𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐎 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐒𝐓, starry expanse of the night, Regulus stood atop the Astronomy Tower, bathed in the silvery glow of the moon. The air around him was still, yet charged with an energy that seemed to pulse in time with the rhythm of his own heartbeat. In his hand, he held a wand—Grindelwald's wand—a simple yet strangely elegant instrument, with a smooth, unadorned shaft and a handle formed from two conjoined spheres. 

The wand felt unlike any he had ever known, a connection far deeper than the one he shared with his own wand from Ollivanders. It was as though he held in his grasp the last bloom of autumn, stubbornly clinging to its branch against winter’s impending grasp. This was no mere tool; it was an extension of his very being, bound to him in a way that defied reason and yet felt inescapably right.

As he twirled it between his fingers, the wand seemed to breathe, pulsing softly with a life of its own. Each subtle flicker sent ripples through the atmosphere, a faint scent of damp earth and decaying leaves trailing in its wake, as if the essence of life itself was being siphoned away. It was a scent that resonated with something deep within Regulus, a reminder of cycles ending and beginning anew.

Raising the wand, he felt an echo of whispering, not in words but in a rustle of unseen wings, fluttering just beyond the edge of perception. It was like standing at the precipice of a storm, the air around him thick and charged with a tension that crackled like static—a promise of something profound and unsettling waiting to be unleashed.

With a flick of his wrist, magic unfurled from the wand—a shroud of darkness that curled and coiled, whispering of forgotten realms and lost souls. The fabric of reality seemed to thin, the veil drawn back to reveal the fleeting dance of shadows, swirling in a mournful waltz. The temperature plummeted, his breath visible in the chilling air, and a sense of solemnity enveloped the space, as if time itself paused to pay homage to the power lingering there, waiting.

The darkness was intoxicating. It wrapped around him, a seductive embrace that promised power and knowledge beyond mortal comprehension. He craved it, the allure of the forbidden, the pull of the unknown. It resonated with the deepest parts of his soul, those that were curious and ambitious, yearning to understand, to control, to wield such power with the grace and precision of a master.

Regulus was lost in the sensation, unaware of the eyes that watched him with a hunger both intense and unsettling. Their gaze was a devouring force, as if he wished to consume Regulus's very essence, to strip away the layers of his soul and claim them as their own.

The savior was not merely a person to Tom—he was an offering on an altar, a deity draped in shadows and secrets, his very being a forbidden scripture to be studied and revered, a promise of something divine and untouchable, yet tantalizingly within reach. He knew that Regulus was dangerous, a force to be reckoned with, but that only heightened his desire. The challenge, the thrill of the hunt, was exhilarating, and Tom relished every moment of it.

The moonlight casted a halo around Regulus, the celestial glow highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the proud set of his jaw, and the intensity in his eyes. He was a fallen angel, a figure of tragic beauty, poised on the brink of madness, teetering between the light and the abyss. Tom saw in him a mirror of his own soul, a reflection of ambition and the thirst for power, a kindred spirit lost in the seductive whispers of the dark arts. He would possess Regulus, body and soul, and together they would forge a new path, one that would shake the very foundations of the wizarding world.

With calculated grace, Tom stepped forward, his presence a subtle ripple in the fabric of the night. He approached Regulus, feigning a casual demeanor, though his mind was a whirl of dark fascination and intent.

"Out past curfew, are we?" Tom's voice was smooth, carrying an undercurrent of intrigue. “Not exactly the best way to start at Hogwarts.”

Regulus turned slowly, his eyes meeting Tom's with a piercing intensity that seemed to unravel him, layer by layer. Those eyes, grey and luminous, held a depth that was both beautiful and terrifying. They were like constellations etched in silver, mapping the mysteries of the universe.

Tom felt the weight of Regulus's gaze, a visceral force that threatened to pierce his very soul. There was a fierce intelligence behind those eyes, a calculating sharpness that made Tom acutely aware of the danger Regulus posed. He wouldn't be surprised if Regulus was contemplating to kill Tom right where he stands.

“What do you want, Riddle?” Regulus’s voice was low, each word clipped and deliberate, laced with disdain. It was a tone that spoke of his pureblood arrogance and the disdain he held for those he deemed unworthy.

Tom smiled, a calculated expression that did not reach his eyes. “Merely ensuring the safety of our new transfer student. It wouldn’t do for you to get into trouble so soon.”

Regulus's lips curled into a sardonic smirk. “Concern form a mudblood? How touching.”

