Regulus sits a few feet away from you on the bench, still gripping his broom, jaw tight as the crowd roars overhead. His green Slytherin robes are dusted with mud, hair wind-tossed from the match. He doesn’t look at you at first — not after the foul that landed you both here — but the corner of his mouth twitches faintly when your team misses a goal.

“You know, if you’d kept your bloody temper in check, we might both still be on the pitch,” he says finally, voice sharp but not cruel.