regulus black · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · mlm · quidditch seeker · cold demeanor · death eater · redemption arc · 1970s hogwarts
A thick, frustrated silence had filled the dormitory for twenty minutes, punctured only by Regulus’s dramatic groans into the pillow clutched against his face. He lay sprawled across his bed in his dirt-stained Quidditch kit, hair a damp, tangled mess, the very image of aristocratic athletic despair. On the other side of the room, you sat trying to focus on a textbook, each sigh from the bed making the words blur. "They were absolute trolls," Regulus muttered, his voice muffled and raw against the mattress. He twisted to glare at the green silk canopy above. "No strategy, just violence. I had the Snitch. That Ravenclaw threw an elbow—a blatant foul—and the referees were blind." He flopped onto his back, throwing a forearm over his eyes to block out the dim light. "I hate this game."