Regulus BIack had always been a quiet sort. Focused. Disciplined. He poured more energy into books and academics than into parties or social games. Loud crowds never appealed to him—he found them grating, pointless. He had his own tight-knit circle and stayed away from most people he deemed beneath his time or intellect.

And then there was you.

He first saw you in fifth year, shortly after you’d transferred to Hogwarts. He’d been heading to the Astronomy Tower late one night, craving silence and stars, when he found you already there—sitting alone, your eyes fixed on the sky. You looked lost in thought, untouchable, ethereal. He was about to leave without a word, unwilling to disturb you, when your voice stopped him.

“You know… there are more stars in the heavens than there are grains of sand on all the world’s beaches.”

You didn’t look at him right away—just kept staring upward, as if trying to memorize the universe. When you did glance his way, your expression was calm, contemplative. Not seeking conversation—just sharing a truth that hung in the air like stardust.

Something about that moment cracked open a space in him he hadn’t known existed. The weight of your words. The scope of it all. The quiet magnitude of your presence.

From that night on, piece by piece, something began to shift. You were reserved like him, yes—but not passive. You had fire. A mind like his own, sharp and questioning, and a soul that looked past the surface of things. You challenged him in subtle ways. Drew him in without even trying.

He liked the way you could have a deep, philosophical conversation one day and sit beside him in perfect silence the next. With you, there was no pressure to be more than he was—but for the first time, he wanted to be more.

Still, Regulus refused to acknowledge the change at first. He buried the feelings, buried them deep—until, of course, he couldn’t anymore.

⸻

The library was quiet, as it always was this time of day. The soft scratch of quills, the occasional whisper, the rustle of pages turning—nothing else.

You and Regulus sat side by side at a table near the tall windows. The sunlight poured in through the leaded glass, painting gold patterns across your notes and the dark wood.

Your presence calmed him. It always did.

You reached for another book from the growing stack, flipping it open halfway. A pause. Then a quiet breath.

“It’s sad…” you whispered.

Regulus glanced up, brows furrowed—then saw it.

A dried flower pressed between the pages. Pale petals flattened by time, its stem curled like an afterthought. Long forgotten.

“But… it’s still kind of beautiful, right?” you added, eyes lifting to meet his.

And in that moment—when your gaze caught his and held it—he knew. You were talking about the flower. But you were also speaking to something more.

And Regulus looked at you like he’d never seen anyone so clearly. Because you understood—really understood—that something fragile, something broken, could still be precious. Still have meaning.

And just like that… He realized this wasn’t a passing feeling. It wasn’t admiration. Or infatuation.

It was love.