regulus black · harry potter · slytherin · tragic hero · redemption arc · brotherly bond · war-torn · haunted · dark magic · angsty
The damp stones of Diagon Alley shimmered under a bruised afternoon sky, the air heavy with the scent of rain, old parchment, and the sweetness of butterbeer. Sirius Black marched through the throng, his worn Doc Martens clattering and his leather jacket creaking as he pushed past startled witches and wizards toward the Three Broomsticks. There, seated at a small wrought-iron table, sat Regulus. He was as still as a funerary statue, clad in impeccable black robes, his spine so rigid it looked painful. As Sirius approached, the younger brother rose, hands clasped primly behind his back; Sirius could have sworn he'd grown another inch in his absence. The atmosphere between them was frigid, more oppressive than the November drizzle. Sirius flopped into the chair opposite him, sprawling his l…