#regulus post cave

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Honey, our boyfriend drowned!

Barbie dolls: jegulus x gn!reader

Word:5.1k

Summary: lemme set the scene: Regulus' car crashes into the lake on his drive to work most definitely killing him and then some mystique happens and I get too lazy to write actual plot but I add some sad and cute and JUST FUCKING READ IT ITS FUN AND NICE

Warnings: regulus dies (or does he mwhahaahha), lots.of talk of grief and death and blood and nasty and self hatred you and James are going through it, regulus with a cane and long hair, talks of the war but it's the tiniest mention, Barty has attachment issues, there is some cringe bc believe it or not Im cringey as a person so it just happens, regulus speaks Google translate French, James speaks Google translate Hindi, I had so much fun writing this.one and that's so stupid bc Its literally about death but it was a hoot, brotherly love, peter included SUCK MY DiCK OH MY GOD, oh James takes a picture OH and there's a cordless phone but I was personally thinking of the big clunky ones that sat on the wall you know, insinuations of the cave, Sirius says Jesus Christ in shock you say Gods no in shock yodabba dabba, everyone are friends I watched MLP okay everyone loves each other now, take a shot everytime I say warm, you cry, I quit

While you and James were in school, you started dating a boy named Regulus. He was beautiful and graceful. Your relationship continued outside the bounds of the school walls. Once you and James graduated you got a home and Regulus joined you both a year later when he graduated. Domestic life was wonderful for the three of you. And then Regulus died. 

It was hard to believe. How could your boyfriend disappear right out from under both of your noses? He left for work one day and didn’t come back. It was like the world paused after that. The walls wept with you both. The house seemed smaller and tighter because everywhere you looked were remnants of him. His books were on the shelf with his writing inside. His additions to the grocery list were still on the fridge. His fancy shoes for events sitting by the door. His winter coat is on the rack. You could still smell his cologne. Maybe that was because James would spray it on Regulus' pillow and clutch it to his chest while he slept. Your day together as a couple consisted of sitting on the couch in silence and staring ahead listening to the clock tick. 

His death put a strain on your relationship. You could barely take care of yourselves. How could you love another person when you could barely work up enough energy to cry? So you both floated around the house silently like you were the ones dead. You didn’t talk to James for weeks. 

Everyone around you seemed to take a hit from Regulus’ death. Evans and Barty became reclusive, you hadn’t heard from them in months.

Dorcas started bouncing around her friends’ homes, staying the night on a new person’s couch because she was scared to leave anyone alone. They’d slip from her grasp like Regulus did if she didn’t stay with them.

After a few weeks, Mary and Lily took on the role of caretaker. Bringing people dinners and shoving them into the shower so they’d bathe every once in and while.

Marlene tried to crack jokes with people, she was most definitely the kind of person to joke until her pain went away.

Pandora spent all her days sitting in a rocking chair in front of the window. You checked on her once and asked her how she was. She told you, without looking away from the window, ‘I had a premonition about this four years ago. It’s scarier in real life. I can’t just crawl into his bed and press my fingers to his pulse. I’m living in a nightmare.’ You sighed and patted her shoulder, leaving her with the wisest words you could muster: ‘Me too, Panda. Me too.’ 

Peter is in the nearest Library every day, reading all of Regulus’ favorites. He even came over a few times to borrow some of Regulus’ personal books.

Remus found a French cookbook and started making his way through it one recipe at a time as a way to get up and do something. He said he thought of Regulus with each dish and it made the pain recede like an ocean wave. 

Sirius took it the hardest, for obvious reasons. He laid on his couch all day, staring at the bookshelf next to the TV. Remus said he couldn’t convince Sirius to move to the bed. He’d only to get up to use the bathroom. Remus would have to sit next to the couch on the floor and feed him so he didn’t wither away. Remus eventually realized Sirius was staring at the picture of him and Regulus sitting on the shelf. After a long time, Sirius finally moved from the couch, instead taking his tears to his bed. You didn’t see Sirius for weeks. 

When Regulus’ funeral arrived it was obvious the impact he left. All 12 of you stared at the empty coffin as it settled into the ground. You didn’t even get the peace of knowing his body was resting in the coffin. They never found it. They found his car in the lake with a massive hole the size of his fancy car on the side of the bridge overhead. The police said his body probably drifted down the attached river into the woods. It was likely his body was scavenged by animals. It did nothing to settle your mind. 

Your lover drowned and then was torn apart by wild animals? Great, glad he’s resting peacefully. All of his things were in the car too. The book he was trying to finish during the month of the crash. His bag with his wallet and every other personal item you could think of. He even still had Pandora’s hair clip on the strap. His blood was on the seat and front windshield. Cops said it was impossible for him to have survived, especially with the amount of blood that was lost. He left for work, taking the route he always did, and died in the process. 

It took a long time but you all eventually healed from it. Of course, it still hurt when you were reminded of it but you slowly got back to your average life.

Sirius got off the couch. Dorcas slept in her own bed. Marlene finally cried. Lily and Mary started making food only for themselves. Remus put his cookbook on the shelf, next to the picture. Peter moved out of the libraries, finding new books. Barty and Evan even joined you and James on a double date once. Pandora moved away from the window. You and James stopped being zombies dancing around each other. You finally talked it through and cradled the other through the night, Regulus' pillow was shoved into the closet. 

You asked your friends for help to pack all of Regulus’ things into boxes. It was terribly hard to move on when his presence was still staring you in the eye. You told Sirius he could stay home but he still showed up. He helped you pack up Regulus’ clothes, taking back the band shirts Regulus stole from him. He even used one as a tissue when he cried about it.

With too many people in your house, you were all able to stuff Regulus into three separate boxes. Remus helped James move them into the attic. even though you wanted him hidden away in boxes didn’t mean you wanted to sell his presence away. You hugged everyone goodbye. It was a sour goodbye, the memory of Regulus’ loss fresh on their minds but happy they got to see all their friends again. 

You, along with all the others, had your good and bad days. You’d say an inside joke Regulus came up with and spend the rest of the day crying next to the window. Some days you’d blossom and be like you were years ago. As time went by your bad days became more and more far apart. You and James’ relationship was going strong, you felt like you were in school again. In a positive way. 

After a long brunch with Remus and Sirius full of laughs, you and James went home and relaxed. James left to go take a nap and you started reading by the window facing out towards the road that led to your doorstep. After you got through four chapters, James was rising from his nap and kissing you good morning. Though it was really more of a late afternoon, you didn’t correct him. He left to go make himself a snack, still in his pajamas. You continued reading.

As you heard the timer go off for James’ food you glanced up to see if he was getting it. You saw him through the opening, reaching over for the pot on the oven. You moved to look back at your book, pausing when you saw someone on the sidewalk. You were an avid enjoyer of people-watching. 

It was a man who left your boots feeling shaken. His hair was longer, reaching down to kiss his back between his shoulder blades. He walked with a limp. He was classily dressed. At the top of his cane was a bird skull. He was dressed in all black and had various silver jewelry hanging from his body. His hair was falling into his face as he stared at the ground. You glanced down at the ground to see his shoes, finding they were just as fancy and put together as he was. You looked back up at his hair, trying to see if you could figure out how he maintained it so perfectly.

As you dragged your eyes up, he shook his head back. His hair flew back revealing his scarred face. There was a scar parting his eyebrow and making a trail across his cheek to his ear. You saw one peeking out from the bottom of his jaw and dipping under his high-collared shirt. 

Even with all the changes you recognized him. You sprung out of your chair, flinging your book back towards the coffee table. You heard it clatter to the floor. 

“James! Call Sirius!” You yelled as you scattered towards the front door, knocking over items on your way. 

“What? Why?” James asked from the kitchen opening. You spun your head back towards him. You probably looked like a frazzled crazy person. You felt like a frazzled crazy person. You were either hallucinating or really watching your dead lover walk down the street. 

“Call Sirius, James.” You said, your tone nipping at his hand and making him turn around for the phone hanging in the kitchen. You flung open the front door, ignoring your shoes and the fact the door smacked against the wall.

You weren’t entirely sure Regulus, or at least what you thought was Regulus, wouldn’t run away if he saw you coming. You ran down the concrete steps and your driveway. You ignored the fire the rough ground started on the bottoms of your feet. James stood on front doorstep with the phone pressed to his ear. You caught snippets of his words as you moved to the end of the driveway, staring down the sidewalk. 

“I don’t know.” Your chest heaved as your mind caught up with what you were looking at. “Just said to call you.” You stared at the man in black walking down the center of the sidewalk. “Bein’ weird.” You saw the man stop his walking as you stood in his way. 

“Regulus?” You yelled. The man stood still. You took a step towards him. James had settled silent. “Regulus? Baby, is that you?” You yelled down the sidewalk. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of your neighbor's house, still staring at the ground. Hr pulled his head up, facing you. Even from a far distance, you could recognize him.

Your body started running before your brain could even tell you to. Regulus picked up his pace, a nice brisk walk. You doubted he could go much faster with his apparent hurt leg but you didn’t care. Your undead lover was on your sidewalk. You picked up your pace, letting your lungs burn. Your heart was burning more, the pain from knowing you’d never see Regulus mixing with the hope that he was really walking down your sidewalk. 

“Holy shit.” You heard James say from the first doorstep. “Listen uh, Sirius, I’m going to have to call you back. I think we might be hallucinating right now.” James said. You heard the quiet clatter of the phone on the table next to the front door. You and Regulus stopped with barely two feet between you too. Your chest heaved. You thought your ribs might explode.

Regulus was beautiful even with the scars and obvious dark experiences lingering behind his eyes. You couldn’t imagine what happened in the past year and a half but he was still Regulus after all this time. You felt like you shouldn’t cry because he might feel guilty and leave again. You closed the gap between you two, wrapping your arms around him. Regulus sighed with his chin pulled over your shoulder. You heard his cane drop to the sidewalk, his weight leaning into yours. 

You gripped the onto the back of his shirt, crying into his shoulder. Regulus held onto you just as hard. You felt James’ arms join yours, holding onto Regulus. After a few moments of Regulus finally feeling at home and you and James realizing you did all that crying for nothing, you all pulled back. Regulus wobbled a second, before leaning on his other side. James quickly dipped down and held Regulus’ cane out to him. Regulus thanked him, leaning his weight back on the cane. 

“You’re alive.” You said, sticking your hands your hands out at Regulus. He gave you a one-shouldered shrug. 

“There’s a lot I need to tell you,” Regulus muttered, glancing down at the cane. You shook your head, reaching out for him again. You let your hands cup his face. 

“Oh let me look at you.” You traced the scars on his face. You tugged lightly on the ends of his hair. You let your hands dip down, tracing over the necklaces. You looked down at the metal skull buckle on his belt, grinning at his fancy shoes again. Even after all the changes, he was still in his stupid shoes. 

“You’re so beautiful, my love. I can’t believe you’re alive.” You said, cupping his face again. Regulus hummed and tilted his face into your hand. You pulled back and let James pull Regulus into his arms. James cradled Regulus’ head to his chest just as he used to when Regulus got bad nightmares. Regulus let out a gasping sob, digging his nails into James’ forearm. James closed his eyes and pressed his nose to Regulus’ hair. 

  A few minutes later Regulus was sat at the table with his favorite tea hugged between his hands. You watched him from across the table, tracking his every move. It was weird looking at him. Aside from the fact you thought he was dead, it was a stark change.

You got to watch James slowly change parts of himself over the year. The wrinkles near his eyes got more prominent, he cut his hair, and he got new shoes, etcetera. You went from seeing Regulus with hair shorter than his chin to watching him flick it over his shoulder. You saw him with the clear and pristine skin he took pride in the scarred look he was sporting now. Regulus pursed his lips and blew on the hot tea in his hands before flicking his eyes up to you. You didn’t shy away from the fact you were staring at him. James wandered into the dining room his phone pressed to his ear. 

“No Sirius, I’m being ser-I’m being for real. You need to get over here now, you’re not going to believe this.” James said, leaning on the doorframe and staring at Regulus. Regulus stuck his hand out at James, wiggling his fingers. James raised an eyebrow ‘You sure?’. Regulus shook his hand, ‘yes.’. James handed the phone to Regulus. Regulus pressed the phone to his ear. He cleared his throat. 

“That coffin was uncomfortable, dickhead.” Regulus said before pulling the phone away from his ear and hanging it up. He set it on the table and took a slow sip from his tea. 

“I think you just gave him a heart attack,” James said. You hummed, staring down at the phone. 

“Yeah I’m not sure if that was the best action but it was a very Regulus thing for you to do so at least some things haven’t changed. “ You said, handing the phone off to James. Regulus closed his eyes as he pulled his tea away from his lips. 

Minutes later Sirius was bursting through your door with Remus tailing fast behind him. Sirius peered into each room, making haste to search the house. Regulus set his tea down. Sirius stood in the dining room doorway, frozen in place. Regulus stood from his chair, leaning on his cane and sighing as he did so. He tilted his head to the side, making a small spin to show off his new look. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sirius muttered. 

“that’s who he looks like, I was trying to place it,”  you said, sighing and smacking James’ bicep. Regulus faces Sirius again, holding his arm out. Sirius closed the space, pulling Regulus into a hug. They rocked side to side. You thought of shooing everyone out but you also wanted to watch Sirius’ reaction. Sirius pulled back and smacked Regulus on the crown of his head. Regulus glared at him, obviously, it wasn’t hard. 

“Don’t you ever do that again you dick,” Sirius said, before cupping Regulus’ face. He grimaced and shook his head. 

“You look like me in fourth year,” Sirius whispered, running his hand through the length of Regulus’ hair. Regulus hummed. 

“I thought so too. I missed home, so I grew it out. I plan on trimming it soon though, not really me.” Regulus whispered. Sirius hummed and traced the scar down Regulus’ eyebrow with his thumb. 

“What’d you do?” Sirius asked. 

“I ended a war before it started, the usual break year plans. I almost drowned and fought off some weird gremlin things. It’s a story.” Regulus said, waving off Sirius’ look of concern. “I’m fine now, other than the trauma I hold with water. But I managed to figure it out. I just take showers weird now.” Regulus added, once again downplaying the severity. 

“Well, your funeral was a waste of time,” Sirius said, turning back around to stand next to Remus. Regulus shrugged. 

“Did you guys cry?” You, James, Remus, and Sirius shared looks. You all shrugged. 

“Eh, not really.” 

“I mean what even classifies as crying these days, you know.” 

"So much I got dehydrated"

“After the first couple of days, it was a breeze.” Regulus rolled his eyes and pulled his tea off the table. 

“So did you guys sell all my shit?” He whispered into his cup. You and James quickly shook your heads. 

“Oh gods, no. It’s all in the attic.” You said, pointing at the ceiling above you. James and Remus left for the attic as you and Sirius chased after Regulus. Regulus took his tea from the dining room to the living room, setting it on the coffee table. You and Sirius stared at him as he settled onto the couch. Regulus propped his cane against the side table, taking a sip from his tea. Regulus lifted an eyebrow at the floor. He leaned over and held your book up. 

“Thought I taught you better than to throw books,” Regulus said, setting the book on the coffee table. You crossed your arms over your chest. You scoffed. 

“I was a little more focused on my undead lover walking into my garden.” You said. Regulus shrugged and gently set the book down on the coffee table. Regulus kicked his foot up, resting his ankle on his knee. James and Remus joined you with all three boxes. They were all labeled with a different form of his name, three different handwritings. Evan wrote R.A.B. in his swirly handwriting. Sirius had written Regulus in his pristine handwriting. You scribbled down Reggie on the top with an almost empty Sharpie. It looked like you didn’t care but you couldn’t bear to look at the boxes any more than you had to. 

Regulus leaned forward, tearing open the nearest box. He started rummaging through it and you wished Evan was here. You couldn’t fold things as perfectly as he could. Regulus pulled out his favorite stuffed animal, setting it on the couch next to him. He closed the box, reaching for the next one. He tore it open just as fast. He pulled out his favorite blanket and book. Regulus threw the blanket next to his stuffed animal. He set the book on the coffee table and as you watched him close up the box again, you sucked in a shaky breath. Regulus lifted his head, looking at you. You turned into James’ arms. James tightened his hold. You hated to get James’ shirt dirty but watching Regulue tear through the boxes you were sure you’d never touch again made your throat close up. 

