#regulus self insert

You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.

But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.

To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.

Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.

"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."

He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.

They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.

"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."

"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.

"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"

"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.

"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.

"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.

The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"

"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.

"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."

"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.

"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"

They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.

Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.

It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.

"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."

"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.

"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."

"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."

Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"

You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"

"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.

"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"

"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.

But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.

You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.

"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.

James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."

The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.

There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.

He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.

Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.

But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.

"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.

Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.

"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.

A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.

"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."

There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.

The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.

Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.

And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.

You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.

You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.

A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.

You are not the only one who notices.

Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.

Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.

Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.

Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.

"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.

Because it is true.

There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.

They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.

"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"

Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.

James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."

"You are sitting down," Remus points out.

"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.

But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."

His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.

He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.

"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.

Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.

In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.

For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.

The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.

He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.

But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.

And then, inevitably, there are the ones who stay. The ones who take root. Friends who become fixtures in our hours, our patterns, our very way of moving through the world. These are the companions who anchor us, shape us, and sometimes save us.

But of all the categories of human interaction, the most treacherous—by far the most damaging—are those who fall into that final, cruel compartment: the ones we spend a great deal of time loving, and even longer trying to forget.

Unfortunately for you, there are not one but two such individuals who haunt that particular category. 

The first is your mother, a woman of remarkable cruelty and unrelenting spite, whose presence in your life has left wounds no healing spell has yet managed to erase. Her voice remains embedded in the back of your mind, an echo that resurfaces in moments of quiet, and most especially in moments of fear. 

She is, by all accounts, what one might imagine the devil would send if he himself were otherwise detained.

And then there is Regulus Black.

Your ex-lover.

He occupied your heart for six brief months, and has plagued your memory for over a year since. In the hierarchy of harm, he should rank second; he did not raise you, did not abuse you, did not imprison you in your own home. 

And yet, in certain hours of the night, it is his name that claws to the surface first, his voice that revisits you in your dreams, not with cruelty—but with absence. With silence. With the terrible emptiness of what might have been.

You do not know which wound is more exhausting: the one left by the mother you were born to, or the one left by the boy who told you he loved you and then disappeared so thoroughly it felt like grief. 

What you do know is that you have, at the very least, escaped one of them. Your mother is not here. Hogwarts, for all its horrors, is mercifully free of her presence.

Regulus, however, is another matter entirely.

You see him no fewer than three times a day. Sometimes across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable beneath the sweep of dark hair. Sometimes in the library, hunched over his parchment with the same precision he used to study you. 

And sometimes—like now—you find him walking directly toward you, claiming proximity with the casual grace of someone who does not feel the ground shift beneath your feet when he appears.

He is here for a book. That is all. A book Remus happens to have tucked under his arm. The corridor is quiet, the class bell not yet rung. You had been mid-conversation with Remus, about Arithmancy of all things, when you felt the air change.

You did not need to look to know it was him.

And yet, of course, you did.

Now he stands before you, perfectly composed, as if he does not know the state of your hands, the sudden sweat on your palms, the weight in your chest. 

As if you are no more significant to him than any other girl waiting beside her friend. As if he has not occupied every corner of your memory for the past twelve months.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice smooth and quiet, carrying just enough weight to command attention without raising its volume. “You still have that copy of Magical Theory I lent you last month?”

Remus adjusts the strap of his bag. “I do,” he replies, with an expression that flickers between casual politeness and something more watchful. “Was wondering if you’d ever come for it.”

“I meant to earlier,” Regulus says. “Life interfered.”

His eyes shift momentarily toward you, too fleeting to be called a glance, scarcely more than a subtle movement. 

Yet somehow, it ignites a warmth within you. You lower your gaze to the floor, as though it might provide a refuge from the weight of that silent acknowledgement.

Remus reaches into his bag and withdraws the book. “Here,” he says. “Try not to annotate the margins next time. Some of us actually care what the author meant.”

Regulus takes the book with a quiet nod. “Noted.”

You wait until he turns the corner before your shoulders finally drop, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw begins to ache. 

You exhale harshly through your nose, then turn on your heel, your shoes hitting the stone floor with unforgiving purpose.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, storming ahead, your robes flaring behind you. “Why the hell is he everywhere I go?”

Remus hurries after you, a half-confused, half-amused expression tugging at his mouth. “Is it my fault Regulus wanted a bloody book?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down a side corridor. “Why are you even talking to him?”

He blinks in surprise. “Because he’s at Hogwarts, in the same school, studying in the same halls and library? I am not twelve, severing ties as if cutting a frayed thread. Some connections persist whether we want them to or not.”

You stop short. “Well, you are breaking the biggest girl code ever.”

Remus blinks, confused. “Pardon? Girl what?”

“You heard me. Girl code.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not even a girl!”

“You’re gay!” you fire back without missing a beat. “Girl code applies.”

He throws his head back and laughs, hand over his chest as if you have just confessed your undying love. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

You glare. “You are not supposed to associate with your friend’s ex. Especially when he’s an emotionally constipated bastard who left me without a single decent explanation. What’s next? You going to lunch with him and chatting about his new broomstick?”

“I’m sorry!” he says, still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, you’re acting like he cursed your name into a grave.”

“Remus,” you hiss, pulling him closer by the edge of his robe. “You don’t get it. Every time I think I’m okay, every time I’m having a semi-decent day, he appears. He just slinks in like some bloody ghost and ruins everything.”

“You hate him that much?”

“I hate that he’s still here. I hate that I spent six months giving everything to someone who couldn’t give me one sentence of honesty in return!”

There’s a long pause. Remus watches you carefully now, the humor softening into something gentler.

“You know,” he says quietly, “it bothers you that he doesn’t look bothered.”

You freeze.

“That’s what this is,” he goes on, his voice not unkind. “You’re mad because he ended it, and he walks around like he doesn’t regret it.”

You scoff, though it sounds brittle in your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you?”

“I have,” you say, too quickly. “He ended things because of his own issues or whatever, which, by the way, he never even told me about. Just decided I didn’t need to know, like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Remus sighs, eyes flicking toward the stained glass window at the end of the corridor. “He didn’t think he could make you stay.”

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “But Regulus doesn’t believe anyone stays.”

You feel something hot sting the backs of your eyes, but you blink it away. 

You’ve cried enough over Regulus Black to fill every basin in the castle.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin, “he was wrong, because now I’m gone. And this time, I’m the one who’s staying gone.”

“Well,” Remus began, his tone far too casual for your liking, “I’m afraid I must tell you that you do share a class with Regulus Black. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be precise.”

You blink slowly, dread blooming like a headache. “I feel like this entire week has been designed to ruin me.”

Remus offered a small nod, watching as you turned and made your way toward your classroom. You exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken understanding passing between you, before each of you vanished into the corridors leading to your separate lessons.

The classroom is already half-full by the time you arrive. Pandora catches your eye and gestures to the seat beside her near the front. You gratefully accept and settle in. 

Moments later, the chair behind you scrapes against the floor, and without needing to turn, you know who it is. Of course it is him. Regulus Black. The universe never misses an opportunity to mock you.

The professor strides into the room with a quiet authority, his robes flowing behind him as he surveys the class.

“Wands out,” he commands without preamble. “Today we continue our practice of spell deflection and countering dark magic. If you failed to revise over the weekend, I advise you remain silent and take diligent notes. This lesson will be entirely practical.”

A few students murmur in quiet protest. You share a brief glance with Pandora, who offers a small, knowing smile.

Pairs are assigned swiftly. Pandora finds herself paired with Dorcas, while you are left with a boy whose uncertain grip on his wand betrays his inexperience, as if he cannot quite discern which end poses the true danger. 

The duel begins with harmless exchanges. Spells burst into vivid flashes of light, Protego charms shimmer and ripple like liquid glass, and stunning spells bounce in practiced arcs. 

You move through the motions with practiced detachment—cast, block, repeat—finding solace in the rhythm that dulls the edges of your anxiety. Your partner flinches at every near miss but perseveres. 

Gradually, you settle into a steady cadence, grateful for the distraction it provides from the presence a few feet behind you: Regulus Black, undoubtedly observing your every move with an inscrutable gaze.

And then something shifts.

It happens so fast you almost miss it — a wand flicks too hard across the room, a shield charm is cast too late. A spell that was meant to be redirected suddenly veers off its original path. 

It slices through the air with a sound that’s too loud, too sharp. The kind of sound magic makes when it goes wrong.

You see it out of the corner of your eye. A bolt of deep violet light, spiraling toward you in a jagged line. 

Before you can react, it hits.

The curse slams into your side like a live wire. You stagger backward, your wand slipping from your fingers as your entire left side lights up with blinding heat. 

Your shoulder crashes into the desk behind you. The air tears from your lungs.

There’s a split second of silence before the chaos.

You collapse to your knees. The floor feels far too cold beneath your palms. A ragged breath escapes you, but it catches halfway. 

Pain spreads through your ribs like someone’s carving fire through them, sharp and hot and crawling beneath your skin. You press a hand to your side and it comes away wet.

Red, bright, and vivid red.

Your name rings out, repeated more than once, but the sound feels distant, muffled, as if heard from beneath water.

“Do not move!” the professor’s voice commands, cutting sharply through the noise. You flinch at the sudden intensity. “Everyone, step back.”

Yet before the room can obey, firm hands grasp your shoulders—steady, anchoring. For a moment, you believe it to be Pandora, but then a gentler touch brushes your hair aside, and your name is spoken once more, quieter this time, urgent.

The world around you bursts into chaos.

Voices rose in panic. Footsteps thundered against the stone floor. The professor’s sharp commands cut through the chaos, urgent calls for help echoing around you.

You curled on the cold floor, your side burning with a fierce, unyielding pain.

Hands reached for you hesitantly, some too firm, others too gentle. Shadows flickered in the candlelight as the heat and noise closed in—too much, too close.

And suddenly, your mind is no longer in the classroom.

You are nine years old again, backed into the far corner of the drawing room. The wallpaper is peeling. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like ash and liquor and old perfume. 

Your mother’s voice is a velvet snarl, sweet and poisonous. Her wand is steady, raised like a promise, and you are not fast enough to run this time.

The spell hits your shoulder. You remember the way it felt—the tearing heat, the way your skin split without bleeding, the way she looked bored as you screamed. 

You remember the way no one came.

Back in the present, your chest heaves. The pain in your side is spreading, but it is nothing compared to the one cracking open inside your skull. 

You shove at the hands reaching for you and hear yourself cry out. 

“Get off me,” you sob, though no one is holding you anymore.

You clutch your side with trembling hands, shaking your head, rocking forward, trying to escape a memory you cannot outrun.

“She is in shock,” someone says, far away and echoing.

“I need everyone to back away,” the professor’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Now!”

You are sobbing uncontrollably now, your entire body convulsing with it. It is not the pain of your wound that has undone you. It is memory. It is fear so old and familiar it has worn grooves into your bones.

“Can she hear us?”

“Merlin, she is bleeding through her robes—”

“She is panicking—she is not breathing right—”

You want to tell them to stop. You want to scream until the noise stops, until the hands disappear, until your mother’s voice fades from the corners of your mind.

