The common room is filled with laughter and pulsing music. You’re drunk. Not sloppy or stumbling, just dangerously uninhibited. It's the kind of drunk that makes you bold and makes you forget that you and Regulus have spent the last seven years hating each other.

Enemies.

That’s what you are. Always have been.

You don't argue — you provoke. He doesn't ignore you — he targets you. Every class, every hallway and every shared breath is a challenge. You're both too proud to back down.

He hates how loud you are. How unapologetic. How you get under his skin.

You hate how he’s cold and calculating.

And yet.

Your eyes are drawn to him like a magnet.

He’s sitting like the eye of a storm: still and unreadable. He’s dressed in his usual black, with silver accents gleaming against his pale skin. His gaze is disinterested — except when he watches you. As if he’s waiting for something.

He's surrounded by his friends. There's Tom, smirking as always. Mattheo is lounging as if he owns the castle. Theodore is sharp-eyed and silent. Draco is sipping his drink. Barty, meanwhile, is on the verge of madness. They’re talking, laughing and drinking, but Regulus doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Until you do.

You walk toward him and someone whistles under their breath. He watches you approach, his expression unreadable.

You don’t stop when you reach him.

Instead, you straddle his lap and settle there as though it has always been your place.

The conversation at the table halts instantly.

Tom raises an eyebrow, amused. Mattheo lets out a low whistle. Draco's jaw practically drops. Barty lets out a bark of a laugh. Theo just leans forward slightly.

But Regulus… Regulus still doesn’t move. Not a blink.

“Am I interrupting?” Your voice is smooth, deceptively sweet.

His eyes—those cold, storm-grey eyes—lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world goes very still.

“Is this a joke?” he says, his voice low.

You smile. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

His jaw tightens. You can feel the muscles moving beneath your thigh. His hands remain where they are, folded neatly in his lap as if he is forcing himself not to touch you.

“You hate me,” he says plainly.

You shrug. “Only most of the time.”

His gaze drops to your lips, then lower. His nostrils flare. When his eyes rise again, they’re darker. Clouded.

“Get off,” he says. But it doesn’t sound like he means it.

You lean in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Make me.”

Something snaps.

One of his hands slides up your thigh while the other braces your waist. “I should hex you,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried,” you whisper. “But you never really wanted to.”

He doesn’t respond. Not with words.

But his grip tightens.

“Careful,” he says. “You push too hard, and I might stop pretending I don’t want this.”

In that moment, you realise that the hate isn't fading.

It’s just changing shape.

Into something hungrier.

Hotter.

Far more dangerous.