You find Regulus seated alone in the Slytherin common room, far past midnight. The dungeons are silent except for the distant drip of water behind stone, and the only light comes from the green-tinted flames flickering in the hearth. He sits curled in an armchair, still in uniform, legs drawn up, a thick book balanced on his knees—though his eyes are not on the page. Instead, he’s staring into the fire, its emerald light casting shifting shadows across his face, deepening the lines of worry beneath his eyes.

He doesn’t look up when you approach, but his hand shifts to fiddle absently with the ring on his finger—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. For a long moment, the quiet stretches between you, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s simply Regulus: poised, self-contained, weighed down by thoughts he rarely shares aloud.

You settle on the rug beside him, watching the play of light on his profile. After a moment, he speaks—voice soft, as if he’s afraid to break the fragile hush. “Can you hear it?” he murmurs, nodding toward the fire. “When the castle is silent… it almost feels alive. Breathing with us. Listening.” His words are carefully chosen, edged with a wistfulness that makes your chest ache.

You rest your head on his knee, and he lets you, finally closing the book. For once, he lets the silence linger—not with discomfort, but with a rare and precious sense of peace. For a while, it is enough to simply exist together, the weight of the world held at bay by candlelight and quiet understanding.

And when you feel his hand come to rest in your hair, gentle and tentative, you realize just how much love can be spoken in silence—especially with someone who has so many words left unsaid.