“Sorry did I do something?” You heard Rehgulus’ voice behind you. James’ hand ran up and down your back. You felt SIrius’ hand land on your shoulder. 

“No, we’re just processing, I think. Lots of changes today.” James said, rocking you back and forth. Sirius took on the role of changing the subject so you still had a little bit of dignity. 

“We need to call the others. I mean this is a big change we’ll have to get every-“ Regulus cut off Sirius. 

“Listen, I know okay. I know, but I haven’t felt at home in over a year. I just want to spend today here. Tomorrow I will tell everyone of my resurrection but right now I just want a nap. You and Remus can stay if you want, I really don’t care. As long as I get a nap on the couch, I’m okay. I will gather everyone tomorrow but today is just..” Regulus sighed, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. “Just for me. Is that okay?” Regulus asked. Sirius stayed silent a moment. He glanced around the living room. He shrugged, looking back at Regulus. 

“Yeah, that’s okay.” Regulus slipped his shoes off, setting them next to his cane, and laid across the couch. You pulled back from James, wiping at your eyes. You headed off for the bedroom, tearing open the closet. You pulled down Regulus’ pillow and brought it back to the living room. Regulus gave you a soft smile and gently took the pillow from your hands. He set it down before quickly sandwiching your hands between his. He was warm, not cold like a dead body. Maybe he was real. Regulus stared up at you. 

“I learned how to cook traditional French dishes,” Remus said, picking at one of the boxes. Regulus hummed. He was on the brink of sleep but still wanted Remus to feel heard. “You should come over for dinner some night.” Regulus nodded against his pillow. Remus left after SIrius and not long after you heard SIrius’ motorcycle fade away. You imagined Remus’ long legs cramped behind Sirius on the back of his bike and snorted. 

“I love you, you know that? Every day I wasn’t here I worried for you. I missed you so much I’d feel sick. I’m sorry I left like that.” Regulus said. Your eyebrows pinched and you sank your teeth into your bottom lip, trying your hardest to not cry again. You nodded. Regulus hummed and pressed your palm to his lips. You sighed and rubbed his cheek lightly. He dropped your hands and laid back on the couch, now with his pillow propped behind his head.

Regulus turned onto his side, clutching his stuffed animal to his chest. He pulled his blanket up to his nose. Sirius stood next to Regulus, brushing hair out of his face and gently rubbing his cheek before roughly smacking him and messing up his hair again. Regulus groaned and swatted his hands away. Sirius pulled back and slipped out the front door. 

“Mon Soleil?” Regulus whispered into his blanket. You glanced at James, watching his water line fill. 

“छोटा राजा?”  James whispered, his voice fragile. You looked back to Regulus. His eyes were still closed. 

When James heard Regulus’ snores next to his ear he slid the bookmark into their place and set it on the coffee table. James leaned his head back, resting it on the couch armrest. You sighed, watching Regulus sleep peacefully. 

“Read to me?” Regulus asked. James nodded and grabbed the book Regulus pulled from the box off the coffee table. James sat on the floor next to where Regulus head was on the couch. He opened the book to the page they left off last time, and you felt like James might cry. He started reading and as he went on you started to wish Regulus had given you a task too. You were just standing there watching them. You quietly joined James on the floor. You sat a foot and a half away from James. He paused his sentence for a second to look up at you and give you a soft smile. You returned it and slipped a hand under Regulus’ blanket. It probably smelled like the attic but Regulus didn’t seem to care, snoozing away. You rested your hand on his hip, lightly rubbing it before getting your hand to sit. You wished to hold his hand but one was clutching his stuffed animal and the other was pressing his blanket to his face. 

“I don’t think we’ll be getting much sleep tonight.” You whispered, not wanting to wake up Regulus. James turned his head to face you. He reached over and held onto your other hand, kissing the back. He nodded and looked over towards the wall. 

“I feel like we shouldn’t go to sleep because when we wake up, the boxes will be back in the attic. Sirius will be back on the couch and we’ll be sitting on the bed sobbing together.”James whispered. You humed. You slipped your thumb under the edge of Regulus’ shirt, pressing your finger into his warm skin. 

“He won’t be warm anymore.” You muttered, eyes still caught on Regulus. James’ thumb rubbed against the back of your hand. You wondered if he was testing to see if you were warm still. 

“We’ll visit his grave on Wednesday together and wonder if those wild animals were well fed. If it was all worth it. Stare down at the dirt and know six feet under is an empty wooden box with nothing but a copy of Regulus’ favorite poetry book inside.” James’ voice wobbled and you gripped his hand tighter. 

“I thought every day that I would wake up and it’d all be a nightmare. I was just dreaming. All those crime shows got to me and my brain inserted me into an episode while I was sleeping. Every morning I’d wake up to find out we were still planning his funeral. I thought I was dead for a while. Thought this was my punishment for not recycling enough or something.” You said, pressing your thumb further into Regulus’ skin. Not to hurt him, but you needed to feel his pulse. 

“I can’t go back there,” James whispered. 

“Then maybe we go to sleep tonight. Maybe we’ll wake up and he’ll be in bed with us.” You said giving the side of James' face a sour smile. 

“Then we start again. We heal again.” James gave you a sad look and stared ahead again. You decided to lighten the mood a little. “And we had a freaky joint dream.” James snorted. He sniffed and stared down at his lap. He kissed the back of your hand again. You focused on Regulus’ skin under your finger. Still warm. 

“And if we wake up to find ourselves right back where we started? What then?” James asked, turning his head to face you. You paused for a moment and let his words stir in your head. You thought about getting thrown right back into that dark and messy place.

You didn’t take showers unless Mary forced you and you hated yourself for everything you did. Why didn’t you stop Regulus and tell him to stay home that day? Why didn’t you drive him to work yourself? Why didn’t you deviate from your routine, anything to save Regulus’ life? And when you got over what ifs that could’ve stopped this all from happening, then you hated yourself for not helping James more. Why couldn’t you take care of him? His parents called every day and he could barely pull himself out of bed to answer the phone. You couldn’t look away from the floor to pick the phone up. You picked apart yourself with sharp nails and then let your pieces rot into something awful that barely resembled yourself anymore. All in the name of grief. 

“So sorry to break up such a sweet moment, however I am trying to sleep. So if you two could shut up: that’d be preferable. “ You heard Regulus say. James turned his head back, glancing at Regulus. He looked back at you. 

“Seems pretty real to me.” You whispered. 

Regulus stayed true to his word, calling every one of your friends to your home. When he joined them in the living room there were screams and cries and most definitely noise complaints from the neighbors. Barty fell to his knees, taking Regulus down with him, and sobbed into his hair. He was an ugly crier too, saliva connecting his two lips when he opened his mouth in a silent cry.

Dorcas and Evan were quick to join them on the floor, wrapping Regulus up in a sea of arms. Probably the first body of water he felt comfortable in a while.

Eventually, Regulus made it to his feet, giving everyone their own hug. Peter told him he had books he found that Regulus would enjoy. Mary smacked him on the back of the head and told him to brighten the fuck up before dragging him into a tight hug. Lily told him she had a new bread recipe she’d been meaning to try. Marlene cracked a stupid joke through her tears and lightly punched Regulus in the arm. Regulus made it to Pandora and she pulled him to her chest, squeezing him as tight as she could. 

“I didn’t see this.” She whispered in his hair. Regulus gripped her back just as tight.

You all had a warm dinner made by Remus and Lily. Regulus and Sirius share a nostalgic look after the first bite. You didn’t have a big enough table so you all crowded into the living room, gathering around the rug. Regulus earned a spot on the couch. Barty was at his feet, arms wrapped around Regulus’ leg.

James shot up halfway through dinner, dashing across the house. He came back with his camera. He took one shot of everyone in the living room before turning the camera around and squeezing himself into frame too. He labeled them both ‘Regulus’ first family dinner back’ on the backs. He added the date and set the camera and photos on the kitchen counter deciding to deal with them later.

On his way back into the living room, he kissed you before pecking Regulus on the cheek. As he settled back into his seat on the floor, the group broke into ruckus laughter from a joke Sirius made. Sirius beamed and your and James’ eyes shot for Regulus. You found him snorting out his tea through his nose. His pain, disgust, and laughter all conjoined and you knew when you woke up tomorrow, he’d once again be in your bed. Warm. 

[muggleborn-slytherpuff]

Barty: And worst of all, you callously ignored the letter Reg wrote to you even though he told you he loved you!

James: What letter?

James: Barty, what letter?!

[aelia-posts]

Whatever you do, don't think about how

In life Sirius loved to have physical contact, always cuddling up to people, lying across them, finding solace in the touch among his friends but died by going through a veil, not able to touch anyone or anything. A floating soul, a floating person.

How when in life Regulus was touch avoident, refusing to let anyone or anything touch him without his consent. All touch had ever brought him was harm and pain and he wanted to be away from it. Yet he died through the grapples and claws of the inferi, grabbing and clinging onto him as he died.

Whatever you do, don't think about how the brothers died in the opposite of what they prefered, not even finding solitude in spending their last moments of life with what they wanted the most.

Just don't think about it.

[sliebman10]

Grief/Mourning

Harry had his misgivings about bringing Sirius here. It was the site of unnaturally dark magic after all. And Harry didn’t like to think of what happened here. 

Dumbledore. Voldemort. The horcrux. Regulus. Kreacher.

But he would also never say no to Sirius.

So they apparated to the cave by the lake. The malevolent air was not present in the daylight, now that the cave no longer held a part of Voldemort’s soul. 

Sirius looked around and crouched by the water.Harry wasn’t sure what to do, but Remus crouched next to him, putting his hand on Sirius’s back.

“D’you think he’s still in there?” Sirius murmured.

“I don’t know, Pads…it was a long time ago,” Remus said, looking out onto the tranquil surface of the lake. 

Sirius wasn’t remembering the boy he’d glared at across the Great Hall at Hogwarts. He was remembering the toddler who he ran through the grass with at Grandfather Arcturus’s manor. He was remembering the boy he shielded from his mother’s wand. He was remembering the last act of bravery, switching the horcrux so Voldemort could no longer find it. 

Sirius wiped his eyes and stood up. He conjured a wreath of flowers next to the lake.

“Happy birthday, Reggie,” he whispered.

Word count: 208

@wolfstarmicrofic

[daysofnights]

nothing as sad as remembering a specific au idea and scrolling to find it but it literally just isnt in there

[gaycorneroftheworld]

To the Dark Lord,

I know I will be dead long before you read this---

[sunmoonstarseeker]

[star-and-moon-shipper]

once i made a post about how regulus called sirius “seewee” as a kid because he couldn’t pronounce r’s, leading to regulus nicknaming him seaweed, and that was his last thought as he looked at the seaweed on the floor of the cave lake as he was being pulled under and it lives rent free in my head

[yourbestbuddie]

DUDE 😭

This is so Regulus Black coded of him

[colouredbyd]

Me Before You

regulus black x fem!reader

part of my rom-com celebration event

synopsis: you take a job meant to be temporary—keeping company with regulus black, the closed-off heir tangled in a war he pretends not to care about. but behind sharp words and cold silences is a boy aching to be seen. and slowly, without meaning to, you become the one thing he didn’t plan for.

—or in which regulus survives the cave but not without a cost.

warnings: motional distress, depression, suicidal thoughts, paralysis, physical suffering, family conflict, trauma, mentions of death, really cringe jokes, dirty jokes, vulnerability, caretaker dynamics, terminal illness, war themes, references to dark magic, allusions to torture, PTSD, ableism, lots of crack, regulus being a little shit half of the time.

w/c: 15k (long but so worth it)

a/n: tumblr wouldnt let me post this as one go so i had to divide it into two parts :((

part one part two masterlist

There’s a strange kind of stillness that comes just before things change. Like the world is listening for something. 

That was the kind of morning it was. The clouds hung low, their bellies heavy with unshed rain, and even the birds seemed to be waiting. Somewhere beyond the sky, the seasons were shifting, but here on the ground, everything held its breath.

The letter arrived just after breakfast. Tucked between bills and catalogues and things meant to be forgotten. It was heavy in the hand, sealed in deep green wax that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. No sender or signature. 

The address scrawled at the bottom was one you hadn’t heard in years. Twelve Grimmauld Place. A name that felt less like a location and more like a ghost. You stared at it for a long time, your tea going cold, steam fading into the air like breath against glass. 

There was no mention of who had written it, or why they wanted you, only a line: Healer requested. Immediate need. Duration: uncertain. And a time. That was all.

But you’ve always liked beginnings. You’ve always liked the soft kind of magic that lives in suitcases and train stations and unfamiliar doorways. 

You’ve always been the sort of person who finds beauty in the overlooked things—in wildflowers that grow from pavement cracks, in chipped mugs with hand-painted suns, in the hush before a story starts. So you packed. Not much, just the essentials. 

A few dresses in cheerful colours, a weather-stained book of poetry, your worn healer’s kit, and a jar of honey that reminded you of home. 

London met you with wind and grey skies. The kind that curled into your sleeves and settled in your bones. Still, your boots clicked lightly against the pavement, and you kept your head high, watching the way the rain turned the streets into silver. 

The street was easy enough to find. Number eleven stood straight and proud, its brickwork clean, its garden neat. Number thirteen slouched beneath creeping ivy, windows dulled with time. But between them—nothing. An absence where a house should be.

You blinked, breath catching, and in that breath, it appeared. No groan of stone, no whisper of magic—only a sudden weight in the air. Twelve Grimmauld Place. Tall, dark, its windows shuttered like watchful eyes, its black door sealed tight.

You stood there, rain softening the edges of the world, slicking your hair, running cold beneath your collar. Still, you did not move. The house loomed before you like a riddle, an answer unspoken.

So you stepped forward and raised your hand, only to find the door already open. 

Inside, the air was thick. It smelled of velvet gone sour, of books left to rot, of stone and age and grief too old to name. The floor groaned beneath your steps. The wallpaper peeled like curling fingers. Portraits lined the walls in heavy frames, faces you didn’t recognize watching with painted scorn. 

It wasn’t until you stepped past the stairs that something moved. Small and hunched and wrapped in shadows, the house-elf emerged from the gloom with a blink like a flinch. His eyes were dull, but sharp. He stared for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure if you were real, then gave a stiff bow.

“Miss,” he rasped, and nothing else.

You followed.

The house grew colder as you walked. The floors dipped. The doors were shut. One was charmed so thickly you could taste the spell in your teeth. The elf didn’t speak and you didn’t push. There was a weight to the air here, as though history itself had sunk into the wallpaper, heavy and wet, impossible to scrub out. 

He led you up two flights of stairs, down another hallway, and finally stopped before a room with a peeling brass doorknob and no name. “You will sleep here,” he said. “The green room. You begin tomorrow.”

Your hand paused on the door. “Begin with who?”

The elf didn’t answer. His gaze flicked once to the end of the corridor—where a single door stood half-shuttered, cloaked in shadow—and then he disappeared.

The green room was, in fact, barely green at all. Perhaps it had been once, but now the walls had faded to the colour of over-steeped tea, the curtains hung thick with dust, the air still and sharp. Yet there was a bed, a chair, a fireplace that looked as though it hadn’t burned in years. You set your suitcase down gently, as if the room itself might break beneath the weight of it. Drawing the curtains open, you found the glass so clouded with smudges that the light could scarcely filter through.

You found the elf again, this time waiting. He didn’t look at you when he spoke. Just nodded, chin low.

“He’s awake.”

The words stopped your steps.

“Who is?” you asked.

The pause was long. Longer than it needed to be. Then, quietly, like something slipping through a crack in the door, he answered.

“Master.”

And something inside you shifted, gently, terribly, as if you had just turned a page you could never un-read.

You weren’t sure why you felt so buzzy, like something wonderful was just around the corner. You’d never met the patient but you pictured someone elderly, surely. Someone curled into a high-backed chair, with trembling hands and greying hair, perhaps a little forgetful, probably lonely. 

You’d worked with patients like that before. They usually liked you. You liked them back. 

So when Kreacher appeared in the hallway—quiet as breath, hunched and sharp-eyed—you straightened with a smile already blooming on your face.

The hallway twisted. The carpets grew darker, the portraits more severe. You rounded a corner, following Kreacher through a set of double doors so tall they looked like they belonged in a cathedral. They groaned as they opened, and a sudden hush fell over the world, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

And there she was.

