[“you touched him like a promise.
he kissed you like a warning.”]
Pairing: Regulus Black x Gryffindor!reader (you)
Genre: slow burn · forbidden romance · angst · secret relationship · poetic prose
Summary:In your seventh year at Hogwarts, you fall in love with the one person you’re not supposed to — a boy with a silver tongue, a dark family name, and eyes full of secrets. You’re the sun he should never touch. He’s the ruin you swore you’d never chase again.
Warnings: emotional manipulation · secrecy · betrayal · canon-divergent · heavy angst · emotional push-pull · slow unraveling · power dynamics · gryffindor/slytherin tension · kissing
“Love Me Like You Do” – Ellie Goulding
“Another Love” – Tom Odell
“The Night We Met” – Lord Huron
“My blood” - Ellie Goulding
“The Lakes” – Taylor Swift (Bonus Track)
A/N: This fic is full of yearning and poetic-style prose. Since we don’t know much about canon Regulus, i tried to make it come alive. Also pretend that Regulus, Sirius and Bellatrix are the same age, because i didn’t think it thought till later.
Quiet. Poetic. A love story that no one else gets to touch.
7th Year, Hogwarts School of
The castle greets you like an old wound.
You step off the carriage into the smell of damp stone and bitter anticipation, your boots kissing the slick cobblestone with a kind of elegance your mother would be proud of. The sky is a bruise above your head, casting an iron wash over the towers and turrets, and the lake glitters like ink. You inhale sharply, fingers clenching the fabric of your cloak tighter around your chest.
You just wish this didn’t feel so much like a trap.
Another year. Another masquerade of smiles and masks. Another year of pretending.
You walk into the Entrance Hall, all warmth and noise and shifting eyes. Familiar faces flash like a reel you’ve memorized: James with his ever-ruffled hair, Sirius lounging like the pureblood rebel he’s perfected being, Lily rolling her eyes as Mary dramatically re-tells her summer fling to a horrified Remus. Their laughter cuts through the air like a knife and for a moment, you let yourself smile.
But the moment never lasts long, does it?
You see him before he sees you.
Regulus Black stands near the far end of the Great Hall like a shadow someone forgot to snuff out. Slytherin robes pristine. Posture perfect. His expression unreadable, carved from centuries of bloodline pride. He’s surrounded by his circle—Barty Crouch Jr. is grinning too widely, Evan Rosier is saying something with a smirk, Dorcas Meadowes leans lazily against the stone wall, half-listening. Pandora’s off somewhere—probably whispering to ghosts again.
But Regulus doesn’t smile.
And when his eyes finally meet yours across the room, there’s a flicker. Barely a heartbeat. So fast anyone else would miss it.
Your heart kicks once, hard in your chest.
He doesn’t look away. Neither do you.
And just like that, you’re back in the game you swore you’d stop playing.
Later, you sit in the Gryffindor common room, red and gold wrapping around your body like armor. The fire crackles in the hearth, the air warm and safe, and someone’s passing around sweets from Honeydukes. You let James throw an arm around your shoulder like he always does—brotherly, harmless, loud. But your eyes drift toward the window, toward the darkness pressing its face against the glass.
You think about the way Regulus held you last summer, one night in July, hidden deep in the Rosier estate’s greenhouses. You’d snuck in with a fake invitation and a bold dress, and he’d pulled you against him like he hated himself for needing to. You’d kissed like the world was ending. Maybe it was.
You haven’t touched him since.
You haven’t even spoken since the letter you burned in your fireplace.
The one that read: If we keep doing this, I’ll destroy you. And I won’t stop.
You hate yourself more for hoping he’s still yours.
You’re walking back from the Prefect’s meeting when you hear the voice.
“Still playing brave, lion girl?”
It’s low, dry. A blade tucked behind silk.
You freeze in the hallway. Then turn slowly, calmly. You knew he’d find you tonight. You even hoped for it.
Regulus steps from the shadows like he was born there. His hair is wet from the rain, dark strands curling against his cheek. There’s something colder about him this year, something sharper beneath the smooth lines of his face. But those grey eyes—they haven’t changed. They still see through you like glass.
“Still pretending you’re not a coward?” you whisper back, smiling sweetly. The words are sugar-dipped venom.
A twitch of his mouth. It might be amusement. Might be pain. With Regulus, you can’t always tell.
He closes the distance, slowly. Quietly. Always so damn quiet.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that. Not here.”
You lift your chin. “Then stop walking toward me like you miss me.”
There it is—the crack in the mask. Just for a second.
His breath catches. Then he’s close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his body in waves, mixing with yours. You smell leather, smoke, the faint trace of something expensive from his mother’s vanity. His voice drops low.
“I told you we couldn’t keep doing this.”
“And I told you I didn’t care,” you reply, voice breaking slightly despite yourself. “So what now? You come here just to remind me you’re a coward, or are you going to kiss me and ruin us both again?”
The silence chokes the air between you. It’s thick. It tastes like thunder.
He brushes a hand down your arm—so lightly you might’ve imagined it. But you didn’t. You never imagine him. You never have to.
“I’ll meet you in the astronomy tower,” he says finally, voice like gravel and guilt. “Midnight.”
And then he’s gone. Just like always.
You let out the breath you’d been holding.
Then you curse yourself for already knowing you’ll go.
That night, you stare at your reflection in the mirror, unsure who you’re becoming.
You were raised to be fire. To burn bright, brave, loud.
But you’re slipping. You’re hiding in shadows. You’re lying with your eyes and kissing secrets into the mouths of boys who wear darkness like perfume.
You still stand tall. You still smile.
But under your skin, something is bleeding.
And Regulus Black is the only one who knows where it hurts.
Astronomy Tower. Midnight.
The sky is cold. The stars pretend not to watch.
You’re already there when he arrives.
The stone is slick with night dew beneath your thighs, your legs swinging over the ledge like you’re daring gravity to make the first move. The air is sharp and still. You don’t shiver. You’re too angry to feel cold.
