odie ⋆⭒˚.⋆

She pronounced him perfectly healthy, apart from a slight deficiency in vitamin D, which hardly seemed enough to warrant the electric current that shot through him when you smiled at him across the library table.

It has become intolerable. A constant itch beneath his skin, one he cannot name and therefore cannot eradicate. He loathes not knowing.

And perhaps that is the real reason he now finds 1himself walking, fast and purposeful, through the stone corridors of the castle toward the Gryffindor common room. His feet move with a mind of their own, as though they have conspired against him. 

Ordinarily, this would be the last place he’d go—the last person he’d willingly seek out. Sirius was the antithesis of everything Regulus had spent years constructing himself to be: reckless where he was restrained, loud where he was quiet, sunlight blazing where Regulus preferred the shadows. 

He was not someone one went to for advice, and certainly not for something as delicate—no, as humiliating—as this private affliction that had begun to unravel him from the inside out.

And yet, here he was.

Perhaps it was some pitiful remnant of the little boy who used to run to his older brother with every scraped knee and broken toy, expecting Sirius to fix him like he always somehow did. Sirius had once been, in all accounts, his hero—not that he would ever admit it out loud. Sirius these days was usually spectacularly useless, sharing what appeared to be a single brain cell with that equally insufferable friend of his, Potter.

Still… maybe, just maybe, Sirius would know what was wrong with him.

Barty had been no help at all, only laughing until he nearly choked and remarking that Regulus’s obliviousness must be hereditary, some long-standing Black family defect. 

Pandora had been worse, pressing polished crystals into his palm and instructing him to sleep with them under his pillow. He had woken the next morning feeling exactly the same, except slightly humiliated.

So now he has been driven to this. To the humiliating thought of confessing his supposed illness to Sirius, who will either mock him mercilessly or, with even less dignity, try to be sincere about it.

The thought makes his stomach knot harder.

He turns the final corner and catches sight of his brother sprawled on a couch near the fireplace, laughter spilling out of him like sparks from the flames. Remus Lupin sits at his side, smiling in that quiet way of his, the sort of smile that seems to begin behind his eyes and ripple outward. 

Sirius is watching him with the soft, unguarded look Regulus has seen only a handful of times, and never directed at anyone else.

It is a look so drenched in affection it makes Regulus recoil instinctively. He stops in his tracks and stares, something sour rising in his chest. Not jealousy, certainly not that, but something adjacent to it. Disgust, perhaps, at the way Sirius wears his heart so obviously in his eyes. 

It is painfully clear, even to someone as emotionally inept as Regulus, that his brother is in love with Lupin. What an oblivious fool.

And somehow, that makes Regulus’s own predicament feel even more intolerable. Because if what Sirius has is love, then what is this thing strangling him from the inside whenever you walk into the room?

Regulus walked toward them with the stiff composure of someone trying not to unravel. Sirius was still laughing, head tipped back, hair falling across his face while Remus watched him with quiet amusement. Their ease made Regulus’s chest tighten. Everything here felt too warm, too bright, too loud, yet he forced his steps to stay even as he stopped before them.

Sirius spotted him and brightened instantly. 

“Oh Merlin,” he exclaimed. “Reggieeee!”

Regulus recoiled as though the word itself were corrosive. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Which is precisely why I do,” Sirius said easily, still grinning.

Regulus kept his face blank. Remus’s mouth twitched, though he wisely said nothing. Sirius lounged there, clearly waiting for some sharp retort, but Regulus gave him none.

“I need to speak with you,” Regulus said, his voice low and clipped. “Alone.”

Sirius raised his brows. “Alone, is it? That sounds suspicious.”

“Now,” Regulus added.

Something in his tone made Sirius glance at Remus, then back at him. “All right, all right.” He clapped Remus’s knee as he rose. “Duty calls.”

Regulus was already walking away. He could hear Sirius’s footsteps following, loose and unhurried, while his own felt like they might splinter the stone beneath him. The air grew cooler as they moved into the quieter corridors of the castle.

When they reached an empty side hallway, Regulus stopped. Sirius leaned casually against the wall, folding his arms.

“All right,” he said. “What’s this about? You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

Regulus stared at the far wall, searching for words. They refused to come. Sirius’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Reggie,” he said, his tone shifting. “You’re worrying me.”

“Stop calling me that,” Regulus muttered, though the usual bite was missing.

“Fine. Regulus, then.” Sirius straightened, the joking edge gone. “What’s going on?”

Regulus’s throat felt tight, like the words had caught there. He hated how unfamiliar this was, hated how everything inside him felt scattered and jagged. Sirius was watching him too closely.

“Something is wrong with me,” Regulus said at last. The words left him flat and cold.

Sirius blinked, his grin vanishing completely. “Wrong with you how?”

“I do not know,” Regulus admitted, the confession sour on his tongue. “It has been happening for months. My stomach twists. My hands sweat. My heart races without reason. I cannot breathe properly. It comes and goes, and when it comes, it is… intolerable.”

Sirius straightened from his slouch, brows furrowing. “Have you talked to Pomfrey?”

“I have,” Regulus said tightly. “She claimed I am perfectly healthy.”

“Are you?”

“Obviously not,” Regulus snapped, then immediately pinched the bridge of his nose like he regretted it.

Sirius raised his hands. “Alright, alright, don’t bite. Just asking.” He tilted his head, studying him. “When does it happen?”

Regulus stilled. “It varies.”

“That’s helpful,” Sirius muttered. “Does something trigger it? Quidditch? Exams? The crushing weight of our family name?”

“No,” Regulus said too quickly.

“Lack of sleep? Nerves? Guilt?” Sirius leaned in, squinting. “A hex from Mother?”

“No.”

Sirius gasped. “Wait. Have you been experimenting with Slughorn’s pickled… whatever-those-things-are?”

“I am not poisoned,” Regulus hissed.

“Fine, fine. Then what?”

Regulus opened his mouth, then shut it again. His jaw worked. The answer pressed against his ribs like something dangerous, like it would detonate if he said it aloud. The very thought of speaking your name here felt unthinkable.

“All right,” Sirius said finally, voice cautious. “Let’s think. Stomach pain. Sweaty palms. Heart racing. Can’t breathe. That… sounds terrible.”

“It is,” Regulus muttered.

Sirius frowned, rubbing his jaw as if that might stir some wisdom loose. “Could be something hereditary. Something that runs in the family.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

“I don”t know.” Sirius shrugged. “A Black thing. We have enough of those.”

Regulus considered that, unwillingly. It was not implausible. Their family history was riddled with cursed heirlooms, unfortunate tendencies, and suspicious deaths. Some strange internal defect did not seem entirely out of the question.

Sirius studied him again. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think I’ve had that before.”

Regulus stilled. “What?”

“The symptoms,” Sirius said, nodding. “Stomach doing somersaults, can’t breathe, whole body going mad. Yeah. I’ve had that.”

Regulus’s chest tightened. “When?”

Sirius squinted, thinking. “It happens sometimes when—” He cut himself off, eyes flicking away for a second before he added, too quickly, “It’s rare.”

“That is not an answer,” Regulus said sharply.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fine. It happens when I’m around Remus.”

There was a pause, heavy and still.

Something in Regulus’s mind shifted, slow and terrible.

Sirius went on, oblivious. “Actually, only when I’m around him. Not anyone else. Which makes sense, I suppose. He’s… well. He’s him.”

Regulus felt the floor tilt beneath him.

Sirius continued, unaware that he had just detonated Regulus’s entire worldview. “Which is reassuring, in a way. If it were genetic, it would probably flare up more often. Unless it is dormant most of the time. Like a curse or gout. Except it only happens around Remus which is not so often, so I think I’m not in severe condition.”

Regulus did not move. His heart was a slow, pounding thunder.

Sirius went on blithely, warming to the topic. “Honestly, maybe it is a genetic condition triggered by proximity to certain stimuli. A reaction to pheromones, maybe. Or the family’s atrocious breeding habits finally catching up with us. Centuries of cousin-marriages, you know. Practically marinating in shared bloodlines. Perhaps our organs are simply confused.”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly.

Sirius was still rambling. “Actually, this explains everything. Imagine it: the Black family inbreeding-induced cardiac spasms. It would make sense. One moment you are fine, the next moment your heart is galloping and you want to vomit.”

Regulus’s thoughts were not poetic. They were a single, shrieking note.

Because Sirius had said it only happened around Remus.

And for Regulus, it only happened around you.

The realisation struck like a Bludger to the ribs.

It was not a disease. It was not some ancient curse fermenting in his bloodline.

It was the same thing Sirius felt for Remus.

And Regulus felt it for you.

The floor seemed to lurch. His stomach twisted so violently he thought for a moment he might actually collapse. Sirius was still talking about obscure magical blood disorders and their potential to cause mass hallucinations.

“I have to go,” Regulus said abruptly.

Sirius blinked. “What? No, hang on—”

“I said I have to go.” Regulus was already stepping back.

“Wait,” Sirius said, alarm creeping into his voice. “Reggie, what if this really is serious? What if we are both dying?”

“We are not dying, you bloody idiot!” he called over his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Sirius yelled after him. “Because I think my left lung just twinged!”

Regulus did not respond. He lengthened his stride, desperate to get away before the walls witnessed his expression. The corridors blurred as Regulus walked, though the walk felt like too calm a word for the frantic momentum that carried him forward. His mind was a relentless chorus of how.

How had this happened.

How had it crept beneath his skin without him noticing.

How had you, of all people, become the fulcrum upon which his world suddenly tilted.

How had he been so careful all his life only to let this slip past his guard.

The more he tried to trace its origin, the more it dissolved like ink in water. There was no moment to dissect, no clean beginning to point at. There was only the hollow terror blooming in his chest and the unbearable truth of it thrumming in every nerve.

He had always assumed that if love came for him, it would be quiet. Civilised and contained. Instead it felt like standing too near a cliff’s edge in a storm, wind clawing at his coat, nothing beneath his feet but air.

No one had warned him that it would be this violent. And surely no one had warned him that it would be you.

By the time he reached the library, his hands were trembling.

He slipped through the door like a shadow, scanning the rows until his gaze caught on you.

There you were. Sitting at a table beneath the pale spill of lanternlight, a faint curve to your lips as you leaned toward a friend, speaking in a hushed voice meant only for them. You laughed softly at something she said.

He stood there, stranded between the shelves, mind roaring. What was he meant to do? Stalk toward you and declare that you had somehow dismantled every ordered structure within him? That your voice made his stomach twist and your smile made the world tilt on its axis? That he could not look at your lips without imagining them against his own, which was absurd and indecent and entirely unlike him?

He could not. He could never.

He was still silently berating himself when it happened.

“Regulus!”

Your voice. Clear, bright, cutting through the heavy quiet like sunlight through fog.

He startled slightly, caught. Your eyes found his, and you smiled like you had just spotted something familiar and dear.

“Come here,” you said.

And he did it helplessly as if you had tethered a string to his ribs and pulled.

Your friend rose, murmured something, and drifted away, leaving only the two of you in the pool of lamplight.

You began speaking again, something soft and casual, though the words slid past him without meaning. He watched your mouth move and thought of nothing else. His mind was all static, no thoughts at all, just the sound of your voice and the fragile thread of composure fraying rapidly between his fingers.

Then you stopped. Your head tilted slightly as your eyes searched his face.

“Are you alright?” you asked quietly. “You look troubled.”

Regulus blinked. The world felt very far away.

And then, as if his tongue had broken from his mind, the words escaped.

“Something is wrong with me.”

Silence fell.

“…What?” you said softly.

His breath caught. He could have stopped. He could have swallowed it back, concealed it like he concealed everything, but the dam had cracked. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said in a rush, the words spilling faster, tangled and frantic.

“I tried to ignore it. I thought it was nothing. I thought it would fade, but it has only grown worse.” he said in a rush, the words spilling faster, tangled and frantic. He sucked in a sharp breath and ran a hand down his face.

“Every time you are near, my heart becomes unbearable. It beats so hard I can feel it in my teeth, as though it is trying to escape. My palms sweat as if I have been hexed. I cannot speak properly, I cannot breathe, I cannot think. I look at you and it is as if the rest of the world disappears, and it terrifies me because I do not understand it” 

His jaw tightened, his voice trembling. “ I do not know how to control it. I have spent my whole life controlling everything and this is—” The world fractured with the touch of your lips.

One moment, Regulus was spilling out like water from a cracked glass, words breaking loose in sharp waves. The next, your mouth was on his, soft and steady and impossibly real.

Regulus went still, every muscle locked, breath suspended. His mind blanked, stunned into silence more absolute than any spell could achieve. The library dissolved. The stone and shelves and lanternlight ceased to exist.

There was only you.

Then you drew back, slow and careful, as if afraid he might shatter. The kiss seemed to have stolen all the air from the room, leaving only the sound of his own heart drumming raggedly inside his ribs.

Regulus stared. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, the pallor of his cheeks warming to a delicate rose. His lips were parted, flushed, a little damp, as though the memory of you still lingered there. He looked almost fragile, like someone startled awake from a dream and unsure what was real.

You smiled gently, watching him with quiet mischief as you leaned closer. Your voice was soft enough to be mistaken for a secret. “You know, I think I might be catching whatever it is you’ve got.”

His gaze flickered from your eyes down to your lips again and lingered there, unmoving, as if pulled by a force older than reason. Hunger kindled in him, stark and unguarded. He looked like a man possessed. Like someone who had just found his god and was ready to kneel.

In truth, he thought faintly, if this was a sickness, he would let it hollow him out entirely. He would let it claim every inch of him, if it meant hearing you say his name like that again.

Your hands rose, cupping his cheeks with featherlight care, and that was what undid him completely. He leaned into your palms like a starving thing.

His voice trembled. “Yeah?” he whispered. “You are?”

“Mhm,” you said, smiling against his silence.

Regulus leaned in, hesitant at first and pressed his mouth to yours. The kiss was deeper this time, more certain, though still careful, reverent. He kissed like someone who had spent his entire life denying himself sweetness and now, tasting it, feared it might vanish if he held it too tightly.

When he finally drew back, his eyes were luminous.

You rose from your chair with a soft laugh, catching his hands in yours as though it were the easiest thing in the world. Regulus let you, though his expression shifted to faint bewilderment as you tugged him toward the door.

“Wait,” he murmured, falling into step behind you as you led him out between the shelves. “Where are we going?”

“You will see,” you said lightly, and there was laughter in your voice, soft and ringing.

You led him out across the quiet courtyard, through the stone arch and down the familiar worn steps toward the edge of the Black Lake. The last scatterings of sunlight lay fractured across its surface like molten gold. The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. The world felt unreal.

You stopped at the water’s edge. The lake lay wide and dark before you, still enough to catch the bleeding colors of the sky.

“This is where I come,” you said softly, your voice losing its playful lilt. “When everything feels too loud. When I need the world to slow down.”

Regulus stood beside you, silent, gaze fixed on the reflection of your face trembling in the water.

“Do you feel better here?” he asked quietly.

“I do,” you said. “It feels calmer here.”

You studied him, tilting your head slightly. “Where do you go when you feel that way?”

Regulus hesitated. His hands flexed at his sides. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the water, gathering courage. “I… I go to you,” he said finally, soft, almost a whisper.

You froze. “To me?” Your brow arched, a mix of surprise and shock crossing your features.

Regulus lifted his gaze to yours, letting a small, tentative smile curl his lips. “You’re the only place that can calm me. That makes everything stop spinning. That makes me feel… steady.” His hands twitched slightly, as if holding himself back, and his voice caught on the last words.

You blinked, the warmth of the confession settling in. “I never knew. I didn’t think you felt that way about… about me.”

He shifted closer, brushing a shoulder lightly against yours, testing the space between you. “It isn’t something I can explain. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it. It’s… different.”

Regulus thought if this was faith, then you were the only divine thing he would ever kneel to.

The sky had faded into twilight, the lake’s surface catching the last bits of gold and pink from the sunset. The stones beneath your feet were cold, but the warmth of your hand in his made him forget the chill.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, nudging his arm playfully. “Are you plotting something evil or just thinking too hard again?”

“I might be considering the consequences of… everything,” Regulus muttered, cheeks slightly pink, but he tried to sound serious.

“Consequences? What, like you’re worried you’ve fallen for me too quickly or that I might—”

“—think I'm absurdly foolish and hate me?” he interrupted, almost scowling, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed. “I thought you hated me. You always seemed to avoid me like I was a puddle you didn’t want to step in.”

Regulus froze. “Hate you?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, leaning closer. “I assumed you hated my company because you always acted… repulsed. Honestly, I thought you despised me.”

“I never meant to give that impression,” he said, flustered, hands fidgeting. “I was just trying to control myself.”

You smiled at him, bright and tender. “Regulus,” you said, voice low. “You’re ridiculous. But I like it.”

And there it was again, that sickness twisting in him, relentless and undeniable. His palms were slick with sweat, his heart hammering so fiercely. His skin itched to be near yours, every nerve screaming for contact, and those goddamn roaches stirred in his stomach, reminding him of every moment he had denied.

Regulus really was sick for you, utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully sick. But he did not mind. In truth, he would have welcomed any consequence of this disease. He would have gladly been buried alive in the weight of it, willingly swallowed by the madness of it, if it meant a single heartbeat near you. If it meant every breath carried your presence. 

He could die a thousand times and each time he would choose to feel this again, to surrender to it, to you. His body was burning, collapsing under the weight of it, and all it could think of, all it could feel, all it wanted, was you, you, you.

“Hey, Regulus,” you laced your fingers through his, warm and firm, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts. The sudden connection made him startle, his racing mind stuttering to a halt.

He blinked, caught off guard, fingers tightening around yours without realizing it. “Yeah?”

Hogwarts High’s staff was made up of terrifyingly qualified educators with glowing resumes, several degrees, and a shared agreement to ignore the fact that the chemistry and music departments were barely functioning disasters held together by duct tape and charm. (Looking at you, Barty and Sirius)

Still, as a collective, the staff were kind, sharp, and painfully overqualified. It was the kind of team that made Remus Lupin genuinely proud to call himself a teacher. 

He’d started teaching English here while finishing his master’s degree, shuffling between lectures and grading papers with a permanent coffee stain on his shirt. Years later, he had his own classroom, a framed diploma, and a very real fear of Bunsen burners thanks to a certain lunatic in a lab coat.

But for all the chaos, he loved his job. Mostly because of the people. 

His closest friends were scattered across the faculty—Sirius, the unhinged music teacher with five guitars and zero respect for the curriculum; James, the ridiculously hot P.E. teacher who somehow made every sports day feel like a fashion show; and Peter, who taught math and hoarded snacks like the apocalypse was coming.

Lily Evans, queen of the art department and possibly the only person holding the school together, was a constant source of peace. The science department, however, was less peaceful. Barty Crouch Jr., Hogwarts’ own walking hazard sign, taught chemistry and had nearly blown up the west wing three times. 

And then there was you, the saving grace of the science block. You were the biology teacher, the only one who actually wore their lab coat properly, and possibly the only reason the science building still had a roof.

And finally there was Regulus Black, the cold-blooded history teacher with a wardrobe full of black turtlenecks and no patience for late essays, was your department neighbor—and as far as Remus had always been told, your long-time boyfriend. 

As far as Remus had always believed, you and Regulus were high school sweethearts still going strong after all these years. He had known the both of you for nearly a decade, and you had been there for him through some of the most difficult chapters of his life. 

You both shared his passion for education, your mutual disdain for mediocre teaching, and an unwavering dedication to your students.

So naturally, he’d assumed you were soulmates. Of course you were together.

So for the absolute life of him, Remus could not comprehend why he was only just now discovering that his favourite power couple of eight years were not, in fact, a couple at all.

“So wait—sorry, just so I’m clear—what you’re saying is… they aren’t a committed couple?”

Remus blinked slowly, arms crossed over his chest as he stood dead center in his own classroom. His lesson plan was still on the whiteboard behind him, half-erased. Forgotten, because apparently, so were the last eight years of his reality.

James, still flushed and sweaty from whatever drills he’d just finished running with the third-years, ruffled his hair, which was already a mess, and nodded like this was the most casual thing in the world.

“They were never a couple to begin with, mate,” James said, grabbing the edge of Remus’s desk and spinning half-heartedly in the chair. “Don’t look at me like that. I thought they were, too, but apparently it’s all a big platonic fairy tale.”

“What the hell do you mean never a couple?” Remus asked, incredulous.

“I’ve seen them share a car. I’ve driven them home to their shared apartment when said car broke down. They have keys to each other’s places. They make each other tea without asking. She knows exactly how he likes his bloody toast, James.”

“Doesn’t prove anything,” Sirius piped up, swinging his legs up onto the windowsill with a lazy stretch, a lollipop hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette.

“I mean, that’s what they claim. For the record, they’re full of shit. Absolutely dating. In fact, I’d go as far as to say they’re disgustingly in love and just being annoying about it.”

James rolled his eyes and leaned over to smack Sirius’s shoulder. “You just want to win the bet, you wanker!”

“What bet?” Remus said sharply, eyes narrowing.

All three of them paused.

Peter, sitting in the back corner with a half-eaten bag of crisps resting on his stomach, let out a poorly stifled snort.

“Oh, don’t even start,” Sirius muttered, shooting James a look. “You’re the one who started the damn thing.”

“It was a joke at first,” James defended, hands raised in mock surrender. “And then it turned into… you know. A thing.”

“A thing?” Remus echoed.

James scratched the back of his head. “Alright, fine. There’s a bet going around the school. Staff, some of the older students—Lily’s absolutely in on it, don’t let her pretend otherwise—on whether or not Y/N and Regulus are dating. Or, more specifically, when they’ll finally admit it publicly.”

“They’re obviously dating,” Remus insists, setting down his tea with the weary finality of a man who's had this debate one too many times. “Come on. They’ve been a thing since, like, forever.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Since when exactly? Because when we joined the department seven years ago, they already had that weird… thing.”

“You mean the way they bicker like an old married couple but also exchange coffee orders from memory?” Peter adds, frowning. “I thought they were dating too. Until five years ago, Sirius and I tried to get them a bottle of wine for their anniversary, and they both looked at us like we’d just insulted their bloodline.”

“Right?” Sirius jumps in. “Regulus was like, ‘We’re not dating. Don’t be weird.’ And Y/N just blinked and said ‘What anniversary?’ Which, like… okay, gaslight me, I guess?”

Everyone exchanged knowing glances, the disbelief hanging thick in the air. It was one of those moments where the pieces didn’t quite add up, and the mystery only deepened.

Sirius lets out a slow sigh “Yeah, but then me and Barty peaked at their faculty files—“ 

“Peaked at their faculty files?” Remus gasps, but he’s ignored. 

“—and they have the same home address. They live together!”

“I can confirm that, at least,” Peter says. “They were sharing a dorm back in uni. Then Y/N moved out for a bit, but she’s definitely back in Regulus’s apartment now. Has been for, like, three years.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” James argues, though less convincingly now. “Could just be roommates with insanely good boundaries.”

“They share a car,” Remus said, clearly on the edge of spiraling. “You don’t just share a car with your mate unless you’re married or insane.”

Peter lifted a crisp and added casually, “They’re also engaged.”

Remus froze. “What?”

Sirius perked up. “Oh yeah, that bit. Regulus told me that, actually. Said they’re engaged. Not romantically, apparently. Just… engaged with matching rings.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then James groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Bloody hell, Sirius, what does that even mean? Who gets engaged platonically?”

“I don’t know!” Sirius said, chewing his lollipop stick with a shrug. “There are many reasons! Citizenship? Sex? Money—“

Remus turned to him, deadpan. “Money? He’s a Black for fuck’s sake! He has more money than the school does.”

Peter pointed a finger in the air. “Exactly. So the money theory doesn’t even hold. Which brings us back to: they’re definitely together. They’re just gaslighting the rest of us about it.”

“They could just be roommates,” Sirius added after a pause, not sounding convinced in the slightest.

“Yeah, sure,” Peter muttered. “Roommates. Right. Like that time I forgot my binder in the biology lab and walked in on Regulus fucking her against the whiteboard?”

The classroom erupted.

“What?!” Remus yelled, nearly knocking over the whiteboard marker cup.

James doubled over with laughter, clutching his side. Sirius nearly fell off the windowsill, his lollipop clattering to the floor.

“Oh my God, Peter,” James wheezed. “You never told me that!”

“I was traumatized,” Peter said, completely unfazed. “It’s why I changed the binder. I don’t use that one anymore.”

“They’re not even subtle about it,” Sirius said, laughing. “Regulus comes into the staff room with her lipstick still on his jaw, and everyone just pretends not to notice because he’ll glare at you into the next century.”

Remus dragged a hand over his face. “I cannot believe this. This is actually deranged. Who in their right mind would act like this and still claim it’s not romantic?”

Sirius raised a hand. “My brother. That’s who.”

Remus stared blankly at the floor for a second, as if trying to reboot his understanding of the universe. “Alright. Fine. What’s the prize for this stupid bet, then?”

The room immediately quieted.

Peter perked up first, licking crisp dust from his fingers like he was preparing for a ritual. James leaned back in his chair, positively beaming.

“A full course meal,” James said reverently, “at Maison de Bœuf.”

Remus’s entire body froze.

Maison de Beaouf; The city’s most exclusive restaurant, where getting a table required months of planning, and every dish was practically legendary. 

The steak alone was enough to make him weak at the knees—perfectly marbled, melt-in-your-mouth, seared to perfection, and paired with sauces that made even the fanciest meals he’d ever had seem pedestrian.

Four months’ worth of his salary barely secured a reservation, and here it was being dangled in front of him just to spy on you and Regulus. 

Risk betraying his friends’ trust, or indulge in the best steak of his life, with wine that practically whispered his name?

He swallowed hard, imagining the first bite. It was impossible to resist.

