Rarely was anything Cygnus did directed by instinct, but the final letter Alphard sent him had done the impossible. The exchange between the brothers had been marked, at least on Cygnus' side of the correspondence, by the scratching of quill against parchment as he set about replying in a tense scrawl that became ever more severe as the discussion drew on -- but on reading Alphard's last petty, hateful, petulant words, the paper was suddenly balled into his hand as his fingers coiled into a sudden fist.

Is that so much to ask; support from a brother I've been there for and who I'd hope to be there for me when I needed him?

Oh, Alphard, so typically obtuse. So willfully ignorant. His accusations were not something Cygnus wanted, nor, indeed, needed right now, not after a night of being screamed at by a woman he could barely recognize these days, and being held back by her animal of a husband as thread after thread was burnt from the stitching that made up Alphard Black's name. The drama that'd played out in Grimmauld Place drained him, but Alphard had always had a talent for plucking just the right string: and now, with the letter clutched in the unrelenting vice of his fist, Cygnus was white-faced with anger, a loud thud resounding across the study from the chair that fell back as he stood in one violent motion and --

Apparated directly into the living room of Alphard's flat.

"Take it back," came the half-snarled command as he advanced on his brother, his free hand coming out to grip and painfully twist at the fabric of his shirt and the underlying skin, while the other thrust the letter responsible for this rare show of anger in his face.