When the door creaks open behind you, you don’t turn. You only speak.
Silence. Then the unmistakable hush of Regulus Black’s footsteps. He walks like he owns the ground—carefully, purposefully, like it’s a crime to be heard.
“I had to lose Barty,” he mutters. “He gets suspicious when I breathe too freely.”
You bite back a smirk. It dies on your lips when he comes to stand beside you. His presence wraps around you like smoke: intoxicating, dangerous, and impossible to breathe through without wanting more.
You glance up at him, scanning his face like it’s the last page of a cursed book you’ve read a hundred times and still don’t understand. There’s a cut on his lip. Faint. He hasn’t healed it. You wonder if it’s punishment or pride.
“You look like hell,” you say.
His eyes flick to yours, cold and ancient.
“You always did know how to flirt.”
You both know this isn’t flirting. It’s war.
He finally sinks down beside you, slow and stiff like his body’s not used to softness. You don’t touch him. Not yet.
The space between your shoulders hums with unsaid things.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says after a beat, voice hoarse, like the truth is burning his throat. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet,” you say, brushing your fingers along the ledge, “here we are. Again.”
“I dreamt of your hands last week,” he confesses, voice quiet and ragged. “It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a memory I wasn’t supposed to keep.”
The ache hits low in your chest. Deep. You hate him for saying that. You hate yourself for melting under it.
Your voice is quieter when you speak.
“Regulus, what are we doing?”
He exhales sharply, eyes flicking away, toward the stars. Like they hold answers. They never do.
You shift closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to hurt.
“Tell me the truth,” you whisper. “If you’re just going to disappear again—if this is going to be another night you hate yourself for—tell me now.”
He looks at you like you’re made of something holy and doomed.
His hand finds your wrist like a reflex, like he’s falling and you’re the only thing tethering him to the world. His grip is firm but trembling.
“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I hate what I want when I’m with you.”
You stare at him, throat tight.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He leans in, fingers threading into your hair like prayer beads, mouth crashing into yours like he needs to be ruined to feel real. It’s desperate and sharp, nothing sweet. Kissing Regulus is always like this—like he’s drowning and you’re water and fire at once.
You kiss him back, reckless and full of everything you’ve swallowed for months. Pain, need, fury. His tongue slides against yours and you gasp into him, clutching his robes, pulling him down with you until you’re half-straddling his lap on the freezing stone.
He groans softly when you roll your hips forward.
But just as quickly—he stops.
Breaks the kiss. Presses his forehead to yours.
“I’m running out of time.”
You blink. Your heart stutters.
He looks at you like this is the last time he’s allowed to.
“My parents,” he says, bitter. “They’ve given me until the end of this year to decide. To swear myself to Him. The Mark or disgrace. There’s no third option.”
You’ve always known. You’ve always known. But hearing it aloud is like watching someone lower you into the ground while you’re still breathing.
“You can’t,” you whisper.
“Then make me,” you snap, eyes burning. “Explain it. Tell me why you’d throw yourself into the dark just because your family expects you to. Tell me why I’m not enough to make you stay.”
His face twists like you’ve struck him. And maybe you have.
“I’m not like you,” he says. “You’re sunlight. You walk into rooms and people follow you because they believe in you. I walk into rooms and people fear what I’ll become.”
You reach out, fingers on his jaw, forcing him to look at you.
You lean in, brushing your lips over the corner of his mouth.
“I’d rather die loving the boy I wasn’t supposed to,” you whisper, “than live pretending he didn’t set my whole world on fire.”
You lie beside each other on the stone floor, cloaks beneath your bodies, starlight cold on your skin. His hand is still in yours. He hasn’t let go. Not yet.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, voice small, cracked open.
You want to tell him he already has. That every second you spend hiding this, it frays you. That pretending not to love him in the daylight is starting to make you hate yourself.
But instead, you whisper:
“Then don’t let them take you.”
Because the truth is, you don’t know how many more times you can save him from himself.
Next Morning. Great Hall. Too bright. Too loud.
The sun is cruel this morning.
You sit between James and Mary at the Gryffindor table, your plate full and untouched. The pumpkin juice tastes like ash in your throat, and everything smells like honeyed bacon and lies.
Across the hall, he’s there.
Perfectly composed. Not a wrinkle in his collar, not a hair out of place. His mouth—your mouth—doesn’t look like it was on fire last night. He’s speaking to Evan and Barty, nodding slowly, answering something Dorcas just said. He even smirks at one point.
He hasn’t looked at you once.
Which is how you know he’s looking at you constantly.
It stings. It always does. But you were warned. You told yourself not to expect tenderness in the daylight. Not from someone like him. Someone born with secrets sewn into his bones.
You are not made to be ignored.
Your nails dig into the edge of the table. James is mid-story about a failed hex when you murmur something about the library and stand up. Your legs are stiff from lack of sleep. Your throat is dry from swallowing the night.
It’s her voice—sing-song, golden, completely unaware of the landmine she’s just stepped on.
Pandora Lovegood twirls up beside you like a summer storm, smiling so wide her teeth flash. Her robes are half-buttoned and she has glitter on her cheekbones, as if she’s still halfway between dream and breakfast.
“You’re coming with me,” she sings, looping her arm through yours before you can even blink. “The others are boring, and you have better opinions about dragons.”
“What—? Pandora, I was just—”
“No, no, no, library can wait. We have things to discuss. Things like… whether the Mooncalf I saw last night was real or a metaphor.”
You don’t resist. You never do with her. There’s something hypnotic about her chaos. About her innocence. If innocence could be weaponized, Pandora would be armed to the teeth.
But your stomach drops when you realize exactly where she’s pulling you.
More specifically: his end of it.
Regulus sees you before you see him. Of course he does.
You’re nearly there when you feel it—his eyes. Like daggers sheathed in frost.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t flinch.
But his hand tightens around his goblet.
