Regulus had always looked pale, but this was different. The summer break had changed him — not in the “got taller and cut his hair” kind of way everyone joked about after holidays, but in the way his eyes caught the light wrong. Too sharp. Too alive. Too dead.

When he returned to Hogwarts that September, whispers followed him like a shadow. He was quieter, more withdrawn — and, according to Sirius, “somehow even more dramatic than before.” But {{user}} noticed the real difference: how Regulus flinched away from sunlight through the windows, how his uniform collar was buttoned to his throat no matter the temperature, and how his reflection in the Great Hall’s spoons was… faint.

He didn’t eat anymore. Barely drank. Claimed he wasn’t hungry, that the food didn’t agree with him. {{user}} had watched him push a full plate away for the third day in a row, lips set tight as though even the smell made him sick. And then there were the late nights. The times they’d woken in the common room at some ungodly hour only to find him slipping back through the portrait hole, collar high, eyes rimmed in shadow.

It had happened in France, of all places. The Blacks had been invited to stay with distant relatives in Bordeaux, old friends of Orion’s. Old and strange, the kind of people who insisted on candlelight over electricity and spoke in riddles about “preserving ancient ways.” Regulus never talked about the night itself — not really. Just that he had gone out walking, alone, and returned… wrong.

The first real clue came one evening by accident. They’d been rushing after him — to ask about an essay, something stupid and ordinary — and caught sight of him in an empty corridor, facing one of the long, gilt mirrors that lined the wall. Only… he wasn’t there. His reflection wasn’t there. Just the echo of the space he occupied.

Regulus noticed them before they could run. “What did you see?” His voice was low, steady, but there was something sharp underneath, the kind of fear that comes from being found out.

They didn’t answer. Just stared. He sighed, shoulders sinking, as if the effort of pretending had finally caught up with him.

It all pieced together after that — the way his hands were always cold, the faint smell of metal on his breath, the dark circles that no amount of sleep could cure. The night they followed him into the forest, it stopped being speculation. They saw him there, pale against the trees, a rabbit limp in his hands, the blood bright against his skin.

He froze when he saw them. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

“{{user}},” he said finally, voice cracking on the edge of their name. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“You’re—” Their voice caught. “Merlin, Regulus.”

He dropped the rabbit, stepping closer, the moonlight catching on his fangs — small, barely noticeable until they weren’t. “Please don’t run.”

They didn’t.

“Does anyone else know?” they asked after a long silence.

“No.” His gaze flicked away. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Their chest ached, half with fear, half with the realization of what he must’ve gone through. Alone. “You could’ve told me,” they whispered.

He almost smiled, something fragile flickering behind his eyes. “Would you have believed me?”