synopsis: when you bring home a stray kitten, regulus is deeply, profoundly opposed. unfortunately for him, you refuse to let the tiny fur creature go.
(spoiler: the kitten stays.)
tags: some suggestive language, regulus hates the cat but ends up folding, sweetheart!reader, fluff and crack.
“We’re not keeping that thing.”
You stop dead in the doorway.
Rain drips off your hair and down your jacket, puddling onto the floor, but you barely notice because you are too busy clutching the tiny calico kitten tighter to your chest and staring at your boyfriend like he just personally insulted you (which he basically just did).
Your bottom lip juts out immediately, dramatic and practiced, chin tipping down as you look up at him through your lashes.
“But why,” you whine, hugging the kitten closer. She lets out a small, confused mrrp and presses her face into your collarbone.
Regulus doesn’t move from where he is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression flat and unimpressed. His eyes flick from your soaked clothes, to the water dripping onto the floor, to the very obvious trail of pet store bags you have already scattered across the living room.
“We’re not keepin’ it,” he repeats firmly.
You pout harder, shoulders hunching protectively around the kitten. “But whyyyyyy,” you drag out, voice wobbling.
“Look at her, Reggie. Look at her. She’s so so so cute and she was all alone on the street and she was shivering and I’m definitely not leaving her there, so please.”
You lift the kitten a little higher like she is evidence.
You have already decided her name is Biscuit, because she is small and warm and soft and looks exactly like something that should be wrapped in a napkin and cherished. Regulus, on the other hand, looks like a man standing in the middle of his own personal hell.
He exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face pulling tight under his fingers. He just got back from a long, tiring day too exhausted to be faced with this innocent looking thing.
He doesn’t even know what to be pissed at first.
Whether it’s your clothes which are completely soaked, rainwater dripping off you and onto the floor like you tracked half the street inside. Or the fact that his couch (there is actually only one couch in your apartment, but he’s just being dramatic) is now covered in a small mountain of cat supplies.
Or his current biggest dilemma; the fucking cat.
“Get that thing’s rubbish off my couch,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.
“Do not call it a thing!” you snap immediately, bristling as you turn your body slightly away from him, shielding the kitten. “It’s a she, and her name is Biscuit.”
Regulus clicks his tongue. “We are not naming it, amour,” he says flatly. “’Cause we are not gonna keep it.”
You gape at him. “Excuse you, she already has a name and I’ve got her supplies and stuff to live with us.”
He pushes himself off the counter and gestures vaguely around the apartment. “It’s bad enough I have to share this place with the millions of pink plushies and stupid little figurines you own—”
“But you agreed I could have my own side!” you interrupt, pointing accusingly toward the shelves you meticulously claimed months ago.
“—and now I have to share it with a fur covered thing that eats, shits, and sleeps all day. Yeah, no.”
You scowl. “Regulus.”
Right on cue, Biscuit lets out a tiny meow, pathetic in the most devastating way. Something ugly and unfamiliar twists in Regulus’s chest.
Shit, and here it goes—
“Oh my god,” you whisper dramatically, eyes flicking between him and the kitten. “Did you hear that? Did you hear her? She is so cute, oh my—we have to keep her!” your eyes shine with so much adoration and love it makes his heart twist in a way more pathetic than that meow.
“Tch,” he mutters, jaw tightening.
“Regulus,” you say, voice immediately going soft and pleading. “Can we keep her? Please please please please—”
He sighs, long and tired, shoulders slumping just a little. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I’ll see if we can keep the ugly thing.”
You squeal and step forward, immediately pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can react. “So, that’s a yes,” you declare triumphantly.
“That is not a yes,” he snaps, pointing at you. “That is a maybe, and I swear to god if it scratches me or shits on my pillow it’s gone.”
You nod eagerly. “Of course. Totally! Biscuit would never.”
The kitten meows again, loud and pleased, curling tighter into your arms.
Regulus glances down at her, lips twitching despite himself.
“Ugly rat,” he mutters fondly, and pretends very hard that the sound didn’t just punch straight through his stupid heart.
hi! i love your work 💗 currently going through a hard time and was wondering if a could get a regulus x reader with depression/mental illness. maybe something where she doesn't have the energy to get out of bed so he makes sure she has everything (water, snacks, etc) and then gets in with her and they just hold each other? apologies if you aren't comfortable writing this, i didn't see anything on your guidelines. thank you!
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regulus black x reader | 1.3k
summay: when your depression keeps you in bed, regulus shows you that you are never alone and that your fears cannot push him away.
Regulus knows something is wrong before you say a word. He always does.
It’s also quite obvious with how you’ve been acting lately. There is no crying, no slammed doors, no visible catastrophe, just an infinite amount of silence and stillness.
It’s obvious in the way you don’t move when the light slips through the curtains. The way the room feels heavier than it should, like the air itself has decided to sit on your chest.
It’s even more obvious when everything you once enjoyed doing feels like a burden , and everything you loathed feels numb now, as though all you feel is the aching painful numbness that leaves you unable to do anything.
You are awake. You have been awake for a while. You can tell that much by the dull ache behind your eyes and by the way your thoughts have already started their slow, familiar spiral.
You should get up. You know that. You should shower, drink water, do something useful, something that proves you are still a person and not just a body taking up space in a bed like some damned slog.
But the thought of moving feels unbearable.
It is not sadness exactly. You wish it were, because sadness at least feels like something you could name, something that might pass if you cried hard enough.
This is worse. This is nothing; a flat, colorless exhaustion that presses down on you until even breathing feels like effort. Your chest rises and falls, but it feels automatic and disconnected, like your body is doing you a favor you did not ask for.
You know what you should do. That’s the cruelest part. Drink water, shower, make a meal, socialise even a little. Get up, prove you are still functional, still worthy of taking up space.
The list runs through your head on repeat, and every item feels impossibly far away.
You hate yourself for it. For lying here when other people manage to live full lives. For wasting time. For being tired when you have no right to be. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, sharp and familiar, whispering that you are lazy, useless, broken in a way that cannot be fixed.
You try to bargain with yourself to just sit up. The thought alone drains whatever energy you might have had.
The door opens quietly.
Regulus does not knock. He never does when it is like this. He has learned the sound of your bad days, the way silence stretches differently around you.
He slips into the room careful not to disturb you.
“Amour?” he asks softly.
He crosses the room and sets things down on the bedside table with careful precision. A glass of water and a small plate with crackers and sliced fruit. The medication you forgot to take, placed close enough that you will not have to reach far.
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches you for a moment, grey eyes gentle and searching.
There is no frustration in them, not even a hint of disappointment. Only concern, and something painfully close to reverence.
“You don’t have to get up if you don’t feel like you can,” he murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “At least not today.”
You swallow. “I should,” you whisper. “I’ve already wasted the whole morning.”
Regulus shakes his head immediately. “You’re not wasting anything,” he says, a little firmer now, though still quiet. “If anything, I know how much effort and energy this is taking from you.”