“Everyone, look who I’ve kidnapped!” Pandora announces with no shame whatsoever. “Y/N, meet the least romantic group of people in the school. We’re trying to convince Rosier that thestrals aren’t ugly, but he has no imagination.”
There are three heartbeats of silence before Dorcas nods at you coolly, Barty gives a mock bow, and Evan barely looks up from his toast.
Not a flicker. Not a twitch.
You’ve never hated him more.
Because you were raised for this.
“I can’t stay long,” you say sweetly, forcing the muscles in your face to obey. “I’ve got a paper to finish, and James will have an aneurysm if I don’t proofread his.”
“Oh please, stay,” Barty drawls, smirking. “You’ll raise the table’s overall moral standing by a solid 30 percent.”
“40, if she glares at me again like that,” Evan adds dryly.
Pandora giggles. “She’s full of fire, aren’t you, darling?”
And you look directly at Regulus then—just for a second.
Just enough to watch the tiniest flicker cross his eyes. Jealousy? Regret? Pain?
You break the gaze first.
Because this is the game.
You listen to them talk—about nothing, about everything. You nod. You smile when Pandora nudges you. You pretend Regulus Black is a stranger. That your body doesn’t still ache from the way he held you against cold stone. That your lips don’t still taste like the goodbye he kissed into your throat.
You sit right beside him.
But when Bellatrix Lestrange walks past—slow, deliberate, eyes lingering on you like a knife pressed to your cheek—you feel his entire body tense.
“How sweet,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. “The Gryffindor girl slumming it with her betters.”
You smile back like a dagger wrapped in lace.
“Sorry,” you reply, sugar-sweet, “you’ve confused me with someone who gives a damn.”
Bellatrix’s lip curls. Her wand hand twitches.
And for the briefest second, his hand brushes against your thigh under the table. Just once. Just enough.
But you don’t forgive him either.
Pandora finally lets you go, giggling something about “divinations and destiny” and skipping off with Dorcas in tow.
You walk alone back to your tower, your spine stiff, your throat tight, your hands clenched inside your robe sleeves.
Because you were never afraid of loving Regulus Black.
You were only ever afraid of how quietly he could destroy you.
You’re still letting him try.
The moment you leave the table, he loses the ability to breathe properly.
Not that he was breathing well to begin with. Not since last night. Not since your mouth pressed against his, your fire beneath him, your voice whispering, Then don’t let them take you—and for one fucking second, he believed you.
But belief doesn’t change blood.
And love doesn’t change fate.
He leaves the hall five minutes after you do. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just enough to keep Barty from raising an eyebrow, just enough to pass by Bellatrix without her noticing the stiff way his jaw is locked.
He walks quickly. He doesn’t stop until he’s three floors up and two corridors east, tucked behind a tapestry he’s known since first year, through a passage only house-elves and him seem to use. It leads to a little turret room, half-forgotten and left to rot.
It’s silent here. And finally, so is he.
He exhales like he’s confessing something to the walls.
Then, very slowly, Regulus sits.
But he presses the heel of his palm into his chest like it’ll hold back the unraveling. Like if he pushes hard enough, he can stop the screaming beneath his ribs.
It’s not grief. Not really.
Guilt, because he kissed you like it meant something.
He closes his eyes and you’re there. Of course you are. You’re always there. Your lips bruised from him, your laughter haunting the gaps between his thoughts. The way you looked at him like he was something more than what he was raised to be.
“Then don’t let them take you.”
His parents sat him down three days before the train left.
Walburga with her wineglass. Orion with his silence. The Black family crest above their heads, smug and ancestral and bleeding gold.
“You will receive your Mark before the solstice,” his mother had said. Not asked. Said. “The Dark Lord has already inquired.”
“We expect no resistance,” his father added, voice like ice cracked from old stone. “You’ve known this was coming.”
Because that was what was required of him.
Because saying no isn’t something Regulus Black has ever truly learned how to do.
He runs a hand through his hair now, roughly, trying to scrub your name from the parts of him that still want to keep it.
He hates how you looked at him this morning. He hates that you didn’t look at him at all.
He’s not supposed to feel like this. Not for a Gryffindor. Not for a girl with sunlight in her laugh and rebellion stitched into her spine. Not for you.
Wanting you makes everything harder. Because for all his poise, all his silence, all his cold little tricks—Regulus is terrified.
He stands and paces the tower, slow, deliberate. Counting steps like he used to when he was a child, trying to drown out the sound of his mother yelling at Sirius through the walls.
He remembers the way your thighs wrapped around his hips last night, desperate and warm, like you thought he was worth something. Like he was someone who could stay. Who would stay.
He remembers your voice trembling. The way you touched his face like it didn’t scare you. Like loving him wasn’t dangerous.
He presses his forehead to the cold stone wall and lets the silence devour him.
Because here’s the truth:
Regulus Black doesn’t know who he is when he’s not being what everyone needs him to be.
He doesn’t know how to say, I’m scared.
He doesn’t know how to say, I want more.
He doesn’t know how to say, I love you.
Because loving you means choosing you.
And choosing you means betraying everything else.
And he was never taught how to survive betrayal.
Taking you by the hand and vanishing, some far-off corner of the world where no one knows the names Black or Potter or Voldemort.
And Regulus has never been afforded the luxury of fantasy.
He’s eighteen years old and being asked to die before he’s ever truly lived.
When he finally opens his eyes again, the sun is higher, and he knows he has to return. To the charade. To the sneaking glances and the unspoken rules.
To pretending you don’t exist outside of the space between shadows.
He straightens his collar in the cracked mirror, eyes dull and practiced.
He whispers the truth to no one:
“If I loved you any less, I’d leave you now.
And that means I’ll keep destroying you, until one of us breaks.”
And then he leaves the tower.
And becomes Regulus Black again.
But underneath the robes, the masks, the bloodline—
And he’s begging to be saved.
Potions. Dungeon corridor.
