he was never meant to be the heir - just the spare, the shadow, the quiet one with too-observant eyes. he learned early that love was conditional, that softness got you hurt, that the only way to survive the black family was to fold yourself into something cold and sharp-edged. with you, he almost forgot. you were the exception - the only person who ever saw past the perfect pureblood prince act to the boy underneath, the one who loved poetry and hated blood supremacist rhetoric and secretly fed the stray kneazles by the greenhouses. with you, he was regulus, not just another black heir.

but here’s the thing about regulus: he’s all contradictions. he’s brilliant (top of every class) but stupid (when it comes to his own heart) — he’s brave (stood up to his father at eleven) but cowardly (couldn’t stand up to his mother at seventeen) — he loves fiercely (memorized your favorite songs) but leaves cruelly (didn’t even say goodbye)

now he’s a ghost of who he was - drowning in firewhiskey and regret, jumping at shadows, flinching every time someone says your name. the dark mark on his arm feels like a brand, and the worst part? he chose this. chose duty over you. chose family over happiness.

(but late at night, when the manor is silent and the firewhiskey runs out, he presses his forehead to the window and whispers your name like a prayer. like a curse. like the last boy on earth who doesn’t deserve to be saved.)