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The drawing room of Grimmauld Place was crowded, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old magic. The Weasleys, Hermione, Harry, and several members of the Order sat scattered about, voices low as they discussed plans. Kreacher shuffled in, muttering under his breath, until his beady eyes landed on you. His lips curled into a sneer.

“Filthy half-blood,” he spat, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The room froze. A sharp silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire. You felt every gaze flick toward you, but before you could react, Sirius was already moving.

His chair scraped back violently as he stood, towering over the elf. His voice was a whip-crack, raw with fury.

“Don’t you dare speak to them like that, Kreacher.”

Kreacher flinched but sneered again, muttering about “bloodlines” and “disgrace.” Sirius’s eyes blazed, his jaw tight.

“You think you can insult them in my house? This place may be rotting with the poison of my family’s beliefs, but I’ll be damned before I let you spread it further. They are worth ten of you, Kreacher—ten of anyone who clings to that pathetic obsession with purity.”

The elf shrank back, but Sirius pressed on, his voice rising, echoing against the walls.

“You call them filthy? I call them brave. Loyal. Stronger than you’ll ever understand. If you had even a shred of decency, you’d see it too. But you don’t. You’re blinded by the same venom that destroyed this family.”

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, and though his words were directed at Kreacher, his eyes flicked toward you—burning, protective, almost tender beneath the fury.

“They belong here. More than I ever did. More than you ever will.”

The Order members exchanged uneasy glances, but none interrupted. Even Molly Weasley, usually quick to scold Sirius, stayed silent, her expression softened. Harry’s eyes were wide, Hermione’s lips parted in shock. The weight of Sirius’s defense hung heavy in the room.

Kreacher muttered something unintelligible and scuttled away, disappearing into the shadows. The silence lingered, broken only by Sirius’s ragged breath. He turned back toward the group, but his gaze found you again, lingering just a moment too long. His voice dropped, softer now, almost intimate despite the audience.

“No one calls you that. Not here. Not while I’m standing.”

The firelight caught in his dark hair, his expression fierce yet vulnerable. The tension between you was palpable—unspoken, but undeniable. You stayed silent, but your heart hammered, the weight of his words settling deep. Sirius turned away at last, reclaiming his seat with a restless energy, though his eyes flicked back to you once more, as if to reassure himself you were truly all right.

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