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Chapter Text

The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts, doing little to improve Regulus Black's mood. In fact, everything about this evening was conspiring to irritate him. It had started with Professor Flitwick's annoyingly cheerful announcement during dinner ("A few extra patrols are in order, to ensure everyone's settling in nicely! A chance for our older students to guide the younger ones, and ensure the castle remains a safe and welcoming environment for all!"), followed by the utterly predictable assignment of said patrols. The Headmaster, with that twinkle in his eye that Regulus had learned to distrust implicitly, had read out the pairings, his voice echoing through the Great Hall.

"Mr. Black, you will be partnered with Miss White."

A collective groan had risen from the Slytherin table – whether in sympathy for Regulus or Arabella, he wasn't sure, and he didn't particularly care. He'd merely inclined his head with a carefully schooled expression of indifference, while inside, a storm of dark thoughts brewed. He’d risked a glance towards the Hufflepuff table and seen her practically vibrating in her seat, a smile so wide it threatened to split her face. It was a smile that promised relentless optimism, an endless stream of chatter, and a complete and utter disregard for the concept of personal space.

And now, here he was.

He rounded a corner, his black robes billowing dramatically, the very picture of a brooding Slytherin, only to be met with a sight that made his scowl deepen. Leaning against a suit of armor, practically vibrating with barely contained energy, was her .

Arabella White. Even her name sounded... sunny. It was ridiculous. Her black hair, usually neatly braided with impeccable care, had come slightly undone, with a few strands escaping to frame her ridiculously cheerful face. A stray lock curled over her cheek, and Regulus found himself inexplicably wanting to smooth it back, a thought he immediately suppressed. Her brown eyes sparkled with an almost painful level of enthusiasm, reflecting the torchlight like tiny, glittering stars. Even her Hufflepuff robes seemed... brighter than usual, the yellow a stark contrast to the muted greens and browns of the corridor, and a particularly offensive sight to Regulus's Slytherin sensibilities. She was practically glowing, radiating an aura of... well, it was nauseating, whatever it was.

The suit of armor behind her seemed to be groaning under the sheer force of her... presence . Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, the cool stone a small comfort against the headache that was already forming. This was going to be a long night. An eternity. An exercise in patience that would surely test the very limits of his sanity. He briefly considered feigning a sudden illness, but dismissed the idea. Arabella would probably insist on escorting him to the infirmary, singing healing songs all the way.

"Oh, Regulus! You're here!" she chirped, pushing herself off the armor with a bounce that suggested she was about to break into song, or possibly a spontaneous cartwheel. "I was so hoping I wouldn't be stuck with someone boring."

There it was. The voice. Bright, melodic, and utterly devoid of the subtle nuances of sarcasm, irony, or any of the other emotional complexities that made life (and indeed, tolerable company) worthwhile. It was the kind of voice that could probably charm a Hippogriff, Regulus thought darkly. A very stupid Hippogriff.

Regulus lowered his hand and fixed her with what he hoped was a sufficiently withering glare. He'd spent years perfecting this glare, honing it to a razor-sharp edge, capable of silencing even the most boisterous Gryffindors. He fully expected Arabella to wilt under its intensity, to shrink back and mutter something about having a sudden headache.

Instead, she blinked, her smile widening, if such a thing were possible. "Ooh, a metaphor! You're quite the poet, aren't you? 'Niffler infestation in my trunk' – that's rather vivid! Don't worry, I'll make this fun for both of us! Think of it as... a bonding experience! We can learn all sorts of interesting things about each other!"

Regulus's lip curled. He felt a muscle ticking in his jaw. Bonding. The very word sent shivers of revulsion down his spine. He'd rather bond with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. At least Skrewts had the decency to be openly hostile. "I'd rather bond with a Bludger," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He was going for menacing. He usually nailed menacing.

She giggled, a sound that, to Regulus's ears, resembled the chirping of overly enthusiastic pixies, or perhaps the tinkling of wind chimes in a particularly strong gale. It was a sound that grated on his nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Oh, you're just teasing! You don't really hate Bludgers. They're just misunderstood! You have a sense of humor! I knew it! You Slytherins aren't all doom and gloom, are you?"

Regulus ground his teeth. This was not going according to plan. Not even remotely. He was supposed to be intimidating her, making her realize what a grim, unpleasant task this was, and thus, ensuring he'd be assigned to solo patrol in the future. The thought of future solo patrols was now the only thing keeping him from storming off and accepting whatever punishment Snape deemed fit. Instead of cowering, she seemed to find his every attempt at rudeness utterly charming, as if he were some kind of performing monkey. A very surly, sarcastic performing monkey.

He tried a different tactic. Silence. He simply stopped responding to her chatter, hoping that the sheer lack of engagement would eventually deter her. It was a tactic that had worked wonders on his less... persistent housemates. He would become a black hole of taciturnity, a void into which her cheerful prattle would disappear without a trace.

It didn't.

She started humming.

Softly, at first, a cheerful little tune that seemed vaguely familiar, like a Muggle nursery rhyme that had been subjected to an overdose of sunshine. Then louder, with more...embellishments. She added little trills and flourishes, turning the simple melody into a complex, if somewhat chaotic, symphony of sound. Regulus's eye twitched. He felt a vein throbbing in his temple. He considered clamping his hands over his ears, but that would only encourage her. He knew it would.

"Do you know this song, Regulus?" she asked, after a particularly elaborate series of "la-la-las," which sounded suspiciously like a demented opera singer.

He did, much to his chagrin. It was a popular Muggle song, one that his cousin Andromeda used to play incessantly on her Muggle wireless contraption. He scowled. He associated the song with bright colors, laughter, and Andromeda's infuriatingly optimistic outlook on life. All things he actively avoided. "Vaguely."

"It's called 'Here Comes the Sun'! It's my absolute favorite! It always makes me feel so... hopeful! Like everything's going to be alright, you know?" She beamed at him, her eyes sparkling with an almost childlike wonder.

"Hmm," Regulus said, his voice flat, his tone drier than a week-old parchment. "I find the title rather misleading. The sun, as I recall, is a giant ball of fiery gas, destined to burn out and leave us all in eternal darkness."

She just beamed at him, seemingly unfazed by his attempt at existential dread. "You have such a... unique way of looking at the world, Regulus! You should be a philosopher!"

Regulus seriously considered throwing himself off the Astronomy Tower.

The second hour was, somehow, even worse. Arabella, apparently undeterred by his continued attempts at icy detachment and increasingly morbid pronouncements, decided to initiate a series of "get-to-know-you" icebreakers. He recognized the tactic for what it was: a thinly veiled attempt to break down his defenses, to chip away at the carefully constructed walls of his aloofness. It was a Gryffindor tactic, he was sure of it. Or perhaps a Hufflepuff one. Equally repugnant.

"Okay, Regulus," she said, clapping her hands together, the sound echoing in the silent corridor, "here's an easy one! What's your favorite color? Don't think too hard about it!"

Regulus stared at her, his expression a mask of disbelief. He felt like he'd been transported into some bizarre Muggle game show. "My favorite color?"

"Yes! It tells you a lot about a person, you know! Professor Sprout says colors have different energies! Mine's yellow, like sunshine! It's cheerful and bright and full of life! What's yours?"

He considered telling her it was the black of his soul, or the deep, swirling green of a freshly brewed Draught of Despair. But he suspected she'd find a way to interpret even those answers in a positive light. Oh, the black of your soul! So mysterious and brooding! The Draught of Despair? You must be very in touch with your emotions! He could hear her saying it, in that relentlessly cheerful voice. "I... don't have a favorite color," he said, deciding that complete and utter neutrality was the safest option.

She tilted her head, her brow furrowed in thought, as if he'd just presented her with an unsolvable riddle. "Everyone has a favorite color! You're just being mysterious! Or maybe you're colorblind? Oh, that would be so interesting! We could go to the library and look up spells for colorblindness! Or maybe-"

Regulus cut her off before she could launch into another tangent. "I am not colorblind."

"Okay, new question!" she chirped, undeterred. "What's your favorite subject? Mine's Herbology, obviously! I love all the plants, and the way they grow, and how they can heal people! It's like magic, but... real!"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," he replied, before he could stop himself. It was the only subject that held any real interest for him, the only class where he felt truly engaged. The rest of his lessons were a tedious exercise in academic obligation.

Her eyes widened, sparkling with renewed enthusiasm. "Ooh, that's a good one! Professor Lupin is amazing, isn't he? He makes it so... exciting! He's so knowledgeable, and he has such a kind face, don't you think? Do you think we'll ever get to fight a real dark wizard?"

Regulus sighed, the sound of a man who had long since given up on any semblance of peace. "Let's hope not. Though, given my luck, I'll probably be facing one down by the end of the week." He muttered the last part under his breath, but Arabella somehow managed to hear it anyway.

"Oh, don't say that! You're just being dramatic again! You'd be amazing in a duel! You're probably a really good duelist, aren't you? All Slytherins are!"

The questions continued, each one more infuriatingly cheerful than the last. Favorite food (he grumbled "anything edible,"), favorite animal (he said "a Thestral," and she actually seemed excited, asking a million questions about them, completely missing the point that they were rather morbid creatures), favorite Hogwarts class (he admitted, with a surprising amount of reluctance, that he also enjoyed Potions, though he made sure to emphasize how much he despised Snape, a sentiment Arabella didn't seem to share, much to his bewilderment).

With every question, Regulus felt a tiny piece of his carefully constructed persona crumbling. He was revealing things about himself that he usually kept buried deep beneath layers of sarcasm and indifference. And Arabella was accepting these tidbits of information with an almost unnerving level of... interest. It was as if she genuinely cared about what he had to say, which was a concept so foreign to Regulus that he didn't quite know how to process it.

By the time they reached the end of their patrol, the gargoyle-flanked entrance to the Owlery, Regulus felt like he'd aged several years. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He longed for the solitude of his dorm room, the blessed silence, the absence of relentless, unwavering... joy . He felt like he'd run a marathon, only instead of using his legs, he'd used his patience, which was now stretched thinner than a sheet of parchment.

Arabella, on the other hand, seemed as bright and bubbly as she had at the beginning of the night, if not more so. If such a thing were even possible. She was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, her eyes shining with an energy that Regulus found both perplexing and deeply unsettling. How could anyone be this cheerful at... this hour ?

As they stood in the Entrance Hall, about to part ways, she reached into her bag, a veritable Mary Poppins' bag of endless cheer, and pulled out a small, rectangular object. Regulus eyed the bag with suspicion. He wouldn't have been entirely surprised if she'd produced a miniature Snargaluff.

"I made you something!" she announced, holding it out to him with a flourish.

Regulus eyed it with a mixture of suspicion and apprehension. It was a notebook, bound in green fabric, a color that, to Regulus's surprise, wasn't nearly as offensively bright as he'd expected. In fact, it was rather...soft. The words "Patrol Log" were written on the front in neat, looping letters, in a shade of ink that complemented the fabric perfectly. And... were those sparkles ? Tiny, iridescent sparkles, scattered across the cover like captured starlight.

Regulus's mind went blank for a moment. Sparkles. He'd never associated sparkles with anything other than... well, he wasn't entirely sure what he associated them with, but it certainly wasn't anything he'd ever received as a gift.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice flat, betraying none of the utter bewilderment he was feeling inside.

"It's a patrol log! I thought it would be helpful! You know, to keep track of anything important we see. Any suspicious activity, any... interesting smells, anything! I even put in a few extra pages for... notes! You know, if you have any brilliant ideas, or if you want to write down any of your... metaphors! And I decorated it a little!" She grinned, gesturing to the aforementioned sparkles, which were indeed liberally sprinkled across the cover, catching the light and shimmering like a thousand tiny stars. "I used a Sticking Charm, so they won't come off!"

Regulus stared at the notebook, then at Arabella. He opened his mouth to make some sarcastic remark, something about the utter uselessness of sparkles in deterring dark wizards, or the impracticality of using a handmade notebook in a potentially dangerous situation. But the words seemed to catch in his throat, lodged somewhere between his vocal cords and his rapidly softening heart. He was... stunned. No one had ever made him anything before. Especially not something so... thoughtful. And sparkly.

