Chapter Text
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.”
--T. S. Eliot
September, 1978
The first time you truly saw Regulus Black, he was sitting alone beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, his gaze trained up. Candles floated lazily in midair casting golden pools of light along the polished tables below. Above them the artificial sky shimmered in deep indigo, scattered with slowly drifting constellations meant to imitate the real ones. You followed his gaze, trying to see what he was so keenly looking at, and smiled inadvertently when you spotted the constellation Leo, and specifically, the star bearing his namesake.
Regulus.
You had seen him before, of course. Everyone had.
The heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. The younger brother who had not run. The brilliant Seeker. The perfect son. And a handful of other equally adulating monikers. His name moved through every echelon in the castle in lowered voices, often admiring, sometimes wary, but always respected.
Though you were both in Seventh Year, you’d never had occasion to speak to him before, beyond the most passing exchanges. Besides, he’d always seemed a little forbidding to you, what with his straight posture, immaculate appearance and expression composed almost to the point of aloofness.
But that night he wasn’t surrounded. No cluster of pureblood peers hovered over his shoulder. No admirers angled for proximity. Instead, he sat by himself at the edge of the Slytherin table—not too far from his friends, but enough to suggest he’d intended it that way. It was just him, looking up. As though the ceiling was real, or as though the stars might answer him if only he stared hard enough. You thought he looked almost...wistful. Strangely, something tugged at your chest.
You told yourself you were only curious, that you were not reckless. Though in hindsight, it was a poor idea, really. Approaching a Black uninvited, let alone one who had never given anyone reason to think he welcomed interruption. It was the sort of thing people learned not to do.
You hesitated, just for some moments. Your eyes flicked to your table, to the easy safety of it, the familiar faces, laughter that flowed easily, conversations that did not require much from you. And then back to him, sitting apart even in a crowded hall.
It would be simpler to stay where you were.
You stepped away from the Hufflepuff table anyway.
The air felt somehow charged as you crossed the space between house tables. Conversations dipped briefly as you passed, then resumed. As you made your way to their table, some of Slytherin students glanced at you, though their attention slid away easily enough before it could settle. It was perhaps not an interesting enough occurrence for them to merit a second glance.
When you stopped beside Regulus he did not acknowledge your presence immediately, giving you time to observe him uninterrupted. Up close, he seemed even sharper than you expected. Dark hair artfully tousled. Shoulders squared in habitual composure. Hands loosely clasped over the table like someone accustomed to being observed.
Forbidding indeed, you thought.
You blew out a slow breath and borrowed some of the Gryffindor courage before taking a seat beside him.
“Planning to steal the stars, Black?” you asked, keeping your tone light and friendly.
For a moment, you imagined how humiliating it would be if he simply ignored you. Imagined how embarrassed and slighted you would feel as you plodded back to your table. It was to your relief then that, without lowering his gaze, he spoke, “They’re not worth stealing.”
His voice was quieter than you remembered. Smooth and controlled, aristocratic accent seemingly giving the words extra weight.
“Oh?” you said. “And why is that?”
“Everyone can see them.”
The answer surprised you a little. There was something almost dismissive in the way he said it. As if to him only the things he could see had worth—the rest were of no value at all.
You folded your arms, forging ahead. “That’s a shame. I assumed you liked rare and valuable things.”
That made him glance at you. His eyes were grey, you saw, and unlike his infamous brother, it was not a warm grey, not filled with mischief and mirth. Rather, it was clear and cool, like polished stone.
“You assume a great deal about me,” he said, raising a brow, a hint of a challenge in his tone.
“Do I?”
You silently commended yourself on not backing down from the assessing look he fixed you with. “And yet, you haven’t corrected me.”
In the silence that stretched in between, something flickered across his face—irritation, perhaps. Or intrigue.
“You don't seem wary of me,” he remarked tilting his head slightly.
There was no arrogance in his tone. Rather, he said it like an observation, or like someone testing out the words. It gave you pause. You considered his statement perhaps a touch longer than necessary. Were you wary of him? More importantly should you be?
