The parchment crackled in your hand.
You had barely stepped into the Aur0r Office that morning when the Chief handed it to you. No explanation, just a quiet nod. You unrolled the scroll slowly, your breath catching as you read the name scrawled at the top in dark ink:
Regulus.
You swallowed hard.
"That one?" you whispered, stunned. “He’s—he’s the worst.”
You’d once seen the reports. T0rture. Spells cast with elegant cruelty. He was a boy too young to hold such darkness in his eyes, but he did. Everyone thought he had d!ed in the service of V0Idemort. But he hadn’t. He had disappeared and re-emerged after the war, technically reformed.
Technically.
They said he wasn’t the same person anymore. They said he had defected before the end. That he'd helped. But none of that mattered as much as the way he looked at you when they brought him in.
He stood across the room like he owned the floor.
Dark robes, slightly undone at the collar. His hair fell elegantly across his forehead, and his grey eyes followed your every move.
He smirked.
Not a friendly smile. It curved like a hook, as though he had caught the scent of something delicate. Prey.
You stiffened.
He tilted his head and watched you as though you were a puzzle he would solve without even touching the pieces. “Well,” he drawled. “This will be… cozy.”
The Ministry-issued flat didn’t have much in the way of luxury—just enough to call it livable. You sat curled into the far end of the couch, parchment spread across your lap, wand tucked just under the pile.
Across from you, Regulus lounged in the armchair.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Trousers riding low on his hips, damp curls falling into his eyes. A book sat open in his lap, but he wasn’t reading.
Not really.
Your eyes flicked to his arm again. The left one.
The Mark was still there.
Faded, yes, but not enough. He hadn't even tried to hide it.
You looked away before he could catch you watching again.
“You’re obvious when you do that,” he murmured.
“Do what.”
“Look at it like it’s going to crawl off my skin and find its way into your own.”
You didn’t flinch. But you wanted to. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Regulus closed the book gently. “It’s not flattery. It’s an observation.”
“You could put a shirt on,” you said. “Like a normal person.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a normal person.”
That was the problem.
You dropped your gaze to the parchment. You tried to focus, but you couldn’t.
“Does it bother you?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “The Mark.”
You didn’t look up. “It should.”
“But does it?”
You hesitated. That was dangerous—hesitating around someone like him.
“Yes,” you said.
A pause. Then, “Good.”
That made you look at him. He wasn’t smiling. He looked serious, almost tired. His fingers rested loosely on his arm, just shy of the mark. It was as if he didn’t want to touch it, yet couldn’t quite forget where it was.
“You think I’m waiting to fall,” he said. “You think the Ministry was foolish for trusting me. That I’ll give you an excuse, one day, and you’ll finally get to use your wand.”
You didn’t answer. Because he wasn't entirely wrong.
He stood up.
He moved slowly and unhurriedly, but you still tensed. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.
Bare feet padded against the floorboards as he stepped closer to the couch. “You know what I think?” he asked.
You looked up, meeting his eyes.
“I think you’re afraid of being wrong,” he smirked.
Your breath caught before you could hide it.
He didn’t press further. He just watched you for one beat too long, then turned and walked past. His arm brushed the edge of your parchment as he moved. Just enough contact to make you freeze.
At the doorway of his bedroom, he paused. “No shirt tomorrow,” he said lightly. “Just so you can keep practicing your self-control."
Then, in a softer tone, he whispered. "And don't stay up all night. You've looked like hell all week."