“Consider me in,” he muttered,

***

The staff room was already buzzing when you walked in.

The smell of burnt coffee and cheap microwave lunches mingled in the air as the low hum of conversation filled the space. Teachers clustered into their usual groups, some chatting about student essays, others whispering about which parent had caused a scene that morning. 

Lily sat perched on the edge of the lounge table, arguing animatedly with James about grading curves, while Sirius and Peter loitered near the snack cupboard like they were casing it for a heist.

You nudged the man walking beside you with your elbow. “Did you pack lunch again?”

Regulus lifted a sleek, black Tupperware bag like it was something sacred. “Always do. But I’ll stand in line with you so you don’t look like an idiot eating alone.”

That, loosely translated from Regulus-speak, meant: I’ll wait with you.

You smiled. “Chivalry’s alive, apparently.”

There was a brief pause as you both navigated the narrow path toward the kitchenette, sidestepping the eternal clutter of old mugs and misplaced science equipment. 

Eventually, you both settled into a quiet corner of the room as you started rambling about your students—how Harry had stayed late after class to tutor one of the first-years, how Ron had accidentally submitted a blank paper because he thought it was due next week, and how Hermione had cornered you during lunch to ask if she could “restructure your entire unit plan because it’s sub-optimal for student growth.”

“God help me, she might be smarter than I am,” you said, shaking your head fondly.

Regulus, spooning something that looked aggressively healthy out of a glass container, hummed in vague agreement. 

To anyone else, he looked disinterested—aloof, even. But you knew better. His eyes stayed trained on you as you spoke, his jaw tightening or relaxing at the appropriate moments. 

Every once in a while, he’d mutter a dry remark like, “Ron’s probably one blank essay away from getting expelled.’” But for the most part, he let you talk, listening quietly the way he always did when you were on a roll.

Contrary to what half the staff assumed, your talkativeness didn’t irritate him. In fact, he liked it. 

He liked hearing your voice as you vented about your students’ antics, liked the way your face lit up when you got passionate about teaching, liked that you always had something new to tell him. 

You were, in his words, “one of the few tolerable people in this hellhole.” And, by Regulus Black standards, that was practically poetry.

What did irritate him, however, was being stared at like a zoo exhibit.

Once he was sure you weren’t looking, Regulus turned his head slightly—just enough to glare toward the other side of the room, where Sirius, Remus, James, and Peter all sat suddenly very interested in the contents of their tea. 

James took a long, suspiciously forced sip from his cup. Sirius squinted hard at a crossword puzzle that was definitely upside down. Peter stuffed an entire cookie in his mouth like it might erase the fact that he’d been watching the two of you walk in from the moment the door opened.

Regulus narrowed his eyes.

“Shit,” you muttered beside him, patting your pockets. “I forgot my lunch card again.”

“Shocking,” Regulus said dryly, already pulling his out of his wallet. “Your memory’s a disgrace to science.”

He handed the card to the cafeteria staffer and reached over to grab a tray for you before you could argue. 

Wordlessly, you took the coat draped over his arm and slung it over your own. Regulus hated letting it touch any surface that might, God forbid, contain coffee spills.

As you both made your way to the table where your friends were clearly still eavesdropping, you leaned in slightly and asked, “Alright, what’s the gossip from your end of the building?”

You had no idea that your relationship, or lack thereof, was the gossip.

Regulus shrugged, stabbing his fork into a salad. “The sixth formers are doing fine on their final projects. Their grammar’s an abomination, though. Makes you wonder how they even passed Year Eight.”

You snorted as you unscrewed the lid from your thermos. “Says the guy who stayed up until two last night editing Severus’s department report.”

“That was different. He’s not a student, he’s just stupid.”

You shot him a look. “You say that now, but tomorrow you’ll be pulling an all-nighter to help those kids revise.”

“You’re one to talk,” he said dryly, nodding toward your planner, which was packed so tight the paper looked like it was suffocating. 

“You scheduled two consultations during lunch and three more after school. Why even bother pretending you eat?”

“I can’t help it, okay? You know I have a soft spot for the Gryffindors in the accelerated program.”

Of course he did. You’d told him all about it. It was the first cohort you ever taught when you started here years ago — bright-eyed, awkward, brilliant messes. You loved them. Regulus wouldn't admit it out loud, but he did too, in his own weird way.

They were the ones who made you love teaching. Back when you were both stuck in that underfunded, fluorescent-lit nightmare of a school across town. 

You’d fought tooth and nail to get those kids where they are now, watching them grow into overachieving high school-bound insomniacs. 

And yeah, Regulus pretended to be emotionally dead about most things, but when it came to that trio? Even he had a soft spot.

“That soft spot of yours is making you lose sleep,” he muttered, poking at his salad again like it had personally wronged him. “I’ll take some of your consultations. The little shits deserve a teacher who isn’t running on fumes.”

Which, loosely translated from Regulus Black, meant: You’re overworking yourself. Let me help.

You bumped his arm with a grin. “You’re kind of sweet when you’re insulting.”

“I know.”

The conversation paused as you reached the Marauders’ usual table, tucked in the back corner of the staff room beneath a faded "No Students Beyond This Point" sign. 

Regulus silently set down your tray before taking a seat beside you, and you handed back his coat—freshly rescued from an accidental brush with a leaky coffee container in the lunch line.

“Hey,” you greeted, plopping down across from James, who was poking at a half-eaten burrito. 

Sirius looked up from where he’d been aggressively typing something into his phone, and Peter offered a vague salute with a cookie already halfway to his mouth.

“What were you guys on about just now?” you asked, noting how they'd all looked like they were mid-argument when you walked over.

“Oh, nothing,” James said too quickly. “Just—grading papers. You know. The thrilling art of evaluating young minds.”

“Mmhm.” You arched a brow, unconvinced but not interested enough to push. “Right.”

You and Sirius fell into a heated debate over whether the new horror film on Netflix was revolutionary or garbage while James and Peter debated whether Ron Weasley’s parents actually made him pack sardines for lunch or if he did it out of spite.

Regulus, as usual, stayed mostly silent. That didn’t stop you from casually leaning into his side as you sipped your coffee, or him from absently resting his arm on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder as if it were muscle memory. 

He even wiped a smudge of lipstick from the corner of your mouth with the side of his thumb before returning to his sad excuse of a salad. 

James watched it happen like he was witnessing a public proposal. 

Something was up.

About ten minutes in, your phone buzzed with a loud ping. You checked the reminder, sighed dramatically, and began packing up your lunch tray. “Meeting in five,” you grumbled. “Of course.”

“You didn’t even finish your coffee,” Sirius pointed out, mostly because he was eyeing it for himself.

Regulus glanced at the clock, then at your still-half-full tray. He sighed. “I’ll take care of your dishes. I’ll get you lunch later.”

“No, I can—shit—” You winced as your elbow caught the edge of your chair, sending the cup flying. Coffee splashed across your jacket.

You froze.

Wordlessly, Regulus handed you his neatly folded handkerchief. You dabbed at yourself, grumbling, and he was already mopping up the mess on the table with an air of quiet resignation. Then he reached for the coat draped over his chair and held it out to you.

“Wear this.”

You blinked, then traded jackets without protest. “Thanks, Reg.”

He didn’t flinch when you leaned over and kissed him on the cheek — just gave a quiet hum and returned to eating, like you hadn’t just casually kissed him in front of three people actively holding in screams.

You waved to the others and disappeared down the hallway.

The second the door closed behind you, the temperature in the staff room shifted like someone had cracked open a conspiracy theory.

Sirius slammed his hands on the table. “Alright. No more games. What the actual hell, Regulus! How long have you—”

“Sirius, no, we’ve talked about this.” Remus tries to reason but his pleas fall on deaf ears as he continues.

“How long have you and Y/N been dating?”

Ah. So that’s what it was about.

Regulus sighs and continues to chew on his salad. He unenthusiastically stares at his brother yelling at him, swallowing his meal before speaking, “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: we’re not.”

“Bullshit!” He yells. “You guys are a disgusting old married couple who have two adopted children—“

“Cats.” Regulus corrects boredly, but just like everyone else at the table, he’s ignored as Sirius continues his tirade.

“—have matching sweaters, do small bullshit for each other like paying for meals and lending your coats. And for god’s sake, she literally just kissed your cheek even though you hate human contact!”

He finishes his rant, waving his hands dramatically like a conductor mid-orchestra, but Regulus doesn’t even flinch. Sirius ground his teeth, wanting to punch that infuriatingly calm, perfectly composed face so badly he could feel it in his chest.

“Those are normal things normal friends do,” Regulus said smoothly, as if explaining the most obvious fact in the world. “I’m not surprised you wouldn’t know, Sirius.”

Sirius snorted. “Oh, I know what friends do, baby brother. I just don’t usually watch them brush each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings about shared utilities.”

Regulus continues. “We don’t do anything beyond what’s considered friendship.” Sirius squints his eyes in suspicion. 

“Didn’t Y/N move into your apartment?” 

“Yeah. her landlord was shit.” 

“What about when Peter caught you having sex in the biology lab?” 

“We’re fuck buddies. And Peter doesn’t know how to knock.” 

“But you introduced her to Mother as your fiancé?” 

“I lied so she would stop bugging me about getting married to produce an heir.” 

“You literally have a shared bank account and a shared retirement fund. That’s not normal friends stuff, Reg! That’s… that’s—”

“It’s easier to keep track,” Regulus interrupted, shrugging again. “Bills, groceries, subscriptions. Efficiency matters.”

“You file joint taxes, Reg!”

“So we could get the better deduction bracket.”

“You co-signed on a mortgage!”

“It was a good interest rate, Sirius!”

Sirius threw up his hands. “Damn it, Regulus! You two are either the world’s most tax-savvy roommates or together.”

***

The staff room had gone quiet after hours, the hum of vending machines and the distant chatter of students in the quad the only remaining signs of life. You sat cross-legged at the front lab table, a thick stack of annotated biology guides spread out around you like an academic shrine. 

Across from you sat Harry, Ron, and Hermione, all three looking varying shades of defeated.

Hermione glared at the mitochondria flow chart like it had committed a personal offense. Ron had his head buried in his arms, absently thwacking a pen against his temple, and Harry looked so genuinely confused you were almost certain he was reading it upside down.

You sighed softly, setting your red pen down.  “Alright. Be honest. How much of this actually made sense?”

Harry looked up sheepishly. “Bits of it? Maybe? I’m not sure if the ATP thing is real or a prank at this point.”

“I told you,” Hermione said, nudging him with her elbow. “You’re overcomplicating it. The mitochondria just—”

“I swear to God if I hear one more mitochondria metaphor I’m jumping out the window!” Ron groaned.

You rubbed your temples. “Okay, okay. Pause. Let's try a different approach—”

There was a knock at the staff room door, sharp and deliberate.

You turned your head. “It’s open!”

The door creaked open just enough for Regulus Black to slip through, dressed in his usual sleek all-black attire and somehow managing to look both exhausted and effortlessly put together. He held up a paper bag without saying a word.

“Let me guess. You brought me food because I forgot to eat again.”

“Obviously,” he said flatly, crossing the room with casual grace. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’ve only had coffee for six hours’ face.”

You took the bag gratefully. “Thank you, Reggie.”

Regulus leaned down beside you to glance at the study guide, his eyes scanning over the diagrams. “Bloody hell. No wonder Potter looks like he's spiraling. This layout’s criminal.”

“Hey!” Harry said.

“Sorry,” Regulus added, not sounding remotely sorry. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Hermione sat up straighter. “So, you teach bio now too?”

“I dabble,” he said, grabbing a pen from your pile and making a small correction on the diagram. “And I’m excellent at rescuing hopeless causes.”

“Again, rude,” Ron muttered.

You chuckled and opened the paper bag, inhaling gratefully. “What is this?”

“Pasta and a brownie.”

“Oh my God, I love you,” you said automatically, already digging in.

“I know.”

The students made a collective gagging noise.

“Seriously?” Ron complained. “Can we not get third-wheeled by our teachers?”

You covered your smile behind a forkful of pasta. “Okay, okay. I think that’s enough tutoring for today.”

The trio began packing up their things with varying levels of enthusiasm.

You leaned over to hand Regulus the keys to your car. “You go wait outside. I’ll just lock up when I’m done.”

“I’ll wait in the hall,” he said, brushing a hand lightly across your shoulder as he left.

You begin tidying up. “Alright, we’ll go over chapters—”

“Are you and Professor Black dating?” Ron blurts, earning an elbow from Hermione and a pointed look from Harry.

You laugh. “No, Ron. We’re not.”

He squints. “Are you sure?”

You arch a brow. “What’s with that look?”

Ron shrugs. “I dunno. You should date him—ow!” He winces as Harry smacks him and Hermione hisses his name like a warning.

You pause, amused. “Alright, why exactly should I?”

The trio exchange glances, clearly daring each other. You're halfway through stacking your notes when—

“He’s different around you,” Hermione says simply.

You blink, then nod, keeping your tone light. “Duly noted. Now off you go—don’t pretend you don’t have things to be at.”

They laugh, gathering their things. You see them out, switching off the lights as you leave.

Outside, a warm hand finds the small of your back. You don’t have to look to know it’s him. You just smile.

“Hey,” Regulus says, voice low and warm.

“Hey,” you echo. “You ready to go?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“Wanna share my dinner when we get back?”

“…yeah.”

Fingers interlace like it’s second nature. You walk down the corridor together, quiet but not silent—just comfortably still.

From a far corner behind the stairwell, three students linger just out of sight, watching with wide eyes.

Harry leaned toward the others and whispered, “They’re so dating.”

Hermione and Ron nodded in unison.

***

Something was definitely off.

Remus Lupin had known you and Regulus Black long enough to recognize the signs. A decade of friendship made certain things obvious—and today, everything about the two of you was a glowing red flag.

Regulus hadn’t opened your car door that morning, which he normally insisted on doing with that silently smug gentleman routine of his. He didn’t make you coffee or steal your thermos or even throw a snide comment your way before the first bell. 

Instead, he made a beeline for his classroom like he couldn’t get away from you fast enough. You, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as looked in his direction, much less made your usual sarcastic morning toast in the staff lounge.

And most telling of all?

Neither of you wore your little matching gold rings—the ones you’d been pretending for months were totally not couple rings, even though the whole school knew better.

Yeah. Something was definitely wrong.

The faculty lounge was unusually quiet. Most of the staff had gone home, save for James, Sirius, and Peter—and of course, the two of you—sitting at opposite ends of the lounge, visibly ignoring each other while packing your things.

"Pssst."

James leaned slightly as Sirius whispered from the couch, his voice lowered like a student caught gossiping during class. Peter leaned in too, already wide-eyed and chewing the corner of a biscuit like it was gossip fuel.

“What the hell happened to them?” Sirius muttered, nodding toward you and Regulus like you were two characters in a soap opera he couldn’t wait to narrate. “They haven’t said a word all day. Are they getting divorced?”

“They’re not married,” Peter reminded them, not looking up from his crossword.

“They basically are,” Sirius argued. “Have you seen the way they bicker? That’s married behavior.”

James gave a half-shrug. “No idea what happened, but it’s bad. Regulus skipped making her tea this morning.”

Peter gasps. “He never skips the tea.”

“I heard Pandora asked him out yesterday and now Y/N’s jealous,” Sirius said.

James scoffed. “She’s not the jealous type. Pandora’s in the betting pool anyway, she wants them together.”

“I’m in the pool and I don’t think they’ll ever admit it,” Peter chimed in, mouth full. “And Pandora looks at Regulus the way he looks at Y/N.”

“With a constant look of dread?” Sirius offered.

“With quiet, tortured longing,” Peter corrected.

A very pointed throat-clear cut through the room like a warning shot.

The three Marauders turned and froze.

Regulus stood at the end of the table, arms crossed, jaw clenched in that very specific “Regulus is seconds from homicide” kind of way. You were beside him, mirroring the same exact energy.

“If you’re going to dissect our private lives,” you said, voice dry, “at least wait until we’ve left the bloody room.”

“We weren’t—” Sirius started, but Regulus cut him off coldly.

“We heard everything. So? Out with it before I decide to file an official complaint just to ruin your day.”

James stood up with a sigh. “Look, we’re just worried. You two haven’t spoken all day. It’s unnatural. It’s giving end-of-the-world vibes.”

You exhaled hard. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate the concern—”

“—it’s just none of your goddamn business!” Regulus interrupted.

You immediately shot him a look. “Do not start with me right now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I wasn’t allowed to point out blatant dishonesty.”

“Oh, shove it, Regulus.”

Sirius, Peter, and James watched in near-awe as the argument snowballed—loud, fast, and deeply personal. Words like “betrayal,” “manipulative,” “petty,” and “pathological obsession” were flung back and forth like curses in a duel.

Remus finally snapped.

“Enough!”

Both of you turned toward him with matching expressions; wide-eyed and guilty.

“We are adults,” Remus said, firm but tired. “And I refuse to let you two scream at each other over what I hope is a misunderstanding and not, like, actual divorce activity.”

He crossed his arms. “So. What are you fighting about?”

“She started it!”

“He started it!”

The answer came in unison. Remus closed his eyes like he was preparing for death.

“Not what I asked.”

Regulus sighed through his teeth. “She wants emerald green curtains in the study.”

“I think they’d add warmth,” you said, crossing your arms. “It’s too cold in there.”

“The walls are blue. Blue, amour. It’ll look like a rainbow exploded.”

“You’re being dramatic!”

“And you’re trying to ruin the aesthetic of our entire house!” Regulus snapped.

“Well, maybe your taste is the problem,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

Regulus gave you a look, deadpan as ever. “How am I supposed to marry someone who thinks emerald green curtains actually go with blue walls?”

Peter’s biscuit hit the table.

James froze. “…Marry?”

Sirius straight-up choked on his coffee. “You’re getting married?!”  and the two of you look at him in confusion, fight suddenly forgotten.

“Yeah, next week.” You reply wearily. “We emailed you the invites.”

Peter was pale. “Was that not a prank email?”

If Remus thought your bickering was loud, then Sirius’s squeal was even louder as he suddenly lunged at you both, wrapping you in a tight hug and shouting, “I knew it! I bloody knew it! You’re definitely together!”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t be silly, Sirius, it’s just for tax reasons. The bank won’t approve our loan for the new house unless we’re married—something about avoiding tax fraud.”

“House?” James asked. “Don’t you already live together?”

You nodded. “Yeah, but we figured the kids—”

“Cats,” Regulus corrected.

“—need a yard to run around in. Our apartment’s getting way too small for the four of us.”

The Marauders were practically buzzing, faces lit up with excitement. Sirius threw his hands in the air and shouted, “My brother’s getting married! My brother, can you believe it?!”

James grinned, clapping Sirius on the back, and Remus laughed softly, eyes twinkling with amusement. Peter was just trying to keep up with their energy when suddenly, from across the hall, Barty overheard the commotion.

“Wait, really?!” Barty gasped, eyes wide and sparkling. “Regulus, you’re getting married? This is monumental! We must plan this properly! Where’s the champagne? The fireworks? The lab can be the reception hall! I’ll make a potion for the perfect celebration!”

Sirius grinned like a proud older brother. “I knew you’d come around, Barty! This is gonna be the wedding of the century.”

Regulus glanced at you, voice low and a bit reluctant. “Are we really sure we have to invite those two?”

You gave his hand a soft squeeze, a faint, amused smile playing at your lips. “Yes. We have to. Wouldn’t be a proper Black wedding without them stirring the pot.”

He sighed but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I suppose you’re right. The chaos is inevitable.”

You were still smiling when your fingers laced more tightly with his, a quiet comfort exchanged in the gesture.

That’s when Remus, who had been observing silently, raised a brow with a slow grin as he motioned to your joined hands. “Wait a bloody second—if you’re not breaking up anytime soon, where are your rings?”

Regulus shot Remus a pointed look as he reminded him. “We’re not together, Lupin.”

You jumped in, smiling, “The rings are still at the jeweler’s, we’re getting them engraved with our initials.”

The words had barely left your mouth when Sirius let out a loud gasp of delight.

“I’m claiming best man already! Barty, you’re on potion and fireworks duty. This wedding’s going to be legendary.”

Barty practically vibrated with excitement, already rambling about color palettes and pyrotechnic charms.

Remus, ever the voice of reason, held up his hands, trying to calm the storm of excitement brewing between Sirius and Barty. “Alright, alright, guys, maybe dial it down a notch?”

Sirius gave him a mock glare. “Don’t ruin this for me, Lupin. I’ve got a wedding to plan, and Barty’s already spread the word.”

Barty, buzzing with energy, was already on the move. “I told the arts department! Lily’s now officially responsible for painting a live portrait of you two at the ceremony. It’ll be a masterpiece, I promise!”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, voice cool but amused. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, junior. There isn’t going to be a ceremony. We’re just going to the courthouse to get our marriage license. That’s it.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the excitement dimming like someone flipped a switch. Then the group burst into knowing laughter, everyone shushing Regulus with playful grins.

Just as the crowd began to disperse, you called out softly, “Hey, Remus?”

He turned, attentive. “Yeah?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “We want you to be the witness. Also… one of the groomsmen.”

For a split second, Remus blinked. Then his features melted into something soft and warm, the kind of smile that made you wonder how anyone ever called him stern.

“Yeah, sure,” he said quietly. “You got it, Mr. and Mrs. Black.”

Regulus’s hand found yours almost instinctively. He didn’t say anything, he never did when it wasn’t needed, but the small smile he gave was one of quiet victory, something settled and certain.

Without waiting for a response, he tugged gently, and you followed. The chatter of your friends blurred into the background as the two of you slipped out of the faculty lounge and into the stillness of the hallway. 

Behind you, Sirius’s laughter rang out, and Barty was already talking about firework safety regulations like they were mere suggestions.

Remus watched the two of you go, still smiling.

Yeah, he loved being an English teacher here—he really did. But he loved this even more: being surrounded by chaotic friends, planning a wedding for two people who were totally not in love (and totally were).

His hands stayed in his pockets, fingers brushing a small velvet box he hadn’t quite found the courage to pull out yet. Across the room, Sirius was deep in debate with James and Barty over centerpiece colors, animated and shining with the kind of joy that made Remus want to marry him twice over.

With all this wedding talk, maybe it wouldn’t be long before another Black was getting married.

Out in the hallway, your fingers laced easily with Regulus’s, your steps falling in sync like muscle memory.

“So…” you begin, squeezing his hand with a warm smile. “Do you think they’re catching on?”

Regulus lets out a rare, soft smile, his eyes meeting yours with something gentle. “No. They’re too clueless to realize we’re actually together. They’ll believe whatever nonsense we tell them.”

“Alright, but remind me again—why are we still pretending we’re not together, especially when we’re actually getting married next week?”

He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly before resting his other hand on the small of your back.

“Does it bother you that they don’t know?” he asks.

You hum thoughtfully. “Not at all. It’s honestly pretty entertaining.” You laugh lightly. “But why do you want to keep it a secret?”

He shrugs, pulling you closer. “That’s what they get for placing stupid bets on us. Besides, I don’t want anyone winning that full-course meal at Maison de Beaouf.”

Shit, you thought. You hated it when people your age came into the venue, you got self-conscious at the thought of embarrassing yourself with the over-the-top persona and dancing.

It was easy to play the character with the kids, who didn’t know better, and the parents, who were just happy you were occupying their children. People your age had a way of seeing through it all to the insecure college student underneath. And when they were hot, too? You were done for.

About halfway through the line, a little girl with messy hair came and sat in front of you.

“Hi, princess! What would you like for your face paint today?” You asked, leaning in to hear her.

“Can I be a dolphin?” She asked, and you couldn’t contain your startled laugh.

“Of course! What about I do one up the side of your face?”

You got to work, bringing out the blues and silvers to make Estelle, as she introduced herself, her perfect dolphin face paint.

“Are dolphins your favourite animal?” You asked, biting your lip as you concentrated.

“Yep, ‘coz my brother talks to them and they’re so funny,” She babbled as you laughed, nodding along in the way you do with kids.

“How old is your brother, honey? He must be pretty special if he can talk to dolphins.”

“He’s twenty-one. And he’s got heaps of other powers! He’s basically a mermaid — merman.”

“Oh wow,” You said, unsure of what else to reply with. Little kids did this all the time, told you things that didn’t quite make sense. Usually, you could figure it out a little bit better if the kids were both young, but a twenty-one-year-old pretending to talk to dolphins for his little sister was rarer. You would have killed for a sibling like that when you were a child.

You were just finishing up Estelle’s face paint, adding glitter and tiny painted bubbles, when she started squirming, face breaking out in a grin.

“Percy!” She beamed, hand outstretched. Behind her, the dark storm cloud of a man approached. Up close, you could see his clothes, baggy jeans, beat-up vans, and an oversized shirt adorned with cyber sigilism. He looked drastically out of place in a kids' party venue, but you far from minded him being there.

“What’ve you got there?” He laughed as he saw the dolphin gracing her cheek and forehead.

“We heard that you can talk to dolphins,” You put in with a smile. You watched him startle for a moment, mouth moving with no sound emerging. Then he schooled his features and put on an amused grin.

“Estelle,” He scolded, “I told you not to tell people about my superpowers.” Estelle just giggled, using Percy as a stepping stool to get off the chair.

“Say thank you to Elsa.” He encouraged, and his little sister copied him, waving as she made room for the next kid to get their face painted.

Ten minutes later, and you were really starting the party, kneeling in front of a crowd of little four-year-olds.

“Hello everyone!” Your voice went up in pitch, waving to the excited children surrounding you. “I’m Elsa, and this is my sister Anna, and we are so excited to have you all here to celebrate a very important day today, does anyone know what we’re celebrating?”