His mother certainly hadn't. Her gifts usually consisted of dark scowls and thinly veiled threats about upholding the family name. His father was equally un-sentimental, preferring to express his affection through lectures on pure-blood supremacy and the importance of maintaining a respectable demeanor. His brother Sirius, before... well, before everything, had given him a few things, mostly hand-me-down Quidditch robes and a rather battered copy of Hogwarts: A History . But this... this was different. This was personal. This was... kind.

"Oh," he managed, his voice sounding strangely... rough, even to his own ears. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of his usual composure.

"Do you like it?" she asked, her eyes shining with a hopeful light, her smile faltering just slightly, as if she were suddenly unsure of her creation.

Regulus swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to say he liked it. That would be admitting... something. He wasn't sure what that something was, but he knew it was dangerous. It was a crack in his armor, a chink in his carefully constructed defenses. But he also couldn't bring himself to insult her, not after she'd clearly put so much effort into it, not after she'd looked at him with such genuine... hope. It was a dilemma of epic proportions.

"It's... adequate," he said, the word sounding even more grudging than he intended. It was the best he could do. He was a Slytherin, after all. Sarcasm and understatement were practically his native tongue.

Arabella's smile didn't falter. In fact, it seemed to brighten, if possible. "Great! I knew you'd appreciate it! You have such a... discerning eye! Well, goodnight, Regulus! See you next time!" She turned and skipped off down the hall, her figure disappearing around the corner with a final, cheerful wave.

Regulus stood there for a long moment, clutching the sparkly notebook in his hand. He stared at it, his expression unreadable. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Confusion. Annoyance. A strange, unfamiliar warmth. He felt like he'd been hit with a Confundus Charm, only instead of making him confused, it had made him...soft. Which was infinitely worse.

Then, almost against his will, a small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was a tiny, fleeting thing, barely perceptible, but it was there. And it terrified him.

He immediately scowled, as if the very act of smiling was a personal betrayal. He felt his carefully cultivated image of brooding Slytherin crumbling around him. He hated himself for it. He hated the notebook. He hated Arabella White and her relentless cheerfulness. He hated everything about this stupid, ridiculous night.

And yet, as he turned and made his way to the Slytherin dungeons, the cold stone corridors somehow feeling less oppressive than usual, he found himself unconsciously tracing the outline of one of the sparkly stars on the cover of the notebook. His fingers lingered on its smooth surface, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning.

He was in deep, deep trouble. And he knew, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic tap of their footsteps against the cold stone floor had, until recently, been the sole auditory presence in the dimly lit corridor. For Regulus, the silence of the late hours had always offered a peculiar solace, a tranquil backdrop occasionally punctuated by the ancient timbers' groan or an owl's mournful call from the distant grounds. However, this particular night, that serenity fractured.

The disruption began subtly, a delicate rustling akin to the whisper of dry leaves dragged across the flagstones, accompanied by an almost inaudible, soft mewing sound. Regulus, ever attuned to his surroundings during his patrols, initially dismissed it as inconsequential. His focus was paramount: the safety and security of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Diversions, particularly of an indeterminate nature, were unwelcome.

Yet, the sound persisted, its faint insistence growing with each passing minute. It emanated from the immediate vicinity, a small, plaintive cry that snagged at the edges of his concentration. Finally, his patience, a virtue he rarely possessed in abundance, began to fray. He halted abruptly, the folds of his black robes swirling around him like a miniature tempest.

"What is that infernal noise?" he inquired, his voice slicing through the stillness with an icy edge. His gaze fixed on Arabella, who walked a few paces ahead, her expression radiating a... suspiciously guileless quality. Too guileless.

Arabella offered a slight start, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Noise? What noise? I perceive nothing." Her eyes darted nervously around the corridor, carefully avoiding his direct scrutiny.

Regulus arched a skeptical eyebrow, an expression honed over years of navigating the less-than-truthful pronouncements of his housemates. "Do not attempt to feign ignorance, White. I distinctly detected a... a disturbance. A small, furry disturbance."

Arabella's shoulders slumped in a gesture of defeat. She sighed softly. Slowly, with evident reluctance, she reached within the depths of her cloak, her hand disappearing into its folds. Regulus watched her movements, his eyes narrowed, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. An ominous premonition took root.

The entity that emerged from the cloak defied his expectations. It was not a mischievous Niffler, as a part of him had half-anticipated (and secretly hoped for – such an event would at least introduce a degree of intriguing chaos). Nor was it a fluffy, diminutive Pygmy Puff, an idea he dismissed as utterly absurd. No, what Arabella gently cradled in her hands was a kitten.

A minuscule, scruffy, undeniably endearing kitten.

It was small enough to fit comfortably within her palm, its face dominated by wide, luminous eyes that appeared disproportionately large for its delicate head. Its fur presented a haphazard mosaic of black and white, and a slight tremor ran through its tiny body as it emitted a weak, plaintive mew. It exuded an aura of being lost, utterly vulnerable, and profoundly out of place amidst the cold, imposing architecture of Hogwarts.

Regulus stared, his carefully constructed facade of aloofness fracturing minutely. He blinked, then stared again, a flicker of something akin to disbelief crossing his features. "There is a kitten... within your cloak?" he stated, his voice dangerously low, laced with a hint of incredulity.

Arabella winced at his tone, clutching the kitten closer to her chest in a protective gesture. "I discovered him outside the Greenhouses," she explained in a near-whisper. "He was all alone, and... and he appeared so frightened. I simply could not abandon him there."

Regulus sputtered, his carefully chosen words deserting him. He sputtered again, struggling for articulation. Finally, he managed to string together a coherent sentence, though its delivery resembled an outraged squawk more than a dignified pronouncement. "You... you smuggled a feline into Hogwarts? Are you devoid of reason? Do you possess any comprehension of the established regulations? The potential for unsanitary conditions? The sheer... the sheer inappropriateness of this entire situation?"

Arabella flinched at his sharp tone, yet her grip on the small creature remained firm. "He is not going to cause any harm! He is merely a baby! And I could not, in good conscience, leave him exposed to the elements!"

"The elements?" Regulus scoffed, his disbelief evident. "It is a cat, White, not a delicate botanical specimen! It possesses the inherent capacity for survival."

"But he looked so cold and utterly alone!" Arabella insisted, her eyes reflecting a genuine plea. "And what if a Crup were to encounter him? Or a Thestral? Or... or even Peeves?"

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture indicating the onset of a significant headache. This promised to be a protracted night. A protracted, noisy, and utterly preposterous night. He could almost envision the sensationalist headline in the Daily Prophet: "Slytherin Prefect Driven to the Brink by Hufflepuff Kitten Smuggler." His already precarious social standing within the wizarding world teetered on the precipice of utter ruin.

"This is utter madness," he muttered, the words directed primarily at himself. "Complete and utter madness. Our immediate course of action must be to present this... creature to Professor Sprout."

Arabella's face fell, her previous hopeful expression replaced by one of dismay. "But then he will be taken away! And who knows what fate awaits him? He does not belong within the castle walls, yet the prospect of him fending for himself outside is equally distressing!"

"And his rightful place is within the confines of your cloak?" Regulus threw his hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "Honestly, White, there are moments when I genuinely suspect the contents of your cranium resemble the viscous secretions of a flobberworm."

Before Arabella could formulate a retort, the kitten in her arms emitted another plaintive mew, its tiny form trembling slightly. Regulus's tirade faltered. He focused his gaze on the small creature, truly observing it for the first time, and a subtle, unfamiliar sensation stirred within him. It was a minor shift, almost imperceptible, yet undeniably present. The kitten possessed an undeniable air of pathetic vulnerability. And, he was loath to admit, an undeniable degree of... cuteness.

He scowled, internally berating himself for the unbidden thought. He was not supposed to perceive it as cute. His reaction should be one of outrage, his demand for its immediate removal unequivocal. Yet, his scowl lacked its usual sharp edge.

"Very well," he conceded, his voice grudging. "We shall present it to Sprout. However, should it so much as sneeze in my general direction, you shall find yourself assigned to cauldron-scrubbing duty for the entirety of the following month."

Arabella's face illuminated, her smile radiating a brightness capable of dispelling the gloom of the entire corridor. "Thank you, Regulus! You shall not regret this act of kindness!"

Regulus harbored significant doubts regarding the veracity of that statement.

His skepticism, as it turned out, was entirely justified.

Stardust, the moniker Arabella had bestowed upon the kitten (a name Regulus found excessively sentimental and utterly lacking in dignity), proved to be a miniature agent of pure chaos. It behaved as if the combined energy of a dozen ordinary kittens had been compressed into one small, furry package.

The inaugural incident unfolded within mere minutes. Stardust, having been transferred from the confines of Arabella's cloak to the relative freedom of her arms, fixed its attention upon a rat. Not just any ordinary rat, mind you, but a particularly large and audacious specimen, complete with beady eyes and a perpetually twitching nose. Upon sighting the kitten, the rat appeared to interpret its presence as a personal affront. It puffed out its chest, twitched its whiskers with exaggerated defiance, and then promptly darted into a narrow opening in the wall concealed behind a tapestry.

Stardust, exhibiting a natural predator's instinct, immediately gave chase.

The ensuing sequence of events bore little resemblance to a dignified pursuit and more closely resembled a scene of utter pandemonium. Arabella, encumbered by the kitten, stumbled after it, the voluminous folds of her Hufflepuff robes billowing around her like a yellow and black whirlwind. Regulus, ever the epitome of Slytherin composure, attempted to impose some semblance of order, hissing "Accio!" and "Stay!" with increasing desperation, neither incantation yielding the slightest effect.

The chaotic pursuit led them through a labyrinthine network of twisting corridors and concealed passageways, revealing sections of the castle that even Regulus, with his extensive knowledge of Hogwarts' hidden byways acquired through years of surreptitious exploration, had never encountered. They eventually found themselves in a dusty, forgotten chamber filled with cobwebs and antiquated artifacts, the elusive rat having long since vanished, and Stardust batting playfully at the base of a suit of armor.

The rhythmic tap of their footsteps against the cold stone floor had, until recently, been the sole auditory presence in the dimly lit corridor. For Regulus, the silence of the late hours had always offered a peculiar solace, a tranquil backdrop occasionally punctuated by the ancient timbers' groan or an owl's mournful call from the distant grounds. However, this particular night, that serenity fractured.

The disruption began subtly, a delicate rustling akin to the whisper of dry leaves dragged across the flagstones, accompanied by an almost inaudible, soft mewing sound. Regulus, ever attuned to his surroundings during his patrols, initially dismissed it as inconsequential. His focus was paramount: the safety and security of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Diversions, particularly of an indeterminate nature, were unwelcome.

Yet, the sound persisted, its faint insistence growing with each passing minute. It emanated from the immediate vicinity, a small, plaintive cry that snagged at the edges of his concentration. Finally, his patience, a virtue he rarely possessed in abundance, began to fray. He halted abruptly, the folds of his black robes swirling around him like a miniature tempest.

"What is that infernal noise?" he inquired, his voice slicing through the stillness with an icy edge. His gaze fixed on Arabella, who walked a few paces ahead, her expression radiating a... suspiciously guileless quality. Too guileless.

Arabella offered a slight start, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Noise? What noise? I perceive nothing." Her eyes darted nervously around the corridor, carefully avoiding his direct scrutiny.

Regulus arched a skeptical eyebrow, an expression honed over years of navigating the less-than-truthful pronouncements of his housemates. "Do not attempt to feign ignorance, White. I distinctly detected a... a disturbance. A small, furry disturbance."

Arabella's shoulders slumped in a gesture of defeat. She sighed softly. Slowly, with evident reluctance, she reached within the depths of her cloak, her hand disappearing into its folds. Regulus watched her movements, his eyes narrowed, a sense of unease settling in his stomach. An ominous premonition took root.

The entity that emerged from the cloak defied his expectations. It was not a mischievous Niffler, as a part of him had half-anticipated (and secretly hoped for – such an event would at least introduce a degree of intriguing chaos). Nor was it a fluffy, diminutive Pygmy Puff, an idea he dismissed as utterly absurd. No, what Arabella gently cradled in her hands was a kitten.

A minuscule, scruffy, undeniably endearing kitten.

It was small enough to fit comfortably within her palm, its face dominated by wide, luminous eyes that appeared disproportionately large for its delicate head. Its fur presented a haphazard mosaic of black and white, and a slight tremor ran through its tiny body as it emitted a weak, plaintive mew. It exuded an aura of being lost, utterly vulnerable, and profoundly out of place amidst the cold, imposing architecture of Hogwarts.

