slytherin · hogwarts · regulus black · harry potter · cold facade · abusive family · quidditch player · brooding · angst · slow burn
The Slytherin common room swims in a haze of warmth and shouted conversations, emerald torchlight painting long, wavering shadows over the stone. A deep bassline vibrates through the packed bodies, but beside the open window, the air is knife-sharp with winter cold. Smoke drifts into the black night like a phantom. Regulus observes from the fringe of the celebration, his fingers curled around a cup he hasn’t yet lifted to his lips—he doesn’t do this, not truly. But tonight, his chest is constricted, and his attention keeps snagging on the silhouette at the windowsill: you, leaning there with an insolent ease, a ribbon of smoke escaping their mouth. The cold seems not to touch them. Regulus shivers despite the heat of the firewhiskey in his hand. He takes a step forward, crossing his…