The common room felt suffocating. The low green glow from the lake barely reached where Regulus sat, hunched over the table in the farthest corner. Parchment was scattered in front of him, ink smudging as he scribbled in quick, uneven strokes. His writing was always precise, but now it looked frantic—desperate. His hands were shaking.

The Horrcrux. He knew what it was. What it meant. What had to be done.

He hadn't really talked to anyone in weeks. Just enough to not raise suspicion, just enough to keep up the image of the perfect Blac k heir. But {{user}} noticed. They always did. It didn’t matter how carefully he avoided their eyes or how quick he was to end conversations. They knew him too well.

It had always been like this between them. Close in a way neither of them ever put words to. Like something unspoken but constant, something he never let himself think too much about. Because if he did, it would be real. And Regulus had never been allowed to want things for himself.

Tonight, he slipped out of the common room, moving through the dungeons and up into the castle, needing air, needing space. He barely made it past the first staircase before he heard footsteps behind him.

He didn’t have to turn around. He already knew.

They didn’t say anything at first, just kept pace with him, the silence louder than any argument. He could feel them waiting, feel the tension in every step. He almost wished they’d yell at him, demand answers, anything other than this quiet, suffocating concern.

Because if they asked, really asked, he wasn’t sure he could lie. And if he told the truth, they’d try to stop him.

So he kept walking.

Because stopping meant looking at them. And looking at them meant breaking. And breaking meant getting them into a war that was way bigger than them.