The name Black carried weight, certainly. Not just history for him, you imagined, but expectations too. The kind that carried invisible meaning, something that pressed down in corridors and dinner tables alike. It was enough to intimidate just about anyone. And hadn’t you just admitted to yourself how he’d seemed forbidding? His was a name so high in the pecking order that people like you probably looked like ants to him—hardly worthy of noticing. So, you supposed, you were a bit wary of him.
Just not right then.
Because, at that moment, sitting beside him, you could not bring yourself to see his House, or even his status. Only a boy who looked just a little bit stifled. Or perhaps—and this might only be in your imagination—a bit lonely.
All the same, you hesitated before responding. “Should I be?” you asked, voicing your earlier thought out loud.
The corner of his mouth curved up in a humorless smile. “Most people are.”
You rested your chin on your palm as you considered it. “Hmm. That sounds rather inconvenient.” And sad, you added to yourself.
“In what way?”
“Well, it must be exhausting,” you replied, “being feared—or even revered, for something you didn’t personally do.” You drummed your fingers on the table and added wryly, “Though I suppose it does save time on introductions.”
For some reason he seemed to go still at that, and then the full force of his gaze landed on you.
The hall around you suddenly felt distant—the scrape of forks, the hum of conversation, the flicker of candles, all receded to the background while he regarded you.
“Most people,” he said carefully, “don’t bother looking past the name.”
No, you didn't imagine they did. When a mere name held so much power that it obscured everything in its vicinity, it was easier to pretend there was nothing else there at all.
“And do you prefer that?”
His jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, but you noticed.
“It does simplify things.”
You tilted your head. “For whom?”
He didn’t answer you, gaze returning to the ceiling, to the drifting stars. You wondered if it was a dismissal.
The pause this time no longer felt light.
“You shouldn’t, you know,” he said at last, just as you were contemplating whether to just walk away.
“Shouldn’t what?” You frowned.
“Look past it.” He still wasn’t looking at you, but you detected a strange note in his tone, though you couldn’t tell what exactly it was, though it sounded part cautionary and part anticipatory.
“Why not?”
For a moment you thought he wouldn’t reply. But then:
“Because you might not...like what you find.”
You blinked, a little taken aback at the rather self-aware response. You studied his profile—the line of his nose, the angle of his sharp jaw, the deliberate stillness in his posture, the careful neutrality he maintained in his tone. You then thought of vague overheard whispers in corridors. Of blood and legacy and purity, of repulsive things spoken of like doctrine. You tried to put the two pictures side by side.
But even if you tried, for whatever reason, you found the boy sitting beside you did not align with that other image. At least, for now, you thought.
You stood up to leave, but paused for a moment to say, “I think...yes, I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
For the rest of the evening, though you did not turn your head, you felt the sensation of his gaze occasionally flicking back to you. And for no reason that you could discern, it thrilled you a little.
He had warned you not to look past the name. But look past it you did, foolish though it might have been. And you were intrigued by what you found.
It happened gradually, in chance observations as you began to pay more attention whenever you were in the same room as him.
You discovered that he was far quieter than the rumours suggested. Given his upbringing you had suspected that he would be particular about things, that perhaps he would be boisterous and arrogant like most of the other Slytherin boys in your year. But after a few days of unobtrusively watching him you discovered that Regulus Black, although not unfriendly, was only one or two steps away from being labelled reserved, and meticulous to boot in everything—his studies, his Quidditch practice, even the way he folded his parchment. You discovered he preferred the library’s darkest corners—sometimes in the shaded alcove in the northeastern wing, or most often behind the rather large statue of Thaddeus the Thug. Only later you would learn it was not because he disliked company, but because he disliked being ogled at, and both of these spots provided ample cover from prying eyes.
It began with academic rivalry.
