The corridor is crowded, voices echoing off the stone, shoes scuffing across flagstones polished by centuries of students. Prefects glide by like ghosts of order. House banners flutter with drafts no one can see.

Regulus Black walks like he always does—shoulders straight, expression unreadable, not a single thread of his uniform out of place. He’s a picture of perfect Slytherin composure. He has to be. Eyes are always on him. Expectations never blink.

But then you brush against him.

Just a whisper of contact. Enough to make his breath catch. Enough to let him know it was on purpose.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t even look at him. But you smile. And behind you, he falters. Only for half a step. But it’s there. That heartbeat of hesitation. That break in the mask.

You glance back once, just enough to catch the flush rising in his ears. He’s glaring, of course. Cool, polished, annoyed—but only because he knows exactly what you’re doing. And because it’s working.

He won’t chase you. He never does.

But hours later, you’ll find a note slipped into your bag.

“Stop smiling like that.”