Chapter Text
There are enough Pureblood families in the area — and of course, Portkeys and spare rooms — to justify having the Summer Season in Kent. Traditionally, the Blacks go first, throwing their annual Summer Soiree that is really only rivalled in its grandiosity by the Potters, who close out the season.
Practically everyone who was anyone was invited, even with the growing tensions that had adults whispering in secret conversations, heavy doors closed, the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Still, nobody would turn down the opportunity for a good old fashioned party. The cousins would come, of course, and the Potters, the Malfoys, the Prewetts, the Lestranges, the Rosiers, the Longbottoms and on and on and on. Even the Weasleys, though an invitation didn’t guarantee their attendance.
The household descends into the madness of preparations; a flurry of invitations sent out by owls, Floo. House Elves pattering back and forth, and the smell of the kitchens permeating through the house, fresh bread and roasting herbs. Regulus lolls over the bannister, arms swinging and head leant on the cool wood as he watches his mother in the centre of the foyer, his eyes tracking the smooth magisterial movements of her wand through the air, directing the myriad of decorations, candles floating idly by. Flowing yards of silk meander through the air, hooking themselves up on invisible strings, and he feels a familiar glimmer of awe as she pulls the illusory sky over the high ceiling, a blanket of serene blue and fluffy white clouds that would soon become a array of stars whirling overhead.
The night of, Orion genially allows Regulus a sip of his vintage Firewhiskey, and laughs as he splutters, tears springing to the corners of his eyes. It is his laughter, more than the alcohol itself, that makes Regulus’ stomach warm, tingling down to the tips of his fingers.
With so many families, so much magic gathered in one place, it’s like he can almost taste it, a charge on the back of his tongue. It is intoxicating, making him feel like he could see everyone’s backs straightening, skin clearing, hair gaining a glossy lustre and a glimmer coming to their eyes.
His dress robes have been laid out neatly on his bed by the time he retreats to get changed, pressed black wool and shining leather shoes. He slouches into a chair and stares out the window, at the floating lights and the last few preparations before the guests would begin to arrive. He already feels exhausted.
The evening air is a cool palm pressed to his flushed neck. Regulus wanders through the crowds, a glass of something fizzing in his hand. He inclines his head genially as he passes Narcissa, who seemed to be laying it on rather thick with one Master Lucius Malfoy. He can imagine the scenes of his mother finding out about that, a shrill voice ringing in his ears. There is a sweetness in the air, a buoyancy. Regulus loves parties. The low chattering hum, interrupted by high peals of laughter ringing into the still summer night sky, the clinking of bottles against too-full glasses, extravagant dresses rustling over the grass and the shrieks of children plied with too much sugar. It melts sugar sweet on his tongue.
He wanders for a while longer, gets pulled into a conversation with a distant relative– yes I’m at Hogwarts, no I haven’t really thought about what to do after, yes maybe something in the Ministry– and has just extricated himself when he hears it. A hushed voice, shaping an all too familiar name. A name that Regulus’ ears are perhaps particularly sensitive to; a name, that after the events of last year, was almost never said.
”–Sirius out of the picture, it will have to be the spare.”
It’s Bellatrix, her voice a low hiss. Regulus’ heart stumbles, but he keeps his cool, sliding slightly closer and pretending to watch the dancing.
“Of course it must. The House of Black must join the Dark Lord as soon as it is able, and we shall not let this setback impact our chances. But the boy is not yet of age.”
The fizzy wine in Regulus’ grip sloshes, spilling out of the flute and onto his shoes. It is unmistakably his father’s low voice.
In an instant, it’s like he can see his future locking in around him. His pupils open into twin gaping black holes, straining to see into the murky water ahead of him, the fishing twine curling around his neck, crooning in his ear, not yet pulled taut but soon, soon.
“It must be soon,” Bellatrix croons, her voice lilting and sticky sweet. “Otherwise–”
Regulus doesn’t hear the rest. He stumbles away, accosting a waiter and demanding a ‘bottle of something, anything– no, the good stuff, please.’ He must seem appropriately desperate, as the waiter blinks once and hands him a bottle he’s produced from nowhere, open but full.
