Mrs. Black sawed through a particularly tough sliver of steak on her plate, the silver knife scraping on the china plate. The squeaking filled the large dining room, filling the spaces where just the night before a dozen relatives had sat. Last night the room was filled with sound and joy and Christmastime.
Tonight it was quiet. Tonight three people sat in the high-backed polished redwood chairs around the long dinner table. A four sided table, Regulus thought, with three people. We need a triangular table now. His eyes lingered on the empty seat, as if he saw a ghost, a wavering spirit - a negative one from four.
Too bad Sirius wasn't actually dead. They wouldn't have to be in a state of perpetual mourning. Regulus imagined his brother in a barn somewhere, hands dirty and hair filled with straw as he and his Mudblood friends wallowed around with the pigs. For their Christmas dinner they ate corn and slop, licking the spills from each others' cheeks. They were all impulse, all fire, all motion and passion. A wisp of smoke seemed to curl from the empty seat at the table.
Regulus said nothing and he and his father waited politely in the emptiness, the scraping of the cutlery filling their ears. Regulus itched at his stiff collar. Wherever that beef had come from, the old cow must have been as tough as his mother.
She finally stuck her knife into one side of the steak, her fork on the other, and pulled until the sought-after piece came free. She then carefully placed it in her mouth and chewed with tiny bites.
Regulus cleared his throat and two sets of eyes snapped towards him. "Father," Regulus said, "have you heard of Voldemort?"
Orion Black placed both hands onto his rotund belly and leaned back in his chair. "Voldemort," he said, as if trying out the word for the first time in polite company. "The agitator?"
Regulus kept his tone conversational, curious. "That is what they call him, don't they? But what do you think of him?"
I know what he's like, Regulus thought, like crack. That's how Voldemort came across as Evan described him. Like a crack pipe that you keep secret and tucked away, used in dark corners, but gave a high like no other. And it was clear Evan was hooked. "You've got to come to a meeting someday, Regulus. It's unbelievable." Evan glowed.
The meetings were infrequent and on arbitrary days, and Regulus hadn't had a chance to come. Yet.
"Well," said Mr. Black, stroking his silver beard, "I actually think the man has the right idea. He raises the right questions that we need to be asking ourselves as a society. He has a future."
Mrs. Black swallowed the piece of cow she'd been working on and set in for another. As knife met plate, the two men winced.
"Kreacher!" Mr. Black bellowed. A scuttling tiny pile of rags appeared. "Do we have any steak that's more tender? Or do you expect us to eat this overcooked cardboard?"
The house elf cringed and genuflected. "Kreacher is ever so sorry to make his masters suffer through his abysmal culinary skills. Ever so sorry." Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. "Let me fetch you more. So sorry, so so sorry."
As Kreacher scuttled away again Orion turned at laughed with his wife. "Oh yes, we'll give him something to be sorry about."
He looked at his son. "I see Voldemort going the right direction. He could be very powerful, and his followers will do very well for themselves. Their portions will be generous and their names will be remembered. If anyone would like to improve their chances for the future, they would do well to align themselves with him.
"If anyone could do it better than you, Regulus, I'd like to know who. I'm proud of you, boy. You'll do well."
Orion placed his hand on his son's and squeezed it. Regulus looked up at his father, whose eyes were welling up with tears.
"I love you, son."
Mrs. Black swallowed the piece of beef with a wet gulp.
Regulus felt the feeling of pride sneak into his belly. He worked hard, he had friends and his family was supportive. What more did he need?
"I love you too, Dad."