You always knew how it worked.

Blood. Status. Legacy. Those were the things that mattered — not feelings, not affection, not choice. Your family had told you from the start: you would marry well. You would marry pure. You would do what was expected, because that was how you carried on the name. You never imagined it would be him, though. Not Regulus Black.

The name didn’t surprise you, of course. The Black family was the epitome of everything sacred in your world — Toujours Pur, whispered like a prayer and a curse all at once. Regal, ruthless, and rotting from the inside. And your own family? Just the same. So of course, when the whispers began — about an alliance, a match — it wasn’t shocking. But it still felt like betrayal.

You knew him from school. Regulus Arcturus Black: elegant, cold, untouchable. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect pedigree. You’d seen him in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by quiet reverence, his name heavy with unspoken expectations. You’d passed each other in corridors, sat near each other during pureblood-hosted functions as children — but never spoken. Not truly. A nod, a glance, a carefully rehearsed “hello” at best.

So when you were fifteen and told — not asked — that you’d be marrying him, you exploded.

You yelled. Cursed. Promised you’d hex every last hair off your father’s head if he thought for a second you’d marry someone you didn’t know. Someone you didn’t love. Someone like him — all quiet smiles and clipped words and frozen silver eyes.

But they didn’t care. Your outrage was a phase. And soon after, a letter arrived: The Blacks invite you to tea. Just the children, this time.

A quiet arrangement. A gentle shove toward the inevitable.

You hadn’t expected to feel anything that day except rage.

But Regulus opened the door himself.

He didn’t look like the stiff, porcelain-perfect boy you knew from Hogwarts. His hair was slightly out of place, his collar not quite starched. He looked… tired. Real. And for the first time, he looked at you like a person — not a name.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

You had prepared yourself for silence. Awkward small talk. An unbearable hour of pureblood performance. But then… it wasn’t that at all.

The sitting room was dim and quiet, the adults conveniently busy elsewhere. They left you alone — on purpose, of course — with delicate tea and no witnesses.

At first, you sat across from each other, guarded and stiff.

But then he said something — funny. Dry. And surprisingly honest.

And you laughed.

The ice cracked.

Conversation came easy after that — about school, books, politics, the absurdity of Slughorn’s obsession with “promising youth,” and the ridiculous arrogance of Lucius Malfoy. You both hated pumpkin juice. You both adored the stars. You both knew what it felt like to be used as pawns on someone else’s chessboard.

You remember thinking, how strange, how unfair it was — that the first time you felt seen, truly seen, was during a meeting that was supposed to seal your future like a tomb.

And Regulus changed.

You saw it in the way his eyes softened, how his posture relaxed, how he leaned just slightly closer every time you laughed. He wasn’t cold. Not really. He was cautious. Guarded. Sharpened by pressure. And yet somehow, with you, he let go of the mask.

He didn’t smile often. But that night, he did. Just for you.

He wasn’t warm, exactly. But he wasn’t frozen either. There was something under his smooth exterior — dry wit, sharp intelligence, and a kind of quiet resentment that matched yours.

And the chemistry? You weren’t prepared for that.

You brushed past him reaching for a book and his hand grazed yours. Static. His eyes flicked to yours like he felt it too. Neither of you moved away.

Your parents returned an hour later with smug faces. You didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, long and steady, and asked quietly, “May I walk you out?”