The library in Grimmauld Place is silent, the kind of silence that feels thick, like grief. Dust hangs in the air like ash, and the shadows press in too close. It smells like old pages and dying hope.

You sit across from him, your knees touching his, your hands already cold in his. Regulus—his name sounds like an omen now. There’s a faint glow coming from the tip of his wand, just enough to carve out the lines of his face: too young, too pale, too tired. The Dark Mark coils like a bruise up his forearm, faintly visible where his sleeve is pushed back.

You don’t have one. You never would. That was the line you wouldn't cross. But Regulus did. He crossed it not because he believed, but because he thought he could understand it. Influence it. Break it from the inside. You fought in the shadows, feeding intel to the Order. You thought he was lost to you—until he found you again in the middle of a war zone, wand in one hand, your name in the other.

You’re both losing everything. People are dying. Your friends are dying.

And Regulus is terrified. Not for himself. For you.

He raises his wand now, the tip glowing golden as he murmurs the incantation under his breath. The magic hums low, coiling like a serpent around your joined hands. He looks at you—not with softness, but with something sharper, more desperate.

“I vow,” he says, voice low and steady, “to protect you with my life.”

The light tightens, flares.

“I vow to put my body between yours and theirs, no matter the cost.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t blink.

“I vow that if they come for you, they’ll have to go through me first.”

The golden thread seals, binding.

And then there’s nothing but your hands still clutched together, the flicker of his wandlight dying, and his eyes—haunted, burning—locked on yours.

“I’m not letting you die for a world I helped break,” he whispers.