You’re stirring your potion counterclockwise, slow and precise, trying to ignore the way your fingers still smell like crushed nettle root and the scent of boy.
It’s too warm in the dungeons today. The candles are low. The fumes are thick, and Professor Slughorn’s voice drones over the buzz of bubbling cauldrons and whispered curses. You pretend to care about the assignment. You pretend your skin isn’t crawling from the heat of Regulus Black’s stare across the room.
You don’t need to look to know he’s watching you.
He’s always watching you.
Even when he’s pretending not to.
Your quill scratches notes onto parchment. Your eyes flick up.
He’s sitting at the far table, pristine as ever. Quill in hand. Jaw tense. His expression bored, detached. But his fingers drum once against the wood — a silent tick. You recognize it. He only does that when he’s uncomfortable.
Sirius, who just draped an arm over your shoulders and whispered something about “borrowing your answers later, love” with a grin too wide to be trusted. You rolled your eyes. Elbowed him in the ribs. The usual.
But Regulus doesn’t see the elbow.
You glance back toward Regulus and the air shifts.
His jaw is clenched now. His knuckles white around his quill. His eyes meet yours for half a second — sharp, unreadable.
And just like that, he looks away.
You don’t see him for hours.
You look. Of course you do. Between classes, in the corners of the library, passing through corridors like you’re chasing ghosts. But he’s gone again, vanished behind that immaculate silence he wears so well.
It starts to ache — low in your gut.
By dinner, you don’t even bother sitting with the others. You steal a pear from the table and leave, ignoring James’s shout behind you. The castle feels too big when you’re looking for one person. And Regulus Black knows how to disappear better than anyone.
So when you find the empty classroom — the one near the charms corridor, the one only you two use — and you find the door unlocked—
You already know he’s inside.
He’s sitting on the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest, robes perfectly in place. But there’s a storm beneath his skin. You can feel it.
You shut the door behind you.
Neither of you speak at first.
“You’re angry,” you say softly.
“No,” he says, too quickly. “I’m not.”
You raise an eyebrow, walking closer. “Right. That explains why you nearly snapped your quill in Potions.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes trail over you like he’s trying to remind himself what you feel like, and hating himself for needing the reminder.
“You’ve barely looked at me since the tower,” you whisper.
Not back — but just enough to miss your lips when you lean in to kiss him.
The rejection hits like a slap. Your stomach twists.
“Did I do something?” you ask, voice quieter now. Wounded. “Is this… is this about Sirius?”
His eyes finally meet yours.
And for the first time in days, he cracks.
“No,” he rasps. “This is about me.”
You step back, confused, breath shallow. “Then what—?”
“You don’t get it,” he says, standing now, moving past you before stopping short. His voice is shaking. “You can laugh with him. Touch him. Be seen with him. And the world doesn’t question it. It doesn’t threaten your name or your future or your life.”
“I watched you smile at him,” he continues, quiet but trembling. “And I wanted to hex him. Not because I thought you loved him. But because he gets to be near you. In public. Without shame. Without risk.”
Your throat tightens. “And you think I don’t feel that?”
He turns, finally facing you.
“I think you’ll grow tired of hiding,” he says, voice breaking. “And one day you’ll wake up and realize it’s easier to choose someone who doesn’t have to live in the dark.”
The room is so still, it hurts.
“I won’t choose easy,” you whisper. “I choose you. I have chosen you. Every day. In every shadow.”
“But I’m not worth it,” he whispers. “Not when I keep hurting you.”
You close the distance. Gently this time. One hand to his chest, feeling the thud of his heartbeat beneath layers of robes and regret.
“Then stop hurting me,” you whisper. “Let yourself be loved, Regulus.”
Your hand curls into his robes, pulling him closer. He lets you.
His mouth finds yours this time. No hesitation. No dodge. Just raw, aching contact. His kiss is a confession — desperate and soft, all the things he’s too proud to say out loud. His hands settle on your waist, grounding himself.
You kiss like it’s the only language you both still speak.
And when you finally pull apart, breathless, foreheads pressed together—
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For this morning. For doubting you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
And for a moment, in the quiet between your breaths, he lets himself believe it.
Which is the first betrayal of the day.
You were hoping for fog — maybe wind. Something to dull the noise, to blur the edges of the world just enough that you wouldn’t have to see him so clearly.
The sun is shining. The sky is crisp. And Regulus Black, your secret, your slow undoing, is walking onto the pitch in green robes and a face carved from frost.
“Oi, you even listening?”
Sirius slaps your arm lightly, knocking you from your thoughts. You blink and realize he’s watching you from the row below, black hair already messy beneath his helmet. He’s half-dressed in his gear, bat in hand.
“You look like you’re about to throw up,” he says with a crooked smile.
“Just mentally preparing to watch you fall off your broom,” you shoot back, grinning.
James laughs from a few feet away. “He did puke last match. Remember, mate?”
“Bugger off,” Sirius mutters, adjusting his gloves. But his eyes linger on you a second too long. Not playfully. Not like before.
He knows something’s shifted.
The game begins with a roar.
Lily, Remus, Mary, and Pandora are packed tight beside you in the stands, wrapped in scarves, cheeks flushed from the cold. Everyone’s yelling. Gryffindor chants echo off the stone walls. You cheer when expected. Clap when Sirius knocks a Bludger so hard it sends Barty Crouch Jr. spinning sideways.
Regulus is a shadow of grace on his broom. Fast. Precise. Not showy like James, not wild like Sirius. Calculated. Cold. Beautiful. The way he moves is like poetry you’re not supposed to read aloud.
Pandora nudges you. “Bet he brushes his teeth with moonlight.”
You laugh. A little too loud.
Lily grins. “Please, like Y/N would ever swoon over a Slytherin.”
Remus raises an eyebrow. “Not even a pretty one?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m loyal to my team, thank you very much.”
But your heart clenches when Regulus makes the catch.
Clean. Devastating. The Snitch glittering in his palm like betrayal.