The kids all shouted out the name of the birthday girl and you nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right!” You said, “And how old is Princess Isabel? Five million?” Raucous laughter ensued, “No, of course not. Five hundred.” You went down and down until you got to five, and the gaggle of kids finally agreed with you, already falling in love with your persona.

“Now, I heard that you guys are really good at magic. Do you wanna do a trick with me?” You asked like it was a secret, beaming when the kids all agreed with you.

“My brother can do magic tricks!” Estelle yelled, and all the parents milling around the room aww-ed. You looked up at where Percy was sitting, looking like he desperately wanted to sink into himself. You made eye contact with him for a single moment, containing your laughter at his panic.

“That’s awesome!” You tried to think of a way to go back to your original topic, but decided that they were five and wouldn’t be overly impressed with smooth segues. You picked up your magic colouring book.

Estelle proved to be a highlight of the party, a glowing beacon of light in the midst of uptight rich New York kids. She clearly took to you too, following your every instruction and hovering around you as close as possible. You obviously didn’t mind, but you couldn’t help the cursory glances over to Percy to check that he thought it was alright.

“Alright,” He heaved, forcibly lifting Estelle away from you as you danced through musical statues, “Remember it’s not actually your birthday, kay?”

You just laughed, continuing to dance your kid friendly moves.

“It’s really alright,” You said, voice smooth. “She’s darling.”

“Still, Estelle loves to be the centre of attention. Product of having my friends spoiling her all the time.”

“How could you not?” You found yourself blushing, though the conversation hardly warranted it. It was just something about Percy’s demeanour, the way he was clearly so smitten with his sister despite his intimidating exterior.

You vaguely clocked Anna leading the kids over for food and jumped, sending Percy an awkward smile as you hurried over. God, one hot boy shows up to work and you’re done for.

Estelle again showed her blatant superiority. She was the only child to say please and thank you as you served her party snacks and watered-down cordial.

Percy had backed off for the moment, making clearly painful small talk with one of the other mums and her teenage daughter. She was obviously mooning over him, and you hated that your chest twinged with jealousy. You’d only just met him — as Elsa, no less. He was in no way yours.

He politely removed himself, and you watched him duck outside. You wished he’d returned as soon as he left, the loss of an ally noticeable in a room of Upper East Side parents.

You continued anyway, serving out sausage rolls with shitty tongs to unappreciative children. In your prep room, surrounded by costumes and plates of food, you sighed. You loved your job, you truly did, but it was exhausting. Still, kids like Estelle made it all worth it. Even when you rushed back to your shitty little apartment and crammed your readings for the next day.

You left the kids to eat for a bit, hopping about the venue to complete some admin tasks and clean up a bit. You jumped when you saw Estelle out of the corner of your eye, hovering just next to your skirt.

“Hey, lovely! Are you finished eating?” You asked with a smile, tidying away some of the face paints sitting on the vanity table. Estelle nodded, examining the brushes in front of her.

“How do your ice powers work?” She asked, running her hands over the gems stuck onto your costume. “'Coz my brother moves the water, and he says he got his powers from his dad. I don’t know him, but I want powers too.”

“Oh wow,” You said, trying to figure out where Estelle got that fact from. You could usually figure out where kids got their far-fetched stories from, but superpowers weren’t too common to hear about.

“Estelle!” Percy came running, picking her up to hold her up at his waist, “I told you my superpowers were a big secret!” He whispered dramatically, covering her mouth with a huge hand. Then, to you, he said “I’m, uh, I’m a college swimmer. My family jokes that I can ‘move water’ and she takes it a bit literally.”

You nodded in understanding, amusement clear on your features.

You were running a terrible game of limbo a few minutes later. The kids were having fun, which was all that really mattered, but god were they bad at it. You couldn’t help giggling as they went forwards and backwards under the decorated limbo stick.

It happened without you noticing it. One kid tumbled in front of you, not hurt but cartoonishly clumsy in movement. And before you could control your own movements, you were looking up at Percy to share the moment, finding him already looking at you. You averted your eyes first, cheeks hot under his intense gaze.

“Alright, everyone, I think there’s one more thing we haven’t done at our party yet…” You beamed as the kids all yelled out the answer: cake, of course.

After every kid had been served their slice of cake, you served the remainder to the adults still waiting around. It was the venue’s policy, trying to reduce waste and all that. Usually, it was awkward, interrupting their small talk about whose child was more of a prodigy, but today, you really didn’t mind.

You suffered through being ignored, adults taking slices of cake off the platter you presented without giving you a second look. Then you got to Percy. Hidden away in a corner, absentmindedly spinning the wheels on his skateboard as he waited for the party to end.

“Cake?” You offered, holding the plate out towards him. Percy shook his head, smiling politely as he declined.

“You sure? Looks good. Personally, I’m hoping there’ll be a slice left for me after my shift.” You broke character, knowing it was just him around — Anna was dealing with the kids. It definitely wasn’t technically allowed for party hosts to be eating birthday cake, but what were you going to do? Give the family back a single slice of cake?

“Well,” Percy released a short laugh, “All the more reason for me to say no; we don’t want you missing out.” You shook your head, charmed by Percy.

“Alright, suit yourself, I’ll be enjoying this later, and you’ll be cake-less.” You really shouldn’t have been flirting on the clock, but it’s not like Percy wasn’t into it, looking down at you with green eyes gleaming.

“Elsa, you should marry my brother.” Estelle popped up behind your skirt, and both of you jumped, expecting her to still be eating cake with her friends.

“Honey, I don’t—”

“No, it makes sense! Percy has superpowers; you have superpowers. And you’re really pretty. My mommy would love you.”

You and Percy just looked at each other, panic evident between you.

“I live in Arendelle with my sister Anna." You saved the day, “I don’t think she’d be very happy if I got married and had to move to New York.”

“Oh,” Estelle said, looking at her shoes, “Okay.”

“But maybe Elsa could come visit sometime?” Percy suggested in a rush, and you were fairly certain it was because he couldn’t stand the sight of his little sister upset, but you weren’t at all disappointed by it.

“Yeah,” You smiled, “Yeah, I think that would be alright.”

Percy opened his mouth to say something, but you were called away by your coworker to end the party, helping kids find lost belongings and taking photos for parents.

You beamed when Estelle approached you, dragging Percy behind her with an embarrassed smile. You agreed easily when they asked for a photo, kneeling next to Estelle as Percy fished his cellphone out of his back jeans pocket.

“Bye! I love you, Elsa.” She waved happily as Percy led her away, clearly telling her off lightheartedly.

You watched them go before tending to the rest of your job, grabbing the broom to start picking up spilled pieces of popcorn and chips as the final few stragglers made their way out of the venue.

The second the venue was empty, you locked the door, pulling off your wig and massaging your temples. A few hours in it always gave you a headache, plus you knew your costume was starting to stink after sweating and dancing in it all day.

Half an hour later, you were finally clocking out. Back in street clothes with fresh deodorant, you felt much more like a real person again, excited to crash at home and have a fat nap.

Shaking out your hair so it wasn’t so flattened from the wig cap, you fished for your keys in your tote bag, ready to lock up behind you.

“Hey,” A voice from behind called out to you as you set off for the subway. Percy, pushing himself off the wall next to your shop, eyes widening slightly as he took you in without the costume and makeup. You hoped that was a good thing.

“Hi!” It came out a bit more enthusiastic than you would have liked, wishing you could be as cool as he appeared.

“Estelle really loved you today. I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for making her day.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. Honestly, she made my day. She’s such a good kid. Uh, where is she?”

“She’s drinking a milkshake inside, she’s all good.”

“Right…” You nodded slowly, fiddling with the keys still in your hands, “So you just came out here alone to thank me for being good at my job?”

“Uh, yeah. That and, um, I was wondering if I could maybe get your number?” Percy’s nervousness was contrary to his outward appearance, which almost made it sweeter, both of you awkward in the middle of the path.

“Yeah! Yeah, totally.” You fumbled around in your bag for a pen and paper, to no avail.

Percy patted his jeans, pulling out an unassuming blue ballpoint pen. You wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to carry around stationery. You took it from him, electricity jolting as your fingers brushed.

He eyed it skeptically as you uncapped it, almost disbelieving its utility. You made a note to ask about it later. On a date, perhaps. You scribbled down your number on his wrist, trying not to focus on the intimacy of you holding his arm.

“Thanks,” He finally said as you both pulled away, looking anywhere but at each other.

“You’re welcome,” You laughed, “Just for Estelle’s sake, though. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” He teased, crooked grin on full display, “I think she’d kill me if I didn’t at least try to shoot my shot with Elsa.”

“Consider me charmed.” You bit your lip to control your smile, looking up at Percy as he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back at where Estelle sat, drinking a strawberry milkshake with both hands.

He summoned her, smiling softly as she came waddling out of the cafe.

“I’ll let you go,” He said, picking up Estelle to sit her on his hip, kicking his skateboard out in front of him. “It was really nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too, Percy. Hope I see you soon.”

You watched him go, carrying Estelle as he skated off around a block. You couldn’t stop smiling as you walked to the subway station, Percy’s intense eyes burned into your brain.

Outside, the world went on with its hurried pace, but inside, a fragile stillness lingered — a sacred space cradled by music and the muted beat of two hearts learning to find their rhythm in tandem. 

The piano’s lilac glow seemed to linger in the air, a quiet witness to a night that would long be etched into memory.

Days passed, then weeks, and soon five months had woven themselves seamlessly into the fabric of your life. Five months since you had stepped into this world—this strange, shadowed sanctuary—and taken on a job that had promised little but slowly gave you everything.

In that time, your world had shifted with a subtle but unstoppable force, reshaped by quiet moments shared beneath whispered conversations and soft notes that floated from your fingers. The secret outings with Regulus became your cherished escape, stolen fragments of joy amidst the weight of everything else. And when he was not there beside you, you found him waiting silently outside your door, watching you play your songs, a shadow of quiet devotion that filled the empty corners of the room.

Everything had changed between you both — the balance of care shifting like the tide. Now you worried for him more than you did for yourself, your eyes scanning every crowded corner of your world to find him. 

He became the first thought that touched your mind when sleep came and the last one when you awoke. Regulus Black had slipped into every crevice of your days and nights, every breath you took, every beat of your heart.

The idea of a moment without him was impossible to fathom. You had grown to crave the small, tender fragments of time spent together—even those unbearable moments when his scars flared with cruel fury, when pain wracked his body and tears streamed down his cheeks in helpless agony. 

During those times, your soul ached fiercely, wishing to tear away your own flesh and offer it to him as a balm. You wished with desperate longing that you could control the world itself, bend it to your will, and give him everything he deserved — everything he had ever been denied.

Because Regulus Black was nothing like the cold, spoiled, or distant boy the world often painted him to be. 

He was brilliant—so achingly, maddeningly intelligent that it both frustrated and fascinated you. His grumpiness was a carefully crafted shield, a tempestuous fire he wielded when the world pressed too hard, yet beneath it all, he was endlessly charming in ways that caught you off guard, making your heart stutter with every rare, genuine smile.

He was a tapestry of colors, so rich and vibrant it astonished you how, when you first stepped into this house, you had seen only shades of grey. 

For all the hues you knew and stitched into your own world, Regulus was the most vivid one — the living, breathing masterpiece you never expected to find in such a shadowed place.

And in the quiet moments, when the world slowed and only the two of you remained, you understood that he was more than just a person in your life. 

He was the pulse beneath your skin, the melody that made your heart sing, the color that painted your once monochrome days into something breathtakingly alive.

The fragile rhythm you had come to know — the stolen laughter, the quiet tenderness, the secret smiles shared beneath the soft glow of lilac lamplight — began to fracture beneath the weight of a harsher truth. 

Because not everything lasts. Not every bond remains unbroken, not every secret is safe beneath the layers we carefully weave. The people we learn to love, the hearts we grow to trust, sometimes carry shadows we cannot see until they crash suddenly into the light.

It was in the sharp, shattering moment of a scream that everything changed.

You had been roused abruptly from a restless sleep by the sound — raw, furious, tearing through the stillness like a storm unleashed. 

Voices clashed violently, furious and unyielding. The voice of a man, deep and edged with rage, thundered through the house, shaking the walls and stirring something cold and dreadful in your chest.

The rage in the voice was unlike anything you’d ever heard — fierce, raw, full of betrayal and pain.

Then another voice, sharp and cutting, like ice breaking. “You think I’m wrong? You think my son is some hero? He is a disgrace! A shame to this family! I will not allow him to be seen as weak in the eyes of the Dark Lord! Weakness will be destroyed!”

Dark Lord? The words sent a shock through your veins. What war was she speaking of? What weakness? You swallowed hard.

A new voice erupted, louder, desperate, furious. “Disgrace? Disgrace? You call Regulus a disgrace after everything he’s done? After he tried to destroy the Horcruxes? You hid it from me! You kept me in the dark all this time! I came back — a year after everything — to find my brother paralyzed, confined to a wheelchair! And you never told me why? You never told me what he did, what he risked! How could you, mother?”

The man’s voice cracked with rage and heartbreak. “You let him suffer alone. You let him be silenced! You refused to let anyone know the truth because you cared more about appearances than your own son! How could you?”

Your breath caught. Regulus. The name echoed in your mind with heavy, urgent weight. You pressed your hands tighter against the doorframe. Confined? What had happened to him?

Walburga’s voice rose, venomous and cold. “Because he is a disgrace! The Dark Lord demands loyalty, absolute loyalty! He cannot be seen as a traitor! The war is coming, and I will not have my family’s name sullied by his failures and rebellion. If he wants to destroy Horcruxes, if he wants to die for his foolish cause, that is his choice. But he will not disgrace the Blacks any longer.”

“No!” Sirius’s voice broke through like a blade. 

“He is not a failure! He is not weak! Destroying those Horcruxes was the bravest thing any of us could have done. You are the one who has failed him! You are the one who turned your back! You hid his sacrifice, kept him a prisoner in this house, chained by your fear and hatred! Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

There was a long, venomous pause. Then Walburga hissed, “I did what was necessary to protect this family. You, Sirius, have always been the black sheep. You brought shame upon us all. And now you come back demanding answers about Regulus? You think your little brother would have survived your reckless choices? He paid the price for your mistakes! You left and disgraced us at sixteen, I will not have both of my sons be a shame!”

“I am no disgrace!” Sirius shouted. “Regulus is no disgrace! And I am here to tell you, you were the disgrace. You let your fear rule you instead of love. You let him suffer because you could not accept what he believed in! You tore this family apart with your silence and cruelty! And now you dare to call him weak?”

The furious exchange went on, words flying like daggers, each sentence heavier and sharper than the last. You could feel the pounding of their voices through the walls, like a brutal war inside the house itself.

The shouting only grew louder, more urgent, as Sirius’s fury boiled over like a storm unleashed. 

“He’s going to do it,” Sirius spat through clenched teeth, voice trembling with disbelief and rage. “In just a few weeks, he’s going to do it. Do you even understand what that means? Your son—your goddamn son—is planning to end his own life. You knew this. You’ve known for months and you’ve done nothing!”

The words hit you like a blow, a sudden sharp crack in the air. You blinked, heart pounding wildly. What was Sirius talking about? What did he mean? Your mind spun, struggling to grasp the meaning buried beneath the furious shouts.

Walburga’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper, barely audible but cutting deep like ice. “I cannot do anything, Sirius. He has been suffering for months, and this is his choice. I have arranged for countless caretakers. Only one lasted. But he will not change his mind.”

Sirius’s scream shattered the silence, raw and painful beyond anything you’d ever heard. “What do you mean he won’t change his mind? Your son is going to end his life! He’s been telling you this for months—telling you—and you just... you don’t give a damn! You stand there, cold and indifferent, while he falls apart!”

The fury echoed like thunder, words crashing into the walls and blurring around you. Your head swam. The anger and pain in Sirius’s voice drowned everything else out. You felt dizzy, breath caught somewhere between shock and disbelief.

Regulus? End his life? The thought was unthinkable, unbearable. How could this be true? Your heart thudded painfully, pounding so loud you thought it might break free.

Suddenly, you spun around, drawn by a silent, heavy presence. 

There he was. Regulus, sitting quietly in his wheelchair just inside the doorway, eyes wide, shocked to find you standing there, hearing everything.

For a long moment, no one spoke. You stared at him, searching his face for answers, for a sign of hope. For anything to deny the truth of what you heard.

“Regulus,” you whispered, voice barely trembling. “Is it true?”

He said nothing. His silence was a weight heavier than words. Tears welled up in his eyes, shimmering in the dim light like fragile droplets of sorrow.

You turned away, your legs numb, moving toward your room without another word. 

Your body burns with fury so fierce it feels like it might tear you apart from the inside out. Every word you heard—the screaming, the bitter accusations, the cold silence—twists like a jagged blade in your chest. 

How could he? How could he bury all this in shadows, drag you into his chaos without so much as a warning? You trusted him. You believed in something real, something honest. And this? This is a betrayal that cuts deeper than any wound.

Your tears don’t fall gently—they scorch your skin as they stream down, wild and unstoppable. You stumble toward your room, desperate to escape, but then his voice trails behind you, desperate, pleading, breaking through the storm inside your head.

“Y/n, wait—please. Don’t turn away from me. I’m begging you. You don’t understand, it’s not what you think. I never wanted you to see this side of me—”

But you’re done listening. Done pretending. 

You keep walking, each step heavy with betrayal, with rage. Then, as the voices fade into nothing, you stop, whip around, and your scream explodes, raw and vicious.

“I wish I never took this goddamn job! I wish I never set foot in this nightmare! You think you can carry all your pain alone and drag me down with you? You think it’s okay to keep me in the dark, to make me nothing but a secret? You’re the most selfish, cruel person I have ever known, Black!”

Your voice shakes with fury as tears pour from your eyes like a flood unleashed. “How could you do this to me? How could you let me believe I was something more when I was just a shadow in your broken world? I trusted you with everything and you—” your words crack and shatter, “You didn’t even give me the goddamn chance.”

Your heart pounds loud enough to drown out everything else, your breath ragged with pain and anger and disbelief. The betrayal cuts so deep it burns your very soul, and all you want is to scream until there’s nothing left.

You slam the bedroom door shut behind you, the sharp echo resonating through the cold, empty hall. The heavy wood presses against your back as you collapse to the floor, sliding down slowly until you are crumpled in a heap, your breath trembling with sobs that wrack your body mercilessly. 

Your hands clutch at your knees, as if holding yourself together will keep you from shattering completely. But the pieces of your world are already splintered and scattered beyond repair.

How could this be? The man you thought you knew—the one whose scars you traced with trembling fingers, whose pain you promised to carry with him—had hidden everything. Every secret, every darkness. 

Regulus Black, brilliant and broken, tangled in shadows you never dreamed existed. You remember the way his eyes flickered with something far too deep to be understood, the quiet moments when his smile didn’t quite reach him. 

Now it all makes horrifying sense. He was once involved with something sinister, something you had no clue about until the scream of reality shattered your fragile peace.

The weight of betrayal crushes your chest, suffocating and cold. How could he keep this from you? How could he let you live in ignorance while the man you cared for was planning to end his own life? A few weeks. 

That’s what his brother said. A timeline, a cruel countdown you had no part in.

And you—naive, trusting—you thought you were helping him heal, that you were his refuge, his light. But all the while, the darkness was closing in, swallowing him whole, dragging you down with it.

Your mind spins, a whirlwind of questions and pain, twisting and tearing at your sanity. The dreams you had built together—the quiet mornings, the music filling the rooms, the laughter that once made this cold house feel warm—all of it feels like a cruel illusion now. 

Was any of it real? Or was it just another mask he wore to keep you close while he fought a war you never knew existed?

You press your hands against your face, trying to block out the crashing storm inside you, but the tears keep coming—hot, unrelenting, endless. 

From the other side of the door, desperate pounding pounds like thunder. Regulus’s voice breaks through the barrier, thick with anguish and pleading. “Y/n, please. Open the door. I’m begging you. Don’t shut me out. I can’t—please.”

His desperation only tears at you more. 

You curl up tighter against the door, the cold seeping into your bones. In this silence between the sobs and the screams, you realize nothing will ever be the same. The walls of your heart have cracked, the foundation of trust crumbled into dust.

And outside, Regulus keeps calling your name, his voice fraying with every passing second, but you cannot answer—not yet.

“Y/n,” comes his voice from behind the door again.

Your name on his tongue, hoarse, breaking. “Please. Please, open the door. Please, mon amour.”

You hear the frantic rustle of him shifting in his chair, wheels squealing faintly against the floorboards. Another scrape. A heavy thud.

Then—

A sickening, muffled sound, the crack of bone and flesh meeting wood, a sharp grunt of pain.

Your heart lurches.

Without thought, without breath, you are up in an instant. Grief and fury and betrayal vanish beneath the weight of something more urgent, more primal. You tear at the lock with trembling fingers, the door flying open—

And there he is.

Collapsed on the floor, body half-curled in a sprawl, one leg twisted beneath him, chair tipped helplessly to the side. His head bowed, hair veiling his face. Shoulders trembling, breath uneven, sharp with pain.

He will not look at you.

You drop to your knees beside him. “Regulus,” you gasp, voice cracking. “Why would you do this? Why would you—”

Your hands hover above him, shaking. You cannot even bring yourself to touch him.

“Please,” your voice shatters, breaking on the words. “Just don’t… don’t do this. Don’t give up. We can leave, we can run from this house, from this cursed name, from this war. I’ll take you anywhere, anywhere you want. You can be Ben, and I’ll be May, or anyone else you want me to be.”

The words tumbled out of you, frantic, broken. You could barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart. 

“You can be Ben, if you want. And I’ll be May. Or— or anything. I’ll be anyone you want. We’ll disappear somewhere no one knows. Somewhere where there is no war. I’ll make you happy, Regulus. Please. Please.”For a long moment, there is only the sound of your broken breaths between you.

[play sign of the times by harry styles here]

Slowly, his head lifts.

His eyes meet yours at last, glassy and hollow, filled with such ancient sorrow it cleaves through you like a knife.

“I can’t,” he whispers, voice wrecked, barely audible.

“Why?” you choke. “Why can’t you? Why, Regulus?”

He closes his eyes, a tear slipping free. “Because nothing was ever going to change my mind, amour.”

You shake your head, gripping his shirt now in trembling fists. “Not even me?” Your voice barely holds. “Not even me, regulus?”

A strangled breath leaves him, and his shoulders tremble harder beneath your touch.

“Not even you.”

The floor beneath you seems to crack, to fall away.

A sob bursts from your throat. The confession rips from you before you can stop it

“But I love you,” you sob, the words clawing out of your throat, ragged and desperate. “I love you, Regulus. I love you so much I can hardly breathe for it, so much it feels as though my heart will tear itself apart inside my chest. I love you so much I wake in the night gasping for air because the thought of losing you chokes me. I love you so much the very idea of a world without you in it is unbearable. It is unthinkable. It is impossible.”

Your voice breaks, tears streaming down your cheeks in torrents now, shoulders shaking. You clutch at him like a drowning thing reaching for shore. 

“I cannot bear this. I cannot bear the thought of you gone. Of these rooms empty of you. Of mornings without your voice. Of nights without knowing you are here, breathing beside me. You are everything to me now. You are every moment of my day, every breath, every beat of my heart. You have become the sun that wakes me and the moon that lets me sleep. You are the colour in my life, the sound in every song. You are everything!”

You press your trembling hands to his face, your voice spiraling into something wild and aching. 

“Please, please, do not do this. Do not leave me. Do not choose this. Not when I—” you choke on the words, chest heaving, “not when I cannot live without you anymore. Not when the thought of you gone tears through me like fire. Not when I love you, not when I love you so much it is killing me even now, right here in front of you.”

You lean your forehead to his, voice cracking on every breath. “You cannot ask me to stay behind in this world without you. You cannot ask me to go on breathing when you do not. Please, Regulus. You are the only thing I have ever truly wanted. You are the only thing I have ever truly needed. Stay. Stay with me. Let me save you. Let me love you.”

Your words are breaking apart between sobs, the force of them trembling through your entire body. You cling to him as though the very grip of your hands might tether him here.

And for a moment, you feel him shatter beneath you.

His breath comes ragged, sharp. His hands clutch weakly at your arms, at your sleeves.

“Don’t you see?” he chokes. “I was always meant to die. I have been dying for years.”

You shake your head desperately. “No. No, you are here. You are here with me. You could live. You could have something more.”

He shakes against you, voice breaking: “I can’t. I can’t untangle myself from this. There is no end to it. There is no place in this world for me that is not steeped in this misery.”

You press your forehead to his chest, sobbing harder now. “There could be,” you whisper. “There could be if you let me love you. If you let yourself be loved. If you would only let me—”

But his hands loosen, trembling. His voice drops to a wrecked whisper. “You could love me until the stars burned out and it would not save me. It would not change what I am.”

You pull back, tears streaking your face, your gaze locking with his, pleading.

“You are not what they made you!” you cry. “You are so much more than this. You are more than this cursed house. More than that war. You—”

But the sorrow in his eyes is endless.

“I am tired, amour,” he whispers. “So tired. You were… you were the only thing that made the dark bearable. The only light. But even that— even you— cannot undo what has already been written for me.”

Another broken sob tears through you.

“I love you,” you repeat. “I love you. Isn’t that enough? Iwill give you everything. Just don’t do this.”

He leans forward then, resting his brow against yours, his whole frame trembling with the force of it.

“I love you too,” he breathes. “I love you more than I have loved anything in this life.”

“But even love cannot save me.”

And in that moment, you feel your heart shatter. The pieces of it falling between you, lost to the dark.

You are sobbing so hard it feels like your body might tear itself apart. The breath will not come, the world tilts and spins and there is no ground beneath you anymore. Only him— only Regulus —and the unbearable weight of what you have just heard.

He is still on the floor before you, arms wrapped around you as you cry against him, trembling, unable to speak through the flood of grief crashing through you.

