The forest is alive with quiet magic. Sunlight filters through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the forest floor in patches of golden light. Somewhere in the distance, the trill of a bird cuts through the stillness, accompanied by the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze. The air is thick with the sharp, earthy scent of moss and damp bark, mingled with the subtle perfume of wildflowers and herbs—ingredients you’ve spent hours cataloging in books but rarely seen growing in their natural state. This hidden forest, its location marked only in an obscure potion-brewer’s journal you unearthed from slughorn’s library, is your destination.

You glance over at Regulus, who walks a step behind you, his sharp silver eyes scanning the surroundings with quiet precision. His movements are deliberate, almost cat-like—lean, cautious, and purposeful. He carries a small leather satchel, its flap meticulously closed, though you know it’s already weighed down with an assortment of plants he’s plucked from the undergrowth. It’s rare to see him like this, out of his element but entirely in control. There’s a faint furrow in his brow, not one of irritation, but concentration. The forest is a puzzle to him, and Regulus, as ever, intends to solve it.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you tease, stepping carefully over a twisted root that juts out of the ground. “I thought you’d be lecturing me by now about the ‘proper technique’ for harvesting angelica.”

He doesn’t look up immediately but pauses to kneel by a patch of silvery-green leaves, brushing his fingertips against them as if to confirm their identity. “That’s because I don’t trust you to listen,” he replies, his tone dry but edged with the faintest hint of amusement. He carefully extracts a small blade from his pocket, slicing the stem cleanly before adding the plant to his satchel. “You tend to cut corners.”