The Slytherin changing rooms still smelled like sweat, rain, and victory.

You sat on the wooden bench near the lockers, legs crossed, pretending you weren’t watching Barty Crouch Jr peel off his gloves with his teeth like he wanted someone to notice. His hair was a mess, grin sharp and reckless, eyes flicking to you every few seconds.

Across the room, Regulus Black was quieter—towel draped around his neck, sleeves rolled up just enough to be unfair. He caught you looking once and didn’t look away.

That was worse.

“You’re staring,” Barty said, stepping closer, voice low and amused.

“Maybe you’re just loud,” you replied sweetly.

Barty laughed and leaned down, bracing his hands on the bench so you were trapped between him and the lockers. “You like loud.”

Before you could answer, Regulus cleared his throat.

“Crouch,” he said coolly. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

Barty straightened, smirking. “Jealous, Black?”

Regulus didn’t answer—but he moved closer to you instead, close enough that his knee brushed yours. The contact felt deliberate. Claiming.

“You should come outside with us,” Regulus murmured to you, voice soft but certain. “You’ve been cooped up all evening.”

Barty pulled a cigarette from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers “Courtyard’s empty,” he added. “Promise we’ll behave.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lie.”

They exchanged a look—something shared, dangerous, familiar.

“Mostly,” Regulus corrected