He sits in the bottle green armchair, clenching and unclenching his right fist. The room is as dark as you would expect it to be considering there is only one window and that's covered by a heavy drape. By rights he ought to be by his father's bedside, stoically awaiting the death of the current patriarch.

But he's so angry. So angry with this illness that is slowly sapping the life from his father, so angry with his father for giving up, so angry at himself for being able to do nothing. What is the point of all his schooling if he all he can do is stand in an oppressing bedroom, his eyes averted as the man who had dominated his childhood became a mere shade of his former self.

A wave of anger floods over him and he thumps the chair's arm, the dull thud calming him slightly. But then he thinks about how it shouldn't be him about to take the helm of the family, it shouldn't be him courting women in order to carry on the Black line, it shouldn't be him fretting about how his mother will cope. And the anger sweeps him away and he kicks the armchair so it topples over; he pushes everything off the desk, the sounds of glass splintering bringing him a perverse feeling of satisfaction.

Suddenly, sadness overcomes him and he finds himself staring at a pile of books and crushed ornaments, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He furiously pushes them away with the heel of his hand, cursing at himself for being so weak.

"Master Regulus?" Kreacher appears behind him, watching his young master. "Mr Black wants to see you."

He nods, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands, doing his best to remove any evidence of the tears that his father would despise. He then straightens his back and goes to face the one man who he would give anything to please. The one man he thought could never die, who is lying helpless in his bed as his last breath slips from him.