“Shh, mon amour… breathe… just breathe for me…” his voice is low and shaking, close to your ear. You can feel his own tears wetting your hair now.

You pull back suddenly, eyes wild, throat raw from sobbing. “You c-cannot— you cannot do this, Regulus— I won’t let you— I c-can’t—”

Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white. You are gasping through tears, and still he holds you, eyes shimmering with pain and something else— something deeper, something devastating.

He whispers. “Listen to me. Please, ma belle.”

You can only shake your head, more tears slipping free. You do not want to hear it— you cannot. But he cups your face so gently, so reverently, and presses a trembling kiss to your brow.

And then, slowly, brokenly, he begins to speak.

“You… you have so much to live for,” he whispers, voice cracking with the weight of the truth. “So much beauty still waiting for you. So many colors you have yet to paint upon this world.”

You sob harder, unable to stop yourself. Your heart feels like it is being ripped from your chest.

“I have never met anyone like you,” he breathes, and now his voice is trembling, breaking apart as if the words are shattering in his mouth, fragile as glass. “No one who breathes life into every corner they touch, no one who carries so much color in their heart it spills into the air itself, into every breath they take. No one who— who burns so bright that even the darkest places cannot hold.” His voice falters, eyes glassy, tears trembling on his lashes.

You shake your head frantically, gasping through sobs. “I—I won’t— I can’t live in a world without you, Regulus— I can’t—”

But he leans in, forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow and shaking as if even speaking is a battle. His tears fall freely now, warm and aching against your skin.

“The world is vast, mon cœur. Vaster than this house, vaster than this cursed war, vaster than all of it. And you— you will fill it, I know you will, with your light, your voice, your colors. You will turn empty rooms into something alive. You will make the coldest places warm. You will… you will live in a way I never could.” His voice splinters on the words, as though they wound him more deeply than the worst curse.

“No— no—” your breath is a broken thing, body shaking, heart tearing apart at the seams.

“I want you to live,” he whispers, voice raw, trembling with too much feeling. “To live boldly. To wear the wildest, most ridiculous dresses you can find—yes, the ones I used to mock because I was too afraid to love them. To fill every room with music and color and life, to sing so sweetly even the walls will remember. To speak your heart, as you always have— because I have never known anyone who feels so openly, so deeply. You are love itself, mon amour, and the world needs you still.”

Another sob catches in his throat. His hands find your face again, trembling fingers brushing your tears away only for more to fall. His chest is rising too fast now, like he can barely hold the pain in.

“You are—” he breaks, voice cracking, “you are light, you are spring, you are the first breath of morning, you are stars shimmering on black water. You are the warmth in winter, the laughter that fills lonely halls. You are more alive than anything I have ever known. And I—”

But the words stumble and he gasps, tears spilling freely now. “These six months,” he whispers, barely a sound, “these months with you… you made me feel again. You— you have undone me. You gave me back the heart I thought I had long buried. You gave me joy, and hope, and things I never thought were mine to have. You made me dream again, even knowing dreams fade.”

You are clinging to him now, so tightly, so desperately it hurts. “Then stay— please— please stay— we’ll leave— we’ll go anywhere— we’ll be anyone— Ben and May, or anything you want— I will give you every piece of me— just don’t go— don’t leave me— I love you, Regulus, I love you more than I can bear— I cannot breathe for it— I cannot— I cannot—”

He draws in a wrecked breath, voice nearly gone, but filled with a love so endless it aches. His lips tremble, his gaze drinks you in as though trying to carve you into memory.

“I will die happy,” he says, voice heavy with love and agony, “because of you. Because you loved me. Because you made me feel alive again.”

“No— no— no—” your sobs shake through you, fierce and wild, but his hands remain so gentle, reverent on your skin.

“You are scored on my heart, Madame Lavender,” he breathes, tears sliding down his cheeks unchecked. “You are written upon my soul, carved into my very bones. You are in every breath I take, every thought, every memory. No spell, no time, no death could ever erase you from me.”

His voice drops to a whisper, so soft it could shatter you. “You are my miracle, my greatest joy, my greatest sorrow. And even now, even as I go, I am… selfish enough to have loved you so desperately, so entirely… that I will carry that love beyond this life.”

Your sobs grow harsher, desperate. You are trembling in his arms, breaking apart beneath the weight of those words.

“And when I go,” he whispers, voice barely more than a breath, “it will never be because I stopped loving you. Never because you failed me. You must never carry that lie, ma belle. You must carry this instead: that you were—are—the love of my life. Always.”

You shake your head violently, pain shattering every part of you. “Then—then stay—stay for me—don’t leave—”

But he presses his forehead to yours, voice breaking like a fragile glass slipping through desperate fingers. “I cannot. This war, this darkness—it’s already claimed me. There is nothing left but this choice. You… you must live for both of us now.”

Your body crumples against his chest, your sobs ragged and raw, a storm breaking loose inside you. Your breath comes in shattered pieces, your heart breaking in tandem with his.

Still, his arms hold you—trembling, trembling—but unyielding. His hands trace patterns through your hair like a last prayer, memorizing every strand, every curve of you.

He whispers into the hollow ache of your ear, voice thick with all the love and sorrow he cannot keep inside:

“You will be magnificent. Fierce and wild. You will laugh and dance beneath skies I will never see. You will live a thousand lives for the one I lose. You will fill every empty place with your light—the light I never deserved to see.”

His tears fall freely now, mingling with yours, a quiet symphony of grief and love.

“And I…” His voice falters, breaking with every word, “I will love you from a distance too great to cross, beyond this life, beyond the cruel edges of this pain.”

A long, aching silence settles, punctuated only by the ragged rise and fall of your chests.

Then, in the faintest whisper, he breathes, “Live well, mon amour. Live as though I never left. Just… live.”

You stay there on the floor with him for what feels like a lifetime. The minutes slip and warp into something shapeless. Your tears come in waves so fierce they leave you gasping. Your limbs shake with the ache of it, your heart too swollen, too raw, too broken to keep its rhythm steady.

You do not know how long you have been there, crumpled beside him, your hands tangled in the folds of his shirt, your body trembling with grief so violent it feels like it will tear you apart from the inside.

At some point — after what could have been an hour or a century — you hear the faint sound of footsteps. The creak of wood beneath heavy boots. 

Then Sirius’s voice, low but hoarse, more tired than anything.

“Y/n,” he says. “You need to let go.”

But you cannot. You shake your head against Regulus’s chest, sobs still racking through you, lips forming silent pleas over and over. Please don’t. Please stay. Please don’t go.

Sirius kneels slowly, his movements heavy, worn, like the weight of the whole world is pressing on his shoulders. You barely notice the red rims of his eyes, or the tight line of his mouth.

With hands far gentler than you expect, Sirius eases your trembling fingers from where they clutch at Regulus’s shirt. You are too weak to fight. Too shattered to resist. The sobs keep coming, tearing from your throat like they will never stop.

“Come on,” Sirius murmurs softly, “let me help him.”

You only watch as Sirius slides an arm beneath his brother’s back, the other beneath his knees, lifting him with a care that speaks of long familiarity, of grief buried beneath old wounds. Regulus barely stirs, his eyes closed, his body limp in his brother’s arms, looking so small, so breakable.

Sirius carries him wordlessly to the bedroom. You hear the soft creak of the bed as he lowers him down, the shuffle of blankets being drawn up. You sit there, collapsed on the floor in the hallway, your back against the wall, too hollow to move, tears still sliding soundlessly down your face.

And time passed.

Days folded into one another, blurred at the edges like a water-stained painting. Weeks slipped by on a current you could no longer control.

Some mornings you would find yourself by his side again, your head pressed to his chest as though by instinct. Other nights, you would sit at the piano until your fingers ached, playing for him because it was the only thing you knew how to do anymore.

One day you would sob until your body could bear no more. The next you would smile for him, soft and trembling, pretending your heart wasn’t still bleeding in your chest.

It was as though life itself had fractured.

One part of you stood forever frozen on that floor, the echo of those words still ringing in your ears. The rest of you moved through the world in a haze, going through the motions because what else could you do?

And Regulus was quieter now.

There was a softness in his gaze when he looked at you, a sorrow that cut deeper than any blade. And though he would speak to you, though he would let you rest your head against his shoulder and hold his hand in your lap, there was something unreachable behind his eyes now. A distance. A promise already made, that even your love could not undo.

Still you played for him.

Still you sang, weaving melodies into the silence, trying to fill the room with something brighter than grief.

Still you came to him every morning, because you could not bear the thought of not seeing him, not touching him, not hearing his voice.

Because for all that had changed, for all the truth that had shattered your world, one thing remained.

You loved him.

You loved him so much you thought it might unmake you.

And the weeks drifted past, each one a fragile, aching thing. You clung to the days you had left, to the moments when he would still smile for you, when he would rest his head against yours and whisper in that soft voice you adored.

But in the depths of your heart you knew—knew with a certainty that stole your breath—that time was running out.

And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Regulus had made up his mind from the moment he clawed his way out of that cave. From the moment his trembling hand scraped against slick stone, the taste of that cursed potion still burning his throat, each breath agony in his lungs. From the moment he emerged from the water, drenched and broken, dragged back to life by Kreacher’s desperate magic.

He had made up his mind the second those inferi had caught at his legs, their rotted hands sinking into his flesh and bone until the nerves of his spine had been torn to ruin.

From the moment Kreacher Apparated him to this hollow house, trembling, weeping, unable to save him from what had already been done.

Regulus Black had always known that he was destined to drown.

It had been written in his bones long before the lake. He had carried it all his life — the certainty of ruin, of sinking beneath the weight of things too vast to fight.

What he had not known, what no god nor prophecy had whispered, was that in the end, he would also drown beneath the weight of your love.

He had not known that you would walk into this house in that wretched bright-colored dress, one that had made him wince at first because it did not belong in a place like this. Because you, with your shimmering laugh and your colors and your life, did not belong in a house of ghosts.

And yet somehow, without meaning to, you had undone him.

You had unstitched the cold seams of his heart. You had pulled the darkness from beneath his ribs and forced it to breathe. You had made a man who had already chosen to die remember what it meant to feel.

Regulus Black, who hated being taken care of, who despised his own weakness more than anything, found himself helpless beneath your hands. Helpless beneath the sound of your voice as you sang, beneath the light of your smile. He had come to crave it. To crave you.

And oh, how he wished he was not so selfish.

There was so much he wanted to tell you. So much he wanted to show you. You did not know half the things that lived in his heart.

You did not know that he had never had a favorite color. That when you asked him, eyes wide and eager, trying to guess, he had wanted to laugh. But he could not bear to tell you that he did not care for such things. Not when you looked so proud of yourself for choosing dark green.

And so, from that moment on, dark green became his favorite color. Because it was your voice, your joy, your light that made it so.

You did not know that after the night you played the piano for him on your birthday, after your song had left the air trembling, he had taken to his brushes. That with unsteady hands he had painted you. Because he had been terrified of forgetting that moment. Because he had needed some way to keep it, some way to remember the color of your laughter, the softness of your gaze.

[painting reference <3]

You did not know that he had hoarded each second with you like a dying man hoards breath.

And perhaps that was his deepest selfishness.

That even now, lying in the bed he had chosen for his own death, he was thinking not of the war, not of the world, but of you. Of your voice. Of the life you had poured into this house. Of the way you had made him feel something other than sorrow for the first time in years.

Because deep down, Regulus knew.

If he had been whole, if he had been untouched by this fate, he would never have crossed paths with you. If he had been a man who could still stand, who could still run from his ghosts, he would never have needed you.

And yet now, in this broken body, in this wreck of a life, he could not imagine a world without you. 

If the Fates had placed the choice in his hands, he would have chosen this again. The cold depths of the lake, the agony that laced every breath, the iron weight of the chair beneath him, the house steeped in shadows and sorrow—he would have chosen all of it. Again and again. A hundred times, a thousand times, without hesitation.

If it meant you. If it meant the brief and precious moments of knowing you, of hearing your voice cut through the quiet of his days, of feeling your hands on him—soft, certain, alive. If it meant that for even a flicker of time, he could have belonged to you.

And that was the most agonizing truth of all.

That for all the bitterness that once filled him, for all the years spent hollow and closed, he had never truly been prepared for you. 

For the way you lit the dimmest corners of this crumbling place. For the way you touched not only his skin but the shattered edges of his soul. 

That now, even as the hourglass emptied, even as the war pressed closer, even as death itself reached for him—still, he could not let go. Not of you. Not of this fragile, devastating thing that had bloomed between you.

He was selfish. He knew it. To have ever let himself want. To have let you into his heart when he had so little left to give. But oh—he did. He wanted. 

He wanted so much it split him open. He wanted mornings beside you, a life unlived. He wanted the sound of your laughter in rooms yet unseen. He wanted your arms around him, your lips on his temple, your voice in the dark. He wanted more time. Just time. Time to love you properly. To give you every word he had never dared to speak.

And yet this—this was the truth. His body was failing. The war was rising. The ghosts would not be kept at bay. 

And so he would go—not because he wished it, not because he loved you any less, but because there was no path left for him now that did not end in darkness.

And through it all, one truth burned brighter than the rest—there was no spell in this world that could rival the magic you held. No color on any palette that could match the depth of his love for you. No flower, not even the purest white chrysanthemum, that could speak its name. No song that could ever hope to contain it. No life. No death. No time. No silence that could erase it.

Regulus Black, ruined body, faltering breath, a soul worn thin, loved you with every fractured piece of himself. Every shard. Every scar. Every hope he had long thought lost.

And that was his greatest agony.

That after everything, it had always been before you. A life of shadows and silence. A heart that had never learned how to beat until it beat for you. And now, when at last he knew what it meant to love, to live, to hope—he must leave you.

That was the unbearable grief. That was the wound no magic could mend.

That he was choosing himself before you. That he was too weak to stay, too broken to offer you more. That the only thing he could give you was the certainty of his love, even as he left you behind.

-

-

-

It had been two years since Regulus Black had left this world, two long years of learning how to live again when half of your soul had been carved away, when the color had drained from the days and left you to wander through a life that no longer fit. 

You had spent those years trying, if not to heal, then to move forward, though at times it felt as though the world itself had frozen around you, the air turned to glass, fragile beneath your trembling steps. 

For even as you breathed, as you woke and dressed and spoke and played your music, he was still there, in the marrow of your bones, in the beat of your heart, in the weight of your every breath.

You saw him in the corners of rooms where no light touched, in the curve of a smile that wasn’t his, in the familiar shadow cast by a stranger on the street. He lingered in every flower that bloomed along the garden paths, in the scent of rain on old stone, in the worn leather of books he would have loved. 

You heard him in the hush of a quiet dawn, in the rustle of a turning page, in the softest chords of the piano when your hands could no longer resist the call of music, even when your heart felt too full to bear it. 

In those two years, you wore color as though the fabric itself might mend the fractures within you. You draped yourself in crimson, in gold, in emerald, in the deepest shades of cerulean. 

You wrapped your body in soft plums, in rose pinks, in hues so brilliant they turned the heads of strangers on the street, as if by cloaking yourself in brightness you might somehow shield your heart from the cold that had made a home inside it.

You painted the walls of your rooms in wild, clashing tones. You covered canvas after canvas in bold strokes and sharp light. You sang beneath unfamiliar stars, your voice soft and trembling in the night air. 

You laughed when you could, when your body remembered how, though each laugh trembled with a hollowness you could never quite erase, a sound that rang through your chest like the echo of a cracked bell.

And on the days when grief rose up so vast and sharp that it swallowed you whole, when no color could save you, when you could do nothing but let the ache overtake you, you gathered white chrysanthemums in trembling hands. 

You scattered them across the floor, across the windowsills and tabletops and sheets. You surrounded yourself with them, the blooms of sorrow and remembrance, their pale petals falling soft and silent as snow. They were an offering to memory. A prayer for all that had been lost. A fragile testament to the love that had once filled your life.

Yet for all the color you surrounded yourself with, for all the fierce, bright shades you wore and wove into your world, one truth remained unchanged, carved into the deepest part of you. Through every season that passed, through each month and year that bled away, there remained a single certainty: you never again found your favorite color.

Because your favorite color was not one that this world could offer.

It was not lilac, though you had once thought so, long ago. It was not the soft gold of the morning light through the windowpanes, nor the rich blues that gathered at the edges of twilight. It was not the brilliant green of new leaves in spring, nor the rich garnet glow of autumn’s last embers.

Your favorite color was a shade of grey that no artist could ever hope to capture. No painter’s brush could reach it, no thread could be dyed to match it, no spell could ever summon it into being.

Because that grey had lived only in the eyes of the man you had loved beyond all reason, beyond all logic, beyond life itself.

And how could you ever explain that to another soul? When the well-meaning voices returned, when they asked gently, carefully, trying to draw you back from the still edges of your grief. When they asked what your favorite color was now, after all this time.

How could you answer? The words would rise up, raw and aching, and then catch behind your ribs, caught on the sharp edges of memory.

Because no one could understand. No one could possibly know that your favorite color was a shade of grey that had once filled your breath, your blood, your every heartbeat.

A grey that had wrapped itself around your heart, marking you forever in ways no one could see. A grey that had warmed your skin beneath gentle touches, that had lingered in the space between two shared breaths, that had sung in the silences between words spoken in the dark.

A grey that no flower could rival, no song could contain, no light could ever mirror.

A grey that had belonged to Regulus Black.

And though the world spun on, though you filled your days with color and light, though you walked through streets and sang beneath the stars and let the seasons turn again and again, that truth remained, fixed and bright and unyielding within you — that no matter how far you traveled, no matter how many years slipped by, no matter what new love or joy or sorrow the world might offer, your favorite color would always be that grey.

And you knew, as surely as you knew your own name, that it would be so for the rest of your days.

Because it had always been him. Before everything. Before the pain, before the loss, before the war and the grief. Before the breaking of your heart. Before the long and aching years that followed.

It had always been him.

It had always been before him.

Fate, it seemed, was never kind enough to let ghosts rest. Threads spun from longing and unspoken words wound through the fabric of the universe, binding souls to unfinished stories, stitching heartbreak into the seams of time. Love that powerful does not die; it is reborn, again and again, clawing its way back to the surface.

This time, it was the city lights that burned like stars, neon signs flickering against rain-slicked streets. The music was loud, thunderous, shaking the walls with each beat of the drum. Electric. Raw. Unyielding.

Backstage, the air buzzed with electricity, amps humming, cords tangled like veins pumping life into the stage. A voice crackled over the speaker, drowning out the chaos: "London! Are you ready to welcome on stage... the world-famous band... SLYTHERIN!"

The crowd roared like thunder, a tidal wave of noise and light, and then they were there—stepping into the blaze of flashing neon. Regulus, sharp jaw and haunted eyes, guitar slung low across his hips. Evan beside him, fingers drumming along his own bass. Barty with that wild grin, hands raised to the crowd. 

Regulus moved to the mic, gaze cutting through the chaos, voice low and electric. He looked out into the sea of faces, lips brushing the microphone as if it held a thousand secrets. His fingers hovered over the strings, the anticipation hanging like static in the air.

And then he played the first note, raw and thunderous, and the world came alive with sound.

-

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

Mary just grins, unbothered by your glare as she tugs you through the swarming crowd. Neon lights flicker above, casting fractured light across her smile. You dig your heels in—not that it makes a difference. She’s stronger than she looks, and Dorcas and Lily flank you like guards, their linked arms a promise that you’re not slipping away tonight.

"Come on," Mary laughs, her grip ironclad around your wrist. "You’ve been moping for days. Consider this your intervention."

"I’m perfectly fine with my emotional deterioration," you reply dryly, but your words are drowned out by the low thrum of bass leaking through the concrete walls of The Wyrmwood. It stands tall and jagged against the London skyline, neon-green lights buzzing like trapped insects. The name flickers above the door, half-spelled in jagged letters:

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

It pulses like a heartbeat, too bright, too sharp. You try to shake her off. "I’m not going in there."

Lily just laughs, looping her arm through yours like it’s a binding contract. "We didn’t drag you out of your flat just for you to sulk outside."

"This place looks like a health hazard," you grumble, eyeing the graffiti-splattered bricks and the broken glass glittering beneath your shoes.

"That’s the charm of it," Dorcas winks, already slipping past the bouncer with a flash of her ID and a smile that could cut glass. You want to ask how often she’s done this, but you already know the answer.

"I’m not exactly dressed for... whatever this is," you say, gesturing at the crowd. Fishnets, leather, glitter smeared across collarbones like war paint. It smells like cigarette smoke and rebellion, like something is about to catch fire.

"You look fine," Mary says, shoving you forward before you can protest. "Besides, you won’t be looking at yourself."

The Wyrmwood swallows you whole. It’s dark inside, impossibly so, lit only by strobes of crimson and green that flash like danger signs. The air is thick with something electric—anticipation, desperation, the kind of longing that makes you feel like you’re standing at the edge of something sharp. Posters are plastered along the walls, black and white and cracked with age, names of bands you half recognize scrawled in jagged font. You pass under the flickering lights, and you can feel the bass thrumming beneath your feet, steady as a heartbeat.

Your friends are already weaving through the crowd, their laughter trailing behind them like silver smoke. You try to follow, but it’s packed—bodies pressed together, strangers breathing the same stale air. You lose sight of them near the bar, nearly tripping over someone’s discarded leather jacket, when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here," a lazy drawl spills out of the shadows, and you turn, half-expecting it to be a mistake. But there he is, Sirius Black, leaning against the bar like he owns it, leather jacket thrown over one shoulder, grinning like he’s the devil’s favorite son.

"You don’t strike me as the concert type," he says, tipping his drink toward you, amber liquid sloshing against the glass.

"I’m not," you reply, glancing around. "I was ambushed."

He chuckles, low and unbothered. "Consider it a rescue mission. You’ve been cooped up for too long."

You take a sip of your drink, leaning against the bar beside him. "Don’t get too used to rescuing me," you say lightly. "I’m only here for two months. Then it’s back to Brooklyn."

Sirius raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "Two months, huh? Better make it count."

You shrug, the ice clinking in your glass. "That’s the plan."

Before you can protest, he signals the bartender, sliding a glass toward you. "It’s on me," he says, tipping his own in your direction. "To bad decisions."

You raise your glass, smirking despite yourself. "To worse company."

He laughs, full-bodied and reckless. "That’s the spirit."

The lights flicker once—twice. Sirius straightens, setting his glass down. The crowd shifts, a ripple of movement, and you feel it then. That quiet hush that isn’t really quiet. It’s the kind of silence that creeps in before impact, heavy and electric.

"Showtime," Sirius murmurs, eyes fixed on the stage. There’s something softer there, pride tangled with something you can’t place. 

The lights drop green, flooding the room with venom and envy. The curtain rises, slow and deliberate, and the room swells forward like it’s being pulled by invisible strings.

The curtain rises slowly, teasing, like a lover pulling away just enough to keep you wanting more. The first beat of the drums sounds—slow, deliberate. The air shifts again, a storm that doesn’t quite break but lingers, crackling, pulling at the seams of everything. It’s not just a sound, not just music—it’s something alive, something visceral. The kind of rhythm that gets under your skin, that makes your heart skip, that demands your attention.

The guitarist steps out first, grinning, wild-eyed. He twirls the sticks between his fingers, his movements effortless, cocky. He settles into position, cracking his neck, and the crowd roars.

Then comes the bassist, cigarette dangling from his lips like a gesture of defiance. His eyes scan the room, casual, disinterested, but you know he’s not. No one is. The air thickens as his fingers brush the strings, and the crowd tightens like a fist around your chest.

The stage lights burn white-hot for a second, blinding. And then—

The last figure steps forward, midnight-clad and sharp as glass. His hand wraps around the mic stand with a lazy elegance, silver rings gleaming under the lights. He lifts his head slowly, gaze cutting through the fog and straight into the crowd. He lifts his head, eyes sweeping the crowd, catching on you, piercing through the darkness. For a moment, everything else blurs. The crowd, the lights, the noise—all of it fades. It’s just him, his gaze, and the space between you, pulsing with something too dark to name.

Someone screams into the mic, a voice raw and electric: "London! Are you ready to welcome on stage... the world-famous band... SLYTHERIN!"

The crowd erupts. The world splinters.

SLYTHERIN – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

The room detonates with sound—roaring, crashing, a tidal wave of bodies pressed together, surging forward like they could pull the stage closer just by sheer force of will. The lights burn emerald, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire, catching on the glint of rings and glitter-smudged eyes. You feel it beneath your feet, the tremor of bass shuddering through the floor, up your legs, thrumming in your bones. It’s not music. It’s a war cry.

{play kiwi by harry styles}

Regulus is still, framed in smoke and green light, hand curled around the mic stand like it belongs to him, like it’s part of him. There’s something almost cruel in the way he stands there, letting the crowd scream his name, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in the ghost of a smirk. The others are already thrumming with energy—Barty smashing the drumsticks together in an impatient staccato, Evan’s fingers flirting with the strings of his bass, coaxing out little whines of sound—but Regulus is silent. Then, with the flick of his wrist, the lights cut crimson, and the room gasps. He leans into the mic, voice smooth and sharp.

She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes...

The crowd erupts again, and you feel it—like static racing over your skin, like fire licking at your veins.

Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect...

Regulus’s voice is a weapon, precise and unyielding. His eyes burn with something feral, a spark that catches and spreads. The band is a beast behind him, a living, snarling thing, and they follow his lead without hesitation.

And all the boys, they were saying they were into it...

You catch his gaze, just for a second, and it’s like a punch to the ribs. He doesn’t look away. He never looks away. Barty slams down on the drums, a furious cascade of sound that rattles the bones, and Evan’s bass line thrums beneath it, heavy and unrelenting. The floor vibrates; the walls pulse. It’s suffocating and electrifying all at once. Regulus leans back, eyes closing, voice curling around the lyrics with that dangerous edge.

