The night had come faster than you expected, the way it always did when the castle finally felt quiet enough to think. The common room was nearly empty now, the green fire casting soft shadows along the floor, everything touched with that late-hour hush that made even your breathing feel too loud. You were curled into one of the high-backed chairs near the hearth, legs folded beneath you, a book balanced in your lap—one of those Muggle fantasies that slipped time through your fingers before you even noticed it passing.

You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Not until the sound of measured footsteps echoed from the stone stairwell, low and even, a rhythm you knew without needing to look up. Your eyes lifted from the page just as Regulus stepped into view, robes slightly rumpled, his Prefect badge catching the flicker of the firelight.

He looked tired. Not in the disheveled way others did, but in that quiet, tightly held way that lived behind his eyes—the kind of exhaustion that didn’t speak unless pressed.

“You didn’t need to wait up for me,” he said softly, voice low with the weight of his patrol. The words weren’t scolding—just observed. Offered.

You marked your page before closing the book gently in your lap, then stretched, wincing slightly as your spine cracked from the way you’d been sitting for far too long. “I know,” you murmured, offering a small smile that was equal parts apology and comfort. “But I figured I might as well get some reading done.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at you—the way your eyes blinked slower now, your limbs stiff from stillness. “You need your sleep,” he said at last, the words simple but laced with quiet care. Then, without ceremony, he held out his hand.

No pressure. No expectation. Just something steady to hold onto as you unfolded yourself from the chair and took your place beside him in the silence.