You haven’t seen Regulus in years. Not since before the war.

He was never quite your friend, but a friend-of-a-friend, a passing shadow in your Hogwarts years—always there but never truly present, always watching but rarely speaking. You remember him as the quiet Slytherin with sharp silver eyes, the boy who carried the weight of his family name like a curse, who disappeared into whispers and never returned. He was presumed dead.

But war has a way of reshaping what we know to be true.

Tonight, at a grand masquerade ball held in some sprawling estate with too much wealth and too little warmth, the past finds you once more. The ballroom is bathed in candlelight, filled with silk and secrets, the air thick with music and murmurs. Faces are half-hidden behind ornate masks, and yet—some things cannot be concealed.

At the far end of the room, just past the swirling figures locked in slow, practiced waltzes, stands a man who should not exist.

Regulus.

You almost don’t recognize him. Almost.

He is poised and unbothered, dressed in midnight-black, the silver embroidery on his lapels catching the light like constellations in a dark sky. His hair, once slightly unkempt, is now immaculately in place, but it’s his presence that unsettles you the most. He does not fidget, does not shift—he is unnaturally still, a statue carved from shadow and moonlight.

And his eyes.

They are sharper now, gleaming in a way that is not quite human, cold and knowing as they lock onto yours from across the room. A slow realization creeps up your spine, something primal, something instinctual—he is not the same.

You take a step back. He tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

A flicker of amusement—dark, restrained—ghosts across his features before he finally moves. Not walking, but gliding, effortless, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. It takes only seconds before he’s in front of you, too close and yet not touching, his presence a quiet storm pressing against your senses.