time to open his mouth before the back of Orion’s hand cracked against his cheek. The impact sent him staggering, the taste of blood blooming in his mouth.
“You disgrace this family,” Orion seethed, grabbing Sirius by the wrist, twisting it, forcing his hand up so the black polish gleamed in the flickering light. “Parading yourself around like some—some common filth. Is this what they teach you at that school? Is this what you’ve learned from your Mudblood friends?”
Sirius bit his tongue, swallowed the retort burning at the back of his throat. Talking back would only make it worse.
He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him for the pain that followed.
One by one, his nails were torn from his fingers. He didn’t know when he had started screaming. He didn’t know when he had stopped. His world blurred into a haze of agony, his father’s grip unyielding, his vision swimming until, at last, everything faded into darkness.
When he woke, he wasn’t alone.
The air smelled of firewood and old parchment, the flickering candlelight casting shadows against the walls of his bedroom. His body ached, his fingers wrapped in fresh bandages, throbbing with the dull sting of a healing draught at work.
Regulus was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned. Silent. Still.
Sirius swallowed, his throat dry. “Reg…”
His brother stood abruptly. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t say a word. He simply left, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Sirius let out a shaky breath and turned his head, wincing at the movement. On his bedside table sat a small vial of healing draught. Beside it, placed with quiet precision, were two bottles of nail polish—deep red and midnight black.
His mother’s favourites.
No note. No explanation. Just the colours Walburga Black never let anyone else touch.
Sirius stared at them, his chest tight. He didn’t know what to feel.
But deep down, he knew.
She had seen. She had heard.
And in her own silent, twisted way, she had spoken.