A woman stood in the centre of the room like a blade. Tall, severe, a cold beauty honed to a fine point. Her robes were pressed within an inch of their life, her hair pinned so tightly it seemed to resist motion itself. Her mouth was set, her eyes sharper than knives, and she regarded you the way one might examine a chipped teacup on display, barely concealing the fact that she found you unremarkable.

Behind her, cast in shadow by one of the tall, thin windows, was the wheelchair.

And the boy in it.

It hit you like a gust of winter wind. The kind that takes your breath before you even know it’s cold.

Not a man. Not elderly. Not even middle-aged.

A boy. Your age, perhaps a little older. His frame elegant, unmoving, draped in black like mourning itself. His hair fell in soft ink-dark waves to his cheekbones, his skin pale in that ancient way, like marble left too long in moonlight. And his eyes—

His eyes were the cruelest part.

They were beautiful, yes, but wrong somehow. Like a painting that had been smudged at the center. So dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupil began, framed by lashes far too soft for someone who glared like that. But it wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was what was in the looking. Not pain, not sadness. Bothered.

As if your very existence were something unfortunate he’d stepped in.

The woman stepped aside without preamble, her heels clicking once against the polished floor.

“This is my son.”

Her voice was precise. Clipped. Not unkind, but clinical, like she was reciting an inventory list.

“And this—” she looked you up and down like you were something she hadn’t ordered “—is Miss Y/N L/N, the new appointment. Temporary, unless she proves capable.”

You smiled brightly, still a little stunned, still a little breathless. “Hi! I’m Y/N—”

“Fascinating,” the boy interrupted.

The sound startled you. His voice was smooth, polished, but twisted at the edges by something dry and mocking. 

He didn’t even look at you as he spoke—just tilted his head back slightly, eyes trained on the ceiling like it bored him. 

Then, without warning, he made a series of strange noises—wet, guttural, garbled. Something between a groan and a snarl. Eyes still pointed upward, like he was summoning something.

You blinked, stunned, your smile flickering.

The woman snapped her head toward him, nostrils flaring. “Oh, will you quit it.”

He stilled, immediately. Then, slowly, his gaze slid toward you for the first time—slow as oil. There was a glint in his eye now, something smug.

“I’m Ben Dover,” he said, tone completely flat.

You didn’t react at first. The name took a second to settle.

And then—

Oh.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a soft laugh sputtered up your throat before you could help it, your hand rising instinctively to your mouth. “Right. Of course. Well—hi again, I’m Y/N!”

He blinked. “You already said that.”

Walburga’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Regulus. Stop scaring off healers. This is the third one this month.”

Regulus—because of course that was his real name—sighed long and slow, letting his head fall back against the chair, eyes closing as though you were the exhausting part of this conversation.

You didn’t say anything.

Because you were still reeling a little, not from his words, not even from the insult, but from the sheer unfairness of it. How young he was, how painfully lovely, how deeply, utterly miserable. You’d expected someone old, quiet, worn thin by life. What you got was a boy spitting bitterness like it was the only thing keeping him warm.And yet—you weren’t afraid.

Surprised, yes.

But not afraid.

You tilted your head, smile returning softer this time. 

Walburga adjusted the clasp at her wrist, something silver and ancient that gleamed like frost. She hadn’t so much as looked at you again. Her focus stayed trained on her son, who now stared out the window with the kind of apathy that didn’t even bother to feign interest in the conversation happening around him.

“Kreacher will tell you everything you need to know,” she said, voice clipped and final, as though she were ending a meeting, not beginning a life.

“I’m right here, you know.”

Regulus’s voice was sharp, almost amused—but there was something dangerous curled beneath it. 

Walburga did not look at him. “You’ve made it clear you’re not interested in being helpful.”

“I’ve made it clear,” he said coolly, turning toward her now, “that you don’t have to talk across me like I’m a side table. My brain isn’t paralyzed, mother.”

You blinked, looking between them—him, pale and sharp, eyes lit with defiance; her, still and rigid, like a statue in mourning. Something old and awful passed between them then. Not new hatred. Old disappointment.

She looked at him as though she could still will him into something else. 

“You’re sounding awfully like your disgrace of a brother.”

The words were dropped like broken glass at his feet.

And then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and left, her robes fluttering behind her like a closing curtain.

You stood still, half-wrapped in the echo of that tension, unsure whether to breathe or speak. Regulus said nothing. He stared straight ahead now, jaw tight, shoulders pulled back in a way that looked too proud to be natural. His hands rested still in his lap.

Only Kreacher moved, scuttling from the corner with a sigh like this was routine.

“If you are ready, Miss Y/N,” he said, tone dry as parchment, “I shall explain what Master Regulus needs.”

You glanced toward Regulus once more—he hadn’t looked at you again—then nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Kreacher walked you through it in brisk detail. His schedule, his limitations, the muscle cramps that seized him each morning, the potion he refused to take unless bribed, the way he would not allow himself to be touched unless absolutely necessary. What you should watch for. What you must never, ever suggest.

“And,” Kreacher finished, with the air of someone handing off a cursed object, “do not let his tone frighten you. He is not as fearsome as he pretends.”

“I’m not pretending,” Regulus muttered from his chair.

Kreacher ignored him.

You offered the elf a soft thank you, and he gave a tight nod before disappearing again into the shadows of the corridor, the door clicking closed behind him.

And then it was quiet.

Almost too quiet.

You stood a little awkwardly near the edge of the room, hands clasped loosely in front of you, eyes flicking once more to the boy who hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked, hadn’t blinked, it seemed, since his mother left.

You cleared your throat gently. “So, do you like lemon drops or…?”

Without a word, he reached for the wheels of his chair and rolled forward. As though he were leaving a room he’d already deemed unworthy of his time.

You blinked again. “Okay! You’re on the move. That’s—fun!”

He didn’t look back. The wheels hummed softly on the hardwood. You followed, because what else could you do? You weren’t about to let him disappear into a house you barely understood.

“I know I talk a lot,” you said as you caught up beside him, cheerful and undeterred, “But I promise I’m very good at being quiet too. Or mostly quiet. I mean I can be quiet if you want me to be, just say the word and—”

“Do you ever stop?”

You stumbled for a second, both in your step and your words. “Well… not really.”

“Fabulous.”

You tilted your head and matched his pace.

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

“Good. Then you’ll last a whole extra day compared to the last one.”

You had barely caught your breath when your mouth started moving again, words tumbling out like a rushing river that refused to be dammed. The moment your feet—or rather, your hands—touched the familiar rhythm of his wheelchair’s wheels, your voice picked up where it had left off, light and relentless, a constant melody in the quiet house.

“So, I was thinking,” you began, spinning a little fact about lemon drops and their surprising ability to lift moods, “that maybe we should start keeping some around. You know, for emergencies. Or whenever you need a little sunshine on a particularly gloomy day. Which, from what I’ve gathered, is… quite often? But I’m confident we can fix that! Because I’ve got a whole arsenal of tricks and potions and, well, mostly just really loud enthusiasm, but that counts, right?”

His silence was the only answer you got. He stared ahead, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the peeling wallpaper and dusty light filtering in through the windows.

You kept going, as though talking was a lifeline—your way of threading warmth into the cold corners of this house. “Did you know that daisies are actually a symbol of hope and innocence? I love that. They’re just so simple and pure. Like little bursts of happiness. Maybe we could get some for your room? I promise they don’t require much attention. And, well, if they die, that just means we get to pick new ones. It’s kind of like a fresh start every time.”

You reached the door to his room without realizing you’d slowed, and instinctively, you stopped the wheelchair with a soft squeak.

The silence stretched, vast and sudden.

Then, breaking it like a shard of ice, Regulus’s voice came, dripping with dry sarcasm, “Well, it’s about time you shut up.”

Darkness swallowed everything.

The walls were a suffocating black, thick tapestries hanging like mourning veils, blotting out any hint of light. Heavy curtains, drawn tight and stubborn, refused to let the sun breathe in. 

The furniture, carved of the darkest wood, loomed like ancient sentinels in the dim air. Pillows and blankets, all muted, cold, and folded with an absence of care.

You blinked, then blinked again, blinking through the surprise like a sunrise fighting through thick fog.

“No wonder all of you are so depressed in this house,” you said softly, almost incredulous, your eyes darting around the gloom, “Look at your room.”

You reached out instinctively and pulled at the heavy curtain cords. Slowly, deliberately, the black fabric slipped away, revealing the sun’s golden fingers spilling in, setting the dust aglow like tiny stars caught in a web.

“Will you stop?” Regulus snapped, voice laced with irritation. “You’re going to taint my room with your disease of brightness.”

You grinned, a light that refused to be dimmed, stepping fully inside. “I know your name is Black,” you said, “but being surrounded by so much blackness must surely be exhausting. I mean, how do you breathe in all this shadow without gasping for air?”

You moved around the room with the kind of care and excitement only you could muster—brushing the smooth, cold wood of the nightstand, fluffing the pillows with a gentle insistence, smoothing the blankets as if you could iron out the heaviness hanging in the air.

“This is your space. Your sanctuary, not some tomb.” You paused, watching as his jaw clenched tight, “You don’t have to live buried beneath all this. There’s a whole world outside waiting for you, and I think maybe you deserve to see a little bit of light—even if it scares you.”

He didn’t respond, but the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth told you he was listening, even if he refused to say it.

You perched on the edge of his bed, eyes bright and full of promise. “Look, I get it. You’re grumpy. You’re tired. But that doesn’t mean you have to be alone in it.”

He rolled away toward the window, silent and still, but you followed without hesitation, matching his slow, determined pace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, voice soft but steady. “You don’t scare me, Regulus Black.”

You didn’t know what exactly possessed you to make him tea.

Maybe it was the way he hadn’t looked at you once in the last fifteen minutes. Or how, for the briefest flicker of a second, he almost looked… calm. 

Or maybe it was just that ridiculous little idea that bloomed in your brain like everything else bright and irritating about you: that tea made things better.

So you went.

Floating down the hall like some over-caffeinated songbird in your very yellow dress—very yellow, patterned with tiny embroidered daisies and hibiscus and something bright you couldn’t name. You liked it. It made you feel like a walking summer afternoon. 

You knew it was too bright for this house, that you looked like a flower girl lost in a funeral procession, but that only made you like it more.

Kreacher gave you a long-suffering stare as you shuffled through canisters, hunting for the tea leaves.

“Master prefers it black,” Kreacher muttered.

You smiled, already tossing in a generous handful of sugar. “Then he can pretend it’s a dessert.”

Kreacher sighed.

Five minutes later, you returned with the tea and a victorious smile. Regulus was exactly where you left him, in his room, parked by the window in a shaft of reluctant light, looking like the ghost of some long-dead prince sulking in the ruins of his once-grand castle. 

And for a moment he looked at peace. Unbothered. Perhaps even content, because you were gone.

Well. Too bad.

You set the tea down gently in his lap like it was an offering to some snarky, wheelchair-bound deity.

“I made you tea,” you said brightly, settling into the armchair across from him with a sigh. “You’re welcome.”

He lifted the cup without looking at you. Took a sip.

And promptly spat it out in an explosive mess of sputtering and coughing that had you springing to your feet like a woman launched from a cannon.

“Oh my god, are you—are you choking?!” you cried, racing over. “Did I put something bad in it? Oh my god, is it a reaction? Are you allergic to—do you need water? Should I get Kreacher? Or a—do you carry an antidote? Merlin’s beard, you’re not dying, are you?!”

Regulus wheezed, coughed again, then looked at you with utter disdain. “What even is this bloody thing?”

You blinked, clutching his forearm like he might drop dead any second. “It’s just… it’s tea.”

“It’s a cup of liquid sugar,” he snapped. “Did you pour the entire jar in?”

You straightened indignantly. “Excuse me for trying to give you something nice—”

“And must you blind me with that atrocious… dress?” he continued, voice sharp, his scowl deepening as he glanced at you fully for the first time today. “It’s like being assaulted by a flower field.”

You looked down at yourself. “It’s yellow.”

“It’s obnoxious.”

You huffed, cheeks flushed, fists planted firmly on your hips. 

“You know what? You are so—I don’t even have the words—insufferable! Here I am, trying to be kind, trying to bring some color and life into this godforsaken mausoleum you call a home, and you—Merlin—you spit out tea like it’s poison and insult my dress in the same breath! Do you want to be miserable? Because you’re very good at it!”

He wheeled backward with a grunt, clearly ready to escape this whirlwind of floral rage. “You’re worse than the last healer, and she cried non stop.”

“Well I am not going to cry!” you shouted, marching after him as he made a sharp turn into the corridor. “So you can just give that fantasy up, Richard Black!”

He stopped.

You paused mid-rant, panting slightly.

Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder. “It’s Regulus,” he said flatly.

You folded your arms, chin raised high. “I don’t care.”

And then you smiled. With the righteous fire of someone who was not going to be broken by a broody boy in a wheelchair with a vendetta against sugar.

Somewhere down the hall, Kreacher sighed again.

-

Night in Grimmauld Place wasn’t like night anywhere else.

It didn't soften the way the world normally does when the stars creep in. It didn’t whisper or wrap around you like a warm blanket. Here, darkness settled like a punishment. Heavy and absolute. The corridors creaked with memories, and the wallpaper held secrets. But your room—however modest—was clean, quiet, and lined with books you didn’t recognize but promised to open one day.

Kreacher had shown you the way, once again, with a surprisingly polite bow and an even more surprising offer of a hot water bottle, which you declined with a tired smile.

And you had collapsed onto the bed like a daisy folding in on itself at sundown.

Your last thought before sleep took you was that maybe tomorrow would be better. That maybe, somehow, Regulus Black wouldn’t spit tea at you or insult your dress or call you a human disease.

You were wrong.

Because Regulus Black woke you up at five.

Five. A.M.

Before the sun, before the birds, before magic itself, probably.

You were dreaming—something soft and pleasant, a cottage, warm scones, and someone who looked suspiciously like Gilderoy Lockhart reading you poetry—when the knock came.

Not gentle. Not even insistent. No, this was war drums against the door, paired with the unmistakable, cold voice of the man himself:

“Wake up!”

You jolted upright, your hair a frizzled halo, your pink pajama top buttoned wrong. “What—what time is it? Is something wrong?”

“No,” came his voice again, darkly amused. “But you are late.”

You flung open the door in a blur of sleepy limbs and indignation. “Late? It’s not even—" you squinted down the corridor, still shadowed in night, "—morning!”

Regulus sat in his wheelchair at the end of the hallway, a smirk barely playing on his lips, dressed immaculately in black. Of course.

 “Allez. Lève-toi. Tu traînes. Merlin, tu es lente. Mets quelque chose de convenable. Bouge. Plus vite. Merde, c’est pas possible, quel cauchemar.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

He didn’t pause. "Sers-moi du thé. Pas trop chaud. Pas de sucre. Pas de cette horreur que tu as faite hier. Tu m’as empoisonné, tu sais. J’aurais dû porter plainte."

You blinked harder. “Regulus—I don’t—what—are you hexing me?!”

He didn’t even look at you. "Et ne mets pas cette robe rose. Par pitié. J’ai mal aux yeux."

You panicked, wildly trying to remember anything from your third-year elective in Magical Linguistics. “Did you just call me a robe?”

“Incroyable,” he muttered. “Elle comprend rien.”

And then, without another word, he rolled away—down the corridor, muttering fluently and furiously under his breath, arms sharp on the wheels, disappearing into the shadows like some long-suffering specter cursing the ghost of your fashion sense.

You just stood there.

Absolutely stunned.

Still not entirely sure if you’d just been fired, cursed, or challenged to a duel in French.

That’s when Kreacher appeared.

Quiet as ever, clutching a tea tray and looking entirely unsurprised by the commotion.

He bowed slightly. “Good morning, miss.”

“That’s debatable,” you said faintly. “Is he always like this?”

Kreacher didn’t blink. “After the first day, Master Regulus ensures the second is intolerable. He has a routine.”

“A routine?”

“He overwhelms the healers, wakes them before dawn, speaks only in French, issues impossible requests, undermines their methods, undermines their confidence. It is a pattern.”

You stared, absolutely scandalized. “But… but that’s not healing.”