The tears come faster than you expect. You turn your face into the pillow, mortified by how quickly you break, by how weak it feels to unravel over something so small.
“I hate being like this,” you choke. “Ii hate that I c-can’t just get up like a normal person. I hate that you have to s-see me like this.” you stutter through sobs
The bed shifts as Regulus moves closer. His arm wraps around you, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You lean into him immediately, like your body has been waiting for permission.
He pulls you against his chest and holds you there, one hand splayed gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head.
“I see you like this,” he says softly, lips brushing your hair. “And I love you all the same, darling.”
You shake your head, pressing your face into his shirt. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. With me. I’m miserable and I don’t contribute anything and I just lie here and—” Your voice breaks. “I feel like I’m dragging you down.”
Regulus exhales slowly, steadying both of you. “Look at me,” he murmurs.
You don’t want to, but he nudges your chin gently until you do. His expression is serious, eyes warm behind his lashes, not a trace of irritation or pity in them.
“You are not a burden,” he says, carefully, like he needs you to hear every word. “You are someone who is hurting. Those are not the same thing and I will not have you thinking that lowly of yourself.”
Tears spill freely now. “It feels like it is,” you whisper. “It feels like I ruin everything. Like I’m too much, or not enough, or both at the same time.”
Regulus presses his forehead to yours. “I know it feels that way, chérie,” he says. “Your mind is being cruel to you. But that does not make it true.”
You laugh weakly, a broken sound. “What if it never stops? What if this is just how I am forever?”
He does not rush to contradict you. He stays quiet for a moment, thumb tracing small circles against your arm.
“Then we will live with it,” he says finally. “Together. And if there are days when you cannot carry it, I will. I promise you that.”
You search his face, desperate for doubt, for hesitation.
“You don’t get tired of this?” you ask quietly. “Of having to take care of me?”
Regulus’s brows knit together, confused. “Taking care of you is not something I endure,” he says. “It is something I choose. And I love doing it, if I could i would take care of you forever.”
“I hate having you see me like this,” you admit, the words tearing out of you before you can stop them.
Your hands twist in his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go. “I don’t want you to stop loving me. I hate this version of me and I hate that this is what you get.”
He lifts your face gently, fingers warm against your jaw, and waits until you meet his eyes. “Amour,” he says softly, “this is not a version of you I tolerate.”
“This is a part of you,” he continues, voice quiet but certain. “And I don’t love you despite it. I love you through it.”
Tears slip down your cheeks. “It feels ugly,” you admit. “It feels like something you shouldn’t have to see.”
He shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “Then show me,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Show me where it hurts the most,” he murmurs. “So I know where to love you more.”
Your chest caves in at that. “Regulus…”
“I mean it,” he says. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You don’t have to hide the parts you think are unlovable. Those are the parts I want to know best.”
You nod against his chest, exhaustion settling over you again, heavier but less sharp.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I will try to get better, okay.”
He smiles faintly, brushing your hair back. “Okay is perfect,” he says. “We will start there.”
Regulus stays with you, arms around you, breathing slow and even until your heartbeat stops racing and settles back into it’s normal rate.
After a while, he shifts just enough to look at you properly.
“Do you feel like you could eat something?” he asks quietly.
You hesitate, then nod just a little.
His mouth curves into a soft smile, as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’ll go heat up a proper meal.”
You make a small sound of protest when he pulls away, fingers tightening briefly in his sleeve.
“I’ll be quick,” he promises, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “And then we can do whatever you want tonight.”
That earns a faint smile from you. “Okay,” you whisper.
He lingers for one last second, forehead resting against yours, then stands and heads for the door. You watch him go, the quiet confidence of his presence still wrapped around you like a blanket.
Okay. For the first time in a while, you think you might actually be okay.
summary: (1.3k) you and regulus spend christmas eve together in flat, putting up the last of the decorations, and exchanging a sweet early gift <3
a/n: sorry for the long wait, i’ve been busy with uni and honestly have been losing a bit of motivation. luckily, writing about domestic regulus brought it back, i love him sm 🙂↕️
and of course, merry christmas to those celebrating! consider this my gift to you 🖤 🎄
(no cw: just some fluff, and french regulus)
It was the morning of Christmas Eve, curled up into the only warmth your body truly knew: Regulus.
His arm was stretched across your waist from behind, heavy and certain, as though he alone were responsible for keeping you warm from the snow smoothing itself gently over the green grass outside. He held you in that way all night, unmoving—a calm, protective cocoon you barely noticed anymore because it felt so natural.
When your alarm went off, as insistent as ever, you shifted slightly, careful not to jostle him. And yet, you never pulled away. Not once.
“I have to fix up the Christmas tree.” You mumbled in half-sleepiness, eyes barely focusing on the soft flutter of snowflakes slipping past the narrow opening in the curtains.
Regulus responded immediately, burying his face into your neck with a quiet huff, pressing a soft chaste kiss to your skin. Then another, slower this time, savouring a moment with you that he had no intention of rushing.
“Bonjour à toi aussi, mon amour,” he murmured against you, the rasp of his voice deepened by sleep. Good morning to you too, my love.
You smiled, drowsy and fond, and perhaps a tad sheepish for starting the day with thoughts of chores instead of him. Turning slowly in his arms, you faced him and pressed a gentle kiss to his nose.
“Sorry,” you murmured. “Meant to say good morning, my handsome, lovely, adoring prince. Better?”
As sweetly mocking as you were, the sight of Regulus only melted you further—the slight curve of his lips combined with his eye roll, just when the light slipped through the blinds.
A soft glow cast over his aristocratic features, and he blinked gently, eyes still heavy, hair slightly mussed that just made him look younger, softer. More like your Regulus.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Regulus sighed quietly, both resigned and fond, and finally loosened his hold on you just enough, for the day to begin.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
By the time you were both up, the flat felt warm and unmistakably lived-in, the kettle humming softly in the background. A Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner near the neat bookshelves that Regulus had obviously sorted himself. It was half elegant, and half utterly unhinged, the tree.
Regulus stood at the base of it, both hands steadying the stool you were perched on and watching you, like a single glance away would make you fall.
You were stringing the most obnoxious festive lights he had ever laid eyes on. Bright red and green bulbs with candy cane ornaments that dangled far too freely, and cheerful icy snowmen that were wedged between branches like they belonged there.
As charming as they looked to you, it was a silent catastrophe to him.
“These lights are…” Regulus paused, squinting slightly as if stepping into uncharted territory. “Très agressives.” Very aggressive.
You laughed softly back, humming to yourself as you made no move to take them off. “But they’re festive!”
“Festive, oui. But festive for me? Non. They hurt my eyes, ma douce.” My sweet.
“Well,” you replied dryly, but also fondly, hands on your hips like a proud decorator, “you seem very in the Christmas spirit.”
You reached up again to fix a stubborn strand, and instantly felt his hand slide to your elbow, steadying you before guiding you back down from the stool, like it was instinct.