The stands erupt. Slytherin wins.
But instead, something in you flutters — private and wicked and deeply, deeply yours.
And for half a second, through the noise, through the chaos—
No smile. No nod. Just that look — heavy, unspoken.
You grip your scarf tighter.
Later, in the hallway outside the common rooms, everyone’s arguing.
“I swear the Slytherin Keeper hexed that Quaffle,” Mary says, stomping. “I don’t care what McGonagall says.”
“James missed four shots,” Lily replies, rolling her eyes. “That’s not sabotage, that’s ego.”
“I did hex his broom once,” Remus says offhandedly. Everyone stares. “What? He called me a flea.”
You’re half-listening. Thinking. Trying not to let it show.
Then Pandora, glitter-eyed and glowing, clutches your arm.
“There’s going to be a celebration,” she whispers, nearly bouncing. “They’re sneaking Firewhisky from Rosier’s trunk. You have to come.”
“At the dungeons! Just for a little bit. Please? Come with me?”
Mary’s already shaking her head. “Ugh, hard pass.”
Remus shrugs. “Not my scene.”
“I’d rather fall off the Astronomy Tower,” Sirius mutters, adjusting the strap on his satchel. “Even you wouldn’t go to a Slytherin party.”
“I’ll go,” you say. Casual. Light. Too casual. “Only because she’s begging.”
Pandora beams. “You’re an angel. I owe you.”
Sirius raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
Your voice doesn’t flinch. “I can handle a few snakes, Black.”
But when his eyes narrow slightly, studying you, you know he doesn’t quite believe it.
And you know he’s watching.
The party is already pulsing when you slip inside.
But Pandora’s fingers are wrapped around yours, dragging you through the arched entry like you’re guests at a celebration and not trespassers in enemy territory.
“Relax,” she whispers into your ear as she passes you a silver goblet filled with something dark and sweet. “No one here cares about house lines tonight.”
But that’s a lie, and you both know it.
You catch the way Rosier’s gaze lingers on you. The way Mulciber and Wilkes mutter under their breath, eyes flicking between you and Pandora, who’s too floaty to notice.
You down a gulp anyway. Burned sugar and cinnamon. Sharp as regret.
Leaning against the far wall like he owns the shadows. His robes are immaculate, dark curls falling slightly into his eyes. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has and he’s pretending not to. You’ve lost count of how many times that’s happened.
You don’t move toward him.
Pandora presses a drink into your hand, giggling about something you don’t hear. You nod, sip, smile. Eyes locked across the room.
And then he looks at you.
Your stomach twists. You almost forget how to breathe.
Because Regulus Black is looking at you like he’s drowning and you’re the last gulp of air.
Just holds your gaze across the noise, and waits.
You try not to smile. But it’s there. Small. Crooked. Your secret.
You don’t even realize you’re walking toward him until someone else steps in your path.
“Seriously?” a voice drawls.
He’s leaning against the wall beside the drink table, arms crossed, brows raised. He’s out of uniform — leather jacket, rumpled black shirt, casual enough to pass for relaxed. But his posture is stiff. Eyes cold.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
You try to keep your tone light. Defensive, but not alarmed. You glance behind him, looking for James or Remus, but he’s alone.
He shrugs. “Thought I’d pop in. See who Pandora dragged into the snake pit this time.”
Your throat tightens. “She begged me to come. It’s just a party.”
Sirius tilts his head, scanning your face like he’s solving a riddle. His voice drops.
“Is that why you’ve been staring across the room like your life depends on it?”
His gaze follows yours. Tracks it—straight to Regulus.
Regulus, who has stopped pretending now.
He’s watching. Tense. Silent. Still not moving.
Sirius turns back to you, voice suddenly low and sharp.
“Tell me you haven’t done something stupid,” he says, stepping closer. “Tell me you aren’t sleeping with him.”
There’s a beat of silence.
He exhales hard, laughing bitterly, running a hand through his hair.
“Keep your voice down,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him aside, toward the corridor. “You want everyone to hear?”
He jerks free. “You think I care what they hear? He’s dangerous. His friends—Mulciber, Rosier—they’re already halfway into the Dark Lord’s pocket!”
“He’s not like them,” you hiss. “He’s not—”
“He is. You just don’t want to see it.”
You grit your teeth. “You don’t know him.”
“I do,” Sirius says, voice quieter now, angrier. “I grew up with him. I know what that family does to you. I know what they make you believe. You think he’s different just because he kisses you in the dark?”
“This isn’t some game, Sirius.”
“Then why are you playing it like one?”
Instead, he shakes his head and walks past you.
And when you finally glance over your shoulder—
You find him ten minutes later, outside the common room, tucked into a dark corridor near the broom closet.
He doesn’t speak when you arrive.
You just walk until you’re standing close enough to feel the heat off his chest. Close enough to see the pulse ticking at his throat.
“I didn’t plan for him to come,” you whisper.
Your hand hovers between you.
Something in your chest cracks.
“Don’t,” he says, softly. “Not here.”
“I do,” he says, voice tight. “Gods, I do. But if I touch you right now, I won’t stop.”
“I heard him,” he says. “Yelling at you. About me.”
“He thinks you’ll ruin me,” you whisper.
“I think I already have.”
You shake your head, stepping forward, pressing your hand to his chest despite his protest. “You haven’t.”
He leans his forehead against yours. Breathing ragged.
“I don’t want to be the thing that breaks you,” he says.
“Then don’t push me away.”
His fingers curl against your waist. Just once.
But it’s enough to make your knees weak.
Neither of you notices Pandora, just around the corner.
She doesn’t speak right away.
Her eyes are wide — not angry. Not even surprised.
“Pandora,” you say, stepping forward.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”
She exhales slowly, then gives you a sad smile.
“I’m not mad,” she says. “I just wish you’d told me sooner.”
“I know,” she nods. Then she glances toward Regulus. “You’re really with him.”
