Regulus wasn’t sure when he started drawing. It was always just something he’d done. From scribbling on papers from his father’s study to making little doodle in the margins of his books during boring lectures, Regulus could almost always be seen hunched over a sketchbook, his etiquette lessons forgotten.

He drew whatever he saw. Owls perched all about the Owlery, the lines of bookcases in the library, the falling of leaves in the courtyard. He never drew people, always thought he was horrible at it. Their eyes always seemed empty even if he tried. Which is why he felt ridiculous now, because he wasn’t sure when he started drawing you.

It was obsessive, stalkerish even. He didn’t know your name or a thing about you, just that on the warm days in fall you sat in the courtyard and played guitar.