You both excelled at Potions, and Professor Slughorn took obvious delight in pitting you against each other. Regulus was precise, elegant, and methodical. You were intuitive, daring, experimental. Seeing how your skills complemented each other Slughorn began partnering you up occasionally. To say that the Professor took undue pleasure in a little academic bloodsport would be overstating it, but he did have a gleam in his eyes whenever you happened to have an intellectual disagreement within his earshot. And as conventional as you sometimes found Regulus's methods to be, it was natural that you would find yourself at odds on occassion. Case in point:
“You’re going to ruin it,” he murmured one afternoon, looking dubiously at the gently bubbling cauldron as you stirred your potion. “You have to do it counter-clockwise.”
The dungeon air was thick with the smell of crushed valerian root and simmering lacewing flies.
“I am stirring counter-clockwise.”
“You are stirring with impatience.”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “It’s a potion, Black. Not a flighty debutante.”
You pursed your lips to keep from smiling when you noticed his jaw tick. You continued preparing your fresh fluxweed seeds. As comported as he appeared to be, it was easy to provoke him at times.
“The instructions in Moste Potente Potions are explicit. Three rotations, pause, tap the rim, then add dry fluxweed.”
“And I bet the instructions were written by someone who’d never handled fresh fluxweed themselves,” you replied facetiously, not missing a beat. “It reacts differently.”
He finally looked at you.
“Magic does not ‘react differently.’ It follows established principles.”
“That sounds like something your mother would say.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
A flicker—sharp and dangerous—passed through his eyes and you winced inwardly.
“My mother values tradition,” he said evenly.
“Yes,” you replied, softer now, a touch apologetic. “And tradition values itself.”
He did not respond and an uneasy silence stretched between you, as thick as the steam rising from your cauldrons. You bit your lip, thinking of something to say. Your eyes fell to your satchel. You quickly reached into it and pulled out a small notebook—Muggle paper, dog-eared, colourful tabs poking out. You flipped it open.
“I tested this over the summer,” you settled on saying, pointing at your scribbled notes. “Fluxweed harvested under a waxing moon retains more residual enchantment. It needs agitation to stabilise.”
“You experimented?” His voice held something like disbelief and you smiled faintly.
“Mm-hm. I asked Professor Sprout if I could take some seeds to plant in our back garden—nothing overtly magical, of course—but I wanted to see how they would take to different soil. She agreed.” You shrugged, “Plus my father’s a botanist, and a real enthusiast of all things plant related.”
Regulus stilled.
“Muggle botany,” he said carefully, as if the word itself was an alien thing he’d never heard of before.
Perhaps he never had, you mused.
“Yes,” you dragged out the word, peering at him from the corner of your eyes. “He was thrilled when the first shoots of shrivelfig and lovage sprouted after weeks of hard work.”
He watched—rather skeptically, you thought—as you added the fluxweed first, before the rim tap, and stirred twice sharply.
The potion darkened. Then shimmered. And at last it settled into a luminous silver that neither of you had seen before. Professor Slughorn who was passing by your bench at that moment nearly burst with delight at seeing your result.
“Brilliant adaptation! Indeed, quite daring!” He then glanced at Regulus shrewdly. "I say, you have some competition, Mr. Black."
You couldn’t help the pleased grin from spreading across your face.
When the room cleared, Regulus remained staring into your cauldron, a thoughtful frown on his face.
“You altered a three-century-old brewing structure,” he said quietly.
You hummed. “You say that like it’s blasphemy.”
He eyed you from the corner of his eye. “It may as well be.”
“But it worked,” you pointed out.
He turned toward you then, studying you for a moment with an expression that was a mix between contemplation and chagrin. “You’re infuriating,” he declared at last.
You placed a hand on your chest, arranging your expression into one of hurt. “Ouch. That hurt, Black. How will I ever live now?”
He was high-bred enough to refrain from baser reactions of mortals like an eye roll or a scoff.
But as you passed him by to gather your things you heard him mutter, “As if the same rules don’t apply to you.”
You shrugged at him, "You know as they say: rules aren't meant to be followed blindly.”
He had no rejoinder for that. So you considered it a point in your favour.
