The night hums with energy, the faint buzz of neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished floor. You can feel the pulse of a pop beat vibrating through the soles of your shoes as you glide effortlessly across the roller-skating rink. The air is thick with the scent of buttered popcorn and warm pretzels, a far cry from the refined elegance you know Regulus is used to.

You glance toward the edge of the rink, where he stands like a statue carved from marble—perfectly still, arms crossed, silver-gray eyes narrowing at the scene before him. His tailored black coat and polished boots are comically out of place amidst the chaos of fluorescent leg warmers and disco balls, but Regulus doesn’t seem to care. He watches you like a predator sizing up a peculiar, unpredictable prey.

“You brought me here,” he says flatly, “to... this.” His voice is clipped, his faint French accent making the word "this" sound more like a personal affront than a casual observation.

You skate closer, stopping just shy of the barrier separating the rink from the sidelines. “I brought you here,” you reply, grinning, “because you need to live a little. Consider it an educational experience.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t need lessons in humiliation, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, leaning your arms casually on the railing. “You’ve faced Death Eaters and cursed artifacts, but you’re scared of a pair of roller skates?”

“I’m not scared,” he says, the words as defensive as they are immediate.

“Prove it.” You hold up a pair of skates, the neon laces dangling like a challenge.

Regulus stares at the skates, then at you, and for a moment, you think he’s about to storm out entirely. But there’s a flicker of something in his expression—irritation, yes, but also a trace of curiosity. He sighs through his nose, a long-suffering sound, and reluctantly reaches for the skates.

“You owe me for this,” he mutters. You suppress a laugh as he sits down to lace up the offending footwear.*