The library is silent except for the soft rustle of parchment as you turn another page. Regulus sits across from you, quill in hand, notes neat and precise as always. His eyes flick up, meeting yours for a second before darting back down.

You shift, the weight of unspoken things pressing on your chest.

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know,” you say quietly, tracing the edge of your book. “I know what I am.”

His quill stills. “What do you mean?”

You swallow, your eyes fixed on the ink stain near your thumb. “A Mudblood.”

The word hangs heavy in the air between you, ugly and cold. You expect him to agree, or at least stay silent, like most of them do. But when you glance up, Regulus is staring at you, his grey eyes wide, something like hurt flickering across his face.

“Don’t call yourself that.”

His voice is low but sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Your breath catches, your heart pounding as you watch him, his jaw tight, hand gripping his quill so hard the feather trembles.

“It’s what your family calls me,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t care what they call you.” His eyes are fierce, the mask of indifference he always wears cracking at the edges. “You are not that.”