The Echoes Of Us

The next morning, Sirius found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lyra’s room, his back propped up against her bed. She was perched on the edge of the mattress, her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them as though trying to shield herself from the world. The soft morning light streaming through the curtains cast a pale glow across her face, but it did little to mask the hollowness in her eyes.

She was staring out of the window, but Sirius could tell she wasn’t really seeing anything. Her gaze was distant, unfocused, as though her mind had drifted far away from the room. Every now and then, Sirius would say something—a joke, a comment about their cousins arriving soon, even just her name—but her responses, when they came at all, were no more than a single word, spoken so softly it felt like she hadn’t even meant to reply.

Sirius fidgeted with a loose thread on his jumper, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing second. He wasn’t used to seeing Lyra like this. She was usually the one who managed to find something to laugh about, even when things were at their worst. But now, it was like the light inside her had dimmed, leaving behind only a fragile shell of the sister he knew.

“Lyra,” he said gently, his voice breaking the stillness. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. Instead, her fingers tightened around her knees, her small body curling in on itself. Sirius felt a pang of helplessness, the kind that twisted in his chest and left him grasping for something—anything—that might pull her back from wherever she’d gone.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tried again, though his own voice wavered with doubt. “I mean... they’re wrong, you know? About us. We’re not disappointments, and we’re not... we’re not what they say we are.”

Still, she said nothing. Her silence was like a weight pressing down on him, and for a moment, Sirius felt like he couldn’t breathe. They were only eleven, just kids who were supposed to be excited about Christmas and family and being home. Instead, they were stuck here, in this cold, loveless house, drowning in the expectations and judgments of people who were supposed to love them unconditionally.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with us?” Lyra finally spoke, her voice so quiet Sirius almost thought he’d imagined it. Her gaze didn’t shift from the window. “Is that why they hate us?”

Sirius’s breath hitched, the words slicing through him like a blade. “No,” he said quickly, his voice firm even as his throat tightened. “There’s nothing wrong with us, Lyra. Nothing at all.”

“Then why?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Why don’t they want us? Why do they treat us like we’re... like we’re nothing?”

Sirius didn’t have an answer. He wanted to tell her they were wrong, that their parents didn’t hate them, that this wasn’t their fault. But the words caught in his throat because part of him was afraid she might be right.

Instead, he climbed up onto the bed beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She didn’t resist, leaning into him as though trying to find warmth in a world that felt so cold.

“We’ll get out of here,” he said after a long silence. “One day, we’ll leave, and we won’t ever have to come back. We’ll have our own family—one that actually cares about us. You and me, Lyra. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

Lyra didn’t respond, but she rested her head on his shoulder, her small frame trembling slightly. They sat there like that, two kids clinging to each other in the only place they could find comfort.

Outside the room, Walburga Black stood silently, her ear tilted slightly toward the muffled voices of her children. She couldn’t make out every word, but the raw emotion in their young voices was unmistakable—pain, confusion, despair. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her robes, the fabric crumpling beneath her grip.

Despite the icy veneer she wore like armor, deep, deep down, Walburga loved her children. It wasn’t the warm, nurturing love most mothers felt—it was a love twisted and contorted by duty, by pride, by the suffocating expectations that had governed her own life. She didn’t know how to show them affection, didn’t know how to let that love rise above the rigid rules of the House of Black. And so, she had chosen duty over her heart. Always duty.

She told herself it was for their own good, that the cold words and harsher punishments would mold them into proper heirs of their noble lineage. But the truth was far darker, far sadder. She knew exactly how they felt—because she had felt it too. She remembered standing in these same hallways, a child with too-big eyes and too-small a voice, listening to her own mother and father’s disdainful words. She had tried to make them proud, to be the perfect daughter, the perfect Black. But no matter how hard she worked, it had never been enough.

And so, the cycle had continued.

The abused had become the abuser.

Walburga closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool wood of the door. For a moment, she imagined opening it, stepping inside, and pulling her children into her arms. She imagined apologizing—telling them that they were not disappointments, that there was nothing wrong with them, that they were loved.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Instead, she straightened her posture, smoothing her robes as though erasing the evidence of her hesitation. She turned away, her expression hardening once more, the lines of her face setting into the cold, unfeeling mask her children had come to expect.

As she walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors, her thoughts lingered on Lyra and Sirius. Perhaps, someday, they would understand. Or perhaps, they would hate her forever.