“Indeed.”

You ran a hand down your face, tea tray still wobbling in your other hand. “Okay… but what happens after the week? Does he stop?”

Kreacher tilted his head. “None of them have lasted a week, miss.”

Your breath caught.

None.

You thought of yesterday—the tea, the rudeness, the mockery, the theatrical retreat down the hallway. And now, today—ambushed in the pre-dawn dark by French insults and scathing glances. He was testing you, toying with you, trying to break you like a twig underfoot.

But he hadn’t met you before.

Let day two begin.

Because no spoiled prince of House Black was going to ruin your morning.

You would not be fired before breakfast.

After Kreacher’s solemn warning and a great deal of inner pep-talk in front of the dusty old mirror, you flung open your trunk and got to work.

Pink again? Too predictable. The orange with the sunflowers? Too blinding, even for you. In the end, you chose a soft green tea dress with daisy embroidery and tiny pearl buttons—still bright, still stubbornly you, still perfectly designed to offend the eyes of one Regulus Black.

By five-thirty a.m. sharp — hair pinned, lips glossed, chin high — you found him already in the study, back to the cold half-light of dawn, a book open on his lap but clearly unread.

He glanced up, saw the dress, and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Merlin,” he said flatly. “That dress is even worse than yesterday’s.”

You only beamed. “Good morning to you too.”

He snapped the book closed with a sharp thwack. “Allez. Commence. Dépêche-toi.”

You raised a brow, strolling toward the tea cart with deliberate ease. “I speak plenty of languages, you know,” you said airily. “But French, I’m afraid, isn’t one of them, Richard.”

The wheels of his chair ground slightly as he turned toward you. “Will you—” he snapped in perfect English, tone sharp as flint, “stop calling me Richard!”

You set about preparing his tea, unbothered. “Then stop pretending to be some mysterious Frenchman and speak like the rest of us.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh, dragging one pale hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

“Not at all,” you chirped, stirring the tea. “You’re just not used to anyone keeping up.”

You brought the cup over to him, bright and chipper as spring. He stared at it as though it might explode.

“And no sugar this time,” you added, teasing. “Though I must say, the pink dress and sugar tea combo really seemed to rattle you yesterday.”

“You rattle me either way,” he muttered.

“So,” you began. “What’s the plan for today? More French? More glares? Are you going to have Kreacher dump ice water on me? Or maybe you’ll enlist Peeves to throw stink bombs at my door. I do love a good prank war, you know. I once swapped out my cousin’s shampoo with ink — poor thing had violet hair for a week. Though honestly it looked quite nice, if I do say so myself…”

You glanced at him — no reaction.

Undeterred, you prattled on. “Oh, and if you’re wondering, yes — this dress is intentional. I plan to brighten this house one room at a time, starting with you. And if you think I’ll be scared off by a little muttering in French, you’re sorely mistaken. My great-aunt Briony once hexed me in Bulgarian for spilling jam on her robes — I didn’t flinch. You, my dear Richard, are going to have to try harder.”

The faintest twitch of his mouth, the smallest flicker—still, you pressed on.

“And if I may say — for someone so determined to frighten off healers, you’re doing a rather poor job of it. In fact, I’d say you secretly like the company.”

That did it.

A sharp, sudden bark of laughter escaped him — genuine, unguarded, entirely unwilling. It startled even him, as if he’d surprised himself. He gave a low groan, shaking his head.

You blinked, utterly caught off guard. “Are you — are you laughing?”

He rubbed his temple, still half smiling, voice dry as ever. “Look at yourself,” he muttered. “You look like a deranged daffodil.”

You gaped at him. “A deranged daffodil?”

His lips twitched again, “Yes, sitting there, grinning like a maniac in that ridiculous dress.”

“Well!” you huffed, though you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “I’ll take that as a compliment. At least I’m not dressed like a ghost haunting his own house.”

He let out another faint breath of amusement and wheeled a little closer to the window.

And that was how the day began.

A single laugh — begrudging, accidental — and that tiny crack was all the encouragement you needed.

The moment passed, of course. Just as quickly as it came, that flicker of something faded beneath his usual cool indifference. But you had seen it. And if there was one thing you were — as you had so eloquently put it — it was relentless.

By the time breakfast was done, the soft morning light had brightened into a pale, cloud-streaked sky. Kreacher brought in a tray of cold fruit, toast, and tea, and you chattered through the meal with sunny determination, ignoring the icy silences and unimpressed stares you received in return.

And when the last crumbs were cleared, the tea gone lukewarm, you popped up and declared brightly, “Right then! Shall we?”

He only gave you a slow, narrow-eyed glance, as if regretting every choice that had led him to this moment.

Still, without a word, he allowed you to wheel him from the dining room, down the dark-paneled corridor, through the suffocating gloom of Grimmauld Place.

You hummed as you went, the wheels creaking faintly under your hands, his weight familiar now beneath your grip.

And because silence was hardly your natural state, you began, as always, to talk.

“You know, I never really planned to be a healer,” you said conversationally, rounding a corner, “when I was little, I wanted to be a curse-breaker or an alchemist—something daring, something exciting. But my mum—she was a healer herself—said I had the hands for it, and the heart, I suppose. I used to follow her to St. Mungo’s sometimes. I remember watching her mend a little boy’s broken ribs with such care. I think that’s when I knew.”

No response, no flicker of interest. His gaze remained straight ahead, cold, distant.

Undeterred, you continued.

“I do have good hands though, if I say so myself. I like using them. Cooking, knitting, painting sometimes, though I’m dreadful at portraits. But my favorite thing after healing? Playing the piano. Except, well… we could never quite afford one. Too expensive, too many other things to pay for. A shame, really. I would have liked that.”

You glanced down at him again, still no sign of life, but that was fine—you had all day.

“And, of course, healing stuck in the end. I always liked working with my hands. There’s something about the quiet magic of it, the way you can put someone back together, even just a little, even for a little while… I suppose that’s what drew me to it.”

You wheeled him carefully through the next doorway, not a hint of tiredness in your step.

Then at last, a voice, low and dry, “How charming.”

You smiled to yourself. “Oh, don’t sound so thrilled.”

“You seem very fond of the sound of your own voice,” he said flatly.

“I am,” you answered, bright as ever. “And you’ll be fond of it too, if you give it a chance.”

-

The days passed. Slowly, stubbornly.

Day two bled into day three, and somehow into day four. The sun, pale and reluctant, rose and set in the windows of that old, creaking house. 

Time seemed to slow in Grimmauld Place, thick as the dust that clung to every dark corner, and the hours stretched thin like thread about to snap.

It had not been easy. Not even close. Who could have guessed that a boy who spoke barely three sentences a day could prove to be such trouble?

For all the quiet he wrapped himself in, Regulus Black was a storm in still waters.

There were the small tricks, of course. The endless French mutterings meant to confuse and irritate, which you ignored with your most winning smile. 

The pointed silences when you asked a question. The way he would shift in his chair ever so slightly at the most inconvenient moments, making it impossible to settle into any rhythm of care.

More than once, you’d wheeled him into the dining room only for him to glance sideways at the chair and mutter, “Not hungry,” forcing you to turn all the way back down the long, endless hall. 

Or the days he refused to move at all, sitting in the grand drawing room with eyes shuttered and mouth set in a line, an unspoken dare for you to just try.

He would ignore your chatter completely some mornings, his gaze drifting away as though you were not there. Other times, he would glance up with a look so sharp, so cutting, that it was a wonder the words didn’t wither on your tongue.

It wasn’t just the silences, or the brooding stares, or the French mutterings tossed your way whenever he deigned to notice your presence. It wasn’t the long hours of pretending you weren’t there, or the mornings when he would refuse to let you wheel him anywhere, sitting rigid and unmovable in his chair.

No — it was the deliberate trouble he made of it. The way he seemed determined to drive you mad.

One morning, he had Kreacher wake you at four, instead of five — just because. 

Another, he insisted on being taken to the draftiest part of the house and left there for hours, knowing you’d fret the whole time. He would complain if the curtains were drawn, then sigh dramatically if they were left closed.

And the tea — Merlin, the tea.

No sugar, then too little sugar, then far too much. Never quite right. He never once touched the toast you brought, but if you didn’t bring it, he would ask where it was.

He gave you the wrong directions, deliberately told you the wrong room, even had Kreacher convinced for half a day that you needed to fetch rare ingredients from Diagon Alley (you did not).

A dozen small things. Constant, endless. Not the work of a boy too broken to care — no, this was the work of someone clever, and bitter, and fiercely intent on one thing: making you quit.

You had learned, thanks to a muttered warning from Kreacher, that no other healer had lasted more than six days. And now you knew why.

But you were nothing if not stubborn.

You did not quit.

You smiled instead, cheerfully, through gritted teeth. You brightened the rooms with chatter and color. You brought in flowers, just one small bunch — which he glared at so furiously you had to hide them in your own quarters after.

You ignored the traps he set, the pointed remarks, the endless, calculated war of attrition he waged against you.

And slowly — so slowly you might have missed it, if you hadn’t been paying attention — there were signs. Little ones.

He no longer commented on your dresses. The mutterings in French grew less frequent. He stopped refusing meals quite so often.

One afternoon, you caught him watching you as you moved about the room, straightening cushions, humming softly to yourself. His gaze was sharp, thoughtful.

He said nothing when you noticed, but the look lingered in your mind long after.

By the time the second week neared its end, the rhythm of it all had shifted.

He still did not like you — that much was certain. He still threw cold words your way when it suited him, and made no effort to soften the days.

But you had not been broken. And he had begun to see it.

It was on the fourteenth day, in fact — nearly two full weeks — that Walburga Black appeared again.

She swept into the drawing room, tall and sharp as a blade, black robes trailing behind her. You rose, smoothing your bright blue skirt — embroidered with little sunflowers this time — and met her gaze with as much calm as you could muster.

Her eyes flicked over you, taking in your color, your brightness — your sheer refusal to wilt.

“So,” she said at last, her voice cold, but edged with something like reluctant approval. “You remain.”

You inclined your head. “I do, madam.”

She looked at her son, sitting in his chair by the window, gaze distant, sharp profile outlined by the gray light.

“You are… doing well enough,” Walburga said, cool as ever. “Better than the last three.”

There was no praise in her tone. But for Walburga Black, those words may as well have been a rare kind of compliment.

With that, she swept away, her footsteps echoing in the long hall.

You let out a breath. Two weeks.

You had lasted two weeks. And though it had cost you sore feet, frayed nerves, and more late-night cups of tea than you could count, you had not been driven out.

Regulus Black still glared, still scowled, still met your words with cool disdain. But somewhere beneath it — you could feel it — the ice was thinner than before.

Two weeks. Somehow, two weeks had gone by.

You found yourself perched now at the edge of his bed, quite literally leaning over Regulus Black’s head with both hands tangled in the stubborn fluff of a pillow that refused to cooperate.

It was late afternoon, the rain tapping faintly against the tall windows, the room hushed except for your small, determined movements. 

And for the occasional, low-voiced complaint from the young man lying in the middle of the grand bed, looking every bit the aristocratic heir, even with his sharp scowl and narrowed eyes.

"It is wrong," Regulus muttered, eyes half-closed, voice as unimpressed as ever. "It is crooked."

You shifted it to the left, with great care.

"It is still wrong," he said flatly.

You shifted it to the right, biting back a smile.

"That is worse."

You blew out a slow breath, standing back for a second, hands on your hips. "You do realise," you said cheerfully, "that this is the seventh pillow adjustment I have performed today. Seventh. I should be awarded some kind of honour for this level of service."

He said nothing. His eyes remained closed, the faintest crease between his brows.

You leaned back in and began fluffing again. "And if this is some new tactic to drive me completely mad, congratulations, it is working. Slowly but surely."

"Rectangles cannot be crooked, you know," you added, shifting the pillow once more. "They are literally made to have corners. It is basic geometry."

A very soft sigh escaped him. "You are rambling again," he said, voice so low you almost missed it.

You beamed, undeterred. "That is one of my finest skills. Rambling, tea-making, a bit of knitting, painting sometimes, though nothing terribly good, and first-aid. Oh, and pillow-wrangling, of course."

Still, he lay quiet, though you could not help but notice that his mouth no longer held quite the same tight line.

You shifted the pillow once more, this time more gently, watching his face. Your voice grew softer. "I only ask because… well, I do not want you uncomfortable. Truly. If this is bothering you at all, just tell me. I can adjust it again."

He let out a long breath, lids still heavy over those dark eyes. "It is fine."

You sat back at last, satisfied, and sank into the chair by his bedside. The room was warm, the rain still steady beyond the glass.

After a few moments of comfortable quiet, you glanced at him again. "Regulus," you said softly.

There was a pause, then a quiet sound from him, almost a hum. "Hm?"

You hesitated for a beat, watching him. Then, voice gentle, "I was only wondering. What… what happened? How did you… I mean, how did you end up here?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but the faint tick of the old clock in the corner. You were certain he would not answer. You almost regretted asking at all.

But then his voice came, quiet, a little rough. "I did something," he said simply. Another pause. "It did not… go as I thought it would."

You watched him, heart soft, eyes gentle. You did not press. You only stayed there, the rain falling softly outside, the room wrapped in a quiet you hoped was just a little less lonely than it had been before.

It began, as most things did these days, with quiet determination.

You had spent the better part of that morning tending to Regulus as usual, helping him through the careful rhythm of his daily care. By now, you knew the way of it—gentle touches, a certain tone of voice, patience in spades. The way his body tensed at sudden movements, the careful way you adjusted his position, mindful of every ache and weakness. 

You had learned that beneath his sharp words and stubborn demeanor lay a body marked by suffering—scars tracing jagged paths across his skin, remnants of battles and betrayals no one spoke of aloud. Some were old, pale and faded, others still raw and angry beneath the surface. 

And while he still grumbled often enough, it had grown less sharp, less cutting. You’d caught more than one glimmer of something softer in his gaze when he thought you weren’t looking—fragile moments where the weight of his pain seemed to lift, if only for a breath.

That was why, when the thought came to you — that you could not spend every hour tucked behind heavy velvet curtains in that grand, grim house — you could not shake it.

He needed air.

You needed air.

Kreacher had warned you, of course. The old elf had pulled you aside in the kitchen as you’d hurried about, eyes bright with the plan already taking shape in your head.

“Miss, it is… not wise,” he had said, voice low, glancing about as though the portraits themselves might overhear. “Mistress would not allow it. No soul is to see Master Regulus outside these walls. No one must know.”

You had smiled at him, undeterred. “Then we won’t let anyone see, will we? It will only be a short outing, I promise. We’ll be back before the clock strikes two.”

He had sighed, long and deep, but you had seen the way his gaze softened, the way his shoulders sagged as though he knew there was no stopping you.

And so that afternoon, with sunlight pouring through the tall windows for the first time in days, you were finishing the last touches in your room, tying back your hair with a bright ribbon, tugging on your colourful coat — nothing too loud this time, but cheerful enough.

With a quick check in the mirror, you were off, feet light on the old floors as you made your way down to Regulus’s rooms.

The door stood half open. You knocked lightly on the frame.

“Good afternoon, your highness,” you called playfully, poking your head in. “I have a terribly scandalous plan for us today. Care to hear it?”

Regulus was in his chair already, angled toward the window, though the heavy curtains were mostly drawn. He turned at the sound of your voice, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You crossed the room, hands clasped behind your back. “You, sir, are going outside. Just for a little while. The sun is out, the world is calling, and I have made it my mission to rescue you from this dark and dreadful lair.”

He blinked at you, expression unreadable for a moment. Then, very flatly, “I assume Kreacher tried to talk you out of this.”

You grinned. “Naturally. Which is exactly how I know it is a good idea.”

A faint sigh escaped him, but you swore you saw something flicker behind those eyes — not quite protest, not quite refusal.

“You need not humour me,” he said quietly. “This is unnecessary.”

You stepped closer, voice softening. “It isn’t for me, Regulus. I think you might like it. And besides, no one will know. Walburga isn’t even home.”

He studied you a moment longer. Then finally, the smallest nod.

And that was how it began. You helped him into his coat, carefully adjusting the folds so nothing tugged uncomfortably. The touch of your fingers seemed to linger, softer now, unspoken. 

