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Night fell heavily over London, the freezing, smog-choked Muggle streets outside completely dark and utterly miserable. Yet, hidden flawlessly behind powerful Muggle-Repelling Charms, the ancient, towering townhouse of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was brilliantly, aggressively lit, with a row of warm, flickering magical flames dancing beautifully in the high arched windows.
Inside the massive drawing room, the heavy marble fireplace blazed with a roaring, incredibly warm fire. The luxurious, thick emerald velvet curtains were drawn tight, entirely blocking out the freezing cold and the depressing darkness of the city. The heavy magical charcoal stacked deep in the hearth glowed with a brilliant, radiating golden-yellow heat, exactly like the blooming petals of an evening primrose.
A massive, freshly cut, towering Scottish pine Christmas tree had been magically, perfectly placed in the corner of the room. The dark green branches drooped heavily under the weight of countless sparkling silver decorations, intricately carved, perpetually frozen magical ice sculptures, and hundreds of softly floating, glowing candles...
Right at the absolute top of the massive tree, a beautifully crafted, highly cute silver Slytherin snake coiled its head proudly high into the air. And tucked away in a vastly less conspicuous, lower corner among the thick branches, a tiny, bravely shining golden-red Gryffindor little lion was also carefully, securely hung.
The dark, olive-green silk walls were currently draped with massive, continuous, heavy wreaths woven flawlessly from fresh mistletoe, prickly holly branches, and dark ivy. They were heavily dotted with bright, blood-red berries, looking incredibly beautiful, highly traditional, and aggressively grand.
The heavy, suffocating, yet intoxicating festive atmosphere thoroughly permeated absolutely every single dark corner of the ancient house.
Walburga Black wore a stunning, highly expensive formal robe of deep emerald green heavily trimmed with spun gold. She stepped elegantly onto the soft, massive white bearskin rug laid before the fire, gracefully holding a delicate crystal glass of premium German Riesling. Her sharp, aristocratic face was completely, undeniably radiant.
In absolutely all previous years at this highly stressful time, as the strict mistress of Grimmauld Place, she would have to meticulously, exhaustingly prepare a massively long, highly political gift list and physically go on a massive, highly competitive shopping spree through the crowded, freezing streets of Diagon Alley to maintain the family's social standing.
But this specific year, the massive administrative task seemed surprisingly, beautifully simple—
She absolutely only needed to legally, proudly send out the absolute latest, highly exclusive cosmetic products recently released by her very own corporate syndicate. Although for now, there were technically only six highly specialized product lines (SKUs)—these small, highly concentrated quantities of shimmering liquids, rich creams, or dissolving tablets, all currently lying securely in their incredibly exquisite, heavy, luxurious velvet and glass packaging, emitted a deeply pleasant, highly addictive fragrance.
—And, vastly more importantly, they inherently radiated an absolute, undeniable aura of pureblood aristocratic supremacy.
A highly distinct, deeply satisfied corporate smile appeared on her pale face.
Premium packaging is the absolute, ultimate facade. A flawless physical appearance is raw combat power. The final product absolutely must possess a highly high-end, intensely atmospheric, and incredibly classy social interpretation, Walburga thought, swirling the sweet wine in her glass.
And to truly, effortlessly achieve this massive marketing goal, absolutely no family in the entire British wizarding world possessed vastly more innate, biological advantage than her Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Honestly, exactly who mathematically knew just how much massive marketing and advertising cost was completely saved simply by violently slapping the Black family crest directly onto the glass bottles?
Walburga was clearly, undeniably in an absolutely excellent mood. While taking a delicate sip of her cold wine, she casually instructed her devoted house-elf: "Kreacher. These specific, highly premium gift sets are strictly for Bellatrix and Cissy. Do you still flawlessly remember the usual, highly specific packaging protocols?"
"Mistress, Kreacher certainly, absolutely remembers!" The ancient elf bowed so incredibly low his bat-like ears brushed the thick rug. "Miss Bellatrix is to exclusively have the heavy, matte black wrapping paper tied with the sharp silver-and-green ribbon. And Miss Narcissa is to have the soft, emerald green wrapping paper securely tied with the pure silver ribbon."
The brilliant young masters are actually coming home for the holidays— Kreacher's massive, bloodshot eyes were completely, genuinely bright with absolute, unadulterated happiness.
Walburga nodded in deep, aristocratic satisfaction, casually glancing sideways at a massive, ornate silver mirror hanging heavily on the living room wall. Her reflection in the glass possessed incredibly glowing, flawless, tightly pulled skin, looking exactly as if her face were physically, beautifully enveloped in a soft, diamond-like sheen.
