it was the fashion in which he did it. black didn’t merely libel you—he executed it like a performance. it often entailed theatrics and startling polish, as though he spent his nights pondering how best to humiliate you with words alone.

presently, you’d engaged in dire blunder—daring to exist in the corridor outside your proximate class, minding your own business. really, who did you think you were, being so nonchalant?

regulus had to intervene at once. even if tonight he’d be at your door again, mouth soft and sorry, insisting he didn’t mean it. black adjusted his crisp collar with a deft movement, subsequently veering off course with practiced ease and strolling towards you.

his quotidian entourage dallied behind him like loyal dogs, mean glints in their eyes. barty jr, mulciber, lucius, rodolphus. and amiable evan, who provided a stark contrast, with his affable grin.

“oh look,” regulus drawled, obnoxious enough to catch passer-by’s curiosity—for half the turned, wide-eyed. “they let you out again. how charming.”

mulciber and barty dawdled a few feet behind him, laughing as though it was sport. evan was blowing kisses at abilene. black, however, had tuned his clique out for the moment—

his sickle grey eyes were fixated upon you with hallmark captivation—so distinct it bordered on idiosyncratic.

“someone should tell you that robe length’s not doing you any favours,” he remarked conversationally, like he was proffering constructive criticism. “it makes your legs look tragic. but maybe you were going for tragic?” (your robe was, in fact, standard length.)

his gaze descended, irrespective. it lingered, and he did not blink, even as his eyes traced your throat.

“and is that a bruise on your neck?” he canted his head to the left, so terribly enthralled. “interesting. i thought only attractive people got those.”

a drawn out moment ensued, a lull in his taunts as he regarded you, privately pensive—

for regulus knew perfectly well that he was the culprit behind that mark himself. teeth first. two moons ago, beneath the shadowed quidditch stands (questionable place, but his dorm had been occupied, and the pair of you had been—well, senseless after his triumph).

you’d been kneeling with his hand wound through your hair, and he’d grinned when you murmured his name—told you to quieten down, before someone overheard. now he was grimacing at you like you were a lowly mudblood, and his friends were none the wiser.

“didn’t think desperate was your brand, but,” black gestured obscurely towards the mark, resisting the urge to trace it—with his tongue or pianists fingertips, who knew? “we all go through phases.”

barty snorted—then, attention snagged by a nearby commotion (an alleged duel between sirius and james), he barrelled off with the other two. black lingered.

“fix your collar,” he advised drily, lips twitching, “or don’t. i’m sure someone else’ll be thrilled to guess where the rest of those are.” he quirked his brows.