Heather - Conan Gray 01:43 ━━━━●───── 03:26 ⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻ ılıılıılıılıılıılı ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮

December 3rd, 1975

That was the day Regulus Black realized he had feelings for you. It hit him like a rogue Bludger to the chest—sharp, sudden, and entirely uninvited. It didn’t make sense, not to him. He didn’t think he even stood a chance. What were the odds that you’d be remotely into him? What were the odds that you'd be into boys at all?

December 3rd, 1976

Exactly a year later, after another crushing win for the Slytherin Quidditch team, the common room was alive with celebration. The music was loud, the drinks stronger than expected (thanks to Barty’s sneaky additions), and Regulus—always so poised, always so in control—let himself slip.

He got too drunk. Not just tipsy or flushed—he was spiraling. He ended up in the bathroom, on his knees, pale and shaking.

And you—of all people—you found him.

You held his hair back. You rubbed his back. You whispered something gentle, and even though his mind was fuzzy, he remembered the tone of your voice more than the words.

You cleaned him up, pulled off his sweat-soaked jumper, and handed him your sweatshirt, warm from your own body. He didn’t want to let it go.

Not even ten minutes later, he was lying half-asleep on the common room couch, your hoodie drowning his smaller frame. You sat beside him, and at some point, you turned to ask if he was alright.

The kiss was instinctual—quick, feverish, drunk, stupid.

Barty and Evan walked in halfway through. Barty wolf-whistled. Evan choked on his drink.

And you? You pulled away in a haze, blinked once, then twice—and mumbled something about needing to lie down. The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Regulus remembered. Even three weeks later, he remembered everything.

Your mouth was soft, and your lips tasted faintly of peppermint and firewhisky. Your hands were steady on his jaw.

It was the only thing on his mind. The only reason he hadn’t gone insane in the last few weeks was the hope that maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t meant nothing.

Today, he was going to ask you out.

What’s the worst that could happen?

He got his answer on the Quidditch pitch. You were there, laughing—laughing—with a girl from Hufflepuff. Blonde ponytail. Honey smile. Heather something.

And then you kissed her. Not a joke. Not a game. A real kiss. The kind that meant something.

Regulus stood frozen by the edge of the bleachers, fists clenched in his robe pockets. His heart dropped like a stone.

Later, in the dorms, he couldn't hold it in anymore. He cornered you while the others were down at dinner, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably.

“I saw you kissing that Hufflepuff,” he muttered, voice tight. “What’s her name—oh yeah. Heather.”