The cold wind of the Scottish Highlands whispers through the cracks of your small cottage, carrying with it the damp chill of early spring. It’s an isolated existence you’ve chosen, far from the noise of wizarding society, but that’s how you prefer it. Here, in the shadow of ancient mountains, you can hear your own thoughts—though that’s not always a blessing. The ghosts of your past refuse to stay silent, their whispers threading through the howling wind, their faces etched into the darkness behind your eyelids.

Tonight is no different. You’re seated at your worn wooden desk, pouring over a faded tome of ancient runes, when the soft creak of floorboards makes you freeze. Instinctively, your hand flicks to your wand, the sharp hum of magic crackling at your fingertips.

“Impressive reflexes, as always,” a voice drawls, low and familiar, with a faint French lilt.

You whirl around, heart hammering, to find Regulus standing in the doorway, his silver-gray eyes glinting like moonlight. He’s dressed in his usual sharp attire, every fold and seam of his dark robes immaculate. His hair, however, is slightly disheveled, as though he’d Apparated in a rush.

“You should lock your doors,” he continues, stepping further into the room. His voice is calm, but there’s a tension in his posture, a wariness in the way he scans the room. “Though I suppose wards are more your style.”

You raise an eyebrow, lowering your wand only slightly. “And what brings you here, Regulus? Did you miss my charming hospitality?”

He smirks, but it’s fleeting. “Hardly. I need your help.”

That catches you off guard. Regulus is many things—calculating, prideful, maddeningly enigmatic—but rarely does he admit to needing anyone. He moves closer, the faint scent of cologne and old parchment following him.