You wheeled him through the old halls with a conspiratorial air, Kreacher peeking nervously from the shadows.

Out the back entrance, down the hidden path where no neighbours could glimpse, and onto the quiet streets beyond. The world felt new again. Crisp air, the scent of early summer blooms, the distant hum of a city too long shut away from him.

You kept close, hands steady on the chair, voice bright as you pointed out little things — a sparrow darting across a fence, ivy curling through old stone, the glimmer of a bookstore window.

Regulus said little at first, only watching, guarded. But as the hour slipped by, you noticed the small signs. His shoulders eased. His gaze lingered longer on the world around him. The sharpness of his frown seemed less.

You didn’t stay long, no more than two hours. Careful, always, never too bold. You returned him safely before the grand clock could chime. 

And Walburga — well, Walburga never knew. She remained too occupied with her endless errands, her whispered dealings in shadowed corners, barely looking your way except to press a fat stack of galleons into your hand with cold, perfunctory words.

And so it became a kind of ritual. Each day, if the weather allowed and Walburga was gone — which was most days — you would ready him quietly, and off you’d go. Small escapes. Small freedoms.

And something shifted in him, subtle but certain. He no longer scowled when you brought out the bright scarves or colourful coats. 

He no longer fought the outings with the same bitterness. In fact, if you looked closely, you sometimes caught him waiting by the window, as though he hoped you would suggest it again.

Little by little, the city became your secret, and the outside world a place for him to breathe again. 

And little by little, too, the boy who had once seemed all coldness and ice began to thaw — if only when he was far from the House of Black.

And so the days blurred past, one folding into another, light pressing thin against the dark stones of Grimmauld Place. 

A month, maybe more now, since that first morning when you’d dared wheel him out beneath a pale sky, away from heavy curtains and sharper silences. 

You had begun with small strolls, nothing bold — past old shop windows and shadowed alleyways, little courtyards where the ivy grew thick on brick. But Regulus had not complained, not even once, and in time those stolen hours had become your quiet ritual.

You knew the house too well by now — the groan of the floorboards, the must of old velvet, the way Walburga swept in cold as frost, only to vanish again with barely a glance spared for her son. She rarely asked questions. Rarer still, she checked on you both. 

You suspected she didn’t care, as long as your pay envelope remained fat, and her son was not disturbing her greater affairs.

And so it was easy, in time. To slip away. To dress him in wool and dark coats, to tuck soft scarves at his throat and wheel him out into the world, where the air tasted freer than anything that could be found within those walls.

You would not have dared think it aloud, but truthfully — Regulus seemed to prefer it, too.

And on this morning, just as so many before, you found yourself beside him again, helping him through breakfast beneath the pale hush of dawnlight. The clink of cutlery, the soft rustle of cloth, your voice humming light above it all.

He had become used to your presence now. You could tell. He no longer flinched at your touch — not when you gently tucked his hair back behind one ear so it wouldn’t fall into his tea, nor when you reached without thinking to dab a spot of marmalade from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

There was no edge to his gaze this morning, no sharp retort — only a quiet patience, and something near amused resignation as you went on in your usual bright stream of talk.

“...and then there I was, right in the middle of Diagon Alley, can you imagine — three owls swooping straight for me. I must have looked absolutely ridiculous, flailing about with my bags,” you laughed softly, brushing imaginary feathers from your sleeves as you leaned in to help him with another sip.

 “And not a soul stopped to help, mind you. Londoners!”

Regulus let out a faint breath. It might have been a huff of laughter.

You beamed. “Anyway — where shall I take you today, hmm? I’ve been thinking on it all morning. Somewhere new, I think.”

He gave a low sound in his throat, gaze flickering toward you beneath dark lashes. “New again? You never run out of ideas, do you?”

“Well, I do try to keep things interesting, my prince,” you teased, settling the napkin beside his plate and folding your hands on the table. “I was thinking... a garden today.”

Regulus arched one brow, faintly intrigued. “A garden?”

“Mhm,” you nodded eagerly, leaning in conspiratorially as you reached to pour him another cup of tea. 

“Not just any garden— a secret one. Tucked away near the edge of the city. Full of flowers, they say. And —” you brightened, giving him a little smile as you reached to gently adjust his collar, straightening it — “—I wanted to bring a bouquet home for my sister. It’s her birthday soon. And I thought... well. It would be lovely to pick something fresh.”

He stilled a moment, watching you, voice quieter now. “Your sister’s birthday?”

You beamed. “Yes! In a few days’ time. And would you believe — our birthdays are only a month apart. Same weekday. Same hour, even. Mother always called it a blessing. I think so, too.”

Regulus’s eyes flickered, something thoughtful behind them. Then, low and even, “Your birthday is in a month?”

“Mmhm!” you chirped, smoothing a hand over your skirt. “I can hardly believe it. Though honestly — I love birthdays. I love getting older. It’s like turning the page on a new chapter, don’t you think? A whole new year to fill.”

At that, a faint smile ghosted across his lips, but there was something rueful in it. He shook his head slightly.

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “You’re not what?”

He glanced away for a breath, voice softer. “I’m not eager to grow up.”

You tilted your head, brows drawing up. “Why not?”

A long pause. Then, almost too quietly — “When you grow, you’ll understand.”

You puffed a breath, folding your arms with mock indignation. “You sound like an old man, you know. Honestly — you’re barely a year older than me, Regulus.”

“Which means, sir, that you have no excuse for being so gloomy.”

He rolled his eyes, but the sharpness was gone.

You leaned in again with a playful grin. “And besides — today we’re going to the garden, so you’ll have no choice but to enjoy yourself.”

Regulus gave a soft, resigned sigh, watching you fold the napkin one last time with an almost fond patience.

And just as you gathered your things to ready him for the outing, you shot one last grin over your shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way, Richard —”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the chair. “I thought we were done with that name.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

And so the day began — another small adventure, waiting just beyond the doors.

After breakfast, after the soft cloth wiped gently at the corner of his mouth, after the tea cups were cleared and the scarf was set just so at his throat — you wheeled him carefully to his room, helped him into fresh clothes with your usual featherlight touch and the practiced care of someone who’d long since learned the curve of every quiet injury. 

Today, you took extra care — for today, you had a plan.

And when you left him to finish dressing, you hurried off to change yourself — pulling the lilac-lavender dress from the wardrobe where it had waited for just the right moment. A soft thing, with delicate sleeves and a gentle sway to it, nothing like your usual riot of colors and prints. 

You smoothed it carefully down your front, checked your reflection then gathered your things and headed back.

Regulus was waiting where you’d left him, pale fingers resting on the arm of the chair, gaze flicking idly out the window. 

He turned when you entered, and for the first time that morning, a faint smile touched his mouth.

“Now that’s a surprise,” he said, voice low and wry. “I think this is the first time I haven’t seen you dressed like a bouquet of wildflowers.”

You laughed, bright and warm, as you wheeled him gently from the room. “Oh, don’t sound so disappointed. I thought — well, you’re going to see plenty of bright colors at the garden today. I figured I’d spare you for once, save your sore eyes.”

That earned you a soft laugh — low and real, enough to make your heart skip.

“I doubt anything could spare me from you,” he murmured, amusement in his tone.

You beamed, unbothered. “And yet here you are, surviving me another day.”

The sun was soft through the curtains as you steered him through the halls, careful of every bump and corner. 

You had long since learned which boards creaked, which shadows shifted. Kreacher was nowhere to be seen — though you suspected the old elf knew far more than he let on. You had no doubt he would turn a blind eye to this latest outing.

By the time you reached the front door, the air was fresh and cool, a light breeze fluttering the edges of your dress as you helped Regulus into the street. He tilted his head back slightly, dark hair catching the light, the faintest hint of a smile still playing at his lips.

“What’s your favourite color, Y/N?” he asked suddenly, voice soft as you wheeled him along the quiet pavement.

You blinked, surprised — then laughed again. “That’s like asking me to pick a favourite child. It’s impossible.”

“You don’t even have children,” he said, dry as ever.

“Well, still!” you grinned. “I love all colors. Always have. How could I ever choose? I mean — there was a time when I loved butter-yellow, then cherry red, then sky-blue. But growing up... this lilac, this soft purple — it’s always been my favourite. Like little violets in spring, you know?”

He watched you, eyes half-lidded, the rhythm of the chair wheels soft beneath the hush of morning.

“But,” you went on, voice quieter now, a small smile curving your mouth, “lately... these past few months, I think... I’ve been liking grey.”

You said it looking straight into his eyes.

He blinked, gaze sharpening faintly. “Grey?”

You nodded, lips quirking. “Mhm.”

“I’ve never even seen you wear grey,” he said. “How could someone as... bright as you —” a small huff of breath, almost fond — “love grey?”

You laughed softly, wheeling him gently across the cobbled path.

“Oh, but I do!” you insisted. “Not just any grey, mind — there’s a very particular shade. Not too pale, not too dark — like the sky right before a storm, or the soft stone of old buildings. I haven’t found it anywhere — not in dresses, not in scarves, not even in ribbons. If I could find it, I’d wear it every day.”

Regulus gave a quiet sound — somewhere between a breath and a laugh. “So... is it lilac, or grey? Pick one.”

You grinned wide, leaning in as you pushed the chair a little faster, the breeze catching your hair. “I want to say grey — but only that one perfect shade. And since I can’t seem to find it, lilac will have to remain my favourite, for now.”

He shook his head faintly, lips curving. “You’re such an odd woman.”

You beamed. “I take that as a compliment.”

You laughed softly as you wheeled him down the quiet side street. The familiar sound of the chair’s wheels hummed beneath your hands, smooth now after weeks of use — your steps light, excitement bright in your chest.

Ahead, just a few turns away, was the hidden place you’d been so eager to show him. 

A secret garden, tucked between buildings, wrapped in ivy and shade, where wildflowers grew untamed and forgotten. You’d been saving it for just the right day — and today felt like the day.

The air was soft, summer-sweet, and you could feel him more at ease than usual, shoulders less tense, hands relaxed on the arms of the chair.

And then — with the ease of long habit — you began talking again, filling the silence with your usual stream of chatter.

“What about you, Regulus?” you asked, leaning forward a little, voice bright. “What’s your favourite colour?”

You felt the faintest pause — the way his breath caught, surprised by the question. His eyes flicked sideways, considering —

But before he could speak, you were already laughing, leaning in closer. “Oh wait! — wait, I know! I know what your favourite colour is!”

The wheels bumped slightly over the uneven stones as your excitement got the better of you — the chair jolting a little too fast.

Regulus gave a low, amused laugh, steadying himself. “Careful,” he said, shaking his head.

“Sorry — sorry! But I do know,” you insisted, eyes sparkling. “Just let me guess!”

He tilted his head, faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Go on, then,” he said. “Guess.”

You took a dramatic breath, grinning. “Well — it can’t be red. That’s far too bold. And definitely not yellow or orange — too loud, too bright, not at all your style. And blue, maybe? But not light blue. Not sky blue, no. Too soft. Not pink, though secretly I think you quite liked my flower dress the other day — admit it.”

Another soft laugh from him, a sound that made your heart flutter, pleased beyond reason.

“And black,” you continued. “Well, that would be far too obvious. No, no. I am absolutely certain it’s dark green. A deep green — like the old forest trees, the kind that grow where no one walks anymore.”

The smile that touched his lips now was genuine, his eyes glinting faintly beneath the long lashes.

“You’re right,” he said simply, voice warm.

Your breath caught in delight. “Really? Really, Regulus? I guessed it?”

He nodded once. “You did.”

You beamed, leaning into the chair a little as you steered it gently towards the narrow turn ahead. “Well, I am rather good at reading people, if I may say so myself.”

“I’ve noticed,” he murmured, tone quiet but tinged with amusement.

You laughed again, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you navigated the small archway between the crumbling stone. The path narrowed now — hedges tall and thick on either side, the entrance to the secret garden just beyond.

“And here we are,” you said softly, guiding the chair with care between the branches, easing him into the quiet space.

The garden opened before you — wild and lovely, full of tangled vines and riotous blooms, the air rich with the scent of lavender and jasmine. 

“See?” you whispered, stepping beside him now. “I told you you’d be seeing bright colours today.”

For a long moment, he said nothing — simply looked around, taking in the quiet beauty of the place.

And then, to your quiet joy, he laughed. Low, full, unguarded.

Around you, the flowers seemed almost to hum with colour — great swaths of gold and violet, soft blush pinks tangled with deep indigo, tall foxgloves swaying like bells in the breeze. 

You chattered on, light and happy, hands warm and steady on the handles of the chair as you guided him forward.

Regulus listened — or rather, he listened to you — more than the words themselves. The sound of your voice — bright, unafraid, endlessly alive — was a curious thing. Like water trickling over stone. Soft, but persistent. Impossible to ignore.

He should have been irritated. Or tired. Or simply indifferent — as he had been when you first arrived at Grimmauld Place, trailing colour and noise through darkened halls. But now, two months later, he found himself watching you instead.

You bent forward slightly, gesturing to a burst of yellow marigolds just ahead.

“Marigolds!” you said cheerfully. “Do you know what they mean? Grief. Can you believe it? Such a bright flower, carrying such a heavy thing.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, eyes sparkling, the corners crinkling with warmth.

"Now these here," you said, leaning slightly to gesture at a row of bright orange calendulas, "these are for warmth and gratitude. I think they look like little suns, don't they? All cheerful and round."

Regulus made a faint sound in reply, something between a hum and an exhale.

"And those are peonies," you went on happily, pointing further ahead. "For romance and prosperity. They're a favourite at weddings, you know. Though honestly, I always thought they were too fussy for my taste."

You kept talking as you wheeled him down the winding path. The gravel crunched softly under the chair. 

"Forget-me-nots there," you said, lifting your hand toward a low bed of tiny blue flowers. "For remembrance, of course. So simple and so sad, aren't they?"

You glanced back at him, as though expecting an answer.

Regulus met your eyes for a moment, then said quietly, "You know a great deal about flowers."

You beamed at that. "Oh, I do. I read about them all the time. Not just what they are, but what they mean. Isn't it wonderful how something so small can hold so much meaning? It's like... every little petal has a story."

His gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable, though softer than it might have been weeks ago.

"And these here are lilies," you continued, voice light. "For purity, of course. Though personally I think they’re a bit too solemn. A bit too funereal."

You wheeled him along further, slowing a little as you reached a patch of tall snapdragons.

"Now these," you said, voice warming, "mean both deception and graciousness. Odd pairing, isn't it? I suppose it depends on the colour. And over there, violets for devotion. I love violets."

You leaned to adjust his shawl lightly where it had slipped, hands gentle at his shoulders.

He let you. Weeks ago, he would not have. Now, he seemed almost used to your fussing.

"And here," you went on, pointing at a tangled bed of wildflowers, "is larkspur for lightness and levity. Oh, I do love flowers. They always make me think of music, somehow."

Regulus tilted his head slightly. "Music?"

You grinned. "Yes. Like notes on a page. All the different colours and meanings, blending together. Isn't that silly?"

His mouth curved faintly again. "Perhaps."

You smiled and kept wheeling him further into the garden, until you reached a wider, sunlit space where flowers burst in every direction.

The hidden garden stretched before you, bursting with colour — beds of wildflowers, patches of thick roses, tiny white bells of lily of the valley. 

Regulus was unusually quiet, gaze drifting from the flowers to you, watching the easy way you moved through the space. It had been more than a month now, yet some part of him still found it strange, this bright, maddening girl who somehow never gave up.

"So," you said as you wheeled him slowly into the wider clearing, "since you’ve been subjected to my endless flower lectures today, it’s only fair that I ask — which of these do you like the most?"

Regulus blinked, as if surprised. "I… do not know," he said after a pause. "I have never thought of such things."

You laughed at that, leaning down to adjust the edge of his shawl again. "Well, think now. You must have some opinion, surely. Go on, pick."

He gave a quiet breath, gaze sweeping slowly over the riot of blooms. Then, after a moment, he tilted his head slightly toward a cluster of tall white flowers blooming near the garden’s edge.

You followed his gaze, eyes lighting.

"Oh, the chrysanthemums," you said brightly, voice lifting. "Oh, they are so pretty, aren’t they? I love them. Especially the white ones, they’re so elegant, so pure."

You leaned down a little more, wheeling him carefully closer.

