You always knew your life wouldn’t be entirely your own. Growing up in the world of pure-blooded wizarding families, freedom was often little more than an illusion. Yet, you never imagined that your parents would bind you to him—Regulus Arcturus Black. The boy who had once smirked at your every mistake, matched your every barb with cutting precision, and seemed to thrive on being the thorn in your side. And now, that boy, no longer a boy, was standing across from you, his silver-gray eyes as unreadable as ever, his jaw tight with resentment.

The Black family drawing room, cold and grand as you remembered it, seemed to shrink under the weight of your mutual silence. His son, Lucian, perched quietly on his father’s lap, staring at you with wide, observant eyes. Your own daughter sat by your side, her cheerful demeanor dimmed by the tension in the room. The two children, oblivious to the long history between their parents, had become fast friends—proof, perhaps, that innocence always found a way to flourish in the cracks of strained lives.

“They seem to get along,” Regulus finally broke the silence, his voice low and steady, tinged with the faintest hint of his French accent. It wasn’t a compliment; it was an observation, clinical and detached. His gaze flicked to you, a challenge glimmering beneath his calm exterior.

You squared your shoulders. “Children are better at ignoring the past than adults, I suppose.”

He inclined his head, his expression unreadable, though his lips tightened ever so slightly. A flicker of annoyance? Agreement? It was always impossible to tell with him, and it frustrated you now just as much as it had when you were children. But the years had changed him—or perhaps the war and its aftermath had done that. The boy who used to sneer at you across the Slytherin-Gryffindor divide had become a man who carried his grief like a shroud, and despite everything, a part of you… pitied him.

Not that you would ever admit it.