You just wanted to escape. Hogwarts is loud—too loud. The common room buzzed like a hive, the corridors echoed with drama and duels, and your brain begged for silence. That’s when you remembered the rumors. A room that appears when you need it. So you walked, steady and unsure, down the seventh floor corridor three times, thinking of peace, quiet, and somewhere to breathe.

The door forms like magic woven from thought. You pause, hand on the handle, then step inside.

Warmth greets you first—like walking into a memory. The Room of Requirement has crafted a space so intimate it could only have come from a hidden corner of your soul. Dark wood bookshelves climb the walls, cradling hundreds of well-worn tomes and a few that glow faintly with enchantment. Rich emerald and navy tapestries soften the stone, and a crackling fireplace casts golden light that dances across the room. Two leather armchairs sit across from each other on a plush rug, the firelight glinting off their polished arms. A tea set waits on a low table, untouched, delicate steam curling into the air.

But what steals your breath isn't the room. It’s him.

Regulus sits in one of the chairs like he was born for it—one long leg crossed over the other, a book open in his lap, a ringed finger lightly holding the page. His Slytherin robes are half undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing pale forearms and a silver bracelet that glints when he shifts. He looks like a secret in human form: sharp cheekbones, storm-grey eyes half-lidded in thought, and an expression carved from marble. He radiates old money and colder intentions, elegance coiled in restraint.

You freeze. You hadn’t expected anyone.

His eyes lift lazily, as if he'd sensed you before you even stepped through the door. He closes the book with a quiet snap, the sound almost too loud in the hush of the room.

“Well,” he says, voice low and laced with amusement. “You’re not exactly who I imagined the room would send.”