“Careful,” he said softly, and you were met with his steely grey eyes again, full of care and subtle concern. He gently tucked a stand of your hair behind your ear, revelling in the way the lights gave a gleam to your face—all angelic.
You smiled, and then turned to look at the tree, all while Regulus preferred to keep his eyes on you.
“It’s perfect.” You declared, seeing the decorated Christmas tree.
“C'est un crime visuel.” He said back. It’s a visual crime. But then he cupped your chin softly to guide you back to him. “And not nearly as perfect as you.”
He pressed a soft kiss to you then, slow and gentle, as evening crept closer around the flat.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
By then, the food had been sorted, the flat cleaned, and the tree still offensively bright—much to your delight, and Regulus's quiet inability to ever say no to you.
You sat together on the sofa, legs tucked close and tangled in each other, the room lit only by the glow of the tree and the city lights beyond the window.
Regulus shifted slightly, voice calm as always. “Since it’s Christmas Eve,” he said, reaching beside him, “I thought maybe we could do one gift tonight.”
“Oh?” You smiled softly, tilting your head at him with an amused brow raised. “Already had this planned, I assume?”
“Of course I have,” he replied easily. Planning had always been his strength. “And you go first.”
You opened your mouth to argue, wanting to give his gift first, but the look he gave you was unmovable. This mattered to him. So you accepted the gift he placed into your hands, gently unwrapping it.
Inside was a necklace, simple at first glance—a fine silver chain with a beautiful star-shaped pendant. It had been carefully enchanted and warm to the touch, etched with powerful spellwork that only someone like Regulus could conjure.
“It’s a protection spell.” He said quietly. “So that you are always safe.” He watched your face softly, a warmth to his tone. “So that you never feel…seule.” Alone.
You pouted, heart squeezing how thought it was, how Regulus read you so well. You were always clingy, always in need of him—and even at times when he wasn’t there, he always found a way to stay with you.
Your eyes stung, looking up at him with parted lips. “Reg…” You were speechless after that, doing the only other thing you knew best.
You leaned in, cupped the side of his jaw and kissed him, slow and grateful. Regulus returned it with devotion, cradling your face with reverence—soaking in every bit of your affection, even if he rarely showed how much it affected him.
“Thank you.” You breathed into his lips, and he could only nod once, thumb grazing the apple of your cheek.
“Tout pour toi.” Anything for you.
And then, it was your turn to hand a gift.
Regulus only let go of your face to handle it carefully, methodical, like it might disappear if he rushed it. When the wrapping finally fell away, his breath left him all at once.
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Bound in beautiful printed cloth, and stitched with gold lettering. When he opened it, his eyes skimmed the margins, recognising your handwriting immediately.
You had written in it, his favourite book—one that now had little notes, thoughts and comments, meant only for him.
His breath caught, still staring. “You annotated it.”
“So you’re not reading it alone either.” You said back softly, like piecing together how both of you ensured the other was never left alone.
His grip slightly tightened around the book, eyes finally dragging back to you. His shoulders trembled just once, barely noticeable to anyone, but real to you.
“You are…incredible.” He murmured in the softest of awes. “Je t’aime.” I love you. “More than I know how to say.”
You grinned wide this time, leaning in to kiss his cheek, cupping it once more.
“I love you more.” You said it quietly, full of such genuineness, before a soft tease left you. “Look at you, all sentimental.”
“C’est Noël,” he replied dryly. It’s Christmas. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “Let me.”
The tree lights blinked beside you, ridiculous and bright—and outside, the eve went on as usual.
But here inside, Regulus held you close, utterly content, and for once, completely at ease—knowing that you loved him, as much as he loved you.
Hi Dalia, congratulations on 4K that must feel so amazing! You’re an amazing writer and it’s so deserved! May I please order a cupcake + regulus black + chocolate chips? Thank you so much lovely :)
🍰 order received!
─ .✦ thank you so much for your order! your sweet treat has been placed on the counter and is ready to enjoy. bon appétit !
order: "sweet drabble + regulus black + domestic, cozy scene"
synopsis: baking gingerbread cookies proves trickier than expected, but spending time with regulus makes it all worthwhile.
word count: 1.1k
warnings: mild language, food mishap, light domestic frustration, minor mess or chaos, fluff/romantic content, mild tension
dalia's 4k bakery celebration
“Amour,” Regulus says carefully, peering down at the tray in your hands like it might bite him, “are you sure they are supposed to look this… brown?”
You sigh, already bracing yourself as you angle the tray to inspect the damage. The gingerbread men are darker than planned, their edges a little too crisp, and their smiles slightly crooked.
“They are a little burnt,” you admit, tilting your head. “But that’s okay. I have always liked crispy gingerbread cookies!”
He lets out a soft laugh,“Whatever eases you, baby,” he replies.
Regulus leaves the kitchen as it is and heads straight for the sofa, sinking down with a quiet exhale. The matching pyjama trousers are unmistakably your doing, soft and ridiculous with little Christmas trees, and though he had objected earlier, he wears them now without protest.
You trail after him, but before you can say anything, his hand closes gently around your wrist.
“Come here,” he says, calm and sure.
You let yourself be pulled in, settling onto his lap as if it is the most natural place to be. One arm slips around your waist, steady and warm, the other drawing you in until your cheek rests against his chest.
“I did tell you,” he murmurs, glancing past you toward the darkened kitchen, “that the store bought kits exist for a reason, ma chérie. They are pre-measured and precise. Designed to prevent… this.”
You lean into him, smiling as you reach up to toy with a curl that has fallen loose against his temple. “Reggie,” you say fondly, drawing out the nickname just to watch the corner of his mouth twitch, “You don’t really learn anything from store bought kits.”
His lips twitch despite himself. “I’m fairly certain I have learned several valuable lessons tonight.”
“Like what.”
“That store bought kits are easier,” he says calmly. “And that you will still do it the hard way even after being warned.”
You laugh and turn toward him, fingers sliding into his dark curls without thinking. “I just want you to know what Christmas is supposed to feel like.”
He exhales, a quiet sound, his expression softening. “I’m happy as long as I’m with you.”
You tilt your head, smiling. “You’re sweet, Reggie.”
For Regulus, holidays were never like this. They were quiet, controlled, held in perfect rooms where laughter felt out of place and warmth came from fireplaces, not people. Christmas meant formal dinners, careful words, silver cutlery laid out to show off their luxury, and expectations that sat heavy on his chest.
He never believed in the magic people talked about. It always sounded exaggerated, something made up for children.
But now you’re sitting in his lap, fairy lights reflected in your eyes, fingers in his hair, the flat filled with uneven lights and the faint smell of burnt gingerbread, he begins to understand it.
Not as spectacle or tradition, but as choice. The simple, deliberate choice to share space, to be unguarded, to let something imperfect exist and still call it good.
And somehow, that feels like the best holiday for Regulus.
