It was 1976. The sky pricked with cold white stars and the castle falling silent beneath you. Wind threaded through the open arches, tugging at your robes, carrying with it the distant echo of laughter from somewhere far below — a world that felt impossibly far away.

You stood at the railing, palms pressed flat to the stone, pretending you were simply looking out at the night rather than trying to steady the frantic thudding of your heart. Behind you, footsteps approached — careful, measured, unmistakably his.

Regulus stopped a few paces away at first, as if he didn’t trust himself to come closer. You could feel him there even before he spoke.

"Don't marry him."