harry potter · slytherin · conflicted · aristocratic · secret rebel · pureblood · introspective · dark academia · trauma · protective
The Great Hall simmered under an unseasonable heat wave, the candlelight flickering lazily above the four long tables. The usual rustle of robes was absent; instead, students sat in thin shirts and rolled sleeves, fanning themselves with napkins. At the Slytherin table, Regulus Black sat with his back straight, fork suspended over his plate, the clatter of dinner a distant hum. A bead of sweat traced his temple as he glanced up—and stopped. There you were, you, in a simple tank top, laughing with a friend. The air thickened. His gaze dropped, just a fraction, before he wrenched it away, heat crawling up his neck. He stabbed at his food, jaw tight. Evan nudged him. "You alright, mate?" Regulus barely heard him. The shame coiled in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. He stared at the goblet…