But all you can do is cry.

Cry and tremble and bleed.

Cry and fold into yourself like you used to, like you always have, like it is the only thing that has ever kept you safe.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel utterly, irrevocably powerless.

Regulus reaches you first. His presence carves through the panic like a blade through water, sharp and inevitable, silencing the rush of footsteps and the flurry of voices.

“Move,” he says, his voice low yet carrying an authority that makes the crowd hesitate. 

When no one obeys quickly enough, his tone sharpens into something unmistakably furious. “Move the fuck away from her!”

He drops to his knees beside you, the wool of his robes brushing the stone floor, and for the smallest moment his hands hover, trembling slightly, before he gathers you into his arms. 

The movement is careful, protective, and almost desperate, as though he fears you might dissolve into nothing if he holds you too tightly.

Your cheek finds the sharp line of his shoulder, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing, quick and uneven. 

His hand presses lightly to your back, the other cupping the side of your face as though to anchor you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs gently by your ear, his voice soft and laden with unspoken affection. The fury from before fades into a trembling vulnerability, as if your pain unsettles him to his core. “Please, just breathe for me. It is done now. You are safe in my arms—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it. I will not let go.”

You cling to him without thought, your hands fisting into his robes so tightly that you feel the fabric strain. He holds you just as fiercely, his head bowing until his temple rests against yours.

“She needs space!” he shouts suddenly at the few students who dare step closer, his voice snapping like a whip. “Do not come near her!”

The professor’s voice calls for Madam Pomfrey, hurried and strained, but you hardly hear it over the pounding of your heart. 

Regulus rocks you slightly, murmuring in low tones that you cannot entirely understand, only catching fragments. “Stay with me… just a little longer… you are here, not there…”

You are trembling so violently that your teeth ache from the force of it, and still you do not loosen your grip. 

Your mind flickers between the present and the past until it becomes unbearable, and the last thing you feel is the steady, protective cage of his arms before everything fades to black.

***

When you open your eyes, the air smells faintly of antiseptic potions and the crisp, laundered sheets beneath you are unfamiliar. The ceiling is high and white, the room softly lit. Your side throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Regulus is sitting beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his head lowered in thought. He looks nothing like the cold, distant boy you have seen for the past year. 

There is a rawness in his expression, a weight in the shadows beneath his eyes that makes him appear older, thinner, almost as though the worry has been consuming him for longer than you can comprehend.

The moment you stir, his head lifts sharply. His eyes, dark and searching, find yours, and in that instant, he is on his feet. 

Without a word, he strides to the door and calls for Madam Pomfrey, his voice edged with relief and urgency.

The matron sweeps in with brisk efficiency, her wand already in hand. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says, moving to your side and inspecting the area where the curse struck. 

Her wand hovers, emitting a faint golden glow. “You took a direct hit from a poorly cast Stinging Hex. Normally it would leave only a welt, but the spell was overcharged, which accounts for the severity of your pain. The student responsible has been assigned two weeks’ detention, and your professor was furious enough to petition for expulsion. The Headmaster intervened, so it will not come to that, but rest assured it will not happen again.”

You nod faintly, the words slipping over you like water without truly sinking in.

Madam Pomfrey continues, “You will feel discomfort for several days. The damage to the muscle has been repaired, but it will remain tender. Avoid strenuous movement, and come back for a check-up tomorrow morning.” 

She sets a small vial on the table. “For the pain. Do not take more than two sips at a time.”

Once she leaves, the room is silent again except for the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift. Your gaze drifts back to Regulus.

“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended.

The moment the curtain shuts behind Madam Pomfrey, he crosses the short space between your bed and the chair he had been occupying, his movements sharp with urgency. 

“Are you in pain? Does anything still hurt?” His eyes move across your face and shoulders and down to where your side is bandaged, his expression tight with something between fear and anger.

You shake your head, though the dull ache in your ribs remains. It is not the pain that feels unbearable now, but the fact that he is here, leaning over you, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. 

“Regulus,” you murmur, your voice scratchy from the earlier screaming, “what are you doing here?”

His eyes flash, the crease between his brows deepening. “What am I doing here? What kind of question is that?” He pulls his hand back, as though your words have burned him. “You were lying on the floor, shaking, barely breathing. Of course I am here.”

Your lips press together, the faintest tremor in your jaw. “You have spent a year avoiding me. I thought you made it clear that my wellbeing was no longer your concern.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and incredulous. “That is what you think? That I could watch you suffer and simply walk away?”

“Is that not exactly what you did before?” Your tone sharpens without your meaning to, the words tasting of months of hurt. 

“You left, Regulus. You left without a word, and now you appear out of nowhere, acting as though you have the right to stand here and—”

He cuts you off, his voice suddenly louder. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I did it lightly?” His hand runs through his hair, the gesture breaking the perfect composure he used to guard so jealously. “I had reasons. You would not have understood.”

Your gaze hardens. “I would have understood if you had given me the chance!  I would have stood beside you, no matter what, but you never gave me the choice. You just vanished.”

His voice drops to something quieter, almost desperate. “I thought I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, your voice shaking now. “You were protecting yourself. You decided I could not handle the truth, or that I was better off without you, and you did not even let me fight for us.”

There is a silence so heavy it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath. His eyes do not leave yours, and in them you see the glimmer of something painfully familiar, something you have not seen in a year.

When he speaks again, the words seem torn out of him. “I never stopped caring for you. Not for one day. I stayed away because I thought it was safer.”

Your own breath hitches, the anger still burning but tangled now with something warmer and far more dangerous. “You cannot say things like that, Regulus. Not after everything.”

His voice softens, but the intensity in it remains. “I am saying it because it is the truth. I still—” He stops, his jaw tightening as though the admission is almost too much. “I still love you. And I can’t help that.”

Your voice cracks when you finally say it. “What do you mean you still love me, Regulus?”

His head jerks back slightly, as though the words hit harder than any hex. “You heard me,” he says, his tone sharp, almost defensive. “Do not act surprised.”

“How could I not be surprised?” Your fingers knot into the blanket, your chest rising too fast. “You walked away and you never looked back.”

He takes a step closer, his expression tightening. “And you think that means I stopped caring?”

“It means you stopped everything!” The pitch of your voice trembles. “You stopped writing, you stopped meeting me, you stopped—” Your throat closes. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, frustration sparking like flint. “I never stopped.”

The heat in the room becomes unbearable. You swing your legs off the bed, the urge to escape flooding your body, but as soon as your feet touch the ground, pain lances through your side and you stumble forward.

In a heartbeat his arms are around you, one hand braced at your waist, the other steadying your back. 

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down again with such precision it feels almost angry.

“Would you just listen to me, woman?” His voice is low and fierce, his face only inches from yours. You can feel the rush of his breath against your cheek, the tension humming between your bodies.

Your heartbeat rattles in your ribs. “Then talk.”

“Why do you think I pretend to want Lupin’s wretched annotated books?” His tone grows sharper with each word. 

“Why do you think I force our schedules to match? Why do I visit the Gryffindor tower under the excuse of seeing Sirius? It is because I bloody care about your well-being! I always have. So do not, for one moment, question me.”

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that steals your breath. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between you. When his lips meet yours, it is as if all the years of silence, pain, and longing have been building toward this one desperate, fervent moment—fierce, unyielding, and weighted with all the words he never found the courage to speak.

When you finally drew back, the space between you was narrow enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, his voice softer now but still unwavering. He reached up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. 

After a heartbeat, he leaned closer, closing the small space between you just enough to let his breath mingle with yours. “For every moment I left you to wonder whether you mattered to me, for allowing you to believe that you were a passing sentiment instead of the one truth I have carried with me all these years.”

He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was a coward in the way I walked away, and I will regret it for as long as I live.”

You parted your lips to answer, but before the words could form, the curtain at your bedside was suddenly pulled aside. Sirius and Remus peeked in, their eyes immediately taking in the quiet intimacy between you and Regulus.

Sirius’s voice cut through the stillness with a teasing edge. “Hi!—wait—what exactly is going on here?”

Remus’s hand shot out, grabbing Sirius by the collar and pulling him back. “Let them have their moment, will you?” he muttered, dragging Sirius away gently but firmly.

“Oww! Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbled, shooting you a cheeky grin as he retreated.

As the curtain swished closed behind them, a short laugh escaped you both, the tension easing as your conversation resumed.

With a sly smile, you tilted your head and leaned in just enough to catch his attention. “Now that I realize…” you began, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your fingers slid up to the collar of his robe, tugging him gently but deliberately closer until the space between you vanished.

“Does that mean you were sneaking books from Remus just to see me?” you teased softly, your voice dripping with playful accusation.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed a shade deeper, an almost imperceptible crack in his usual composed facade. “Stop it,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused.

“Oh, come now,” you coaxed, your grin widening. “You must have known I’d find out eventually. Was I your secret motivation to studying all along?”

He swallowed, then tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours with something softer, hopeful. “Does that mean… I can be your boyfriend again?”

You feigned hesitation, arching a brow with theatrical deliberation. “Hmm. I don’t know, Black. Does that mean you’ll get all depressed and disappear on me again?”

His lips quirked into a pout, the vulnerability both infuriating and endearing. “I thought you liked your boys a little depressed.”

You laughed quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Only if it’s you.”

His smile was genuine now, a rare and precious thing. “So, I am forgiven?”

“Absolutely,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But only if you promise to stick around this time.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I’ll try very hard.”

A gentle smile curved your lips, warmth radiating from your gaze. “Good,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Because there is something I need to hear from you.”

Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your eyes locked with his. “Promise me this,” you murmured, your tone both tender and resolute, “no more secrets between us. No more disappearing without a word. I want all of you, completely, without reservation.”

His smile softened as he leaned into your touch. “All of me is yours, amour.”

For a moment, you simply held each other’s gaze, the world outside fading into quiet stillness. 

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation. 

When none came, he pressed his lips softly to yours, a kiss that held both promise and forgiveness, tender and unwavering.

As he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

You chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “I’ll try not to.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he smiled. “Je t’aime.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful grin. “Gosh, I missed your French accent.”

Regulus doesn’t move from where he is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression flat and unimpressed. His eyes flick from your soaked clothes, to the water dripping onto the floor, to the very obvious trail of pet store bags you have already scattered across the living room.

“We’re not keepin’ it,” he repeats firmly. 

You pout harder, shoulders hunching protectively around the kitten. “But whyyyyyy,” you drag out, voice wobbling. 

“Look at her, Reggie. Look at her. She’s so so so cute and she was all alone on the street and she was shivering and I’m definitely not leaving her there, so please.”

You lift the kitten a little higher like she is evidence.

You have already decided her name is Biscuit, because she is small and warm and soft and looks exactly like something that should be wrapped in a napkin and cherished. Regulus, on the other hand, looks like a man standing in the middle of his own personal hell.

He exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face pulling tight under his fingers. He just got back from a long, tiring day too exhausted to be faced with this innocent looking thing. 

He doesn’t even know what to be pissed at first.

