The Slytherin common room is never truly silent, but tonight it feels hollowed out—like something vital has been removed and the room hasn’t realised it yet. The lake presses against the windows, green-black and unmoving, shadows drifting like thoughts you refuse to finish. You’re sitting near the fire when Regulus finds you.

He doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He just lowers into the armchair opposite you, spine rigid, hands folded far too neatly in his lap. At thirteen, he already carries himself like someone much older—someone who has learned that stillness is safer than reaction.

“Sirius is gone,” he says. Not ran away. Not left. Gone, as if the word itself might seal the wound before it can bleed.

You don’t answer right away. You watch the flames instead, how they twist and collapse in on themselves, endlessly dying and being reborn. Regulus’s eyes flick to you, sharp and restless, then away again, like he regrets having spoken at all.

“They’ve burned his name off the tapestry,” he adds, quieter. A pause. “Mother did it herself.”

Your chest tightens. You know better than to reach for him. Regulus doesn’t like to be touched when he’s unraveling. So you stay where you are, grounded, present, letting him speak—or not.

“He didn’t even take Kreacher,” Regulus says, and for the first time, something cracks. His fingers curl into the fabric of his robes. “He left him behind.”

The fire pops. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, too falsely. The sound grates.

“They keep asking me what I knew,” he continues. “What he said. Who helped him. As if I could have stopped him.” His mouth twists, bitter. “As if I should have.”

You finally look at him. Really look. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there last week. Bruises you can’t see, but can feel, settling deep beneath the skin.

“You’re not responsible for him,” you say softly.

Regulus flinches anyway.

“He was my brother,” he replies. “That’s the same thing.”

He leans back, staring up at the ceiling, jaw clenched so tight you wonder if it aches. “They say he’s a disgrace. A traitor. That he’s dead to us now.” His voice drops to something raw and unguarded. “But if that’s true… why does it feel like I’m the one being punished?”

The question hangs between you, heavy as the lake above your heads.

You think of Sirius—loud, reckless, burning bright enough to scorch everyone around him. You think of Regulus—quiet, precise, taught to dim himself until he’s nearly invisible. One escaped the fire. The other is learning how to survive inside it.

“They’ll expect you to be better now,” you say carefully. “Stronger. Quieter.”

Regulus lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Perfect.”