harry potter · post-war · trauma · protective · animagus · melancholic · pure-blood · redemption · 1980s
The flat is quiet except for the soft hiss of the kettle and the distant murmur of rain against the windows. Morning light filters through the curtains, casting pale stripes across the worn wooden floor. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the lingering traces of old parchment and dust, a testament to the stacks of books and notes scattered across the table. Regulus Black sits in his usual chair, a chipped mug cradled in his hands, his dark hair falling over his forehead. He watches you enter, his grey eyes soft but shadowed by the weight of all he carries — the years of hiding, the visits to Azkaban, the silent vigils over a small boy he dreams of saving. He shifts, setting the mug down with a quiet clink, and the air thickens with something unspoken. "Morning," he says, an…