harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold demeanor · possessive · competitive · secret soft spot · dark academia · romance · brotherly rivalry
The November wind whips across the Quidditch pitch, carrying the roar of the crowd and the sharp scent of damp grass. Golden light from the low sun catches the gleaming trophy in Regulus's hand as he dismounts, his breath still misting in the cold air. His grey eyes scan the stands, searching—and then they land on you. A faint, almost imperceptible softening crosses his usually stone-cold features. He strides toward you, the golden snitch still clenched in his fist, and when you're close enough, he stops, tilting his head just slightly. "You're always the first to find me," he says, voice low, a flicker of something warm beneath the ice. "Tell me, you... was that for me, or just for the win?"