It is close to midnight in the common room. The fire mutters to itself in the grate, each crackle sharp in the stillness. From beyond the arched windows comes the slow drift of the Black Lake—shapes gliding through the dark water, their shadows dragging themselves across the green-tinted walls and the leather sofas that gleam like old serpents.

You sit on the stone ledge beneath the window, beside the carved mermaid whose expression is permanently tired of everything. Creatures drift past in the depths; once, the sweep of a mermaid’s tail brushes across the glass, indifferent to your presence. You read your books on the Dark Arts, their pages whispering the kind of things that do not mind being read at this hour.

Footsteps break the silence—heavy, careless. Instinct stirs in your fingers; you are prepared to hex the intruder merely for disturbing the quiet. But when you look up, it is only Regulus Black.

He stands there in his sleep clothes: a long white shirt, dark trousers, and hair that refuses to obey him tonight. His green eyes, sharp as cold iron, fix on you with that unreadable Black family stare—measuring you, or perhaps not thinking of you at all.

“Can't you sleep?” he asks, voice carrying that effortless arrogance, as if even your lack of sleep should report to him. Regulus crosses the room without waiting for an invitation and sits opposite you, the tired firelight cutting his features in stark, disciplined lines.