Regulus stared, his carefully constructed facade of aloofness fracturing minutely. He blinked, then stared again, a flicker of something akin to disbelief crossing his features. "There is a kitten... within your cloak?" he stated, his voice dangerously low, laced with a hint of incredulity.

Arabella winced at his tone, clutching the kitten closer to her chest in a protective gesture. "I discovered him outside the Greenhouses," she explained in a near-whisper. "He was all alone, and... and he appeared so frightened. I simply could not abandon him there."

Regulus sputtered, his carefully chosen words deserting him. He sputtered again, struggling for articulation. Finally, he managed to string together a coherent sentence, though its delivery resembled an outraged squawk more than a dignified pronouncement. "You... you smuggled a feline into Hogwarts? Are you devoid of reason? Do you possess any comprehension of the established regulations? The potential for unsanitary conditions? The sheer... the sheer inappropriateness of this entire situation?"

Arabella flinched at his sharp tone, yet her grip on the small creature remained firm. "He is not going to cause any harm! He is merely a baby! And I could not, in good conscience, leave him exposed to the elements!"

"The elements?" Regulus scoffed, his disbelief evident. "It is a cat, White, not a delicate botanical specimen! It possesses the inherent capacity for survival."

"But he looked so cold and utterly alone!" Arabella insisted, her eyes reflecting a genuine plea. "And what if a Crup were to encounter him? Or a Thestral? Or... or even Peeves?"

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture indicating the onset of a significant headache. This promised to be a protracted night. A protracted, noisy, and utterly preposterous night. He could almost envision the sensationalist headline in the Daily Prophet: "Slytherin Prefect Driven to the Brink by Hufflepuff Kitten Smuggler." His already precarious social standing within the wizarding world teetered on the precipice of utter ruin.

"This is utter madness," he muttered, the words directed primarily at himself. "Complete and utter madness. Our immediate course of action must be to present this... creature to Professor Sprout."

Arabella's face fell, her previous hopeful expression replaced by one of dismay. "But then he will be taken away! And who knows what fate awaits him? He does not belong within the castle walls, yet the prospect of him fending for himself outside is equally distressing!"

"And his rightful place is within the confines of your cloak?" Regulus threw his hands up in a gesture of exasperation. "Honestly, White, there are moments when I genuinely suspect the contents of your cranium resemble the viscous secretions of a flobberworm."

Before Arabella could formulate a retort, the kitten in her arms emitted another plaintive mew, its tiny form trembling slightly. Regulus's tirade faltered. He focused his gaze on the small creature, truly observing it for the first time, and a subtle, unfamiliar sensation stirred within him. It was a minor shift, almost imperceptible, yet undeniably present. The kitten possessed an undeniable air of pathetic vulnerability. And, he was loath to admit, an undeniable degree of... cuteness.

He scowled, internally berating himself for the unbidden thought. He was not supposed to perceive it as cute. His reaction should be one of outrage, his demand for its immediate removal unequivocal. Yet, his scowl lacked its usual sharp edge.

"Very well," he conceded, his voice grudging. "We shall present it to Sprout. However, should it so much as sneeze in my general direction, you shall find yourself assigned to cauldron-scrubbing duty for the entirety of the following month."

Arabella's face illuminated, her smile radiating a brightness capable of dispelling the gloom of the entire corridor. "Thank you, Regulus! You shall not regret this act of kindness!"

Regulus harbored significant doubts regarding the veracity of that statement.

His skepticism, as it turned out, was entirely justified.

Stardust, the moniker Arabella had bestowed upon the kitten (a name Regulus found excessively sentimental and utterly lacking in dignity), proved to be a miniature agent of pure chaos. It behaved as if the combined energy of a dozen ordinary kittens had been compressed into one small, furry package.

The inaugural incident unfolded within mere minutes. Stardust, having been transferred from the confines of Arabella's cloak to the relative freedom of her arms, fixed its attention upon a rat. Not just any ordinary rat, mind you, but a particularly large and audacious specimen, complete with beady eyes and a perpetually twitching nose. Upon sighting the kitten, the rat appeared to interpret its presence as a personal affront. It puffed out its chest, twitched its whiskers with exaggerated defiance, and then promptly darted into a narrow opening in the wall concealed behind a tapestry.

Stardust, exhibiting a natural predator's instinct, immediately gave chase.

The ensuing sequence of events bore little resemblance to a dignified pursuit and more closely resembled a scene of utter pandemonium. Arabella, encumbered by the kitten, stumbled after it, the voluminous folds of her Hufflepuff robes billowing around her like a yellow and black whirlwind. Regulus, ever the epitome of Slytherin composure, attempted to impose some semblance of order, hissing "Accio!" and "Stay!" with increasing desperation, neither incantation yielding the slightest effect.

The chaotic pursuit led them through a labyrinthine network of twisting corridors and concealed passageways, revealing sections of the castle that even Regulus, with his extensive knowledge of Hogwarts' hidden byways acquired through years of surreptitious exploration, had never encountered. They eventually found themselves in a dusty, forgotten chamber filled with cobwebs and antiquated artifacts, the elusive rat having long since vanished, and Stardust batting playfully at the base of a suit of armor.

The aforementioned suit of armor, exhibiting a distinct lack of appreciation for the kitten's playful antics, swayed precariously, its metal limbs groaning under the unexpected assault, before toppling over with a resounding crash that echoed through the otherwise silent castle.

Regulus stared at the fallen suit of armor, his face a mask of dawning horror. "Are you actively attempting to orchestrate our demise?" he hissed at Arabella, his voice barely audible above a whisper.

Arabella, to her credit, displayed genuine remorse. "I am so terribly sorry, Regulus! He is just... exceptionally energetic."

"Energetic?" Regulus sputtered, his disbelief palpable. "He is a menace! A tiny, furry menace with a penchant for property damage!"

Their misadventures continued unabated. Stardust, seemingly determined to conduct a thorough exploration of every nook and cranny within Hogwarts' vast confines, led them on a frantic chase through the library (where it made a valiant attempt to ascend the towering bookshelves), the bustling kitchens (where it was narrowly rescued from plunging into a cauldron of bubbling stew), and even the sacrosanct Headmaster's office (leaving a trail of muddy paw prints across the polished surface of Dumbledore's desk).

At one juncture, they experienced a near-catastrophic encounter with Filch and his equally unpleasant feline companion, Mrs. Norris. Upon sighting Mrs. Norris, Stardust emitted a hiss that was surprisingly ferocious for such a diminutive creature and then darted beneath a nearby table, leading Filch on a futile and increasingly irate pursuit.

Regulus and Arabella, meanwhile, were forced to conceal themselves behind a heavy tapestry, holding their breath as Filch stomped past, muttering darkly about "meddling students" and "that infernal cat." The close proximity, the shared anxiety of potential discovery, and the sheer absurdity of their predicament fostered a strange, almost... intimate moment between them. Regulus found himself stealing glances at Arabella, truly observing her for the first time, noticing the delicate crinkling at the corners of her eyes when she suppressed a laugh, the soft waves of her hair framing her face, the surprising smallness and delicacy of her hand resting on the tapestry.

He swiftly averted his gaze, of course. He was a Slytherin. Such "intimate moments" with Hufflepuffs were strictly outside the realm of acceptable behavior.

Despite his vocal protests, Regulus found himself reluctantly drawn into the unfolding chaos. He couldn't entirely deny a certain... amusement at the sheer ridiculousness of their situation. A small, rebellious part of him, the part that chafed under the rigid constraints of his upbringing and the lofty expectations of his house, found a perverse enjoyment in the act of breaking rules, of engaging in something utterly spontaneous and absurd. And he had to concede, albeit internally, that Arabella's presence made the entire ordeal... less unbearable. Her unwavering optimism, her relentless cheerfulness, and her genuine affection for the tiny creature in her arms were... well, they were having a subtle, grudging, yet undeniable effect on him.

As the night deepened, however, Arabella's initial burst of energy began to wane. The adrenaline fueled by their frantic chase dissipated, and the lateness of the hour began to take its toll. Her steps grew heavier, her smile less radiant, and her voice softer.

They found themselves traversing a long, dimly lit corridor, the only illumination provided by the intermittent flickering of wall-mounted torches. The shadows stretched long and menacing, and a heavy silence permeated the air, broken only by the soft padding of their footsteps and the occasional contented mew from Stardust, who now nestled peacefully in Arabella's arms.

Arabella shivered slightly, despite the absence of any significant chill in the air. "I... I don't particularly care for the dark," she admitted quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

Regulus, who had been feigning intense interest in a particularly dusty tapestry (anything to avoid direct eye contact), pretended not to have heard her. "Hmm?" he murmured noncommittally.

"I don't mean in a childish way, like being afraid of monsters or anything," Arabella clarified, her gaze fixed on the worn flagstones beneath their feet. "It's just... it feels lonely. And vast. As if you are the only person left in the entire world."

Regulus maintained his pretense of engrossment with the tapestry, his brow furrowed in an expression of deep concentration. However, his ears registered every syllable.

He understood the sentiment all too well. He was intimately familiar with that feeling of isolation, of being enveloped by darkness, surrounded by shadows that seemed to whisper unwanted secrets. He had experienced it countless times within the cold, silent halls of his ancestral home, in the hushed, judgmental atmosphere of Slytherin House, during the long, sleepless nights when his thoughts spiraled into an abyss of despair.

He cleared his throat, still feigning absorption in the intricate details of the tapestry. "It is merely the absence of adequate illumination. Your ocular senses will eventually adapt."

"I am aware," Arabella replied softly. "But that intellectual understanding does little to alleviate the feeling of... emptiness."

Regulus hesitated. He was not adept at... offering comfort. Expressions of sympathy or reassurance did not come naturally to him. He was, after all, a Slytherin. Brooding sarcasm was his default mode, not... kindness.

Yet, the thought of Arabella, of anyone, experiencing that profound sense of loneliness, that vast emptiness, stirred within him an unfamiliar and unsettling discomfort. He couldn't simply... ignore it.

He turned away from the dusty tapestry, his gaze sweeping the length of the dimly lit corridor. "It is rather poorly lit in this section, is it not?" he remarked, his tone deliberately casual, as if the observation had just occurred to him. "One would not wish to inadvertently stumble."

With a swift flick of his wrist, he raised his wand and cast a Lumos charm. A soft, warm glow emanated from its tip, illuminating the corridor ahead. He cast another, positioning it a few feet further down, and then another, and another, until a luminous trail of glowing orbs stretched before them, effectively banishing the oppressive shadows and bathing the corridor in a gentle, reassuring light.

Throughout this display of practical magic, he avoided looking directly at Arabella, his gaze fixed on the corridor ahead, his expression carefully devoid of any discernible emotion. He acted as if he were merely performing a routine task, a necessary precaution for their ongoing patrol.

"There," he stated brusquely. "Improved visibility."

Arabella stared at the radiant trail of lights, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and... something else. Gratitude? Awe? He couldn't quite decipher the nuanced expression.

"That is... that is quite beautiful, Regulus," she said softly, her voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "Thank you."

Regulus offered a dismissive shrug, his cheeks perhaps betraying a slight flush in the soft, magical light. "Do not mention it," he muttered, turning his gaze away.

By the time they finally reached the familiar grandeur of the Entrance Hall, Stardust was fast asleep, curled into a tiny ball within the folds of Regulus's cloak. The soft, dark fabric appeared to have a particular appeal for the small creature, who had burrowed into it with a contented sigh, its tiny body rising and falling with each gentle breath.

Regulus, of course, maintained a carefully constructed air of indifference. He acted as if the kitten's presence was a mere inconvenience, a minor annoyance that he was forced to endure. However, Arabella, observing him with keen interest, perceived something entirely different.

She noticed the subtle relaxation of his shoulders as the kitten snuggled deeper into his cloak. She observed the seemingly involuntary movement of his hand as it reached out to gently stroke the kitten's head, his fingers moving with surprising tenderness. She saw the softening of his usual harsh features, the familiar lines of his face smoothing out, replaced by an expression of... peace. Of contentment. Of something that Arabella, in her most optimistic imaginings, had never anticipated witnessing on the face of Regulus Black.

