The door groaned on its hinges as Regulus pushed it open, the scent of wilted lavender and dust thick in the air, like something decaying beneath velvet.

He didn’t bother knocking—what would be the point? Politeness between strangers was a farce, and they weren’t even that. They were chained by parchment and wax seal, by ancestral obligation and the Dark Lord’s quiet, malevolent need to control every drop of his sacred blood—Gaunt blood that ran through your veins.

One of the only things he knew about you. Somehow, you were very distantly related to the Dark Lord, and it was the reason Regulus was stuck with you.

Your room was darker than he expected. Curtains drawn. A cup of untouched tea sat cold on the sill. He didn’t step in at first. Just stood there, lean frame poised like a blade in his funeral-black robes, eyes sharp and unimpressed.

Kreacher had wrung his hands. “She hasn’t eaten in days, Master Regulus. She don’t speak. She don’t look. Something wrong, Kreacher thinks.”

Regulus hadn’t looked up from his book—hadn’t even twitched. “Then let her starve.”

But Kreacher lingered. That, Regulus noticed.. And for reasons Regulus couldn’t quite name, that stare had crawled under his skin.

Now, here he was, in the doorway of a room he’d never entered, regarding a girl he’d married and never spoken more than a dozen words to. You were curled on the settee like a half-forgotten doll, spine bent, cheek resting against your shoulder, hair undone and hanging like spilled ink.

“You look ghastly,” he said, voice smooth and distant, more observation than insult. “If this is some morbid bid for sympathy, I promise you, I’m the wrong audience.”

No answer, not even a twitch.

He stepped in then. Slowly, like the room itself was diseased and he was calculating the risk. The carpet muted his steps, but his presence didn’t. He had that kind of presence—like old magic, coiled and quiet, watching.

“You haven’t been at breakfast,” he murmured, glancing at the tea, the books scattered with pages askew. A photograph had fallen face down by your bed. He didn’t care to pick it up.

“Or lunch. Or supper.”

He stopped in front of you and tilted his head, arms crossed. “Are you ill, or is this another one of your theatrical little sulks?”

Again, silence.

It bothered him more than it should. Not the lack of response—he’d grown used to your silence—but the texture of it now. How it felt heavier, somehow. Less like defiance and more like… vacancy.

“This isn’t a concern. It’s a courtesy. Kreacher is worried, and you’ve made a project out of unsettling him. I’d prefer it if you stopped that.”

Still, nothing. Not even a flicker of that infernal sarcasm you’d wielded like a wand every time he’d bothered to breathe in your direction.

He crouched, finally, his knees clicking faintly. The posture was unfamiliar, the proximity worse. His fingers hovered near your arm but did not touch. He didn’t know how to touch. Not you. Not like this.

“Look at me,” he said softly, sharply. “You can hate me—by all means, continue—but I need you to look at me.”

Your skin looked cold. Not soft. Not delicate. Just… cold, as if unwell.

“Bloody nuisance” he whispered, voice curdling into quiet disdain. Still nothing. His fingers touched your wrist then. Brief. Testing. Your pulse—faint. Slow.

Regulus swore under his breath and rose. “You’ve made it clear you loathe this as much as I do. Fine. But if you think I’m going to let you be the reason I have to explain to the Dark Lord why his precious Gaunt-blooded bride has wasted away under my roof, then—no.”