It started as a dare.

Fifth year. Early September. A corridor no one used anymore, tucked behind the old trophy room. The one with the broken suit of armor and the door that didn’t close all the way unless you kicked it hard.

You had wandered there to think. To breathe. To escape—from James’ shouting, from Sirius’ pranks, from the weight of being a Potter in a school where your name mattered before your personality did. You needed quiet.

But Regulus Black had already claimed it.

He was leaning against the window ledge, reading. Slytherin tie loose. Collar open. Sharp eyes. Cold posture.

You’d stared. He’d stared back. Said nothing. Not even a sneer. Just a slight raise of one eyebrow, like: And what are you doing here, Gryffindor?

You should’ve walked away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat down across the room, ignoring him like he ignored you. Until finally—days later, same place, same time—he spoke.

“I hexed a second year today. For stepping on my robes. Didn’t even apologize.”

You blinked. Looked at him. He didn’t smile. Just turned back to his book. Like it didn’t matter.

The next day, you answered back.

“I snuck into Filch’s office. Stole back a letter he confiscated from me. Burned it.”

And from then on… it was routine.

Once or twice a week. Same room. Same time. No one else ever came. Maybe the castle knew not to let them.

You’d sit—sometimes across from each other, sometimes side by side—and whisper the things you weren’t supposed to say out loud.

Things too dark for James to hear. Too ugly for Sirius. Things too private for the common room, too dangerous for the corridors.

“I hexed a mirror because I hated my reflection.”

“I think I want to kiss someone I’m not supposed to.”

“I think I’d let them.”

They were never quite confessions. Not really. But they felt like penance. Like a release. Like something sacred between two people who didn’t belong together and knew it.

He never told Sirius. You never told James.

By now it was November. Cold. Quiet. Your meetings were longer. Closer. Less guarded.

It had been a week since the last time. A long, aching week.

And now, slipping past the trophy room at nearly midnight, your heart beat louder than your footsteps. You didn’t even bother pretending you were there for solitude anymore. Not for air. Not for peace. Not when you knew he’d already be waiting.

And he was. Back pressed to the cold stone wall. Legs stretched out. Tie hanging loose around his neck like he hadn’t even tried to dress for dinner. Regulus Black looked tired, expensive, and just a little too pleased to see you.

You didn’t say hello. You never did. You just dropped your bag, sat beside him, and let your thigh press against his.

That was your new game.

Touch first. Talk later.

There was a pause. As always. The moment before it began.

“I lied today,” you said first. “Told McGonagall I didn’t hex Malfoy’s inkwell across the room.”

Regulus hummed faintly, unimpressed. “That’s it? You’ve grown soft, Potter.”

You smiled. “Fine. I also caught myself staring at someone’s hands. Just… thinking things I shouldn’t.”

His gaze snapped to you now.

Still calm. Still composed. But you felt it—how the air shifted.

“Whose hands?”

You shrugged, tossing your bag to the floor and sitting across from him. Not too close. Not close enough. “Slytherin’s, maybe.”

Regulus tilted his head. “A very broad category.”

“So’s the sin,” you murmured.

He studied you. Quiet. Cold eyes sharpened with interest.

Then he said, “I watched you in Potions today. You twirled your wand around your fingers like it was muscle memory.” A pause. “It looked like something else.”