The Arithmancy classroom was quieter than most. It always felt older somehow—older than the stone walls, older than the castle itself sometimes—as if the symbols etched into the blackboard, the various charts of equations, the eclectic collection of shiny measuring equipments strewn around the space predated language, lending the room a weightier air.
Chalk dust floated in the slanted afternoon light. Most of the students had already left, books tucked away, chairs scraping against stone as they hurried toward lunch.
“Aren’t you coming?” Diane asked as you remained in your seat scribbling.
“You go ahead. I’ll join you soon,” you replied not looking up.
Some minutes later when you did look up from your parchment you saw that Regulus had stayed behind too.
He was seated three rows ahead to the left of you, posture straight as ever, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist. His books and parchment were arranged with such mathematical precision that you wondered if he had measured them with a ruler first—and from what you could see, his rune circles and matrices were drafted in fine ink, every line measured and aligned.
You stared at yours. Your circle looked… similar, yes, but not identical.
“You’ve altered it.”
You didn’t startle. You had felt him looking earlier.
“It’s a minor inversion," you shrugged.
“Doesn't look minor.” Regulus's voice was even, but there was curiosity, and something else beneath it. “You’ve changed the base lattice.”
You dipped your quill back into ink, etching the final line of the matrix. “Well, I felt it was restrictive.”
“It’s meant to be restrictive.” He turned in his seat to face you fully, the expression on his face a curious mixture of expectant and slightly patronizing.
At the end of the lecture Professor Vector had assigned the class to draw a traditional protection matrix as practice—one used historically in old wizarding households. It was designed to reinforce lineage-based wards, binding magic inward, strengthening a structure from its center.
You had done some calculations and decided to invert the secondary arc—just to see what would happen.
“You’re familiar with this formation,” you observed.
He seemed to hesitate before replying. Why, you had no idea.
“Yes.”
You lightly tapped your parchment with your quill feather. “How, may I ask?”
There was a pause, as if he was weighing his words.
“It’s a Black family matrix.”
You blinked. “That’s not in the textbook.”
“...No.”
Of course it wasn’t. You looked down at the original diagram again. Suddenly the structure made more sense — why it looped inward so tightly, why the reinforcing lines converged toward a central sigil. It wasn’t meant to protect a space, you thought. It was meant to protect a name.
You tapped your wand against your altered diagram experimentally. The ink shimmered. The rune circle lifted slightly off the page, hovering in faint orange lines. The lines pulsed once, then the outer rim extended, widening the circle. Instead of binding inward, the magic rippled outward like a breath released. It was weaker than you'd expected, but it still held its shape. That was something, at least.
Down the row of benches Regulus leaned closer despite himself, his attention fixed on your altered matrix. Then, as if trying to dispel something, he shook his head. “That’s unstable.”
You glanced at him quickly, then back at your ward circle, considering. “Alright, let's see. What if I just—,” you murmured and adjusted one line of the matrix with the tip of your wand. The circle steadied, humming faintly. That's more like it. You turned toward him, a little gleeful, “See? It isn’t unstable. It just isn’t—” you paused, searching for the right word, “territorial.”
Regulus folded his arms, looking down at his own parchment, a small frown on his face. "Well, it’s supposed to be.”
You scoffed under your breath. He was being unnecessarily obstinate, you thought. “Why?”
His gaze snapped to yours, a hint of defensiveness visible in them.
“Because that’s how legacy magic functions. They’re protective of what’s theirs.”
You didn’t shrink back. “And if legacy magic excludes people?”
The question hung between you, prickly and dangerous. You were no longer talking about a simple arithmancy problem. And it seemed he knew it.
He straightened slightly, as though a reflex had pulled him upright. “Protection requires setting boundaries,” he intoned in a rehearsed manner.
You leaned back, a little fired up yourself. “Hmm. Are you sure you’re talking about protection, and not, say—isolation, or even exclusion?”
His jaw tightened. You could tell he was beginning to be annoyed now.
“You speak as if those are opposites.”
“Not opposites, perhaps, but not the same either.”