She really, honestly didn't fully, logically know exactly what her brilliant twelve-year-old son was thinking when he named it—
"Twilight Zone · Supreme Diamond Glow Spray."
This highly specific, incredibly expensive magical spray, which flawlessly made a witch's skin physically, brilliantly shine exactly like crushed diamonds under the ballroom lights, had violently, immediately become an absolute, desperate hot commodity during the high-society Christmas gala season, aggressively selling out entirely within days of release.
It's just... exactly why did Regulus absolutely insist on such a ridiculously long, highly Muggle-sounding name?
Regulus had confidently, aggressively talked at massive length about highly complex, modern corporate professional terms like "brand positioning, cultural demographic connotation, and dynamic market demand" at the time. She honestly completely didn't understand the complex Muggle vocabulary at all—
But ultimately, if her own brilliant, incredibly talented son was actively, successfully starting a highly lucrative, massive corporate business empire, exactly who on earth would she violently, unconditionally support with her massive vaults if absolutely not him?
She completely, utterly trusted Regulus.
And this massive, unshakeable maternal trust had actively received an incredibly unexpected, highly terrifying political reinforcement just two short months ago—
That specific night, her terrifying great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus Black, had highly surprisingly, specifically traveled directly back to the ancestral home from his primary portrait at Hogwarts and forcefully convened an absolute, mandatory family meeting in the drawing room.
This was extremely, profoundly rare—Walburga clearly, terrifyingly remembered that the absolute last time the old Headmaster had specifically returned to aggressively admonish his descendants to be politically careful was back when she was nearly twenty years old.
"You absolutely, fundamentally must fully, unconditionally support Regulus's endeavors. Fully!" Phineas had commanded from his heavy gilded frame, holding himself incredibly stiffly, his painted expression exceptionally, terrifyingly serious and completely devoid of his usual arrogance.
"Regarding the highly dangerous, complex political movements currently happening at Hogwarts, you know perfectly well I absolutely cannot legally say much. But to logically put it simply for you two—" "Regulus, is the absolute, undeniable future of our Noble House of Black."
"Whatever massive financial or political backing he aggressively asks for—you will absolutely satisfy it all!" He had said this incredibly decisively, his painted grey eyes completely showing deep, highly calculated Slytherin-like cunning and profound, terrifying experience.
Walburga had been violently startled by the absolute command. After she physically reacted, she felt her pale face violently flush red with sheer, unadulterated motherly pride—she had proudly, aggressively turned her head, casting a massive, joyful look directly at her husband.
Out of the corner of her eye, the ancient house-elf Kreacher had puffed out his little, bony chest absolutely as high as it could possibly go.
Orion Black, however, had deeply, analytically pondered for a highly tense moment before slowly, cautiously asking the portrait:
"Great-grandfather, exactly what about... Sirius?" For some highly unknown, deeply secretive reason, Phineas in the portrait actually seemed to pause slightly, highly awkwardly before carefully answering:
"Sirius as well. Two brilliant brothers absolutely, politically united—he can undeniably provide Regulus with a massive, terrifying amount of physical and magical help."
Orion had nodded vigorously, his tightly furrowed brows finally smoothing out.
"Wherever Sirius physically is, he is absolutely, always undeniably a biological descendant of the Black Family," Phineas paused, adjusting his painted robes. "Furthermore, from a purely political standpoint, Sirius is also our family's... well... highly necessary 'diversified investment' in the coming war."
Having finally, bluntly said that highly pragmatic, corporate truth aloud, Phineas had almost physically blushed with painted age.
"Of course, these highly classified political words, you two perfectly understand them yourselves; there is absolutely zero need to directly relay this corporate strategy to Regulus and the others."
The pureblood couple had nodded completely, highly solemnly in absolute agreement.
"Oh, and one more thing—" Phineas had added sharply. "You absolutely can, and will, logically mend your broken relations with Alphard immediately." Walburga had violently opened her mouth, seemingly desperately wanting to aggressively object to bringing her blood-traitor brother back into the fold, but in the absolute end, faced with the Headmaster's glare, she had sullenly, obediently nodded.
Oh, sweet Merlin, exactly how I deeply, profoundly wish these two highly unpromising, stubborn great-grandsons would have actively bred a few more children for me to use, Phineas had violently shaken his head in disgust and disappeared entirely from the portrait.
...
Whenever Walburga proudly, warmly recalled her great-grandfather's absolute, commanding words about Regulus, she felt completely, utterly lighthearted. The sheer validation felt even vastly better than directly drinking a massive vial of pure Felix Felicis.
