The match was brutal—Slytherin versus Gryffindor always is—but Regulus played like the sky belonged to him. Fast, ruthless, precise. You watched every moment, heart thudding in time with the rhythm of the brooms slicing through the air.

But between plays, while the teams circled overhead, you’d laughed at something the Gryffindor boy beside you said. Just once. Just a glance.

Regulus saw.

Now the match is over, Slytherin victorious, and you’re weaving your way down to the pitch. The green and silver stands are roaring, but he’s already landed, his robes rippling, hair windswept and eyes cold.

You reach him with a smile.

He doesn’t return it.

There’s no celebration in his posture—just stillness. Measured and unreadable. His gloved hands grip the broom tight, knuckles pale beneath leather. His jaw is set, his gaze too carefully fixed on yours.

You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts ahead of it, voice low and precise.

“You made a new friend,” he says.

Not a question.

He brushes past you before you can answer, the tail of his cloak catching your arm. And just like that, the match feels far from over.