He needs air. He needs– he needs– he pushes out of the ballroom, chest heaving. He will not cry.
Regulus makes it all the way to the front steps when his legs give out underneath him. Deciding this is as good a place as any, he leans against a column, and begins to drink.
James’ formal dress robes itch. He pulls at the collar, readjusts the sleeves, but nothing seems to alleviate the tickle of wool against skin. He’s in a foul mood. He wishes Sirius was here– selfish, a voice in his head chides. He wishes Remus or Peter were here. Better .
His parents had arrived ahead of him, punctual to a fault. They’d shown him their outfits before they left, Effy resplendent in deep blue robes that shimmered as they fell to the floor, Monty commanding in a burgundy-red, stiff at the collar and bringing out his laughing brown eyes. It makes sense then, James thinks sourly, for them to put him in purple. The Prince of the House of Potter. His robes, set out by house elves the night before like he was a child again, were a deep, rich plum. Not the most flattering colour, but certainly one that would garner attention. Attention that James didn’t feel up to tonight.
Which is why James is arriving almost an hour late. As he crunches up the gravel of the drive, he feels irritable and too-hot, like the tiniest thing could set him off.
And there it was, right there, the tiny thing that would set him off, and it’s so much worse than a stone stuck in the bottom of his shoe.
Regulus Black, sitting on the steps leading up to the house, looking utterly despondent and drinking straight from the neck of a bottle of champagne.
“Regulus?” James cannot believe his luck. The first person he sees at the Black soiree, the event that he 'must be polite at, darling, or we’ll all be going to hell in a handbasket,’ was the last person he could dredge up even one kind word for. “What are you doing out here?”
“What does it look like?” He’s sullen. James can feel the beginnings of a tingle of curiosity, somewhere in his stomach.
“No need to bite my head off, Merlin, I’m only asking. How is it in there?”
“Look, James, I don’t want to be rude–” a lie, an obvious one– “but I’m not in the mood. Can’t you go and bother someone else?”
“If it’s as bad as that, I’m sure I can.” James starts for the door, and the sounds of the party float out to him, tinkling glasses and tittering laughs, the polite chatter of high society. Usually it would draw him in like a lure, but his robes are scratchy, and his mouth tastes funny, and he has a squirming, nasty feeling in his belly. He’s sure no one will miss him anyway.
Turning on his heel, James goes and sits down next to Regulus, who is looking up at him with glazed, grumpy eyes. His brow is furrowed, confused, and James has the nonsensical urge to smooth over the soft pad of skin that bunches between his eyebrows. He doesn’t.
“You know,” he swipes the bottle out of Regulus’ loose hand, “I’m having a terrible night too.” He takes a swig while he waits for Regulus to answer him. The bubbles dance on his tongue.
“I bet I’d win,” Regulus says, dryly, and then he hiccups, an innocent, polite noise.
“Oh really? Want to compare?”
“No, Potter. I’d win. I never win, but on this–” he hiccups again, “on this one thing, I promise I would.”
James would push him, but he can see the wobble of Regulus’ lips, and realises that if he isn’t careful, he’s going to be bearing witness to a Black Breakdown. Remus and Peter had coined the phrase in third year, after living with a hormone-fuelled Sirius for a month. James hadn’t realised they were hereditary.
“We need more wine, I think.” James clicks his fingers with a sigh, and the Potter house elf pops into existence. “Mopsy, will you please fetch a bottle of Dad’s Chardonnay? The ‘67 vintage, I think. Chill it right down.” Regulus hiccups, a third time, this one accompanied with a dozy frown, as James finishes speaking.
Mopsy pops again, returning with the bottle. She gives James a frown, saying with her eyes that this will get back to his parents, and James gives her back a look that says he doesn’t care, waving his hand to dismiss her.
“You know it’s very rude to call your own house elf on someone else’s property.” Regulus says, but he still takes the bottle out of James’ hands, drinking deeply. “And– hic– and I seem to remember telling you to leave me alone?”
