If Freya had shown him that blue flame on purpose, it likely meant she wanted him to notice something. Wanted him thinking in a particular direction.
She couldn't say it outright. Some things can't be spoken plainly. They can only be hinted at.
Regulus gazed out at the sea.
It felt vast and desolate, like standing at the very edge of the world.
The feeling was strange. Moments ago he'd been fighting for his life. Now he stood here watching the ocean, saying nothing, doing nothing.
The witch beside him had been trading spells with two elite dark wizards seconds earlier. Now she stood the same way he did, still and quiet, watching the same stretch of sea.
Regulus turned his head and studied her profile.
The calm mask had settled back into place. No ripple of emotion, no trace of what had just happened. Her features were sharp and clean-cut, a different person entirely from the one who'd rolled her eyes mid-battle.
That eye-roll.
The memory tugged at the corner of his mouth.
At the height of the fight, she'd glanced sideways at him, confirmed he was fine, and immediately rolled her eyes.
That single look had told him more about Freya than anything else. She wasn't what her surface suggested.
Beneath that expressionless face lived something else. Something a little blunt, a little awkward with situations like these. Not quite sure what to do with them.
They hadn't known each other long.
That morning they'd met at Grimmauld Place, then taken a Portkey together to this town. She'd walked him around the perimeter, they'd settled in at midday, he'd spent the afternoon alone, and at eight she'd knocked on his door for patrol.
Then the fight.
All told, they'd spent perhaps three or four hours in each other's company.
But in those few hours, his impression of her had sharpened into something clear.
He looked away, back toward the water, and spoke quietly. "Miss Eisenhardt."
Freya turned to face him.
"Your magic is powerful," he said, and meant it. "Those lightning curses... I've never seen that casting method before."
She held his gaze. Something thoughtful moved behind her eyes, as though weighing whether his words were a probe, whether they pointed at something deeper.
He met her look steadily. Nothing in his expression but honest admiration.
The tension in her face eased, just slightly.
"Mr. Black," her low voice carried through the night air, "you're the one who surprised me."
No politeness in the tone. She meant it.
He watched her, the faintest smile forming. "Call me Regulus."
She blinked. Her lashes trembled in the dark.
She hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected this English boy, nearly twenty centimeters shorter than her, to ask her to use his first name.
A small nod. "You can call me Freya."
"Freya," he said, easy and natural, as though he'd known her for years.
Something crossed her face. Light, brief, gone almost before it appeared. If he hadn't been watching closely, he'd have missed it entirely. Something like relief.
"Regulus." She returned the name.
Then she kept looking at him, her gaze resting on his face, as though waiting for him to say more. Or to ask something.
She wanted to ask about the spell.
That grey-green curse had been too unusual, too devastating. A twelve-year-old boy had used a single spell to erase an elite dark wizard from existence. No body left behind.
Any witch or wizard alive would be curious.
Would want to ask.
But she couldn't bring it up herself. It might involve family secrets, personal privacy, things not meant for outsiders. Asking directly would be impolite at best, prying at worst.
So she waited. For him to volunteer something, or to change the subject himself.
Regulus looked back at her. His gaze was direct, unguarded, and he held it long enough that she started to shift.
Her eyes began to drift. Her lashes flickered. Her lips pressed together.
Right as she was about to break and look away, he spoke.
His tone was mild. "The Decomposition Curse. I developed it myself."
There was no pride in his words, no hint of a boast. He might as well have been commenting on the weather, something as casual as "nice night out," followed by an offhand mention that he had invented the spell.
Freya's eyes widened briefly before she caught herself. She nodded once and didn't press for details or theory.
A pause. Then, quietly: "Don't you want to ask me anything?"
Of course he had questions.
What was that blue flame? Who are you, really? Why did you let them cast that Mental Erosion? What are you after?
Every one of those had cycled through his mind more than once.
But he didn't want to ask.
Not now.
Call it a private indulgence.
He wanted to watch her try to maintain her composure in front of him. This woman who looked carved from ice, who fought with lethal grace, and who rolled her eyes when she thought no one important was looking. The careful, guarded way she handled herself around him was... entertaining.
And after what had happened with Bellatrix, he was more certain than ever that something deeper was at play.
That star had sat in a preliminary state within his meditation framework, never fully igniting.
But the cognitive chill from that erosion had coaxed its light brighter.
It felt too convenient, too neatly arranged, as though it had all been orchestrated.
If it was, then Freya understood him far better than he'd assumed. She knew his mental defense structure. She knew his weaknesses. She knew exactly what kind of attack would help him verify what he needed to verify.
None of that information came from her own observation. He was certain of that. He'd never told anyone, never demonstrated it directly to anyone.
But if his information had been gathered from some higher vantage point... prophecy, foresight, something of that nature... then there was nothing he could do about it.
Not yet. For now, he could only accept it.
So better to keep watching.
Watch what Freya did next. Watch what else she revealed. Watch where this mission ultimately led.
So far, things kept breaking in his favor. An opportunity to ignite Bellatrix had appeared. The Decomposition Curse had passed its field test with results exceeding his expectations.
Whatever her purpose, he'd lost nothing.
Regulus shook his head. "Freya."
She turned.
"Are you hungry?"
Her expression went blank for a beat. She blinked, as if the words hadn't registered.
She stared at him, confusion and surprise tangled together, with a trace of something that looked like not knowing what to do with herself.
He watched her, a faint smile on his face.
A few seconds passed before she gave a hesitant nod.
---
This town was small, but it had what it needed.
As one of the Eisenhardt Family's key outposts on the North Sea, it maintained a permanent staff of several dozen employees and their families. Where there were people, there were needs. Where there were needs, there was commerce.
Along the cobblestone road through the center of town, a handful of shops stood scattered on either side. One sold magical ingredients and potion components. Another carried general household goods. A third dealt in broomstick parts and repair tools. And there was a small tavern that doubled as a restaurant.
The sign out front depicted an octopus hoisting a wine glass, one tentacle curled around the rim. Below it, in ornate German script: Der Krake.
Regulus and Freya stepped inside.
The door was heavy oak and groaned as it swung open.
The interior was modest. A dozen wooden tables, half of them empty. A fire crackled in the hearth. A few oil paintings of North Sea landscapes hung on the walls.
The owner was a short, stocky wizard of middle age. He nodded at Freya when she walked in, didn't ask questions, and barely glanced at Regulus.
She chose a table by the window. He sat across from her.
"What do they serve?" Regulus asked.
"German food," Freya said.
---
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