Either way, Walburga knew one thing for certain: she would never allow herself to break the cycle. Because breaking it would mean admitting that everything she had been taught, everything she had endured, was a lie. And that was a truth she wasn’t brave enough to face.

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The distant sound of the carriages pulling up outside the grand estate made Lyra and Sirius sit up straighter, their nervous energy filling the air between them. They exchanged a glance, a silent communication of both anticipation and dread. These were their cousins—family they had once been close to, family who had laughed and played with them before the divide of expectation and shame had deepened. What would they say now? What would they think of them?

Before Kreacher could shuffle to open the door, Orion appeared, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over the twins. His icy gaze locked onto them, and they instinctively stood even straighter, their nerves crackling like a live wire.

"You both will be on your best behavior," Orion began, his voice low but firm, like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath. "You’ve already embarrassed this family enough. I will not tolerate further disgrace."

Sirius's jaw tightened, and Lyra lowered her eyes to the floor, her hands twisting the hem of her robes.

"Do not bring any attention to yourselves," Orion continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Do not speak unless you are spoken to. You are to be seen, not heard. Understood?"

"Yes, Father," the twins mumbled in unison, their voices small and subdued.

Orion lingered for a moment, his piercing eyes scanning them both, as though searching for any sign of rebellion. Satisfied with their silence, he stepped aside, motioning for Kreacher to open the door.

As the heavy front doors creaked open, a biting draft swept into the grand entrance hall, though it wasn’t the chill of winter that made the atmosphere so cold—it was the House of Black itself. The adults exchanged stiff, formal greetings, their voices clipped and devoid of warmth. Affection was a currency rarely spent within these walls.

One by one, family members began to pour in, their grand robes swishing against the marble floors. Sirius, Lyra, and Regulus stood off to the side, their postures tense, like statues on display. Each time an aunt or uncle approached, they stepped forward to offer the customary greetings.

"Uncle Cygnus, Aunt Druella," Sirius said with forced politeness, bowing his head slightly.

"Uncle Arcturus," Lyra murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

But it was always the same. Their greetings were met with curt nods or, more often, outright dismissal. The adults’ attention bypassed the twins entirely, their smiles—if they could be called that—reserved solely for Regulus.

"Ah, there’s the heir," one of their uncles said with a faint smirk, clasping Regulus on the shoulder. "Such a fine young man."

Sirius stiffened beside Lyra, his fists clenching at his sides. Lyra felt the familiar sting of being invisible, a pang that tightened her chest and made her force her face into a neutral expression. She had long since learned to bury her feelings in this house.

Then, her eyes lit up as they landed on Bellatrix. The two girls had once been inseparable, despite the eight-year age gap. Bellatrix had been like an older sister to her, fiercely protective and unpredictable. She had taken Sirius and Lyra under her wing when they were younger, shielding them from the worst of their family’s coldness and even indulging their playful antics.

"Bellatrix," Lyra said softly, her lips curving into a hopeful smile as she stepped toward her cousin. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe that Bellatrix would greet her the way she always had—with a teasing remark or a conspiratorial wink.

But the smile on Lyra’s face faltered as Bellatrix’s sharp, dark eyes landed on her. Instead of warmth or acknowledgment, there was a flicker of disdain, as though Lyra was no more than a stranger. Bellatrix’s lips curled into a scowl, and without a word, she turned away, her attention fixed elsewhere.

The silence that followed was deafening. Lyra’s heart sank like a stone in her chest, and she froze in place, the weight of Bellatrix’s rejection pressing down on her shoulders. She wanted to say something, to ask why her cousin was acting this way, but the words caught in her throat.

Sirius clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into his palms as he watched Bellatrix walk away. His gaze flicked to Lyra, her eyes glassy and distant, the warmth she once carried now buried beneath a facade of stoicism. He nudged her lightly, a silent gesture of comfort in the suffocating silence of their family.

Their family continued to flow around them like cold, indifferent ghosts. Narcissa passed by, her expression serene, her gaze focused solely on Regulus. There was no acknowledgement, no recognition of the twins standing there. Lyra felt a sharp pang as her younger brother was swept into the center of their family’s attention while she and Sirius were left forgotten.

The bitterness settled over them like a suffocating blanket. What was the point of even returning home for Christmas if all their family did was ignore them? Did they think that children were immune to feelings? That they could strip away empathy like a coat discarded in winter? The sheer emptiness of it all was almost unbearable.

