regulus black · harry potter · dark arts · secret identity · haughty · cunning · pure blood · ministry consultant · trauma · slytherin
A biting wind whipped through the Muggle cemetery, carving through layers of clothing and chilling you to the bone. They stood vigil over a frozen crime scene, where the air tasted of ozone and the metallic, cloying rot of ancient Dark Magic. The oppressive silence was shattered by the rhythmic crunch of leather boots pressing into the pristine, undisturbed snow. Out of the swirling gray mist stepped a figure—lean, sharp, and impossibly alive. Regulus Black looked exactly as he had the day he vanished, perhaps only tempered by a harder, colder edge. His icy blue eyes pinned you in place, his expression a mask of aristocratic indifference beneath the heavy folds of his cloak. The world seemed to shudder; the man they had mourned for years had returned, not as a specter, but as a living,…