She's driving me crazy, but I’m into it...

The lights flash again, blinding white, and his voice carves through the chaos like a blade.

Such a pretty face on a pretty neck..

He strides over to Barty, plucking the cigarette right from his fingers without breaking rhythm. He takes a long drag, head tilted back, smoke curling from his lips like a sin, eyes dark and glinting under the flashing lights. The crowd screams, clawing at the stage as he descends the stairs with the grace of something untouchable, unstoppable. He finds you—first row, Sirius to your left, but it’s like you’re the only one there. 

The flash of his grin is sharp, wicked. Regulus kneels down, close enough that the heat of him mingles with yours. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, slow, deliberate. His gaze drags over your face, landing on your parted lips. His voice is low, gravelly, dripping with intent.

She sits beside me like a silhouette...

Then, without hesitation, he brings the cigarette to your lips. "Take a drag, pretty girl," he breathes, and it’s not a suggestion. 

It’s a command. The crowd howls, a feral, raw sound, but you don’t hear it. All you hear is your own pulse, loud and rushing as you take the drag, the burn sharp and sweet. His eyes flicker darker as you exhale, smoke curling between you like a promise. He plucks it back, never breaking eye contact, taking one last pull before the mic returns to his mouth.

Hard candy dripping on me 'til my feet are wet...

It’s not just a performance. It’s a claim. It’s devastation, wrapped in velvet and sin.

The crowd is madness, screaming his name, clawing at the barricade, desperate. But he doesn’t look away and neither do you.

It’s electric. It’s ruinous.

It’s everything.

Sirius leans in close, his breath warm against your ear, voice barely a whisper under the roar. “Did he just—?” he laughs, low and sharp, eyes wide with something like awe. "Bloody hell... never seen him pull that stunt before." He shakes his head, grinning wickedly. 

You want to ask what he means, but the question dies on your tongue because Regulus moves. Just a step forward, slow and deliberate, but the crowd reacts like he’s thrown gasoline on an open flame. 

His hand lifts to the mic, fingers brushing over it like a lover’s touch, and his eyes—sharp and unyielding—sweep the crowd, drinking them in, pulling them apart thread by thread. You swear he looks right at you, just for a heartbeat, and your lungs forget how to work.

His voice is smoke and silver, smooth and raw all at once, winding through the air like it’s living, like it’s breathing. The crowd goes feral, bodies crashing into each other, hands reaching out like they could touch him if they just stretched far enough.

When she’s alone, she goes home to a cactus…

His voice is molten, dripping over the words with something feral, something unrestrained. The band snarls to life behind him—Barty pounding the drums with a vicious sort of joy, Evan’s bass thrumming low and heavy, the guitarist slicing through the air like it owes him blood.

In a black dress, she’s such an actress…

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the light in shards of green and silver, and your breath stalls. There’s something primal in the way he looks at you—like he knows exactly what he did, like he’s daring you to do something about it.

Sirius is still watching you, shaking his head, that wicked grin never faltering. “Merlin’s sake,” he mutters, almost impressed. “He’s got the whole crowd on their knees, and he’s still making sure you know it’s all for you.”

You can barely nod. You’re too caught up in the way Regulus commands the stage, the way his fingers tighten on the mic stand, knuckles whitening, like he’s holding on for dear life. It’s intoxicating—dangerous, almost. Like staring into the heart of a storm and knowing you should look away but not wanting to.

“He always did have a flair for dramatics,” Remus adds from your other side, arms crossed but eyes bright. There’s fondness there, deep and warm, and you catch the flicker of a smile on his lips as he watches Regulus pace the stage, voice cracking raw over the chorus.

“Shut up, you’re crying,” James jabs him with an elbow, and Remus just snorts, unbothered.

“Am not,” he replies, though his voice is thicker than usual. “Maybe you are.”

He’s beautiful, you think. Dark and wild and entirely untamed. He isn’t tethered to anything but the stage beneath his feet and the roar of the crowd, and it’s like he’s breathing for the first time.

And just for a second, his eyes snap open and find yours, cutting through the haze, the lights, the noise. His gaze holds you there, trapped, breathless, and you feel the connection snap into place like it’s always been there, just waiting for the right moment. His lips tilt, barely a curve, but it’s there. A ghost of a smile, meant just for you.

The song ends with a shattering chord, and the room explodes. Regulus bows his head, hand still curled around the mic, breathing hard. The lights pulse back to green, spilling shadows over his cheekbones, and his gaze lingers for just a moment more before he turns back to the crowd.

Sirius nudges your shoulder, eyes alight with mischief. “Told you he was good.”

You swallow, the taste of adrenaline sharp on your tongue. “Good?” you echo, voice barely above a whisper. “He’s… he’s incredible.”

Sirius just grins, wide and wicked. “Welcome to the show.”

“Come on!” Mary’s voice pierced the haze, cutting through the ringing in your ears. She grabbed your arm with surprising strength, pulling you back from the swell of bodies. Her grin was wide and reckless, lipstick slightly smudged, eyes glittering with excitement. “We have backstage passes, love! Barty’s waiting for us!”

“Barty?” you echoed, stumbling slightly as she dragged you through the crowd, weaving between swaying bodies and spilled drinks.

“Yes, Barty!” Mary tossed a wink over her shoulder. “He said he’d introduce us to the band after the show. Merlin’s beard, I swear you never listen to me. Come on, before he thinks we ditched him!”

You nodded, adrenaline still humming under your skin, and followed her as she slipped through a door guarded by a particularly disgruntled bouncer. The hallway stretched out before you, dim and narrow, lined with posters that curled at the edges and flickered under dying light. Mary tugged you forward, practically skipping with excitement, her laughter echoing off the walls.

“Wait, slow down!” you protested, nearly tripping over your own feet. But she was a woman on a mission, relentless and determined, dragging you around sharp corners and through winding corridors. Her voice bounced off the walls, rambling about how Barty had promised her an introduction ages ago, how this was finally her chance, how she was absolutely certain you were going to love them all.

But then—somewhere between a flickering light and a stack of equipment cases—you lost her.

You stopped short, breath catching, the noise of the concert muted to a distant thrum behind thick concrete walls. The hallway split off in three directions, each one identical and stretching into shadow. You blinked, turning in a slow circle. “Mary?” you called, your voice swallowed up by the empty space. Silence answered back, heavy and unyielding.

You turned left, footsteps cautious, trailing your hand along the wall as if that might somehow anchor you. It smelled like cigarette smoke and old wood, the air heavy with something unnameable, something that prickled at the back of your neck. 

You followed the sound of muffled voices, hoping for familiar faces, but the hallway twisted and turned, coiling in on itself until you were certain you were walking in circles.

“Mary?” you tried again, voice softer now, edged with nerves. No answer.

The backstage doors were all heavy iron and peeling paint, some marked with names you didn’t recognize, others blank and uninviting. You hesitated at one, fingers grazing the chipped handle, and then—because you had to—you pushed it open.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, smelling of leather and cologne and something smoky that clung to the walls. And there, leaning against the edge of a cluttered vanity, his back to you, was Regulus Black.

The breath left your lungs in a single, startled rush. He was still dressed in stage clothes—black silk shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, silver rings glinting under the light. His hair was damp with sweat, falling messily over his eyes as he stared down at a vinyl record in his hands, fingers tracing the edge with a kind of idle reverence. 

You should have left—you knew that, felt it in the prickling of your skin—but your feet wouldn’t move, rooted to the spot as if by some invisible tether.

And then he turned.

It was slow, deliberate, like he’d known you were there the whole time. His gaze found yours instantly, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, the world went silent. You stared at him, unblinking, and something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe, though you couldn’t place why.

You should have said something. You should have apologized for intruding or stumbled over some explanation, but the words tangled up in your throat, stuck there by the weight of his gaze. He watched you like he was trying to solve a puzzle, like there was something familiar in your outline, something just out of reach.

“Lost?” he asked finally, voice low and smooth, cutting through the silence like a knife.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “A little bit,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I was trying to find Mary… I think I took a wrong turn.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, just slightly, barely there. “It’s easy to get lost back here.” He pushed off from the vanity, stepping closer, and you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. He was taller than you’d realized—broader too, sharp angles softened by shadow and smoke. “But I’m guessing you’re not supposed to be wandering around alone.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words slipped through your fingers. There was something in the way he looked at you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, something that unsettled him just as much as it did you.

It felt like you’d been here before. Like you knew him. Like you’d always known him.

“Yeah,” you said finally, voice breaking the stillness. “I guess not.”

Regulus’s eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, unblinking, and then he nodded towards the hallway behind him. “Come on. I’ll help you find your friend.”

You hesitated, just for a second, but something in his gaze pulled you forward, like a thread wrapped tight around your heart. You stepped closer, and he held the door open for you, watching with that same curious expression, the kind that made you feel like you were missing part of the conversation.

He didn’t say anything more as you walked, just kept his strides even and unhurried beside you, the echo of your footsteps the only sound in the hallway. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—like the air was charged, heavy with something unsaid. Like the world had cracked open just enough for you to slip through.

And when his hand brushed yours, just for a heartbeat, it felt like coming home.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional—the brush of his hand against yours—but it left your skin tingling, the echo of it lingering like the remnants of a half-remembered dream. Regulus didn’t look at you when it happened, his eyes fixed forward, but you saw the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed, like he’d felt it too.

The hallway stretched long and winding, each turn identical to the last, walls plastered with fading posters and half-burnt-out lights that flickered like dying stars. You tried to focus on your steps, on the distant thrum of music vibrating through the floor, but it was hard to think of anything except the boy beside you. 

He moved like he belonged in the shadows, like they bent around him rather than the other way around. You wondered if he was always like this—quiet and consuming, like gravity itself.

“So…” you started, if only to cut through the silence threading between you. “Do you do this often? Rescue lost girls wandering backstage?”

The corner of his mouth quirked again, a ghost of a smile. “Not often,” he replied. “Most of them aren’t quite so…lost.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard the pause right, the weight behind the word. “Well, I’m not usually one for getting lost,” you replied, feeling a flush creep up your neck. “Guess tonight’s just…special.”

His eyes flickered to you then, something dark and unreadable swimming in them. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess it is.”

Before you could say anything else, he stopped short, his arm extending in front of you like a barrier. You hadn’t even noticed the turn you’d taken, the hallway splitting off into a wider room where laughter and voices spilled out like smoke. Mary’s familiar red hair bobbed through the crowd, animatedly talking to someone who looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Relief spilled out of you in a breath.

“There she is,” Regulus said, voice softer now. His arm dropped back to his side, but he didn’t move away. “Looks like you’re not so lost anymore.”

You turned to him, the words caught in your throat. “Thank you, I—”

But his gaze had dropped, fixed on your hand where his fingertips had brushed yours. His expression was distant, like he was seeing something you couldn’t, feeling something he didn’t want to.

“If you get lost again,” he said, voice drifting back to you, “find me.”

And then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hum of distant music, and you were left standing alone, hand still warm from where his had almost held yours.

You were still replaying it in your head—the heat of the stage lights, the raw pulse of the music, and the way Regulus Black had held your gaze from across the crowd. His eyes had found yours like it was effortless, like the thousands of people screaming his name didn’t matter. And then, with that effortless cool, he’d plucked the cigarette from his lips and pressed it between yours, his fingers brushing your mouth for the briefest second.

The memory was still burning at the edges when Mary crashed into you, eyes wide and practically vibrating with excitement. “There you are!”

You barely had time to register her presence before she grabbed your arm, dragging you down the hallway. “You’re not going to believe this. No, actually, you are, because I saw it with my own eyes,” she babbled, practically sprinting with you in tow.

“Mary—” you tried, breathless from both the memory and her speed.

“Regulus Black,” she said, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Lead singer, absolute menace, notorious for ignoring every single girl that tries to get his attention... just put his cigarette in your mouth.” She stopped suddenly, spinning to face you, hands gripping your shoulders. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating. That actually happened, right?”

You felt your cheeks heat up, still tasting the faint trace of smoke and mint on your lips. “I... yeah. It happened.”

Mary shrieked, a sound so piercing you winced. “Are you kidding me? How do you just casually stumble into stuff like this?”

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” you laughed, still feeling a little dazed. “I got turned around, and then... I don’t know. He just...” You struggled for the right words, the right way to explain the way his eyes had lingered on you. “...he just saw me.”

Mary’s expression softened, just for a moment. “Yeah, I guess he did.” Then, just as quickly, she snapped back to her usual self. “Okay, I need details. All of them. Did he say anything? Did he look at you like... like that?” She made an exaggerated swooning face, nearly toppling over in her enthusiasm.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “He helped me find my way back here. That’s it.”

“You’re not getting out of this,” she continued, weaving you through a maze of stagehands and tangled cables. “I’m going to make you tell me every single word he said.”

You were just about to protest when she tugged you into a more open part of the room, neon lights flickering overhead. “There he is!” she whispered excitedly, nodding towards the bar area.

You followed her gaze and spotted him instantly. Barty Crouch Jr., all black ccurls and sharp smiles, holding a drink in one hand and talking animatedly with someone you couldn’t see. He was magnetic—loud and reckless in a way that made you feel like just standing near him would be dangerous.

Mary grinned like she’d just won the lottery. “Come on, I promised you an introduction, didn’t I?”

Before you could respond, she was already tugging you forward, her grip ironclad. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the rush of adrenaline making you slightly dizzy. You barely had time to process it before you were right in front of him, his gaze flicking over to the two of you with mild curiosity.

“Well, well,” Barty drawled, grin spreading wide as he looked you up and down. “What do we have here?”

Mary nudged you forward, all but shoving you into his line of sight. “This is my friend. The one I told you about.”

Barty’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned forward, one eyebrow raised. “The one who caught Reg’s attention?”

You blinked. “I... I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, I do,” he laughed, and the sound was sharp and wild, like it was cracking open the air around you. “You’re the one from the stage, right? Cigarette girl?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “That’s... yeah.”

Barty chuckled, leaning back against the bar. “Well, well. Looks like you’ve already got one foot in the door.” He tipped his head back towards the stage. “Careful with that one. He bites.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

Barty’s grin widened. “I never said I didn’t.” He looked back at you, eyes gleaming. “Stick around. I’ve got a feeling this is gonna get interesting.

The afterparty bleeds into itself, a kaleidoscope of neon lights and thrumming bass, bodies pressed too close, voices raised just to be heard. 

You drift between faces you don’t know and hands that grasp at your arm, pulling you deeper into the chaos. Drinks are thrust into your hand, the liquid sloshing over the edge, staining your wrist with something sticky and sweet. You sip, barely tasting it, just enough to be polite before you slip away, dissolving into the shadowed edges of the room where the light doesn’t quite reach.

Sirius is deep in conversation with someone you don’t recognize, laughter spilling from his lips like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He catches your eye for a split second, gives you a wink and a tilt of his drink, and you nod back, a silent promise that you’re fine, that you just need a moment. Maybe two.

The back hallway is quieter, the music muffled by thick walls, and you follow the path of least resistance—past the storage crates and tangled wires, past the buzzing EXIT sign that flickers like it’s on its last breath. You find the metal staircase tucked away behind an unmarked door, the kind of place people forget about. It creaks under your weight, the rusted metal groaning in protest as you ascend, step by step, until the noise of the party is nothing but a distant hum.

The rooftop is waiting for you, sprawling and vast, the city stretching out like it’s been painted just for this moment. You breathe in deep, filling your lungs with cold, untainted air, the kind that bites a little on the way in. 

Up here, the lights of the city blur into constellations, headlights tracing patterns on cracked pavement far below. You cross the concrete expanse, fingers trailing along the chipped brick of the ledge as you move to the edge. It’s almost peaceful—the kind of silence that feels deliberate.

You don’t hear him at first. He’s just there, a shadow leaning against the rooftop’s edge, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. He’s dressed in black, jacket half-zipped, curls tousled like he’s just come offstage—which, of course, he has. He lifts his head slightly, eyes catching the moonlight for just a fraction of a second. Grey, sharp, and cutting through the dark like knives.

"You running from ghosts?" he asks, voice low and smooth, laced with something sardonic. The cigarette glows bright, embers flaring, and for a moment, he looks like something out of a dream—sharp lines and smoke.

You blink, pulled from the haze of your thoughts. "Maybe," you reply, leaning back against the ledge. "Or maybe I’m just not one for crowds."

He studies you, unblinking, gaze flinty and knowing. "Funny," he says, taking a slow drag. "Most people stay where it’s loud. Makes it easier to pretend they’re not alone."

You laugh, short and surprised. "Is that what you do?" you counter, watching the way the smoke curls from his lips, drifting like it’s got nowhere better to be. "Hide in the noise so you don’t feel alone?"

He huffs a laugh, more breath than sound. "I don’t hide," he replies, sharp and resolute, like it’s carved into his bones. "I just know where to disappear."

Your eyes flick to his hands, to the rings that gleam silver in the moonlight. "Disappearing isn’t the same as running," you murmur, barely aware you’ve said it out loud.

His eyes snap to yours, sudden and sharp, like you’ve cut through something he wasn’t ready to expose. He watches you carefully, the cigarette burning down between his fingers. "You sound like you know something about that," he says, voice quieter, more deliberate.

You shrug, turning your gaze back to the skyline. "Maybe I do," you answer softly. "Maybe I don’t."

Silence falls between you, stretched thin and trembling, and you swear you feel the weight of it—like a breath held just a moment too long. He flicks the cigarette over the edge, watching it spiral down, down, down before the ember snuffs out entirely.

"Funny thing," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I’ve met you before." His eyes don’t leave yours, and there’s something raw in his gaze, something unpolished and unguarded.

Your breath catches, fingers curling tighter around the ledge. "Déjà vu?" you ask, trying for casual, but your voice betrays you, cracking on the last syllable.

"Maybe," he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. His gaze lingers, heavy and unyielding, like he’s trying to pull you apart just to understand what’s inside. "Or maybe something else."

You don’t look away. You don’t dare. "You believe in that sort of thing?" you ask, your voice softer now, almost a whisper.

He smiles, slow and sharp, all teeth and danger. "I don’t know," he admits. "But I’m starting to think I should."

Regulus is still watching you, eyes narrowed, like he’s waiting for you to say something. But you don’t—not yet. You’re too busy holding onto the feeling that something just slipped through your fingers, something important.

He shifts, the leather of his jacket creaking, and his eyes flick back to the skyline. "Well," he says, voice back to that drawling indifference, "if you’re gonna disappear, might as well do it with a view."

You laugh, the sound light and unbound. "Yeah," you reply. "I guess I could think of worse places."

He glances back at you, gaze lingering a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize the lines of your face. "I’ll see you around," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, the promise of it slipping between the spaces of the city lights.

And before you can respond, he’s gone—slipping back through the rooftop door, leaving only the faintest trace of smoke and something that tastes like memory in his wake.

After that rooftop encounter, you start showing up at Slytherin's gigs more often—sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. You don’t think he notices. Until he does.

It’s after a show in Camden, the air thick with rain and cigarette smoke, clinging to your clothes, settling in your lungs. The sky is heavy, swollen, like it might crack open at any moment. You stand against the brick wall, fingers picking at the damp label of your drink when the door swings open, spilling laughter and smoke into the alley.

He’s the last to leave, trailing behind Barty and Evan like he’s got nowhere to be, like time bends around him. Sweat dampens his hair, curls sticking to his forehead, black shirt clinging to his shoulders. He spots you—of course he does—and there’s that flicker again, something old and aching, like a memory misplaced.

He saunters over, cigarette dangling from his lips, hands deep in his leather jacket. The streetlamp flickers above, casting shadows that dance like ghosts. “You always hang out in alleyways, or am I just lucky?” His voice is low, rough, softened from hours of singing. His eyes catch the light, sharp and silver, cutting through the dark like knives.

You raise an eyebrow, shrugging. “Depends on the company.”

The corner of his mouth curves up, a smirk that’s more habit than happiness. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, eyes never leaving yours, and exhales slow, deliberate, like he’s marking the moment. Smoke curls between you, phantom fingers reaching out and fading just before they touch.

"Not the usual crowd," he observes, eyes flicking over you, lingering just a second too long. “Bit too... put together for the Camden lot.”

You huff a laugh, surprising yourself. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Guess that depends,” he replies, gaze slipping over you, unapologetic and unhurried. There’s something almost surgical in the way he looks—like he’s dissecting you, peeling back layers just to see what’s underneath. “You a fan of the music or just slumming it for the night?”

There’s a challenge in his tone, something jagged and sharp, but you don’t flinch. “Still deciding,” you say, letting the words hang heavy between you. You catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes—so brief you almost miss it—but it’s there, like a crack in glass that splinters the whole reflection.

He tilts his head back, studying you with the kind of intensity that feels like being seen for the first time. Like being known. “Brutal,” he murmurs, lips curling around the word. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And then he flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with a finality that feels deliberate. “You coming to the next one?” he asks, voice slipping back into something smoother, something practiced.

You don’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

For just a flicker of time, you think you see something soften in his expression—unguarded and raw. But then it’s gone, swallowed back into arrogance, and he nods, slipping back through the darkened hallway. You watch him go, breathless and burning, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free.

After that, you come to every show. Sometimes he finds you in the crowd; sometimes he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter—you always find him after. Outside under flickering streetlights or sprawled on the hood of his car, cigarettes and slow conversations spilling into dawn.

It becomes a ritual. He sings like he’s breaking apart, and you watch like you’re piecing him back together. The city is your playground: rooftops, train tracks, rain-soaked alleys. There’s a rhythm to it, a melody neither of you need to say out loud.

You talk about books with cracked spines and water-damaged pages. He talks about music, the kind that burrows under your skin, the kind that leaves you breathless.

It’s late, so late it’s almost early. The city holds its breath, draped in shadows and whispers. Slytherin is recording at an underground studio tucked away in East London. The others are inside, muffled bass and fractured laughter spilling out each time the door cracks open.

But you’re not inside. Neither is he.

You’ve slipped away, guided by instinct or something older, and found yourself in the garden behind the studio. A patch of wildness carved between brick walls and chain-link fences, where ivy creeps over crumbling stone and wildflowers push through cracked pavement. It smells like rain and rosemary, damp earth and city dust. A secret place, half-forgotten, the kind that only exists when the world isn’t looking.

You’re perched on the edge of a stone bench, the moss soft beneath your fingertips. Regulus is sprawled on the ground, back against the trunk of an old willow tree that curves like a secret over the two of you. Its branches sway in the wind, whispering things you can’t quite hear. His leather jacket is draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from the last set, curls wild and unkempt. He’s smoking lazily, the end of the cigarette flaring bright every time he inhales.

“You know they’re gonna come looking for us,” you murmur, gaze flicking back to the studio where the lights flicker behind fogged windows.

He just huffs a laugh, dragging his thumb over his bottom lip as he exhales. Smoke coils in the air, lingering between you. “Let them,” he replies, voice low and unapologetic. His eyes catch yours, dark and daring. “I like it better out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In the freezing cold? Surrounded by weeds and cigarette butts?”

Regulus smirks, the kind that feels like a dare. “Better than listening to Barty butcher another verse.”

You laugh, soft and unguarded. It startles you, the way it spills out so easily around him. His smirk softens, just a fraction, and he tilts his head back against the bark of the willow. For a moment, you just sit there, the silence stretching warm and steady between you.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Why don’t you sing?”

The question is a stone thrown into still water. It ripples out, unsettling everything. You blink, surprised. “What?”

He ashes his cigarette, eyes still on yours. “You always watch. Always listen.” He nods toward the studio. “But you never join in.”

You shrug, picking at a leaf stuck in the moss. “Guess it’s not really my thing.”

He lets out a low hum, like he doesn’t believe you. “Bullshit,” he says simply, and there’s no malice in it—just fact. “I see the way you watch. The way your lips move when you think no one’s paying attention.”

Your cheeks burn, and you look away, focusing on the ivy curling up the wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do,” he counters, and his voice is closer now. You look up to find him leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp and unyielding. “I bet it’s good. I bet it’s better than you even realize.”

You swallow, the words sticking like honey. “Don’t you have enough singers around you?”

“Maybe.” He pauses, studying you with the kind of intensity that feels like being seen for the first time. Like being known. “But I want to hear you.”

The air goes thin. You shake your head, leaning back against the bench, crossing your arms. “Not gonna happen.”

He laughs again, low and smoky, like it’s the punchline to some joke you don’t understand. He stubs out his cigarette, flicking it aside, and when he looks back at you, there’s something electric in his eyes. “One day, I’ll make you sing for me,” he says, voice velvet-soft but edged with steel. “I promise.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing, but there’s a tremor in your voice. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He leans back against the willow tree, gaze never leaving yours. His smile is sharp, like the edge of a knife, but there’s a softness to it too, something almost tender beneath all that swagger. “I’m always sure when it matters,” he murmurs, voice dipping low, dragging over each word like a caress. His eyes darken, softening at the edges. “And with you… I think it matters.”

Your breath catches, the world narrowing to the space between you. The willow’s branches sway above, whispering secrets you can’t quite hear, and for a moment, the air is thick with something unspoken.

But you don’t break. Not yet. You just stare back at him, heart stuttering against your ribs. “We’ll see,” you whisper, voice barely audible.

Regulus smiles, slow and devastating. “Yeah,” he says, eyes flickering with something like destiny, something like longing. “We will.”

Regulus shifted beside you, the edge of his leather jacket brushing your arm. He exhaled, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, its ember flaring briefly before he stubbed it out against the concrete ledge. Without warning, he straightened, extending a hand towards you, palm open, rings glinting under the rooftop lights.

“Come on,” he said, voice low, laced with a promise. “I wanna show you something.”