A prolonged silence ensued. Outside the tall windows, clouds passed in front of the sun, blotting out some of its brightness. The lake beyond the grounds reflected the dimming light.
You turned back to your parchment, but Regulus remained where he was. You wondered if he would simply leave, annoyed enough to leave you to your own devices.
After a moment though, he surprised you when he rose from his seat and crossed the space between you.
He did not ask for permission before taking up the seat beside you.
Up close, you could see the faint splotches of ink along his fingers—evidence that he’d been writing for hours. His penmanship was always elegant, you noticed, each rune, each letter exact. It wasn't simply neat. It was precise. You wondered how much of that precision was habit, and how much was deliberate.
“You assume then,” he said gingerly, “that all tradition is malicious?”
You shook your head. “No. I didn’t say that." You weighed your words carefully before speaking, “Of course tradition is necessary, as long as it serves a, um, constructive purpose. But more often than not I've found that some traditions tend to be...comfortable—complacent, rather.”
“Perhaps some,” he conceded, his eyes flickering almost imperceptibly, as if he wanted to say more but was holding something back.
You softened slightly. “People often lock their doors at night,” you said. “That’s protection. Because it keeps burglars and other unwanted people out.”
He inclined his head to indicate he was listening.
“But they don’t build trenches around the house. They don’t bar their windows permanently. They don’t enchant the ground so no one can approach.”
“That would be excessive,” Regulus said.
“Right, exactly. And yet,” you murmured, gesturing to the original rune diagram, “that’s what this does.”
He studied your altered version again. You had yet to release the rune that hovered some inches above the parchment, and the outward ripple glowed steadily, though not as brightly as you would have liked.
“It’s weaker,” he said.
“It’s broader,” you argued, feeling a little defensive yourself now.
“That isn’t the same.”
You pursed your lips but refrained from replying.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then, more quietly, he asked, “Why does this matter to you?”
You looked up at him, blinking at hearing the earnestness behind his question, as though he really wanted to know. You traced the edge of the hovering circle with your finger, debating how much to say, then decided to go with honesty.
“My mother was a pureblood witch, from one of the Sacred Twenty Eight families,” you began. “You know that.”
He nodded.
“She left her family to marry my father—a muggle. Unsurprisingly, they weren’t pleased.” You sighed. “In fact, her family were so appalled that they disowned her. Completely cut her out of their lives.”
His expression softened at that, eyes taking on a glint that strangely gave you the impression that he knew a little of what that was like. “I didn’t know that.”
You shrugged, letting out a breath.
“She died when I was eight,” you continued, swallowing the lump in your throat. “After that, it was just me and my dad. He learned enough things to help me with my involuntary bursts of magic until I came here. He still tries.” You chuckled, shaking your head. “He reads books he barely understands because he doesn’t want me to feel like...like half of me is missing.”
Regulus’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“When people talk about things like tradition and blood like it’s sacred,” you continued, willing your voice to remain steady, “I think about him. And I think about how he held my mother’s wand like it was something precious. Something holy. He never once made me feel less because I could do things he couldn’t, because I was different.”
You weren’t sure why you were telling him all this, but something about his attention—the sincere way he watched you speak, almost compassionate, made the words spill easier. Perhaps you would feel mortified later for divulging so much at once, but right now you felt you could say it.
“So no,” you said. “I don’t believe tradition, or blood, or legacy deserves the reverence it gets in this society. I don’t worship inheritance.”
His gaze had dropped to your hands as you spoke.
“But some inheritances,” he said after a long moment, “are not options you can simply opt out of. They are obligations.” His gaze remained lowered. “They aren't merely traditions you inherit, but expectations. Ones that were decided long before you were born.”
You turned toward him. “And what if you don’t want them? Don't you get a say in that?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That’s not how it works.”
“Why not?” you pressed.
“Because they existed before you,” he replied, almost impatiently, as if this was an established rule one could not break. “Because they are larger than you. Because abandoning them has consequences.”
You leaned back. “For whom?”
