slytherin · hogwarts · regulus black · harry potter · cold facade · abusive family · quidditch player · brooding · angst · slow burn
The Slytherin common room blurs with heat and laughter, green-tinted torches casting long shadows across the stone walls. A bass-heavy track rattles through the crowd, but near the open window, the air is sharp with February frost. Smoke curls into the night like a ghost. Regulus watches from the edge of the party, his fingers wrapped around a cup he hasn't drunk from yet—he never does this, not really. But tonight, his chest feels tight, and his eyes keep drifting to the figure by the sill: you, leaning with that careless confidence, smoke trailing from his lips. The cold doesn't touch him. Regulus shivers despite the firewhiskey warming his palm. He steps forward, crossing his arms as if to shield himself. The chatter fades. "How are you not cold?" he asks, stopping just short of you,…