Andromeda, however, was the lone exception. As she passed by the twins, a fleeting smile crossed her lips—a small act of kindness that felt like a flicker of warmth against the cold. She didn’t speak, but her quiet acknowledgment was enough. It was the only kindness they received.

"Well, children, go and enjoy yourselves while we wait for dinner. We just acquired a new piano if you'd like to play for the family," Orion announced, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension. The room fell into a brief hush before their cousins began making their way toward Regulus. The boy stood stiffly, his gaze flickering between his older siblings with a somber expression as he mingled with the rest of the gathering.

Before anyone could move too far, the doorbell rang again. Kreacher shuffled to answer it, and when the door opened, Alphard Black stood there—Walburga's younger brother. His presence instantly cast a shadow over the room.

"Sorry I'm late," Alphard greeted smoothly, his voice calm and assured. Orion offered a forced smile, though it did little to mask the tension in his expression. Alphard’s younger age did not diminish his influence; in fact, it seemed to amplify it. There was a weight to his presence that demanded respect, even from those who were older.

"Alphard, what a pleasure to have you," Orion said, his jaw clenching tightly. His voice was polite, but the strain was evident beneath his words. Alphard’s arrival always brought a sense of discomfort, and tonight was no different.

"Thank you for inviting me, Orion," Alphard said smoothly, his voice composed yet laced with subtle mockery. "Your house looks ever the same."

Alphard’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile before muttering to himself, "Ever so dull."

The air seemed to tighten as his gaze swept the room. His dark eyes lingered on the twins, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his face.

"Ah, you're home! My favorite niece and nephew," Alphard said with a genuine smile, though it was still tinged with something calculating. The house fell into uneasy silence at his words.

Alphard’s smirk widened as he continued, "The heirs to the noble House of Black."

Orion’s jaw tightened further, his hands clenching at his sides. He struggled to maintain composure, but Alphard’s presence always left him on edge. The weight of his brother-in-law’s power was inescapable.

Walburga shifted uncomfortably as she moved to stand behind Orion. Though she was Alphard’s older sister, her role as a wife kept her bound by the expectations of submission. She knew better than anyone how to tread carefully in the presence of her husband.

Alphard’s sharp eyes caught her movements, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He approached her with a deliberate grace, his presence oppressive yet calculating.

"Alphard," Walburga said coolly, her tone steady despite the flicker of discomfort behind her eyes. "What a surprise."

"Sister," he said, his smile widening. "I trust you’ve been well?"

Walburga gave a thin, practiced smile in return. "As well as one can be, given circumstances."

Alphard’s dark eyes searched hers, the smirk lingering on his lips. "Circumstances," he echoed softly, tapping his fingers together. "Indeed. But you must admit, Walburga, you’ve always been exceptional at navigating them."

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing more.

"You should relax, sister," he continued, his voice low and smooth. "We both know that it is far more interesting when you show your true colors."

Walburga’s smile faltered slightly, and she shifted uneasily, stepping back ever so slightly. "Your games grow tiresome, Alphard."

"But they’ve only just begun," he replied with a chuckle that echoed with subtle menace.

Orion watched the exchange with a strained, unreadable expression. His fist clenched tightly at his side, the knuckles turning white. Alphard noticed it immediately, a slow, calculated smile spreading across his face.

"Well then," Alphard said smoothly, his voice calm but laced with amusement, "what are we all just standing here for? I hope dinner is ready."

Walburga’s eyes flickered toward Orion, concern flashing across her face, though she said nothing. Orion’s jaw tightened further, his breath steady but controlled. "It will be shortly," he replied, his voice clipped and cold. "Kreacher is preparing everything."

"Excellent," Alphard said, his smile widening. "I wouldn’t want to keep you from serving the rightful heirs of this house."

The room grew tense once again. Kreacher’s footsteps could be heard moving through the house, the sound breaking the heavy silence that hung in the air. Alphard, however, continued to dominate the moment with his calm, oppressive presence.

"Shall we sit, then?" Alphard asked, turning smoothly to Walburga, who stood stiffly behind Orion. "After all, this gathering wouldn’t be complete without a proper discussion of family affairs."

Orion let out a slow breath, his fists unclenching slightly, though his tension remained palpable. "Dinner will suffice," he said curtly.

Alphard chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the room, before taking his seat at the table.

Other family members began following Alphard, taking their seats at the long, ornate dining table. The children, meanwhile, started making their way to their designated table, a smaller, simpler one set aside for the younger generation.

Orion watched them move, his gaze steady and sharp. Just as the twins were about to enter the dining room, he raised a hand, halting them before they could step inside.