“Yes, my dear Regulus, but if I had left you alone, who would be providing this lovely Chardonnay?” The nasty edge had left James’ tone at some point. He doesn’t know where it went, but Regulus does cut a pathetic figure, and he can’t bring himself to replace it. He drags his eyes over his drinking companion; taking in hunched shoulders, glassy eyes, cheeks flushed with a mixture of alcohol and misery, chest jumping.
The quiet between them stretches long, and James, who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘comfortable silence,’ decides to break it.
“Would you like to play Questions?” As soon as it is out of his mouth, James is kicking himself. Questions? With Sirius’ evil little brother? He’ll never hear the end of it.
“What the bastarding hell is Questions?” Regulus must be very drunk, James thinks, if he is conjugating bastard like this.
“It’s easy. You ask me a question, and I have to tell you the truth. Then we swap: I ask you a question, and you have to tell me the truth. And on it goes.”
Regulus looks incredulous. At least, that is what James thinks he is trying to portray. One of his eyes is drooping shut, and he’s trying to raise his eyebrows, but they don’t seem to be playing ball, and all this results in him giving James a deeply odd, leering, wink.
“No offence, Potter– actually,” he hiccups for the fifth time, and stops talking for a while to hold his breath, bearing down on his diaphragm to stop it from spasming. James neglects to tell him that there’s a spell to stop them.
“Actually, full offence. There isn’t anything I’d like to know about you.”
“I’ll go first then! What’s your favourite colour, Reg?”
Regulus glares at him. His chest jumps. James stares him down.
“Fine! Merlin, you’re persistent. It’s– hic! –purple.”
James raises his eyebrows, looks down at his dress robes.
“Not that kind, you prat. I like– hic! – I like it lighter. Li–hic! Like lilac.”
While Regulus is talking, James twitches his wand at him from beneath his sleeve, muttering the hiccup-cure under his breath. It isn’t to be nice. The hiccups are as annoying to him as they must be to Regulus. James is not being nice.
“Lilac, hey? I’d have you pegged for a green and silver man. Me? Oh, I’m so glad you asked–” Regulus looks astonished, and it’s a sweet expression, childlike. James isn’t sure whether he’s surprised that he’s still speaking, or at the sudden stop of his hiccups, the cool rush of air flowing through him, easy. “I like red.”
“Of course you do. Gryffindors are all the same. No sense of individual identity.”
“Who needs it, when you’re the bravest of them all?” James smirks, rolling up his sleeves. It’s a warm night.
“Okay, my turn, my turn.” Regulus’ voice is bright, unguarded. James finds himself thinking of Sirius in first year, unbuttoning his etiquette for the first time in his life– or to be more accurate, tearing the whole thing off and running .
“I thought you didn’t want to play?” James gets a glare for his trouble, and folds immediately, grinning as he takes a swig of wine. “Alright, go on then.”
Regulus takes a breath to answer, but something in his eyes clouds over. They’re shining oddly, pooling darkness.
“Will you forgive me?” His voice is eerie, clear, and too still for the wavering of his body.
“Um, sorry?” James is unsettled, a prickling edging up the tips of his fingers.
Regulus gets to his feet abruptly, and so James does the natural thing, and follows, keeping Regulus’ weaving figure in sight as they wind through the back passages and service corridors of the Black residence, the sounds of the party– growing raucous now– muffled, cocooning them. The halls are labyrinthine, walls close. it's a wonder they don’t lose more house elves– James imagines coming across the mummified husk of a tiny body, ears twisted back, and shudders. He is so focused on not losing sight of Regulus that he follows him directly into the bathroom.
He’s about to make his apologies and leave when Regulus whips around, grabbing his bare arm. Regulus’ hand is warm, and solid. James doesn’t know why he’s surprised. He had it in his mind that Regulus was freezing under his robes, cold and hard, a little porcelain prince. James can feel his heart beating, in time with Regulus’ pulse fluttering atop his wrist.
“I am furious with you, James Potter.” Regulus’ voice is cold, and it’s lost the bizarre calm from before, his Question.