You snap him out of his thoughts by pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then another, smiling when he huffs softly at the attention. “They have probably cooled down by now,” he notes, glancing toward the tray of gingerbread cookies.
You light up immediately. “Oh. You’re right.” You slip off his lap and hurry back, returning with the tray and settling beside him on the couch, knees brushing. “See. They don’t look that burnt.”
He reaches out and breaks off a small piece, bringing it to his mouth with a thoughtful pause, as if bracing himself.
You watch him closely, studying his face with the intensity of someone awaiting a verdict. He bites down. Chews once. Then stops.
Your stomach drops. “What,” you ask quickly. “Are they that bad?”
Before he can answer, curiosity gets the better of you. You grab a piece for yourself and take a bite.
The taste hits you immediately, sharp and wrong, bitter in a way that has absolutely no business being associated with cookies. Your face contorts before you can stop it, a noise of pure disbelief escaping you as you choke back a gag.
“Oh no,” you manage, staring at the cookie like it has personally betrayed you. “Why does it taste like that.”
Regulus does not bother hiding it. He spits the bite into a tissue and then laughs, a sharp, startled sound that escapes him before he can stop it. His composure collapses completely, shoulders shaking, head tipping back as the laughter takes over, unguarded and rare and far too genuine to rein in.
You are still staring at the cookie, utterly baffled. “It tastes like a taco,” you say faintly. “Why does it taste like a taco!”
That only makes it worse. He presses the tissue to his mouth, laughing into it now, eyes watering. “I am so sorry,” he manages, which is immediately followed by another laugh. “I truly am trying to be supportive.”
“Stop laughing at me,” you whine, lunging toward him and climbing halfway into his lap in a half hearted attempt at retaliation. He wraps an arm around you automatically, still laughing, breathless now as he tries to speak.
“amour,” he manages, voice breaking with amusement, “I believe you may have used cumin instead of cinnamon.”
You freeze. Slowly, you look up at him. “No.”
Regulus is immediately back to laughing hard at you.
Your pout is immediate. “Oh god, I really thought they would turn out good.”
He presses a quick kiss to the side of your neck as he pulls you closer. “I did warn you we should’ve gone with the store-bought kits,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, the amusement in it softening into something tender.
You huff, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “I guess baking is not my calling.”
He hums thoughtfully, one arm tightening around your waist. “Perhaps not,” he says, then, quieter, almost to himself, “but I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this much on Christmas.”
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄: “𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭”
(Or, the night Hogwarts went completely and irreversibly feral)
——
The Great Hall was glowing.
Gold and silver danced across the enchanted ceiling like spilled stardust, bewitched snow drifting gently down through the rafters before vanishing a few inches from the long house tables. Candles bobbed like gossiping spirits overhead. Tinsel clung to every archway and banister, bewitched pine boughs curling down the walls like serpents. And at the front, where the professors’ table usually stood, a raised stage had been conjured from stone and spellwork—glittering with frost and warm light and whatever chaos was about to step foot on it.
Welcome to the first (and likely final) annual Hogwarts Talent Showcase, Dumbledore's latest attempt at “community engagement.”
It was going about as well as one might expect.
“WHY is he still letting first-years juggle swords?” Sirius groaned, flinching as a flying dagger narrowly missed a Hufflepuff in the front row.
“Because he’s seventy percent whimsy and thirty percent danger,” Remus replied dryly, leaning back on his elbows and taking another sip of pumpkin fizz. “And also because Minerva lost a bet.”
James snorted. “Ten galleons says Slughorn tries to sing next.”
“He did last year at the staff party,” Lily piped up from across the table, cheeks pink from laughing at the last act—a Slytherin boy doing interpretive dance to Wand-ering Free. “Dressed as a Christmas ham.”
“Oh, we’re definitely getting kicked out tonight,” Alice whispered gleefully.
“We were never in,” Mary replied, mouth full of treacle tart.
They were loud. All of them. The Gryffindor table had devolved into a constant stream of heckling, cackling, and throwing bread rolls at the performers they didn’t like (with Sirius charming one into a paper swan mid-flight that smacked the flute girl in the face and then bowed).
The show was halfway through now. One or two acts had been genuinely good—a Beauxbatons exchange student doing aerial ribbon spellwork and a Ravenclaw who sang like a Veela—but the rest had been... interesting.
“Why are they moaning into a lute?” Gideon asked with horror, watching a sixth-year girl from Durmstrang doing something unspeakable with her voice and a tambourine.
“She said it’s ‘avant-garde,’” Fabian muttered. “And I hate it.”
Then—
“Alright, alright, hush now—” Professor Flitwick’s voice cracked over the Sonorus charm, silencing the crowd. “Up next… representing Slytherin House, we have a musical performance by—”
“Oh, Merlin, no.”
“Please be anyone else.”
“Please be literally anyone else—”
“REGULUS BLACK!”
Barty let out an ungodly whistle. Evan catcalled. Pandora stood on the Slytherin bench and screamed “THAT’S MY BLOODY WIFE.” Dorcas slapped the table like she was at a rugby match.
The Gryffindors all groaned.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” James said, burying his face in his hands.
Sirius looked like he’d just seen a banshee. “Tell me he’s not gonna try to sing. Tell me this isn’t his coming out moment with a ballad.”
“Maybe he’s gonna do slam poetry about your childhood,” Peter snorted.
“Maybe he’s going to faint before he even gets to the stage,” Remus offered.
“Maybe he’ll trip on his own foot and explode,” Fabian said hopefully.
James threw back his butterbeer like it was firewhisky. “I swear to God, if this is some Black family power grab performance art—”
Then he saw him.
Regulus Black stepped out from the wings of the stage.
He wasn’t in uniform. Not in anything formal either. Just soft, dark jumper sleeves pushed to his elbows, loose-fitting black trousers with drawstrings, and warm socks that padded silently across the stone floor. His curls were half-tied, still a bit messy from the wind. No wand. No smirk. No smug expression.
He looked like someone about to settle in by the fire—not perform for a school full of jackals.
Cradled in his hands was a violin.
James paused. “Wait. Wait, he actually—?”
Reg didn’t speak. Didn’t look at the crowd. Just walked to the centre of the stage, gently adjusted the mic stand aside, and turned his face toward the ceiling. Eyes closed. Chin tilted upward. Breath fogging faintly in the air.
Then he lifted the violin.
The bow touched string.
And he began to play.
——
“Carol of the Bells” — Arranged by Madness. Interpreted by Magic. (Think: Matt Ebenezer’s “Epic Carol of the Bells” with the brutality of Lindsey Stirling’s technique)
The first note hit like a lightning bolt.
Sharp. Staccato. Crisp like the bite of snow on skin.
He played fast—furious—and the spellwork reacted before he could stop it. The enchanted instruments behind him, perched on floating runes, began to tremble and shimmer. A phantom cello struck its first low, growling note. A harp shuddered into motion. A second violin answered the first. Then violas. Flutes. A timpani rumble.