You raised a brow, gaze flickering between his hand and his eyes, sharp and unreadable. “Where?”

His lips curled, almost conspiratorial. “You’ll see.”

It should’ve been a warning. You should have hesitated, questioned the glint in his eyes, the crooked smile that spelled trouble—but you didn’t. Your hand slipped into his, cold against yours, and he pulled you through the rusted doorway, down the narrow, winding staircase. The party rumbled far below, muffled by concrete and distance, just a distant thrum beneath your feet.

Regulus didn’t speak as he led you through spiraling corridors, his grip firm and unyielding. He moved with the kind of confidence that made you think he’d walked this path a thousand times before, slipping through cracked doorways and shadowed halls like someone untouched by consequence.

At last, you reached a door at the far end of the hallway—its frame chipped and crooked, paint flaking like dead leaves. He pushed it open with his shoulder, the hinges shrieking, and gestured for you to follow.

“What is this place?” you asked, hesitating at the threshold.

He glanced back, eyes dark and shimmering. “A shortcut,” he replied, then slipped through, leaving you no choice but to follow.

The space beyond was vast and hollow, a skeletal remnant of something once grand. Shattered windows let in slivers of moonlight, pooling silver over cracked marble and stone. The ceiling stretched high above, crumbling at the edges, vines creeping through the fractures like nature had come to reclaim what was hers.

“Regulus,” you breathed, voice catching on the echo. “Where are we?”

“Old conservatory.” His voice was softer here, reverent. He walked ahead, his boots scuffing against the stone, hands slipping into his pockets. “Forgotten when they built the new one downtown. They didn’t bother tearing it down. Just… left it.”

He glanced back at you, eyes catching the silver light. “I come here sometimes.”

There was a softness to his voice, unguarded and fleeting. You followed him, footsteps soft against the dust-coated floor, eyes wandering over the cracked pillars and dust-veiled chandeliers that hung like ghosts from the ceiling. You could almost imagine it in its prime—glass ceilings reflecting sunlight, flowers blooming from every corner, music echoing through its halls. Now, it was just echoes and shadows, but somehow, it felt… sacred.

Regulus led you further in, past pillars split with age, towards the far end where the roof had caved in entirely. Moonlight poured through the shattered beams, pooling at the base of something that made you pause—

A willow tree.

Its branches were thin and knotted, draped with curling leaves that shimmered faintly under the light. Roots spilled out over the fractured stone floor, curling around broken marble like it had grown straight through the ruins. It shouldn’t have been there. Not really. But it was, stretching up towards the stars like it was reaching for something it couldn’t touch.

Regulus watched you, his eyes hooded and dark. “We’re not supposed to be up here,” he murmured, almost like a confession.

“And yet, here we are,” you replied, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled at that—soft and slow, like it surprised him. “I found it a few years ago. This place. Wasn’t looking for it, just… ended up here.” His gaze drifted to the willow. “Figured it was a good place to disappear.”

You stepped forward, letting your fingers brush the leaves. They trembled under your touch, whispering secrets to the wind. “It’s beautiful.”

Regulus’s gaze never wavered from you. “It is.”

The silence stretched, filled only with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city. You felt his presence beside you—steady, solid, a quiet contrast to the chaos that always seemed to follow him.

“You bring everyone here?” you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

He chuckled, low and husky. “No. Just the ones I want to remember it.”

A laugh escaped you, breathless and sharp. “That’s a bit poetic for a rockstar, don’t you think?”

He turned to you, moonlight catching the edge of his jaw, casting shadows along the curve of his cheekbones. “I can be poetic.”

You raised a brow. “Prove it.”

Regulus looked at you for a long moment, the kind of stare that felt like it peeled back layers, sifted through ribcages and reached straight for the heart. Finally, he stepped closer, gaze dropping to your mouth, voice slipping low and rough.

“You remind me of this place,” he murmured. “Forgotten, beautiful… something that shouldn’t be here, but is.”

Your breath caught, the air shifting between you, heavy and electric. His eyes flickered back to yours, unguarded and raw, like he’d just revealed something he wasn’t sure he should have.

Before you could respond, he turned away, running a hand through his hair. “Come on,” he said, voice slipping back into something lighter, easier. “We should get back before they think I kidnapped you.”

And so it slowly began.

Regulus had a way of slipping into your life like smoke curling under a locked door—silent, unyielding. It began subtly: a nod from across the room during Slytherin’s soundchecks, the flicker of his gaze in crowded spaces, the faintest smirk when you stumbled over your words in his presence. He’d drag you to their underground rehearsals, the ones held in the grimy back rooms of clubs that never saw daylight.

The band would set up, Barty twirling drumsticks with manic energy, Evan leaning against his bass like it was the only thing holding him upright. Regulus, though—he’d take the stage with a sort of deliberate care, fingers wrapping around the mic like it was something sacred. He never quite asked you to come, not directly. He’d just show up at your door, nod his head to the side, and say, “We’re on in an hour.” Like it was a given you’d follow. Like it was routine.

You learned the rhythm soon enough. The city streets stretched out beneath your feet, glittering with spilled neon and cigarette smoke. You’d follow him through back alleys and side streets, slipping past broken fences and beneath graffiti-streaked fire escapes. He always led—never rushed, just confident, like the city itself bowed under his command.

Slytherin would play, the sound raw and unpolished, clawing its way out of Barty’s drums and Evan’s bass like it was desperate to escape. And you would watch from the corner, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall, your eyes locked on Regulus as he tore through lyrics like he was bleeding on stage.

Sometimes, during breaks, he’d saunter over to you, the others scattering for drinks or smokes. He’d lean against the wall beside you, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips. He never asked if you liked the music—he didn’t need to. Instead, he’d ask things that felt heavier, sharper, questions that pried their way under your skin.  

You didn’t always have answers. Sometimes you didn’t need them. He seemed to like that—the silence, the way you didn’t force the space between you to be filled with noise.

It became tradition—after the rehearsals, after the city lights burned low and the night stretched thin, you’d find yourselves at the old conservatory. He never explained why he took you there; maybe he didn’t need to. It was just yours—a place that belonged to the quiet spaces between midnight and dawn.

The conservatory was a ruin of shattered glass and ivy-choked walls, lit only by the fractured moonlight that spilled in through the broken ceiling. At its heart stood a willow tree—its branches heavy and whispering with secrets, draped low as if to shield you both from the world outside. 

Regulus would sit with his back against the trunk, legs stretched out, cigarette balanced between his fingers. You’d sit across from him, knees pulled to your chest, shoes tucked into the cracked marble.

You never quite asked why this place. But there was something unspoken about it—an untouched softness in the way he leaned his head back against the bark, eyes closed as if listening to something only he could hear. His voice was always softer there, less jagged, unraveling in lazy curls of smoke and half-spilled confessions. 

He talked about the band, about Sirius, about the feeling of weight pressed into his chest that wouldn’t go away, not even when he screamed the lyrics raw.

He never looked at you when he spoke—his eyes were always on the leaves above, like they held answers he couldn’t quite reach. And you never pressed him for more. There was an understanding, something woven between the roots of that willow tree, something neither of you would dare disturb.

But the more you went, the longer you stayed. Rehearsals bled into midnight walks, and midnight walks bled into hushed conversations beneath swaying branches. His shoulder would brush yours more often, his fingers lingering just a little longer when he passed you a cigarette. And when he smiled, sharp and slow, you felt it in the hollow of your ribs—something aching, something wanting.

There, beneath the willow’s whispering canopy, it almost felt like the world had cracked open, just a little, just enough to let something raw and glimmering slip through.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?!"

The words cut through the air with a weight neither of you are ready for. They land between you like shrapnel, heavy in the silence that follows.

Regulus freezes. The bottle in his hand—something dark and lethal—clinks against the counter as he sets it down, his eyes flickering up to yours with disbelief, his expression hard and unreadable.

"What the hell did you just say?" His voice is low, sharp, but there’s a tremor underneath, something vulnerable and raw he doesn’t want you to see.

You swallow hard, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to steady the quake inside you. "You heard me." Your voice cracks just slightly, and you curse yourself for it, but it doesn't stop. "The pills, the drinking, the fights, the constant nights out until you can't stand. You’re a wreck, Regulus. You don’t even look like you care about your own damn life anymore."

He laughs, bitter and dark. Tilting his head back, he downs the rest of the bottle in one swift motion before slamming it on the counter with a loud crash. "You think I care?" he spits out. "Since when do you care?"

You take a step forward, voice rising despite the knot in your stomach. "I care because I’ve watched you slowly fall apart. I’ve watched you shut everyone out like you’re trying to bury yourself in whatever darkness you think you deserve. And I’m not standing by anymore, Regulus. Not while I’m watching you do this to yourself."

His eyes darken. "You don’t know anything about me," he growls, turning away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. You hear the tremor in his voice, the tightness in the way he speaks, but the barrier’s still there—he doesn’t want to break.

You can’t stop yourself. "I know you’re not this... not this person."

He flinches, like your words are more painful than anything physical. His hands tremble for just a moment before he shoves them in his pockets. "You really think I’m the same person you knew before all of this?"

"I think you’re still the same Regulus underneath all the bullshit," you say, your voice steady, but you feel it—the crack in your own heart. "I think you’re just... drowning, and I can’t watch you do it alone."

His laugh is hollow. He looks at you then, eyes sharp and hard, but something’s breaking behind them. "You want me to be someone I can’t be," he whispers. "I’m not that person anymore, and you won’t like what’s left when you peel away all the layers."

You step closer, just a few inches, and this time, he doesn’t back away. You reach for him, your fingers brushing his arm gently. His body goes still, and for a moment, you swear he stops breathing.

“I don’t care about who you think you’ve become,” you say softly. “I care about who you are right now. And right now, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t respond, his jaw clenched so tight you hear the bones grind beneath his skin. His gaze falls to the floor, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but instead, he just exhales, a long, shaky breath, like he’s holding back.

Before you can say another word, his knees buckle, and he falls forward, collapsing against you in a way you aren’t prepared for. You don’t have time to think before his weight presses against you, his hands reaching out blindly, gripping your shoulders as his body shakes with silent sobs.

You catch him instinctively, one arm wrapping around his back to steady him as you guide him to sit. Your chest tightens with a kind of grief you hadn’t anticipated. “Regulus,” you whisper, your voice cracking with the weight of what you’re seeing. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

His face is buried in your shoulder, and you feel him tremble with every breath, his body shaking like he’s been holding this inside for too long. His grip tightens around you, afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

It’s then that you hear it—a soft, broken whisper, barely audible but unmistakable. “I’m so tired…” His voice cracks, and for a second, it’s like all the walls he’s built around himself come crashing down.

You hold him tighter, rubbing soothing circles on his back, trying to offer what comfort you can. “I know you are,” you murmur softly, pressing your cheek to the top of his head. “I know.”

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of his breath and your heartbeat, both so loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t say anything else, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. He stays there, like a man lost at sea, holding onto the one thing that feels real, even if just for this moment.

You know that nothing is ever simple with him. But as you sit there, cradling him in your arms, you can’t help but wonder how much of this is fate. How many lifetimes has he hurt like this? How many times has he tried to bury himself, only for you to find him again, just as you always do?

The thought catches you off guard, like a faint memory that brushes against your mind but slips away before you can grasp it. You push it back, though, not ready to explore whatever that means—not when he’s like this, breaking in your arms.

And for just a moment, you let yourself think that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. This time, you’ll be able to help him piece himself back together.

His breath hitches again, and you feel the small tremor of his fingers, like a silent plea for something you can’t fully understand. But you do understand one thing: this—him, you, here—is all that matters right now.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, holding him tighter. “We’ll figure it out.”

Though you don’t know it yet, there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something ancient and new, lingering there, unspoken.

The room is still, save for your steady breaths and his, now slow. His face rests in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his skin against yours. His body, no longer shaking with emotion, still carries the tension. His hands, once clutching you desperately, now rest lightly on your waist, tracing circles as if reassuring himself you’re real.

You let him stay there, the silence speaking louder than words. After a long stretch of quiet, his head lifts, his eyes dark and lost. There’s a rawness, an openness that makes your heart ache.

The vulnerability he’s showing, the cracks in the walls he’s built, feel like a gift. He’s letting you in, even if just for this moment.

Regulus shifts slightly, pulling away to look at you. His eyes trace your face, like he’s memorizing it, afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. For the first time, the usual arrogance is gone. It’s just him, stripped down to raw humanity.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice rough, like he’s still holding everything inside, "tomorrow’s the concert."

You nod, your hand gently running through his hair, soothing him without a word. It’s automatic, as if it’s always been this way.

His lips twitch into a faint smile. "I’m supposed to get up there and perform like nothing’s wrong. Like I’m not... a mess." His voice trembles, not in anger, but in something deeper.

You don’t respond immediately, just holding him, letting the moment stretch between you. The night is still, the hum of the city muffled.

"Will you be there?" His voice is quieter now, vulnerable in a way he’d never let anyone see. The question is heavy, an admission of his need for you, even if he can’t express it fully.

You don’t hesitate. "You’ll always find me, Regulus. If you look closely enough."

His eyes soften, just a touch, and for a fleeting second, you see something akin to peace in them, something that has always been buried beneath layers of pride and pain. There’s a spark there, a warmth, as though he’s finding something he didn’t know he was looking for.

"I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough for you," he murmurs, the words so quiet you almost miss them. But you hear them, and they settle in your chest like a tender ache.

You lean in, your forehead gently pressing against his. "Regulus," you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "You’re already more than enough. Don’t you see that?"

He closes his eyes for a moment, as though absorbing your words, letting them sink deep inside him. When he opens them again, there’s something almost fragile in his gaze, a look that both terrifies and comforts you all at once.

The moment lingers between you two, heavy and sweet. For a while, neither of you speaks, the only sound the rhythm of your breathing, mingling in the soft silence.

Finally, Regulus shifts, pulling away just slightly, his hand brushing against your cheek as he looks at you. There’s a new depth to him, something raw and real that he’s never allowed anyone to see—especially not himself.

"I’ll find you," he says quietly, almost as if it’s a promise. His voice holds something more than resolve, more than just a simple statement. There’s a kind of trust in it, an unspoken bond.

You nod slowly, your hand wrapping around his wrist for just a moment before letting go. "You always do," you whisper back, and this time, you feel it—something deep, something unshakable, the threads of your connection pulling tighter with every word.

As the silence stretches between you two again, it’s different now—more than just a moment of comfort. There’s something more, something building, something inevitable. And though neither of you says it out loud, you both know that tomorrow’s concert, with all its chaos and noise, won’t be the same without this, without the unspoken promise that you’ll always be there.

And as Regulus leans in to press a soft kiss to your forehead, it’s not just the end of a moment—it’s the start of something you can’t name yet, but you know will shape everything that comes after.

The morning passed in fragments of sunlight and easy conversation, both of you reluctant to break the delicate silence from the night before. But by afternoon, the world came crashing back—the buzz of rehearsal, frantic calls from managers, the roar of fans outside the venue hours before the show. The chaos swept you up until you found yourself back in the green room, the hum of adrenaline filling the air.

Regulus sat at the mirror, elbows propped on the vanity, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his knee. His eyes flickered up when you approached, and something in his expression softened just a little.

"Figured you could use some help," you said, holding up the eyeliner pencil with a grin.

He scoffed, a touch of arrogance. "Think I can't do my own makeup?"

You rolled your eyes and stepped closer, standing between his knees. "I think you like it better when I do it," you replied, teasing.

He didn't argue. His legs shifted, making room for you, and his hands settled lightly on your hips. You tilted his chin up, your thumb brushing his jaw, the room shrinking to just the two of you, the soft, hazy light reflecting off the mirror.

The eyeliner glided over his skin, smudging perfectly along his lower lash line. His gaze stayed on you, unblinking and intense, as if it were pressing into you.

The door swung open, and Barty and Evan walked in, buzzing with pre-show energy. Barty tossed a half-smoked cigarette aside and snickered. "Would you look at that? The Regulus Black, nervous? Thought I'd never see the day."

Evan smirked, leaning against the wall. "What’s the matter, mate? Scared you’ll forget the lyrics? Or just worried you might actually smile out there?"

Regulus shot them a glare, but there was no real venom in it. "Piss off," he muttered.

Barty winked at you. "Careful with that eyeliner, darling. Wouldn't want him batting his eyes too much on stage. Might start a riot."

You suppressed a laugh, finishing the last stroke, stepping back to admire your work. "Perfect," you whispered. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, it was just the two of you again, the world blurring at the edges.

He reached out, fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, pulling you closer. His thumb brushed the inside of your palm, slow and deliberate. Then, softly, almost like a secret, he leaned in. His lips pressed against yours, warm and feather-light, stealing the breath from your lungs. It was brief but aching with promise, and when he pulled back, his voice was low and uncertain.

"Will you let me take you out after the concert?" His eyes searched yours, a vulnerability flickering there, like he was terrified of your answer.

A slow smile spread across your lips, and you nodded, fingertips brushing his jaw. "You already know the answer, Regulus."

His shoulders relaxed, and something eased in his expression. You saw the knowing glances Barty and Evan exchanged behind you, but you didn’t care. For a moment, the world outside the dressing room didn’t exist. It was just the two of you, suspended in a sliver of time where nothing else mattered.

Barty cleared his throat dramatically. "Well, well, if it isn’t the birth of a love story," he crooned, and Evan smacked him upside the head, grinning. "Don’t mess up your eyeliner out there, Black. Wouldn't want your little muse to see you all smudged up."

Regulus rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go of your hand, squeezing it once before finally releasing you. His voice drops to a whisper, meant only for you. "Front row, yeah?"

"Front row," you promise, and the world roars back to life around you, the concert mere minutes away—but the real show, you think, is just beginning.

The night wraps itself around you like an old familiar song, each beat pulsing through your chest as you slip into the crowd, heart thrumming with the hum of anticipation. You can still feel the warmth of Regulus’s kiss, his soft promise lingering on your skin as if it were part of the very air. You try to shake it off, try to focus on the moment, but it’s impossible when every thought seems to be tethered to him, to that quiet, powerful connection that never fully lets you go.

Remus nudges your shoulder as you make your way through the throngs of people, his voice a light, teasing note in the noise around you. “Ready to see Slytherin tear it up?”

You smile, but it’s tinged with something deeper, something heavier. “You know I am,” you reply, though your voice is soft, almost distant, pulled into the pull of the night.

The venue swarms with energy, the crowd a living thing, each person a pulse in the same rhythm. You find yourself at the front row, drawn to the stage like the inevitable pull of gravity. The air crackles with tension and excitement, the promise of something electric hanging on the edge of every note that’s yet to be played. You don’t know if you’re more nervous for the performance or the unspoken promise between you and Regulus that seems to pulse with every beat.

The lights above you flicker, and then, in an instant, everything stops. 

The lights blazed emerald and silver, sharp as shattered glass, spilling over the stage in jagged patterns. The curtains peeled back like a secret unfolding, and the crowd detonated—a single, roaring beast that surged forward with the force of a wave crashing against rock. Bodies pressed and jostled, hands stretching toward the stage like it was salvation itself. The room was suffocating with sweat, smoke, and the tang of adrenaline, vibrating with the hum of anticipation that crackled through the air like static before a storm.

Barty emerged first, drumsticks twirling between tattooed fingers, grinning like a man with a secret. He held his arms out wide, basking in the screams that rattled the walls, before throwing himself behind the kit with the grace of someone who was born there. He cracked his neck, tapped the sticks together four times, and the crowd screamed with every count—one, two, three, four.

{play tell me im a wreck by every avenue}

The first beat slammed through the room, a thunderous crack that shook the floorboards. The lights pulsed in time with it, flashing green and silver like lightning strikes. Barty’s hands blurred over the drums, each strike sharp and deliberate, like he was carving out pieces of the universe and hurling them into the room.

Evan stepped out next, a cigarette dangling from his lips, bass slung low over his hips like it belonged there. His fingers teased the strings, coaxing low thrums that snaked through the floor and crawled up your spine. He took a long drag, blowing smoke into the air with a languid kind of elegance, eyes flickering out over the crowd with detached amusement. But the second his fingertips danced along the neck of the bass, his whole expression changed—lips curling, eyes darkening, like he’d just come alive.

The crowd screamed louder, fists pounding against the barricades, voices clawing through the air. The stage lights flared brighter, catching the sweat that slicked across skin, the glitter smudged beneath eyes, the desperate clawing hands that reached and reached and reached—like if they just tried hard enough, they could touch the edge of eternity.

And then he walked out. Regulus stepped onto the stage, all midnight leather and silver rings, curls falling over his eyes like smoke. He moved like he owned the world, like the stage wasn’t just his home—it was his kingdom. He grabbed the mic stand with a lazy sort of confidence, head tipping back, jawline sharp enough to cut through glass.

The screams rose to a fever pitch, clawing at the air, and he just smiled—slow and dangerous, like he knew exactly what he was doing. You felt it, the way the whole room shifted, bending around him like gravity.

His eyes scanned the crowd, indifferent and sharp, until they snagged on you, lingering for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. A flicker of something—recognition, curiosity, a dare.

Then his gaze slid away, and he raised the mic to his lips. The room seemed to hold its breath. He leaned in, voice pouring out like molten silver:

I could have been easier on you…

The words dripped from his mouth, low and smooth, weaving through the crowd like smoke curling through air. His fingers tightened around the mic, rings gleaming under the lights as he stepped forward, head tilted, eyes half-lidded like he was singing a secret.

I could have been all you held onto…

The roar from the crowd swelled, hands reaching up, bodies pressing tighter, like they were desperate to drown in the sound of him. The guitar screamed to life behind him, snarling and vicious, and Barty hammered the drums with reckless joy.

I know I wasn't fair… I tried my best to care about you…

Regulus’s eyes flickered shut, and he leaned into the words, pouring them out like a confession, like he was carving pieces of himself out just to throw them to the crowd. Sweat beaded at his temple, catching in the green light, and his jaw clenched, sharp and unyielding. Evan’s bassline thrummed low and relentless, filling the spaces between each lyric, wrapping the melody in something dark and steady. The crowd screamed the words back at him, hundreds of voices clawing through the air, matching his cadence, his rhythm. Regulus stepped forward, lips curling into a smirk, and the crowd surged, bodies crashing into the barricades, hands reaching, stretching. He dropped to one knee, eyes locking with yours from across the sea of people, and for a second—just a heartbeat—it felt like it was only the two of you. His voice dipped lower, rougher:

But I always had to have the upper hand…

The scream that erupted was deafening, raw and unrestrained. Regulus didn’t flinch. He just leaned into the mic, silver rings glinting, curls falling over his eyes as he sang like he was pouring his soul into the lyrics, tearing it out and setting it on fire for everyone to see.

I'm struggling to see the better side of me…

His voice cracked, just a little, just enough, and you felt it like a punch to the chest. He was bleeding on that stage, every word a wound, and the crowd devoured it, hungry and unrelenting. The chorus hit like a lightning strike, shaking the room to its foundations:

When you tell me I'm a wreck… you say that I'm a mess… How could you expect anything less?

He threw his head back, hair wild, eyes shut, voice cracking on the high notes as he poured everything into it. The crowd screamed the words back, fists punching the air, bodies swaying and crashing like waves. Evan stalked forward, cigarette crushed under his boot, fingers dancing along the bass strings, and Barty slammed the drums with the kind of reckless abandon that made your heartbeat stutter. Regulus looked out over the crowd, eyes dark and glittering, lips curling around each word like it was something dangerous.

You latched onto me… then cried I strung you along…

He took a step back, dragging his fingers through his curls, eyes finding yours for a sliver of a moment—sharp and deliberate. His mouth curled into that familiar smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing, and you felt your breath catch.

I told you when you asked… I knew this wouldn't last…

The lights flared, spilling green fire across the stage, casting shadows over his jawline, his collarbones, the sharp lines of his leather jacket. He looked like something carved out of midnight and broken dreams. The final verse hit hard, slamming through the crowd with the force of a storm. Regulus’s voice dipped lower, rougher, his grip on the mic tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His head bowed, curls falling forward, and for a moment, it was just him—the music, the lights, the crowd screaming his name.

I guess you never knew me at all…

The last beat crashed like thunder, rattling through your bones, and the lights dropped out, plunging the room into shadow. The crowd erupted, screams clawing at the air, desperate and hungry for more. Regulus stayed still, chest heaving, head bowed, curls hiding his eyes. And when he straightened, just before the lights flared back to life, you could have sworn his eyes found yours—steady, sharp, and burning with something you couldn’t quite name.

The concert ended with a roar that shook the floor, lights flaring one last time before the stage plunged into darkness. Regulus vanished into the shadows, the crowd still chanting his name. Your heart hammered as you pushed through the throng, slipping past swaying bodies and spilled drinks, weaving your way backstage.

The hallway buzzed with leftover energy—roadies hauling cables, crew members barking orders, laughter spilling from doorways. You moved through it all, unnoticed, until you found the dressing room marked with a crooked silver star, his name scrawled beneath it.

You pushed the door open. Inside, leather jackets were draped over chairs, sheet music scattered across tables, half-empty bottles of whiskey lined up on the vanity. And there he was, perched on a stool, hair damp with sweat, leather jacket slipping off his shoulders.

But he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood beside him, fingers tangled in his hair, red lipstick bright against her smile. She held a comb, murmuring something that made him laugh, low and husky. Her nails trailed down his neck, slow and familiar, and he just leaned back, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in that lazy smirk.

Heat flared in your stomach, sharp and bitter, clawing its way up your chest. Her laugh rang out again, fingers lingering at the back of his neck. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away—just smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before you could stop yourself, you stepped forward, clearing your throat.

Regulus’s eyes snapped to you, sharp and alert, and something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or relief. His smile softened, just a fraction, but it was enough. “There you are,” he murmured, like you’d just saved him from drowning.