“I’ll keep it a secret,” she says, quietly. “I promise. Just… be careful, alright?”
You reach out. She squeezes your hand.
Then she disappears into the shadows.
You think that’s the end of it.
Until later, in the corridor near the astronomy wing — Regulus hears footsteps behind him.
He doesn’t turn until he hears the voice.
“You’re going to break her.”
Regulus doesn’t even flinch.
“And you think you’re going to save her?”
“You’ll lie to her. You already are. You’ll drag her your mess and call it love.”
“You don’t know what she chooses.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s choosing.”
Two lives that forked long ago.
“I don’t want your approval,” Regulus says.
“Good,” Sirius snaps. “Because you’ll never have it.”
Regulus leans in, voice dark and final.
Sirius stays in the dark.
And watches his little brother disappear into it.
That’s how long it’s been since Sirius last looked at you like he knew you.
Since the shouting match in the astronomy corridor — Sirius and Regulus nearly coming to blows, your name snarled between them like something sharp and bleeding — he’s been… distant.
He still jokes with James, throws snowballs at Lily, drags Remus into detention schemes. He still shows up to dinner. Still plays Quidditch. Still laughs too loud in the Gryffindor common room like everything’s fine.
But when you enter the room, he leaves it.
When you speak, he doesn’t look up.
When you say his name, he pretends not to hear it.
Not Lily. Not Remus. Not James.
And she’s never said a word.
It’s snowing by the time you find Regulus again.
He sent you a note, as always — two taps on your dorm window with a slip of parchment that simply said: East corridor. 10 o’clock. Same room.
You’re half-frozen by the time you reach the abandoned classroom near the old trophy cases. The fire Regulus conjured is low and golden, flickering against the old stone. He’s seated on a table, legs dangling, hair curling slightly from the damp.
He looks up when you enter.
And his whole face softens.
You shut the door behind you and exhale.
He watches you cross the room and step between his knees. You tug your gloves off slowly, fingers brushing the front of his robes. You expect him to kiss you — he usually does.
But tonight, he doesn’t move.
He swallows. Reaches into his coat pocket.
His family crest — the Black seal in silver wax — glints in the firelight.
“They want me home early,” he says softly.
“No,” he murmurs. “For good.”
“They said… there’s a ceremony scheduled. A binding. A Mark. The others have already been summoned.”
The words clang through your skull like a curse.
You step back, just once.
“What did you say?” you ask.
You suck in a breath. “Regulus—”
“They said if I don’t accept it this time, I won’t be allowed home at all.”
His voice is even, but you hear the panic underneath. The quiet horror. The hopelessness.
You press your hand against his chest, over his heart.
He looks at you like you’ve spoken a foreign language.
“Reg,” you whisper. “You don’t have to do what they say.”
“I don’t know who I am if I don’t.”
You stay like that for a while.
Him sitting. You standing between his knees, arms around his shoulders, holding onto something that feels like it’s already slipping.
And he whispers into your hair:
“If I vanish before break… know that I wanted to stay.”
You don’t notice Bellatrix at first.
But the next morning, walking to breakfast alone, you feel her eyes on your back. Like a blade.
She’s standing in the corner of the Great Hall with Rosier and Dolohov. Not speaking. Just watching. Her smirk is thin and knowing.
But you feel it in your bones.
Later that day, you try to eat lunch with Remus, Mary, and Lily — but your stomach turns. Everything tastes like dread.
You get up halfway through, say you need to see McGonagall about your Transfiguration essay.
Because before you reach the top of the stairwell, a hand grips your elbow and drags you into the nearest alcove.
He closes the door behind you.
His eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. Furious.
“Is he still seeing you?”
“Yes!” you snap. “He is. We’re together. You know that.”
He shoves a hand through his hair and turns away from you, breathing like he’s just been cursed. When he looks back, he’s shaking.
“You’re ruining yourself,” he says.
“You don’t get to say that.”
“I do. I’m your best friend.”
You blink hard. “You stopped talking to me the night I needed you most.”
“I was trying to protect you—!”
“No, Sirius. You were trying to control me.”
“You think I don’t know who Regulus is? You think I’m too stupid to see what he’s wrapped up in?”
“Because he’s the only person who makes me feel seen.”
“You think he’s going to choose you over them?”
“But I’m choosing him. Even if it breaks me.”
Sirius swears under his breath. Staggers back a step like you’ve hit him.
“Fine,” he whispers. “Then when he breaks you — don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He leaves before you can answer.
And you stand alone in the alcove, hands shaking, throat raw.
Because you love them both.
But only one gets to stay.
You and Regulus meet more often now.
Not out of carelessness, but because it hurts too much not to. A glance across a corridor isn’t enough anymore. Neither is a stolen brush of hands in the dark or a letter folded tight and slipped beneath your pillow.
You meet in the library now.
In the silence between the stacks.
In the old study room where no one dares sit because of the hexed desk that occasionally bites ankles.
He brings books he pretends to read. You pretend you’re doing homework. But mostly, it’s quiet conversation. Palms pressed together under the table. Shoulders brushing. His nose in your hair. The scent of ink and pine clinging to his robes.
But he looks at you like he’s memorizing your face.
As if he knows something is coming.
Sirius won’t even look at you anymore.
There’s only so many times a person can ask “why won’t you talk to me” before it starts sounding like please love me again.
Remus and James don’t ask questions, though they exchange glances whenever your voice gets smaller, or your eyes don’t quite smile.
Pandora’s the only one who touches your shoulder in passing. The only one who still whispers, “He loves you, you know.”
But lately, you’ve been wondering if love is enough.
You’re on your way back from the Owlery when it happens.
You were sending Regulus a letter. Not because he’s far — but because it helps. The pretending. The sweetness of ink instead of ache.
You’re halfway down the West Wing corridor when the air shifts.
She steps from the shadows in one slow, deliberate movement.
Her eyes are wide. Feverish. Lips curled in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Well, well,” she purrs. “I was beginning to think I imagined it.”
