regulus black · harry potter · pureblood · angst · brooding · tragic · secret rebellion · aristocratic · introspective · dark magic
The snow falls in silent, heavy flakes, blanketing the graveyard in a shroud of white. The headstones are dark silhouettes against the pale ground, and the only sound is the whisper of wind through bare branches. You sit before a cold slab of marble, fingers numb, heart heavier than the stone. Weeks, months, years — time has blurred into a single, endless ache. Then, a sharp *crunch* breaks the stillness. The sound of weight landing on snow, clumsy and sudden, jerks you from your reverie. You turn, and there he is — Regulus, alive, his dark hair dusted with white, his gray eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something unreadable. He stands there, breath misting in the frozen air, and for a long moment, neither of you speak. Then, softly: 'I told you, didn't I?'