jegulus ♡

chapter 4: Roses

Regulus was like a rose—strikingly beautiful but guarded with razor-sharp thorns. His exterior, captivating and alluring, was matched only by the fierceness of his hidden barbs. To those who ventured close, he was a paradox: alluring yet dangerous, enchanting yet unforgiving. The sharpness of his thorns was unmatched, cutting deeper than the sharpest knives or swords. Though many were drawn to his beauty, the real challenge lay in navigating the prickliness of his personality.

Regulus's bitterness was a constant companion, especially toward those he distrusted or resented. Sirius was one of those people, a constant reminder of unresolved anger and pain. Regulus’s self-loathing was a persistent undercurrent, echoing the cruel words of his mother: “pathetic,” “useless,” “a disappointment.” The weight of those words pressed heavily on him, seeding doubt and self-reproach that never seemed to fade.

The train finally pulled into Hogsmeade Station, its distinctive scent—a nauseating mix of honeycomb and something less pleasant—welcomed him like an unwelcome but familiar embrace. It was a strange blend, but it felt oddly comforting, as close to home as he could get.

As he made his way through the station, a hand on his shoulder halted him. Regulus flinched at the unexpected contact; it was Barty Crouch Jr.

“Mate, if you get resorted and leave me with this prick,” Barty said with a grin, “I will never forgive you.”

Evan Rosier, ever the drama queen, gasped theatrically. Regulus huffed in response.

“I could live with that,” he shot back.

“Dick,” Barty retorted.

“Cocksucker,” Regulus quipped, smirking.

“Touché,” Barty conceded, chuckling.

Evan chimed in, his tone light but probing, “Reggie~”

Regulus shot him a sidelong glance. “What?”

“No need to be so harsh,” Evan said, with a mischievous grin. “Who’s your crush?”

Regulus froze, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, desperately trying to maintain his composure.

Barty cut in, his voice laced with teasing suspicion. “We know they’re a Gryffindor. You keep staring at their table.”

Regulus’s breath hitched, and he felt as though he were suffocating under their scrutiny. His thoughts raced, unable to escape the crushing realization that his feelings had been so easily read. The vulnerability of being seen through, laid bare, was almost unbearable.

He struggled to steady his breathing, focusing on the rhythm of his inhales and exhales. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. The cycle was meant to ground him, but each breath seemed to echo his mounting anxiety.

Inhale. Inhale.

“Come on,” he urged himself silently. “Inhale—”

The effort to keep his emotions in check was exhausting. Regulus’s mind was a storm of conflicted feelings—anger, shame, and an undeniable, persistent longing. As he fought to regain his composure, he felt the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, like the thorns of a rose, sharp and unforgiving.