Regulus’s hands moved like lightning, bow slicing cleanly over the strings as he launched into the piece—no warm-up, no hesitation, just raw, blistering force. The notes came in driving bursts, the signature rhythm of Carol of the Bells immediately clear, but warped, bent, built. Where most versions flutter and chime like bells in the distance, this one roared like a winter storm.
It was symphonic war.
Four measures in, he added vibrato—tight, pulsing wavers at the end of each phrase, giving the piece breath, tremble, heart. And then it climbed.
The harmony split—violins dividing into thirds, echoing and overlapping, the castle’s magic syncing perfectly to Reg’s energy. No spell. No wand. Just intent. Just the crackling focus of a seventeen-year-old boy who never liked to be seen but was now tearing the sky in half.
The rhythm shifted again. Reg pushed into arpeggios—three-note bursts arcing upward in sickening speed—then threw his whole weight into a dramatic crescendo. The orchestra behind him followed like a beast on a leash.
A burst of trills. A high E string so sharp it made half the crowd flinch. A sudden dip into minor harmony, chilling and unexpected.
By the second verse, his foot tapped for tempo. His head tilted with the phrasing. His curls slipped loose from the tie. And he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
He was glowing.
Sweat at his temple. Pale light catching on his cheekbone. The bow skipped with vicious grace—every flick of his wrist a promise, a knife, a confession.
The final passage swelled—multi-stringed harmony rising in waves, dissonance resolving at the last possible second, orchestra magic screaming in tandem—and ended on a tremolo: rapid, trembling notes played with almost violent force before—
Silence.
The note held. Then fell away.
And without missing a beat—
He launched into Tchaikovsky.
——
The Nutcracker, Op. 71a, Act II, No. 12: “Trepak (Russian Dance)” (Yes. That one. The one that sounds like an angry ballet chase scene)
The transition was seamless. Bone-snapping.
Trepak attacks. It’s not a piece for gentle players. It's speed and stamina and pure chaotic momentum. A thunderstorm of sixteenth notes.
The castle responded accordingly.
Percussion burst to life—cymbals crashing, tambourines rattling mid-air. The flutes trilled like birds on amphetamines. The violins shrieked in joyous harmony. And Reg—
Reg leaned into it.
He was no longer a student. Not a Slytherin. Not a Black. Not a boy with fifteen people waiting to mock him.
He was the storm.
He grinned.
His bow blurred. His left hand flew across the fingerboard so fast it was a blur, shifting positions like a spellcaster flipping through languages. Spiccato strokes—short, bouncing bowwork—made the strings dance, giving the music that wild, leaping energy it’s famous for. The rhythm stomped. Accelerated. Spun into madness.
The violin became part of him—tucked into his jaw like a second mouth, a second voice. His heart beat in rhythm with the beat of the Trepak. Downbow. Upbow. Cross-string skips. Double stops. It was brutal, flawless, beautiful.
And he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
The ending came in a blur of motion—triplet passages spiraling up the scale, sudden dips and pivots, then one final, savage burst of chords—DA DA DA!
He pulled the bow away.
The echo rang.
And the room went dead silent.
——
It lasted all of three seconds.
Then—
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
Barty flipped the Slytherin bench over.
Pandora screamed so loud two enchanted candles blew out.
Evan was on the floor sobbing. Dorcas grabbed the collar of a seventh-year and yelled “DID YOU SEE THAT, THAT’S MY FRIEND, BITCH.”
At the Gryffindor table, Sirius looked like he’d been clubbed over the head with his own wand.
James was standing. Just standing. Mouth slightly open. Butterbeer forgotten in one hand.
“He’s—” he croaked. “He’s—what the fuck.”
“Did he—? Was that—?” Lily gasped, fanning herself.
“Did we just get emotionally violated by a Black?” Fabian demanded, gripping the table.
Peter fainted.
Remus just stared at the stage, breath gone. “I’m gonna be sick.”
And Reg?
Regulus Black stood there, eyes finally opening—just barely. Half-lidded. Glinting. He didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. Just looked out at the chaos he’d created, expression unreadable.
Then he turned, stepped off stage, and vanished backstage.
And Hogwarts erupted.
——
The screaming was deafening.
Not polite applause. Not genteel claps and murmured praise. This was full-volume, off-the-rails, mental asylum-grade bedlam.
It started with Barty.
“THAT’S MY HUSBAND!” he shrieked, voice cracking gloriously.
He was standing on the Slytherin bench like a possessed prophet, fists in the air, eyes wild. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I’M GOING TO BITE SOMEBODY!”
Evan was howling. Literal howling. Like a wolf at the moon, only more dramatic and probably drunk on sheer emotion. “YOU ABSOLUTE ORCHESTRAL SEX DEMON!”
Pandora kicked a cup across the table. “HIS ARSE IS BLESSED BY THE MUSIC GODS,” she screamed, hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. “TINY AND VIOLENTLY PERFECT, WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT.”
“HE PLAYS LIKE THAT AND LOOKS LIKE THAT—?” Dorcas was pacing, manic. “HE’S WEAPONISED. HE’S A WEAPON. WE HAVE TO REGISTER HIM WITH THE MINISTRY.”
From the Gryffindor table, chaos bloomed.
Mary was shrieking into her hands.
Lily looked like she’d just seen the face of an angel and was reconsidering her entire identity.
Alice clutched Frank’s arm so tightly he winced. “We have to… we have to tell someone. That’s not normal. He should be in a museum. Or behind glass. What the fuck.”
Fabian and Gideon were locked in a two-man meltdown, repeating “What the fuck?” back and forth like a tennis match of confusion and awe.
Remus was blinking very slowly, as if rebooting.
Peter was still unconscious.
And Sirius—Sirius Black—sat frozen. Paler than death. Eyes wide. Mouth open. A piece of treacle tart halfway to his face and long since forgotten.
“What the fuck,” he whispered. “That’s not Regulus. That’s not my Regulus. That’s—That’s someone else. That’s a siren wearing my brother’s bones.”
James had his fists clenched and a look of absolute betrayal. “He never said a word. He plays like a god and didn’t say a single fucking word. Who the fuck just whips out Carol of the Bells x Nutcracker Remix and casually burns down the school?!”
“He didn’t even open his eyes,” Sirius hissed. “He had his EYES CLOSED the whole time. Do you know how hot that is? DO YOU?!”
Lily looked at them both. “You two are insane. He’s seventeen.”
“He’s seventeen and playing my heartstrings like that fucking violin,” James said bitterly.
——
Meanwhile—
Regulus Black was walking down the centre aisle.
Violin case hugged to his chest. Shoulders slightly drawn in. Hair slipping free in soft, dark curls. He didn’t look like a triumphant showman. He didn’t even look smug.
Mostly, he looked... blank. Eyes steady. Chin high. Calm in the middle of the storm. But if you looked—if you really looked—there was the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A quick swallow. A breath too sharp.
A flicker of nerves.
He wasn’t expecting the crowd to explode.
