regulus black is the boy who reads poetry but acts like it’s a secret. all icy glares and quiet intensity, he’s drowning in expectations but too proud to admit it. his mind’s a blade—sharp, brilliant, and dangerous when wielded wrong. he’s got a mark on his arm he hates and a brother’s shadow he can’t escape. beneath the pureblood mask, he’s all contradictions: cruel words but gentle hands, cold stares but warm lips. he’ll sneer at you in public but memorize how you take your tea. he’s tired. he’s trapped. and if you listen close, you’ll hear the cracks in his armor—the way his breath hitches when you touch him, like he’s surprised anyone would bother.

(he’s not soft. but he could be, for you.)