As they stood in the Entrance Hall, preparing to part ways, Arabella couldn't resist a small, impulsive act. The words escaped her lips before she could fully consider their implications, a teasing whisper that hung in the air between them.

"You are a secret softie, aren't you, Regulus?"

Regulus froze, his entire body stiffening. His head snapped up, his eyes widening in genuine shock. Then, his face contorted into a scowl of such epic proportions that Arabella instinctively took a step back, half-expecting him to spontaneously combust.

His cheeks, she noted with a perverse sense of satisfaction, were now undeniably flushed.

"I am most certainly not a 'softie'," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And you, White, are exceedingly fortunate that the lateness of the hour and my current state of exhaustion prevent me from hexing you into the middle of next week."

He fixed her with a long, silent glare, his eyes burning with a renewed intensity. Then, with a dramatic swirl of his cloak (and a subtle, almost imperceptible adjustment to ensure Stardust remained undisturbed), he turned sharply on his heel and stalked off towards the shadowy depths of the Slytherin dungeons, the very embodiment of a brooding, thoroughly disgruntled Slytherin.

Arabella watched his retreating figure, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She understood, of course, that he was not, in the conventional sense, a "softie." Not truly. But she also recognized that beneath the layers of biting sarcasm and perpetual scowls, beneath the carefully constructed persona of the aloof and intimidating Slytherin, resided something more. Something gentler. Something... kinder.

And she had a distinct feeling that, given sufficient time, she was going to thoroughly enjoy uncovering every single one of his carefully guarded secrets.

Chapter Text

The chase had been, to put it mildly, an absolute circus of chaos that would have put the Weird Sisters' most raucous concert to shame. It hadn't been some dark wizard lurking in the shadows, nor even a rogue magical creature escaped from the Forbidden Forest. No, the architect of their current predicament was far more unpredictable—Peeves, the poltergeist, in what history might record as his most inspired moment of mischief since he'd replaced all the staircases with slides during exams week.

That evening, Peeves had taken it upon himself to perfect an eerily accurate impersonation of Moaning Myrtle's most distressed wails—complete with theatrical sobs, hiccuping gasps, and the occasional dramatic moan about her tragic death. The sound had echoed through the seventh-floor corridor with such convincing misery that even the portraits had turned their frames away in discomfort.

Arabella White, ever the compassionate Hufflepuff, had frozen mid-step during their prefect patrol, her honey-brown eyes widening like a startled doe's. "Regulus, listen!" she'd whispered, clutching his sleeve with surprising strength. "That's Myrtle—she sounds absolutely heartbroken! We have to help her!"

Regulus Black, who had been mentally calculating how many more minutes remained until he could retreat to the Slytherin common room, had sighed so deeply it felt like his soul might escape his body. "It's Peeves," he said, prying her fingers from his robe with the patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly slow flobberworm. "He's not 'heartbroken.' He's bored and looking for entertainment. Preferably at our expense."

But Arabella, bless her stubborn Hufflepuff heart, had already been halfway down the corridor, her prefect badge glinting as she followed the sound of phantom sobs. Regulus had briefly considered letting her charge headfirst into Peeves' trap—perhaps it would teach her some much-needed caution—but the mental image of explaining to Professor Sprout why one of her prized seventh-years had been found sobbing in a pile of enchanted whoopee cushions had him jogging after her with another world-weary sigh.

Their footsteps had echoed through the torch-lit corridors as they followed the increasingly dramatic wails—past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy's ballet mishap, around the corner where the vanishing step liked to disappear, and finally to a narrow alcove hidden behind a suit of armor that suspiciously smelled of stale pumpkin juice. The sobs seemed to emanate from behind a towering stack of dusty cleaning supplies that looked like they hadn't been touched since the Founders' era.

"He's in here!" Arabella had stage-whispered, pointing at a small wooden door nearly obscured by mops. Her face was alight with determination, cheeks flushed pink from their sprint. "I can hear her—I mean, him—crying!"

Regulus had eyed the door with the skepticism of someone who'd grown up in a house where every piece of furniture might try to bite you. "This is clearly a—"

But Arabella had already wrenched open the door, releasing a cloud of dust that made them both cough. What greeted them wasn't Moaning Myrtle's tear-streaked face, but a broom closet so cramped that two people standing inside would be violating at least three Ministry regulations on personal space. And floating near the ceiling, grinning like a Cheshire cat that had gotten into the catnip, was Peeves.

"Ooooooh, look who it is!" Peeves had cackled, doing a loop-the-loop that sent several buckets clattering to the floor. "The golden Hufflepuff and the brooding bat of Slytherin! Fancy a romantic rendezvous in the cleaning supplies, do we?"

Before either could retort, Peeves had let out a shriek that could shatter glass, blown a raspberry that somehow smelled of rotten eggs, and vanished through the wall—but not before the door slammed shut with a thunderous bang. The distinct click of a lock engaging had echoed in the sudden silence.

Arabella had frozen, her smile vanishing faster than a first-year's courage facing a boggart. Her hand—still outstretched from where she'd opened the door—trembled slightly as she reached for the handle again. The metal was cold beneath her fingers, unyielding no matter how she twisted. "It's... locked," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the dusty air between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

Regulus, who had spent years perfecting the art of reading people (a necessary skill when your family tree included more dark wizards than a Knockturn Alley reunion), noticed the subtle shift immediately. The way her breath hitched, the tightening of her fingers around her wand, the slight dilation of her pupils—these weren't just signs of annoyance. This was fear, raw and unmistakable.

"Alohomora," he tried, his wand movements precise. When the door remained stubbornly shut, he frowned. "Colloportus. Peeves must have reinforced it." He turned to Arabella, keeping his tone carefully neutral—the same voice he used when dealing with skittish hippogriffs during Care of Magical Creatures. "We'll be out shortly. Someone will notice we're missing from patrols."

But Arabella wasn't listening. She'd backed into the far corner, her shoulders pressing against the shelves as if trying to merge with the wood. The flickering torchlight from the corridor outside seeped through the cracks in the door, casting jagged shadows that made the space feel even smaller. A bead of sweat traced a path down her temple despite the closet's chill.

"I don't—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the fabric of her robes. "I don't do well in small spaces. Or the dark. Not since—" She cut herself off, shaking her head as if to dislodge a memory.

Regulus had seen many versions of Arabella White over their years at Hogwarts—the determined Quidditch fan cheering louder than anyone at matches, the stubborn study partner who'd once argued with Professor Flitwick about wand movements for thirty minutes, the girl who'd hexed a seventh-year Slytherin for insulting a first-year's potions attempt. But this trembling, wide-eyed version was unfamiliar territory.

He found himself at a loss. Comforting people wasn't in the Black family repertoire—unless one counted backhanded compliments and stiff pats on the shoulder. His instinct was to make a sarcastic remark, but the words died in his throat when he saw her knuckles whiten around her wand.

Think, Black. What would Sirius do? The thought was immediately discarded—his brother would probably start singing bawdy tavern songs or conjure fireworks, which seemed counterproductive.

Then, inexplicably, he heard himself say: "Tell me a story."

Arabella's head snapped up, her brow furrowing. "What?"

"A story," Regulus repeated, feeling increasingly ridiculous. He crossed his arms, partly to appear nonchalant and partly to hide how his own hands weren't entirely steady. "You're always going on about those ridiculous fairy tales. Might as well make yourself useful."

For a long moment, Arabella just stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. Then, slowly, like the sun peeking through storm clouds, a tiny smile tugged at her lips. "You... want me to tell you a story."

Regulus scowled. "I want you to stop hyperventilating before you pass out and I have to drag your unconscious body to the hospital wing. Storytelling seems the least humiliating method."

The smile grew, and something in Regulus's chest did an odd little flip. "Well, when you put it so charmingly," she said, her voice still shaky but gaining strength. She took a deliberate breath, then another, as if counting them. "Alright. Once upon a time, there was a very small dragon—"

"Not that one," Regulus interrupted. "You told that in Charms last week. I could hear you from two tables away."

Arabella gaped at him. "You were listening?"

"I was trying not to," he muttered, which wasn't entirely untrue—her storytelling had been distracting him from perfecting his hover charm. "Just pick something new."

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. Once upon a time, in a kingdom where the rivers flowed with chocolate and the trees grew sugar quills instead of leaves—"

"This is why Hufflepuffs shouldn't be allowed near sugar."

"—there lived a knight," she continued, undeterred, "who was afraid of the dark."

Regulus's snark died in his throat. He watched as Arabella tucked her legs beneath her, her robes pooling around her like golden petals. The shadows made her look younger somehow, the usual sparkle in her eyes replaced by something more vulnerable.

"This knight," she said softly, "had gotten trapped in a dungeon as a child. No windows, no light—just cold stone and silence. For years afterward, even the thought of small spaces made his hands shake." She flexed her fingers, watching them tremble. "One day, the kingdom's princess was kidnapped by a cave-dwelling troll. The cave was deep and winding, darker than a dementor's picnic blanket. But the knight was the only one brave enough—or foolish enough—to go after her."

Regulus found himself leaning forward despite himself. "Let me guess—he conjured a Lumos and lived happily ever after?"

Arabella shook her head. "He tried. But the troll had enchanted the cave to swallow all light. So the princess—who'd been pretending to be captured as part of a secret mission—started singing."

"Singing."

"The most ridiculous, off-key songs you can imagine. Drinking tunes, nursery rhymes, even that horrid Celestina Warbeck song that plays every Christmas." Arabella's smile turned conspiratorial. "And the knight realized something—it wasn't the dark he feared. It was the silence. The feeling of being alone with his thoughts. But with someone else there, even someone singing terribly... it became just another cave."

The metaphor wasn't subtle, but Regulus found he didn't mind. There was something disarming about Arabella's honesty—like she wore her heart not on her sleeve, but stitched into every inch of her being.

"So what happened to the knight?" he heard himself ask.

Arabella's eyes met his, warm despite the chill in the air. "He rescued the princess, of course. Then they went back to the castle and ate their weight in chocolate river water. The end."

Silence settled between them, but it was a comfortable sort of quiet—the kind that exists between people who don't feel the need to fill every second with noise. Outside, the castle's usual nighttime symphony continued—the distant hoot of an owl, the creak of shifting staircases, Peeves's faint cackling several corridors away.

Regulus realized with some surprise that the tightness in his chest had eased. The closet no longer felt like a prison, but just... a closet. A temporary inconvenience.

"Your stories are ridiculous," he said, but there was no bite to it.

Arabella grinned. "You asked for them."

"I was desperate."

"Admit it, Black. You like my stories."

"I'd admit to being a Hufflepuff before admitting that."

She laughed then, bright and sudden, and Regulus felt something warm settle in his stomach—something that had nothing to do with the castle's drafty corridors.

Time passed strangely in the dark. Arabella told another story—something about a time-traveling kneazle—then another about a wizard who'd accidentally turned all his hair into sentient spaghetti. Regulus contributed sarcastic commentary, which only seemed to encourage her. At some point, she'd begun absently braiding a loose thread from her robes, her fingers moving with the same quick precision she used in Potions.

"You're staring," she said during a lull, not looking up from her impromptu crafting.

Regulus quickly averted his gaze. "I was checking for signs of oxygen deprivation. All this talking can't be good for the air supply."

"Mhm." She tied off the braid with a satisfied nod. "You know, for someone who claims to hate my stories, you're an excellent listener."

He scowled. "There's nothing else to do."

"Could always try smiling."

"Not even under Crucio."

Arabella yawned suddenly, her jaw cracking audibly. The adrenaline was clearly wearing off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She blinked owlishly, her head dipping forward before she caught herself.

Regulus hesitated. Every proper pureblood instinct screamed at him to maintain personal space, but the sight of Arabella struggling to keep her eyes open stirred something unfamiliar. "If you're going to pass out," he said stiffly, "at least do it in a way that won't give me a crick in my neck from looking down at you."

Arabella blinked up at him, then—with a quiet understanding that made his ears burn—shifted to lean against his shoulder. Her hair smelled like vanilla and something distinctly floral, probably from whatever ridiculous Hufflepuff grooming products she used. It was... not unpleasant.

"Just for a minute," she murmured, already half-asleep.