He wasn’t expecting the applause to keep going. Or the screams. Or the standing ovation that started with the Ravenclaw table and quickly infected the rest.
He definitely wasn’t expecting the small girl from Hufflepuff—tiny, maybe second year—to dart out into the aisle like a lightning bolt and plant herself in his path.
He halted fast, startled.
So did the crowd.
The girl stood there, eyes huge, clinging to a little travel-sized violin in a plain brown case.
“I—sorry—I—I play too!” she blurted, cheeks flaming. “Well, not really, I mean—! I’m learning! My parents just started getting lessons for me. But—but I can’t—I can’t do that, I mean, I don’t even know what you just played. That was—that was so pretty, I thought it was gonna be boring but it wasn’t boring, it was like—you fought the music, and it won but also you won? And I—can—can you—can you teach me?”
Silence.
Like actual pin-drop silence.
Reg just blinked at her.
His fingers flexed on the violin case. The crowd held its breath.
Then—so small you might miss it—
His eyes softened.
And the corner of his mouth pulled upward.
“…Sure,” he said, voice quiet but clear. “I could do that.”
The girl screamed.
Like, actually screamed. A tiny, joyous, delighted wail that sent the front three rows flinching.
“THANK YOU!!” she shouted, and hugged him. Full-body, arms-around-his-middle, crushed-herself-into-his-ribs hug.
Regulus Black did not move.
But he let it happen.
Even patted her head once, very awkwardly.
Then she peeled off and ran back to her table where she and her friends exploded like confetti.
He blinked after her. The smallest huff of laughter escaped his nose.
Then he kept walking.
——
By the time he made it back to the Slytherin table, his friends were in ruins.
Pandora was sobbing into Evan’s sleeve.
Barty had already conjured a crown of musical notes and tried to put it on his head.
Dorcas grabbed his shoulders as soon as he sat and shook him. “You evil, sneaky, musically-possessed little son of a bitch. You didn’t tell us—you didn’t tell us!”
“You’re grounded,” Evan declared. “No more secrets. Not from us. Not from your husbands.”
“I want to braid your hair and tell you you’re the most beautiful person in the world,” Pandora whimpered.
Reg sat down. Gently. Placed the violin case on the bench beside him. Shrugged off Barty’s crown attempt. Sipped from someone else’s pumpkin fizz like nothing had happened.
And smiled.
Tiny. Crooked. Tucked into one corner of his mouth.
It was criminal.
It was adorable.
The entire room screamed again.
Sirius faceplanted into the table.
James made a strangled noise.
“I’m in hell,” he whispered.
Regulus Black tilted his head. Let his curls fall over one eye.
summary: your boyfriend, regulus, has an uncanny talent for appearing out of nowhere, much to your frustration, though he insists he simply cannot help himself.
warnings: playful teasing, regulus is a little creepy, mild jump scares, occasional clumsiness, and some references to heists (iykyk), not very proofread - sorry guys i have a midterm tomorrow!
a/n: slightly inspired by the louvre heist that happened this morning ;)
You adored your boyfriend — really, you did. But loving Regulus Black came with one small, persistent problem: the man had the habit of sneaking up on you with no warning.
He never walked into a room like a normal person; he appeared, soundless and sudden, always at the exact moment your heart had just started to calm down.
It was equal parts impressive and infuriating, and you were beginning to suspect he took a certain twisted joy in watching you nearly leap out of your skin every other day.
You were standing just outside the Slytherin dormitories, leaning against the cold stone wall, talking to Pandora. Her voice was light, gossiping, as she detailed the latest scandal from the Gryffindor table at dinner.
“And then he said, absolutely without hesitation, that he thought Dumbledore was—” You froze mid-sentence, the words hanging in the air, because there was a sudden, almost imperceptible chill racing down your spine.
A shadow fell across you from behind. You could feel it before you saw it. A hand slid gently across your waist, and without a second thought, your body reacted.
You flinched violently, spun on your heel, and nearly tripped over yourself, only to be caught by the familiar warmth of someone’s gaze.
Regulus stood there, impossibly composed, eyes warm and steady, as though he had not just made your heart hammer violently against your ribs. He looked at you as if the very sight of you was the most ordinary thing in the world.
You laughed nervously, heart still racing from the jump. “When did you get here?”
He quirked a brow, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just now, amour.”
Pandora, noticing the interaction and clearly entertained, laughed softly. “Well, that is Black. Very freakish.” She shook her head with exaggerated amusement before walking away, leaving you entirely in Regulus’ presence.
Before you could even respond, he stepped closer and wrapped you in a firm, secure embrace. His hands rested lightly on your back, holding you with a tenderness that belied the unsettling way he appeared out of nowhere.
“You really are creepy,” you muttered, half scolding, half laughing.
“I prefer… efficient,” he replied, voice low, precise, every word measured.
You groaned softly, pressing your forehead against his chest for a fraction of a second. “You know you give me heart palpitations.”
He allowed a brief, almost imperceptible smile. “Not my intention, love. Perhaps you enjoy the thrill.”
You laughed again, exasperated, and shook your head. “Sure. That’s one way to describe my hyperventilating because you appeared like some random creep ghost.”
He did not respond immediately, only rested his forehead against yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and you felt the quiet reassurance in that simple gesture.
Though of course, this was not the last time it happened.
Over the coming days, weeks, it became an unspoken, almost ritualized occurrence. Regulus would somehow appear behind you with silent, predator-like grace. You would flinch, jump, or mutter some indignant curse, and he would remain calm, sometimes teasing, sometimes entirely unbothered.
While usually it drew nothing beyond a startled gasp or a half-suppressed yelp, there were occasions that proved far more theatrical.
Like right now.
You were juggling an absurd stack of textbooks in your arms — four Arithmancy volumes, each heavy enough to threaten an early back injury. You had just stepped out of class, muttering under your breath about the sheer cruelty of academic life, when a familiar figure materialized in front of you as though conjured from thin air.
“Bloody hell—!” You nearly fell as the top book slipped, followed by the rest.
With a startled yelp, you fumbled for balance, but before the pile could hit the ground, Regulus was already there, catching every single book with unnerving precision.
You froze, heart racing, and stared at him, thoroughly unimpressed and bothered.
“Regulus Black!” you barked. “Must you always appear out of nowhere like some melodramatic thief?I nearly broke my neck when you appeared out of nowhere!”
He straightened, calm as ever, not even winded. His voice, when he spoke, was maddeningly composed. “I came to help you carry your books,” he said softly, still steady despite your outburst.
“I knew you had Arithmancy today. You always look completely worn out afterwards.”
You sighed, a mix of exasperation and guilt curling in your chest.
Part of you felt foolish for getting so worked up over your boyfriend’s peculiar ways of greeting you, yet when his dark, quietly pleading eyes met yours, all rational frustration melted.
His lips had formed the tiniest pout, a faint, almost imperceptible quiver that made him look like a kicked puppy, and you could not help but find it utterly adorable.
