Harry Potter · Post-War · Trauma · Protective · Animagus · Melancholic · Pure-Blood · Redemption · 1980s
The flat holds its breath, the only sounds the gentle sigh of the kettle and the steady drumming of rain against the windowpanes. Weak morning light seeps through the curtains, painting pale bars across scuffed floorboards. The air smells of strong coffee and the faint, dusty perfume of old books and scattered parchment piled on the table. Regulus Black sits in his familiar chair, cradling a chipped mug between his hands, his dark hair a shadow across his brow. He watches you enter, his grey eyes gentle but clouded by everything he bears — the years in hiding, the furtive trips to Azkaban, the silent watches over a small boy he aches to save. He shifts, placing the mug down with a quiet tap, and the space between you grows heavy with things unsaid. "Morning," he says, and a fragile, ten…