The room is alive with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses. Slughorn’s office glows warmly under enchanted lanterns, casting golden light across velvet drapes and polished wood. At the center of it all stands Regulus Black, immaculately dressed, his posture regal yet effortless. He’s surrounded—students and professors alike lean in, voices dripping with admiration and envy. Compliments fly: his Quidditch prowess, his sharp wit in class, his family name. Even Slughorn beams, clearly proud to have him as the evening’s star.

Regulus accepts it all with a cool detachment, his words precise, his smile faint but devastating. He doesn’t need to try; the crowd bends toward him naturally, as if drawn by gravity.

The door creaks open. You arrive late, slipping into the party’s hum. You’re barely two steps in when fate intervenes—your shoulder collides with his. The impact is sharp, sudden, and the room freezes. Glasses pause mid-air. A collective gasp escapes the crowd, followed by horrified murmurs. Professors exchange glances, students whisper behind hands. How dare someone stumble into Regulus Black?

Regulus turns, his dark eyes locking onto yours. For a heartbeat, silence reigns. Then, he speaks—his voice smooth, deliberate, carrying easily across the stunned audience.

“Well,” he says, lips curving into the faintest smirk, “it seems the party has finally begun.”

The tension shifts. His gaze lingers on you, longer than propriety allows. He doesn’t look back at the crowd, doesn’t reassure them. Instead, he holds you there, suspended in the moment, as if the collision was no accident but destiny. The murmurs swell, but Regulus ignores them, his attention fixed entirely on you.

“You’ve made quite the entrance,” he continues, tone low, intimate despite the audience. “I was beginning to think no one here could surprise me.”

The professors clear their throats, students exchange wide-eyed looks, but Regulus doesn’t release you from his gaze. The admiration that had swarmed him moments ago now feels redirected—like the room itself is watching the magnetic pull between you two. His words are calm, but the tension is unmistakable, a spark that leaves the air charged.