"You both will take your dinner and have it in your room," Orion said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. "Go."

The twins exchanged a brief, questioning look, but neither dared to disobey. They nodded silently, retreating from the room as ordered. The sound of their footsteps echoed softly down the hall.

"What utter nonsense," Alphard said from his seat, his voice sharp and condescending. "Why would you make the heirs of the family have dinner in their rooms?"

Orion’s grip tightened on the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. "They will eat where I say," he snapped, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Alphard’s smirk deepened, and his dark eyes shifted toward the twins who had been retreating down the hallway. "Sirius, Lyra, come back here!" he called, his tone imperious and commanding.

The twins paused, their shoulders stiffening at the sound of Alphard’s voice. They exchanged a brief glance, their expressions conflicted. Who were they supposed to listen to? Their father, or uncle? The weight of the decision hung heavily between them.

Lyra furrowed her brow, her jaw tightening. "Father says we stay in our rooms," she said firmly, though her voice wavered just slightly, unsure of whether it was truly the right choice.

Sirius glanced at his sister and then back at Orion. "But... Uncle Alphard said—"

"He said nothing that matters," Orion interrupted, his voice low and intense. "They will not dine where you dictate, Alphard."

Alphard rose slowly from his seat, the smile never leaving his face. "You forget, Orion, that my influence stretches beyond mere words. These children will learn the weight of their place eventually."

Orion stepped closer to the twins, shielding them with his presence. "And I will ensure they understand their loyalty lies with their father, not with you."

The room was thick with unspoken threats and simmering anger. Alphard’s smirk never faltered as he returned to his seat, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Sirius and Lyra exchanged another glance, still caught between loyalty and the expectations placed upon them. They reluctantly turned back toward the hallway, their steps slow and hesitant as they headed toward their rooms.

"You’ve made your choice," Alphard said softly, watching them go. "But it’s a choice you’ll reconsider soon enough."

Orion’s eyes remained locked on his children until the door shut behind them. Only then did he return to his seat, his breath steadying but his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Dinner continued, though the unease lingered, feeding into the shadows that had already darkened the evening.

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The twins sat together in Sirius’s room, the windows slightly open to let in the cool evening air. From their vantage point, they could see Regulus and their cousins playing in the garden, their laughter floating up through the open window.

Sirius leaned back against the bedframe, his arms crossed, watching the scene below with a contemplative expression. "Uncle Alphard was so cool back there," he said, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Lyra sat on Sirius’s bed, absorbed in the pages of a book, her attention focused solely on the text. She didn’t immediately respond, her eyes scanning each line until Sirius’s voice broke through again.

"Hm?" she looked up, setting the book aside slowly. "What?"

Sirius turned to her with a smirk. "Uncle Alphard," he repeated. "He knew exactly what to say, how to get under Father’s skin."

Lyra’s brow furrowed slightly, her expression thoughtful. "He always does," she said quietly. "And everyone just respects him, even if he isn’t the firstborn."

Sirius let out a low sigh as he sat next to her on the edge of the bed. "That, I don’t get," he said, shaking his head. "I mean, Mother’s the eldest, right? He was next. How is he the heir? Wouldn’t that go to Mother?"

Lyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze distant. "That’s because Mother was born a daughter," she explained softly. "So the role of heir immediately goes to him, the son. It’s tradition. But… Mother still holds a certain power when it comes to decisions between her siblings—Uncle Alphard and Uncle Cygnus."

Sirius frowned deeply, his expression darkening. "So that’s why he’s the only one who dares to talk back to Father," he muttered, his voice low with frustration.

"You’ve got it spot on, Sirius," Alphard’s smooth voice echoed from the doorway. The twins jumped slightly as he entered their room, his usual confident smirk in place.

"Uncle Alphard," the twins said in unison, their initial unease softening as he approached.

Alphard’s grin widened as he closed the door behind him, pulling out two ornate boxes from behind him. "I had been waiting for that dreadful dinner to end so I could pass you both these," he said dramatically, his tone light and teasing.

The twins watched with curiosity as he set the boxes down on Sirius’s desk. "Merry Christmas, you two," Alphard said with a flourish.

The twins exchanged a glance and smiled, their faces lighting up the moment they saw the gifts. Their smiles were the widest they’d been since coming home.

"Thank you!" they exclaimed in unison, their voices full of genuine gratitude.

