The question isn’t complicated.

Come with me. Leave the family. Leave the name.

But Regulus doesn’t answer.

He stands stiffly by the fire, hands clenched at his sides, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the window. Outside, the wind howls low over the castle grounds, but inside it’s silent—except for the sharp, steady crack of the flames and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You’ve never seen him like this. Still, yes—but not calm. Not collected. Something inside him is splintering, and for once, he doesn’t hide it.

You’ve asked him to walk away from everything he’s ever known: the manor, the family crest, the legacy written into his blood. The name that gave him protection, purpose—chains disguised as love. You asked him to leave it behind.

You asked him to choose you.

But Regulus Black was raised in a house where obedience was survival. Where love was measured in silence and loyalty meant never asking questions.

He isn’t speaking because he can’t. Because the answer is already warring in his chest and it hurts. Because part of him wants to say yes, but the rest—the part carved by expectation and fear—is louder.

When he finally does look at you, there’s a deep, aching sorrow in his eyes. Not refusal. Not anger.

Just the grief of a boy who doesn’t know how to be free. And even without words, you understand.

He doesn’t say no. But he doesn’t say yes, either.