"Though—" you added, with a little thoughtful hum, "white chrysanthemums… well, they do mean farewell. Or leaving someone. In many places, they’re used at funerals. Quite sad, isn’t it? Such a beautiful flower to mean something so heavy. Farewell in death, sometimes."

You glanced at him again, watching his expression. His eyes were unreadable, steady on the pale blooms.

"But still," you went on gently, voice softer now, "I do love them. They’re so pretty, even if the meaning is a little sorrowful."

Regulus’s voice came low, almost to himself. "Perhaps that is why I like them."

You blinked, looking at him with a little tilt of your head. Then your smile returned, bright again though a touch more tender now.

"Well," you said, lightening your tone, "no more talk of goodbyes today. We are here for colour and life, not sad meanings."

You patted his shoulder lightly, fingers gentle.

"Come on," you went on. "There’s so much more to see. And I haven’t even started on the roses yet."

And with that, you wheeled him slowly onward, your voice filling the still afternoon air, naming flowers as you went, while Regulus let himself be led. His gaze lingered on the pale chrysanthemums for one moment longer before following after you.

The afternoon meandered on, golden with warmth and soft air. The garden had all but embraced you both now, its winding paths and bursts of colour like a secret shared.

You wheeled him slowly beneath the tangled branches, your voice never quite still. 

You hummed a little under your breath then, glancing toward a patch of soft bluebells, gathering a few with careful fingers. And before long, your hands were busy again, weaving blooms together — stems folding, threads of green curling beneath your touch.

He watched you from the chair, head tilted. "What is it this time?"

"A crown," you replied brightly. "One fit for a prince. And you, my dear Richard Black, are dreadfully in need of a coronation."

"Must we revisit that name?" he groaned. 

"But you wear it so well," you teased, stepping behind him. "Hold still, Your Highness."

"You cannot be serious."

But your fingers were already gentle atop his head, settling the woven crown in place.

"You will cause me endless shame," he muttered, though the faintest ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

You came around to face him, tilting your head. "Nonsense. You look positively regal."

He let out a low laugh then, warm and surprising, the sound of it settling somewhere deep in the afternoon light.

"You are impossible," he said softly.

"And you are far too serious," you answered, grinning wide. "Balance, you see."

And so the hours wove on.

You gathered more flowers still, wheeled him along every hidden turn of the garden, colours bursting at every corner. Conversation drifted light and easy, your voice filling the quiet air.

The sun began its slow descent, casting a honeyed glow through the leaves, when at last you both turned toward home.

And so you returned — back through the winding streets, back to Grimmauld Place.

That evening, long after the lamps were lit and the house had stilled, Regulus slept with an ease that had eluded him for too long, the memory of your laughter and the garden’s soft riot of colour lingering in the shadows of his mind.

The days continued in their quiet rhythm. Each morning brought more light into those old dark halls, more colour, more breath. 

You still cared for him, still coaxed him into those little stolen outings when Walburga was away. And though neither of you said it, there was something softer now in the hours you shared.

The quiet weeks slipped by. And your birthday drew ever closer.

Your birthday neared without much fanfare — you hardly spoke of it, too busy with your endless tasks, your mornings tending to Regulus, your afternoons spent wheeling him into patches of sunlight, your evenings filled with soft chatter and easy silences. 

The rhythm of those weeks had become so familiar now that even Kreacher seemed to move about with less stiffness.

You were in the kitchen late one morning, sleeves rolled to your elbows as you helped Kreacher with a bit of tidying. The old elf, for all his muttering, had grown oddly fond of you. 

You could tell by the way he grumbled less these days, by the quiet ways he shared tiny bits of information that no one else would.

“I still say you should be careful, miss,” Kreacher was saying that morning, voice low. “The mistress may yet notice how often you take him out.”

“I am always careful,” you replied, tying a cloth around a bundle of herbs. “And besides, it makes him happier, doesn’t it? Surely you can see that.”

Kreacher gave a small huff, somewhere between reluctant agreement and resignation.

It was then that the sound of wheels came faintly from the corridor — soft at first, then louder, more steady.

“Y/N?”

You glanced up at once, already smiling, hands brushing the stray bits of herbs from your skirt. You turned quickly toward the voice, finding Regulus in the doorway, dark hair falling into his eyes, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes?” you answered brightly.

He said nothing at first, only sat there watching you with an expression you still could not always read. And then, before you could ask again, he motioned with one hand, the smallest beckoning.

“I’ve left something for you in your room.”

“Oh,” you blinked, surprised. Then without thinking, you set down the bundle of herbs and hurried forward, brushing a hand over his arm lightly as you passed. “Do you need anything? Are you alright?”

Kreacher, still in the corner, caught that moment — the soft urgency in your tone, the way you looked at him — and though he said nothing aloud, a flicker of something unreadable passed through his old eyes. 

A little too much worry for someone meant to be only a caretaker.

Regulus shook his head with a faint smile. “Just go look.”

You bit your lip, curiosity sparking, and turned down the hall toward your small room. Behind you, the soft click of wheels followed steadily.

You pushed open the door and stopped short.

There, laid carefully across your bed, was a dress. Not just any dress — but a beautiful, flowing gown of purest white, soft to the touch and shimmering faintly in the light. The fabric rippled like water, simple yet elegant, the sort of thing you might have only dreamed of wearing.

Your breath caught.

“Oh… oh no,” you said softly, shaking your head as you ran your fingers lightly over the folds of fabric. “Regulus… I can’t possibly…” You turned quickly, finding him in the doorway, watching you with quiet amusement. “This looks expensive. Why would you… why would you get me something like this?”

He arched a brow, ever the picture of dry humour, though his eyes gleamed. “Don’t let it get to you. I’m not doing this for me. I just can’t very well be seen going to a gala with you dressed in yellow stripes again.”

You gasped, swatting lightly in his direction, laughter spilling out. “I did not wear stripes. That was floral.”

“Stripes. Bright enough to blind the room.”

You huffed, smoothing the dress again, still unsure. “What gala?”

Regulus tilted his head slightly, tone maddeningly casual. “There’s an event. I have to attend. You’re my caretaker, obviously you’ll come.”

You turned wide-eyed. “But… you aren’t even allowed to be seen by anyone. Not according to your mother. If she found out—”

“She would not only fire me,” you said with mock-dramatic flair, “but possibly kill me.”

He let out a low laugh, a real one, warm and low in his chest. “Since when has that ever stopped you from sneaking me out?”

You couldn’t help it — you laughed with him, shaking your head. “True. But still, this is different. What if someone really sees us this time?”

“No one will,” he replied, voice a little softer now, gaze steady on yours. “No one will find out. Just… get ready. Tonight.”

You looked down again at the dress, heart skipping in your chest, something warm and unfamiliar flickering in your belly.

“Alright,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “Alright. Tonight.”

The smile that touched his lips then was soft and fleeting — but no less real.

-

Night arrived softly, slipping over Grimmauld Place like silk, quiet and endless. 

You smoothed the white dress over your figure, hands lingering at your waist, fingers trembling ever so slightly with something that felt too complex to name. The fabric was delicate, the way it moved when you turned, the way it caught the faintest light, felt like something out of a dream. It fit you perfectly.

Never had you worn something so fine, so elegant. And never had you looked quite like this.

You had taken the time tonight. A faint blush colored your cheeks, your lashes darkened with careful strokes. Your hair, usually pinned in loose twists or simple braids, had been gathered into an elegant updo. 

For a long moment, you stood still, watching yourself in the mirror.

There was a strange ache in your chest, tender and aching all at once. You had never felt more beautiful, and yet beneath it all was something quieter, something fragile.

It was not vanity. It was not pride. It was the soft hope, the quiet longing, of someone who wished to be seen.

Drawing in a breath, you smoothed your dress once more and opened your door. The house was silent. You stepped out into the dim corridor, each footfall light, your pulse quick beneath your skin.

And there, just beyond your door, was Regulus.

He sat in his chair, dressed in a dark suit of deep charcoal and silver trim. The cut was impeccable, tailored to perfection, the crisp line of his collar brushing against the pale line of his throat. His hair had been combed neatly, a small defiant lock falling over his brow.

For a breathless moment, you could not move.

How had he managed this? You knew better than anyone the effort it took him to stand, to sit for long. The thought alone drew a pang through your ribs, sharp and tender. That he had done this, that he had dressed himself so carefully, sent a rush of something warm through you.

Three months had passed. Somewhere along the way, things had shifted. No longer was he simply your patient. No longer were you simply the girl hired to care for him.

Though you could not name it yet, it was there between you.

And then his gaze met yours.

A smile, soft and genuine, curved his lips.

“You look beautiful,” he said, voice quiet and steady.

Heat rose to your cheeks before you could help it. Your heart fluttered as you laughed and replied without thinking.

“You look even more beautiful, if that is even possible, Richard.”

He let out a warm laugh, softer than you had ever heard from him before.

“Thank you... Madame Lavender.”

You blinked, startled, and gave an exaggerated gasp.

“Madame Lavender? Whatever do you mean by that?”

Regulus leaned his head slightly against the side of the chair, amusement flickering in his pale eyes.

“You are like some old widow obsessed with colors, always rambling about which shade is best. You chatter endlessly. One could go deaf listening to you.”

Your hand flew lightly to your chest in mock offense.

“I will have you know, I thought I looked rather striking tonight in this dress,” you replied, trying not to smile.

His gaze softened.

“You do,” he said quietly. “You do, Y/N.”

Your heart gave a small stutter. It was not the words alone, but the way he said them. No teasing this time, no dry humor. 

Your breath caught, and you found yourself smiling too brightly. You shifted behind him, resting your hands gently on the handles of his chair.

“Well then,” you said, voice light though your heart thudded in your chest, “we ought not to keep this grand mysterious event waiting. Who knows what excitement lies ahead?”

Regulus glanced back at you, an almost playful glimmer in his eye.

“I must say, I had my doubts whether you would show at all. You took long enough getting ready.”

You laughed softly as you began to wheel him forward.

“And leave you alone on such an occasion? Never. I am your caretaker, after all. It would not be proper to abandon you.”

The words rang too true, their meaning stretching beyond what either of you acknowledged aloud.

You rolled him down the hall, your heart lifting with each turn of the wheels. Something unspoken hung between you now, light and fragile, a thread newly spun.

The evening air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of the city’s night blooms. You wheeled Regulus carefully down the steps, where the sleek black car awaited them. It gleamed beneath the lamplight, the polished door already opened by one of the driver’s assistants.

A pair of sharply dressed wizards waited by the car, their posture stiff and formal, wands at the ready. Everything about this seemed too grand, too polished. You blinked, half in awe, half in disbelief.

Regulus tilted his head toward you.

“Come on, Madame Lavender. In we go.”

You laughed softly. “Still with the nickname, I see.”

He smirked faintly. “You earned it.”

The driver approached, offering his arm, but you shook your head politely, expertly maneuvering the chair. The whole thing had become second nature by now. It felt strange to think that only a few months ago you had fumbled clumsily at every little turn.

With a bit of coordination and Regulus’ quiet patience, you helped him into the car, folding the chair swiftly and settling beside him. The door shut with a soft thud, and the car pulled away, gliding smoothly through the narrow, twisting streets.

You glanced over at him. 

He looked... different tonight. Not just in the perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark hair was combed neatly, but in the small signs — the way his gaze flicked from window to window, the tightness in his jaw.

“Regulus?” you asked softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t answer at first, eyes scanning the passing shadows outside.

You leaned a little closer, worry creeping into your voice.

“If you’re not feeling well, we can go back, you know. Truly. I won’t mind at all. In fact, I will happily march us right back home. Just say the word.”

At that, he turned his head toward you, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No, no. We are going,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry so much.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, but his smile reassured you for now.

The car slowed and turned, and soon the great manor came into view — a sprawling estate, lit with golden chandeliers and glowing orbs of magic suspended high above the gardens. 

The grand steps glittered with enchanted garlands, the air buzzing with soft music and distant voices.

“Well,” you breathed, wide-eyed. “This is certainly... something.”

You helped him from the car, adjusting his suit jacket slightly as you unfolded the chair once more. Carefully, you wheeled him up the long path toward the entrance.

And then something caught your eye.

You leaned in a little, blinking.

“Wait,” you said suddenly, voice laced with amusement. “Is that... oh, Regulus.”

He gave you a quizzical look. “What is it now?”

You tried to hold in your laughter, failing entirely as you gently tugged the back of his collar.

“You left the tag on your suit,” you giggled. “Right at your neck. Look.”

Regulus gave an exasperated sigh, though his lips twitched in reluctant amusement.

“Do you happen to have any scissors packed in that fancy little emergency bag of yours?” you asked playfully, patting the side pouch under his chair.

He gave you a look, arching one brow.

“I do not know, Madame Lavender,” he replied dryly. “Believe it or not, I rarely pack it myself these days.” He glanced pointedly at his legs, motioning vaguely with one hand.

You huffed, pretending to be offended.

“Honestly. Impossible. You are impossible.”

Regulus gave a small shrug, clearly unbothered.

You glanced around, then leaned in close to inspect the tag again, lips pursed in thought.

“Well,” you declared, grinning. “Hold still.”

Before he could protest, you leaned down, far closer than propriety would suggest, and carefully caught the tag between your teeth. 

The moment was absurd — you, bent over in your white dress, nearly nose to nose with him, teeth tugging at the little scrap of fabric.

Regulus went utterly still, breath caught somewhere between surprise and mortification. His cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink, pale skin betraying every flicker of emotion.

You gave a sharp little tug, the tag coming free with a soft rip.

“Got it,” you beamed triumphantly, straightening and holding up the offending scrap.

“Good thing it wasn’t stuck in your trousers,” you teased, grinning wickedly.

Regulus, still visibly flustered, mumbled beneath his breath, “I wish it was.”

You gasped, scandalized, and swatted his shoulder lightly.

“Richard Black,” you exclaimed loudly, hands on your hips. “I cannot believe you just said that!”

He gave a low laugh, eyes gleaming with amusement despite the faint blush still warming his cheeks.

“You started it, Madame Lavender,” he said innocently.

Shaking your head with a fond smile, you leaned down and whispered, “Come now, let us get you inside before you cause more of a scene.”

And with that, you began wheeling him up the steps, the two of you laughing softly, the grand doors of the manor opening before you into the bright, gilded night.

The hall was a blur of gold and velvet, of laughter that echoed too loudly against the grand stone walls. You moved among them, wheeling Regulus through the currents of the crowd, but his silence grew heavier with each passing step. He was looking left, then right, too often, too sharply, eyes flicking like a trapped thing.

You slowed, frowning, feeling the tight coil of worry beginning to wind through your chest. And then you heard it — the catch in his breath, shallow and uneven, and the faintest wince crossing his face like a shadow.

Without hesitation, you turned the chair, gliding swiftly through the throng. Past glittering witches in gowns of emerald and sapphire, past wizards with jeweled walking sticks and cold eyes. You found a secluded alcove behind a heavy velvet curtain, hidden from sight.

There, at last, you stopped, heart pounding.

You crouched down in front of him in one fluid movement, eyes scanning his pale face. His breathing was sharper now, lips drawn tight, shoulders held stiff in their fine suit.

"Regulus," you whispered, voice already trembling.  “Look at me."

When he did not answer, something in you broke a little. You reached for him, cupping his face gently between your palms, forcing his gaze to meet yours. His skin felt too cold, far too cold, beneath your fingertips.

"Regulus," you said again, more desperate now. "Please. Tell me what is hurting. What can I do? Just tell me. Please do not shut me out, not now."

His throat worked, as if swallowing back both pain and pride. His lips parted at last, breath ragged.

"It is only my back," he rasped softly, barely more than a breath. "The scars."

And with those two words, understanding seared through you.

The months you had spent at his side had taught you much, though he had never once spoken of the wounds. But you had seen them. You had touched them in silence when helping him dress, your fingers tracing the ragged lines carved across his back, scars that spoke of cruelty too deep for words. 

They were not simple marks, but the remnants of violence, of something that should never have happened.

And sometimes, as you had learned, they would flare without warning. The damaged nerves would awaken, sending rivers of pain through him until it was all he could do to bear it. There were nights you had knelt at his side, unable to ease it, your own heart breaking as he trembled, silent and alone in his suffering.