You grip your wand inside your pocket.
“You,” she says, stepping closer. “Creeping through dungeons like a little Gryffindor rat. Eyes always finding my cousin. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“I’m not afraid of you,” you say, steady despite the pounding in your chest.
“Of course not,” she mocks. “You’ve already sunk your claws in deep, haven’t you? Thought you’d sweet-talk your way into the family. How darling.”
Her wand is out before you can blink.
She raises it with a hiss of her voice.
You don’t think. You don’t aim.
The magic pours out of your palm like molten sunlight.
No wand. No incantation. Just instinct and heat.
It strikes her wrist mid-curse — her sleeve ignites. She screams and staggers back, slapping at the flames.
And that’s when the door flies open.
He bursts into the corridor, robes flying, wand drawn. His eyes land on you — then Bellatrix — then the scorched stone.
“What the fuck is going on?” he breathes.
Bellatrix straightens, face twisted in fury, smoke rising from her sleeve.
Regulus doesn’t even blink.
“I heard you, Bella.” Silence.
Her smile curls like a knife. “She’s poison, you know. Gryffindor filth—”
“Leave.” His voice is like ice.
Then turns, and walks away — humming, as if she didn’t just try to curse you in cold blood.
Regulus rushes forward, grabs your face in both hands.
You shake your head, trembling. “No. I — I used wandless magic. I didn’t even know I could—”
“I did,” he says, voice rough. “Of course you can.”
He pulls you in. Holds you. Tight.
And in that moment, it’s not about house lines or family names or the letter in his pocket.
Two days later, the carriages arrive.
The castle buzzes with students packing trunks, friends saying goodbyes, couples clinging to one last kiss. The snow outside is heavy, falling like time itself.
You’re standing in the courtyard with Regulus.
His scarf is wrapped loosely around his neck. He holds your hand inside his pocket.
“I haven’t written back yet,” he says. “To the letter.”
Your throat tightens. “Do you know what you’ll say?”
You nod. “I’ll send you letters,” he says.
You look up. “Do you think they’ll let you?” He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he presses your forehead to his.
“If we meet again,” he murmurs, “it won’t be the end.”
Your lips meet. Slow. Final. A kiss you both know is a goodbye dressed in hope.
Then the hug. Tight. Fierce. Desperate. And then—You part.
Your parents are waiting near the train. Your mother is crying already. Your father’s jaw is tight. You hug them both, quietly. Pretend everything is normal. But before you board the train, you glance back — just once.
Regulus stands a few feet away, half-shielded by the shadows of the station. He’s not crying. But he reaches out. Brushes a thumb across your cheekbone.
You hadn’t even realized you were crying. “I’ll write,” he whispers again. You nod.
You don’t trust your voice.
On the train, you find an empty compartment. You curl into the corner, scarf wrapped around your fists. And when the door opens — it’s James and Remus.
They see your face. They don’t ask questions. James sits beside you. Wraps his arm around your shoulder. Remus slides a chocolate frog into your palm without a word.
And just like that, you fall apart.
They hold you through it. No one speaks. But Sirius is outside the compartment window. Just far enough that he can pretend he didn’t see.
And for the first time in months— He feels it. The loss.
Before you leave the station, you find him near the luggage carts. Alone. You walk to him.
He doesn’t move. “Happy Christmas,” you say softly. He looks up. His mouth opens. Closes.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything I couldn’t explain.”
His voice is hoarse. “You didn’t have to explain.”
“I know,” you say. “But you were my best friend. And I missed you every day.”
He swallows. You step forward, press a kiss to his cheek. “Tell him to stay alive,” you whisper. Then you walk away.
That night, you sit by your window at home. The sky is clear. Snow glitters on the sill. You wait. And you pray—That the letter will come.
The owl arrives on the third night. Not in the morning post, but long after the house has gone quiet — long after your parents have gone to bed, after the fire has burned low and the snowstorm outside has swallowed the garden in silver silence.
You hear it tapping at your window like a ghost. You’re not even fully awake when you stumble to unlatch the frame. The owl is sleek, black, regal. Not his usual bird. But it carries something familiar.
Your name written in his handwriting — slanted, careful, quiet. You don’t open it right away.You just sit at the windowsill, heart thrumming like wings, staring at your name in the soft yellow lamplight.
It feels like touching a dream you thought you’d lost.When you finally peel it open, the parchment unfolds into poetry. But not the kind anyone else would understand.
They say the sky doesn’t change just because the world does.But I swear the stars look different without you beneath them.The moon doesn’t know your face anymore.
Do you still wait for the sound of my steps?I see you in glass. In cold water. In the space between shadows.You are the only echo I let touch me.
The fire we made in secret is still burning in my hands.And it keeps me warm when nothing else does.But I have learned something. Something terrible.
There is a piece of the night hiding inside a locket.It breathes and bleeds and hungers like a god.They call it power, but it is only rot dressed in silk.And I have made a choice.
I don’t know how long I have. But I swear this: I will bury the darkness with my own hands if I must. I will put the locket to rest. And when I see you again, it will be as a man who chose light. I’ll write again. If I can.
You read it again. And again. You press it to your chest. You cry. Not because it’s goodbye. But because it feels like one.
You write back the next morning. You don’t know what to say — so you say everything. You tell him you miss him. You tell him to be careful. You tell him that if he dies, you’ll never forgive him.
You tell yourself it’s the snow. The roads. The secrecy. Maybe he’s hiding, maybe it’s too dangerous, maybe he’s still recovering from whatever it was he tried to do.
Maybe he’s okay. Maybe he’s not.
The train to Hogwarts steams through snow-heavy trees. Students bustle through the corridors, laughing, dragging trunks, catching up.But there’s no Regulus on the platform.And when you arrive at the castle — still no owl.
Still no letter. Still no him.Bellatrix isn’t there either.And that’s when something inside you shifts.