Regulus sat ramrod straight, torn between the urge to shove her away and the inexplicable desire to ensure she didn't slide onto the dusty floor. After a minute of internal debate, he settled for a stiff: "Don't drool on my robes."

Arabella's only response was a soft snore.

Hours later—or maybe minutes, time had become irrelevant—voices echoed outside the door.

"—swear I heard Peeves cackling about trapped prefects," came the unmistakable growl of Filch. "Up to no good, no doubt."

Regulus quickly shook Arabella awake, ignoring her sleepy grumble. "Look alert," he hissed. "Filch is here."

Arabella rubbed her eyes, her hair sticking up on one side where it had pressed against his shoulder. "M'awake," she lied, just as the door was wrenched open to reveal Filch's scowling face and Mrs. Norris's gleaming eyes.

The caretaker's expression morphed from suspicion to outright disgust as he took in the scene—two prefects, rumpled and dust-covered, crammed in a broom closet. "What in Salazar's name—"

"Research!" Arabella blurted, springing up with impressive speed for someone who'd been snoring thirty seconds prior. "For... Defense Against the Dark Arts! Professor... um..."

"Professor Slughorn," Regulus supplied smoothly, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. "Extra credit project on... containment spells."

Filch's beady eyes narrowed. "In a broom closet."

"The most dangerous places are often the most mundane," Arabella said solemnly, nodding like a wise old warlock. "Very enlightening experience. We've learned so much. Mostly about... the importance of proper lighting."

Regulus had to admire her ability to lie with such earnest conviction. It was almost Slytherin.

Filch looked between them, clearly torn between the desire to assign detention and the fear of getting involved in whatever bizarre student shenanigans this was. With a final grumble about "kids these days," he stomped off, Mrs. Norris casting one last judgmental look over her shoulder.

As soon as they were alone, Arabella turned to Regulus, her eyes alight with mischief. "Trauma-bonded," she declared, as if this explained everything.

Regulus groaned. "We are not—"

"Shared traumatic experience leading to emotional connection." She counted off on her fingers. "Close proximity, vulnerability, storytelling—that's basically a wizard's marriage ceremony in some cultures."

"You're insane."

"And yet," she said, stepping out of the closet with a dramatic flourish, "you listened to every word of my stories. Face it, Black—you like me."

Regulus opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but found none forthcoming. The realization was... unsettling.

Arabella grinned, clearly taking his silence as victory. "Next patrol, I'll tell you about the time the knight and princess teamed up to fight a army of enchanted teapots. It's very dramatic."

Regulus sighed, but as they walked back to their respective common rooms, he couldn't quite suppress the thought that maybe—just maybe—he'd look forward to it.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of the broom closet incident, as Regulus referred to it in the privacy of his own thoughts (and with a shudder), had been… complicated.

He would have preferred to pretend it never happened—to bury it deep within the recesses of his memory, along with other unpleasant experiences like family gatherings and Professor Binns’s lectures. But Arabella, of course, had other plans.

She had, it seemed, decided that their shared experience (which Regulus still refused to acknowledge as "trauma-bonding") had somehow forged an unbreakable bond between them. A bond that, in her mind, warranted the bestowal of nicknames.

It had started innocently enough.

They were in the library, attempting to research a particularly obscure potion for Snape’s class—a task made infinitely more difficult by the fact that Stardust, Arabella’s ever-mischievous Kneazle, had decided to "help" by batting at the pages of their books. Arabella had been reading aloud from a particularly dusty tome, her brow furrowed in concentration, when she suddenly paused.

"You know," she said, looking up at Regulus with a thoughtful expression, "you’re quite good in the dark."

Regulus had raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on the swirling contents of his cauldron. "I beg your pardon?"

"In the closet," Arabella clarified, twirling a strand of ink-stained hair around her finger. "You were very… calming. And you lit up the corridor so nicely. Like the moon!"

Regulus stiffened, his hand twitching slightly as he added a measure of powdered unicorn horn to the potion. "I fail to see your point, White."

Arabella grinned, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "My point is, you were very… moon-like. So, I’m going to call you Moon Boy."

Regulus had nearly dropped the vial of unicorn horn. He had managed to catch it just in time, but a few precious drops had splashed onto the table, hissing and smoking ominously.

"Moon Boy?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low.

"Moon Boy," Arabella affirmed, nodding enthusiastically. "It suits you! You’re all mysterious and broody, but you’re also… surprisingly bright."

Regulus glared at her, his expression a mixture of outrage and disbelief. "I am not 'broody.' I am… selectively expressive. And I am certainly not 'bright.' And I am most definitely not 'Moon Boy.'"

But Arabella, of course, had ignored him. From that moment on, he was Moon Boy.

He pretended to hate it. He scowled whenever she said it. He corrected her every single time. He threatened her with hexes and jinxes.

But deep down, a small, traitorous part of him… didn’t.

There was something… oddly endearing about it. Something that made him feel… seen. Not as Regulus Black, the heir to an ancient and prestigious (and deeply dysfunctional) family, but as… himself. Or at least, a slightly less grumpy version of himself.

Of course, he would never admit this. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

And so, he retaliated.

If she was going to give him a ridiculous nickname, then he was certainly capable of giving her one in return. He spent several days pondering the matter, his mind working tirelessly to come up with the perfect insult. He considered "Sunshine Disaster," "Happiness Hurricane," and "Perpetual Pollyanna." But none of them seemed quite right. They lacked a certain… flair.

Then, one evening during dinner, it came to him.

Arabella was sitting across from him at the Hufflepuff table, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the enchanted candles. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her eyes sparkling with joy. Her laughter, Regulus had to admit, was rather… infectious. It filled the Great Hall with a sound that was both bright and melodic, like the tinkling of wind chimes on a summer breeze.

He watched her, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than strictly necessary. He noticed the way her cheeks flushed when she laughed, the way her black hair shimmered in the candlelight, the way her smile lit up her entire face.

And then, it hit him.

The perfect nickname.

The next time he saw her, he was ready.

They were in the library again, surrounded by towering shelves and the hushed whispers of other students. Arabella was attempting to help him decipher an ancient rune, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"I think it means… 'sparkle'?" she said, her voice hesitant.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Sparkle?"

"Yes," Arabella said, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You know, like… glitter? Shimmer? Radiance?"

Regulus’s lips curled into a smirk. "So, in other words," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "a Glitter Disaster?"

Arabella froze, her eyes widening. She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Regulus braced himself for a scathing retort, a withering put-down, or possibly a well-aimed hex.

Instead, she burst out laughing.

It was a loud, unrestrained laugh, the kind that drew the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Madam Pince glared at them from behind her desk, her lips pursed in disapproval. Several students turned to stare, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and annoyance.

Regulus, for once, was speechless.

Arabella laughed until tears streamed down her face. She clutched her stomach, gasping for breath. "Glitter Disaster?" she choked out, her voice filled with amusement. "That’s… that’s brilliant! I love it!"

Regulus stared at her, his carefully constructed smirk fading into a look of utter bewilderment. She loved it? He had intended it as an insult! A scathing, sarcastic insult! How had she managed to turn it into a compliment?

"You… you love it?" he stammered, his voice sounding uncharacteristically flustered.

"Of course, I love it!" Arabella said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "It’s funny! And it’s… it’s kind of true! I do like glitter. And I am a bit of a disaster, sometimes."

She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Glitter Disaster it is, then! Thank you, Moon Boy!"

Regulus groaned. He was going to regret this. He was going to regret this for the rest of his life.

The nickname situation, however, was just the beginning of the… complications.

A few days later, they were in the library again (it seemed to be their unofficial meeting place), attempting to research a particularly obscure spell for Flitwick’s class. Arabella was perched on a stool, her legs swinging back and forth, while Regulus stood beside her, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned the pages of a large, leather-bound book.

A fourth-year Slytherin boy, a rather pompous and self-satisfied fellow named Barnaby, approached them. Regulus had never particularly liked Barnaby. He found him to be arrogant, shallow, and generally unpleasant. And he had a sneaking suspicion that Barnaby had a rather… unhealthy interest in Arabella.

"Hello, Arabella," Barnaby said, his voice smooth and oily. "Fancy seeing you here. All alone, are you?" He cast a dismissive glance at Regulus, as if he were a particularly unpleasant piece of furniture.

Arabella’s smile faltered slightly. "Oh, hello, Barnaby. I’m not alone. I’m with Regulus."

"Of course, of course," Barnaby said, his smile widening. "But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I borrowed you for a moment, would you, Black?"

Regulus’s grip on the book tightened. He felt a surge of… something. Something hot and possessive and utterly irrational. He didn’t like the way Barnaby was looking at Arabella. He didn’t like the way he was talking to her. He didn’t like the way he was implying that Regulus was somehow… irrelevant.

"Actually," Regulus said, his voice cold and sharp, "I would mind. We’re in the middle of something. And I find your presence… distracting."

Barnaby’s smile faltered. He clearly wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner. "Now, now, Black," he said, his voice taking on a slightly threatening edge. "There’s no need to be rude. I was simply trying to be friendly."

"Friendly?" Regulus scoffed. "You were flirting with my… with White. And I find that… objectionable."

The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. My. Regulus hadn’t meant to say it. It had just… slipped out. But now that he had said it, he couldn’t take it back.

Barnaby’s eyes narrowed. "Your… what? I wasn’t aware that White belonged to anyone."

Regulus took a step forward, his wand hand twitching. He could feel the magic thrumming beneath his skin, eager to be unleashed. "She doesn’t. But that doesn’t give you the right to… to—"

He cut himself off, realizing that he was dangerously close to losing his temper. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control.

"To what, Black?" Barnaby sneered. "To talk to her? To be her friend? Or are you going to challenge me to a duel for the privilege?"

The word "duel" hung in the air, thick with tension. The other students in the library had fallen silent, their heads turning to watch the confrontation. Madam Pince, her eyes narrowed, rose from her desk, her hand hovering over her wand.

Regulus and Barnaby stared at each other, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. The air crackled with unspoken threats, with the promise of violence.

Then, Arabella spoke.

"Regulus," she said, her voice surprisingly firm. "That’s enough."

Regulus turned to her, his anger momentarily forgotten. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the concern in her eyes, the worry etched on her face. He saw that she wasn’t flattered by Barnaby’s attention, but neither was she amused by Regulus’s possessiveness.

He lowered his wand hand, the magic dissipating. He took another deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.

"Fine," he said, his voice grudging. "But stay away from her, Barnaby. Or you’ll regret it."

Barnaby, sensing that he had lost, sneered again and turned to leave, muttering something under his breath about "possessive Slytherins."

As soon as he was gone, Arabella turned to Regulus, her expression a mixture of relief and… disappointment.

"What was that?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Why did you do that?"

Regulus shrugged, his gaze fixed on the floor. "He was being… obnoxious."

"He was being a bit forward," Arabella conceded. "But you didn’t have to threaten him. You practically challenged him to a duel!"

"He deserved it," Regulus muttered.

"Why?" Arabella pressed. "Because he was talking to me? Because he was… flirting with me?"

Regulus shifted uncomfortably. He knew where this conversation was going, and he didn’t like it.

"He was being disrespectful," he said, his voice defensive.

"Or were you being… possessive?" Arabella asked, her eyes searching his.

Regulus froze. Possessive? Him? That was absurd. He wasn’t possessive. He was… protective. There was a difference.

"Don’t be ridiculous," he snapped. "I was simply… ensuring your safety."

"My safety?" Arabella raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "I think I can handle myself, Regulus. I’m a Hufflepuff, not a damsel in distress."

"I know that," Regulus said, his voice tight. "But he was… he was—"

"Interested?" Arabella supplied.

Regulus glared at her. "Yes," he growled. "He was interested. And I didn’t like it."

There. He’d admitted it. He’d actually admitted it. He was going to regret this.

Arabella stared at him for a long moment, her expression softening slightly. "Why not?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Regulus looked away, his gaze fixed on a shelf of dusty books. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He couldn’t tell her the truth. He didn’t even know the truth himself.

"Because…" he began, his voice trailing off.

He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Because he was jealous? Because he didn’t want anyone else looking at her that way? Because he… he cared about her?

All of those options were equally terrifying.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Just… forget it, okay?" he said, his voice weary. "It doesn’t matter."

He turned to leave, but Arabella caught his arm, her hand surprisingly strong.