Without warning, they both surged forward, wrapping their arms around Alphard in a tight embrace. The unexpected hug caused all three of them to tumble onto the floor in a heap, laughter spilling from their lips as they landed in a heap.

The three of them lay there in happy silence, their breaths slowing as the laughter subsided. The room felt unusually serene, a stark contrast to the tension that often filled it during family gatherings.

Sirius broke the silence first, his voice soft. "Uncle Alphard, why do you act so differently when you’re with us?"

Alphard shifted slightly, his smile softer now, his demeanor more relaxed. His hands rested on his lap, the tension in his shoulders easing as he gazed at the two young faces in front of him. There was a vulnerability in his expression—one that rarely showed in his dealings with the rest of the family.

"I guess it’s because with the both of you," Alphard began thoughtfully, "I don’t have to act like the heir of a family. I can just be myself." His voice was soft, almost melancholic, and devoid of the usual sharpness he carried in the presence of others.

Sirius and Lyra exchanged a look, their eyes narrowing slightly as they listened closely. They had always known Alphard as the uncle who treated them differently—kind, patient, and genuinely invested in their well-being—but they hadn’t fully understood why.

"I never wanted to be the heir," Alphard continued, his voice steady but weighed with emotion. "It was never a position I chose. Born a son, they expected me to carry the family legacy, to uphold their vision of honor and power. But the truth is, I saw it for what it truly was—empty." His jaw tightened slightly as he spoke, a subtle bitterness creeping into his tone.

Sirius frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Then why did you let them do it? Why didn’t you fight back?"

Alphard gave a hollow laugh, his gaze distant as if he were reminiscing about a distant memory. "Because it’s not easy to fight when the entire family is pushing you in one direction. Your grandparents, they were too entrenched in tradition. They saw my place as natural, inevitable. There was no room for questioning. And besides," he added softly, "I was never as strong as you might think when it came to defying the expectations."

Sirius and Lyra exchanged a confused look, their brows furrowing.

"But, you did," Sirius said slowly, his voice unsure. "Earlier, from the moment you’ve arrived, you’ve been defying Father."

Alphard’s expression shifted slightly, his smile fading into something more introspective. "It might have seemed like defiance, but it wasn’t easy. It never is when you’ve lived under the weight of tradition for so long. You grow used to playing the part, to meeting their expectations, no matter how hollow they feel. It’s a trap, really—a slow, suffocating descent into becoming what they want."

Lyra tilted her head, absorbing his words. "But you’ve always been different. Even before today. You never followed the same path as the rest of the family. You were... freer."

"That’s because I didn’t care about their approval," Alphard said simply. "Not in the way they wanted me to. I made a choice to step away from that life, but it wasn’t an easy one. It took more courage than people realized, even though I acted like it didn’t."

Lyra sat quietly for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her skirt. She looked up at Alphard, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. "Do you think... do you think we will finally be free? To have our own lives, away from this family? To be able to be ourselves?"

Alphard’s gaze softened, his expression thoughtful. For a moment, he didn’t answer, lost in his own memories. Then, he exhaled slowly and gave her a small, knowing smile.

"Of course you will. That I can promise," he said gently.

"How do you know?" Sirius asked, his voice bright with a slight glimmer of hope.

"Because," Alphard replied with a soft smile, "you’ve already started going on your own path. The moment you were sorted into Gryffindor, that was your first step."

He paused, studying the two children sitting before him, their wide eyes filled with both hope and uncertainty. Alphard’s expression softened further, and he reached out, taking each of their hands in his.

“Just remember,” he said gently, his voice laced with sincerity, “it doesn’t matter what anyone else here thinks. I’ll still be here for the both of you, and I will love you just as you are.”

*Love.*

The word landed between them like a fragile piece of glass, delicate and shimmering in its rarity. For Sirius and Lyra, it was a word they’d scarcely dared to dream of, let alone hear aloud. It wasn’t something spoken in the Black household—it was implied at best, conditional at worst, buried under layers of expectations and legacy. But Alphard had said it, clear and unwavering, shattering the cold silence they’d grown so accustomed to.

Sirius’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as if the weight of years had suddenly pressed down on him all at once. Lyra’s lips trembled, her wide eyes glistening as they searched Alphard’s face, desperate to find truth in his words.

The dam broke.

Without warning, they launched themselves at their uncle, clinging to him with a desperation that made Alphard’s breath catch. Sirius’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Lyra’s hands fisting into his robes as if letting go would mean losing the only anchor they had.

