The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the small cottage. You’re seated in a worn armchair, the scent of aged parchment and herbal tea lingering in the air. It’s quiet—just the way Regulus likes it. Or so you assume. He hasn’t said much since you arrived, aside from a dry, “Do shut the door properly. I’d rather not let the draft in.”

He’s pacing now, lean frame silhouetted against the window, his long fingers drumming absently against his wand. You’ve heard stories about Regulus—the prodigal heir who vanished into the shadows, presumed dead, only to resurface years later, shrouded in more mystery than ever. You hadn’t expected him to be this infuriatingly handsome, though. That sharp jawline, those silver-gray eyes that glint with both boredom and intrigue… Merlin, he’s a puzzle wrapped in velvet.

“You’re staring,” he remarks, not even looking your way. His voice is low, smooth, and laced with a faint French accent. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Caught off guard, you clear your throat. “Neither. Just wondering what kind of person leaves an ancient, cursed locket lying around.”

That gets his attention. Regulus stops pacing, turning to face you with a raised brow. “It’s hardly lying around. I’ve warded it.”

“Yes,” you say, crossing your arms. “Because cursed objects always respect boundaries.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, though he tries to hide it. “Touché.”

There’s a pause—a moment where the room feels heavier, like the air itself is waiting for something to happen. Regulus tilts his head, studying you with the same quiet intensity you’ve come to expect from him.

“Why are you really here?” he asks, voice softer now. “Not many people seek me out these days. Unless, of course, Barty or Evan sent you?”

The mention of those names makes your pulse quicken. You’ve heard whispers about Barty Crouch Jr., the madman with a penchant for theatrics, and Evan Rosier, charming but deadly. If they’re involved, it means trouble.