"Regulus," she said, her voice gentle. "It does matter. To me."

He looked at her, his gaze meeting hers for the first time. He saw the sincerity in her eyes, the concern, the… something else. Something warm and hopeful and… inviting.

He felt his carefully constructed walls crumbling around him. He felt himself being drawn to her, pulled in by her unwavering kindness, her relentless optimism.

He wanted to kiss her.

The thought hit him like a bludger to the head. He wanted to kiss Arabella White. He, Regulus Black, the brooding, aloof Slytherin, wanted to kiss the cheerful, sunny Hufflepuff.

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was… inevitable.

He tore his gaze away from hers, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t give in to these… these feelings. He had a reputation to maintain. He had a family to consider. He had a future that was already decided for him.

He pulled his arm away from her, his voice harsh. "Just… leave it, White. Please."

He turned and fled the library, leaving Arabella standing there, her expression a mixture of confusion and hurt.

He spent the rest of the day avoiding her. He skipped dinner in the Great Hall, hiding in the Slytherin common room, pretending to be engrossed in a particularly dense book on advanced potions. He ignored her attempts to talk to him, her insistent whispers in the corridors, her worried glances in the hallways.

He knew he was being cruel. He knew he was hurting her. But he didn’t know what else to do. He was terrified.

That evening, during patrol, he found himself walking a particularly long and boring stretch of corridor, his mind still reeling from the events of the day. He was still trying to process his feelings for Arabella, still trying to reconcile his carefully constructed persona with the strange, unfamiliar emotions that she stirred within him.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice Arabella until she was right in front of him, blocking his path.

"Regulus," she said, her voice soft but firm. "We need to talk."

Regulus sighed. He knew this was coming. He just wished it wasn’t.

"I’m on patrol, White," he said, his voice clipped. "I don’t have time for… for this."

"Yes, you do," Arabella insisted. "This is important. You can’t just keep ignoring me."

Regulus glared at her. "I’m not ignoring you. I’m simply… preoccupied."

"You’re avoiding me," Arabella said bluntly. "And I want to know why."

Regulus opened his mouth to deny it, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn’t lie to her. Not after everything that had happened.

He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. "Fine," he said, his voice grudging. "What do you want to talk about?"

"About what happened in the library," Arabella said. "About why you were so… angry."

Regulus looked away, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I wasn’t angry," he muttered.

"Yes, you were," Arabella said. "You were furious. And you were being… possessive. Why, Regulus?"

Regulus hesitated. He knew he couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to admit his feelings, not even to himself.

He racked his brain for an excuse, for some plausible explanation for his behavior. But his mind was blank.

Then, his gaze fell on a small, brightly colored sweet wrapper lying on the floor. It was a toffee wrapper, the kind they sold in Honeydukes. An idea sparked in his mind.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped toffee. He held it out to Arabella.

"Here," he said, his voice gruff. "Toffee."

Arabella stared at the toffee, then at Regulus, her expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "Toffee?"

"Yes, toffee," Regulus said, his cheeks flushing slightly. "It’s… it’s a peace offering. To make up for… for being a git."

Arabella’s eyes widened. She took the toffee from him, her fingers brushing against his. A small, involuntary shiver ran through him.

"You got me a toffee?" she said, her voice soft.

"Yes," Regulus said, his voice firm, though his heart was doing something strange and fluttery in his chest. "Is that so hard to believe?"

Arabella unwrapped the toffee slowly, her gaze fixed on him. She popped it into her mouth, her eyes closing as she savored the taste.

"Mmm," she said, her voice dreamy. "This is the best toffee I’ve ever tasted."

She opened her eyes and looked at Regulus, her smile so bright it could have lit up the entire corridor. "Thank you, Regulus."

Regulus rolled his eyes so hard he thought his ancestors felt it. He couldn’t believe how easily she was swayed. He had practically threatened to duel a boy for her, and all it took was a toffee to make her forgive him.

He should have been annoyed. He should have been exasperated. He should have been… relieved.

He was all of those things, but he was also… something else. Something warm and fuzzy and… fond.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Just… don’t mention it, okay?" he muttered. "And don’t expect me to make a habit of this."

Arabella giggled, her smile widening. "Of course not, Moon Boy. But I will expect you to walk me back to Hufflepuff Tower. It’s getting late, and I don’t like walking alone in the dark."

Regulus hesitated. He knew he should say no. He knew he should maintain his distance. He knew he should protect his heart.

But he couldn’t.

He sighed again, his voice resigned. "Fine," he said. "But don’t think this means we’re… friends."

Arabella just grinned and took his arm, her touch sending a jolt of warmth through him.

That night, as he stood in the Great Hall, watching the students file out after dinner, he caught sight of Arabella across the room. She was sitting at the Hufflepuff table, surrounded by her friends, laughing and talking animatedly.

He found himself watching her, his gaze drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He watched the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, the way her smile lit up her entire face, the way her black hair shimmered in the candlelight.

For once, he didn’t look away. He didn’t pretend to be engrossed in a conversation with his housemates. He didn’t scowl or roll his eyes. He simply stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t know what he was feeling. He only knew that he couldn’t stop looking.

Chapter Text

The relative tranquility that had settled over Regulus’s existence since the Kitten Incident (as it had now been unofficially dubbed by a bewildered Hogwarts student body) was, as he had secretly suspected, far too good to last. His interactions with Arabella had become… manageable. They still shared the occasional strained yet undeniably present moments in the library or during shared classes, punctuated by her infuriatingly cheerful nicknames and his equally infuriated but ultimately ineffective protests. He even found himself, on occasion, offering her a begrudgingly polite word or two, a development that would have sent his past self into a state of utter apoplexy.

Potions class, however, had a distinct talent for shattering any semblance of peace. The dimly lit dungeon, with its bubbling cauldrons and the pervasive aroma of strange and often unpleasant ingredients, seemed to amplify the worst tendencies in certain individuals. Today, that individual was a fifth-year Slytherin named Alistair Finch.

Alistair was a lanky boy with a sneering disposition and a penchant for making cutting remarks, usually directed at those he deemed beneath him – a category that, in his narrow worldview, encompassed pretty much everyone outside of pure-blood Slytherins with impeccable family pedigrees. Arabella, with her bright demeanor and Hufflepuff affiliation, was, naturally, a prime target.

Professor Snape had just assigned a particularly complex potion – the Draught of Peace, a deceptively named concoction that seemed to induce more anxiety than serenity in its brewing process. Arabella, seated at their shared table, was meticulously measuring out powdered moonstone, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her usual cheerful hum was absent, replaced by a quiet focus that Regulus, surprisingly, found rather endearing.

“Honestly, White,” Alistair drawled from the adjacent table, his voice loud enough to carry across the dungeon, “must you make such a performance of it? It’s just a simple potion. Though, I suppose someone of your… limited capabilities would find even boiling water a monumental task.” A few snickers rippled through the nearby Slytherin students.

Arabella’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly, but she didn’t look up. She continued to carefully add the moonstone to her cauldron. Regulus, however, felt a familiar prickle of annoyance. Alistair’s casual cruelty was grating, especially when directed at someone who, despite her infuriating sunniness, possessed a genuine and often underestimated kindness.

Alistair, emboldened by the lack of immediate reaction, pressed on. “All that bouncing around and beaming all the time,” he continued, his voice dripping with mockery. “It’s clearly just an act. Desperate for attention, aren’t you? Probably trips over her own feet just to get someone to look at her. Attention-seeking idiot.”

This time, Arabella’s hand faltered. A tiny tremor ran through her fingers, causing a few grains of moonstone to spill onto the table. She still didn’t look up, but the vibrant energy that usually surrounded her seemed to dim, like a flame struggling against a draft.

Regulus’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to deliver a suitably scathing retort, something that would wither Alistair’s pathetic ego down to the size of a gnat. However, Professor Snape chose that precise moment to glide past their table, his black robes billowing behind him.

“Mr. Black,” Snape’s voice was a low, menacing purr. “Kindly focus on the intricacies of your potion and refrain from engaging in frivolous chatter.”

Regulus’s retort died on his lips. He shot a dark look at Alistair, who smirked smugly, knowing he had been effectively shielded by Snape’s intervention. Arabella, meanwhile, finally looked up, offering Regulus a small, tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“It’s alright, Regulus,” she murmured, her voice a little too bright, a little too forced. “He’s not worth the effort.” She then resolutely turned back to her cauldron, but Regulus noticed the subtle clenching of her fists beneath the table.

The rest of the class proceeded in strained silence. Regulus found it difficult to concentrate on the Draught of Peace, his mind seething with a cold fury. Alistair’s words had been cruel and unwarranted, and the forced cheerfulness with which Arabella had attempted to dismiss them only fueled Regulus’s anger. He had witnessed that fleeting moment of pain in her eyes, the brief but unmistakable flicker of hurt before she had masked it with her usual sunny façade.

That night, the castle seemed to hold its breath in the stillness of the late hours. Regulus, unable to shake the lingering unease from the day’s events, found himself wandering the deserted corridors. The rhythmic tap of his footsteps echoed softly against the stone, a familiar sound that usually brought him a measure of solace. Tonight, however, it only amplified the disquiet within him.

He had initially intended to head to the library, a place where he often found a strange comfort amidst the silent rows of books. But his feet seemed to have a will of their own, leading him down a less-traveled path, a dimly lit corridor near the kitchens that was usually deserted after curfew.

As he rounded a corner, he stopped abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. A soft, muffled sound reached his ears, a choked sob that cut through the silence like a shard of glass. He recognized it instantly. It was Arabella.

She was sitting huddled on a cold stone bench, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent tears. The usual vibrant energy that surrounded her was completely absent, replaced by a palpable aura of despair. The sight of her, so utterly broken and vulnerable, sent a jolt of something fierce and protective through Regulus.

All the carefully constructed walls he had painstakingly built around his emotions seemed to crumble. The casual insults, the forced smiles – it all coalesced into this raw display of pain. And in that moment, something within Regulus snapped.

He approached her slowly, his footsteps barely audible on the stone. “White?” he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Arabella flinched at his voice, her head snapping up. Her eyes were red and swollen, tracks of tears staining her cheeks. She looked utterly miserable.

“Regulus,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. She quickly tried to wipe her face with the back of her hand, a futile gesture that only smeared the tears further. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he retorted, his voice sharper now, a shield against the raw emotion of the moment. He sat down on the bench beside her, maintaining a careful distance.

Silence hung between them for a moment, broken only by Arabella’s occasional sniffle. Regulus found himself surprisingly ill-equipped to deal with this display of vulnerability. He had witnessed tears before, mostly among his more dramatic Slytherin housemates, but they had always seemed performative, designed to elicit sympathy or manipulate a situation. Arabella’s tears felt different. They felt real.

“It was what Finch said,” she finally choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was stupid, I know. It shouldn’t have bothered me.”

“What did he say?” Regulus’s voice was low and dangerous now, the protective instinct within him hardening into something akin to cold fury.

Arabella hesitated, her gaze fixed on her trembling hands. “Just… nasty things. About me being… attention-seeking. And… an idiot. And mocking… my being cheerful.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Regulus’s blood ran cold. The casual cruelty of Alistair’s words, which he had dismissed at the time as mere unpleasantness, now echoed in his mind with a sickening clarity. To mock her sunshine, her very essence, was an unforgivable offense in Regulus’s suddenly recalibrated moral code.

Without another word, Regulus stood up. A dark, almost predatory look settled on his face. He knew exactly where Alistair’s usual late-night haunts were. The library was too public. The common room, too well-guarded. But there was a secluded alcove on the third floor, overlooking the training grounds, where Alistair often went to… preen and admire his reflection in the moonlight, for reasons Regulus had never quite understood and frankly didn’t care to.

“Where are you going?” Arabella asked, her voice laced with concern.

“To have a word with Mr. Finch,” Regulus said, his voice dangerously calm. “A rather… pointed word.”

Arabella’s eyes widened. “Regulus, no! Don’t. It’s not worth it. You’ll get into trouble.”

“He insulted you,” Regulus said, his gaze unwavering. “That makes it worth it.” And with that, he turned and strode away, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

He found Alistair exactly where he expected, leaning against the stone railing of the alcove, gazing out at the moonlit grounds with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The smirk vanished instantly when he saw Regulus approaching, his expression anything but benign.