Tears spilled from their eyes, unchecked and unstoppable, soaking into the fabric of his robes. Their sobs were raw, guttural—a sound Alphard hadn’t been prepared for. He hadn’t realized how deeply they’d needed to hear those words, how starved they were for even the smallest drop of unconditional affection.

Alphard’s arms came up to envelop them, pulling them as close as he could. His throat tightened as he buried his face into Sirius’s hair, his own tears slipping silently down his face. He wasn’t supposed to cry—not in front of them—but how could he not? How could he not grieve for the childhood they’d been denied, for the fact that a simple declaration of love had reduced them to this?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Lyra shook her head against his chest, her voice muffled by her sobs. “Don’t… don’t be sorry,” she choked out. “You… you’re here. That’s enough.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not for Alphard. He held them tighter, as though his embrace could shield them from the coldness of the world outside this moment. His mind raced with memories of his own childhood—of the weight of being the heir, the crushing burden of expectations, the way it had chipped away at him piece by piece until he’d finally walked away. He had been lucky enough to escape. These two? They were still trapped.

Sirius’s voice came next, small and trembling. “Why… why doesn’t anyone else say it?” he whispered. “Why doesn’t anyone else love us?”

Alphard’s heart broke all over again. “Because they don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice heavy with sorrow. “But that’s not your fault. It’s theirs. And I promise you, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it. You deserve every ounce of love in this world.”

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, tangled together on the floor, their tears falling freely. Alphard didn’t let go, even as the weight of their pain settled deep into his chest. He felt it all—their grief, their longing, their desperate hope—and he carried it with them, silently vowing to be the one person in their lives who would never turn away.

When the sobs finally subsided into quiet sniffles, Alphard pulled back just enough to look at them. Sirius’s face was red and blotchy, Lyra’s eyes swollen from crying, and yet, for the first time, there was a faint glimmer of peace in their expressions.

“I’m here, and I always will be.” Alphard said softly, cupping their faces in his hands.

And for the first time, Sirius and Lyra believed it. But Alphard, even as he smiled gently at them, felt a knot of anger twisting in his chest. Anger at Orion and Walburga. Anger at the family that had let it come to this. Anger at himself, for not stepping in sooner.

He couldn’t undo the past, but he could make a promise—to fight for them, to shield them, to love them in all the ways no one else had dared to. And he swore, with every fiber of his being, that he would never let them feel unloved again.

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Alphard closed the twins’ door quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace that had finally settled over them. He let out a soft sigh before turning, only to find Walburga waiting in the dimly lit hallway. Her presence was as cold and imposing as always, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” she said, her voice sharp and clipped, like the edge of a blade.

Alphard didn’t bother with pleasantries. His gaze bore into her, a storm brewing behind his dark eyes. “Did you hear us?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Walburga didn’t answer. She simply stared at him, her face a mask of indifference, though her fingers twitched against her arm—a subtle betrayal of her discomfort.

“Did you hear your children sobbing?” Alphard asked again, his voice rising slightly, anger beginning to seep through his carefully maintained composure.

Her silence was deafening, her icy stare meeting his heated gaze. But Alphard saw something flicker behind her eyes—something faint, something that looked almost like guilt. He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm but not cruel, and pulled her into a nearby empty room.

Alphard slammed the door shut behind them, the sharp crack echoing through the small, dimly lit room. His chest heaved as he turned to face his sister, fury burning in his dark eyes. Walburga stood stiffly, her back straight, arms crossed defensively over her chest. The same icy mask she always wore was firmly in place, but Alphard knew her better than most. He could see the faint tremble in her hands, the tightness around her mouth.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Alphard spat, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained rage. “Did you hear them? Did you hear your children crying their hearts out?”

Walburga said nothing, her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes bore into his. Her silence only stoked the flames of his anger. He stepped closer, his voice rising.

“Answer me, Walburga! Did you hear them? Or are you so far gone that you don’t even care anymore?”

Her eyes flickered, a spark of something unnameable flashing behind them. But she didn’t speak. Her silence was deafening, infuriating. Alphard ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room like a caged animal, trying to keep himself from lashing out.

“I can’t believe you,” he said bitterly, his voice cracking. “You, of all people. You used to be the one person I could count on. The one who protected me, who stood up to Father when no one else would. What happened to you, Walburga? What happened to her?”

“That’s enough,” Walburga snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. Her hands dropped to her sides, clenched into fists. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alphard.”