“For everyone,” he said, a hard edge to his tone.
You held his stare brazenly.
“Or maybe just for those who built them? And benefit from them?”
The air between you felt charged, not with anger, exactly—but with something more fragile and complicated. His hand moved before he seemed to realise it. His fingers brushed the edge of your hovering rune circle. The orange lines flickered at his touch. You watched, a little amazed, as he reached out with his wand and adjusted one segment instinctively—correcting a minute imbalance you had unintentionally left out. The circle stabilised further, pulsing brighter now.
You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling involuntarily into a smile. “That was helpful.”
He withdrew his wand quickly, as though it had burned him.
After a while you flicked your own wand and the rune circle dimmed slowly, settling back onto the parchment and dissolving quietly into the ink.
Neither of you moved to leave, each lost in your own thoughts.
After a moment, he murmured, “If you invert the secondary arc and reinforce the outer ring with an anchoring rune… it might sustain longer-term enchantment.”
You beamed at him. “Why Black, that sounds suspiciously like good advice.”
His mouth curved into a small smile. He cleared his throat to hide it.
“Yes, well. Don’t mistake it for surrender.”
You dipped your quill into ink and redrew the outer line.
“Far be it from me,” you murmured.
He leaned closer to examine the adjustment. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you. Close enough that the old structures — inherited, imposed, unquestioned — felt, for just a moment, less immovable.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, which somehow made it feel worse. It was a pleasantly sunny day, which was a reprieve after days of constant rain. Nothing dramatic had occurred that morning. Just double Potions and a looming essay for Transfiguration.
You were halfway down the corridor towards the library when you heard your name in passing.
“—didn’t know they were letting anyone into advanced Runes this year.”
The voice was smooth, aristocratic, amused. You didn’t slow your pace but you clutched your books a little tightly. Behind you, the footsteps quickened, almost catching up to you.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Father says standards have been slipping for years.”
You forced yourself to keep walking, hoping you could outpace the words, but they doggedly followed close behind.
A third voice chimed in, lower, almost ponderous. “Slughorn seems quite fond of her.”
“Ah, that explains it, then. But then again, it doesn’t take much to please old Slughorn.”
The statement was followed by a chorus of chuckles.
That made you stop. Not because you wanted to. Because if you didn’t, you knew you would think about it later. And it would sit and fester inside you like something swallowed and undigested.
So you steeled your nerves and turned around.
Three Slytherins stood a few paces behind you — older than most in your year, polished in that particular way some pureblood boys were. Gleaming shoes, polished silver cufflinks winking in the light, easy arrogance on permanent display.
Regulus stood slightly apart from them. To his credit he hadn’t spoken. Nor had he joined in on the laughter. But he hadn’t left either, hadn't intervened, and that prickled like tiny pins and needles on your skin, though you knew it shouldn't have.
“What explains it?” you asked evenly.
The tallest of them — Selwyn, you remembered — tilted his head in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, nothing really,” he said lightly. “Just an observation.”
You bristled slightly at the condescending tone. “Observation about what?”
He gestured with his hand, as if waving the question away. “You know, about access.” His eyes dropped meaningfully to the books in your arms. “You see some disciplines,” he continued, an entitled smirk on his face, “were historically designed for certain families, to be within certain lines.”
“And you believe aptitude is hereditary, do you?” you asked with some bite in your tone.
“I believe magic flows stronger in untainted blood,” he replied without hesitation.
Untainted blood.
Something cold twisted in your stomach, digging painfully enough that for a second you thought it might show, that it might slip into your expression before you could stop it. You managed to swallow it down and forced your face into unaffected stillness.
Not here, you thought. Not in front of them.
“And I suppose you’ve measured that, to declare it with such…conviction.”
The flicker of irritation in his expression told you he had caught the hint of challenge in your statement.
“I don’t need to measure it because it’s common knowledge.” He looked you up and down, and a small shiver of disgust travelled down your back. “Then again, not so common it seems, seeing as you don’t know it.”
