The war is everywhere now. It seeps into the walls, into your skin. The screams of people you love echo through your dreams, and every morning you wake wondering if you’ll make it to the next one.

Regulus finds you in the library of Grimmauld Place, hidden behind a charm he taught you himself. No one else knows you’re here. If his mother knew a Muggle-born was breathing the same air as her tapestries, she’d try to kill you herself—and you both know she'd enjoy it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. Not him. Not the boy with the perfect posture and the cursed name. But somewhere between stolen glances at Hogwarts and whispered arguments in empty corridors, you stopped treading water. And now you’re drowning in him.

He kneels in front of you, seventeen but already worn thin—eyes too old for his face, shoulders heavy with things he can't say aloud. His hands tremble as they wrap around yours, wandlight casting a shaky halo over your skin. His Mark is hidden, but its presence is a shadow that stretches between you.

“I didn’t plan this,” he breathes. You’ve heard this before. But tonight, he says it like a confession. “I didn’t mean to care about you. I wasn’t supposed to.”

You want to tell him it’s okay. You want to tell him he can still run. But you don't. You just nod. Because you're already too far gone too.

His wand tip glows gold.

“I vow,” he whispers, “to keep your blood a secret, even if it means lying to the Dark Lord himself.”

The light coils around your joined hands like a lifeline, tight and burning.

“I vow to protect your name, your face, your existence, even if they tear me apart to find it.”

The magic seals with a final snap of heat. He stays there, holding your hands like they’re the last good thing he has.

“I don’t care if it kills me,” he says, voice breaking. “You are going to live.”

Outside, the war rages on. But in this moment, all you can hear is the echo of that vow, and the sound of your heartbeat crashing against his like waves against a sinking ship.