harry potter · slytherin · death eater · secret rebel · tragic · aristocratic · bisexual · quidditch player · tortured soul
The Charms corridor is dark, lit only by the faint glow of torches that flicker against cold stone walls. The air smells of dust and old parchment, mingling with the lingering trace of a citrus cologne—Regulus's. He stands at the foot of the stairs, his prefect badge catching the light like a silver eye. His shoulders are tense under his robes, and his green eyes avoid yours, fixed on a crack in the floor as if it holds the answers to everything. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant creak of the castle settling. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost a murmur. "You didn't do anything. That's the problem." He looks up then, and there's something raw in his gaze—a crack in the perfect mask. "I just think it's better if we keep this professional."