#angstcore

Two years.

It had been two years since you walked away, and still Regulus carried the weight of that night like an anchor chained to his chest. He remembered it with painful clarity—the sharpness of your voice, the betrayal burning in your eyes, the finality in the way you turned from him. He had stood there frozen, heart thundering in his throat, and said nothing. Nothing.

Because Lucius Malfoy had already won.

Lucius had been his closest friend once, sharp and cunning in ways that mirrored Regulus himself. But beneath that smooth exterior had always been envy. Envy that Regulus had chosen you. Envy that you had chosen him in return. To Lucius, love was a game of power, something to manipulate and control. To Regulus, it had been everything. And that was precisely why Lucius had struck where it would wound the deepest—convincing you that Regulus had betrayed you, that his loyalty had fractured.

You hadn’t questioned it. You hadn’t asked him. And maybe that was what cut the deepest—your silence had answered his.

The truth was simple, brutal: Regulus had never touched another soul. His hands had only ever held yours, his lips had only ever known the shape of your name. He had been marked already, the weight of the Dark Lord’s brand searing into his skin, yet in your love he had found a fragile kind of salvation. You were the only part of his world that was pure. And he had let you believe he’d destroyed it.

That night—the night you left—was supposed to be different. He had carried a ring in his pocket for weeks, turning it over in his palm whenever the fear became too much, whenever the shadows closed in too tightly. Silver, simple, understated—like him. It was never about grandeur. It was about a promise. A vow he had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times, words he wanted etched into eternity: be mine, always. Through fire, through curse, through darkness. Just mine.

But instead of falling to one knee, he had watched you walk away, the ring burning in his pocket like molten lead. The proposal became a secret, a vow swallowed by silence, and his silence became the crime you could never forgive.

For months afterward, he would wake in the middle of the night, reaching across cold sheets, half-expecting you to still be there. His thumb would twist the empty space where your hand should’ve been, a nervous tic that betrayed him every time the walls closed in. Even in the echoing halls of Grimmauld Place, he thought he heard your laughter lingering in corners, soft and distant, haunting him like a ghost.

And still, he told no one. Not about Lucius’ betrayal, not about the ring, not about the love that still hollowed him out from the inside. To the world, Regulus Black became colder, sharper, a boy turning into a weapon forged by shadows. But beneath that mask, he was bleeding.

The tragedy was not that Lucius lied. The tragedy was that Regulus let him. He let the silence stretch until it became permanent. He let you carry the weight of anger instead of dragging you into his own darkness. He thought he was sparing you—shielding you from the stain of his choices. But in truth, he was only sparing himself from the terror of watching you choose to stay or leave with full knowledge of who he really was.

Now, with the Mark burning against his arm and his time running out, he still carried that ring. Hidden away, tarnished now, but untouched. A symbol of everything he lost, everything he could never reclaim.

And the truth remained carved into him more permanently than any curse: Regulus Black never cheated. He never strayed. He had only ever loved you. The night you left was the night he was meant to ask you to stay forever. And that was the night his silence damned him.

The candle flame dances under the breeze coming from the slightly open window. With each movement, the light flickers, casting distorted shadows on the surface of the wall. The mantle of silence envelops the surroundings, leaving an eerie feeling deep within the soul. The pleasant scent of jasmine tea still lingers in the air - its aroma fresh, familiar, a dear memory. Yet, the cup remains half-empty, frozen in time - forgotten. The mirror on the mahogany desk reflects her visage. The candlelight reveals the tiredness in her eyes, the chaos in her mind, and the red ribbon that is keeping her together.

The stillness of the night is shattered abruptly by the intensity of her composing a letter of her thoughts.Placing her inner turmoil on paper. Every word, every ink-stained fingertip, every bleeding page, and the sudden appearance of rain becomes her altar for her loneliness. And then she begins to write - to write letters that will never be read by him. Still, she continues to write in an attempt to soothe the emptiness of her spirit in his absence.

My dear Adrian,

Today marks the eighth day since you left. I have grown accustomed to the emptiness of the castle without you. I enjoy the silence... silly me, you already know that. Yet, I enjoy it better when I share those quiet moments with you - reading a book, watching the stars, or simply doing nothing. Silence is always better together.

When I drink my morning tea, I find myself gazing at your chair, longing for you to be there, welcoming me into a new day. And when I close my eyes, I feel like I hear your voice echoing through the halls of this old edifice.

I have come to realize that I needed some time alone. Just me and my thoughts. Just like you needed yours - away from a place that holds not only precious memories but also pain. I understand better now. Still, I can not refrain from telling the truth... I miss you dearly. Yet, when you come back, I will be here - waiting.

I would stand outside the castle.

I would wait.

I would breathe.

I would look into the distance.

No one there, yet.

Just the rain, wind,

And me.

And at the other end of time, Adrian sits on the dusty floor of the castle. An old wooden trunk filled with sealed letters - unsent ones, never meant to be. He brings the letter to his heart, holding it softly, as if it were his dearest. He imagines her: writing by candlelight, jasmine’s fragrance in the air. Her fingers gently folding the letter, placing it in the envelope, and then pressing the melted wax with the crescent-shaped stamp, along with a flower.