Whether it’s your clothes which are completely soaked, rainwater dripping off you and onto the floor like you tracked half the street inside. Or the fact that his couch (there is actually only one couch in your apartment, but he’s just being dramatic) is now covered in a small mountain of cat supplies. 

Or his current biggest dilemma; the fucking cat.

“Get that thing’s rubbish off my couch,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.

“Do not call it a thing!” you snap immediately, bristling as you turn your body slightly away from him, shielding the kitten. “It’s a she, and her name is Biscuit.”

Regulus clicks his tongue. “We are not naming it, amour,” he says flatly. “’Cause we are not gonna keep it.”

You gape at him. “Excuse you, she already has a name and I’ve got her supplies and stuff to live with us.”

He pushes himself off the counter and gestures vaguely around the apartment. “It’s bad enough I have to share this place with the millions of pink plushies and stupid little figurines you own—”

“But you agreed I could have my own side!” you interrupt, pointing accusingly toward the shelves you meticulously claimed months ago.

“—and now I have to share it with a fur covered thing that eats, shits, and sleeps all day. Yeah, no.”

You scowl. “Regulus.”

Right on cue, Biscuit lets out a tiny meow, pathetic in the most devastating way. Something ugly and unfamiliar twists in Regulus’s chest. 

Shit, and here it goes—

“Oh my god,” you whisper dramatically, eyes flicking between him and the kitten. “Did you hear that? Did you hear her? She is so cute, oh my—we have to keep her!” your eyes shine with so much adoration and love it makes his heart twist in a way more pathetic than that meow.

“Tch,” he mutters, jaw tightening.

“Regulus,” you say, voice immediately going soft and pleading. “Can we keep her? Please please please please—”

He sighs, long and tired, shoulders slumping just a little. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I’ll see if we can keep the ugly thing.”

You squeal and step forward, immediately pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can react. “So, that’s a yes,” you declare triumphantly.

“That is not a yes,” he snaps, pointing at you. “That is a maybe, and I swear to god if it scratches me or shits on my pillow it’s gone.”

You nod eagerly. “Of course. Totally! Biscuit would never.”

The kitten meows again, loud and pleased, curling tighter into your arms.

Regulus glances down at her, lips twitching despite himself.

It was a habit he’d mastered long before Hogwarts—back when the walls of Grimmauld Place echoed with slurred legacies and scornful lectures. In those days, slipping away unnoticed had been a form of survival. At school, it was simply routine.

But tonight… something felt different.

Maybe it was the fact that his name had slipped past someone else’s lips.

Maybe it was the company—James Potter, Marlene McKinnon, and you—tucked just around the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room.

Or maybe it was something subtler, something aching and ancient, when Marlene’s voice laced his name with ice.

He hadn’t meant to linger. He’d only returned to fetch the worn book he’d abandoned on the windowsill that morning. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there—let alone you, laughter softening your voice like candlelight.

He could’ve kept walking. He should have.

But then—

“I think there’s kindness in him,” James said, uncertain. His voice faltered like a lantern in fog.

“I mean… we’ve barely spoken, really.” He rubbed the back of his neck—nervous, boyish. Always more heart than caution.

“Maybe he’s just not great with people?”

You hummed softly, nodding in agreement, though your gaze had grown distant, pulled by the threads of memory. You understood him far better than the others did—better, perhaps, than anyone else dared to try. That’s why Marlene and Dorcas had turned to you, curious about the boy who walked the castle halls like a ghost no one could quite touch.

You had known Regulus Black long before you shared the same classes at Hogwarts. Growing up among pureblood circles had made your paths cross more than once, though back then, he barely acknowledged your presence. It wasn’t until your fifth year that a quiet camaraderie started to bloom—quiet, not because it was secret, but because it had no need for loud declarations. A glance. A shared silence. A wordless understanding. All of it wove together like a private constellation only you two could see.

You smiled faintly at the memory, a soft huff of laughter escaping you. It was absurd, really, to think you’d somehow become the unofficial Regulus Black Expert of Gryffindor Tower. The idea would have made your younger self laugh out loud.

Because back then—when you’d first been introduced to him by a smug Sirius Black with a wicked grin and a mischievous, “Reggie, this one won’t bite unless you ask”—you never would have imagined this strange little bond forming.

“Regulus has always been… closed off,” you murmured at last, agreeing with Marlene’s earlier observation, though your tone drifted somewhere far away. Your words were less a reply and more a wandering thought, drifting like parchment on the wind.

It hadn’t been easy, not at first. Regulus had no interest in friendship—especially not the kind that came packaged with Sirius’s teasing introductions. He had been all cold stares and clipped replies, a boy carved from silence and family pressure. And you? You had simply been the unfortunate soul swept into the current of Black family drama, doomed to be one more casualty in Go-to-hell, Sirius’s grand matchmaking schemes.

Time after time, you found yourself at 12 Grimmauld Place under the excuse of “study sessions” or “family dinners” orchestrated by Sirius’s sheer willpower. And time after time, Regulus kept his distance, each glance sharpened like a dagger, each word a carefully measured offering. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t want them. And you? You were just a name on a list he hadn’t asked for.

And truthfully, you never quite knew when it shifted—or why. When, between wary glances and measured silences, something real began to stir between you. You chewed gently at your bottom lip as the thought unfurled, trying to follow the winding trail back to the precise moment when your distant acquaintance melted into something gentler, more sincere. Something you could, without hesitation, call a friendship now.

“Do you think he ever lets anyone in?” Marlene asked, a touch of disbelief in her voice—not meant to wound, only to confess her own discomfort. She never knew how to fill the silences Regulus left behind, not the way Dorcas or you somehow managed to. “It just doesn’t add up to me.”

Unseen just around the corner, Regulus leaned his weight against the stone wall, the cold of it pressing into his back as he stood completely still. This was the part where he should have left. Disengaged. Forgotten he’d heard anything at all. He should have reminded himself that he didn’t care what people thought—because he didn’t. Or at least, he hadn’t.

But something invisible tethered him to that moment. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the soft echo of his own name on your lips.

“I get that you’re close,” Marlene went on, “but how does someone like you end up friends with someone so…”

He didn’t want to hear the rest of the sentence. And yet, he couldn’t stop listening.

Her voice faltered for a second, and Regulus felt it like a fist around his ribs. He could guess what came next.

“So… cold?”

The word landed like frost beneath his skin.

Cold?

His mind latched onto it, dissecting it like a puzzle he didn’t ask to solve. Is that truly how they saw him? Was that what he looked like through other people’s eyes? He supposed he wasn’t the easiest person to read. He wasn’t known for kindness or warmth—but cold? The word clung to the back of his throat, sharp and stinging.

He should’ve walked away. Brushed it off like he had with everything else. He’d built his world out of walls for a reason. He didn’t let himself care. He never had.

So why, then, did his chest feel like it had been split open?

He was turning to leave, to forget the book he came for and the crack this moment left behind—

Until he heard your voice.

“Cold?” you echoed, and Regulus froze mid-step. There was something in your voice—an edge he couldn’t quite name. Anger? Disbelief? Something that made his heart stutter painfully in his chest.

He found himself leaning into the shadows again, listening, caught in your words like a boy drowning in a storm.

“Regulus Black is anything but cold,” you said, your voice like silk woven through fire. A laugh escaped you next, quiet and bitter. “He’s the warmest person I’ve ever known.”

His breath caught. He almost laughed—almost—but stopped himself. He was supposed to be hidden, after all.

Still, that one sentence echoed louder than the rest.

“Truly?” Marlene blinked at you, surprise tugging at her brows like she hadn’t expected the warmth in your voice.

You nodded with the kind of certainty that didn’t waver.

“Absolutely,” you said, your voice soft but steady, like morning light through a window. “There’s no one quite like him. He’s… kind. Deeply so. He just doesn’t wear it on his sleeve like most do. You have to look closer to see it.”

Around the corner, hidden behind the curve of ancient stone, Regulus stood still as the marble beneath his feet. Your voice was like a tether, pulling him back every time he considered walking away.

“Regulus doesn’t move like everyone else,” you continued gently, a smile curling at the corners of your lips. “He’s quiet, sure. Always has been. But cold?” You let out the softest laugh, the kind that sounded like wind through lavender fields. “No… not cold. Never that. He’s warm in ways most people don’t know how to be.”

Warm? Regulus nearly scoffed, but the heat that rushed to his face betrayed him. If only you knew the darkness he buried his heart beneath. If only you saw the shadows he called home. And still—still—your voice made him believe, just for a second, that maybe you did see. And maybe… you didn’t mind.

“He wouldn’t believe me if I told him,” you said with a small laugh, like you could hear his thoughts. “But it’s true. He cares in ways that matter—in quiet gestures and steady presence, in showing up without ever announcing that he’s there.”

“Ohhh…” Dorcas and Marlene echoed, their tones laced with newfound understanding.

You giggled then, all bright and unbothered, and it struck Regulus like starlight—sudden and impossible to ignore.

“He grows on you,” you promised, voice turning soft again. “Little by little. And when he does… you realize just how lucky you are to be close to someone like him.”

Regulus ducked his head, hiding the sudden flush crawling up his neck, thankful there were no mirrors nearby to betray him. He’d never been lucky a day in his life—but if you thought being near him was some kind of gift, then maybe, just maybe…

“Merlin’s beard, (Y/N), that was kind of adorable,” Dorcas teased. “How long have you known him, then? You two sound like old souls.”

“A while,” you said, tilting your head as you thought it over. “Slughorn once invited us to the same dinner—years ago. Said we were both too serious for our own good. I don’t think either of us said more than three words that night,” you laughed softly. “But… over time, I think we just started understanding each other. Quietly. Comfortably. And now… he’s someone I look up to. A lot.”

A good person? Regulus nearly rolled his eyes. You always saw the best in him—even the parts he tried hardest to bury.

“He’s always helping me,” you added, a smile blooming on your lips. “Especially when I’m struggling with Dueling, or studying late into the night. He says he does it because I ask too many questions—but I know he stays because he wants me to do well.”

Well. He couldn’t exactly argue with that one.

“And he’s a bit of a secret gentleman,” you said, your voice dipping low, like a delicate confession passed between old stone walls. A soft smile ghosted your lips. “Even when we weren’t close, he’d carry my books without asking, hold open the doors with barely a glance, pull out my chair in the Great Hall like it was second nature…”

Your words trailed off as the memories rose like stardust behind your eyes—small, quiet gestures that had once seemed incidental, but now shimmered with meaning.

Just around the corner, half-shrouded by flickering torchlight, Regulus leaned back against the cold stone, eyes half-lidded, breath caught. He’d forgotten about some of those moments—at least on the surface—but hearing them from your lips made them pulse to life again. You noticed. Merlin, you noticed.

He’d never thought of himself as kind. His mother had taught him manners, not softness. His brother had taught him rebellion, not care. But you… You brought something different out of him. With you, gentleness had become instinct.

And now, hearing you speak of it with such warmth, he found himself wondering if you saw something in him he hadn’t dared to believe existed.

Your smile deepened. “There was one time, years ago…” You laughed under your breath, as if it were still a secret.