The hairdresser glanced over her shoulder, eyes raking over you from head to toe with barely concealed disdain. She straightened, hand slipping from his shoulder, but her expression didn’t falter. “Didn’t realize you had company,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, but her eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking.

You forced a smile, stepping closer until you were right beside him, hands slipping into your pockets to hide the clench of your fists. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement sparking to life in the dark green. “I wouldn’t test her,” he drawled, leaning back in the chair, one brow raised. “She bites.”

The hairdresser’s smile twitched at the corners, but she stepped back gracefully, comb still in her hand. “I’ll be around if you need me,” she said, her voice feather-light, gaze lingering on Regulus for a moment too long before she turned and strutted out of the room.

Silence settled like dust in the wake of her departure. You stared after her, jaw tight, heart still thrumming with leftover adrenaline and something you didn’t want to name. Regulus watched you, eyes glittering with something sharp and knowing. “What was that?” he asked, voice lazy and dipped in amusement.

You shrugged, gaze still fixed on the door. “Nothing. Just didn’t want you to be late.”

He raised a brow, lips quirking. “Right. Didn’t seem like nothing.”

You finally turned to him, arms crossed over your chest. “She’s awfully familiar with you,” you said, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive.

Regulus just grinned, slow and unhurried, leaning back in the chair until it creaked. “You jealous?” he asked, voice softening, gaze never leaving yours.

Your cheeks flared with heat, and you rolled your eyes, stepping further into the room to avoid his stare. “In your dreams, Regulus.”

He watched you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth tilted in that infuriating smirk. “Funny,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, like a secret pulled between you. “You seem like something out of mine.”

The room went still, his words hanging between you like a thread stretched too tight. You swallowed hard, fingers curling into your palms as you met his gaze head-on. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink, just watched you with the kind of intensity that made your heart stumble over itself.

“C’mon,” he finally said, voice breaking the tension. He stood up, hands smoothing down the lapels of his jacket, hair still tousled and messy from her hands. “I promised you something, didn’t I?”

You blinked, the world snapping back into motion. “Yeah,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt.

He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame, glancing back at you with a tilt of his head. “Better not keep me waiting,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something electric. His gaze dipped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “I’ve got a date tonight, and I’d hate to be late.”

Regulus hadn’t let go of your hand the entire way out of the venue. The air outside was sharp with the bite of evening, cooling the flush that still painted your cheeks from the concert lights. You walked side by side through the London streets, his fingers still loosely laced with yours, neither of you mentioning it, neither of you daring to break the spell. The city thrummed around you, neon lights flickering, cars rushing by in streaks of silver and red, but it all felt far away—distant and unimportant. His hand was warm and sure, his thumb tracing idle patterns over your knuckles as you turned a corner, the street narrowing, growing quieter, softer.

Finally, he stopped in front of a narrow building tucked between two bustling shops. Its exterior was all dark wood and curling ironwork, dripping with ivy that tangled down from the window ledges. The sign above the door read The Violet Hour in delicate script, its edges worn with time.

“Here?” you asked, brow raised, voice hushed by the intimacy of the place.

He nodded, his hand slipping from yours only to push open the door with a flick of his wrist. A bell chimed softly as you stepped inside, the warmth and scent of coffee and lavender wrapping around you like a velvet cloak. The place was small but elegant, dripping with Victorian charm—crystal chandeliers, dark wood furniture, velvet armchairs in jewel tones. The walls were lined with oil paintings—sunlit gardens, sprawling estates, and river landscapes that looked like they were plucked straight from a dream.

Regulus watched your reaction with something like pride, lips curving up when you turned to him, eyes wide. “Didn’t take you for the tea party type,” you teased, taking in the delicate porcelain cups set neatly on each polished table.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied easily, voice smooth and dripping with that careless charm. He nodded to the back corner where a small, rounded table waited, framed by ivy-draped windows that overlooked the river. But before you could take a step, he reached behind the counter, where a wrapped bouquet sat—stark white blooms nestled in parchment paper, tied with a silver ribbon.

Night jasmines.

You blinked, taken off guard, as he handed them to you, the petals still damp with morning dew, the scent sweet and heavy. “I didn’t…” you started, fingers grazing the paper, eyes flicking back to him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugged, slipping his hands back into his pockets. “I wanted to.”

There was no smile, no wink, just that steady, unyielding gaze, like he was daring you to argue. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The blooms were perfect, delicate, their fragrance winding around you, making the whole room feel softer, quieter.

He led you to the table, holding out the chair for you before taking his own. The chandelier above flickered, casting soft shadows across his face, sharpening the curve of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbones. His fingers drummed lightly against the table, restless energy bleeding through the cracks of his calm façade.

For a moment, you let your gaze wander, trailing across the paintings that hung like secrets along the walls. One in particular caught your eye—a river landscape, stretching endlessly across a canvas of gold and sapphire. Two figures sat by its edge, backs turned to the viewer, close enough that their shadows bled into each other.

Regulus followed your gaze, his eyes softening as they landed on the painting. “Do you like it?” he asked, voice low, almost a murmur.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “There’s something about it... It feels familiar.”

He smiled, soft and fleeting. “It’s one of my favorites.” His eyes lingered on the painting, something unspoken passing through his expression. “I like to think they’re waiting for something. Or someone.”

You looked back at the painting, studying the lovers by the river’s edge. “Or maybe they’re just waiting for each other.”

Regulus’s gaze snapped back to you, something tender and raw flickering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice hushed like a secret. “Maybe.”

The tea arrived, delicate cups clinking against porcelain saucers. He poured it for you, hands steady, eyes never leaving yours. You sipped quietly, the warmth spreading through you, anchoring you to the moment. His gaze was unyielding, soft but sharp, like he was memorizing the curve of your mouth as you took another sip.

“What?” you asked, setting the cup down, heat rising to your cheeks under his stare.

He leaned back, stretching his legs out, eyes still fixed on you. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

He tilted his head, considering you for a long moment. “How strange it is that you’re here,” he said softly, his voice slipping beneath your skin, tangling with your heartbeat. “Like I’ve known you for a long time. Longer than I should.”

You swallowed, fingers curling around the bouquet of night jasmines. “I was thinking the same thing.”

A smile ghosted across his lips, slow and secretive. “Maybe we’ve met before.”

You raised a brow, leaning forward just slightly. “You believe in fate, Regulus Black?”

He chuckled, low and dark. “Not fate. But maybe… something.” He looked down at his hands, a flicker of something almost fragile crossing his expression. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

A pause stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. You couldn’t look away, didn’t want to. His eyes were searching, peeling back the layers you thought you’d hidden well, and you wondered if he saw it too—that inexplicable familiarity, like you’d crossed paths in another life.

"Thank you for the flowers," you said softly, just to break the silence, just to breathe again.

He smiled, fingers toying with the edge of his cup. "I wanted you to have something beautiful."

The conversation flowed easily after that, winding through lazy anecdotes and silences that felt more comforting than empty. He told you about the first time he picked up a guitar, how the strings bit into his fingertips until they bled, how he learned to love the sting of it.

You told him about your favorite hidden spots in London—the old bookstore with dust-draped chandeliers, the hidden garden behind the wrought-iron gate where willow trees dipped low, whispering secrets to the water.

He listened with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. And you realized, with quiet awe, that Regulus Black held onto things—moments, words, glances—like they mattered.

When the tea had long gone cold and the staff began closing up, he walked you outside, the night air cool against your skin. The streets were empty, washed in moonlight and silence. For a moment, neither of you moved, lingering in the doorway of The Violet Hour as if stepping away would shatter the fragile magic between you.

He held the door, waiting for you to step out first, but you paused, turning back to him. "Thank you for tonight," you said softly.

Regulus's eyes softened, his hand still resting on the doorframe. "It's not over yet," he murmured, stepping out to join you.

The bouquet of night jasmines hung between your fingers, petals brushing your wrist like a whisper. His gaze flickered to it, then back to you. "Do you want to walk for a bit?"

You nodded, and he fell into step beside you. The city was quiet, the hum of cars a soft backdrop to your footsteps. You wandered without aim, his voice spilling into the stillness as he spoke of lyrics and late-night studio sessions, of how he always seemed to be awake when the world was sleeping.

The conversation ebbed and flowed, softening as you walked, until it settled into silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that made you feel like you’d slipped into a dream. He stopped at a bridge, leaning his elbows on the stone railing, eyes fixed on the river winding dark and glittering beneath you.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you murmured, coming to stand beside him.

He glanced at you, moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice softer now. “It is.” But he wasn’t looking at the water.

A shiver crawled up your spine, but you didn’t pull away. His gaze held you, steady and searching, like he was memorizing the shape of your eyes, the way the light curved against your skin. You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat, wild and unsteady beneath your ribs.

Before you could speak, he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. “You have this look,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Like you belong somewhere else. Someplace… softer.”

You swallowed, the weight of his hand still warm against your skin. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He blinked, surprise flickering across his features before it softened into something more tender, more vulnerable. His hand dropped back to his side, and he cleared his throat, gaze flicking back to the river. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure of that.”

A smile broke free before you could stop it, and he caught it, his eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners. The air between you felt charged, electric, humming with words unspoken. You didn’t move, neither did he. The city seemed to pause, holding its breath as if waiting for something to shatter.

But then he stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I should walk you back,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.

You hesitated, part of you wanting to reach out, to take his hand again. But you nodded, falling into step beside him as you made your way back through the winding streets. The silence was heavier now, charged with unspoken promises, with threads you weren’t sure how to untangle.

At your doorstep, he paused, hands still tucked away in his coat pockets. “You’ll be around?” he asked, voice softer, almost hesitant.

You looked up at him, feeling the weight of his gaze settle on you like a familiar ache. “You’ll always find me, Regulus,” you whispered, something ancient slipping into your voice, something you couldn’t name. “If you look closely enough.”

His eyes flashed, something sparking there, quick and sharp. But he didn’t say anything, just nodded once, the shadow of a smile curving his lips. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice rough like smoke.

“Goodnight,” you replied, the door clicking softly behind you, but his silhouette lingered on the other side for a heartbeat longer before disappearing into the night.

One date turned into two, two into three, and before you realized it, weeks bled into months, your days knitted together with threads of conversation and starlight. He’d take you to studio sessions, where you’d sit curled up on the worn leather couch, watching as he poured his soul into lyrics that felt like confessions. 

His bandmates grew used to you, nodding in acknowledgment when you slipped into the room, always with that bouquet of night jasmines he’d given you, now pressed into the pages of your favorite book.

Some nights, he would show up at your door, hair mussed and eyes wild, dragging you out into the night with nothing but a grin and the promise of adventure. Other nights, you’d sit in silence, curled up on his couch, his head resting in your lap as you combed gentle fingers through his hair, the weight of the world slipping off his shoulders for just a while.

Regulus Black, the rockstar with the sharp eyes and sharper words, had become a constant. A rhythm in your life that you didn’t want to lose, didn’t know how to lose. And somewhere in the quiet spaces between the chaos, you’d realized you’d fallen for him.

For Regulus, it starts quietly. A whisper of something warm curling in his chest whenever you laugh—really laugh, unrestrained and wild, head tipped back and eyes crinkling at the corners. He isn’t sure when it begins, exactly.

Maybe it’s that night on the rooftop when you look out over the city like you own every fractured light, whispering the kind of secrets you don’t tell just anyone. Or maybe it’s that afternoon in the hidden garden behind the studio, your dress catching in the breeze as you twirl beneath the willow trees, unburdened by the weight of expectation that seems to press on everyone else.

Regulus begins to notice things. The way your fingers drum absentmindedly against your thigh when you’re deep in thought, mirroring the rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. The way you always pause before you speak, like you want to taste the words before offering them up. He likes that about you—that you never speak just to fill the silence.

But it’s more than that. It’s the way you never flinch from his darkness, the way you meet it head-on, unafraid. The way you see past the sharp edges and the carefully constructed walls, down to the parts of him that still bleed from old wounds. Regulus isn’t used to someone staying. He isn’t used to someone seeing the cracks and not running the other way.

Some nights, when the world grows too heavy, you show up at his door unannounced, rain-slicked and shivering, a smile bright enough to cut through the London fog.

He pulls you inside, draping a blanket over your shoulders, hands lingering just a little too long. You tell him you couldn’t sleep, that the city feels too loud, too restless. And he makes you tea, sitting beside you on the couch, his shoulder pressed against yours as the rain streaks the windows. You don’t talk much. You don’t need to.

When the nightmares claw their way back—shadowy remnants of memories he can’t quite shake—you never pry. You just sit with him, steady and unyielding, your hand slipping into his, grounding him. 

He hates how he shakes, how the dreams steal the breath from his lungs and leave him raw and frayed. But you never look at him with pity—only patience. Only understanding.

Sometimes, when the trembling won’t stop, you pull him close, your hand stroking through his hair, whispering words he can’t quite hear but needs all the same. He doesn’t realize how much it matters, how much you matter, until you start showing up before he can even call.

And sometimes, when the strain of tour life drags him under—when the late nights blur into early mornings and the weight of expectations presses too hard—you steal him away. You pull him out of the noise, the crowds, the chaos. You drive aimlessly through the city, windows down, music loud enough to drown out his thoughts. You never push him to talk. You never ask for explanations. You just hand him your lighter when his hands shake too badly to find his own and lean your head back against the seat, eyes closed, humming softly to whatever song crackles through the speakers.

He doesn’t tell you, of course. He barely tells himself. But he feels it growing, unfurling like wild ivy across his ribcage, wrapping around his heart, squeezing just enough to make him ache.

Soft isn’t something he has ever been. But when you’re around, it’s harder to keep his edges sharp. He finds himself laughing more. He finds himself caring more. He finds himself reaching for your hand without thinking, seeking out your gaze when the room gets too loud, the world too heavy.

It terrifies him. It consumes him. But for the first time, Regulus doesn’t feel like running.

Because you’re there, right at his side. And even when he stumbles, even when he falls into the darkness that sometimes claws its way up his throat, you pull him back. Quietly. Gently. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And Regulus, who has only ever known how to destroy, finds himself wanting to hold on.

The days bleed into one another, heavy with the weight of unspoken things, of glances that linger too long and touches that ache with the promise of something more. But it’s there, hanging over you both like smoke—your departure, the unraveling thread neither of you has dared to tug.

Until today.

It’s drizzling when you find him in that familiar café, the one with the river painting and the soft, perpetual glow of afternoon light. He’s already seated at your usual corner, fingers curled around a cup of black coffee, his expression shuttered and distant. The bells jingle when you step inside, rain clinging to your coat, dripping from your hair. He glances up, eyes sharp and searching, and you can already tell—he knows.

You slide into the seat across from him, and there’s a pause, thick and suffocating. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to shatter whatever fragile thing you’ve built between you, but the truth is a living, breathing thing, clawing up your throat.

“I’m leaving in three days,” you finally say, the words dropping between you like stones.

Regulus doesn’t move. His fingers tighten around the cup, knuckles whitening, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Right,” he says, voice flat. “Three days.”

You want him to fight. You want him to tell you it’s ridiculous, that you can’t go, that London is your home now, that he is your home now. But he just sips his coffee, gaze unwavering, mouth pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

“That’s it?” you press, your voice sharper than you intend. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” His tone is razor-edged, cutting and cool. “You want me to beg?” He leans back, crossing his arms, a picture of indifference—but his eyes, those storm-tossed eyes, tell a different story. “You were always going back, weren’t you? This was just…a holiday.”

You flinch, fists curling in your lap. “You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” He laughs, sharp and humorless, and it cuts right through you. “Because it feels like you’ve been planning this for a while. Like you knew you were going to walk away, and you just let me—” He stops himself, jaw clenched, eyes slipping away from yours.

“Let you what?” you whisper, voice trembling. “Let you care? Let you feel something?”

His silence is answer enough.

“God, you’re impossible.” Your hands shake as you reach for your coat, stuffing your arms into the sleeves with frantic, angry movements. “You know what your problem is, Regulus?”

He raises an eyebrow, arms still crossed, gaze infuriatingly steady. “Enlighten me.”

“You’re a wreck,” you spit out, voice cracking. “You’re an absolute wreck, and you hide behind this—this mask of indifference like it’ll make you hurt less, but it doesn’t. You push people away before they can hurt you, and then you sit there and wallow in your loneliness like it’s some kind of penance.”

His jaw tightens, eyes flashing. “Stop.”

“No,” you say, voice rising, fists trembling at your sides. “I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of pretending like you’re fine when you’re not. You’re not fine, Regulus. You’re a mess. You drink too much, you smoke too much, and you don’t sleep. You think I haven’t noticed the way your hands shake sometimes? The way you flinch when you think no one’s looking?”

“Shut up.” His voice is low, dangerous, but you’re too far gone now, the floodgates wrenched open.

“And you know what?” you continue, leaning forward, palms flat against the table. “You push me away now because it’s easier. Because it’s easier to ruin it before it can hurt. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Destroy things before they can destroy you.”

He slams his hands on the table, and the cups rattle, a few patrons turning to look. But neither of you care. Not anymore. His eyes are wild now, desperation bleeding through the cracks. “You don’t know me,” he hisses, voice trembling. “You don’t know anything.”

You laugh, the sound brittle and raw. “Don’t I?” You straighten, grabbing your bag and throwing it over your shoulder. “Then why does it hurt so goddamn much, Regulus?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve reached him, that you’ve cut through the armor and touched something real. But then he straightens up, brushing invisible dust from his jacket, expression smoothing over like glass. “Have a nice flight,” he says coolly, voice steady and indifferent.

You stare at him, at the way his hands clench at his sides, the way his jaw works like he’s biting back words that could split you both open. And for a second, just a second, you swear you see it—a flicker of something in his eyes, something ancient and aching, like the echo of a promise left unfinished. But it’s gone before you can name it.

You turn on your heel, the café door slamming shut behind you with the finality of a tomb. The rain meets you head-on, biting and relentless, but you barely feel it. Your breath comes out in ragged puffs, eyes burning, heart thrumming painfully against your ribs.

You’re a wreck.

The words hang in the air, suspended like smoke. And Regulus, sitting alone in the café with the rain streaking the windows like veins, doesn’t move.

-

The rain is relentless. It drums against the windowpane with a kind of desperation, as if it too is pleading for you to stay. You don’t listen. You shove another sweater into your suitcase, cramming it down until the zipper strains. Your hands are shaking—useless things that fumble with the fabric, that wipe at your eyes even though the tears won’t stop coming. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, but the sob claws its way up your throat anyway, jagged and unyielding.

The knock at the door is gentle. Not demanding, not sharp—just a soft, considerate tap that nearly undoes you right there. You freeze, hand clenched around the strap of your bag, willing yourself to stay quiet. Maybe if you pretend you’re not here, if you stay perfectly still, they’ll leave.

But of course, they don’t. The door creaks open, and Sirius steps inside, rain-slicked and wild-eyed, with Mary close on his heels. Her eyes are wide, mouth parting in something like disbelief when she takes in the mess of your room—the open suitcase, the scattered clothes, the plane ticket peeking out from beneath your coat.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she whispers, voice cracking on the words. She crosses the room in two quick strides and pulls you into her arms.

You go stiff at first, arms pinned awkwardly to your sides, but Mary’s hands are gentle, and her grip is fierce. You fold into her, just a little, and something in you gives. A sob rips from your chest, raw and broken, and she just holds you, rubbing slow circles into your back.

Sirius hovers by the doorway, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, eyes cast to the floor. When you finally pull away from Mary’s embrace, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, he looks up. There’s no anger there, no sharpness—just understanding, soft and unyielding.

“So,” he says quietly, his voice careful like he’s handling something fragile. “This is it, huh?”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I—I just need to go,” you whisper. “There’s no point in dragging it out.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, sending droplets scattering onto the floor. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and it cracks something in you that you weren’t prepared for. “If you need to go, you go.”

Mary’s hand finds yours, squeezing gently. “Are you sure you want to leave today? You’ve still got a few days left… You don’t have to rush off.”

You shake your head, blinking back the tears. “If I stay… if I stay, I won’t leave.” The admission comes out broken, shattering between you, and Mary just nods, like she understands exactly what you mean.

“Did you tell him?” Sirius asks gently, though his eyes already hold the answer.

“No,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I can’t.”

He nods slowly, stepping forward to wrap you in his arms. It’s unexpected, the warmth of it, the way he just holds you, steady and sure. You didn’t expect it, but maybe you should have. Sirius has always been braver than anyone gives him credit for.

“You do what you need to do,” he murmurs against your hair. “We’ll be here.”

You nod into his shoulder, and he holds you just a moment longer before pulling back. His eyes are red-rimmed but steady. He looks like he wants to say something more, but Mary steps forward first, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Promise you’ll call when you get there?”

“I will,” you say, and the words are ironclad, binding.

She pulls you in for one last hug, whispering something you don’t quite catch against your hair. It feels like goodbye. It feels like breaking.

When you pull back, Sirius hands you your coat. “I’ll walk you to the car.”

Outside, the rain is still coming down, sheets of water pooling on the slick pavement. Sirius holds an umbrella over you as he walks you to the waiting cab, silent but solid at your side. When you reach the door, he turns to you, his gaze soft and knowing.

“You’re stronger than you think,” he murmurs. “You always have been.”

You nod, throat too tight to speak, and climb into the backseat. The door closes with a soft click, and Sirius taps the roof twice before stepping back, his figure blurring through the rain-slicked glass.

You don’t look back. Not even when the car pulls away, not even when the city blurs behind you in streaks of gray and gold. You just watch the rain splatter against the window and wonder if it’s really possible to miss someone who isn’t yours to keep.

The airport is suffocating. The lights are too bright, and the air smells like stale coffee and goodbyes. You stand in line at the check-in counter, arms wrapped tightly around your chest as if you could hold yourself together just by squeezing hard enough. People move around you—families chattering in rapid bursts of excitement, business travelers tapping impatiently at their watches, lovers tangled in lingering embraces. You’re just another face in the crowd, just another person leaving.

You fumble with your ticket, the paper crumpling in your grasp, and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat—thick and heavy. It drowns out the muffled announcements overhead, the distant hum of engines. 

You don’t even remember handing over your passport or weaving through security. You just follow the blur of people, head down, eyes fixed on your feet as you make your way to the gate.

It’s only when you’re settled into the stiff leather of the airplane seat that you let yourself breathe. You turn toward the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass, and watch as rain streaks down in thin rivers. 

London blurs before you, all fog-drenched buildings and glittering streetlights. You think of him. His hands, ink-smudged and calloused; the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were something he’d been searching for his whole life without realizing it.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the tear slip off your chin, a warm trail against the chill of your skin. You swipe at it, quick and irritated, but the motion draws the attention of the woman sitting beside you. 

She’s old, with hair like silver threads pinned back with delicate combs, and eyes the color of river stones—sharp and knowing. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap, fingers adorned with rings that look older than you are. There’s a soft-spoken elegance about her, like she belongs somewhere ancient and untouched by time.

“Tough flight?” she asks after a moment, voice rich and slow, like she’s in no rush to get anywhere. Her accent is lilting and soft, dusted with something foreign and familiar all at once.

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Something like that.”

The woman hums, leaning back in her seat, her eyes not leaving your face. “It’s the leaving that’s the hardest part,” she says. “Always has been.”

You nod again, throat too tight to speak. You fish your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through photos like you’re searching for something to hold onto. Your finger stops on one—blurry and crooked, taken backstage during one of Slytherin's rehearsals. Regulus is in the middle of laughing, eyes crinkled, hair falling messily into his eyes. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand and flipping off the camera with the other, and you’re just off-frame, your arm visible around his waist. You stare at it, thumb brushing over the screen like you could touch him, just for a moment.

The woman leans over slightly, peering at the image. “He looks at you like you hold the sky,” she murmurs, and you blink, startled.

“What?”

She straightens up, smoothing out invisible creases in her dress, her gaze never wavering. “People don’t look at someone like that unless they’ve known them a long time,” she continues, voice soft and sure. 

“Longer than a lifetime, sometimes.” Her eyes turn distant, like she’s remembering something long buried. “Some loves are carved into the marrow of your bones. You can’t shake them, even if you try.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, sharp and sudden. “I don’t—” You pause, your voice cracking. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him again.”

The woman’s smile is a little sad, like she knows something you don’t. “The universe has a funny way of bringing back what’s meant to be found,” she says. 

“Sometimes in pieces, sometimes all at once. But always, always, in its own time.” Her hands fold gently in her lap, rings glimmering under the pale overhead lights. “You know, I’ve lived a long life. I’ve seen people come and go, cross paths and lose each other, only to find their way back again. Sometimes it takes lifetimes.”

You stare at her, the words clinging to you like mist, threading themselves into the cracks of your heart. “Lifetimes?” you echo softly.

She nods, her eyes twinkling with something that feels almost like mischief. “Oh yes, my dear. Souls that are meant to find each other always do. One way or another.” She pauses, then tilts her head, her gaze sharpening. “What’s your name, darling?”

You hesitate for a moment, the answer caught in your throat before you finally release it. “Y/N.”

Her smile deepens, something gentle and knowing threading through the lines of her face. “Y/N,” she repeats, tasting your name on her tongue like it’s something familiar. “I’m Dalia.”

“Nice to meet you,” you manage, voice cracking slightly.

“The pleasure’s mine.” She adjusts her rings, glancing back out the window. “Hold on to that picture,” she says softly. “Sometimes, a memory is all you need to find your way back.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just clutch your phone tighter, your fingers whitening around the edges of it. 

You think of Regulus. His hands, his laugh, the way he looked at you like you were something fragile and powerful all at once. You wonder if he’s thinking of you now, cigarette dangling from his lips, dark eyes staring out over the London skyline.

