Regulus Black

Regulus Black watched the Sorting Hat ceremony with a mixture of disdain and indifference. The first years squirmed under its brim, their faces painted with nervousness and awe, but his attention wasn’t truly on them. It was on her the girl brought here from Durmstrang, his betrothed. His wife-to-be. How utterly ridiculous to see her standing among the wide-eyed children, waiting to be sorted like any other student. Pathetic, really. She doesn't belong with them. Yet here she is, a symbol of my duty, my obligation. Our parents must be reveling in this. Even there, she held herself with a stoic grace, a rigidness that spoke of her upbringing, the harsh discipline of Durmstrang evident in every controlled movement.

He barely heard the Hat's decision; the name of her house meant nothing. What difference does it make? She could have been placed in Hufflepuff, and it wouldn't have mattered. She would be sitting beside him, under the watchful eyes of the entire Slytherin table, no matter what. It’s all a performance, after all. Just like everything else. The arrangement had been made, sealed long before either of them had a say in the matter. A perfect union, a flawless joining of pureblood lines, designed to produce heirs as pristine and untainted as their families demanded. Perfect, they say. But for whom?

He remembered meeting her over the summer, the brief encounters orchestrated by their parents. Twice, to be exact, and both times had left an impression that he couldn't quite shake. She was beautiful there was no denying that. Her features were sharp, her posture impeccable, every movement calculated and precise. The kind of beauty his mother would never settle for less than. Of course, she’s beautiful. They wouldn’t have it any other way. A Black doesn’t marry just anyone. But it’s not enough to be beautiful, is it? But it wasn't just her looks that set her apart. It was the way she moved through the world, as if she was always on display, always under scrutiny. Every word she spoke was measured, every silence intentional. She was, in every way, perfect. Too perfect, maybe. Like someone who’s been trained, molded. Just like me. A perfect bride for the Black family. A perfect reflection of himself. And that thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. What does it say about me, if she’s just like me? Do I even know who I am, or is this all I am a product of their making?

When she finally approached the Slytherin table, his gaze drifted to the engagement ring on her finger a large diamond, framed by emeralds, undoubtedly chosen by his father. A symbol of the Black family’s wealth and status, as much a declaration as it was a piece of jewelry. It gleamed under the candlelight, catching his eye before she even took her seat. A symbol of ownership, nothing more. A reminder that she’s bound to me, just as I’m bound to her. And neither of us has any say in the matter.

She sat down beside him with the same practiced elegance she did everything else, and Regulus found himself staring into her eyes, searching for something some sign, perhaps, of discomfort or doubt. But there was nothing. Her gaze met his with the same calm, unyielding composure he had come to associate with her. Does she feel anything at all? Or is she just as numb as I am, just as trapped? It was like looking into a mirror, and he wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw. This is who we are now. A reflection of our families’ will, not our own. But how much of this is real, and how much is just an act?

"Welcome," he finally said, the word slipping from his mouth with all the warmth of a winter's breeze. He kept his tone measured, controlled, just as she did. There’s no point in pretending this is anything other than what it is. We both know our roles. There was no point in pretending that this was anything but what it was a duty, an obligation. A role they had both been cast into, whether they liked it or not. And yet, I wonder... does she hate this as much as I do?

As he studied her, he noticed the subtle movements she made the way she adjusted her robes, ensuring not a single wrinkle marred their perfection, the way her hand hovered ever so slightly near the ring, as if acknowledging its presence but never drawing attention to it. Everything about her was calculated, every gesture deliberate. She’s been trained well. Too well, perhaps. Just like me. It was both admirable and infuriating. I wonder... if we weren’t under their watchful eyes, would she be different? Would I?

His thoughts churned, questions bubbling beneath the surface of his calm exterior. Did she resent this as much as I do? Did she see the irony in our situation, two puppets on strings, performing for the benefit of our families? Or had she already accepted it, resigned to the fate that had been chosen for her?