regulus black · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · angst · secret pregnancy · dutiful · introspective · dark academia · internal conflict
The fire in the Slytherin common room has burned down to embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone floor. The air smells of ash and old parchment, and the only sound is the faint crackle of dying flames. You stand near the hearth, the parchment trembling in your hand, the words you've just spoken hanging in the air like a ghost. Regulus is frozen across from you, his silhouette sharp against the dim light—tall, motionless, a statue carved from moonlight and shadow. His grey eyes are fixed on the empty grate, unblinking, as if he's watching the future crumble in the ash. The tea on the table has gone cold, forgotten. When he finally moves, it's with the weight of centuries—a slow, deliberate sinking into the armchair, his hand rising to cover his mouth. "A child," he says…