She looked up highly impatiently at the ticking, ornate silver clock on the wall—
Exactly why was Orion being so incredibly, frustratingly slow? Exactly why weren't her brilliant sons physically back from the train station yet?
"Oh, right. Kreacher," she said highly casually, waving her glass. "Aggressively send a small, polite corporate gift basket directly to Alphard's estate as well. It absolutely shouldn't be too incredibly grand or expensive, but absolutely do not be insulting or rude. You personally handle the logistics."
...
CREAK.
The heavy, warded front door finally swung open.
As soon as Regulus physically stepped into the dark hallway of his home, he was immediately, beautifully enveloped by the incredibly heavy, suffocating Christmas scents of the ancient house—the sharp, boiling smell of hot apple cider heavily mixed with cloves and cinnamon; the deep, rich, baking aroma of warm, dark gingerbread; and the incredibly fragrant, mouth-watering smell of the roasting orange juice pudding meticulously made by Kreacher in the kitchens...
"Welcome home, Young Master Regulus! Welcome home, Young Master Sirius!" The devoted house-elf was so incredibly, violently excited he was practically, literally screaming at the top of his lungs, his croaking voice physically trembling with sheer joy.
His strict mother, Walburga, immediately, highly uncharacteristically hurried quickly down the grand wooden stairs, her heavy green robes swishing—
"Regulus! Sirius!"
She completely abandoned her usual, freezing pureblood decorum and violently, aggressively pulled both of her teenage sons completely into a massive, suffocating, crushing motherly embrace all at once.
"You've both physically grown so incredibly tall, and you've both gotten far too terribly thin at that school!"
Sirius, suddenly trapped completely in his notoriously abusive, highly strict mother's warm embrace, violently, massively widened his grey eyes in sheer, unadulterated terror. Regulus honestly, genuinely had absolutely never seen his older brother's eyes physically open so incredibly, comically wide in his entire life—it was exactly, visually like violently witnessing a massive, braindead Mountain Troll awkwardly trying to wear a highly formal business tie.
Exactly what the bloody hell is physically wrong with Mum?! Sirius frantically, desperately asked Regulus with his violently panicked eyes over her shoulder. Is she under the Imperius Curse?!
Regulus, entirely safe in his CEO knowledge, just smiled slightly, highly calmly at his brother's panic.
Finally 'breaking free' entirely from his mother's suffocating, highly perfumed embrace, Regulus smoothly reached into his expanded coat pocket and flawlessly took out a massive stack of beautiful, circular wreaths woven perfectly from fresh holly branches, heavily adorned with sparkling, frozen magical icicles.
He gently, politely placed the absolute most exquisite, highly luxurious one directly onto his mother's immaculate hair. Sirius, quickly recovering from his shock, also eagerly handed one directly to their stoic father, Orion. And Regulus even highly respectfully handed a tiny, perfect miniature version directly down to a sobbing Kreacher.
Then, Regulus simply, elegantly waved his right hand—without even drawing his hawthorn wand. The freezing icicles currently resting on the heavy wreaths instantly, violently began to sparkle and hum exactly like brilliant, compressed stars.
He smoothly, silently waved his hand again. A massive, breathtaking explosion of vibrant, highly colorful winter flowers violently extended completely from his leather boots, aggressively, beautifully spreading all the way down the dark, grim wooden corridor right to the very end.
Not to be completely outdone by his younger brother's showmanship, Sirius immediately drew his wand, grinned, and flawlessly conjured a massive flock of tiny, glowing, solid-gold birds from the very tip of his oak wand. The metallic birds chirped happily and aggressively flapped their golden wings directly towards the warm living room, leaving a beautiful, incredibly long, lingering trail of heavy golden light in the dark air.
Standing quietly by the stairs, Orion Black's dark eyes narrowed sharply. He deeply, keenly noticed that when his brilliant, twelve-year-old younger son cast those highly complex, highly advanced spatial spells, he absolutely didn't even bother to open his mouth to incant, nor did he use his wand...
His terrifying great-grandfather Phineas's absolute, commanding words violently flashed again in his political mind. The future of our House.
At this exact, beautiful moment, Walburga's mouth was completely, highly uncharacteristically wide open. She entirely, utterly forgot her freezing, aristocratic pureblood decorum. She just stared completely blankly at her two incredibly handsome, terrifyingly talented sons, her sharp dark eyes visibly, heavily red-rimmed with unshed tears of pure pride.
"Merry Christmas, Mum!"
The two brothers said happily, completely together.