“Oh, don’t I?” he shot back, his tone dripping with venom. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the sister who shielded me from Father’s wrath, who took his punishments so I wouldn’t have to. And now? Now you’ve become him.”

“I am nothing like Father!” Walburga hissed, her voice shaking with a mixture of anger and desperation. She took a step forward, her face inches from his. “Don’t you dare compare me to that man.”

“Aren’t you?” Alphard said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “Look at what you’ve done to Sirius and Lyra. You’ve turned their home into a prison. You’ve stripped them of their joy, their innocence. You’re breaking them, Walburga. Just like he broke us.”

Walburga flinched, the words hitting her like a slap. For a moment, her mask cracked. Her eyes glistened, her lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Alphard pressed on, his anger giving way to something deeper—something raw and aching.

“Do you even see them?” he asked, his voice softening. “Do you see how much they’re hurting? Sirius is already pulling away, and Lyra—she’s so desperate for something, anything, that she doesn’t even know how to ask for it. They’re slipping through your fingers, Walburga.”

She turned away from him, her arms wrapping around herself as if to ward off his words. “I’m doing what I have to,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m preparing them for the world they’ll have to face. If I don’t make them strong, they won’t survive.”

“Survive?” Alphard repeated bitterly, his eyes narrowing. “At what cost? Do you really think this legacy, this obsession with blood purity, is worth destroying them for? You’re not making them strong, Walburga. You’re breaking them.”

Walburga whirled around, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and anguish. “And what would you have me do, Alphard?” she shouted. “Walk away? Abandon everything like you did? Do you think that’s so noble? You left me here to deal with it all. You left me!”

Her voice cracked on the last words, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the sound of her ragged breathing. Alphard stared at her, stunned by the sudden outburst, by the raw pain in her voice.

“I didn’t leave you,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I left the family. I left the expectations, the suffocating rules. But I never left you, Walburga. I would’ve taken you with me if I could.”

Walburga shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t leave. I had to stay. I had to protect them, to keep them safe. And the only way to do that was to make them strong.”

“Safe?” Alphard repeated, his voice rising again. “You call this safe? They’re terrified of you, Walburga. They don’t need strength; they need love. They need their mother.”

Her sobs came harder now, her shoulders shaking as she sank into a chair. But even as her tears fell, her stubbornness remained. She wiped at her face angrily, her jaw tightening.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to fix it. And even if I did… it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” Alphard said, kneeling in front of her, his hands gripping hers. “It’s never too late. But you have to choose, Walburga. You have to choose them over this… this twisted idea of what it means to be a Black.”

She pulled her hands away, shaking her head. “You don’t understand,” she said again, her voice hardening. “This family… it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s all I have.”

“You have them,” Alphard said, his voice breaking. “You have Sirius, Lyra and Regulus. But if you don’t change, you’re going to lose them. And once they’re gone, Walburga, they won’t come back.”

She looked at him, her tear-streaked face a mask of pain and conflict. For a moment, Alphard thought he saw a glimmer of hope, a spark of the woman she used to be. But then she straightened, her walls snapping back into place.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “I can’t change.”

Alphard stood slowly, his heart heavy. He looked down at his sister, the woman who had once been his fiercest protector, and felt a wave of sorrow wash over him. “Then you’ll lose them,” he said simply.

Without another word, he left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving Walburga alone with her guilt and her grief.

Walburga sat in the dimly lit room, her thoughts swirling like a storm within her mind. She knew exactly who she had become—too well. And that realization was what kept her awake at night, the relentless weight of her choices pressing down on her chest. She despised this life, this suffocating, unyielding existence where her worth was measured by her lineage rather than her heart. She wanted to be a mother. A real mother, one who could offer love and comfort to her children, not the cold, distant figure they feared and resented.

Her hand moved instinctively to the locket around her neck—a delicate, ornate piece, identical to the one she had given to Lyra. The gold glinted softly in the dim light as her fingers traced its surface. Inside was a small photograph—a fleeting moment from years ago, of a time she barely recognized anymore. It was a picture of Lyra, Sirius, and Regulus—Lyra and Sirius barely a year old, their chubby faces pressed close, and Regulus no more than a few months, his tiny hand gripping Sirius's sleeve. Their innocence was immortalized in that rare moment of peace, untouched by the weight of the world that would soon crash down upon them.

Walburga’s breath hitched as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She clutched the locket as though it could tether her to the past, to the fleeting joy it represented. She swallowed the sob that threatened to escape, gripping the small piece of jewelry tighter, her knuckles white. It felt like the only connection she had left to the mother she once was.