“Black,” Alistair said, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “What do you want?”

Regulus didn’t bother with pleasantries. He closed the distance between them in a few swift strides, his eyes locked on Alistair’s face.

“You have a rather unfortunate habit of opening your mouth and spewing vile nonsense,” Regulus said, his voice low and menacing.

Alistair scoffed, trying to regain his composure. “What are you talking about? Did little Hufflepuff run crying to her Slytherin bodyguard?”

The words were like a match to dry tinder. The simmering fury that had been building within Regulus since potions class erupted. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He simply acted.

With a swift, brutal motion, he swung his fist, connecting squarely with Alistair’s nose.

A sharp crack echoed in the alcove, followed by a strangled yelp of pain as Alistair stumbled backward, clutching his face. Blood blossomed between his fingers, staining his pristine Slytherin robes.

“Call her that again,” Regulus snarled, his voice a low, guttural threat, “and I will hex your entire bloodline into oblivion.”

Alistair, whimpering and clutching his undoubtedly broken nose, could only manage a pathetic gurgle. Regulus stood over him for a moment longer, his chest heaving, the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Then, with a final, contemptuous glare, he turned and walked away, leaving Alistair to his bloody misery.

The fallout was immediate and predictable. Alistair, through a swollen and heavily bandaged nose, recounted his version of events to a horrified Professor Slughorn, conveniently omitting his own role in instigating the confrontation. Regulus, summoned to Professor McGonagall’s office, offered no excuses, merely stating that Alistair had “deserved it.”

He was handed detention, a week of scrubbing cauldrons in the potions classroom under Snape’s watchful and predictably sardonic gaze. But as he left McGonagall’s office, he couldn’t help but notice the whispers that followed him down the corridor.

“Did you hear? Regulus Black… fighting?”

“For a Hufflepuff, no less!”

“Sunshine White? Unbelievable.”

The news spread through Hogwarts like wildfire. “Regulus Black defending a Hufflepuff girl?” It was the scandal of the term, eclipsing even Peeves’s latest prank involving a suit of armor and a bucket of treacle. Slytherins were aghast, Hufflepuffs were bewildered (and secretly a little thrilled), Ravenclaws analyzed the social dynamics, and Gryffindors… well, Gryffindors just seemed impressed by the sheer audacity of it all.

Later that evening, as Regulus was begrudgingly polishing a particularly grimy cauldron under Snape’s pointed scrutiny, the door to the potions classroom creaked open. He looked up to see Arabella standing hesitantly in the doorway, her expression a complex mixture of emotions.

“Regulus?” she said softly.

Snape’s eyebrow arched so high it almost disappeared into his greasy hair. “Miss White. To what do we owe this… unexpected pleasure?”

“Professor, I just… I wanted to talk to Regulus,” she said, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Snape regarded them both with a look of thinly veiled disdain. “Very well. But make it brief. Mr. Black has cauldrons to attend to, and I have a profound dislike for interruptions.” He then turned his attention back to his own simmering concoction, though Regulus had the distinct impression he was listening intently.

Arabella approached Regulus slowly, her eyes searching his face. “I heard what happened,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “Alistair… his nose…”

Regulus shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the unexpected warmth that spread through him at her concern. “He ran into a wall. Clumsy fellow.”

Arabella’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time, they weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of gratitude. “Regulus,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Thank you. For… for everything.”

He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly finding the grime on the cauldron intensely fascinating. “He deserved it,” he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the stubborn stains. “He shouldn’t have said those things.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, afraid of the intensity of her gratitude.

“But you… you got detention,” she said, her voice laced with guilt. “For me.”

“Detention is a small price to pay for… silence,” he said gruffly, still avoiding her gaze. He was making a terrible job of brushing it off, he knew. He sounded like a complete idiot.

Suddenly, before he could brace himself, Arabella stepped forward and hugged him.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt of surprise through him. He froze, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, the grime-coated sponge clutched tightly in one hand. The warmth of her embrace, the unexpected softness of her touch, was a foreign and surprisingly pleasant sensation. Her head was pressed against his chest, and he could feel the faint tremor of her body.

For a moment, he remained rigid, his mind a complete blank. He had never been one for physical affection. His family’s interactions had been characterized by cold formality and thinly veiled disdain. This… this was different. This felt… genuine.

Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his arms began to move. Tentatively, he raised them, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before settling gently on her back. The fabric of her Hufflepuff robes felt soft beneath his fingers. He held his breath, acutely aware of the moment, the unusual closeness, the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit potions classroom.

The moment lingered, stretching out in the silence between them, broken only by the soft sniffles that still escaped Arabella. Regulus found himself strangely reluctant to break the embrace. It was… comforting. A feeling he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, let alone experience.

Finally, Arabella pulled back slightly, her eyes still wet but her smile radiant. “Thank you, Moon Boy,” she whispered, her voice full of heartfelt gratitude.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed slightly at the nickname, but for once, he didn’t protest. He simply offered a small, almost shy nod, his gaze still fixed on the grime-covered cauldron.

“He really did deserve it, Glitter Disaster,” he mumbled, his voice gruff but lacking its usual sharp edge.

Arabella giggled, her smile widening. “Yes, he did. But you didn’t have to break his nose for me.”

“Perhaps not,” Regulus conceded, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his own lips. “But it felt… appropriate.”

And in the quiet, dimly lit potions classroom, surrounded by bubbling concoctions and the ever-watchful gaze of a certain sardonic potions master, an unspoken understanding settled between the brooding Slytherin and the sunny Hufflepuff

The storm had passed, leaving behind a fragile, unexpected warmth.

Chapter Text

The fragile warmth that had blossomed in the aftermath of the Alistair Finch incident proved to be as delicate and fleeting as a dewdrop on a spiderweb. The subtle shift in their dynamic, the almost-tenderness of the shared silence in the potions classroom, seemed to evaporate with the dawn, replaced by a renewed awkwardness that clung to them like the lingering scent of burnt potion ingredients.

Regulus, in the cold light of day, found himself retreating back into the familiar fortress of his Slytherin aloofness. The memory of holding Arabella, the unexpected comfort of her embrace, felt strangely… unsettling. It had stirred something within him, a nascent emotion that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge, let alone understand. It was safer, he reasoned, to revert to their previous dynamic of thinly veiled irritation and sarcastic banter.

Arabella, however, seemed to have taken a different lesson from the broken nose incident. The quiet gratitude she had expressed in the potions classroom lingered, manifesting in softer smiles directed his way and a distinct lack of protest whenever he used her ridiculous nickname. There was a newfound lightness in her demeanor, a subtle undercurrent of… something that Regulus couldn’t quite decipher but found strangely unnerving.

The delicate equilibrium was shattered by the arrival of a particularly charming Ravenclaw named Lysander Thorne. Lysander possessed the kind of effortless charisma that seemed to effortlessly disarm even the most cynical of individuals. He had a ready smile, a quick wit, and an uncanny ability to make anyone feel like the most interesting person in the room. And he had, quite publicly, taken an interest in Arabella.

Regulus first heard about the Hogsmeade invitation through the Hogwarts grapevine, that invisible network of whispers and rumors that seemed to permeate every corner of the castle. Pansy Parkinson, ever eager to relay any information that might discomfit Regulus (especially if it involved a Hufflepuff), had delivered the news with a particularly malicious gleam in her eyes during breakfast.

“Heard our little Sunshine White has snagged herself a date,” Pansy had purred, buttering a roll with exaggerated slowness. “A rather dreamy Ravenclaw, apparently. Lysander Thorne. You know him, Regulus? Always has his nose stuck in a book, but surprisingly… attentive.” She had punctuated her words with a pointed look in Regulus’s direction.

Regulus had affected an air of profound disinterest, burying his nose in the Daily Prophet and making a pointed effort to ignore Pansy’s not-so-subtle prodding. But beneath the carefully cultivated indifference, a knot of something unpleasant tightened in his stomach. The image of Arabella, laughing and smiling with this annoyingly charming Ravenclaw, was surprisingly… irritating.

The irritation festered throughout the day. During Charms, when Arabella’s usually enthusiastic attempts at levitating feathers resulted in a series of comical near-misses, Regulus found himself making a particularly cutting remark about her “lack of inherent magical finesse.” He immediately regretted it when he saw the fleeting shadow of hurt that crossed her face, quickly masked by a forced smile.

Even Snape’s typically dreary Potions class offered no respite. When Arabella accidentally added salamander blood instead of newt spleens to her concoction, resulting in a rather alarming plume of green smoke, Regulus’s snide comment about her “predictable incompetence” hung in the air, drawing a sharp glare from Snape and a wounded look from Arabella.

By the time their patrol duties rolled around that evening, Regulus was in a thoroughly foul mood. The image of Arabella on a date with Lysander Thorne had taken root in his mind, sprouting tendrils of an emotion he stubbornly refused to identify. He told himself it was merely annoyance at the disruption of their… well, whatever their strange dynamic was. He certainly wasn’t… jealous. The very notion was ludicrous. Regulus Black, jealous of a Hufflepuff girl going on a date? Preposterous.

Their patrol started in silence, a heavy, uncomfortable silence that was a stark contrast to the slightly less hostile silences they had shared before. Regulus found himself snapping at Peeves (who, sensing his foul mood, was being particularly obnoxious) and even delivering a curt reprimand to a first-year Gryffindor who was merely attempting to locate the lost portrait of a particularly grumpy medieval wizard.

Arabella, usually so quick to offer a cheerful comment or attempt to lighten the mood, walked beside him with a quiet thoughtfulness. He could feel her gaze on him occasionally, a silent scrutiny that only amplified his irritation.

Finally, as they rounded a dimly lit corner near the tapestry of Barnaby the Barmy, Arabella stopped, her arms crossed. “You’ve been in a particularly… prickly mood tonight, Regulus,” she observed, her voice calm but with a hint of something sharper beneath the surface.

Regulus scoffed, feigning ignorance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, White. I am merely… focused on ensuring the security of the premises.”

“Right,” Arabella said, her eyebrow arching in a manner that was becoming increasingly familiar and increasingly unnerving. “And that involves snapping at first-years and glaring at tapestries?”

Regulus opened his mouth to deliver a suitably sarcastic retort, but the words caught in his throat. He knew his behavior had been less than exemplary, even by his own rather low standards.

“Is it… about Lysander?” Arabella asked, her voice softer now, her gaze direct and unwavering.

Regulus choked on the air he was inhaling, a rather undignified sputtering sound escaping his lips. He clutched his chest dramatically. “Absolutely not,” he managed to wheeze out, once he had regained his ability to breathe. “Why on earth would I be… concerned with your… social engagements?”

Arabella regarded him with a look that clearly conveyed her utter disbelief. “Oh, I don’t know, Regulus. Perhaps because you’ve been sulking all day like a particularly moody thundercloud? Perhaps because your snide remarks have been even more… snide than usual? Could it possibly be… jealousy?”

Regulus’s face flushed a deep crimson. “Jealous?” he repeated, his voice rising in indignation. “Don’t be utterly ridiculous, White. The very idea is… insulting.” He turned away abruptly, pretending to examine the intricate stitching on the tapestry of Barnaby the Barmy, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest.

A small, mischievous smile played on Arabella’s lips. “Well,” she said, her voice light and airy, “Lysander is rather charming. And he did ask me to Hogsmeade. It might be… interesting.”

Regulus’s head snapped back around. “You’re actually going?” he demanded, his voice betraying a level of dismay he hadn’t intended to reveal.

Arabella shrugged, her smile widening. “Perhaps. He seems nice. And it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good opportunity for butterbeer and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.” She deliberately avoided his gaze, a playful glint in her eyes.

The thought of Arabella on a date with Lysander Thorne, laughing at his undoubtedly charming jokes and sharing sugary treats, sent a fresh wave of that unpleasant emotion washing over Regulus. It wasn’t just irritation anymore. It felt… sharper. More possessive.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice low and incredulous. “You’d actually… go out with him? After… everything?” He wasn’t entirely sure what the “everything” entailed, but it felt significant. The kitten, the broom closet, the broken nose… surely those shared experiences meant something.

“And why wouldn’t I?” Arabella countered, her playful demeanor fading slightly, replaced by a hint of defiance. “He asked me nicely. He’s kind. Unlike some people I know who spend their evenings glowering at tapestries.”