“We’d snuck into the kitchens when the elves weren’t looking—he nabbed a chocolate biscuit from the tin. Broke it in half.” You looked toward Marlene and Dorcas, your voice softening like candlelight.

“And he gave me the bigger piece.”

The girls exchanged a glance, both catching the distant look in your eyes—the way your gaze flickered not to the past, but to a version of it you carried close, cherished. You hadn’t even been friends yet. Just two children on opposite sides of a too-large world, momentarily brought together in the dim glow of the kitchen hearth.

You’d spent the rest of that evening curled beside Tilly Toke’s Magical Mishaps, Regulus sat across the table, not saying much. But the half-cookie had meant something, hadn’t it?

The memory wrapped around you like a charm.

And somewhere behind the wall, Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his thumb into his palm—grounding himself. Because yes. He remembered it exactly that way.

“Aww!” Marlene let out a dramatic gasp, pressing her hands to her heart as if the memory had physically struck her. “He must’ve had a tiny little crush on you, darling,” she teased, her voice lilting like a melody as she batted her lashes.

You laughed under your breath, but Regulus, hidden just around the stone corner of the corridor, felt like his heart had been flung into a freezing lake.

A crush?

Was that how he came across?

His pulse thundered in his ears as panic curled tight in his chest. Surely not. All the little things he’d done—carrying your books when you complained about the weight, offering you his scarf on cold mornings, brewing tea when you stayed up too late studying—all of that was just… friendship. Wasn’t it? Politeness. Chivalry, even. Raised by Walburga or not, he did have some decency.

He tried to believe that.

But the longer he stood there, the more tangled his thoughts became.

None of it was just about kindness. Not really.

You were the only one who made the castle feel less like a cage and more like a dream. The way you laughed when he muttered sarcastic remarks under his breath. The way you hummed when concentrating. The warmth you gave off without even trying.

You were sunlight—unapologetic and golden. And him? He was the boy who lived in the shadows of dark family tapestries and colder expectations.

He didn’t mean to care for you the way he did.

But he thought of you constantly. In between potions ingredients, in the flutter of owl wings across the morning sky, in every flower you ever paused to admire. Even the Black family crest seemed to dim in your presence. His own reflection was easier to face when he imagined you smiling at him.

Gods, he was utterly doomed.

fuck. 

Regulus pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, trying to steady himself—anchor his mind back to the cold stone floor beneath his shoes and not the warmth blooming beneath his ribs. None of that meant anything, did it? All those quiet favors, the lingering glances, the moments where his hand brushed yours without needing to—none of it had to suggest something deeper.

He could care for you platonically. Couldn’t he?

He nearly scoffed at himself.

How utterly cliché. The proud, brooding boy spiraling the second he felt something tender for the girl who glowed like she’d been carved from starlight. Maybe he was just being ridiculous. Maybe you really were just friends. Friends could look after each other. Friends could think the other was breathtaking and luminous and—

Merlin help him.

Because if you were to lean in one day, maybe on the edge of a courtyard or under a soft-spoken sky, and confess you wanted something more—he wouldn’t push you away, would he?

His chest tightened. No. He wouldn’t. And that answer, so simple, nearly unravelled him. His thoughts tangled like spellwork gone wrong, and for a moment he swore the castle spun slightly beneath his feet.

“I don’t know about that…” your voice broke through the air, softer than parchment under fingertips.

And Regulus felt it—something unfamiliar and ferocious rising in his chest. Like swallowing honey and fire at the same time. It bubbled with sweetness, with something terrifyingly hopeful. His fingertips tingled, his lips twitched with the start of a smile he didn’t know he could make. He wasn’t sure whether to dread it or chase it.

“Well, you should ask him out!” Marlene said cheerfully, breaking the moment like glass on stone.

“Wh-what?” you stammered, blinking rapidly.

“I’m serious!” she grinned, nudging Dorcas playfully. “He’d say yes. You’re definitely his favorite, and have you seen the way he stares at you?”

I do? Regulus froze where he stood, blood rushing in his ears.

“He does?” your voice slipped out, barely more than a breath, tinged with disbelief and the faintest hope.

Regulus could feel it now—magic surging beneath his skin like it wanted to rise just for you.

Were you surprised? Mortified? Regulus couldn’t tell. From his shadowed post behind the half-open door, he was practically vibrating with the urge to peek out, to catch even a flicker of your expression.

If he could just see your face, he’d know exactly how you were processing all of this—whether you were laughing him off or secretly hoping it might be true.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him looking at you loads of times,” James said casually, like he was stating the weather.

“Same,” chimed in Marlene, lounging across the common room couch. “Honestly, I thought you two were already together when I first transferred.”

He did?

“You did?” your voice fluttered out, laced with disbelief—and something else Regulus couldn’t name, something soft and glowing.

“Yeah,” James shrugged like it was obvious. “He always sits close to you. And when he speaks—which isn’t often—it’s usually just to you. I thought it was some kind of intense, brooding flirting.”

No, you imbecile, I just don’t want anyone overhearing—

Regulus dragged a palm down his face, lips twitching with frustration. This was disastrous. He rolled his eyes and tugged slightly at the skin under them, as if it might yank him back into reality. But no—there it was, pulsing like an inconvenient truth just behind his ribs.

Of course he fancied you. Merlin, how hadn’t he seen it?

Or maybe… maybe it had always been there. Dormant. Waiting. Quietly thriving in shared glances, in the way you beamed when he walked into the room, in how his mornings never felt quite right until he heard your laugh.

That laugh drifted out now, pulling him violently from his spiraling thoughts. Light and bright, it danced in the air like the flicker of fairy lights during winter.

“No, no—you’ve got it all wrong,” you said, laughing again as you tried to dismiss the idea, but there was something dangerous in your tone. Something syrupy sweet and hesitant, like you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted it to be wrong. “We’ve known each other forever. If something was going to happen, it probably would’ve by now.”

The pause that followed was heavy. Not uncomfortable—but thick. Charged. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

Regulus swallowed hard. His heartbeat roared in his ears like crashing waves, deafening and all-consuming. He knew he should walk away, that eavesdropping this long was borderline shameful.

But he couldn’t. 

“You say that like you want something to happen,” Marlene teased, her voice laced with playful suspicion. “Are you the one with the crush?”

Regulus felt the breath knock out of him. Every passing second that she didn’t answer made his head spin, made the walls feel closer. If he didn’t move soon, he was going to collapse right here in this hidden corridor, fully exposed in the most humiliating way possible.

“I…” your voice broke through the silence, soft and unsteady.

Regulus clenched his jaw, fighting every instinct not to lean just a little farther around the corner. If he could just see you—if he could catch the twitch of your fingers or the tilt of your lips—he might finally have his answer.

If you were fidgeting, surely it meant you did like him.

If you stood still, frozen in disbelief, then the idea of the two of you must’ve been laughable to you. An impossibility.

“I haven’t thought about it,” you murmured at last, so quietly he barely caught it.

There was a shuffle of feet. Marlene let out a thoughtful hmm, unreadable in tone, and James called out his goodbyes as he bounded off toward the courtyard to meet Sirius and Peter.

Marlene followed not long after, muttering something about borrowing Lily’s notes or charming Professor Slughorn into letting her redo a potion.

You gave a breathy laugh and waved them off with a smile in your voice. And then, once their footsteps faded into silence, you exhaled.

It trembled at the edges.

“Merlin,” you whispered to yourself, pressing a hand to your chest as you dropped onto the worn couch in front of the common room fire. “That was way too close.”

Regulus, hidden in the shadows just beyond the entrance, let his back fall against the cold stone wall.

He’d never known it was possible to be both relieved and utterly destroyed in the same moment.

Your heart was still rattling in your chest, refusing to slow after the teasing from James and Marlene. You needed to get away—away from their knowing eyes, their smug grins, their pointed little looks that made you feel like your thoughts were written across your forehead. You were certain they knew. Certain they’d seen through every flimsy deflection and quiet denial you’d offered.

Just as you were about to flop onto the couch and sink into a well-earned nap by the fire, something caught your eye: a thick hardcover left resting on the arm of the chair beside you. A neat, velvet-green ribbon was caught between the pages, and all the sections before it were practically bursting with parchment scraps and scribbled notes.

You recognized it instantly. If you didn’t already know Regulus had been buried in that book all week, the sheer intensity of the annotations would’ve given it away. No one else read like that. Not in your year, at least.

A smile tugged at your lips as you picked it up. He must’ve left it behind in a hurry. Knowing him, he’d want it back the moment he realized it was gone. You figured he had the afternoon free, so it wouldn’t take long to find him. Besides, your nap could wait.

Cracking it open to the first page marked by a slim pink tab, you let your eyes flit across the topmost note stuck inside—only to immediately become absorbed, not in the book itself, but in the way his handwriting crawled into the margins like vines. You didn’t even notice him until you were practically on top of him.

“Oh—sorry!” you gasped, stepping back from the broad figure you’d nearly barreled into.

When your gaze lifted and locked onto familiar grey eyes, your surprise dissolved into a gentle smile.

“Reg! I was just coming to find you,” you added, brightening with a soft laugh. You held up the book like a prize. “This is yours, right?”

He nodded, slowly, almost as if startled into silence. His hand brushed against yours as he took the book, and for a second he couldn’t seem to find his voice.

“…Thanks, soleil,” he managed finally, quieter than he intended.

“No problem,” you replied easily. “It was in my nap spot,” you added with a sheepish little shrug.

That made Regulus laugh, low and amused. The sound startled even him, but the grin it brought to his face was unstoppable. You tilted your head slightly at the sudden warmth in his expression, your fingers twisting together, the flutter in your chest growing louder by the second.

“Hey, I was wondering…” you began, brows knitting slightly as your courage wrestled with uncertainty.

Regulus, ever so composed, tucked the book under his arm and gave you his full attention.

“Yes, amour?” he asked, voice soft and clear, like he was ready to listen to anything—anything at all—from you.

He watched your fingers begin to fidget again—an old habit of yours—and his heart thudded heavily in his chest. That small, familiar gesture pulled at something deep inside him, something tender and terrifying all at once. You were fidgeting. You were nervous.

“Uh, ah—it’s silly—” you began, your voice hitching as you almost backed out of it. But Regulus shook his head quickly, the usual cool in his features melting into a rare softness. He didn’t want you to stop. Not now. Not when it felt like your words might change something between you.

“I’m sure it’s not,” he said, more firmly than he expected. You glanced up at him in surprise, caught off guard by the seriousness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked again, quieter this time. Earnest.

You blushed.

Actually blushed.

And Regulus felt something in him collapse at the sight. How had he not realized sooner? The way he cared about you—it was more than careful friendship. More than routine familiarity. It was this. That look. That moment. This feeling swelling in his chest like an uncontrollable storm.

“Do you remember when we were little, and my mum always made us have those awkward little tea visits?” you asked, laughing under your breath. The sound was light but edged with nerves. “She’d dress you up like a little heir to the empire.”

Regulus chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the memory. “How could I forget, soleil? You were the only thing making them bearable.”

