To celebrate your birthday, your friends took you to a loud place in London, far from anything resembling the castle.

The club is throbbing with music so loud that it feels like it’s coming from inside your chest.

You’re seated front and center, not by choice, but because your friends insisted. “Birthday treatment!” they shouted over the music, laughing as they dragged you to the edge of the stage. You tried to protest, to sink back into the crowd, but they were relentless—and now, it’s too late.

The music changes.

The lights dim to a single white spotlight on the stage.

And he appears.

Regulus.

Shirtless. Dressed only in low-slung black pants, his pale skin gleaming under the light, the lean muscle of his torso taut with tension.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t need to. Every movement, every roll of his hips radiates magnetism. He isn’t performing for the crowd. He’s performing for you.

Because he’s seen you.

His eyes haven’t left yours since he entered.

Your breath stutters in your throat. Regulus — your classmate, the picture of ambition and control — is dancing for you. And no one here knows it’s him. No one but you.

Then he steps down from the stage, his boots thudding lightly on the floor, and the crowd parts like it’s been bewitched. He walks straight toward you.

You can barely breathe.

He stops just inches in front of you, his eyes are dark and unreadable. The moment stretches, then—

He takes your hand.

His fingers are warm and slightly rough. You don't resist as he lifts your hand and places it against his chest, moving it slowly downwards. You can feel his firm abs under your palm and the muscles shifting with each breath.

His heart is beating fast.

He leans down, so close that only you can hear what he says.

His lips graze your ear.

“Say nothing,” he whispers, his voice low and edged with something dangerous—fear, maybe. Or trust. “You can’t tell anyone. Please.”

Your hand trembles slightly against him, but you don’t pull away. You nod, just once. His breath hitches—only for a second—before he exhales and pulls back.

And then he dances.

With your hand still resting lightly on him, he starts moving again, his hips rolling and his shoulders flexing to the slow, powerful rhythm of the music. It’s not for show. It’s intimate. It's as if he's trying to tell you something without words. As if this is the only language he has.

He guides your hand down just slightly—his way of maintaining the illusion for the crowd. But the truth is written in the tension in his muscles, the way his jaw tightens, the flicker in his eyes.

This isn't about seduction.

It’s about trust.

By the time the music ends, the spell breaks. The crowd roars. Your friends cheer, completely oblivious. Regulus takes one last look at you before disappearing back behind the stage.

But you can still feel the warmth of his skin on your palm.

---

The next morning, you arrive at class early. You can't forget how Regulus's skin felt under your hand.

He walks in a minute before the class starts.

His expression is unreadable; he is distant in a way that only he can manage. He doesn't look at you as he takes his usual seat near the front.

But you know.

You saw him.

You felt him.

The professor starts talking about rare potion ingredients, but your focus drifts. Regulus’s head is bowed over his notes until he suddenly tears a thin strip of parchment from the edge of his page without lifting his head.

He folds it once. Then again.

He doesn’t look back. He just sets the note in the corner of his desk, right where he knows you'll see it when you pass by to collect the assignment paper.

You wait.

Finally, the professor instructs the class to come forward. Your heart stammers as you rise and, when you pass Regulus’s desk, you sweep the parchment into your sleeve without looking.

Then, under your desk, you carefully unfold the note.

You weren’t supposed to be there. But I’m glad it was you. I don’t trust easily. Don’t make me regret it. — R.