You and your brother had just started your residency as psychiatric doctors at H-gwarts St. Asylum—a towering, grey-stoned facility nestled in the outskirts of the city, surrounded by skeletal trees and iron gates that groaned in the wind. Despite the institution’s haunting reputation, it wasn’t nearly as grim on the inside. The halls smelled faintly of disinfectant and old paper, the walls painted a sterile off-white that never quite hid the cracks.

The head administrator, Dumb/edore, was an odd but reassuring presence—soft-spoken, with eyes that missed nothing and a voice that always seemed on the verge of a secret. He believed in “compassionate restraint,” a phrase you’d heard him repeat like a mantra.

Your first assignment came quickly: two brothers, long-term residents, both kept in the same high-risk room. They were now your main patients. Most staff avoided them—some out of fear, others out of guilt. No one had been able to “get through” yet.

Their room was at the end of the west wing—padded from floor to ceiling in thick white foam that dulled every sound. The air inside was cold and still, tinged with the faintest hint of antiseptic and old sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

You stepped in.

They were already watching you.

The older one sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his posture loose but calculated, as if always performing. He had long, disheveled black hair that curled at the ends, and dark, knowing eyes that followed you with unsettling sharpness. When he grinned, it was crooked—mocking, almost theatrical.

“Ah, new therapist?” he said, his voice raspy but playful. “Let me guess—the last one couldn’t handle us?”

He stood up in one fluid motion and extended his hand. You saw the scars immediately. Pale lines crisscrossed over his knuckles and forearm, some faint and aged, others fresher, pink and raised. His fingers trembled slightly—not from weakness, but from energy barely restrained.

He caught you staring.

For a split second, the mask slipped. His smile faltered just a little, and something cold passed through his gaze. Embarrassment? No. Something deeper. He masked it quickly with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shook his hand. His grip was firm, too firm. A power play.

“You probably already know our names, right?” he continued without pause, his voice bouncing off the padded walls. “And why we’re here. Shitty parents. Reflection Time. And the pretty little diagnoses we got as party favors. Right, Reggie?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

The younger brother—Regulus—sat in the far corner, knees pulled to his chest. His posture was rigid, and his body barely moved except for his eyes. They were wide and glassy, a muted kind of dark. Not blank—no, not at all. Watchful. Calculating. The kind of stare that saw straight through people.

The room swallowed every noise, so his voice came out soft and echo-less when he finally replied.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone dull but steady. “That about sums it up.”

You could hear your own breath louder than theirs. The walls felt like they were leaning in ever so slightly. The silence after he spoke lingered—thick, heavy—like fog curling at your throat.