You, being the hopelessly infatuated fool you were, gave in, ignoring the fact that he had just stolen at least ten years off your life with that single, perfectly executed jumpscare.
“Oh Regulus,” you said with a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I didn’t know you came to help me carry my books—matter of fact, I jumped because you just appeared out of bloody nowhere.”
“I am sorry for startling you, amour,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was a soft sincerity beneath it.
He shifted the books easily into one arm and extended his free hand toward you. “See? If I hold your hand, you won’t get startled again.”
You looked at his hand for a second before laughing under your breath. “That’s not how that works.”
He raised a brow, perfectly patient. “You would be surprised.”
You hesitated a moment longer before slipping your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours, steady and warm, and the faintest, almost imperceptible smile broke across his face — subtle, barely there, but undeniably genuine.
“Just… don’t do that again,” you said softly with narrowed eyes, the words carrying both warning and affection.
Regulus tilted his head, dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Do what?”
“You know,” you murmured, squeezing his hand gently. “Sneak up on me like some shadowy predator! Make my heart skip a beat.”
He gave the tiniest shrug, lips twitching.
You frown as you give his shoulder a gentle shove. “One day, I swear, I will sneak up on you and see how you like it.”
His lips curved, slow and deliberate, and he leaned just enough to brush his forehead against yours. “I would not recommend it,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “I tend to notice everything that moves near you.”
You halted mid-step, tilting your head as you studied him, half in disbelief, half in amusement “You know,” you said, voice light and teasing, “I think you could make a rather excellent thief, Reggie.”
Regulus paused, a flicker of mock offense crossing his face. “A thief?” he repeated, his dark eyes narrowing.
“Is that how you see me?” His expression sharpened slightly, though it was clear he was teasing. “You could have said an assassin, a spy, or something with a bit more… dignity.”
You laughed. “No, no. A thief suits you perfectly. Quiet, clever, always appearing when no one expects it… You’d be amazing at it.”
He muttered something in French under his breath, low and precise, then looked at you with a dark glint in his eyes. “And if I were a thief, what would that make you?” He arched a brow, letting the question linger.
You hummed thoughtfully. “I would be the planner. I would map the galleries, note the guards’ rounds, and choose the perfect night. I would orchestrate every detail and you would move through the shadows, taking what no one ever saw coming.”
You smiled at the thought, imagining the marble halls, glinting treasures, and him, impossibly calm, executing every move flawlessly while you orchestrated it all.
Regulus let out a low, pleased laugh. “You make a fine strategist,” he murmured as you reached the steps of the library. “I would go on any heist you plan, if that is what you really desire.”
You smiled, heart lifting at the intimacy in his tone. “Then it’s settled,” you said softly. “Thank you, Reggie.”
He tilted his head again, dark eyes studying you. “Though, you do realize,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “that this makes you almost as ‘freakish’ as me?”
“Perhaps,” you said, brushing a thumb across his knuckles. “But I think we make a perfect team!”
Regulus’ mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile, his voice low and deliberate. “You know, ma belle” he said, turning towards you. “If you asked me to empty The Louvre for you, I would see to it without hesitation.”
You could not help the grin that tugged at your lips. With a theatrical roll of your eyes and a mockingly stern tone, you said, “Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you don’t die while you're at it.”
summary: regulus has a horrible nightmare and can’t sleep, luckily you’re there to hold him and remind him of who he truly is.
warnings: regulus is a black cat animagi, mentions of nightmares, emotional distress, implied trauma and childhood abuse, brief self-deprecating thoughts, comfort.
Regulus could barely feel the cold hitting his body now that he was in feline form. He slipped out of his dormitory and padded through the sleeping corridors, a shadow within shadows.
This was no unusual occurrence. He had long grown used to sneaking out past midnight, shifting into his small black form to curl against you. But tonight, something was different.
It had been four months since you began dating, though it felt both shorter and longer in the way time distorts around tenderness. You were used to his quiet nature, to the way he sometimes arrived in silence and simply breathed beside you, needing no words. But you had never seen your boyfriend this fragile.
From the many nights he had come padding across your floor, you had memorized every proud little stride his feline body carried. You knew the sound of his paws before they reached your door.
Yet tonight, when you heard the faint mewl and turned toward the shadowed corner of your room, there was a tremor in his movements.
His tail hung low, his ears drooped. He looked broken in a way that felt wrong for something so small.
You were out of bed in a heartbeat, whispering, “Oh, Reggie, I didn’t expect you tonight—”
Before the sentence could finish, the cat was gone. In his place, Regulus stood for only a breath before collapsing forward into you.
The force of it sent you stumbling back onto the mattress, his body pressed against yours. He was shaking, arms wound tightly around you as if trying to anchor himself.
You felt him tremble again, the words splintering in the air between you. He pulled back enough for you to see him, and even in the dim light his eyes gleamed with something raw.
There were nights when Regulus looked untouchable, every line of him composed and restrained. Tonight, his composure had shattered.
You could feel his hands fisting the fabric of your nightshirt, the tremor in them betraying everything he wasn’t saying. His hair brushed against your neck, cold at the ends, and the scent of rain and sleep clung to him.
You didn’t speak at first. You just held him, one hand at the back of his head, the other pressed between his shoulder blades, feeling his chest rise and fall in quick, uncertain patterns.
“Regulus,” you said quietly.
He didn’t respond. His grip only tightened. You could hear the faint catch of his breath, the effort it took to keep it steady. You waited a moment, then tried again, softer this time.
“What’s wrong? You’re worrying me.”
Nothing. Then, finally, a muted, “Nothing. I just—” His voice faltered. “I just needed to see you.”
You brushed your thumb across the back of his neck, tracing the line of tension there. “Did you have a nightmare?”
A pause. Then a small nod against your shoulder.
You exhaled slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, voice so quiet it nearly disappeared. “It was… strange.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes unfocused, glassy with exhaustion. “I was back home,” he murmured. “In that room with the green curtains. The one she never let me leave until I ‘learned how to behave.’” The faintest bitterness touched his tone before he looked away again.
You didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was, you already knew who he was referring to.
“She was there. And she said—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “She said you’d see it too, one day. The same thing she always did.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “See what?”
His jaw tightened. “What I am.”
You frowned. “And what are you, then?”
He let out a breath that was more like a laugh, but it carried no amusement. “A coward. Weak. Whatever word she preferred that day.” His voice was clipped, restrained, as if he were trying to make the words sound less personal than they were. “She used to say people only stay until they realize it.”
You stayed quiet, not filling the silence. You reached for his hand instead, threading your fingers through his, grounding him.
“She was wrong,” you said after a moment, steady and certain.
He glanced at you then — that careful, uncertain look he gave when he wanted to believe something but didn’t dare to. “You can’t know that,” he murmured.
“I do,” you said. “I know you.”
His eyes lingered on you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue or surrender. He finally exhaled, quiet and shaky.
