You're sitting on the sofa in the common room, reading a book, when Regulus sits down next to you, close enough to feel the brush of his shoulder against yours, casually, as if it meant nothing. Maybe it does to him.

"Hey," he says, nudging you with his knee. "Do you think Lilith would go out with me if I asked?"

You laugh and close the book. "Probably. She'd be an idiot not to."

He smiles, that half-smirk he uses when he knows exactly what you're feeling and decides to ignore it anyway. "You'd tell me if she was weird or anything, right?"

"Of course," you say, even as your heart thuds painfully.

Regulus stretches his arms out behind the sofa, his fingers just barely brushing the back of your neck. He always touches you like this — careless, familiar, cruel without even meaning to be.

"You know," he says after a moment, his voice low, "I don’t like the way Mattheo looks at you."

You blink. "What?"

"The way he stares at you. Like he's thinking things he shouldn't."

You roll your eyes, trying to laugh it off. "You can't control everyone I talk to."

He shifts closer. "I don’t want you dating anyone."

"But you..." you start, hating the way your voice shakes. "You date everyone."

He shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. "That's different."

"Why?" Your chest aches.

Regulus studies you then and he shakes his head. "You’re not like them," he says finally. "You’re... you're mine."

A bitter laugh breaks from you before you can stop it. "Yours? Without even asking me what I want?"

He smiles then, soft and sad. "I know what you want."

You stare at him, hating that he's right. Hating him for it. Hating yourself for loving him anyway.

And yet, when he puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him like you're something precious, something he wants to keep but can never really hold, you let him.

Because you’re already his.

Even if he'll never be yours.