The plane’s captain crackles over the intercom, announcing the descent. You press your lips together, nodding at Dalia before turning back to the window. London is a maze of lights beneath you now, vanishing inch by inch into clouds and distance.

When the plane finally lands, your hands are trembling. You fumble for your phone, nearly dropping it as you swipe to Regulus's contact. You hesitate, your thumb hovering over the call button, heart thrumming like it’s about to break right out of your chest. Then, before you can think better of it, you press call.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

You hold your breath, eyes squeezing shut, his name burning against the screen.

But there’s nothing. Just the hollow, empty echo of his voicemail, his voice scratchy and distant: “You know what to do.”

You navigate through the crowd on autopilot, head bowed, hands clenched tightly around the strap of your bag. Outside, the sky is smeared with twilight, the city humming beneath it, stretching wide and indifferent.

You’re just about to step out onto the curb when your phone vibrates in your pocket, a sharp jolt against your hip. You pull it out, screen flickering to life. A notification flashes, bright and unyielding. Slytherin Live at the O2 Arena – Tonight, 8 PM.

You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. 7:52 PM.

Eight minutes.

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden, your fingers curling around the edges of your phone. It’s happening. Right now, across the Atlantic, Regulus is stepping onto a stage under a thousand lights. 

You can almost picture it: the crowd screaming his name, the low hum of the bass reverberating through the floor, the way he’d roll his shoulders back just before he took the mic, eyes sharp and cutting through the darkness.

You swallow hard, blinking away the sting in your eyes. Eight minutes. He’s probably backstage right now, cigarette dangling from his lips, letting Barty fix his collar while Evan jokes around in the corner. Maybe his hands are shaking—he always got nervous before a show, though he’d never admit it.

You don’t realize you’re staring until the cab driver honks from the curb, impatient. You blink, snapping back to the present, stuffing your phone into your pocket. Outside, the city waits for you—loud and bright and pulsing with life. But your mind is still somewhere else, somewhere under London’s stormy skies, with him

-

Somewhere in London, the city thrummed with electric light, neon signs flickering like fractured stars against the midnight haze. The streets were alive—pulsing with the rhythm of footsteps and laughter, headlights carving paths through the mist. And in the heart of it all, beneath the glow of towering marquees and thunderous roars of anticipation, a stage waited, shimmering with promise. Somewhere in London, Regulus Black was about to sing.

The stadium was a living thing—pulsing, breathing, screaming. Lights splintered across the dark, casting shattered constellations onto the walls and ceiling. Regulus stood in the center of it all, head bowed, fingers tight around the microphone like it might slip away if he loosened his grip even slightly. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his heart was racing, drumming wildly against his ribs.

Barty slapped him on the back, laughter sharp and bright. “You ready for this, Rockstar?”

Regulus didn’t answer. His eyes were somewhere far away, somewhere with cracked sidewalks and jasmine blooms, with cigarette smoke curling lazily between soft-spoken secrets.

The countdown began. Three fingers, then two, then one. The crowd roared, a beast made of thousands of voices, and the curtains drew back. The lights flared, and Regulus stepped forward, the noise slamming into him with the force of a tidal wave. But he stood steady, unmoved, eyes scanning the masses—not for them. For her. And she wasn’t there.

He raised the mic, and the crowd fell silent, the hush spreading like wildfire until all that was left was his breath crackling through the speakers. He hesitated, jaw clenched, then spoke.

“I, uh…” he started, voice unsteady. He exhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut for half a second before opening them again, gaze sharp and unyielding. “Before we start, I want to dedicate this one. To a girl out there... in Brooklyn.”

The crowd murmured, whispers flitting like moths through the dark, but Regulus held up a hand, and they stilled. He swallowed hard, eyes bright beneath the stage lights. “I’m not good at this,” he confessed, voice shaking just enough to catch.

 “I’m not good at... saying the things that matter when they need to be said. But she—she made me want to be better. She made me want to try.” His eyes swept the crowd, as if daring anyone to look away.

“She’s not here tonight. I don’t blame her.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “If I were her, I wouldn’t want to be here either.” His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a second, he seemed to forget there were thousands watching, waiting, hanging on every word. “But if you can hear me, if somehow you’re listening... I’m sorry. For all of it. For being a wreck. For not being good enough to hold onto you.”

The silence stretched, a heartbeat, then two. He licked his lips, voice lowering into something raw and broken. “But I love you. I love you in this life, and I swear, I swear I’ve loved you in every life that came before this one. And if there’s another after, I’ll love you then too. I’ll find you. I’ll always find you.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he sucked in a breath, sharp and jagged. 

“Because you—you are the only place I have ever called home.”

{very much suggest listening to only place i call home by every avenue, here!!!}

The audience erupted, screams and cries like crashing waves, but Regulus just stood there, eyes locked on the mic, fingers curled tight. “This one’s for you,” he whispered, just loud enough for the words to shiver through the speakers. “I hope you’re listening.”

The first strum of the guitar hummed low and aching, sliding into the melody like a promise, and Regulus closed his eyes, the words spilling out of him like confession:

Leaving your tears on my shoulder while your eyes beg me to stay

We were finally changing It's our luck, we're a little too late

I'd take you with me if there was a way Sorry, don't cut it so I say…

His voice cracked, raw and unrestrained, bleeding into the music with a desperation that rattled the stadium walls. But it wasn’t the crowd he was singing to. It was her. It had always been her.

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

You may be untrue, but I know I'm always coming back, you can bet on that

You're the only place I call home.

The lights flared, illuminating his face—sharp angles softened by anguish, eyes closed as if he could see her there if he only tried hard enough. He poured himself into every line, every word, as if the song itself could bridge the distance, as if the lyrics could bleed into her skin, settle into her bones, make her understand what he never could say when she was in front of him.

Near or far, where you are is where I want to be

Every lonely night

Every drunken fight

Couldn't make it right, I know If it hurts you bad, put it on my tab I can pay it back tenfold

You're the only place I've ever called my home.

His eyes squeezed shut, head tilting back as the drums crashed around him, the guitar screaming through the speakers like thunder. He could feel it, that ache that stretched across lifetimes, that weight pressing heavy on his chest.

If I had my way, you’d fill these empty beds

Someday I'll come back for you And never leave again.

His voice climbed higher, a prayer, a promise, one hand pressed to his chest like he was holding himself together with sheer will alone.

Take all of your doubts

You can throw 'em out

You may be untrue, but I know

I'm always coming back, you can bet on that

You're the only place I call home.

The final note hung in the air, vibrating through the silence, lingering like the echo of something sacred. His head dropped, curls spilling forward to hide his eyes, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but stillness. A held breath. A whispered promise.

Then the crowd exploded, screams rising like a wave, crashing against the stage with unyielding force. Regulus didn’t move. His shoulders heaved with every breath, fingers still clenched around the mic. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he looked out over the masses as if searching, as if he still believed she might be there.

But she wasn’t.

And in the echo of the crowd, in the roar of thousands of voices calling his name, Regulus had never felt more alone.

The roar of the crowd still pulsed like a living thing, echoing through the walls of the venue, but Regulus was already slipping through the backstage chaos, his heart hammering with something that felt like hope and desperation intertwined. 

Glittering lights and muffled shouts of celebration blurred around him, fading into static as he pushed past roadies and stagehands, barely hearing their congratulations, their shouts of triumph. His mind was somewhere else—half a world away, where he hoped she still waited. Where he hoped she still wanted him.

Outside, the London night stretched wide and endless, fractured by the rain that came pouring down in relentless sheets, slicking the streets with shimmering rivers of light. He pulled his hood over his head, ignoring the way the water clung to his lashes, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he strode toward the parking lot. 

His footsteps splashed in shallow puddles, the cold biting through his boots, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t.

His hands shook as he reached into his coat pocket, fingertips grazing the edges of a plain white envelope. It felt heavier than paper should—like it carried the weight of every unsaid word, every reckless heartbeat, every lingering regret. 

It was wrinkled and smudged from where he’d held it too tightly, her name written across the front in his slanted handwriting, softened by the brush of his fingertips.

"Regulus!"

The voice cut through the patter of rain. He turned sharply to find Sirius standing under the dim glow of the streetlamp, the light casting long shadows across the puddles at his feet. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his coat was pulled tightly around him, darkened by the downpour. "Where the hell are you going?"

Regulus paused, his breath a cloud of mist between them. For a moment, neither spoke. The rain dripped from the edge of his hood, tracing icy lines down his cheeks, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled low and deep.

"I’m going to Brooklyn," Regulus said finally, voice raw but certain. He took a step forward, fingers still tight around the envelope. "I already booked a flight. Leaves in a few hours."

Sirius’s brow furrowed, disbelief flickering across his face. "Are you out of your mind? You just walked off stage, Regulus. What the hell are you doing?"

Regulus’s jaw clenched. He looked down at the envelope in his hand, the corners crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it. "I have to find her," he whispered, voice soft but threaded with something unbreakable. 

"I love her, Sirius. I love her in ways I didn’t even know I could. And I’ve been a bloody coward. I’ve been selfish and cruel and—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "But I can’t let it end like this. I won’t."

Sirius’s gaze softened, something tender slipping into the sharp lines of his expression. He stepped closer, rain dripping from his collar, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. "You really think you can fix it?"

Regulus’s eyes darkened with resolve. "I have to try," he murmured. "I should have tried sooner."

A silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken things. Finally, Sirius’s eyes flicked to the envelope. "What’s that?"

Regulus hesitated. His thumb traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate. "It’s...everything I never said. Everything I wanted to but couldn’t. It’s hers," he whispered, voice catching. "It always has been."

Sirius nodded, and for a moment, there was something almost fragile in his gaze—an understanding that neither of them spoke aloud. He reached out, clapping Regulus on the shoulder before his grip tightened, pulling him into a hug. It wasn’t the kind of embrace they were used to—the rough, back-slapping sort that masked feeling behind bravado. This was unguarded, raw, Sirius’s arms wound tightly around him, like he was afraid that if he let go, Regulus might slip right through his fingers.

Rain pounded against their backs, soaking through layers of fabric, but neither moved. Sirius’s hand came up to clasp the back of Regulus’s head, fingers curling gently as if trying to hold the moment together. "You bring her back," Sirius murmured, voice gruff with the kind of emotion he rarely let show. "You make it right."

Regulus’s breath shuddered, his hands fisted into the back of Sirius’s jacket. "I will," he whispered fiercely. "I swear it."

The hug broke with a reluctant pull, Sirius’s eyes shining with something too heavy for words. Regulus stepped back, nodding once, the rain masking the way his eyes stung.

 He turned on his heel, striding through the downpour toward his car. The headlights flickered to life as he threw the door open, sliding into the driver’s seat, rainwater pooling beneath his feet.

He barely registered the wetness that clung to him, his fingers clenching around the steering wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead as the engine roared to life. Tires splashed through puddles that glittered like fractured glass. He glanced at the passenger seat, expecting to see the envelope perched there, but he didn’t notice its absence.

The rain blurred the city lights as he pulled out of the lot, headlights slicing through the sheets of water pouring from the sky. His heart pounded with something fierce and unrelenting as he hit the motorway, eyes fixed on the road that stretched out before him.

Behind him, Sirius stood beneath the rain, water slipping down the collar of his coat, pooling at his feet. His eyes flickered to the ground where they had stood, to the glimmer of white paper half-soaked by the rain, ink smudging and bleeding at the edges. The envelope lay crumpled on the asphalt, abandoned in the urgency of the moment.

"Regulus!" Sirius shouted, voice cracking against the howl of the storm. He bent down, scooping up the envelope, shielding it with his coat. "You forgot this!"

But Regulus was already gone. The taillights of his car blinked once before disappearing entirely into the rain-soaked night, swallowed by distance and desperation.

Sirius stood there, chest heaving, fingers clutched tightly around the soaked envelope. His jaw clenched, and he stared after the place where his brother had vanished, the rain pouring down like a thousand unspoken regrets.

And in his hands, the envelope dripped rainwater, ink bleeding like the echo of words that still waited to be said.

Rain bled from the sky in furious torrents, the kind that blurred the world into streaks of silver and shadow. Regulus gripped the steering wheel with hands that shook, knuckles white, veins taut beneath pale skin. 

His foot pressed hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring against the howl of the storm, and still, it wasn’t fast enough. The rain smacked against the windshield, a thousand tiny fists, blurring the city lights into fractured constellations that smeared past his windows, and still, it wasn’t enough.

I’m coming. The thought thrummed in his mind, a heartbeat, a prayer, a promise. I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming. He repeated it like a mantra, like it could bring her closer, like it could reach across the ocean and drag her back to him. His chest ached with it, ribs splitting under the weight of longing, sharp and unyielding. 

His phone buzzed beside him, vibrating violently across the cracked leather seat, Sirius’s name flashing again and again. He ignored it the first three times. He couldn’t think—not with her face burned into the back of his eyelids, the way she had looked at him, eyes rimmed red, voice cracking with the weight of goodbye.

You’re a wreck, Regulus. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. I know. I know. But I’m trying, I swear it. The rain crashed harder, sluicing down the windows in angry rivers, and his phone buzzed again—persistent, relentless. He grabbed it with one hand, fingers fumbling against the screen. “What?” he snapped, voice cracking like shattering glass.

“You absolute idiot,” Sirius’s voice crackled through the line, urgent and raw. “You left the letter.”

The letter. 

His breath punched out of him, knuckles slackening just slightly against the wheel. He’d written it the night before she left, hands shaking so badly he’d nearly torn the paper. It had taken him three attempts just to get her name right. He hadn’t slept. He’d just sat at his desk, scribbling and scratching out lines, pouring everything onto that single page: the things he couldn’t say, the things he hadn’t been brave enough to whisper when she looked at him with those eyes that saw right through him. He’d poured every raw, aching thing into it—how he loved her in this life, how he would love her in every life, how he would find her if it took him until the end of everything.

And he’d left it behind.

“Reg,” Sirius said, softer now, but the edges of his voice trembled. “Come back. I have it. I’ll bring it to you. Just—slow down, okay? Just slow down.”

Regulus’s gaze flickered to the passenger seat, empty and rain-slicked with water pooling in the seams. He could see it there, folded neatly, her name written in his jagged scrawl, edges creased from his restless hands. He should have told her. He should have given her something real. He blinked hard, the rain blurring into white streaks across his vision. “I can’t,” he breathed, the words cracking on the edges. “I have to get to her.”

“Regulus—”

“I have to get to her, Sirius. I—” His breath came out ragged, shaking. He could barely hear his own voice over the thundering rain, over the roar of the engine beneath him. “I love her.”

He said it like a confession, like a prayer, like an apology. The line went silent for a heartbeat, just the sound of rain crashing like waves against the windshield. Then Sirius exhaled, shaky, fractured. “Then come back. We’ll figure it out. Just turn around.”

But Regulus was already shaking his head, even though Sirius couldn’t see him. “I can’t,” he whispered, voice hollow. “I won’t lose her.”

The rain screamed against the car, drumming its fists against the roof, blurring the world into streaks of gray and shattered light. Water pooled in the dips of the road, headlights shattering off slick pavement in jagged lines like broken glass. He pressed the gas harder, the engine growling, the needle on the speedometer quivering as if caught between fear and fate. His hands were iron on the wheel, knuckles pale, veins thrumming with something raw, something desperate.

The phone lay in the passenger seat, screen aglow with Sirius's name, voice spilling through the speaker like a lifeline fraying at the edges.

Regulus's eyes were pinned to the road, heart a wild, unsteady thing in his chest. “I can’t,” he breathed, voice taut with something unspoken. “I can’t. I have to get to her.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Sirius snapped, voice cracking around the edges. “Just wait out the storm. Call her back. She’ll understand.”

But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not when she didn’t know. Not when he hadn’t said it yet—not properly, not in a way that could be held and kept and replayed a thousand times over. 

He thought of her in Brooklyn, waiting by the phone, her fingertips brushing the cord like it could somehow tether him back to her. He thought of her eyes, wide and wondering, the way she’d looked at him like he was something holy, like he was more than just the broken pieces he pretended not to be.

And then he saw it—the truck, barreling through the intersection, headlights flaring like dying stars. He slammed the brakes, but the rain had turned the world to glass, and the tires shrieked against it, slipping, sliding.

Time fractured. It splintered like bone, cracking open to show him everything he’d never have: her smile in the morning light, her fingers brushing through his hair, the way she whispered his name like it was something fragile and worth keeping safe.

He saw her spinning in the rain, barefoot and laughing, saw her curled up beside him, tangled in sheets and moonlight. 

He saw Brooklyn, brick buildings and graffiti-stained alleys, the apartment window with the crooked blinds and the potted tulips she insisted would bloom despite the cold.

The world tilted. Metal screamed—an unholy sound, something that came from the center of the earth, ripping through steel and bone and memory.

The windshield exploded into a thousand shimmering fragments, glinting like tiny stars as they scattered. His head snapped back against the seat, breath shuddering out of him like a final confession.

The car spun once, twice, the headlights casting dizzy arcs of light before slamming into something immovable.

His phone lay shattered on the floor, Sirius’s voice tinny and desperate, crackling through the speaker. “Regulus! Say something! Please, just say something.”

Rain dripped through the broken windows, pooling across the leather seats, washing away blood and glass and regret. The headlights flickered once, twice, then surrendered to the dark.

Somewhere, Sirius was still screaming his name, voice cracking, splintering, breaking apart like the sky.

“Regulus? Reg, please. I’m begging you. Answer me, please”

But there was only the rain. Only the slow, relentless rhythm of it, whispering against the pavement like a requiem. Only the sound of it washing over everything he’d left unfinished—the letter still clenched in Sirius’s hand, her name smudged with rainwater and the inked promise of a thousand lifetimes that would never come.

Sirius's voice cracked through the static, a thread of hope unraveling into despair. "Please," he whispered, and the rain answered for him, soft and unyielding.

Somewhere in Brooklyn, the phone would ring and ring, its call unanswered, its promise unfulfilled.

And the jasmines would bloom anyway, bright and stubborn against the gray, as if hope could grow in the absence of everything.

Seven Years Later.

London is colder than you remember. The rain hasn’t stopped since you arrived, slipping down glass panes like ghosts running from the sky. The city is heavy with fog, the kind that clings to your coat and settles in your lungs, turning every breath into smoke. You pull your scarf tighter around your neck, hands trembling from the chill—or maybe it’s something else entirely.

The bell above the door of the café jingles when you step inside. The sound is bright and familiar, a soft echo of another time.

The café hasn’t changed—still caught in its delicate Victorian splendor, walls lined with paintings of rivers and gardens, chandeliers hanging low like stars trapped in crystal. You pause, rainwater pooling at your feet, eyes trailing across the room until you find it.

Your spot. His spot.

It’s empty, of course. The small, round table by the window that overlooks the street. You make your way over, fingers brushing the back of the chair before you sink into it.

The seat sighs beneath your weight, as if it, too, remembers. As if it, too, is holding grief in its bones.

Outside, London breathes with its usual indifference. Cars push through puddles, umbrellas bloom and fold, people blur past in streaks of grey and black. You watch them for a while, eyes unfocused, chin resting on your hand. Time moves differently here. It always has.

The waitress—Margot, you think her name is—approaches with a gentle smile. She’s older now, hair streaked with silver, eyes still as soft as you remember. “Back again, love?” she asks, voice hushed as if anything louder might shatter you.

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Back again.”

Margot’s gaze flickers to the empty chair across from you, and something like pity settles into her features. “The usual, then?”

“Yes, please.”

She disappears into the back, leaving you alone with the rain and the silence and the memory of him. You pull your hands into your lap, fingers brushing against the edge of the envelope.

It’s worn now, edges fraying, the ink smudged from where your hands have held it too tightly, too often. Regulus’ handwriting sprawled across the front, looping and sharp—To My Fate

You hadn’t opened it. Not yet. Not ever. It had arrived a week after the crash, left on your doorstep with Sirius’s handwriting scrawled on the side: I think this belongs to you.

You remember the way his voice had cracked when he handed it to you, eyes rimmed red and jaw clenched like he was holding the whole world together with his teeth.

You run your thumb over the edges of the letter, feeling the weight of it press against your palm.

Seven years, and you still can’t bring yourself to look inside. Seven years, and the wound still bleeds, fresh and aching, every time you think of him.

You glance up, and your breath catches. For a moment, just a flicker, you could have sworn you saw him—leaned back in that chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest.

His hair would be a little longer now, maybe. He’d probably still wear those ridiculous rings, the ones that clinked against guitar strings when he played. He’d still smile like it hurt, all soft edges and unspoken things.

But he’s not there. He never is.

The tea arrives, steam curling from the surface like whispers, and you thank Margot with a nod. She hesitates before leaving, her hand squeezing your shoulder gently, as if she knows. Maybe she does. Maybe she’s seen the way you come back here every year, how you sit alone and watch the rain and hold that letter like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

You look back out the window. Across the street, a willow tree leans heavy with rain, branches dipping low enough to brush the pavement. Your chest tightens.

You don’t cry. Not anymore.

Your fingers curl around the letter. It’s soft from age, familiar in your hands, and you know if you opened it, if you unfolded the paper and looked at his words, it would unravel you.

Seven years of distance would collapse into a heartbeat, and you’d be nineteen again, watching him on that stage, your heart in your throat and his voice cracking like he meant every word.

“I may be a wreck, but I’m a wreck for you.”

Your tea has gone cold by the time you finally press the letter to your lips, eyes slipping shut. It’s raining harder now, the sky split open with grief. You breathe him in like smoke, like memory, like something you can still touch if you close your eyes tight enough. 

You wonder if he’s out there somewhere—maybe in another universe, maybe in another life—waiting for you by some rain-soaked airport, headlights flashing through the fog, hands tapping nervously against the steering wheel. 

You wonder if you’ll find him there, if you’ll run to him this time. If maybe he’ll still have that envelope pressed against his chest, creased and worn, your name scrawled across the front in his looping, reckless handwriting.

But here, in this world, the rain keeps falling. The city moves on without him, and you are left sitting by the window of a café that still smells like him, that still holds his ghost in the shadows of its corners.

Outside, the willow tree sways, heavy with rain, its branches dipping low like it’s bowing to something sacred.

You close your eyes and rest your hand over the letter, feeling its weight press back against your palm.

Seven years, and still it aches. Seven years, and you haven’t stopped looking for him—in crowded train stations, in the flicker of headlights, in the shadowed corners of every café you step into. You haven’t stopped waiting for him to walk through the door, rain-soaked and breathless, eyes wild with the kind of longing that makes you believe in impossible things.

And then, like a whisper from a dream, Dalia's voice drifts back to you from that airport terminal, the memory of her eyes so steady, so knowing: “Some loves are not bound by time, my dear. Some loves are stitched across lifetimes, always finding their way back, no matter how many times they’re lost.”

You shudder out a breath, clutching the letter tighter, like it might slip through your fingers and vanish into the fog. And yet, you still hold on—still keep that crumpled envelope pressed to your chest as if the words inside are the only thing keeping you tethered.

And maybe that’s all love really is—waiting.

 Holding on when there’s nothing left to hold. Believing, even when the world tells you to forget.

You breathe out softly, fingertips brushing the edge of the envelope, and for a moment—just a moment—you swear you hear his voice in the rain, whispering your name like a promise.

Somewhere, deep in the folds of your heart, he is still waiting at the airport. Still chasing you through the rain. Still driving too fast and holding on too tightly.

And you whisper back, voice breaking on the syllables: I’m still here.

To My Dearest Y/N,

I’ve tried writing this a thousand times. Crumpled pages, scratched-out lines, ink smudged from hands that never stop shaking when it comes to you. I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe with that first night—the one where you dragged that cigarette like you had something to prove. I still think about the way you laughed after, smoke curling around your smile, and how I felt like I’d been set on fire. I never told you, but I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were stubborn enough to stay.

I go back to our spots sometimes. The willow tree by the river where the world felt too quiet, too soft. That hidden garden behind the studio where you’d twirl like the whole universe was spinning with you. And our table at the café, the one by the window with the crooked leg and the chipped porcelain cups. It always rains here. You used to say London was crying for something it could never have. I think I understand that now.

I’ve written songs for you. Pages of lyrics tucked away in notebooks, scrawled across the backs of receipts and napkins. I never played them for you. I was always too afraid you’d hear the parts of me I wasn’t ready to say out loud. But they’re all about you. They’ve always been about you. You make everything else fade away. When you walk into a room, I forget how to breathe. I forget everything except the way you look at me, like I’m something softer than I really am.

I think about you singing sometimes. About your voice carrying through the room, unafraid and unbroken. I think the world would stop if it could hear you. I promised you I'd make you sing for me one day and I plan on doing that. I know I would. 

You always said I was reckless, a mess of sharp edges and bad habits. You weren’t wrong. But for you, I’d try. For you, I’d make sense of all the chaos. I’d carve out a place for you in all the parts of me I never let anyone see.

I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a fool, but I love you. I’ve loved you since that first night, I think. Maybe even before then. Maybe in some life I don’t remember. I love you in ways I can’t undo, in songs I haven’t sung yet, in words I’m still too afraid to say. I love you, and I’m done pretending I don’t. I’m yours if you want me. I’m yours, even if you don’t.

Loving you feels like rooftops under fractured stars. Like stolen cigarettes at midnight, smoke curling in the spaces between us. Like tea dates by rain-soaked windows, your hands cradling chipped porcelain, eyes bright with something I still can’t name. Like having breakdowns in hotel rooms, broken whispers and promises made in the dark. Like dancing in secret gardens and laughing under willow trees. Like looking at paintings we can't name. Like singing songs you have no idea are about you. It feels like every song I’ve ever written, every chord that’s ever burned under my fingertips. It feels like coming home.

I hope you can forgive me. I hope you’ll let me love you in this life.

Yours always, your wreck who’s foolishly in love with you,

R.A.B.

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