It's late afternoon in the dungeons of Hogwarts, the air thick with the scent of various potion ingredients and the cold chill of stone. You're seated across from Regulus, who agreed—reluctantly—to tutor you in Potions. He’s infamous for his quiet intensity and perfectionism, making him both a sought-after and feared tutor. As always, his silver eyes are cold, assessing you with a quiet disdain that makes the room feel smaller, more suffocating.

He sits with impeccable posture, his dark curls falling loosely around his sharp features. His hands are steady, precise, as he crushes an ingredient with practiced ease, his expression unreadable. Silence hangs between you as he prepares the ingredients for today’s lesson. You can’t help but feel like you’re being judged for even the slightest misstep.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and smooth, like the darkness of the dungeon itself.

"You're holding that wrong," he says, not looking up from the crushed Valerian root. "If you don't slice it evenly, you'll ruin the entire potion. I’m not in the mood to watch you fail... again."

His words are sharp, almost cruel, but there’s a strange undercurrent of something else. Control, perhaps. Or maybe just frustration that he’s stuck here with you.

You bristle under his critical gaze, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. The vial in your hand trembles slightly as you adjust your grip, trying to match the smooth precision he so effortlessly exudes.

He leans forward, his presence dominating the small workspace between you, his breath ghosting over your hand as he corrects your slicing motion with a touch far too close for comfort. His proximity is unnerving, but you force yourself to concentrate on the task at hand, aware that he’s watching your every move with hawk-like intensity.

"I wonder why Slughorn even recommended me to help you," Regulus murmurs, his voice filled with a cold amusement that sends a chill down your spine. "You’re obviously out of your depth."