Hogwarts was colder than Beauxbatons. The stone walls held a kind of chill that sunk into your robes no matter how many layers you wore. Still, it wasn’t the weather that had your nerves tangled. It was the stares.

You had barely stepped into the Great Hall before eyes turned your way, and not just because of your foreign robes or accent. It was something else. Something more territorial.

You felt it most from two corners of the room.

One—at the Gryffindor table—belonged to a dark-haired boy with a roguish grin and a gaze like a lit match. The other—near the Slytherins—was quieter, colder. His stare didn’t burn. It calculated.

Sirius and Regulus Black.

You had heard the name “Black” before. Most purebloods had. But no one had warned you that the brothers didn’t just dislike each other—they seemed to orbit one another with magnetic spite.

And you?

Apparently, you’d landed in the middle of their war.

It started small. A smirk from Sirius when you passed in the corridor. A polite nod from Regulus during Potions. The occasional shared class where you’d catch one glancing toward the other—then at you—as if silently daring the other to make the first move.

By the second week, Sirius had introduced himself with a swagger, leaning against the wall outside the Charms classroom.

“So… Beauxbatons,” he said, his grin lazy. “Do all transfer students come with that accent or just the ones who make Slytherins squirm?”

You laughed, despite yourself.

“They seem perfectly composed to me.”

“Right. Especially my dear brother. Practically shaking.”

You raised a brow. “Regulus?”

Sirius scoffed. “Don’t let the frost fool you. He’s twitching.”

You hadn’t seen Regulus twitch. But you had noticed the way his eyes lingered longer than necessary. How he always seemed one step ahead in class. How his words, when they came, were chosen like spells—measured and precise.

You sat at a table tucked between tall shelves, your parchment rolled open, ink drying beside a carefully annotated Charms textbook. Regulus had slipped into the chair across from you almost silently, his movements always precise, deliberate.

“You missed the bit about wand movement,” he murmured, tapping a note you’d made. “That spell requires a loop, not a flick.”

You blinked, then smiled faintly. “You memorize everyone’s work or just mine?”

Regulus didn’t smirk. But something flickered behind his eyes.

“Just yours,” he said simply. “Because you get things right. Until you don’t. And that’s interesting.”

You watched him for a beat. His voice was always cool, calm—controlled in a way that made you wonder how much he had to keep buried to stay that way. He sat with his back straight, hands folded, gaze steady and unreadable. A boy raised by rules and expectations, navigating them like a chessboard.

“Do you always watch people so closely?” you asked.

He hesitated. “Not people.”

Your heart fluttered, but you looked back at your parchment before your expression could betray it. “You have a strange way of being kind, Regulus Black.”

“And you have a strange way of being noticed,” he replied. “Especially by people you shouldn’t.”

That comment hung in the air for barely a second before—

“Oh, brilliant. He’s brooding in the library again.”

You looked up just as Sirius leaned against the bookshelf behind Regulus, arms crossed, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. His Gryffindor tie was half-loose, his hair a windblown mess. Classic.

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn around.

“Sirius,” he said with a clipped sigh. “Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“I do, actually.” Sirius’s eyes flicked to you. “But they’re here, having their personality drained.”

Regulus stood smoothly, the space between him and his brother sharp as glass.

“I’m sure you think this is clever.”

“Oh, I think it’s a tragic little scene, actually,” Sirius drawled, still looking at you. “Beauxbatons must’ve warned you. One Black’s already a nightmare. Two? That’s a full-blown curse.”