The Black family

The Black family's long dining room was filled with an almost oppressive silence—the kind where every false move is heard as clearly as a voice. The heavy, dark walls, the candles flickering in the slightest draft, and the portraits of ancestors looking down with obvious disapproval.

Everyone was already sitting in their places and having dinner.

Sirius lazily picked at his potatoes with his fork, looking somewhere past his plate. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly.

"Hands off the table, Sirius," Walburga snapped coldly, not even looking up from her plate. Her voice sounded as if it came from stone.

Sirius slowly lowered his elbows, his lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile. Orion glanced briefly at his son but remained silent—it looked as if he was tired of interfering in such trivial matters.

Regulus sat up straight, as if he'd been trained that way since birth, and ate carefully, without making a sound. But he kept an eye on his brother out of the corner of his eye, cautiously, as if expecting a flash of lightning.

It seemed that even the dishes were clinking quieter than usual.