Tom ignored the insult, though it stung with a familiarity he had long grown accustomed to. Instead, he focused on the challenge presented by Regulus, the thrill of engaging with someone as complex and formidable as himself. 

“We all have our roles to play." He replied smoothly. “And yours, it seems, involves indulging in solitary midnight wandwork.”

Regulus’s grip on the wand tightened, and Tom could almost feel the air crackle with tension. There was a dangerous beauty in Regulus’s defiance, a fierce pride that was both infuriating and fascinating. He was a puzzle, a labyrinth of contradictions that Tom was eager to explore.

“Why are you really here, Riddle?” Regulus’s voice was softer now, but no less intense. The question hung in the air, charged with suspicion and curiosity.

Tom considered his response carefully, aware that every word was a step in a delicate dance. “I’m here because I see potential. In you, in what you could become. Hogwarts is a place of opportunity for those who know how to seize it.”

Regulus studied him, those silver eyes unyielding, as if weighing the truth of Tom’s words. There was a moment of silence, a pause that stretched between them like a taut string, ready to snap.

“And you think you can teach me to seize it?” Regulus’s voice held a note of challenge, a test of Tom’s intentions.

Tom inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the unspoken contest. “I think we could learn a great deal from each other."

The wind whispered around them, carrying the scent of autumn leaves, as if echoing the subtle dance of words and intent. Regulus was a storm on the brink of breaking, and Tom was drawn to the chaos and potential within him.

“I have no interest in your games." Regulus said finally, his tone dismissive yet tinged with an undercurrent of intrigue.

Tom’s smile widened, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through his facade. “Then consider it not a game, but a partnership. One that could be mutually beneficial.”

Regulus’s gaze did not waver, but Tom could see the flicker of contemplation, the possibility that his words had struck a chord. It was enough for now, enough to sow the seeds of curiosity and ambition.

“Think about it…" Tom added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What we could accomplish together.”

With that, he turned, leaving Regulus to the solitude of the tower and the lingering promise of what might be. As he descended the stairs, Tom felt the thrill of the encounter coursing through him. Regulus was a challenge, a force of nature that he was determined to harness. Together, they could change everything.

Once Tom disappeared into the shadows, Regulus let out a low, sardonic laugh. The sound echoed softly against the ancient stones of the Astronomy Tower, a testament to his disdain. The very idea of aligning with Tom Riddle, a mudblood who dared to masquerade as his equal, was laughable. Regulus’s pride, deeply rooted in his pureblood heritage, bristled at the thought. He would rather face death than lower himself to such an alliance.

Regulus turned back to the night sky, the stars reflecting in his stormy grey eyes. Each constellation seemed to whisper ancient secrets, guiding him on his path. He had lived the height of Voldemort’s reign, had served him with fierce loyalty until the truth of his bloodline had shattered the illusion. The knowledge that Voldemort was not the pureblood savior he claimed to be had been a bitter revelation, one that had set Regulus on a path of rebellion. Regulus had traveled through time—though accidental—lived the devastation and betrayal, and vowed to change the course of history.

His heart burned with a singular desire—to prevent Tom Riddle from ever becoming the dark lord he would serve. Regulus's ambition was a living thing, fierce and consuming. It was not enough to simply oppose Riddle; he wanted to dismantle him, piece by piece. 

Regulus would watch him, learn his weaknesses, exploit his ambitions, weaving a web so intricate that Riddle would never see it tightening around him until it was too late. For the thought of Riddle ascending to that same power filled Regulus with a visceral hatred. He would not allow history to repeat itself, not when he could prevent it. The future he had left behind was a wasteland, a kingdom of shadows ruled by a tyrant masquerading as a pureblood. 

He imagined the moment when he would confront Tom, the realization dawning in those dark eyes as he understood that his plans had been unraveled. Regulus would watch as the façade crumbled, as the future Riddle had planned for was rewritten by Regulus’ own hand. 

The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves and damp earth, a reminder of the world beyond the tower, a world that was worth fighting for. Regulus took a deep breath, feeling the chill air fill his lungs, grounding him in the present, anchoring him to his purpose.

He looked out over the grounds of Hogwarts, the ancient castle that had been his home and sanctuary. It was here that he would make his stand, here that he would rewrite the future. He would do whatever it took to succeed, even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.

The night stretched on, and he remained on the tower, lost in contemplation. He was a man out of time, a ghost haunting his own past, yet he was resolute in his purpose. The future was not set in stone, and as long as he drew breath, he would fight to change it. 

He would not rest until Tom Riddle was nothing more than a footnote in history, a memory of what might have been. The path was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but Regulus Black had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain.