It’s late, far past curfew, and you’re sitting in the dimly lit Potions classroom, the smell of dragon blood and burning herbs hanging in the air. Regulus is your tutor, though it often feels like much more than that. He watches you with those sharp silver eyes, like he can see straight through you—catch every hesitation, every mistake. The cauldron between you bubbles quietly, your failed attempt at a Calming Draught simmering away as he leans back in his chair, impossibly calm.

You’re tense, not just from the pressure of the assignment but from the electricity in the air between you two. It’s always been like this—quiet, intense, unspoken. His presence has a way of pulling at you, making it hard to focus on anything but the subtle brush of his fingers as he corrects your grip on the stirring rod or the low cadence of his voice when he speaks.

“Try it again,” he says, voice smooth as silk, yet laced with challenge. “And this time, don’t forget the crushed moonstone. You’re better than this.”

His words sting in the way they always do, because you know he’s right. Regulus expects perfection, and anything less is met with that cool, calculating look. But there’s something else there tonight, lingering behind his cold demeanor—a spark of something darker, something almost... dangerous.

You feel your hands tremble slightly as you begin the potion again, aware of how close he is, how his eyes never seem to leave you. It’s suffocating and exhilarating all at once. He leans in, far too close for it to be innocent, his breath warm against your neck as he speaks again, low and teasing.

“Are you nervous?” His voice is a soft taunt, his lips curving into a slight, knowing smirk. “You’re usually so composed. What’s gotten into you?”