You opened your mouth as if to explain yourself further, then stopped short. Your gaze dropped to your hands again, which were still twisting in your lap, and your smile grew quiet.

“I don’t know, I guess I…” you stumbled, your words catching on emotion you hadn’t quite figured out yet. Merlin, you hated how your voice trembled. How silly it made you feel. “Do you remember when we became friends?”

You rushed the question out, afraid of losing the courage altogether.

Regulus nodded, his expression unreadable—but not cold. There was something still behind his eyes. Watching you closely. Listening like he always did, but with his heart too, now.

“I do,” he said gently. “You spilled ink on my essay, and I didn’t hex you for it.”

You laughed at that, your eyes glinting. “That was the moment, huh?”

“I think it always had been,” he replied, voice almost too quiet to catch.

“I do,” he replied without hesitation.

“Like, actual friends,” you clarified, raising a brow, not convinced he’d thought that through. “Not just two kids being dropped off at some posh tea party and expected to get along. I mean—real friends.”

Regulus nodded again, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“I do,” he repeated, softer this time, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You don’t?”

You pressed your lips together thoughtfully, chewing at the corner of one as you shook your head slowly. Your brow furrowed as you tried to remember, and Regulus gave a low chuckle at the sight, eyes glinting with fondness.

“Well?” you asked, voice tinged with impatience. “What changed?”

“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” he said with mock hurt, tilting his head and placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “That wounds me amour, you know.”

“I didn’t think you had feelings, Black,” you shot back playfully, a teasing lilt to your voice. “But come on, tell me.”

You looked at him expectantly, eyes wide and gleaming with curiosity. Regulus found himself caught in your gaze, helpless to look away.

You always did that—held his attention like no one else ever had. But this time, there was something different. Something unspoken between the words, resting in the stillness of the air between you.

He swallowed thickly. If you asked anything of him like this, he would give it without pause. It hit him like a charm straight to the chest. That soft glint in your eyes—he wondered if he’d always missed it, or if it had only just begun to appear.

“It was right before we came to Hogwarts,” he said finally, voice quieter now, like he was unearthing something sacred. “The weekend before the train. Do you remember?”

You nodded, the memory vague but there. You’d spent a late summer afternoon at Grimmauld Place while your parents caught up with his.

You vaguely recalled teasing him for organizing his trunk with meticulous precision and muttering something about the Weird Sisters under his breath.

“I remember you sorting your books by spine colour like some cursed Ravenclaw,” you teased, grinning.

Regulus huffed a laugh. “You were sitting on the floor in my room,” he continued, tone suddenly gentler. “You brought every sweet from Honeydukes you could carry and made me try all the ones I said I hated.”

Your grin softened into a warm smile.

“And then you told me,” he said, eyes flicking to yours, “that if Hogwarts was awful, and I hated every second of it, at least I’d have someone to sit with on the train ride back.”

The memory bloomed in your chest like an old Polaroid, blurry around the edges but warm all the same.

“You meant it,” he added. “And I think… that’s when I knew.”

“When we became friends?” you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment, then gave a slight nod, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—not out of sadness, but because there was more to it than he could say.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s when everything changed.”

“Professor let us move in a night early,” Regulus recalled, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably so the castle staff could have one last evening of peace before the school year started.”

You laughed under your breath at the realization, nodding. “At the time it felt like freedom. Our own space for the first time.”

“Exactly,” he agreed, eyes soft with the memory. “Feels strange thinking back now. It was just you and me in this massive castle… for a while at least.”

“I almost forgot that,” you admitted, the corners of your mouth curling up as you thought of it. The quiet corridors. The chill of stone floors under your socks. The thrill of choosing your own bedtime, your own space. “It feels like it’s always been this way.”

“But you don’t remember the first night?” he asked, tilting his head.

You squinted, trying to trace the memory like it was hidden in fog. There were flashes—wandering the halls, fiddling with enchanted portraits, a failed attempt at brewing hot cocoa with a half-working kettle you’d found in one of the old kitchens…

“You woke me up,” Regulus said, chuckling softly.

Your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh—Merlin. Right. I couldn’t sleep and—”

“You were bored,” he supplied, shaking his head fondly. “You dragged me out of bed and made me sit with you in the common room. And then you made me watch that ridiculous enchanted Muggle film projection your dad enchanted for you.”

You snorted. “The Princess Bride is a classic, I don’t care what you say Reggie.”

“It’s too long,” he shot back without missing a beat. “And you didn’t even stay awake. I sat there like an idiot while you snored on my shoulder.”

You covered your face with your hands, laughing with secondhand embarrassment. “Okay, okay—”

“You talked through half of it,” he went on, grinning. “You said you were scared.”

The laughter softened on your lips, surprise flickering in your gaze.

“I did?” you asked, quieter now.

Regulus nodded, watching you intently.

“You said you didn’t know what Hogwarts would be like,” he continued, voice gentler. “You were afraid you’d mess everything up. But then you said as long as I was around, maybe it’d be alright.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The memory settled over you like a forgotten charm being reawakened.

“And it was,” he added softly. “Alright, I mean.”

Your eyes met his again, and there was something about the way he looked at you then—like you were the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Like he’d never forgotten that night for a reason.

“You said you were scared of failing,” Regulus’ voice dipped low again, quieter than before—almost reverent. “That… you were afraid of never becoming powerful enough to protect the people you cared about.”

Despite the memory being so old, embarrassment flickered through you now like a lit match to dry parchment. You couldn’t believe this was the moment he’d held onto all this time. Of all things, this one?

“I almost wish I hadn’t asked,” you muttered, cheeks burning, “I can’t believe I said that to you.”

But Regulus didn’t tease. In fact, his smile turned almost fond.

“Then you told me you thought I was strong,” he continued, and for the first time, there was the faintest trace of pink brushing the tops of his cheeks. “You asked if I’d help you… get strong too. Like me.”

Your eyes widened slightly. The image of little you, curled in a blanket in the Slytherin common room, whispering fears into the dim glow of floating candles, was something hazy and far away.

But Regulus? He remembered it like it had just happened.

“And then,” he added with a snort, “you passed out mid-sentence, head on my shoulder. I was stuck watching the rest of that bloody Muggle film just so you wouldn’t wake up and yell at me for skipping to the end.”

“You watched the rest of the movie?” you asked, your voice soft with wonder.

He laughed. “Every last minute.”

You blinked, stunned. “I can’t believe I don’t remember any of that.”

“You were exhausted,” Regulus shrugged like it didn’t matter, even though it clearly had. “And it was a long time ago. I never expected you to remember it… I just never forgot.”

You chewed on your lip, falling quiet as warmth coiled in your chest. That kind of memory… someone keeping it for you when you hadn’t even known to treasure it—it meant more than you could say.

But then he stepped forward.

Just a single pace, barely anything. And yet your whole body felt it—the sudden closeness, the silence that wrapped around you both like a breath held too long.

“And by the way…” he murmured, pulling your gaze up to his with ease. “I do kind of stare at you, a lot.”

Your face went red so fast you thought your ears might start steaming.

“You—you heard that?” you squeaked, mortified.

“And then some,” Regulus replied smoothly, and despite the flush still tinting his cheekbones, he was smiling. Really smiling

For once, he didn’t feel like hiding.

“Did you mean all of that, soleil?” he asked.

And this time, the air between you was electric.

Your mouth opened once. Closed. Opened again.

The conversation from earlier came crashing down on you all at once, each word echoing in your head with horrifying clarity. He’d heard it. All of it. Your rambling. Your clumsy affection disguised as hypothetical questions. And—Merlin—had he heard that last part?

“I mean, y—yeah. Yeah,” you stammered, nodding just a little too fast. “Of course I did.”

But your voice had gone breathless, barely even sound.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed so firmly on you you thought he might see through you completely.

“Even that last part?” he asked, stepping forward again. The hem of his robes brushed yours now, but you didn’t move back. You couldn’t.

“Last part?” you echoed stupidly, throat dry.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and this time his hand lifted—not hesitantly, but reverently—as though you might vanish if he rushed the moment. His thumb ghosted beneath your jaw, the faintest brush of contact that left you aching for more.

“You know,” he murmured, voice deep and velvet-smooth, “that bit where you said you hadn’t really thought about me like that.”

You remembered. Of course you did. It was the one part of the conversation that had clanged in your mind like a bell since it left your lips.

“You meant that too?”

You swallowed hard. His fingers were still at your chin, gently anchoring you in place, and the look in his eyes—

You couldn’t look away if you tried.

“No,” you breathed, and it was so soft it nearly disappeared into the silence between you. But Regulus heard it. He saw it form on your lips, caught the tremble behind it.

“No, I didn’t mean that.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small, private, and impossibly warm. You watched it unfold, saw the way his eyes softened as he noticed your hands fidgeting again.

He knew.

You felt it too.

“And what did you mean to say?” he asked, and there was a raw sort of need in the question, like it had lived in him for ages, waiting to be unburdened.

Like if you said the words now, it might change everything.

Your gaze lingered on his lips.

You hadn’t meant to stare, but he was close now—closer than you ever imagined he’d dare to be. And yet he was still waiting. Still asking for the truth with a calm so controlled it nearly masked the ache in his eyes.

He wanted to hear it. And you wanted to say it. But wanting and doing were not the same.

“I meant…” you began, eyes flicking up to meet his when you realized how long you’d been caught staring. “I meant I have thought about… something more…”

The words came out in pieces, light and thin like cobwebs, hardly brave or poetic. Nothing like the declarations you’d imagined in your head a hundred times. But it was real. And yours. And when you cleared your throat and added, “But they didn’t need to know that,” with a sheepish little laugh, something cracked wide open in his chest.

“No, I suppose not,” Regulus murmured, and the faintest smile tugged at his lips—one of those rare, real ones that reached his eyes and made them glow softer than moonlight.

You didn’t feel so nervous anymore. Not around him.

“So…” you tilted your head, teasing gently. “Spying on your friends these days, is that your new hobby, Black?” Your voice was quiet, but there was laughter behind it, light and fluttering. “Bit off-brand for you, Regulus.”

He chuckled lowly, and your heart stumbled at the sound—low, smooth, and entirely unguarded.

“When else was I going to hear you say all those nice things about me?” he replied, his voice rich with warmth and something sweeter. His thumb still rested beneath your chin, brushing idly along your skin like he hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Regulus Black had never been the touchy type. He was all self-restraint and deliberate space. But now? His touch was gentle, steady, and intentional. Like he had finally decided not to pull away anymore.

“I quite liked the part where you said I was a gentleman,” he added, the corners of his mouth quirking with quiet amusement.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too wildly.

And then he leaned in. Not rushed, not hesitant—just certain. Your eyes widened, nearly burning from how long you kept them fixed on his. Everything about him in this moment—his steady breath, the warmth of his hand, the tender curve of his mouth—made the world shrink until it was just him and you in this quiet corridor that smelled faintly of old parchment and lavender.

“But for the record,” he whispered, and you swore you could feel every word land against your lips, “I’m lucky to have you, too.”

Your chest swelled, and your smile came freely now, radiant and soft as your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of his sleeve.

Yes. Just as you thought.