“What?” James is genuinely befuddled. “ Why? ”
“Oh, you think you’re so bloody cool– stalking up the drive an hour late, with your Chardonnay and your house elf, and–” he burps, puts two delicate fingers to his mouth, and James can see where this is going, but Regulus is off again, hissing words across the still air of the bathroom. “And– and I told you to leave me alone in the clearing yesterday, and you didn’t, and you still won’t– what do I have to do to get you to go away ?”
“Well– and this is just a suggestion, Reg– you could start by letting go of my arm.”
Regulus laughs, a high, mocking sound.
“You think this is all a game, don’t you? It isn’t, James. It’s not a game– not to me, and–”
And he promptly turns, crouches, and vomits neatly into the waiting toilet bowl.
There he goes, James thinks, feeling a little surge of pity as Regulus retches and sobs. He puts a hand on the back of Regulus' neck where it meets his shoulder, rubbing slow circles, – not to be nice, Merlin , just because it’s something he likes when he’s sick. He summons a glass of water, settling in.
Somewhere, in the midst of sicking up everything he’d ever eaten, Regulus collects himself enough to be able to speak. There is something mean coming out of him along with the bile and the un-digested alcohol.
“He’s my brother,” his voice is thin, scraping through the bile stained remains of his throat, “my brother. Mine. No matter how much you want to take him away.”
Regulus feels the sudden lack of James’ hand on the back of his neck like an ache. He imagines that his palm, his calluses, had made indents in his skin like soft mud, and the air slid into them with cold fingers. He bites down on his tongue, hard, iron through his mouth, afraid of what might spill out otherwise. He’s still damp, sweat soaking through his layers of dress robes, drying tackily on his skin. The porcelain bowl of the toilet fills his vision. There is a crack in the ceramic, dark and persistent down the serene white surface.
“Merlin, you’re hard to like.” James sounds disbelieving above him, voice distant. Regulus sways, blinking away the salt-sting in his eyes. His hands skitter away from him on the floor, knees gone numb. James’ hands return, one stroking down the length of his spine and the other placing a glass of water just in front of him.
Later, he’ll wonder whether he heard James properly; a faint, pitying voice amidst his retching and the ringing in his ears.
“I’m not the one he’s running away from.”
Hullo, Pete!
Hope Egypt is going swell!! Do give Whiskey a treat before you send him back– it’s an awful long way from Kent to you, even for an eagle owl.
You must tell me everything – how is the weather? Are you seeing heaps of tombs? Any ghosts worth mentioning??
Nothing is happening here. We had the first event of the season last night– very boring as you well know. I spent most of it wishing you and the others were here, and barely any of it at the actual event. I’ve been There’s something quite lonely about summer this year. Ah, well. Perhaps I’ll make some new friends. There are some familiar faces about in Kent this year, and I’ve been spending time with well, I’m not sure what to think about it yet. Misery makes strange bedfellows for us all!
Have you heard from Moony and Pads yet? They’re terribly quiet up in Wales. I hope they haven’t been eaten by red dragons or sheep. How much mischief can they realistically get up there, without you and me? I doubt very much. Sirius is probably overwhelmed by the Muggle-y bits, and Remus will be running around trying to stop him from elecktricing elticrtryck electronki shocking himself (I did pay attention in third year Muggle Studies, hah!).
That’s all from me. Hope you haven’t perished of heat or been possessed by a malicious deviant spirit of a snake or something. Write soon, or I’ll assume you’ve betrayed us all and are setting up shop permanently in the Near East!
Yours,
Prongs
James is just thinking about what a lovely time he is having, lying in the clearing on his own, watching the clouds drift past, when Regulus stalks out through the trees.
He sits up, lazily.
“Morning, Reg!”
Regulus glares at him, and pointedly says nothing. “I hope that house elf of yours– Bipsy, was it? I hope Bipsy makes a mean hangover potion!” His voice is a little too loud, and it’s on purpose. Never let it be said that James Potter lets an adversary escape with their dignity.
“I’m fine, Potter. No thanks to you.” The flop of him down to the grass, undignified, somewhat undercuts his haughty words.
James is about to lapse back into his reverie when Regulus speaks again.
“Why did you do that?” And his tone isn’t angry, or even accusing. It’s curious.
“Do what?” There are a number of things Regulus could be speaking about here.