Why had it come to this? The question echoed in her mind like a cruel taunt. How had it all slipped through her fingers so easily? How had she allowed herself to become this—cold, unyielding, a mere shadow of the woman who had once dreamed of raising her children with love and warmth?

She closed her eyes, the weight of her failure pressing down on her like a crushing tide. In the darkness behind her eyelids, her mind conjured memories that felt like a knife to the heart. Sirius’s wild, carefree laughter as he clung to her legs, begging her to chase him around the garden. Lyra’s gentle voice calling her name, her small hands reaching for comfort after a bad dream. Regulus toddling toward her with flowers clutched in his fists, his tiny face lit with pride.

Once, they had seen her as their whole world. Their mother. She had held that title with pride, with hope. But now, it felt hollow—an empty shell of a word, stripped of its meaning by duty, by expectations, by the Black name that had taken everything and left her bereft.

She opened her eyes, her vision blurred by tears. The locket seemed to shimmer in the dim light, as though mocking her. She had thought it a gift of love when she gave Lyra her matching locket, but now it felt like a cruel irony. What good was a token of love if she couldn’t live up to what it symbolized?

Walburga’s thoughts drifted back to Alphard’s anger, his words cutting through her like jagged knives.

"You’ve become Father."

The accusation rang in her ears, louder than the storm of emotions she was desperately trying to contain. He had said it with such conviction, and she hated him for it—not because it wasn’t true, but because it was. She had become the very person she once swore to defy.

Her fingers traced the outline of the locket once more, trembling as they passed over the cool metal. For a moment, she could almost feel them again—the softness of their tiny hands reaching for her, the warmth of their innocent smiles. A lump rose in her throat as she realized just how far those memories felt, like a distant star she could no longer reach.

She had once promised herself she would protect them, no matter the cost. When Sirius had been born, and then Lyra only minutes later, she had held them both and whispered that nothing would ever harm them while she lived. And then Regulus had come, completing her world. For a brief, fragile time, she had felt whole—she had been their mother. A mother who loved them with every fiber of her being. A mother who would never let the cold shadow of the Black family’s legacy touch them.

But she had failed. She hadn’t kept that promise.

Walburga’s hands clenched the locket so tightly it dug into her palm, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish clawing at her insides. She hated it all—hated the rigidity, the expectations, the endless cycle of duty that demanded she sacrifice her humanity for the family name. She hated the mask she had worn for so long that it had fused with her very being. And most of all, she hated the distance she had created between herself and her children, the very souls she was supposed to nurture and protect.

She had caused it. She had let it happen. Every cold word, every harsh command, every moment she had chosen duty over love—they had all built a wall between her and her children. She had driven Sirius into defiance, Lyra into quiet despair, and Regulus into a need for approval so desperate it broke her heart to see. They had once been close, once been hers, and now... now they barely looked at her with anything but resentment or fear.

"What have I done?"

The question echoed in her mind, a relentless tide that she couldn’t silence. She had chosen the Black legacy over her children’s happiness, over their trust, over their love. And for what? A name? A legacy that had brought her nothing but pain? She had held onto it so tightly, believing it was her duty, that it was the only way to secure their future. But in doing so, she had shattered the very family she thought she was protecting.

The realization gutted her. She had allowed this family to fracture, had sown discord among her own children, all for the sake of a hollow ideal. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to rip the locket from her neck and throw it across the room, to cast away the symbol of what she had lost. But she couldn’t. It was all she had left—a reminder of what could have been, of the mother she had once aspired to be.

Tears spilled over her cheeks as she sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She hated herself in that moment, hated the woman she had become. Alphard’s words echoed again: "You’ve become Father." And hadn’t she? Wasn’t she just like him now—cold, unyielding, prioritizing the family name over the very people who made it worth something?

Her children’s faces swam in her mind’s eye, the way they had looked at her in those early years—with trust, with love, with the belief that she would always be there for them. She had betrayed that belief. She had let them down.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," she thought desperately. "I wasn’t supposed to become this."

But she had. And now she didn’t know if there was any way back.

And so, in Grimmauld Place, a mother sat in a dimly lit room, her gaze distant, her hands trembling as they clutched a photograph of happier times. The weight of grief pressed heavily against her, a reflection of the countless mothers who had sat in the same place, mourning the same loss. Generations before her had walked this path, each one carrying the same sorrow—heirs burdened by the legacy of a family steeped in darkness, duty, and duty alone.