He was the warmest person you knew.

Regulus Black was the warmest person in this wide universe.

"And," he continued, his voice a shade softer, more reverent now, "you are my favorite."

You let out a breath of laughter, quiet and a little stunned, before you rolled your eyes at him. There was no real exasperation behind it. Only a fondness so deep it practically glowed from you.

"I know," you murmured, narrowing your eyes with playful suspicion. The smile you wore, though, that was sincere. Sweet and sincere and so unguarded it made Regulus feel like you had just handed him your entire heart without even realizing it.

"Must be a side effect of your staring problem."

He tilted his head slightly, guiding your chin up with the faintest tug of his thumb. His nose brushed yours.

You could feel the warmth of his breath as it mingled with yours, and just as you leaned into it, just as the world started to tilt, he paused. Of course he did. Always the gentleman, no matter how undone he felt inside.

"May I?" he murmured. His lashes dipped as his gaze flicked between your eyes and your lips, every syllable spoken like a secret. "Kiss you?"

You almost laughed from how impossibly soft he could be. You wanted to throw caution to the wind, wrap your fingers in the collar of his uniform and pull him in like you were in the climax of a dramatic novel. But your voice was trapped in your throat, and your limbs would not obey you.

So you closed your eyes.

And nodded.

Just barely.

It was enough.

His lips found yours with a grace that felt practiced, like he had been dreaming of this for far too long. And he kissed you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. Gentle, tentative, almost reverent.

Your body softened completely. Every piece of tension unraveled in his arms. Your hands, which had been stiff by your sides, slowly lifted and curled gently over his shoulders.

His lips deepened against yours in return, not forcefully, just sure, like he had found something precious and had finally been allowed to hold it.

His free hand, no longer gripping the book he always carried like armor, settled against your cheek. His fingers trembled ever so slightly before the tip of his index ghosted along the shell of your ear, down the line of your jaw, and back up again. Slow. Slow. Slow. Like he wanted to memorize you.

You felt like you might float away. Your heart swelled so high in your chest you were almost afraid of what would happen if you stopped.

And when you did part, it was not with loss, but with a quiet sort of awe.

Your lips still tingled. Your fingers still trembled slightly on his shoulders. Yet all you could do was smile. A real one. Warm and quiet and deeply content. And Regulus? He wore the same smile. Mirrored and soft. As if kissing you had rewired something inside him.

You did not even open your eyes for a moment, basking in it. And that made him chuckle.

"Next time," you murmured, dazed and dreamy, "I’ll let them know you are a good kisser too."

He smiled—genuinely, boyishly, almost bashfully—and leaned in to press a featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"Don’t," he whispered. "I like that being just yours."

"Will you?" he murmured with a tease laced beneath the softness of his voice.

You nodded, leaning your cheek into his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of his palm made you glow, even as a blush crept up your cheeks and your nose crinkled with hesitation.

"Well, maybe not right away," you mumbled, your tone sheepish now.

Regulus laughed, actually laughed. And it was the kind that made you feel like you had just discovered a hidden treasure.

His smile was wide, unguarded, and it lit up every inch of his face. The pink hue blooming across his cheeks was proof enough that whatever mask he usually wore had fallen completely away for you.

"Maybe not right away," he echoed. His voice dipped low again. Softer now and more tender.

His thumb stroked along the curve of your cheekbone, so carefully, like you were something fragile and precious that only he got to hold.

The sound of his voice, husky and warm against your lips, was enough to pull you under.

Your eyes fluttered closed instinctively. And when his lips brushed over yours once again, it was with all the careful affection of a boy who had never believed himself worthy of softness until now.

You kissed him back just as sweetly. Your fingers traced along the sharp edge of his jaw, hesitating for only a second before settling there. You wanted to pull him closer, wanted to let passion take over, but you did not, not yet. There would be time for that. You could feel it.

He would make time for you.

And for the first time in a very long while, Regulus believed in what you saw in him. He believed he could be kind, gentle, and loved.

But only because you had seen it first. Had named it. Had handed it to him freely, without condition.

He thought he should tell you, one day. That everything good he was becoming had started with you. But that could wait.

You had time now.

Time enough for him to return the favor. Time enough to tell you again and again just how extraordinary you were, until his lungs gave out and your cheeks stayed permanently pink.

Because that was the kind of future he wanted.

One where he never stopped reminding you that you were his favorite, too.

The words left his lips in a breath, a quiet confession. "Tu es le soleil qui me réchauffe."

A shadow fell across you from behind. You could feel it before you saw it. A hand slid gently across your waist, and without a second thought, your body reacted.

You flinched violently, spun on your heel, and nearly tripped over yourself, only to be caught by the familiar warmth of someone’s gaze.

Regulus stood there, impossibly composed, eyes warm and steady, as though he had not just made your heart hammer violently against your ribs. He looked at you as if the very sight of you was the most ordinary thing in the world.

You laughed nervously, heart still racing from the jump. “When did you get here?”

He quirked a brow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just now, amour.”

Pandora, noticing the interaction and clearly entertained, laughed softly. “Well, that is Black. Very freakish.” She shook her head with exaggerated amusement before walking away, leaving you entirely in Regulus’ presence.

Before you could even respond, he stepped closer and wrapped you in a firm, secure embrace. His hands rested lightly on your back, holding you with a tenderness that belied the unsettling way he appeared out of nowhere.

“You really are creepy,” you muttered, half scolding, half laughing.

“I prefer… efficient,” he replied, voice low, precise, every word measured. 

You groaned softly, pressing your forehead against his chest for a fraction of a second. “You know you give me heart palpitations.”

He allowed a brief, almost imperceptible smile. “Not my intention, love. Perhaps you enjoy the thrill.”

You laughed again, exasperated, and shook your head. “Sure. That’s one way to describe my hyperventilating because you appeared like some random creep ghost.”

He did not respond immediately, only rested his forehead against yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and you felt the quiet reassurance in that simple gesture.

Though of course, this was not the last time it happened.

Over the coming days, weeks, it became an unspoken, almost ritualized occurrence. Regulus would somehow appear behind you with silent, predator-like grace. You would flinch, jump, or mutter some indignant curse, and he would remain calm, sometimes teasing, sometimes entirely unbothered.

While usually it drew nothing beyond a startled gasp or a half-suppressed yelp, there were occasions that proved far more theatrical.

Like right now.

You were juggling an absurd stack of textbooks in your arms — four Arithmancy volumes, each heavy enough to threaten an early back injury. You had just stepped out of class, muttering under your breath about the sheer cruelty of academic life, when a familiar figure materialized in front of you as though conjured from thin air.

“Bloody hell—!” You nearly fell as the top book slipped, followed by the rest. 

With a startled yelp, you fumbled for balance, but before the pile could hit the ground, Regulus was already there, catching every single book with unnerving precision.

You froze, heart racing, and stared at him, thoroughly unimpressed and bothered.

“Regulus Black!” you barked. “Must you always appear out of nowhere like some melodramatic thief?I nearly broke my neck when you appeared out of nowhere!”

He straightened, calm as ever, not even winded. His voice, when he spoke, was maddeningly composed. “I came to help you carry your books,” he said softly, still steady despite your outburst.

“I knew you had Arithmancy today. You always look completely worn out afterwards.”

You sighed, a mix of exasperation and guilt curling in your chest.

Part of you felt foolish for getting so worked up over your boyfriend’s peculiar ways of greeting you, yet when his dark, quietly pleading eyes met yours, all rational frustration melted.

His lips had formed the tiniest pout, a faint, almost imperceptible quiver that made him look like a kicked puppy, and you could not help but find it utterly adorable.

You, being the hopelessly infatuated fool you were, gave in, ignoring the fact that he had just stolen at least ten years off your life with that single, perfectly executed jumpscare.

“Oh Regulus,” you said with a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I didn’t know you came to help me carry my books—matter of fact, I jumped because you just appeared out of bloody nowhere.”

“I am sorry for startling you, amour,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was a soft sincerity beneath it.

He shifted the books easily into one arm and extended his free hand toward you. “See? If I hold your hand, you won’t get startled again.”

You looked at his hand for a second before laughing under your breath. “That’s not how that works.”

He raised a brow, perfectly patient. “You would be surprised.”

You hesitated a moment longer before slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours, steady and warm, and the faintest, almost imperceptible smile broke across his face — subtle, barely there, but undeniably genuine.

“Just… don’t do that again,” you said softly with narrowed eyes, the words carrying both warning and affection.

Regulus tilted his head, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Do what?”

“You know,” you murmured, squeezing his hand gently. “Sneak up on me like some shadowy predator! Make my heart skip a beat.”

He gave the tiniest shrug, lips twitching.

You frown as you give his shoulder a gentle shove. “One day, I swear, I will sneak up on you and see how you like it.”

His lips curved, slow and deliberate, and he leaned just enough to brush his forehead against yours. “I would not recommend it,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “I tend to notice everything that moves near you.”

You halted mid-step, tilting your head as you studied him, half in disbelief, half in amusement “You know,” you said, voice light and teasing, “I think you could make a rather excellent thief, Reggie.”

Regulus paused, a flicker of mock offense crossing his face. “A thief?” he repeated, his dark eyes narrowing.

“Is that how you see me?” His expression sharpened slightly, though it was clear he was teasing. “You could have said an assassin, a spy, or something with a bit more… dignity.”

You laughed. “No, no. A thief suits you perfectly. Quiet, clever, always appearing when no one expects it… You’d be amazing at it.”

He muttered something in French under his breath, low and precise, then looked at you with a dark glint in his eyes. “And if I were a thief, what would that make you?” He arched a brow, letting the question linger.

You hummed thoughtfully. “I would be the planner. I would map the galleries, note the guards’ rounds, and choose the perfect night. I would orchestrate every detail and you would move through the shadows, taking what no one ever saw coming.”

You smiled at the thought, imagining the marble halls, glinting treasures, and him, impossibly calm, executing every move flawlessly while you orchestrated it all.

Regulus let out a low, pleased laugh. “You make a fine strategist,” he murmured as you reached the steps of the library. “I would go on any heist you plan, if that is what you really desire.”

You smiled, heart lifting at the intimacy in his tone. “Then it’s settled,” you said softly. “Thank you, Reggie.”

He tilted his head again, dark eyes studying you. “Though, you do realize,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “that this makes you almost as ‘freakish’ as me?”

“Perhaps,” you said, brushing a thumb across his knuckles. “But I think we make a perfect team!”

Regulus’ mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, his voice low and deliberate. “You know, ma belle” he said, turning towards you. “If you asked me to empty The Louvre for you, I would see to it without hesitation.”

It had been four months since you began dating, though it felt both shorter and longer in the way time distorts around tenderness. You were used to his quiet nature, to the way he sometimes arrived in silence and simply breathed beside you, needing no words. But you had never seen your boyfriend this fragile.

From the many nights he had come padding across your floor, you had memorized every proud little stride his feline body carried. You knew the sound of his paws before they reached your door.

Yet tonight, when you heard the faint mewl and turned toward the shadowed corner of your room, there was a tremor in his movements.

