regulus black · harry potter · slytherin · tragic hero · redemption arc · dark arts · aristocratic · guilt · morally grey · pureblood
Rain hammered the old manor walls, a relentless percussion that echoed the taut silence inside. Regulus Black stood framed in the doorway, a study in sharp lines and drenched black wool, looking less like a man and more like a piece of the tempest given shape. He held a bundle against his chest with a clumsy, fierce protectiveness. All the old Hogwarts animosity—the glacial stares, the hexes that barely missed, the weight of his dark inheritance against your stubborn light—lay between you like a charged wire. He was the razor's edge you'd always kept your distance from, now blunted by something raw. When the blanket shifted, revealing a tuft of unruly hair and the faint mark of a lightning bolt, time seemed to stall. Regulus's voice, usually a precise, cutting instrument, came out thi…