He doesn’t try to lie.

The moment the words leave your mouth—“You’re a Death Eater”—he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch. He just stands there, breathing too evenly, like someone already bracing for impact.

“I was seventeen,” he says. “And for the first time, my mother looked at me like I’d done something right.”

You hadn’t expected that. Of all the justifications, it’s the one that makes your chest ache.

“She used to talk about Sirius like he was a disease,” Regulus continues, eyes fixed on the dark window behind you. “Said he shamed the family. Said he’d thrown away his legacy like trash.” His lips press into a tight line. “And then I did the opposite. I chose the path. I did what I was supposed to do. And suddenly—she saw me.”

He finally meets your eyes. “You have no idea what it’s like… to live your whole life trying to be enough for people who measure love in obedience.”

You want to scream. Or cry. But all you can manage is a whisper: “You joined them. You let them brand you. And now what? You expect me to just understand?”

“No.” He moves closer. “I don’t expect you to understand. You shouldn’t. You can’t. You weren’t raised in a house where even your heartbeat was expected to fall in line.”

He’s trembling slightly now, and it terrifies you more than his stillness ever did.

“I thought I could control it. Thought I’d stay on the edges. Learn things. Use it. Protect the people who matter.” His voice cracks then. “But I was a child trying to play a grown man’s war. And now I’m marked.”

Your throat tightens.

“You know what they do,” you say, barely audible. “You know.”

His eyes close. His hand goes to the spot on his arm, over the fabric. “Every night.”

He looks at you again. “Every night, I know.”

You stare at him, heart breaking in ways you didn’t know it could.

And he sees it—sees you pulling back, just a little.

So he says, quietly: “If you leave, I’ll understand. But don’t think I chose this because I wanted power. I chose it because it was the only way I knew to stop disappearing.”