His tail hung low, his ears drooped. He looked broken in a way that felt wrong for something so small.

You were out of bed in a heartbeat, whispering, “Oh, Reggie, I didn’t expect you tonight—”

Before the sentence could finish, the cat was gone. In his place, Regulus stood for only a breath before collapsing forward into you.

The force of it sent you stumbling back onto the mattress, his body pressed against yours. He was shaking, arms wound tightly around you as if trying to anchor himself.

You felt him tremble again, the words splintering in the air between you. He pulled back enough for you to see him, and even in the dim light his eyes gleamed with something raw.

There were nights when Regulus looked untouchable, every line of him composed and restrained. Tonight, his composure had shattered.

You could feel his hands fisting the fabric of your nightshirt, the tremor in them betraying everything he wasn’t saying. His hair brushed against your neck, cold at the ends, and the scent of rain and sleep clung to him.

You didn’t speak at first. You just held him, one hand at the back of his head, the other pressed between his shoulder blades, feeling his chest rise and fall in quick, uncertain patterns.

“Regulus,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond. His grip only tightened. You could hear the faint catch of his breath, the effort it took to keep it steady. You waited a moment, then tried again, softer this time.

“What’s wrong? You’re worrying me.”

Nothing. Then, finally, a muted, “Nothing. I just—” His voice faltered. “I just needed to see you.”

You brushed your thumb across the back of his neck, tracing the line of tension there. “Did you have a nightmare?”

A pause. Then a small nod against your shoulder.

You exhaled slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, voice so quiet it nearly disappeared. “It was… strange.”

He lifted his head slightly, eyes unfocused, glassy with exhaustion. “I was back home,” he murmured. “In that room with the green curtains. The one she never let me leave until I ‘learned how to behave.’” The faintest bitterness touched his tone before he looked away again.

You didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was, you already knew who he was referring to.

“She was there. And she said—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “She said you’d see it too, one day. The same thing she always did.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “See what?”

His jaw tightened. “What I am.”

You frowned. “And what are you, then?”

He let out a breath that was more like a laugh, but it carried no amusement. “A coward. Weak. Whatever word she preferred that day.” His voice was clipped, restrained, as if he were trying to make the words sound less personal than they were. “She used to say people only stay until they realize it.”

You stayed quiet, not filling the silence. You reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his, grounding him.

“She was wrong,” you said after a moment, steady and certain.

He glanced at you then — that careful, uncertain look he gave when he wanted to believe something but didn’t dare to. “You can’t know that,” he murmured.

“I do,” you said. “I know you.”

His eyes lingered on you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue or surrender. He finally exhaled, quiet and shaky.

“Je suis désolé d’être comme ça,” he whispered, voice muffled against your skin.

Your brow furrowed, but you didn’t move. “What was that?”

He hesitated, then lifted his head just enough for his words to reach you clearly. “I said I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For being like this.” His throat tightened around the words, as if they hurt to say. “For making you see it.”

“See what?” you asked quietly.

“The mess,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him. “The parts I try to keep locked away. I didn’t want you to see that.”

You leaned forward instead, letting your forehead rest against his temple. “Look at me,” you said.

He hesitated, then did. His eyes were red at the corners, lashes still wet. You could tell he hated that you saw it.

“What do you see?” you asked softly.

He blinked, confused. “What?”

“When you look at me,” you said. “What do you see?”

He swallowed. “You.”

“Good,” you said. “That’s all I see too.”

He stared at you for a long time, silent. His jaw moved like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

You sighed softly, your fingers brushing through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The strands were still damp with sweat, still tangled from the restless tossing that had driven him here.

“I see you, Regulus,” you said quietly. “I see someone who’s so smart. So brave. Someone who pretends not to care but does, more than anyone else I know.” Your voice trembled just slightly, the truth of it sitting heavy in the air.

“I see someone who’s capable of so much love. And I know it’ll take time for you to heal from everything that hurt you. But that’s okay. Because I’ll be right here. Always.”

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. His eyes found yours, and there was something so raw in them that it almost startled you — something that made you think the universe might’ve put all its stars in his gaze just to see what you’d do with them.

He swallowed once before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Will you stay until then?”

You smiled, soft and certain. “Yeah, Regulus. I will.”

He closed his eyes, and when he leaned forward again, it wasn’t desperate anymore. It was quiet and steady. His arms tightened around you, holding you like something sacred.

After a while, you shifted slightly, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone where a tear had dried. “And, Reggie?” you murmured.

He hummed against your neck. “Yeah?”

You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “Even if you hate yourself,” you said, voice low but firm, “I’ll still love you for the both of us.”

Something in him eased at that. His body, tense for what felt like a lifetime, finally softened.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered, almost like a confession, his breath warm against your skin.

You laughed quietly, the sound melting into the stillness. “Yeah, yeah,” you said, brushing your hand through his hair again.

“I ‘je t’aime’ you too. Or whatever that French shit is.”

He smiled against your throat, the kind of smile that only showed when he forgot to be careful,  and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

“Fix your attitude, brat!” he snapped, raising his voice in a way that could make kindergarteners faint on the spot. Usually, this worked like a charm. Usually, kids scrambled, wide-eyed, retreating to corners at the sight of him.

All except Elara.

She stuck her tongue out at him while she yelled some nonsense about not being a brat, barely understanding what the word means. It could be a good thing, but as long as she goes against what Regulus says, she’s happy.

The audacity. This tiny human, this miniature version of himself, completely unfazed by the father who normally inspired terror in small children.

She crossed her arms, glared, and screeched, “It’s my room! I can make it pretty however I want! You don’t even understand color like I do!”

She jabbered on, pointing at the shelf, stomping, waving her tiny fists. Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose.

He could not believe he was bickering with a five-year-old. His five-year-old. A five year old who probably eats her own boogers and can’t even write her own name on paper, at that. 

Regulus regretted being left alone with her.

You had gone to your nail appointment an hour ago, leaving him with instructions to “keep her occupied and away from trouble.” Clearly, someone had grossly underestimated the firepower of Elara Black.

He crouched slightly, trying to meet her eye level, voice soft but strained with patience. “Elara. You cannot—cannot—ruin the walls, alright? Paint is for paper, not wallpaper. If you want, I could get you some coloring paper or even a canvas to paint on. Do you understand?”

She crossed her arms, tapping her tiny foot like a storm cloud. “No!”

Regulus took a steadying breath, trying to reason with her. “Look, just because you feel like it doesn’t mean you can draw wherever you want. This wallpaper was here before you were born. It’s special. You can’t just—”

“But Repunzel does it!” she shot back, eyes blazing.

Regulus argued back immedeitly. “You are not Repunzel. Just because she draws on her walls doesn’t mean you should.”

She threw her hands on her hips, voice rising, “Yes I can! I’m a princess too!”

Regulus groaned, jaw tight. Then, mirroring her posture, he planted his hands on his waist. “Oh yeah? So you’d go and kiss a frog just because some princess did it?”

Elara crossed her arms, brow furrowed, muttering to herself in that stubborn, half-coherent way only a five-year-old could manage. “Ugh! You’re just like Mother Gothel… always telling me what I can’t do.”

Regulus had no idea who the hell Mother Gothel was. He hadn’t the faintest clue where she came from, though he could clearly assume, based on Elara’s tone and dramatic mumbling, that it was some villain from one of the Disney movies she watched.

And yet, there he was, standing in her pink, princess-themed bedroom, desperately trying to maintain the image of a competent, reasonable father, and somehow he had been compared—of all things—to a Disney villain.

The audacity of this little girl was astonishing.

She was far more spoiled than any child he’d ever encountered. Every toy she could dream of, every princess dress she could demand, always at her disposal. She did everything she wanted, and both he and you made sure she was happy at every turn.

He did love her. God, he loved her to the very edges of his soul. She was his little girl, his baby, the living, breathing embodiment of everything he held dear in the world.

Every small laugh, every stubborn glare, every tiny hand tugging at his sleeve was a tether to his heart that no force could sever. 

And for her—oh, for her and for you—he would move mountains, bend the rules of the world, even face whatever danger came his way without a second thought.

Even in her fury, though, he could see the glimmer of his own stubborn streak reflected in her dark eyes, the same fire he’d carried at her age—or perhaps, the same fire he still carried. It was infuriating, maddening, and yet, deep down, it made him smile despite himself.

“Listen here you little shit,” he said finally, standing taller, brushing imaginary dust off his pants, “we’re going to do this my way. Paper or canvas only. Got it?”

“Paper is too small!” she exclaimed. “My pictures need lots of space! Walls are big! Big is better!”

Regulus couldn’t comprehend how the hell you did that whole gentle-parenting bullshit.

It wasn’t that he condoned the harsh methods his parents had used on him—he would absolutely rather drown and be dragged to the depths of the ocean than raise his daughter the way he had been raised. 

But then again, his daughter was anything but cooperative. He could try sweet-talking her, or even lay down a firm lecture, and she still would not fucking budge.

If he complimented her pink shoes, the little shit would immediately swap them for another pair, just to piss him off. That was how petty she was. 

Somehow, she reminded him of his brother Sirius—but only in pieces, never fully. She was a living mosaic of everyone he loved and knew, stitched together into a single, impossible little person.

Her eyes—bright, calculating, and almost too perceptive—were undeniably yours, carrying that same sharp intelligence and subtle warmth. But her hair, dark and curly, and her fair skin, mirrored his own perfectly, as though she were a smaller, softer version of himself.

It wasn’t just in appearance, though. She felt things acutely, her moods shifting like a storm in miniature—sensitive to the world in a way that was unmistakably him.

And then there was her temper: fierce, unfiltered, and unapologetic. She flared the way he had when he was younger, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to bend just because the world—or he—expected it.

Watching her, he saw a reflection of himself he hadn’t realized would ever exist outside of his own shadow.

It was as if she had vomited up all of his internal thoughts in human form, with the crucial difference being that she actually voiced them with no fear.

And, strangely enough, a raw, almost unbearable happiness twisted in his chest. Happy that she could unleash her chaos and demonic thoughts, flare her temper like miniature fireworks, and throw tantrums without fear—the way he never dared as a little boy.

Unlike him, who had once learned that expressing himself only meant bruises and blood, she could be entirely, fiercely herself—and he was grateful beyond words that his little girl felt safe enough to do so.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by her relentless babbling. She was whining about how he was a meanie, how she would get the paintbrushes back, and how Uncle Sirius and Uncle Barty were better because they’d let her ruin walls. 

How the hell did this little girl have enough energy to talk nonstop?

At that, Regulus was completely fed up. Fuck gentle parenting.

He crouched to her level, meeting her scowl with one of his own. She stood with arms crossed, glaring like a tiny tyrant, wearing a tiara and a purple princess dress that somehow made her scowl even more ridiculous.

“Listen here, Miss Know-It-All,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “This wallpaper right here was custom made before your little ass was born. If your mother comes back from her appointment and sees it painted over, she will literally hang me for being an irresponsible, inattentive father. So if you want to ruin your own wallpaper, do it when she’s home. Not on my watch. Got it?”

Elara’s glare deepened. “No! I want to paint now!”