Because Regulus may be secretive. But he’s never cruel.
He would have written. He always writes.You don’t sleep that night.You lie in bed staring at the letter until the words blur.The locket. The choice. The warning.You press your hand to your chest and whisper his name like a prayer, like a spell, like something holy and breaking.
The last day of Hogwarts is too bright. The sky is an impossible blue. The lake glitters like it knows how to keep secrets. House banners ripple in the wind, and the halls are filled with laughter, footsteps, trunks dragging, champagne sneaked into butterbeer bottles.
You wear your robes with the lion embroidered in gold. You walk the corridors slowly.
People hug. Cry. Kiss in corners. You… just exist. Quietly.
Because Regulus is still gone. Because Regulus never graduated. Because a piece of your soul isn’t here.
You tell yourself to smile for Lily, for Mary, for Remus and James and Peter — for Pandora, who clutches your hand as the fireworks burst across the night sky and the castle hums with the final hours of your childhood.And you almost get away with pretending.
And you almost get away with pretending.
He’s leaning against the staircase banister, bottle in hand, the fireworks catching in his dark hair.
“You always look like you’re waiting for someone,” he says.
You stop beside him. You don’t speak.
He takes a swig and finally says what you’ve both been avoiding:
“My parents told me last month that Regulus is dead.”
“They said he disappeared. No body. No sign of him. They think he ran or was killed.”
He glances sideways at you. “But you didn’t believe it.”
“No,” you whisper. “I couldn’t.”
His voice breaks just a little. “I hated him,” Sirius admits. “But he was still my brother. And you—”
“I know.” He sets the bottle down on the windowsill.
Then, for the first time in months, he pulls you into a hug. “Whatever happens,” he whispers, “I hope he comes back to you.”
One full month of nothing. No letters. No sightings. No whispers in the dark.
You go home. You sleep in your old bed. You try to pretend you’re not searching for his name in every newspaper, every headline, every missing wizard report.
You try to move on. But then—On the 28th day of summer—
It arrives. A postcard. From a corner shop in Blackpool, a seaside muggle town you visited once as a child.
There’s no name. Just three words, written in blocky, simple print. “Salt. Red. 22.” You stare at it for five minutes before your brain clicks into place.
You remember the conversation in the Astronomy Tower.
“If I ever go missing,” he’d told you, “I’ll leave a code. Something simple. Something only you would know.”
“Why muggle?” you’d asked.
“Because they’ll never think to look there.”
You find the shop easily.
The salt air is thick. Gulls scream overhead. The chip shop still smells like grease and vinegar and terrible, beautiful memories. You knock at the door beside it. No answer. No answer.
Your heart is pounding. You try again. One knock. Then two. And then—The door opens.He looks tired. Gaunt. His hair longer, his cheekbones sharper. He’s thinner. Paler. But it’s him.
You don’t remember who kissed who first. All you know is that you’re pressed into the wall of the stairwell, his lips against yours, breath trembling, hands in your hair, your fingers curled in his shirt like you might fall through the floor if you let go. “Regulus,” you sob. “I thought—”
“I know,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I waited. I waited every day—”
“I wanted to write,” he chokes out. “But I couldn’t. It wasn’t safe. I—I destroyed it. The locket. The last piece. But they were watching. I had to disappear.”
You press your forehead to his.“You did it?”
“Not completely. But that piece of him—it’s gone.”
And then he says it: “I’m not going back.” You pull away, just slightly.
You pull away, just slightly. “I’m in hiding. For good. New name. No contact. No magic if I can help it. But… I couldn’t leave without seeing you. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”
Your voice breaks. “Is this goodbye?” He shakes his head.
“Only if you want it to be.”
You stare at him. Then take his hand. “I’m not letting you disappear without me.”
“I’ll leave everything. I’ll go with you. I’ll vanish. I don’t care. I just want you.”
Silence. And then his arms are around you again. Tight. Shaking. “I tried to stay away,” he whispers. “But I always knew… if you ever found me… I’d never leave again.”
Two weeks later, no one knows where you went. The letters stop. Your room is empty. Your trunk left behind.
Sirius finds the postcard. He stares at it for a long time. Then burns it in the fireplace and says nothing to anyone.
The war began. The war ended. Names were etched in stone. Others faded into silence.
But every few months — like a ritual — Sirius Black would slip away from headquarters or Grimmauld Place or wherever the Order had planted him, and send a letter.
No return address. No magic signature. Just a short note, pressed into thick paper, always beginning with:
“To the couple who disappeared…” They never replied. But he sent them anyway.
Potter’s kid’s got Lily’s eyes. You’d like him.”
“Remus says hi. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since ‘78.”
“They named the plant in the drawing room after you. It bites. Appropriate.”
“Stay hidden. Stay warm. Stay together.”
He never stopped believing they were out there. Somewhere by the sea. Living in the quiet. A boy who became a ghost, and the girl who followed him into the shadows — because love had always been more important than legacy.
Years later, after the war, after everything —
Harry Potter sat on the grass outside the Burrow. The sun was low. Ron was tossing rocks into the pond. Hermione was curled beside Harry, a book open but forgotten in her lap.
“Did Sirius ever tell you about the couple who disappeared?” Ron blinked. “No.”
Hermione turned toward him. “What couple?”, Harry smiled.
“A Gryffindor girl. Bright eyes. Stubborn heart. The kind of girl who slapped Peter Pettigrew once and made James Potter cry when he asked her out.”
“And a Slytherin boy. Regulus Black.”
Hermione blinked. “Sirius’s brother? But he—he—”
“He died, yeah,” Harry said. “But Sirius told me once… not everything dies the way people think it does.”
“What happened to them?” Hermione whispered. Harry’s voice softened.
They just live quietly in someone’s memory.
And if you listen closely, you can still hear them in the wind by the sea…
“I’ll write again. If I can.”
“If we meet again, it won’t be the end.”
⋆｡°✩ thanks for reading, angel ♡
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