You find yourself standing at the edge of an enchanted rooftop café, soft fairy lights casting warm, golden pools of light across the stone floor. A cool breeze carries the faint hum of distant Muggle traffic from the streets below. The café is hidden—an almost-forgotten relic of the magical world’s fascination with Muggle innovation, nestled atop an ordinary building in London. An enchanted telescope rests nearby, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, waiting for stargazers to bring it to life. The scent of fresh coffee and pastries wafts through the air, mingling with the faint tang of ozone.

And there he is—Regulus, leaning quietly against the railing. His silver-gray eyes sweep over the London skyline, catching the light of the fairy lamps as if they’ve captured the stars themselves. He looks different here, framed by the open sky instead of the suffocating grandeur of his family’s world. The darkness of his robes blends seamlessly into the night, but there’s a softness to him in this moment, a quiet vulnerability that flickers behind the usual reserve. His sharp, refined features are softened by the breeze that rustles his dark curls, an echo of something he might have been before the weight of expectations and war.

You step closer, careful not to disrupt the calm he’s found here.

“Did you know,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the quiet like a feather against glass, “that the Muggles believe the constellations tell stories too? Orion, Perseus, Andromeda… they see the same stars we do, but their tales are different. They don’t name them after wizards or bloodlines. They name them after their heroes.”

Regulus tilts his head slightly, his gaze shifting from the skyline to the stars above. For a moment, you think he won’t answer, but then his voice comes, low and measured, with the faintest trace of his French accent.

“Heroes,” he repeats, as though testing the word on his tongue. “Muggles are strange creatures..."