Regulus’s temper, which had been simmering all day, finally boiled over. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, White?” he snapped, his voice rising.

“And are you deliberately trying to be insufferable, Black?” she shot back, her own voice gaining an edge. “Honestly, you’ve been impossible all day! What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Regulus scoffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “My problem is that you seem determined to… to…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the swirling mass of conflicting emotions within him.

“To what, Regulus?” Arabella pressed, her eyes narrowed. “To have a life? To accept a polite invitation? Why do you even care?” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, revealing a vulnerability that momentarily pierced through Regulus’s anger.

“Because I—!” He stopped abruptly, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them. Because I… what? Because I like you? Because the thought of him with you makes my stomach churn? Because I might actually… care? The admission, even silent and internal, felt monumental, terrifying.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension, with the weight of emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks finally bubbling over. Arabella stared at him, her expression a mixture of hurt and confusion, waiting for him to complete the sentence he had so abruptly cut short. Regulus, however, couldn’t bring himself to utter the words. The vulnerability of such an admission felt too great, the potential for rejection too terrifying.

He turned away again, his gaze fixed on the dusty floor. The fight had drained him, leaving him feeling strangely exposed and foolish. He had acted like a petulant child, his jealousy (yes, Merlin, it was jealousy, he finally admitted to himself) coloring his every interaction.

The rest of their patrol passed in strained silence, the unspoken words hanging between them like a tangible barrier. When they finally reached the designated end point, the usual awkward parting felt even more charged, more significant.

That night, sleep eluded Regulus. He tossed and turned in his four-poster bed, the image of Arabella’s hurt expression replaying in his mind. He had behaved abominably, his jealousy and his inability to articulate his feelings creating a rift between them. He knew he owed her an apology, a genuine one, not one of his usual sarcastic half-hearted attempts.

As the time for their next patrol approached, Regulus found himself fidgeting nervously in the Slytherin common room. He considered feigning illness, anything to avoid facing Arabella and the inevitable awkwardness of their encounter. But a stubborn sense of guilt, a feeling entirely unfamiliar and surprisingly potent, propelled him towards their meeting point.

He arrived a few minutes late, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the floor. Arabella was already there, leaning against the wall, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “White,” he mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

Arabella pushed herself off the wall. “Regulus,” she replied, her voice flat.

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a half-melted chocolate bar, its wrapper slightly crumpled. It was a Honeydukes Best Chocolate, a treat he occasionally indulged in during moments of extreme stress or profound self-loathing.

He held it out to her, still not meeting her gaze. “Didn’t… didn’t mean to yell,” he mumbled, the words barely audible.

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken apologies and hesitant forgiveness. Then, Arabella reached out and took the chocolate bar, her fingers brushing against his. This time, the contact didn’t send a jolt of surprise through him, but rather a quiet warmth.

She unwrapped the chocolate slowly, her gaze fixed on the melting squares. She broke off a piece and offered it to him.

Regulus hesitated for a moment, then took the offered chocolate. The sweet, slightly melty taste was surprisingly comforting.

They stood there in silence for a few moments, the only sound the soft rustling of the trees outside the castle walls. The tension between them hadn’t completely dissipated, but it had eased, replaced by a fragile sense of… something akin to understanding.

“Thank you,” Arabella said softly, finally breaking the silence. “For the chocolate. And… for not yelling anymore.”

Regulus shrugged, still unable to meet her eyes. “Just… try not to go on dates with annoying Ravenclaws,” he mumbled, the possessive undertone creeping back into his voice despite his best intentions.

Arabella chuckled softly, a sound that eased some of the remaining tension. “No promises, Moon Boy.”

They resumed their patrol in a comfortable silence, a silence that felt different from the heavy, awkward silences of the past. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with hesitant steps towards something neither of them fully understood.

As their patrol drew to a close, they found themselves near the Astronomy Tower. The night sky was a breathtaking expanse of inky blackness, studded with millions of glittering stars. Without a word, Arabella led them to a secluded spot on the ramparts, overlooking the sprawling grounds.

They sat down together, a comfortable distance between them, their gazes fixed on the celestial display above. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

The silence stretched between them, but it was no longer charged with tension or anger. It was a quiet companionship, a shared moment of peace under the vast, indifferent expanse of the universe. They were closer than they had been before the argument, closer in a way that transcended mere proximity. Yet, the words that truly mattered, the feelings that churned beneath the surface, remained unsaid, hanging in the starlit air like unspoken wishes. The jealousy, the burgeoning affection, the fear of vulnerability – it all remained suspended, waiting for a moment, a catalyst, to finally break the fragile silence and reveal the uncertain landscape of their intertwined destinies.

Chapter Text

Arabella White's fingers trembled as she adjusted her prefect badge for the third time, the silver serpent glinting dully under the flickering torchlight. The castle's ancient stones exhaled cool evening breath against her flushed cheeks as she walked the familiar path toward their meeting spot. Somewhere in the distance, the Fat Lady's off-key singing drifted through portrait corridors, mingling with the occasional squeak of a retreating first-year's shoes on flagstones.  

She paused at the arched window overlooking the Black Lake, where moonlight painted liquid silver across the gently rippling surface. The reflection shimmered like scattered diamonds, beautiful and transient.  

*Just like this fragile thing between us.*  

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. Arabella shook her head, sending her dark chestnut curls swaying against her shoulders. The scent of parchment and ink still clung to her robes from her last-minute Arithmancy revision, mingling with the faint floral hint of the shampoo she'd borrowed from Emmeline last week.  

"You're late."  

That voice. Like velvet wrapped around steel, smooth yet unyielding. It slid down her spine like warm honey, pooling low in her stomach.  

She turned slowly, her school skirt whispering against her stockings.  

Regulus Black leaned against the weathered stone wall like some brooding prince from a fairy tale, his tailored robes draping elegantly over lean shoulders. Moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face – the aristocratic nose, the stubborn set of his jaw, the faint shadow of dark stubble along his throat. But it was his eyes that always undid her. Stormcloud gray, flecked with silver like the lake behind her, was currently watching her with an intensity that made her pulse stutter.  

"By two minutes," she managed, proud when her voice didn't waver. "Don't tell me the great Regulus Black has never been tardy."  

His lips – those maddeningly perfect lips – quirked at one corner. "I haven't."  

"Liar." The word came out breathier than intended.  

He pushed off the wall with effortless grace, the scent of bergamot and something distinctly masculine enveloping her as he fell into step beside her. Their shoulders nearly brushed with each stride, close enough that she could see the faint pulse at the base of his throat, the way his dark lashes cast spidery shadows across pale cheeks when he glanced downward.  

The silence between them wasn't empty – it never was with Regulus. It thrummed with unspoken words, with all the things they'd never dared say aloud. Arabella focused on the rhythmic tap of their shoes against stone, the distant hoot of an owl from the Owlery, the way his breathing hitched slightly whenever their arms accidentally brushed.  

*Merlin, this is torture.*  

She risked a glance at his profile, finding him already watching her with that inscrutable expression. A flush crept up her neck as she quickly looked away, but not before noticing how the torchlight gilded his cheekbones, how his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed.  

*He's going to be the death of me.*  

The attack came without warning.  

One moment they were walking in charged silence, the next the air exploded with the telltale pop of magical energy. Arabella barely had time to register Peeves' maniacal laughter before the corridor became a kaleidoscope of flying hexes.  

"Protego!" Regulus' shield charm shimmered to life just as a particularly vicious Bat-Bogey Hex whizzed past Arabella's ear.  

Peeves cackled overhead, his translucent form doing loop-the-loops near the vaulted ceiling. "Ooooh, looks like lovebirds forgot to watch their heads!"  

Arabella's wand slashed through the air, her own shield joining Regulus'. The spells collided with their protections in bursts of colored light – emerald green, violent violet, molten gold – painting the ancient stones in surreal hues. The air smelled of ozone and burnt sugar, of danger and something exhilarating.  

Then she saw it.  

A jagged purple curse, darker than the others, slipping through their defenses like liquid shadow. Time seemed to slow as it arrowed straight for her heart.  

*I can't block it in time—*  

Warmth. Pressure. The scent of bergamot overwhelmed her senses as Regulus' body collided with hers.  

The sickening sizzle of magic meeting flesh.  

A gasp – his gasp – hot against her ear.  

Then the coppery tang of blood filled the air.  

Arabella's world narrowed to three things:  

1. The alarming amount of crimson spreading across Regulus' pristine white shirt.  
2. The way his breath hitched as he leaned heavily against her.  
3. The absolute terror clawing at her throat.  

"Regulus!" Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears – too high, too raw.  

Peeve's laughter died abruptly. "Blimey, didn't mean to—"  

"GET OUT!" The words tore from her throat with enough force to send the poltergeist fleeing.  

Her hands fluttered uselessly over the wound, her wand slipping in her suddenly sweaty grip. The blood was warm against her fingers, shockingly red against his pale skin. She could see the torn edges of fabric, the angry red flesh beneath, the way his shoulder muscles tensed with every shallow breath.  

*Episkey. Vulnera Sanentur. Anything!*  

But her magic wouldn't come. All she could think about was the way his dark lashes fluttered against suddenly pale cheeks, how his usually perfect hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.  

"You absolute idiot," she choked out, pressing her trembling hands harder against the wound. Hot blood seeped between her fingers, staining her skin, her cuffs, her soul. "Why would you-you could've—Merlin, I care about you, okay!?"  

The confession burst forth like a dam breaking, raw and unpolished and true.  

Regulus went perfectly still.  

Then, through gritted teeth, lips stained slightly red from where he'd bitten them, he murmured, "Good. Because I think I'm in love with you."  

The world stopped.  

Somewhere in the distance, a portrait gasped. A suit of armor creaked. The castle itself seemed to hold its breath.  

Arabella's heart hammered against her ribs like a snitch trying to escape.  

*Did he just—?*  

*No. No, that's blood loss talking. Or a concussion. Or—*  

But his eyes, when she dared meet them, were clearer than she'd ever seen them.  

And then she was kissing him.  

It wasn't graceful.  

Their noses bumped. Her teeth caught his bottom lip. Someone's elbow knocked painfully against the wall.  

And it was perfect.  

Regulus tasted like mint and something indefinably his, like the first snowfall and old books and home. His hands – those elegant, quidditch-calloused hands – cradled her face with surprising gentleness even as his lips moved desperately against hers.  

Arabella fisted her hands in his robes, pulling him closer, needing to erase every millimeter between them. The fabric was still damp with blood, the metallic tang mixing with the heady sensation of his mouth on hers.  

When they finally broke apart, both panting, Arabella's entire body thrummed with electricity.  

"That was—" she began.  

"—a terrible idea?" Regulus finished, his voice deliciously rough. A droplet of blood trailed from his temple where he'd hit the wall.  

She swallowed hard. "Probably."  

His smirk could have powered the entire castle. "Do it again anyway."  

She did.  

Madam Pomfrey's hospital wing smelled of antiseptic and dried herbs, the familiar scents doing nothing to calm Arabella's racing heart.  

"Honestly, Mr. Black," the matron tutted as her wand wove intricate patterns over Regulus' shoulder. "You're lucky this wasn't cursed. Another inch to the left and—"  

Arabella's nails bit into her palms.  

Regulus didn't flinch as the skin knit back together, but his free hand found hers beneath the sheets, their fingers tangling in secret. His palm was warm, his grip just shy of painful – as if he needed the anchor as much as she did.  

Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at their suspicious proximity but said nothing, merely muttering about "reckless teenagers" as she bustled away.  

The moment the curtains swished shut, Regulus turned to her.  

"So," he said, thumb tracing circles on her wrist. "That happened."  

Arabella groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Merlin, we're terrible at this."  

His laugh–genuine and unguarded–wrapped around her like sunlight.  

And just like that, the world felt new.  

Later, beneath a sky dusted with stars, they sat by the Black Lake, in complete silence under the moonlight, wind caressing their faces.  

Regulus' fingers brushed hers, tentative. "What now?"  

Arabella exhaled, watching their reflections shimmer in the moonlit water—two figures, close but not quite touching.  

"I don't know," she admitted.  

But when she turned to him, finding his stormcloud eyes already waiting, the uncertainty didn't seem so terrifying.  

And as their lips met once more, the lake whispered its approval in gentle waves.