“No.” Regulus said firmly, tone ironclad.

She stomped her foot so hard the tiara bounced, and screamed, “Fuck you!”

Regulus froze, every muscle stiff. His breath caught in his chest as he slowly blinked at his toddler. A cold sweat prickled down his spine, heart hammering. He could already imagine you walking in and hearing her say that phrase.

It wasn’t just any phrase she could have picked up from the television, she’d learned it from him, probably saying it to either Sirius or Barty.

Regulus was as good as dead.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured, trying to remain calm, realizing that raising his voice wouldn’t work on this tiny hurricane. “It’s a bad word.”

“You say it,” she said matter-of-factly, her tiny brows furrowing in confusion. It dawned on him in that instant: she was repeating him.

“I’m an adult, princess. Don’t say that word ever again. Especially around your mommy.”

Regulus exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. He rubbed his forehead, thinking that surviving ten more years of this tiny tyrant was going to require a lot of patience.

Elara was somehow also a very smart little girl. She might not be able to write her own name or pronounce her insults properly, but she was sharp. The little shit noticed immediately how tense Regulus had become, how his entire posture screamed panic over the possibility of you finding out she’d learned a bad word from him.

A wicked smile spread across her face. She twirled softly in her princess dress, giggling as she hid her grin behind her palms. 

She had just realized she had a foolproof way to get her daddy in trouble.

She was about to open her mouth once again to unleash more nonsense directly at Regulus when the door to her princess-themed bedroom opened. You walked in, wearing a pretty dress, a fond smile lighting up your face.

Regulus’s moment of relief—and love-struck distraction—hit him like a punch. He watched you, utterly captivated, as you opened your arms for your daughter.

Elara’s expression instantly transformed into the picture of innocence. Her little legs carried her straight to you as she squealed, “Mommy! Mommy!”

You scooped her up effortlessly, pressing kisses to her tiny, puffed cheeks. “How are you, baby? Were you good to daddy?” you asked, brushing a stray curl from her eyes.

Elara beamed innocently. “Daddy taught me new words!”

“Oh?” you said brightly, a playful curiosity in your tone. “You did some studying together? What’s the word, baby?”

Regulus, already pale, went even paler. His heart dropped straight to his fucking stomach, palms slick with sweat, as if he were about to face certain doom. He knew he was absolutely done for.

The smile on your face dropped when she delivered the two words that would seal his fate:

“Fuck you!”

You flop back against the pillows with an exasperated huff, arms spread out like a starfish in defeat. The sheets are twisted around your legs, one foot poking out from under the covers, cold now but too stubborn to pull back in.

He shifts slightly beside you, not fully awake, voice slow and warm with drowsiness. “Close your eyes and try, ma belle.”

“My eyes are closed,” you say quickly, far too quickly to be convincing. You screw them shut even tighter, jaw tensing with the effort. You can feel the faint ache starting behind your eyelids already.

There is a faint sound from him, something between a sigh and a chuckle. “No, they are not, amour. You are squinting. That does not count.”

A tiny pause passes before your lashes flutter open for a brief moment, and you let out a frustrated puff of breath, telling yourself that this time your eyes are truly closed, so you sink deeper into the bed with your arms folded across your stomach, willing your mind to go completely blank.

But it does not obey your wishes.

Instead, every little sound in the room becomes painfully obvious—the ancient wall clock ticking steadily on the dresser, the soft creak of the bed as you shift your weight, and worst of all, the steady sound of Regulus breathing right beside you.

How on earth does he manage to fall asleep in mere minutes as if it were the simplest thing in the world?

His breathing is slow and rhythmic, practically a lullaby, yet somehow it only makes you more painfully aware of your own restless state.

You picture his face in the darkness, eyes closed, lips parted just slightly, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappears, and the mess of curls pressed softly against the pillow, his expression peaceful in a way that feels almost unfair.

And then the thoughts start.

Does he always sleep this peacefully? Does he dream of you? Would he still love you if you turned into a frog? Or a goat? Could goats and wizards fall in love? What kind of goat would you even be?

The questions spiral faster, one after another, each one more ridiculous than the last. Sleep drifts further and further out of reach.

You let out another frustrated huff.

“Regulus?”

A low, sleepy groan. “Yes, amour?”

“I really, really cannot sleep.”

His chest rumbles faintly with laughter as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I know, my love. Try again and close your eyes.”

You close your eyes. Again. Properly this time, with less of the scrunched, frustrated effort from before and more of a gentle surrender to the dark, a quiet intention to will yourself toward sleep.

You inhale deeply, the breath slow and deliberate, imagining your mind emptying like a room with the lights turned off, cool and still.

For a fleeting moment, it works. There is calm, there is quiet. And then—

Is the window open?

A faint chill brushes along the bare skin of your arm and you shift beneath the sheets, the sudden awareness unsettling. The air feels colder than it should, which sends your thoughts spiralling toward the catastrophic possibilities. 

What if you catch a cold? What if the room is somehow filling with an insidious draught? You inch the blanket higher, tucking it beneath your chin with painstaking care so as not to disturb the already-too-patient boy lying beside you.

Another breath. Slow in, slow out. This is fine. You are fine.

How many breaths does a person take in a lifetime?

The thought arrives uninvited and lodges itself squarely in the centre of your mind, stubborn and immovable. You try to banish it, to focus on the softness of the pillow or the warmth of Regulus’s arms, but the question blooms and multiplies, ridiculous and persistent. 

Tens of thousands of breaths a day. Millions, surely, over a lifetime. Billions, even. And here you are, wasting perfectly good breaths by counting breaths.

You sigh, unable to help yourself.

“Amour,” comes Regulus’s voice, rough-edged with sleep but warm and teasing beneath it.

You can tell he has not bothered to open his eyes. “You are thinking very loudly.”

“I am not!” you reply, the words tumbling out with such urgency that not even you could believe them.

“You are,” he insists, far too smug for someone half-asleep.

You bury your face into his chest, as though pressing close enough might muffle the buzzing in your head and block him from hearing the steady stream of restless thoughts that refuse to quiet.

His arm tightens instinctively around you, fingers curling lightly against your back, lazy and affectionate.

You close your eyes again, this time with solemn determination. You can do this. You can sleep.

You inhale, exhale, matching your breath to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The sound is soothing, hypnotic even, and for a few blissful seconds your mind begins to drift, thoughts softening at the edges.

One more breath. And another. You settle deeper against him, anchoring yourself to the rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart.

Slowly, the edges of your mind begin to soften again, thoughts growing quieter—

Why is the pillow so warm on this side? Should you flip it?

But if you move, will you wake him up? And if you do not, will you overheat and die a slow, tragic death beneath this pillow?

You lie perfectly still, caught in the throes of an absurd internal debate. Surely the consequences of a slightly warm pillow are not so dire. Surely you can endure a little discomfort for the sake of his sleep.

A soft chuckle hums through Regulus’s chest. Of course he can tell what you are thinking. He always can.

“Would you like me to flip it for you?” he murmurs, voice edged with amusement.

You let out a long, pitiful groan, burying your face against him. “I am trying so hard to sleep, you know.”

“And you are very valiant,” he says solemnly, the faint smile curling into his words.

“Hopeless,” you mumble into his shirt, though the warmth of him is already soothing something restless inside you. “I am hopeless.”

“Never, amour.” His reply is soft but certain, his fingers brushing through your hair with a rhythm so gentle you can almost mistake it for the start of a dream.

Then you feel him shift, the mattress dipping slightly as he moves. 

You had been lying comfortably on his arm, but then he scoots closer, inch by deliberate inch, until there is no space left between you, and you find yourself gently but completely caged in by the warmth of his body.

His arm shifts, wrapping fully around you now, securing you against his side as he turns onto his side to face you. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, shine faintly with fondness as he watches you.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice low and slow, the invitation unmistakable and tender.

Your heart skips its familiar little beat—the one it always does when he looks at you like that, as if the world and time could pause just to hold this moment.

Without hesitation, you wiggle closer, letting him pull you fully into the safety of his arms. His chest feels solid beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and calming.

His other hand finds your waist, drawing you just a fraction nearer, as though there could ever be enough closeness between you two.

“Better?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, breath warm against your skin.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but this time softer, easier somehow.

“Much better,” you murmur sleepily, already feeling the pull of drowsiness at last, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the weight of his arms around you.

“Good,” he whispers, voice heavy with sleep now. “Now close those pretty eyes and sleep, ma belle. I have you.”

It almost happens, truly.

You are drifting, at last, the constant hum of your mind finally dulling beneath the weight of Regulus’s arms around you, the warmth of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady and grounding. 

Your breaths have started to slow without you noticing, your body loosening where it had been so stubbornly tense before. Sleep teases at the edges of your mind, soft and inviting, closer now than it has been all night.

But then—of course, because you cannot leave well enough alone—another thought slips in.

“Reg?” you murmur, voice thick with drowsiness but still bright enough to be dangerous.

There is a pause, a sigh so long-suffering you can feel it vibrate through his ribs before he answers, voice raspy and bone-weary. “What is it this time, amour?”

You shift slightly against him, frowning. “Can you match your breathing to mine? Your breathing is too loud.”

For a moment, he is utterly still beneath you, as if debating whether he truly heard what he just heard.

Then, without warning, he sits bolt upright in bed, the sudden motion jolting you slightly and making you blink up at him, startled and blinking in the dark.

“You want me to what?” he says, audacity dripping from every syllable, eyes barely open but glowing with that particular blend of disbelief and exhaustion only you seem capable of inspiring in him.

You clutch at his arm, tugging gently as you whine, “Reggieee… your breathing is too loud!”

He stares at you for one incredulous beat, then flops back down onto the mattress with a dramatic thud, dragging a hand over his face.

“I am so sorry my breathing patterns offend you,” he mutters, tone halfway between sarcasm and surrender.

You pout against his chest, snuggling back into him as you sigh, “I just wanna sleep.”

With another groan, one so dramatic you have to fight back a giggle, he rolls toward you, opening his arms. “Fine. Come here. Let me apparently synchronise our vital signs like a lunatic.”

You grin and snuggle close, letting him pull you in until you are pressed firmly against him, your ear to his chest.

With great, theatrical effort, Regulus begins slowing his breathing, long exaggerated exhales that make your body shake slightly with suppressed laughter. “Better?” he mutters, already sounding like a man resigned to his fate.

“Mmhm,” you murmur, trying to follow his rhythm. A few breaths later, voice soft and serious, you add, “Slower.”

Regulus freezes. You can practically feel his eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Amour… if I breathe any slower, I am going to die on this bed beside you.”

You huff. “I just want to sleep.”

“So do I!” he says, voice inching toward near-desperate. “More than anything in this entire world. Please, ma belle, I am begging you — close those beautiful eyes and sleep.“

Minutes pass. The room is quiet at last. His breathing evens out again, no longer quite so comically slow, and his hand on your waist grows still. You are both almost, almost asleep.

“Reg?”

A low, strangled groan, muffled by the pillow. “What now?”

“Do you think the Sorting Hat ever gets bored of sorting?”

For a second, there is only silence.