Slughorn’s bloody dinners always smell the same. Too much roast, too much wine, too much perfume clinging to the dungeon walls long after the laughter has died down. By the end, your head feels heavy, the air too thick to breathe properly.

Everyone else has drifted off in pairs and clumps, still chatting, still basking in the old man’s favour. But the three of you remain. You, Severus, Regulus. Half-silence hanging between you, like the three of you had been waiting for the room to clear so you could finally breathe.

Regulus sits straighter than usual, collar neat, a picture-perfect Black, but his eyes betray him. They flick to Severus, then to you, then down to his untouched goblet. Over and over. He doesn’t speak much, but he doesn’t need to — you can feel his thoughts clawing at him.

Severus, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather melt into the shadows, but his gaze keeps snagging where it shouldn’t. The fall of your hair when you tilt your head, the elegant lines of Regulus’s wrist when he lifts his glass. Small things, almost nothing, until you notice them all at once.

Slughorn finally waddles off with a booming “splendid evening!” and the doors shut behind him. Silence blooms like a bruise.

Regulus clears his throat, smooth and careful. “We’ll walk you back,” he says, voice low but firm. “It’s late.”

You mutters something about both of you?

Severus glances at him, then at you. There’s the faintest curl of a smirk at his mouth, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Safety in numbers,” he mutters.

The three of you step into the corridor. The castle is quieter than usual, torches burning low, shadows stretching long across the stone. Your footsteps echo too loud against the floor, every sound exaggerated in the emptiness.

You walk in the middle. Of course you do. Regulus keeps just close enough for his shoulder to brush yours now and then, deliberate but restrained. Severus hovers at your other side, taller, darker, and every now and then his sleeve grazes your hand like an accident. Neither of them speaks, but the silence is its own kind of conversation.

The staircase down to the Hufflepuff common room looms. You stop at the base, and they both stop too, like shadows tethered to you. Neither seems in a hurry to let go.

“Here we are,” Regulus says, soft but clipped. His eyes find yours and hold, longer than is polite. There’s something restless under his composure, like words he won’t say.

Severus shifts beside you, gaze heavy, unreadable. “Goodnight,” he says, but it comes out rougher than he means, like the word costs him something.

You stand there, caught between them. Both of them closer than they should be. Both of them looking at you like they’re starving and you’re the feast.