The part of you that always shrank away from confrontations was warning you to back off, to not engage any more than necessary, to listen to good sense. But your mind went back to the letter you had received from your father just that morning.
My girl, I know this world you’re a part of is complicated, he had written in his loopy, almost illegible handwriting that was so similar to yours, I knew it since the moment I married your mother. I know some people will try to make you feel as though you don’t fully belong to it. I wish I could tell you that stops when you grow older. It doesn’t. But I can tell you this: you don't need anyone’s permission to be exceptional.
Your throat tightened as you recalled the last line: Your mother would have been proud of you. I know I already am.
And so, instead of listening to good sense as you normally would, you shifted the weight of your books in your arms deliberately. You kept your father's words at the forefront of your mind as you straightened your posture. Your voice was steady when you spoke. “My father’s a Muggle,” you declared bluntly, your eyes inadvertently flicking towards Regulus who was watching you with an indecipherable expression. It told you to tread carefully. You turned your attention back to Selwyn. “And despite that… “setback” as you consider it, I’m doing fairly well in Ancient Runes. And what’s more, I’m top of Arithmancy.” Despite your attempt to hold back, the edge in your voice was unmistakable.
The corridor had gone quiet now. The few students that passed slowed in their tracks just enough to listen. You had no doubt this would be the latest batch of gossip by tomorrow morning.
Selwyn’s smile turned sardonic. “Yes,” he said. “You are.” It wasn’t praise, you gathered, but dismissal. “As I said,” he added, glancing at the others, “standards.”
The boy beside Regulus—perhaps Crouch Jr. or Mulciber, you weren’t sure—gave a snort.
You did not look at Regulus again. That would make it worse. Instead, you met Selwyn’s gaze squarely. “I think you’re confusing tradition with superiority,” you said as calmly as you could manage.
There was a dangerous glint in Selwyn's eyes as he took a step closer. “And you’re confusing luck with merit.”
There was a part of you that wanted to react more passionately—to raise your voice, to let anger show explicitly. But you had learned long ago that anger was often mistaken for proof of inadequacy. Besides, you had never been a particularly irascible person anyway. So you did what your father had taught you. You inhaled. Then you bent down to set your books on the floor beside your satchel. Your movements were slow and purposeful. Every eye in the hallway tracked the motion, as if you were a cat about to pounce, or a rat about to flee.
Though you did neither.
“Runes aren’t impressed by surnames,” you said after you straightened. “They respond to precision and skill. Like so.” You lifted one hand, wand between your fingers. With a quiet incantation, you traced a small sigil in the air. As you channeled a bit more of your magic it glowed and then expanded into a lattice of interlocking symbols, hovering in the air between you. It was clean, stable. And beautiful.
A few students murmured.
Selwyn’s jaw tightened. “That’s a third-tier lattice." You felt a small thrill at his expression—annoyance mixed with surprise.
“Is it?” you replied mildly.
You shifted one line and inverted the secondary arc the way you had in Arithmancy. The lattice expanded outward instead of folding inward. The glow strengthened.
Even Selwyn couldn’t deny that. His eyes narrowed however, more calculating than impressed. “Clever,” he said at last, glancing at the other two boys. “Parlour tricks usually are.”
You bit your lip, reining back the retort at the tip of your tongue. Instead, you let the magic hover a moment longer — then dismissed it with a flick of your wand, knowing there wasn't anything you could do to sway the opinion of people with inflexible minds. The light vanished. But the silence lingered, hushed and anticipatory.
“Then if you’d like to test your theory,” you said, “I’m free after dinner.” You looked at the three conceited boys before you, quietly daring them to engage further. You resolved to not back down.
Selwyn held your gaze for a long moment, calculating. Then he smiled, but this time it no longer reached his eyes. “Perhaps another time.”
He turned first. The others followed. It seemed the show was over.
Regulus remained where he stood, even as the corridor slowly resumed its movement. Whispers trailed behind departing students.
You bent to gather a book that had slipped from your stack. He stepped forward at the same time. Your hands brushed against the same spine.