And now it was happening again, here, in this glittering place of wealth and power.

You exhaled shakily, fighting the wave of helplessness rising in you.

"That is it," you whispered fiercely. "We are going home. Now. This is not worth it. Nothing is."

You moved to rise, to turn the chair. But before you could, his hand reached out, fingers catching yours. The touch was weak but determined.

"No," he said, voice hoarse but certain. "We are not leaving."

Your heart twisted. You turned back to him, still holding his hand.

"Regulus," you pleaded, eyes burning. "Please. You are in pain. I can see it. Do not do this to yourself. Please, we can go. Say the word and I will take you home right now."

He shook his head faintly, breath uneven.

"I cannot leave. Not yet," he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. "I must... stay. Just a little longer."

You stared at him, grief welling in your chest. The strength it must have taken for him to be here at all, dressed in his fine suit, sitting beneath this chandelier of stars. And now, even as pain lanced through him, he refused to turn away.

Whatever reason he had, it mattered to him. You saw that clearly now.

Your voice softened, thick with emotion.

"Then I am not leaving your side," you whispered. "I will stay here with you. But you must promise me... if it worsens, if you cannot bear it, you will tell me. Do not keep it from me, Regulus. Please."

For a moment, his eyes, weary but grateful, held yours. Then the smallest of nods.

You let out a breath you did not know you had been holding. Your fingers brushed his hair back from his damp brow, a tender, lingering touch.

Then you lowered yourself again to your place beside him, kneeling quietly by the side of his chair, hand resting lightly atop his.

And in that small corner of velvet shadows, as the music of the grand hall carried on beyond the curtain, you stayed. Saying nothing, simply holding space for him, as you had learned to do.

For as long as he needed.

You stayed like that for a long while, your head resting gently on his lap, fingers smoothing back the soft, dark strands of his hair. His careful styling from earlier had long since come undone beneath your touch, but Regulus did not seem to mind. If anything, he looked more at peace than he had all night.

You traced the slope of his temple lightly, gaze lingering on the soft curve of his lashes, the faint color returning to his face. 

The noises of the gala felt distant here in this quiet little corner, and though you had arrived with such nerves, now— in this moment— you did not want to move at all.

The thought came unbidden: he was not a patient to you anymore. Not really. Three months had done something to your heart that you had no words for.

And then— sharp footsteps clicked against the floor.

A voice, clipped and sharp with suspicion:

"Excuse me? Who are you both?"

You startled upright, cheeks coloring with warmth as you quickly composed yourself. A tall young wizard stood there now, dressed in crisp black and green, clearly a steward or waiter for the evening. His narrowed eyes swept over the two of you, brows lifting.

"This is a private event," he continued, voice stiff. "Names, please?"

You opened your mouth at once to answer, polite instinct kicking in.

"I’m—"

But before you could finish, Regulus cut smoothly across you, adopting the most absurd, theatrical French accent you had ever heard in your life. His pale eyes glinted with mischief.

"Ah, oui, monsieur. My name is Ben Dover," he announced grandly, with a small, sweeping gesture of his hand.

Your eyes widened. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it almost hurt. 

Oh for Merlin’s sake.

The steward blinked, pen poised. "Ben Dover... and?" His gaze flicked to you again, expectant.

Without missing a beat, Regulus gestured lazily to you.

"This is my most delightful companion for the evening, Miss May Butreeks."

That nearly broke you. You had to press your lips together, stifling the laugh that bubbled up. You were going to kill him. Absolutely murder him.

The steward frowned, pen hovering. "Butreeks?"

Regulus gave a patient nod, slipping deeper into the accent.

"Ah, oui. It is Polish, sir."

You nearly lost it entirely.

The steward looked suspicious now. "And your invitations?"

Oh Merlin, you cursed inwardly, heart jumping. 

You could not believe he had brought you here— here of all places— without a blasted invitation. And worse, you had just trusted him, waltzed after him like some idiot.

Before you could stammer a word, Regulus answered smoothly again, still perfectly composed.

"Ah, we arrived with our gentleman— he had the invitations. You may locate him inside."

The steward narrowed his gaze. "And the name of this gentleman?"

Regulus tilted his head, looking entirely unbothered.

"Hugh Jass," he said softly, fingers steepled. "I am certain you will spot him. He is, how do you say... quite hard to miss."

That did it. A snort escaped you, and you had to turn your face slightly, shoulders trembling as you tried not to burst into full laughter.

The steward frowned darkly now, scribbling notes. "Hugh Jass... hmm. I will be speaking with him. Enjoy your evening... Mr. Dover. Miss Butreeks."

He gave them one last suspicious look and strode away down the corridor.

The second he was out of earshot, you finally gave in, dissolving into helpless laughter as you bent over Regulus’s chair, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Regulus Black— you absolute menace," you gasped through giggles, breathless. "Ben Dover? May Butreeks? Hugh Jass? We are going to get thrown out—"

Regulus looked smug beyond belief, a soft chuckle escaping him, the exhaustion in his face eased for the first time that night.

"You were about to tell him your real name," he pointed out, voice low, still tinged with the ridiculous accent.

You swatted his shoulder, still laughing. "Because we are not supposed to be here! You dragged me to some secret elite wizard gala without an invitation, and now we are about to be chased down by a man searching for Hugh bloody Jass!"

He tilted his head, utterly unrepentant. "You trust me, do you not?"

You shook your head, still laughing, heart racing, cheeks flushed. Merlin help you, but you did.

With a breathless smile, you wiped the tears from your eyes, leaning close.

"Come on then, Monsieur Dover," you murmured. "Before your Polish friend gets us arrested."

And so, with laughter still trembling on your lips, you wheeled him back out into the glittering crowd — lighter somehow, even in this strange place you clearly did not belong. And Regulus, for all his stubbornness, looked far more alive now than he had at any point that night.

Regulus, to your surprise, was far from tense now. In fact, a mischievous gleam had returned to his eyes, sharp and knowing as he surveyed the crowd from beneath his lashes.

And then— leaning in ever so slightly— he began to murmur.

"See that one over there?" he said softly, nodding toward a severe-looking witch draped in emeralds. "Third cousin to the Rosiers. Drinks nothing but thistle wine and once hexed her own husband for snoring too loud."

You let out a soft laugh, steering him carefully through the throng.

"And that wizard in the plum robes by the fountain?" Regulus continued, eyes glinting. "Gambled away his entire family vault in one night. Rumour has it his wand is now held by the goblins."

You laughed again, unable to stop smiling. He kept going— low, dry commentary whispered only for you, half-amused and half-biting. The grand, imposing faces in the crowd suddenly seemed ridiculous, no more than flawed, foolish people with stories and secrets.

And though you had never imagined you would belong in a place like this, silk and gold and ancient names,  the warmth of Regulus’s voice beside you made the entire evening feel somehow less daunting.

You glanced at him often as the hours passed. He was laughing more than you had ever seen, eyes brighter, shoulders no longer tight with strain. 

You had cared for him for three months now, watched him on his worst days, when pain left him trembling and withdrawn— and yet here he was, alive with quiet delight.

It was not a side of him many ever saw.

At one point, as the orchestra swelled and couples took to the marble floor in slow, sweeping dance, you leaned toward him, a teasing smile on your lips.

"You know... we could dance," you said lightly, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve. "You did promise to let me dance with you one day."

He gave you a look, the faintest flush rising to his cheeks.

"You are relentless," he muttered under his breath. "You know I cannot—"

But you had already moved.

With a soft laugh, you wheeled him carefully into an open space on the edge of the floor, turning his chair so that you stood before him. With a little curtsy, you extended your hand, eyes dancing.

"Then I will do the dancing for both of us."

Regulus sighed, long-suffering, though there was no true annoyance in it. His lips twitched.

"You are impossible," he murmured.

"That is why you like me so much," you answered cheekily, taking one of his hands. The other rested lightly on your waist as you began to sway, the soft strains of the waltz filling the air.

And so you danced— moving gently, laughing together, the strange little pair of you amidst the glittering crowd.

For the rest of the night, Regulus remained your quiet narrator, pointing out familiar faces, whispering scandalous bits of gossip, making you laugh until your cheeks ached. 

And you— well, you could not quite believe how bright and open his smile had become.

It was a night you would not forget. Not for the opulence or the grandeur of it— but because it was the first time you had seen him like this. So alive. So unguarded.

The hours slipped by unnoticed.

At last, as the evening waned and the great hall began to empty, you wheeled Regulus carefully back out beneath the star-filled sky. The car was waiting for you, as before.

In the quiet hum of the ride home, neither of you spoke much. He looked out the window, thoughtful, a faint trace of that smile still lingering on his lips.

You sat beside him, heart warm and full, fingers still tingling from where they had touched his.

And so the night ended, the car drawing up once more outside the dark façade of Grimmauld Place.

You helped him inside gently, carefully, though he seemed far lighter than he had been just hours before.

The door of Grimmauld Place closed softly behind you, the great weight of its frame settling the night in its bones. You had only just begun to slip out of your shoes when you heard his voice, quiet but insistent.

“Go to your room.”

You blinked, turning toward him where he sat in the entranceway, eyes bright, faint color still in his cheeks from the laughter of the night.

“Why?” you asked, half laughing. “Regulus, I—”

He tilted his head, expression unreadable, though a hint of something glimmered there— almost mischievous.

“Just do it,” he said simply. “Go.”

Still a little breathless from the evening, you obeyed, unable to hide your grin. You padded softly down the familiar hallways, your dress trailing over old wooden floors, the faint notes of the party still echoing somewhere in your mind.

As you reached for the doorknob of your room, you heard the soft hum of wheels following behind. You turned just in time to see him, hands resting lightly on the armrests, watching you with that same quiet intensity.

You opened the door.

And your breath left you.

There, in the center of the room, beneath the warm glow of the lamp, stood a piano. 

But not just any piano. It was grand and elegant, its surface a shade of lilac so soft it looked as though it had been plucked from a dream. The polished wood gleamed with a muted sheen, delicate and bright against the tired old walls of Grimmauld.

Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide.

“Regulus,” you breathed, unable to form more than his name.

He wheeled forward a little, his gaze gentle now.

“Happy birthday, soleil.” he said softly.

You turned to him, voice catching.

“Oh my god, Regulus. Why would you do this? How... how did you even... You brought this here? This piano? It is beautiful. I have never seen anything like it. In this house of all places. And... a lilac piano? Here? Who even thinks to do something like this?”

You stepped closer, fingers trembling as you brushed them along the smooth keys, your voice rising in disbelief.

“I must be the only guest who has ever wanted to sit and play something like this in Grimmauld Place. Merlin, the portraits would curse me if they knew. Honestly, this is the last thing anyone would expect to find here. I cannot believe you thought of this. It is... it is perfect. But how? Why?”

Regulus laughed softly, the sound low and warm. His expression was one of quiet satisfaction.

“It is not just for this room,” he said. “And not for you to use while you are here.”

You stilled, blinking back at him, your breath caught in your throat.

“It is yours,” he continued. “It is my gift to you. If one day you choose to leave this job, then the piano goes with you. Wherever you go, it is yours, Y/N.”

You felt your heart swell painfully in your chest. The words sank deep, filling you with something bright and overwhelming.

Without thinking, you rushed toward him, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him close as a rush of laughter and tears spilled out.

“Oh my god. Regulus. Thank you. Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means. I cannot believe it. I do not know what to say. No one has ever done something like this for me. It is more than perfect. It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me!”

You pulled back slightly, only to turn again toward the piano, eyes shining.

“It is so beautiful. I cannot stop looking at it. Lilac. Who even chooses lilac? It is perfect. You thought of everything. I... Oh. I love it so much! I cannot believe you did this. You are insane! How did you even get it here? Did Kreacher have to help you? Or did you summon an entire team of house elves? You would, wouldn’t you? And now it is mine. You are serious? Mine?”

He smiled, voice soft.

“Yes. It is yours. Entirely.”

Another breathless laugh bubbled from you as you turned back to him, hugging him once more, holding him tightly.

“I cannot thank you enough. I truly cannot. I am going to play this every day. All the time. You will regret it when the house is filled with music. I am warning you now.”

Regulus only laughed again, though softer this time, his gaze fixed on you with something deeper.

He watched you as you darted between the piano and him, as your fingers danced over the keys, as you whispered again and again how beautiful it was.

He could not look away.

Because in this moment, watching you like this, bathed in soft lamplight, dressed still in your white gown, cheeks flushed with joy, he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He could not look away.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your quick steps and the soft hum of your voice as you circled the piano in wonder. The lamplight washed over you in delicate gold, catching on the loose strands of your hair, illuminating the satin gleam of your gown. 

You stood in the midst of the old house as though you had stepped from another world entirely, something luminous and alive, untouched by the shadows clinging to these walls.

And for Regulus, seated where he always was, silent and still in the chair that had become both prison and companion, it was as if the very air had shifted.

In the depths of his chest, something long forgotten stirred. His gaze, so often dull with exhaustion or dulled further by the sharp spike of pain, now burned with a heat he could neither understand nor temper. 

Every line of you, from the sweep of your shoulders to the tremor in your voice as you laughed through your disbelief, etched itself into him.

You were joy. You were warmth. And you were standing in a house that had known neither for longer than he could remember.

If this, he thought, if this was what it meant to see you happy, if this was the cost of such a light — then let him pay it a thousand times over. He would drain every vault in Gringotts. He would tear apart the Black family name, reduce its cold fortune to ash and cinder if it meant buying you even one more moment of this joy.

For a man who was unable to feel his body, who had lost everything he had ever given this world, it was unbearable to feel this much. He had not let himself want in years. Not after that night, not after the spellwork meant to kill had instead stolen the life from his limbs, leaving him scarred and silent and bitter in a house of stone. Hope had become something cruel to him, something thin and sharp-edged, a blade that cut deeper each time he reached for it.

But now.

Now his heart pounded wildly in his ribs, a deafening rush in his ears. His skin tingled with a thousand phantom sensations, nerves lighting beneath his scars in a way they had not in so long. His throat had closed, aching with the weight of words he would never say.

Because all he wanted, more than breath itself, was to stand.

He wanted to rise from this chair. He wanted to cross the room with steady steps. He wanted to take you in his arms, to pull you against him, to feel the softness of your hair against his cheek, to hold you until this ache subsided.

He wanted to watch you twirl in that white gown, laugh with abandon, place your hands lovingly over the lilac keys. He wanted to touch your cheek, so flushed with joy. He wanted to whisper your name like a vow.

But he could not.

And that longing, sharp and unrelenting, ached deeper than any wound his body had suffered. It was a pain greater than the slashes that marred his skin. Greater than the ruined nerves that stole his movement. Greater than the cold weight of his own house pressing on his chest each morning.

Because you had brought him something that terrified him more than any curse. 

So he remained where he was, unmoving, his gaze fixed on you with a hunger he could barely conceal. He memorized every tilt of your head, every bright flicker of your eyes, every small, breathless laugh that escaped your lips.

If nothing else, he would keep this image in his mind. He would press it into the deepest part of him, to return to on the darker nights. The sight of you, flushed and laughing, your voice ringing through a house built for silence.

The girl who had brought music, and light, and laughter into the coldest halls of Grimmauld Place.

And behind you, the lilac piano gleamed softly in the low light, its color delicate and strange against the ancient, grey-stained walls. It stood out like a bloom of spring in the heart of a winter that had lasted too long.

It was the brightest thing this house had seen in years, light spilled where shadows had long since settled, life breathed into stone and dust. And to Regulus, you were brighter still, an unbearable, impossible radiance, a warmth he could neither flee from nor bear to lose, the only color in a world he had thought forever drained.

Behind you, he watches, unable to look away.

"Y/n?"

You turn your head, all light and warmth. "Yes?"

His voice catches slightly in his throat but he manages it. "Will you play something for me?"

Your entire face lights up again, wide-eyed and eager, as though he has given you yet another gift simply by asking. 

"Oh my god, of course I will," you say, bouncing in your seat. "Of course, Regulus, anything. What should I— wait, no, I already know what I want. This song— you’ll love this song— I promise."

You turn back, hands poised. He wheels himself a little closer, quiet, placing himself just behind you, angled so he can see your face as you play.

[play bel air by lana del rey here]

And then you begin.