“Well–” he hedges. “Well, why did you sit down with me and bring me wine? Why did you stay when I started sicking up? We don’t even like each other.”
James sits up fully, looks at Regulus, who is looking steadily back. They’re at a stalemate, a standstill, and suddenly there’s a duelling mat between them, their hands at their wands, daring the other to draw first. James shakes off the image. The sanctity of the grove forbids duels.
“No, Regulus, we don’t,” and James is hesitating here, because, if he’s honest, he has no idea what possessed him to act the way he did last night. There was something that was just so– so pathetically sad about Regulus, sitting there on the steps, so small, the sad, drunk hunch of his body. It had made James’ chest hurt. “I– I know you’re Sirius’ brother, and you seemed, well– upset–”
Regulus hisses, a sharp, pained noise.
“Don’t. Just– please don’t. Don’t talk about him. I can’t– I don’t– please.”
It’s the way he says it, like it’s painful, words like shards of glass tearing his throat on their way up– and still he says them, and it’s brave , this request– and it makes James take pity on him.
“Consider it unsaid,” he says gravely, and casts around to find a safe topic. There’s nothing in his head, just mothballs and Sirius. Don’t think of a pink elephant.
A beat. A long one.
“We never finished our game of Questions,” Regulus offers, shyly.
“That’s right!” James grasps at the offer like the lifeline it is; he’s always hated silence. “Whose turn was it? Yours? Mine?”
He knows, can still feel the odd shiver down his spine from that last Question of Regulus’. It was a peculiar one- he’s never heard Regulus sound that way before. An echo of Sirius’ voice in his head- sometimes, a hesitation, sometimes he’s a bit strange. I don’t know how– not bad strange! Just– anyway, don’t repeat that. I– shouldn’t have said that. Sirius is famously reticent about his younger brother. James could tell he’d regretted saying anything, that late night conversation under the sheets, the air itself holding its breath and listening.
“Yours, I think.” Regulus’ brow has twisted itself up trying to remember. James is absurdly grateful.
“Well,” he draws out the word, drums his fingers on the ground. “An easy one to start then. Did you have a second round of sicking up this morning?”
Regulus shoots him a mean look. Somehow, in the two days since the beginning of summer and now, James has begun to learn how to distinguish his actual, real mean looks from the ones he just uses as a disguise, like a kitten fluffing itself up to appear intimidating.
“Yes.” He says it begrudgingly, after a long pause. James hadn’t said a word. He wasn’t about to let Regulus off the hook! “I did, and no I still don’t want a hangover potion. I’m fine now.”
From the faint green pallor on his face, presumably just from remembering his morning bent over the toilet, James would say he does need one but he doesn’t push.
“Alright, alright. Hit me.”
“Okay,” Regulus says, humming a little as he thinks. “Anything, and you have to tell the truth?”
James nods, a bundle of nerves curdling in his belly.
“Alright then,” and he takes a deep breath, winding up. The knot in James’ stomach tightens. “Would you like to– oh no, Merlin, nevermind.”
“No, what?” The only thing that James hates more than nerves is curiosity. It’ll burn a hole in him, never knowing what Regulus was going to say. A bolt of inspiration. “Once you start a Question, you can’t stop– no takesy-backsies!” He says it firmly, though this isn’t a rule of Questions at all. But he is dying to know.
“What? You didn’t mention that rule last night!”
“Wasn’t relevant. It is now.” James shrugs, letting a devious smile crack his face. Regulus glares at him, then relents.
“Fine,” another deep breath. “Would you like to keep doing this? In the clearing, I mean? On purpose?”
Whatever James is expecting, it wasn’t this.
“Why?”
“Well–” he draws it out, thinking of what to say. His eyes are determinedly fixed on a small patch of grass and overturned rocks, like they’ll have the answer for him. James wishes he’d look at him instead. “It just seems like– look, I know we hate each other. In school, or whatever. But it’s just us here for the summer– unless you want to start spending time with Emmeline Vance–” they both give a snort of laughter. Emmeline Vance is the most boring girl in their generation of heirs, and has been since birth. “Look, the way I see it is that it’s just you and me, and we may as well be civil. Perhaps we could even be,” he swallows, his throat clicking, “friends. Just for the summer?”
