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"How About Now?"

𓆩♡𓆪──────────────────────────────────────𓂃༉‧₊˚.

It was the kind of afternoon Hogwarts never survived quietly.

The thick, deadweight lull of post-lunch drowsiness had settled over Classroom 3C like fog rolling off the lake, heavy and suffocating and doomed. Charms class was crawling along at the pace of an injured Flobberworm. Professor Flitwick, bless him, was doing his very best to explain the intricacies of non-verbal Confundus Charms, but not a single student in the room had retained consciousness in spirit, even if their bodies sat upright in pure academic defiance.

And at the back of the room, sprawled like sin and plotting like a Shakespearean villain, was Regulus Black.

He had been exiled to the far right corner. Banished. Condemned. Cast out like Eve from Eden—but far more stylish. A punishment, Professor Flitwick had said sternly that morning, for “certain... excessively affectionate behaviours” during the last lesson. Regulus hadn’t even blinked. Evan Rosier, the unfortunate cause and co-defendant in said behaviours, had merely shrugged and said, “Fair.”

Now they sat at opposite ends of the room. Regulus. Evan. Like star-crossed criminals.

And Regulus? Regulus was doing something under the desk.

His quill was moving. His head was bowed, curls falling forward like a silk curtain, and his eyes were locked onto his lap with laser focus.

Evan, ten feet away, slouched in his chair like a man defeated. He looked like the last soldier left on a battlefield, staring longingly across no-man’s land, wounded and lovesick.

Barty Crouch Jr., who sat beside him, leaned in and muttered, “You’re pathetic.”

Evan didn’t respond.

In the middle of the room, Sirius Black was chewing on the edge of his wand with such violence it was a miracle he hadn’t developed splinters in his gums. He was glaring at his little brother as though eye contact alone could smite him.

James Potter snorted behind his hand. “You alright there, Pads?”

“No,” Sirius hissed. “Look at him. He’s plotting something.”

“He’s always plotting something,” Lily Evans muttered, twirling her wand between her fingers. “He plotted that disaster of a Yule Ball entrance last year, didn’t he? Remember the fog machine?”

Frank Longbottom rubbed his temple. “We all remember the fog machine. I still have trauma. And asthma.”

Fabian Prewett leaned back in his chair, elbowing Gideon. “Oi. Ten Galleons says he’s writing something absolutely filthy to Rosier.”

Gideon squinted. “Nah, he’s doing something under the desk. Look at the movement. That’s not writing. That’s—”

Regulus spoke.

Calm. Flat. Icy and perfect. Without lifting his gaze, without even twitching a single elegant bone in his body, he called out across the silent room:

“Evan, darling.”

Silence.

Then—

“Yeah?” Evan replied automatically.

Professor Flitwick blinked, confused. “Mr. Rosier, please focus—”

Still without looking up, Regulus asked, loud enough to shatter the sacred veil of classroom peace:

“Do you ever get a sharp stabbing pain in your body? Like someone’s got a voodoo doll of you and they’re just—”

—and here Regulus made a delicate motion with his quill hand under the desk. A short, swift jab. Still not looking at Evan. His tone remained maddeningly casual.

“—stabbing it?”

Silence.

Complete, catastrophic silence.

The room froze.

Every head turned.

Sirius dropped his wand.

Barty Crouch Jr. let out a sound like a dog being punched.

Dorcas Meadows whispered, “Oh my God.”

Pandora Rosier gasped. “Regulus Black, you bitch—”

Professor Flitwick stammered, “Mr. Black, that is—!”

Evan, pale and startled, sat bolt upright.

“No,” he said.

Regulus finally, finally, looked up. His eyes gleamed.

“How about now?”

He stabbed his quill down again.

Evan let out a loud, strangled yelp and launched backwards off his chair. The entire class exploded.

Peter Pettigrew screamed. Not in fear. Just in confusion.

Marlene McKinnon slammed her forehead against the desk, wheezing.

Mary Macdonald clapped her hands over her mouth and shrieked into her palms.

Remus Lupin whispered, “What the fuck.”

Alice Fortescue was sobbing into her textbook. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Frank Longbottom tried to climb out the window.

Gideon Prewett was having a seizure. From laughter. Possibly.

Fabian was on the floor.

Professor Flitwick looked on the verge of resigning.

And Regulus Black?

Regulus sat back. Calm. Serene. Vicious.

He twirled his quill like a dagger and said, with the sweetest smile known to man or beast,

“That’s what I thought.”

Evan, on the floor and gasping like a man recently risen from drowning, groaned, “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” Regulus said brightly.

Professor Flitwick, trembling, clutched the edge of his desk. “Mr. Black—what in Merlin’s name is wrong with you?!”

Regulus blinked innocently. “I was asking a medical question.”

“That was not a medical question!”

“Maybe not to you, sir.”

“I am—” Flitwick took a breath, adjusted his tiny robes, and screamed, “OUT! BOTH OF YOU—OUT!”

Evan groaned from the floor. “Worth it.”

Regulus rose, took his time collecting his bag, and walked past Sirius with a flick of his hair so theatrical it generated a breeze.

Sirius looked ready to combust.

James had his head between his knees. “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m going to throw up.”

“I’m going to hex him,” Sirius hissed.

“You always say that,” Marlene cackled.

Regulus paused at the door, looked back at the classroom he had just left in complete ruins, and said airily—

“Be careful, everyone. I still have needles.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

They heard Evan’s delighted laughter echoing down the corridor.

And inside the room, thirty-four people silently agreed: They were never sitting between those two again.

𓆩♡𓆪──────────────────────────────────────𓂃༉‧₊˚.

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