#blanket sharing

The Slytherin common room was hushed, the dim green lanterns casting ripples of light across the walls as the Black Lake swayed outside. Most students had gone to bed, leaving only a handful of tired seventh-years scattered about with parchment and half-finished essays.

You sat curled up in the farthest corner, your blanket draped around your shoulders like a shield. A pile of books leaned precariously beside you, though you hadn’t touched them in at least an hour. Your eyelids drooped, head bobbing slightly, when a voice broke the quiet.

“You’ll fall asleep there and wake up with ink stains all over your face.”

You blinked, finding Regulus Black standing a few feet away, his arms crossed. His expression, as usual, was carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a softness that only slipped through when no one else was looking.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you mumbled, straightening. “I was…resting my eyes.”

He arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth threatening to curl into a smirk. “Resting your eyes with your quill still in your hand? Ingenious.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “What are you doing awake, then? Don’t tell me Regulus Black stays up late to…what, scold people for studying?”

“Hardly,” he said, settling down beside you with the smooth grace he seemed to carry into every movement. His shoulder brushed yours, and the contact sent warmth rushing up your arm despite the chill of the dungeons. “I came to make sure you didn’t work yourself into a collapse. You’ve been at it since dinner.”

You tilted your head at him, amused. “And you’ve been keeping track?”

A pause. His gaze flickered toward the firelight, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he answered, “I notice things.”

That was Regulus for you. Always careful, always composed, but with these quiet admissions that slipped through in moments when no one else could hear.

“Well,” you said, nudging his knee with yours beneath the blanket, “I suppose it’s very noble of you, watching over me like that.”

For a moment, his lips twitched again like he might actually smile—until instead, he tugged the blanket from your shoulders and draped it over both of you. “You’re freezing,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you protested weakly, though your heart hammered against your ribs.

Regulus gave you a look that brooked no argument, one you’d seen him use on underclassmen and professors alike. But then it softened, and he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice as if the words were only for you.

“You push yourself too hard. If you don’t slow down, you’ll burn out.”

You wanted to protest again, to say something light or teasing, but the genuine worry in his tone made your throat tighten. Regulus Black didn’t show concern often. It was rare, like sunlight breaking through clouds, and it always caught you off guard.

“Maybe,” you admitted softly. “But it feels easier when you’re here.”

His eyes snapped to yours, wide for just a fraction of a second before his composure returned. He didn’t answer immediately; instead, he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness. His touch lingered, warm and careful, as if you were something fragile.

“I suppose,” he said finally, voice low, “that I can stay a little longer, then.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the blanket cocooning you against the cool dungeon air, the fire crackling quietly across the room. For once, neither of you needed words. His presence was enough—the steady weight of his shoulder against yours, the way his gaze softened when he thought you weren’t looking, the quiet promise that, even in the stillness of the night, you weren’t alone.

And when you finally let your head rest against his shoulder, Regulus didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted just enough to keep you comfortable, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand beneath the blanket until they laced with yours.

You always did.

The long silences. The way your footsteps echoed differently when you weren’t okay. The way you lingered by the train’s observation window a little too long, eyes searching the stars for answers you didn’t have.

The Astral Express always moved forward, and usually… so did you.

But tonight, the momentum felt like it had left you behind.

You were curled up on one of the benches in the Archive Room, arms wrapped around your knees, back pressed against the wall. The soft glow of the screen panels gave the space a quiet sort of loneliness — like the universe itself was holding its breath.

You weren’t crying. Not exactly. But your chest ached. You felt tired. Heavier than your own body.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice the door open.

"You're usually in bed by now."

Dan Heng’s voice was soft, but there was no mistaking it. Calm and measured — his version of concern.

You didn’t look up. "...Couldn't sleep."

A pause. Then the sound of footsteps approaching. Measured. Hesitant.

Dan Heng sat on the floor across from you, his long legs folding neatly.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t press. He just… sat there. Quietly.

“I’ve found,” he said after a while, “that letting the silence speak is sometimes more honest than words.”

You swallowed. “What if the silence just reminds you of everything you’re trying to forget?”

Dan Heng looked at you for a long moment, eyes soft behind his fringe/bangs.

“Then you shouldn’t face it alone.”

He reached over — slowly, so you wouldn’t startle — and placed a thin blanket over your shoulders. His hands lingered for a second, grounding.

You didn’t even realize how cold you were until that moment.

It was March 7th who found you next.

She was half-running down the corridor in her usual energetic fashion when she peeked into the Archive Room — and immediately slowed to a stop.

Her eyes widened when she saw you, bundled up and hunched, and Dan Heng, who gave her a subtle nod.

“Hey…” she said gently, crouching down next to you. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

So she reached into her bag and pulled out her camera.

“I was just about to go shoot the night sky again — there’s this one corner in the lounge car where the stars look like they’re spilling out of the galaxy. Like someone knocked over the Milky Way.”

You blinked. Slowly.

March smiled, a little uncertain, but undeterred.

“I thought maybe… you could come with me. You don’t have to talk. Just… sit. Maybe I’ll take a picture of you too — the ‘brooding mysterious passenger’ aesthetic is so in right now.”

You let out a sound — a half-sigh, half-laugh.

March’s smile grew wider.

“There you are.”

She didn’t push more. Just gently looped her arm through yours and rested her head on your shoulder.

"You don’t have to be the strong one all the time, you know,” she murmured. “We’re a crew. That means when one of us is feeling lost, the others hold the light.”

Later that night, it was the Trailblazer who found you — sitting alone now, in the observatory car, blanket still around your shoulders.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in and sat beside you.

The stars outside were breathtaking. Endless. Indifferent.

After a while, the Trailblazer broke the silence.

“Sometimes… I think space is too big. Like it’s trying to swallow everything, even feelings.”

You turned to them slowly, surprised.

They gave a quiet laugh. “I don’t always know what I’m doing. I just… keep moving forward because everyone thinks I can. Because they need me to.”

You met their gaze.

They shrugged a little. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get tired. Or scared.”

Their hand found yours, tentative and warm.

“It’s okay to rest. You don’t have to run from whatever’s weighing you down. Not alone. We’re here. I’m here.”

And that was it.

The dam didn’t break — not fully. But something inside loosened.

You let yourself lean against them.

You let yourself feel — not just the ache, but the care around you.

Later, as the Astral Express sailed quietly through the stars, you fell asleep on the observatory couch.

Dan Heng brought you a proper pillow, placing it under your head with surprising gentleness.

March 7th tucked the blanket tighter around you and left a tiny Polaroid at your side — a photo of all four of you, smiling after a mission, labeled: "When you forget, we'll remember for you."

The Trailblazer stayed nearby, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, eyes on the window.

None of them said anything.

But you didn’t need words anymore.

For the first time in days, you slept.

And the stars kept watch.