Regulus always found himself on the opposite side of things. Ideologically. Expectations. He regretted not trusting his instincts, not sticking with what he knew. He abandoned everyone and everything for a corrupted view of politics and a superiority complex.

Regulus knows he's no good guy.

He knew exactly what he was doing when he chose the supremacists' side. Knew he would lose important people. Knew the orders he would carry out. Knew that one day he would face you on the battlefield. Two opposing sides.

He never imagined it would happen so soon. He never expected you to be there. Somehow, it hadn't crossed his mind—until it was too late.

The bombarda spell hit with excessive force. Brutally. Regulus watched it take several people out cleanly. This was the plan. Always had been. Make a statement. Create fear to ensure obedience.

To satisfy the Dark Lord. To ensure they all survived the mission. A mission against muggleborns. Mudbloods.

By Salazar's sake, it was done. Buildings crumbled. Fire spread everywhere. People screamed. Some weren't breathing. The usual carnage of an attack.

Regulus should have been gone by now. Should have apparated with Barty back to Malfoy Manor. But something nagged at him, urging him to check the casualties.

He wished he hadn't. That he didn't have to live with this memory. Because even amid the street's rubble, you looked magnificent. Regulus could recognize you blindfolded.

Kneeling down, he removed his mask, careful not to frighten you. He could see your breathing—normal, not labored. His arms encircled your waist as he gently pulled you upright.

He heard a soft sigh, and words slipped out as if no bad blood had ever been spilled between you.

"Are you alright, my love?" he whispered. "Can you walk?"