“Je suis désolé d’être comme ça,” he whispered, voice muffled against your skin.
Your brow furrowed, but you didn’t move. “What was that?”
He hesitated, then lifted his head just enough for his words to reach you clearly. “I said I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For being like this.” His throat tightened around the words, as if they hurt to say. “For making you see it.”
“See what?” you asked quietly.
“The mess,” he said, a humorless huff escaping him. “The parts I try to keep locked away. I didn’t want you to see that.”
You leaned forward instead, letting your forehead rest against his temple. “Look at me,” you said.
He hesitated, then did. His eyes were red at the corners, lashes still wet. You could tell he hated that you saw it.
“What do you see?” you asked softly.
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“When you look at me,” you said. “What do you see?”
He swallowed. “You.”
“Good,” you said. “That’s all I see too.”
He stared at you for a long time, silent. His jaw moved like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
You sighed softly, your fingers brushing through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. The strands were still damp with sweat, still tangled from the restless tossing that had driven him here.
“I see you, Regulus,” you said quietly. “I see someone who’s so smart. So brave. Someone who pretends not to care but does, more than anyone else I know.” Your voice trembled just slightly, the truth of it sitting heavy in the air.
“I see someone who’s capable of so much love. And I know it’ll take time for you to heal from everything that hurt you. But that’s okay. Because I’ll be right here. Always.”
For a moment, he didn’t breathe. His eyes found yours, and there was something so raw in them that it almost startled you — something that made you think the universe might’ve put all its stars in his gaze just to see what you’d do with them.
He swallowed once before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Will you stay until then?”
You smiled, soft and certain. “Yeah, Regulus. I will.”
He closed his eyes, and when he leaned forward again, it wasn’t desperate anymore. It was quiet and steady. His arms tightened around you, holding you like something sacred.
After a while, you shifted slightly, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone where a tear had dried. “And, Reggie?” you murmured.
He hummed against your neck. “Yeah?”
You smiled faintly, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “Even if you hate yourself,” you said, voice low but firm, “I’ll still love you for the both of us.”
Something in him eased at that. His body, tense for what felt like a lifetime, finally softened.
“Je t’aime,” he whispered, almost like a confession, his breath warm against your skin.
You laughed quietly, the sound melting into the stillness. “Yeah, yeah,” you said, brushing your hand through his hair again.
“I ‘je t’aime’ you too. Or whatever that French shit is.”
He smiled against your throat, the kind of smile that only showed when he forgot to be careful, and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.
The room went still after that, the night quiet but full. And for the first time in a long while, Regulus let himself rest.
regulusxmuggleborn!reader where the reader teaches reg about muggle halloween traditions
Hiii thank you sm for requesting!
Regulus Black x gn!reader
——
When you invited Regulus to a party, he didn’t think much of it. He also didn’t think much when you told him to get to your apartment early so you could help him get ready, although it was a little strange.
He showed up at your place, flowers in hand, rolling on the balls of his feet, waiting for you to open the door.
No matter how many times you tell him that he can let himself in, he’s still shy and doesn’t want to intrude.
He was just following the lines of the hardwood floor with his eyes when you opened up.
He startled slightly, but quickly recovered and gave a small smile while holding out flowers for you.
His mind was now running a million miles an hour, did you even like sunflowers? He could of sworn you said they were your favorite but now hes not so sure and oh god what if you don’t even like the color yellow–
His thoughts were blown out like a birthday candle by your pretty lips dropping to forming an o shape.
“Hi Reg! Are these for me?”
When he nods his head in reply you look at him like he had just brought you a piece of the moon and not a cheap bouquet flowers he picked up from a local shop on the way there,
His heart melts.
You open the door wider allowing him to step inside your apartment, it smell like books and a candle lit in the kitchen. He thinks the scent is “pumpkin spice”, you once told him it was your favorite and you always stocked up on them as soon as the stores started selling them in September.
Before he can even slide his shoes off you’re reaching for the flowers and wrapping him in a hug,
“Thank you Regulus, sunflowers are my favorite,”
He can feel the vibrations of your voice from where your face is pressed into his chest.
“It was no problem, love”
He replies as he wraps his arms around your frame, careful to not smush the flowers.
When you pull away he can finally take a look around, your apartment is how it always is, cozy and charming, but there are some things misplaced today. There is a bowl with skeletons painted on near your front door holding single sized candies where a stack of books used to be, there is a little witch figurine sitting on your mantle, and hanging from your window are fake spider webs on top of the usual curtains.
“What’s all this?”
You look over from where you are pulling a vase out of your cabinets and realize he’s staring weirdly at your decorations,
“Halloween decorations. I thought you knew! We’re going to a costume party tonight”
He tries to recall anything he could have known or read about muggle traditions but his muggle education growing wasn’t up to par—or really there at all. Halloween isn't ringing any bells.
“Halloween?” He asks slowly
You finish filling up your vase with water and place the sunflowers in it carefully. Then you turn slowly so you’re fully facing him.
“How have I not told you about this! Halloween is my favorite holiday”
He searches his mind again and feels slightly guilty that he doesn’t know anything about it. He usually prides himself in knowing what you like, but right now, he’s failing.
You seem to read his thoughts because you immediately backtrack
“Hey, no. It’s not your fault it’s just slipped my mind. It’s a holiday where everyone dresses up as whoever they like, monsters, witches, princes, movie characters, superheroes, and children go up to people’s homes and get candy! It’s awesome.”
you finish you’re rambling explanation and regulus is still slightly lost.
He looks at you with a deadpan stare.
“Children go up to strangers and ask for candy? I thought that’s specifically what you teach muggle children not to do so that they don’t get kidnapped?”
You walk over to him and smooth out the crease between his brows with your thumb.
“Well now that you say it like that it seems a little weird, and it would be any other day, but today it’s the norm.”
Regulus looks at you at you, your face is loving and your eyes are boring into his own. He looks down at your lips and blushes.
He clears his throat,
“So,” he drawls “We have to dress up?”
Your eyes light up at this question
“Yes! That’s why I invited you over so early, I want to do your makeup”
He sighs dramatically, but he isn’t actually upset. He’s pretty sure he’d put on a chicken costume and dance around in public if you told him it was your favorite tradition. He’d probably do anything for you. He’d definitely do anything for you.
He lets you grab his hand and pull him into the bathroom. He stands patiently, happy to just watch you as you rifle through your drawers looking for the eyeshadow you need.
You suddenly perk up as you find what you were looking for and a smile makes its was onto your face, regulus swears he feels his heart expand,
“You don’t happen to have an eyepatch do you?”
Now this catches him by surprise and he lets out a startled laugh
“No, why do you?”
You frown
“No I forgot to get one at the store yesterday. How are we going to make you a pirate without an eyepatch!”
You pout, regulus thinks it’s adorable
“You want to turn me into a pirate?”
He takes a long deep breath before saying
“ I guess we’ll just have to go get one before the party”
You just nod your head enthusiastically and lean up to give him a kiss