The first notes unfurl into the air, soft and shimmering, and then your voice follows. Low and silken at first, rich with something soft and secret.

 Gargoyles standing at the front of your gate Trying to tell me to wait, but I can't wait to see you So I run like I'm mad to heaven's door I don't wanna be bad, I won't cheat you no more

Regulus forgets to breathe.

He is caught, utterly and helplessly caught. Every note, every breath of yours draws him further in. He has never heard this song before. He has never heard anything quite like the way you sing it now, as if the entire world has faded away, leaving only this lilac piano, this room, your voice.

How is it that you do this? That you take a cold place and fill it with color, with life? How is it that you— without knowing— are undoing every careful piece of him?

You shift slightly as you play, your white dress rippling around your legs, a loose curl falling against your cheek. Your eyes half-close with the music, lost to it, smiling softly to yourself as though you are somewhere far away.

He watches, rapt.

 Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Palm trees in the light, I can see, late at night Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

His mind drifts, tangled with memories too sharp to bear, shadows stitched deep into the fabric of his skin. Yet those memories dull beside the vibrant pulse of life you bring into this room. You are light—radiant, unpredictable, alive—like the first bloom after a long, cruel winter.

Spotlight, bad baby, you've got a flair For the violentest kind of love anywhere out there Mon amour, sweet child of mine, you're divine Didn't anyone ever tell you it's okay to shine?

There is a stillness in him, a breath held between two worlds. His body aches—not just from scars and old wounds—but from the weight of a yearning so deep it feels as though it might drown him in silence.

He wants to reach out, to brush a stray curl from your face, to tell you all the ways your song threads its way through the broken places inside him. But words falter in his throat, and the only thing he can do is hold himself back, tethered by flesh that will not obey, and by a pride worn like armor too heavy to shed.

Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Palm trees in the light, I can see, late at night Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

There is an ache there that is deeper than pain and softer than hope. It is the ache of witnessing something beautiful that you fear you do not deserve to have.

He knows he has not deserved it—for years, he told himself that feeling was a luxury, one he had no right to claim. But now, watching you play, everything shifts.

This moment is a fragile rebellion against all the years he taught himself to shut down, to survive in silence.

And even if he cannot stand, even if the scars beneath his skin scream in quiet agony, he is captivated—utterly, irrevocably captivated—by the brilliance of you, by the warmth you spill into the cold corners of his world.

Don't be afraid of me Don't be ashamed Walk in the way of my soft resurrection Idol of roses, iconic soul I know your name Lead me to war with your brilliant direction

If he could give you the world, he would. If he could make a life for you outside these cursed walls, he would spend the very last of himself to see you free, to see you shine like this always.

And if he could, gods, if he only could, he would stand. He would walk to you. He would take your hands in his and tell you that you have changed him in ways no magic ever could.

Roses, Bel Air, take me there I've been waiting to meet you Grenadine, sunshine—can you break this heart of mine? Darling, I'm waiting to greet you Come to me, baby

The last notes linger in the air, soft and trembling, like a held breath, like a question.

And still he watches you. His pulse slow and heavy in his throat, something unspoken caught in his chest.

He will remember this night forever.

Not for the gift, not for the house’s bright new piece of color.

But for you. For the way you looked under lamplight, framed by music and wonder, unaware that in a room of shadows, you were his only light.

And so, Regulus Black knew only one thing with absolute certainty.

You had undone him completely.

[cursedwithwords]

I'VE BEEN SAYING! I absolutely lean on the needing a cane sometimes, especially regarding the potion. He gets easily breathless now, has horrible stamina and very little energy. He gets sick easily because his immune system was compromised so drastically from the potion.

As far as we know, the only one who's ever lived after drinking that potion is Kreacher, but we can't really go by that because he's a house elf, not a human. But the others we've seen drink it died soon after (ex. Dumbledore), so technically we don't even know how bad of an effect it would have.

It was called the Drink of Despair. There's no way it didn't leave him with something horrible like chronic pain. Double that up with the Inferi dragging him under water while he fought tooth and nail against them? Yeah, he's got some brutal scars on his legs and arms, and probably the rest of his body as well.

Fucking love it (sorry babe).

I think we should be writing Regulus post cave with some sort of disability or even just scarring because there is no fucking way that that man walked to his death and on the off chance he survives did not suffer to some extreme level to simply just walk it off afterwards.

Maybe I’m just angst driven but when I picture Regulus post cave I’m picturing these long thin lines finger width apart coming down from just above his eye, splitting his eyebrows, two lines are missing one of his eye and another line is going straight through his eye. Is he blind in that eye? Maybe, maybe not.

What about the potion? That thing had to have had some sort of detrimental effect on his body more than just the immediate effects.

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE IM BEGGING YOU

Maybe he needs a cane now after the inferi sliced through his leg. Scars all over his body. Maybe he develops chronic pain. Maybe he needs a prosthetic because skele-grow and other potions stopped working after he took that potion in the cave.

I just think we have a missed opportunity here.

[bradleysass]

look - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 384

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-Quidditch victory energy, red and gold banners draped across the walls, butterbeer bottles clinking, and the sound of jubilant laughter filling the space. James Potter, Gryffindor’s star Chaser, should have been reveling in the celebration. Instead, he was in agony.

“Bet you can’t do it,” Sirius had said, smirking like the menace he was. “Bet you can’t go the whole night without looking at my dear, darling little brother.”

James scoffed. “Please. I have self-control.”

Sirius just laughed. “Alright then, Potter. Prove it. If I catch you so much as glancing at Regulus, you have to do my Transfiguration homework for a month.”

And like an idiot, James had agreed.

Now, an hour into the party, James was realizing just how impossible this task was. Because, of course, Regulus Black was here, lounging in an armchair in the corner of the room, looking entirely out of place yet maddeningly perfect. He wasn’t even trying, but James knew—just knew—that if he dared to look over, he’d be caught in the depths of stormy grey eyes, the way Regulus’ fingers drummed absently against his glass, the way his lips curled ever so slightly when he was deep in thought.

Sirius was watching him like a hawk, gleeful and ready to pounce the moment James caved.

James clenched his jaw and threw back his drink. He could do this. He could absolutely do this. He turned to Marlene and started up a conversation about the match, feigning interest in her recounting of his best plays, but his mind was elsewhere. What was Regulus doing? Was he bored? Was he talking to someone else? Was he leaving?

His body moved on instinct, just the slightest tilt of his head to check—

“Caught you!” Sirius whooped, clapping him on the back. “Bloody hell, that didn’t even last an hour.”

James groaned, slamming his head against the table. “I hate you.”

“I know,” Sirius said smugly, before waggling his eyebrows. “But you know what’s worse than losing? You didn’t even get to enjoy the view.”

James grumbled under his breath, but Sirius wasn’t wrong. And as James snuck another glance—because the bet was lost anyway—he found Regulus looking right back at him, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

[thestarofsirius]

“weren't we the stars in heaven?” post break-up jegulus

“weren't we the salt in the sea?” post The Prank wolfstar

“dragon in the new warm mountain / didn't you believe in me?” sirius to regulus after he ran away

“yeah, you held me the whole way through / when i couldn't say the words like you” sirius to james

“i was scared, indigo, but i wanted to / i was scared, indigo, but i wanted to” regulus to sirius, apologising for not leaving with him, as he walked into the cave.

(song is anything by adrianne lenker!!)

[unsiriuslydrowninglikereg]

First post and it’s as queer as I am ⭐️🤭

Part 1 of my marauders’ era vamp AU ( 1/3 )

Here’s the context ( literal copy paste from Instagram but who cares ) :

For some reason, purebloods and the overall Slytherin Skittles are now vampires ( don't ask me why, I have no idea ). Pandora is a vamp princess and has been meeting up with Lily in secret ever since the two met in a mysterious hidden garden near Pandora's manor.

Obviously, Pandora and Lily are now very much in love with each other, but, scandal, Lily is already engaged to none other than James. Ngl I wasn't going to make anyone straight here, so James, despite liking Lily as a friend, already has a lover of his own, which just so happenslover of his own, which just so happens to Pandora's best friend, prince vamp Regulus.

But, because of societal pressure and the fear of disappointing their parents, Lily and James just decide to go through with the marriage.

The night right before Lily's wedding, Pandora sends her beloved one last love letter to beg her to stay with her and become a vampire alongside her. Finally, Lily caves in and goes to Pandora's manor and gets bitten.

[honeycaksy]

Young Alphie being a tiny terror is literally the only thing keeping me going through finals. Can you PLEASE share more hcs about him as a child? Like, his relationship with Regulus, how he responded to his dad working a lot after the war (like when he was working on "The War of Houses" that you mentioned in a previous post), etc. I will literally take any crumbs you're willing to drop.

If you're willing to share, what exactly went on during "The War of Houses"?

Hi!! Omg I really hope your finals went well! And if it helps, I’m working on a new post too! 🥹❤️❤️

I can still share some Alphie as a child headcanons (centered with his relationship with his father of course):

Even though he was an easy baby (slept a lot, rarely cried), Alphie was an absolute nightmare as a toddler. Regulus would sometimes get so overwhelmed and overstimulated he ended up calling Sirius on the phone in tears.

Alphie was that kid who never filtered anything he said and would blurt out the most out-of-pocket stuff. When Harry’s baby sister was born, he said she looked like “a swollen pumpkin” (because she was a chubby redhead newborn baby). Regulus had to scold him about it.

Alphie is the sole reason Regulus went to court against his own mother for the Black inheritance, and also triggered the infamous War of Houses. He turned several pureblood families like the Rosiers, Malfoys, and Lestranges against him. Alphie was really young at the time (the legal war ended when he was 8), so he didn’t fully understand what was going on. He just thought his dad was busy with work while he spent time at the Potters’, Lovegoods’, or at Sirius/Remus’ flat (like in the art of Alphie with Remus in the kitchen!). Regulus would often call him from the ministry’s public phone cabins, which gave him strength during the trials.

Alphie was super friendly and outgoing kid, so he’d often strike up conversations with strangers when out with his father, which was challenging for introverted Reg 😂

Regulus fell into a deep sadness when Alphie left for his first year at Hogwarts; everything felt so silent and empty without his boy at home.

It might sound a little rude, but Regulus and Alphie tend to disappear into their own little world when they’re together, making everyone else their "third wheel". They unconsciously tune out everyone else and end up isolating themselves just to talk for hours, even in groups. It only got worse as Alphie got older, and James and Sirius ended up calling them the “two-headed serpent.”

Regulus kinda has double standards about Sirius & Alphie: he was the first to judge/hate on Sirius for his rebellious + hedonistic lifestyle and “dramatic” fashion sense as teens. But when it comes to his son? When Sirius calls him out, Regulus has a million excuses: “He’s just enjoying his youth,” “Eyeliner suits him, unlike you,” “He’s exploring himself,” “Merlin forbid a boy has hobbies.”

TW the Cave: While drowning in the Cave, trying to keep his head above water, Regulus had a strange hallucination/vision where he saw child-Sirius calling to him from the shore. Years later, he realized that child wasn’t Sirius.

And don’t worry about the War of Houses! I’ll answer that in more detail in another ask 😉

[luizd3ad]

First Home | Poly!Moonwaterkiller x GN!Reader

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ࣪˖⤷ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ࣪ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 ˖ ⤷

Pairing: Remus Lupin X Regulus Black X Barty Crouch Jr x GN Reader WC: 1,094 CW: Poly Relationship, Anxiety, talks of Remus being in pain Author's Note: Heyyyy so like I know I haven’t been here for a while but I’m hoping I’ll be getting back into this😌🖤 Summary: Remus nervous about his first full moon in the new house

. ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆₊☽ ◯ ☾. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° .

Remus was pretty happy with his life at this point. 

He had great friends, a promising career and the most perfect and loving partners he could ask for.

But that didn't change the fact that for one night a month he absolutely loathed his life. 

He hated the moon almost as much as he hated himself during the moon.

Though over the years he had learned to accept what he was significantly more than he used to. 

He had learned to tolerate it. To live with it.

But that didn’t mean it didn't scare the absolute hell out of him most of the time. 

Especially when the conversation of moving in with his partners came into the loop. 

He was feeling beyond apprehensive about the idea of it all. 

It wasn't because he didn't love his partners, quite the opposite actually. It was because he loved them so much that the thought of accidentally hurting them or cursing them with the same fate as himself or… worse…  would often send him into a spiral of anxiety, overthinking and self loathing.

But eventually after months of reassurance -and Barty pouting- Remus caved and agreed that the four of you should finally move in together.

So after weeks of searching for a home -which according to you and Barty felt like it was taking ‘fucking forever’- you finally found your perfect home and moved in as soon as possible. 

That was a few weeks ago now and last night was the first full moon in the new house. 

Yesterday before nightfall Remus was beyond terrified. 

His mind had been clouded with overthinking and the absolute worst scenarios his brain could manage all day.

So when he woke up still in the basement that he and your entire friend group had spent countless hours reinforcing and charming -to Remus’s standards and preferences of course- he was so grateful. 

So grateful in fact that he was able to be distracted by the pain in his body a few moments longer than normal.

But eventually the pain consumed his body like it normally did.

For what could have been a few minutes or a few hours -Remus wasn't really sure- he just laid there looking up at the ceiling of the basement basking in the pain that ran through his body and his normal post full moon self loathing. Just completely lost in his own mind that was until he was pulled out by the sound of your voice.

“Moons? Are you awake?”

The sound of your voice had involuntarily brought a smile to Remus’s face and sent a wave of calm and comfort over him.

“Yea I’m awake love.” Remus groaned while sitting up feeling a few of his joints popping and his muscles tensing up.

It didn't take long for him to hear the sound of your footsteps coming down the stairs with a hot cup of coffee -that you meticulously made sure was exactly to his liking- and his favorite blanket in hand. 

Both things Remus had gladly and gratefully accepted.

“We made breakfast, if you're up for it.”

The sweet softens off your voice was slightly interrupted by Regulus chuckling.

“And of course by ‘we’ Y/N means they did the majority of the cooking since we all know I can't cook to save my life and we value our health enough to not want a repeat of when Barty tried to cook dinner for us the other week.”

Remus couldn't help but laugh a little, no matter how much it hurt, when he heard a very dramatic gasp from Barty.

“I'll have you know Black that I'm an excellent cook, you're just too much of a prick to appreciate such perfection.”

Remus continued to chuckle at the very familiar childish bickering happening between two of his lovers. 

He was actually enjoying the small distraction so much that he didn't notice when you sat next to him until he felt your shoulder brush against him.

“How are you feeling really, Remus?”

Remus couldn't help the small sigh that escaped his lips when he heard your words. “As good as to be expected love… I'm just grateful I didn’t get out and hurt one of you or worse...” 

You sighed softly and looked at Remus with a soft and loving look in your eyes. “Remus, I know you're worried but this bassment is a fortress. We'll be fine.”

Though you sounded so sure in your words Remus still wasn't fully convinced. 

His mind was already starting to spiral at this point with the possibilities and of the dangers that he imposed on the three most important people in his life.

Remus hadn't even realized he was now staring off into the black abyss of his coffee cup that was currently warming his hands till you placed your hand on top of his gaining his full attention.

When Remus’s eyes met yours he couldn't deny the love and honesty that he saw swimming in them which made your next words comfort him.

“We are fine. We will be fine. I know your anxiety won't go away but you need to remember that you have done everything in your power to ensure our safety and that's all you can do. Plus you know better than anyone that the three of us are very skilled with our magic so we are more than capable of taking care of ourselves. Not everything is on you Remus. We knew what we were signing up for when we asked for the four of us to move in together. We love you and everything will be fine I promise.”

Remus just sighed and nodded. 

A part of him honestly did feel better, he knew that he would never be a hundred percent comfortable for that one day a month but it made him feel better to know that you genuinely believed in your words and in him.

“Okay, I'll try to calm down more… I’m just so scared that I'm going to hurt one of you but I'll do my best to keep my anxiety at bay... Thank you, my love.”

Remus wrapped his arm around you and kissed the top of your head just being happy in the moment.

Once a month he loathed his life.

But everyday before and after the full moon he genuinely loved his life.

Right now he loves his life.

He had one of his lovers in his arms while his other two lovers were ‘fighting’.

This is the life he will forever be truly grateful for.

. ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆₊☽ ◯ ☾. • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° .