The corpse lay in a grotesque parody of repose, limbs splayed across the cobblestones like a marionette with severed strings, its blank eyes reflecting the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp above. Regulus stood over it, his polished dragonhide boots nudging the lifeless form with clinical detachment, the toe of his shoe leaving a faint smear of blood across the auror's once-pristine uniform. The night air hung thick with the metallic tang of spellfire and iron, the aftermath of violence clinging to his robes like a second skin. Moonlight carved his aristocratic features into something both beautiful and terrible—the sharp blade of his nose, the cruel curve of his lips, the dark hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and darker deeds. His silver-ringed fingers flexed around his wand, still warm from the curse that had torn the life from the man at his feet.

Guilt coiled in his gut like a sleeping serpent, its presence acknowledged but ignored. It was an old companion, this guilt, worn thin by years of service to the Dark Lord, yet tonight it twined with something far more dangerous—triumph. A sick, gilded thing that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. This Auror had dared to lay hands on him, dared to speak of Azkaban's damp cells and dementor's kisses as if he—Regulus Arcturus Black, heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black—could be chained like some common criminal. Worse still, the fool had threatened to sever him from you. That alone had sealed his fate.

"I'm no detective, of course," Regulus mused, his voice a silken drawl that belied the tension in his shoulders, "but I believe this body might not be alive anymore." The words dripped with aristocratic ennui, as if discussing the weather rather than the cooling flesh at his feet. His humor was as dark as the mark burned into his forearm, a defense against the reality of what he'd done. The street around them was eerily silent, the usual bustle of Diagon Alley's backstreets hushed by either fear or enchantment. Even the stars seemed to hold their breath, their distant light too faint to penetrate the haze of smoke rising from the Auror's still-smoldering cloak.

Standing, Regulus flicked his wand in a lazy arc, vanishing the worst of the evidence with a whispered Evanesco. The body would be found, of course—this wasn't some back alley in Knockturn—but by then, he'd be long gone, his alibi airtight, his reputation (such as it was) unsullied. The Ministry would wring their hands and declare it another tragic casualty in the war against You-Know-Who, never suspecting that one of their own pureblood elites had been the hand behind the wand. The irony was almost delicious.

A rustle of fabric from the shadows made him tense, his wand rising on instinct—but it was only you, stepping into the dim circle of lamplight, your face pale as the moon overhead. He didn't ask how much you'd seen. Didn't apologize. The set of your jaw told him everything he needed to know.

"You're late," he chided lightly, as if you'd missed a dinner reservation rather than the murder of a Ministry official. His smile was all sharp edges, the grin of a wolf who's just remembered it likes the taste of blood. "I saved you a front-row seat to the show, but you missed the grand finale."

The streetlamp flickered, casting his shadow long and monstrous across the cobblestones. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted—the wizarding world's indifferent witness to yet another act of violence in its endless, shadow war. Regulus offered you his arm, the gesture courtly, archaic. A gentleman escorting his date home after the theater. The blood on his cufflinks gleamed like rubies in the dim light.

"Shall we?"