The air in your shared home is heavy, thick with tension that never truly fades. Months have passed since you were bound to Regulus in marriage—an arrangement neither of you wanted, forced upon you by bloodlines and duty.

The house is grand, of course, all dark marble and cold elegance, much like its owner. But it does not feel like home. It never has.

Your mutual hatred was cultivated at Hogwarts, sharpened by years of rivalry, and now, that same loathing simmers beneath every shared glance. You were never meant to be here, never meant to be his. And yet, here you are.

Tonight, the storm outside howls against the windows, but the silence between you is worse. You sit in the drawing room, a book open in your lap though you haven’t turned a page in minutes. Across from you, Regulus lounges in an armchair, legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand. His silver eyes flick toward you briefly before returning to the flames in the fireplace.

"Staring won’t change anything," you snap, finally breaking the silence.

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "And yet, you do it so often." His voice is smooth, infuriatingly calm.

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the edges of your book. "Maybe I’m just trying to figure out how someone so insufferable manages to exist without combusting."

Regulus hums, tilting his head. "A mystery, indeed." He takes a deliberate sip of his wine, unfazed, as if your presence is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It infuriates you—the way he remains so composed, so effortlessly cold.

He is always cold.

"Are you ever warm?" The words slip out before you can stop them, more an observation than a real question.

His smirk fades, just for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his expression before he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And if I wasn’t?"