For a second, neither of you moved.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Engage.”
You withdrew your hand first and straightened.
"Should I have remained silent then? Walked away as they disparaged my abilities?”
His expression was difficult to read.
“Selwyn enjoys provoking.”
You shook your head. "I think he believes exactly what he said.”
Regulus did not answer immediately.
“He believes in hierarchy,” he said at last.
You lifted your eyes up to meet his. “And you?” The question was softly spoken. Not accusatory. But direct nonetheless.
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “You know what my family believes.” His words were clipped, evasive.
You held firm. “That isn’t what I asked.”
He looked at you then, stone grey eyes locking into yours with a strange sort of intensity. You got the strangest impression that he saw not a rival, nor even something intriguing, but as someone standing in a corridor who had just been measured and found wanting by boys who shared his table for no reason other than a conceited sense of superiority. There was discomfort in the way he held himself.
“I don’t think you were admitted by accident,” he said carefully, still ambiguous, still circling around the question.
“That’s not an answer either.”
Silence pressed in around you. You wondered if this would devolve into another confrontation.
“Magic isn’t equal,” he said finally. “Some families cultivate it. Refine it.”
“And some hoard it,” you replied, not missing a beat.
His eyes darkened slightly, but he didn't refute you. He glanced down the corridor where Selwyn and the others had disappeared. Then he looked back at you.
“You were composed,” he said.
You shrugged. “I’ve had practice.”
That seemed to unsettle him more than anything else.
“Does it…” He began and then stopped, as if thinking better of it.
You waited as he debated with himself.
“Does it happen often?” He finally asked.
You did not shy away from his gaze.
“Not aloud. Not quite so explicitly. But it is implied." You toyed with the strap of your bag. "The undercurrent of disdain is hard to miss, especially when one is not trying to hide it. Though some of my friends have it worse.”
Something flickered across his face then— something very close to shame.
It made you take a step closer to him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked quietly.
Thankfully he wasn't evasive this time. Nor die he pretend not to understand.
“They would have assumed motive,” he replied, looking away from you.
“What, for defending me?”
“For contradicting them.”
You tilted your head. “And that would be unacceptable?”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t need to.
You adjusted the books in your arms. “Its alright. I won't hold it against you," you said. "And I certainly don’t need you to defend me."
His shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t think you did.”
“But I would like to know,” you continued, “that when they speak like that, you don’t agree.”
At that he stared at you, and you looked right back. The corridor felt too narrow suddenly. But you refused to back away. You had to know.
He was the first to look away again. “I don’t."
The answer was firm. Too firm to be rehearsed. You searched his face for deception or mockery and found none. Only conflict. As though he was someone standing in front of two doors, each leading somewhere uncertain, and he was afraid to step through either of them.
“You can’t sit between it forever, you know,” you said gently.
His eyes snapped back to yours. For a moment, something unguarded surfaced — frustration, perhaps. Or fear. Then it was gone.
“I’ll walk you to the library,” he said instead.
You knew it wasn’t an apology. Nor was it a defense. But it wasn’t neutrality either.
You hesitated for a few seconds before nodding.
As you began walking side by side, not touching, he said quietly:
“The lattice you cast — you reinforced the outer arc with a tertiary anchor.”
“Mm-hm.”
“That’s not in Professor Vector’s curriculum.”
“No.”
Another pause.
“It was stronger,” he admitted.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Do my ears deceive me or is that praise I hear?”
He huffed a breath that could almost be mistaken for laughter. “It was only an observation.”
“Ah,” you nodded solemnly. “My mistake. I’ll be sure to catalogue it properly for future reference.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Catalogue?”
“Of course,” you replied airily, pausing at the library doors. “Black, Regulus. Rare species. Occasionally capable of complimentary observations. Terms and conditions apply.”
That did it. A chuckle escaped him before he even seemed to realise it. The sound made you grin.
And for the first time since the corridor fell silent, you felt something loosen—in yourself and more consequently, in him.