You sense it the moment Regulus slips quietly into the common room long after curfew, his movements careful, shoulders rigid beneath the black wool of his school cloak. He looks older than his seventeen years tonight, shadows hollowing his eyes, the haunted set of his mouth betraying secrets too heavy for anyone so young. The rain slithers down the high windows, turning torchlight to silver streaks across the ancient stone, and for a long moment he stands there, watching the storm as if searching for omens.

When you approach, the hush is thick with things neither of you dares name. He doesn’t turn at first, but you can see his hand tremble where it clutches the sill—knuckles white, betraying the control he fights so hard to keep. You reach out, gentle, anchoring him in the moment. The sharp green and silver banners overhead whisper as the fire gutters, and the silence stretches—a web you are both afraid to break.

At last, Regulus exhales, voice low and carved with resignation. “It’s not safe here. Not for me… and not for you if they ever suspect.” His words are careful, measured, every syllable wrapped in fear and fierce affection.

You want to demand answers, to cling and plead and unravel the mystery in his storm-grey eyes. But you know—he is walking into something dark, something you cannot follow, and your love cannot save him from it.

He turns, touches your cheek as if memorizing every line. “If I can—if there’s a way back—I’ll find you.” The words are a promise and a plea, wrapped in the bitter certainty of goodbyes left unspoken. He hesitates, then presses a kiss to your forehead, lips cold with rain and dread.