You were curled on the worn velvet couch near the window, a Transfiguration essay half-forgotten in your lap. The Black Lake pressed dark against the glass, lamplight from the common room bleeding out into the deep.

Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate.

Regulus crossed the room slowly, still in his shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His tie was loose, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked tired. He looked at home.