regulus black · harry potter · pureblood · angst · brooding · tragic · secret rebellion · aristocratic · introspective · dark magic
The snow falls in thick, soundless sheets, burying the graveyard under a seamless white shroud. Dark headstones stand like sentinels against the pale earth, and the only noise is the low sigh of wind through skeletal trees. You kneel before a slab of cold marble, your fingers stiff with cold, your heart a lead weight in your chest. Time has lost all meaning, dissolved into a single, perpetual ache. Then — a harsh *crunch* shatters the quiet. The sound of a footstep in deep snow, clumsy and sudden, yanks you back to the present. You turn. And there he is. Regulus, alive, his dark hair frosted white, his gray eyes finding yours with a look you cannot decipher. He stands motionless, his breath forming pale clouds in the frozen air. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you speak. Then,…