Regulus Black stared at the owl wing on the in front of him, the feathers bent and the base still oozing red. The letter he held trembled a little, and he swallowed hard.
"Kreacher," called Walburga, her voice harsh, "come collect this. Pluck the feathers and collect the talons and put them away in my potions cabinet."
The sound of his mother's voice made Regulus jump. He looked up at Walburga, who would not meet his eye, and then at his father, who held his gaze.
"The creature had to die," said Orion Black, wand held loose at his side, in a gentle voice that belied his actions. "Hogwarts should not have sent an owl unsuitable to its task."
Regulus nodded, numb. The owl had arrived two days late with his Hogwarts acceptance letter, limping, its wing broken and covered in mud, but with its precious cargo still clutched fiercely in its beak. It must have hopped up on the hedge, by the window, but to do that, it would have had to flap its broken wing. Regulus had nodded off by the window, but awoke at the owl's feeble knock. Upon alighting the windowsill, the owl had offered its prize, studiously guarded throughout the journey but with one tiny splatter of mud on the front of the envelope, and fell to the floor, breathing hard and letting out one piteous trill.
While letters from relatives and acquaintances had flown in over the past two days, bragging of their children's auspicious invitations to the great wizarding school, Regulus had remained at the window, his fretfulness—and then, as his parents grew more anxious, more irate, his fear—putting dark circles under his young eyes and casting a sickly pallor on his face. He had heard the conversations from below, had endured the bitter taunts from his elder brother, Sirius, the quiet sneer that at last, the House of Black's perfect youngest master had for once failed to meet the standard—and it was the most important standard of all.
For what was Regulus but an eleven-year-old boy without a future if he could not be a wizard?
How can we face the shame, Orion? Look at Androm—our horrid niece, marrying the mudblood, and now we are left with one son in—in Gryffindor and the other now a squib? And he had so much potential, such a good, obedient boy, but now worth less than a Mug—Regulus, how long have you been standing there?
Regulus had stood, eyes on his shoes, until his parents had finished berating his poor behavior for eavesdropping and sent him to his room. Sirius had been waiting around the corner. His boyish face, only just starting to show the hint of future handsomeness, was made ugly by the expression it bore. Sirius had not had to say anything to his younger brother. Regulus could feel the hateful glee on his back as he climbed the stairs.
And then, with the arrival of the owl, all was made clear, but all was not well. Regulus had found an old shirt and carefully wrapped the owl, his heart torn between care for the faithful, injured bird and his delight that he was not a squib, he would have a future, he would make his parents proud—
And now, Regulus' eyes were drawn back to the owl, lying with its beak ajar and neck limp, one wing torn away from its once-beautiful body. Orion Black wiped his wand with a handkerchief and then dropped the lace-bordered cloth to the floor. Walburga left a bloody handprint on the door as she flung it open to leave.
"Congratulations, my son," Orion said. "The ancient line of the wizarding House of Black lives on in you. Bear our name with pride."
