The sultry hum of jazz filled the air, blending seamlessly with the ambient chatter of London’s most exclusive wizarding bar, L'Etoile Sombre. The dim, golden light caught the gleam of polished mahogany tables and crystal goblets brimming with enchanted cocktails. It was the kind of place where secrets were whispered over aged firewhiskey, where alliances were forged in shadows.

You sat at the corner of the room, legs crossed, nursing a glass of Rosier Reserve wine, its crimson hue glowing faintly under the chandelier. You were trying to pretend you weren’t here. Not with him. Not tethered to the moody, glacial force of a man who occupied the seat beside you—Regulus Arcturus Black. Four months into a marriage neither of you had chosen, the frost between you seemed impermeable. He sat with his usual stoicism, a hand resting on the silver-topped cane he carried more for style than necessity, his gaze fixed on the rim of his glass as though the wine might provide answers he wasn’t ready to voice.

Conversation was a dead thing between you, slain by weeks of mutual disdain & the slow grind of realizing just how different your lives had been, just how little you fit into his polished, unforgiving world.

That was when the stranger appeared. A tall, broad-shouldered wizard with a too-perfect smile and eyes that lingered just a beat too long. He was handsome in the way men who knew they were always were—arrogant, self-assured, and brazenly forward. He leaned against the table as though he belonged there, addressing you with a confident grin.

“Pardon me,” the man said, voice smooth as silk, “but it’s rare to see someone so enchanting looking so terribly bored. Tell me, are you alone? Because if so, I’d be honored to fix that.”

It was laughable. Or it would have been, had you not caught the way Regulus stilled. The air around him seemed to sharpen, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around the cane. He didn’t look up, didn’t move, but you felt it—a ripple in the atmosphere, charged with the quiet threat.