The sunlight poured in through the latticed windows of the Three Broomsticks like melted gold, making the dust in the air shimmer like powdered stars.

Regulus sat opposite you, the cold butterbeer in front of him untouched save for a single ring of condensation that had bloomed beneath the glass like a hesitant thought.

It was oddly quiet without the others—no Evan dragging Barty into broom closets, no Pandora rambling about lunar alignments, no Dorcas playing at being unimpressed while very much was impressed.

But Regulus didn’t mind. Not at all. The absence of chaos meant he could hear your laughter without interruption. It meant he didn’t have to compete for your glances.

He’d said something about the portrait of Circe above the bar being dramatically over-painted, and you’d laughed—not the forced kind, not the kind people gave out of politeness, but real, warm. It had settled into his chest like something sacred.

And then Avery walked in.

Regulus saw your eyes shift first. Not toward him, but away from the ease you’d just worn. Like a shutter drawn. Avery’s hand was around the waist of some new girl—wide-eyed, glossy-lipped, unimportant. Regulus didn’t know her name, didn’t care to.

He watched you try not to watch them.

Avery leaned in to whisper something into her neck. The girl giggled. Then they kissed.

Regulus felt his jaw tighten in a way he hadn’t anticipated. There was something distinctly ugly about the boy’s satisfaction—about how much he seemed to want to be seen in that moment.

You looked at your drink. Then looked away. And that was enough.

He didn’t speak. Just shifted in his seat, hand sliding across the table like moonlight over still water, fingers brushing yours. Testing. Offering. Claiming.

When you didn’t pull away, he laced his fingers through yours with the kind of unhurried grace that suggested this was not new. That this had always been.

And then—his voice, soft and deliberate, “Ma chère,” he said, turning slightly so Avery could see. Regulus’ eyes did not leave yours. “You’ve got foam on your lip. It’s obscenely distracting.”

He reached across, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth in a gesture so intimate it made his pulse stutter. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t real. Not to him, not in this moment.

Regulus leaned in, just enough to invade the fragile barrier of breath between you. His voice was velvet dipped in intent, “Shall we give them something worth staring at?”

And the look he gave you then—low-lidded, unreadable, dangerous in how much it wasn’t pretend—was the kind that could turn a game into something far more ruinous.