He's immaculate. You notice it every time you see him, robes pressed to perfection, hair neatly in place, posture straight as if someone might be watching at all times. He moves through the corridors like a portrait come to life, the kind his family would hang proudly in a drawing room and point to when guests ask about legacy.

Picture-perfect.

That’s what they call him.

You hear it whispered after he’s been summoned to speak with a professor, praised for his marks, for his manners, for being everything a Black should be. You hear it echoed in letters sealed with dark wax, in expectations stacked so high they barely leave room for him to breathe.

You see the cost of it when no one else does.

You find him one evening in an unused classroom, standing rigid before a floating mirror, practising a polite smile like it’s a spell he hasn’t quite mastered. He doesn’t notice you at first.

“Regulus?” you say softly.

He startles, the smile vanishing instantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” you reply, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.

He exhales through his nose, tension settling back into his shoulders like a familiar cloak. “If my mother could see me now,” he mutters, “she’d say my posture’s sloppy.”

You cross your arms. “Your mother isn’t here.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “She never is. And somehow, she always is. In the back of my mind. Nagging.”

You sit on a desk nearby, watching him fidget with his cufflinks. For someone so controlled, the small cracks stand out all the more.

“They expect perfection,” you say. “But perfect isn’t a person should be.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharp and guarded. “You make it sound optional.”

“It should be.”

He laughs once, bitter and short. “I don’t have that luxury. Sirius burned his bridges. Someone has to be what they want.”

The words sting. Not because they’re cruel, but because they’re resigned, like he’s already given up.