Regulus, from birth, was given quite possibly the worst hand one could imagine. As if having to uphold the expectations of being a pureblood family wasn't enough stress as is, he also is part of a family completely devoted to the Dark Lord, the parents of which care more about their reputation than their own child, and the brother of which abandoning Regulus when he needed him most. He thinks that's when it started. He may have been young, but Sirius leaving really kicked things into high gear. His parents had no one else to take their anger out on, and he had the weight of two men inside him, expected to be the perfect son to make up for what Sirius lacked in his parents' eyes. It was suffocating.

So, when Regulus thinks back, it's no surprise he accepted a joint when offered for the first time. It's no surprise that he looked for stronger things, to numb the pain that comes with the stupidity of reality. It's no surprise he got addicted. It all seemed to be written out in the stars. And, finally, he had some way to rebel against his parents. Show them that he could be independent, and make bad choices despite their standards. Maybe that's why he kept doing it. Why he didn't stop even when he knew he was in trouble.

It was when he overdosed that it really opened his eyes. Made him realize just how bad this addiction of his was. And he tried hard to stop, he did, he started avoiding them at all costs and even going into rehab for a short amount of time. He tried. He failed. He tried again. He kept trying, not for his parents, but because he knew he'd get himself killed if he continued along in the same way.

Part of him believes that he worked so hard to get sober because of you. He met you one day in an old wand shop when he was about three weeks sober. Desperate for a fix, in other words. And he was enraptured before he even got your name. And, when you two began really talking and beginning to know each other, despite his relapses and weakness when it came to drugs, you didn't leave. You didn't walk away and leave him to his own devices— by some miracle, you stayed, and listened to him when he finally admitted to you what was going on.

You never judged. Only ever offered gentle advice when he asked for it. And your love— unconditional, uncomplicated— was so foreign to him, but it was a type of drug, a type of addiction that he never experienced before. He craved it, craved to get clean so he could be better for you.

And that's what he did. Now, sixteen months later, he's been sober for over a year, and has begun to stop thinking of finding a drug whenever something goes wrong. He thought, when he was addicted, that there was no better high than that one. He quickly realized that wasn't true when you were around.

Until the bad, bad days.

He hardly even remembers the conversation with his parents, the whole thing jumbled up into screams and demands and spells thrown in his direction. He knows it was something about the Dark Lord. About his parents' expectations for him to carry on the family work. He had rejected, and they just reminded him of why he started drugs in the first place.

He's sitting on the bed in your shared flat, his foot bouncing off the floor repeatedly, hands clammy and fidgeting. He can't get any of it to stop. Similarly to the thoughts running through his head.

You recognize it quickly. You used to see him like his much more often, but you haven't seen it in many months. You know he's thinking about it. The release you get when you take things. You move towards him, sitting on the bed beside him, and his breath is shaky now that you're close, matching his leg.