James thinks on this, considers it.
“Okay,” he says at last.
Regulus looks at him, incredulous. There’s something behind his eyes, something strange that James can’t quite place.
“Really?” He asks, and it makes James think. He thinks of Regulus in school, always alone, making himself as small as he can; thinks of him by the Lake after exams– I didn’t have anything better to do ; thinks of him drunk and forlorn, at the front steps of the Black residence the night before. That’s when James places the emotion that Regulus is clearly trying to hide. It’s hope.
James’ chest flutters, a tiny little bit.
“Really, you sook,” he says. “Now, it’s my turn to ask, and I’d like to hear all the gory details about how your OWLs went.”
Prongs, you absolute prat,
Don’t think I haven’t noticed how long it took you to owl me back. I don’t know why, you make Kent sound dull as rocks. I’d have thought you were gagging to hear the Pettigrew’s Grand Adventure – which so far has consisted of a missed portkey and only my baggage getting lost. I haven’t worn underwear in a week. Do you know what that does to a man?
Egypt is very hot, and very loud, and no one seems to notice how hot and loud it all is. I’m sure you could have predicted the sunburn I have. Well whatever you’re thinking, imagine ten times worse. My nose feels like it’s about to fall off. I tried to turn into a rat see Wormy do the thing (you know; but I won’t write it, Mum’s got a bloody bee in her ear about International Owl Postage and I’m half afraid she’ll read this just to check I’m not talking about illegal potions or something – MUM, IF YOU’RE READING THIS THEN YOU’RE GOING DIRECTLY AGAINST THE ADVICE IN ‘THEY GROW UP SO FAST: LEARNING TO PARENT THE WIZARDING TEENAGER’, AND I KNOW THIS BECAUSE I FOUND IT IN YOUR SECRET SPOT, AND I’M NOT TAKING ILLICIT POTIONS) and it itched so badly I thought I was going to die. Could I get fleas when I’m in form like that? Do you get tics? I wish we’d thought this through a little bit more.
I hope something more interesting is happening to you. Your letter was very cryptic. What do you mean familiar faces? Aren’t you still at the Summer Cottage? (I still can’t believe you call it that, fuck’s sake, it’s a mansion), and if you are at the summer cottage, who is with you? I thought you were in a fight with Lily and the girls, and Remus and Sirius said they’d stay in Wales for the duration on account of your evil fucking sociopath Nazis of neighbours (Sirius’ words, not mine). Do you have some other friends that I’m not aware of??? It is not very nice to keep secrets from your oldest and dearest. Incidentally, do you know what Nazis are? I did ask but he just said something vague about Muggle Purebloods, which is surely an anti anten antonim a contradictory statement, and frankly I don’t think he knows either.
Write back soon. I expect all the sordid details and lots of gossip to keep me going while we traipse through identical pyramids. Also, don’t fucking wait a week this time.
Okay, Mum’s breathing down my neck. I’ll see you in August, we’re back on the fourteenth. Hopefully enough time for some Maurauding before summer ends? Really have to go now. Off to see more bones!!!!!!!!!!!
Wormy
As the first week of summer sweeps past, James’ days quickly fall into routine. Instead of the late-starts and sleep-ins of summer previous, he gets up and out of bed with the sun. This surprises his parents, he can tell, who blink owlishly at him over their matching mugs of coffee as he tumbles down the stairs.
“Awfully early start for you, darling, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of question in his mother’s voice that James doesn’t bother – doesn’t want– to answer. “At least have breakfast before you go, you know Mopsy’s made your favourite–”
“Sorry Mum, I’ve got to dash,” he leans over and smacks a kiss on her cheek, the same for his father who’s looking down at the paper. James makes a face, catches the corner of a headline – Unrest and Blood Politics: Muggle Relations in the Modern Era– before Fleamont snaps it closed, looking up with a genial smile.
“He’ll be alright, Effy,” he says, patting her hand. She’s still frowning, saying something about growing boys and their nutrition when James jogs out the door, piece of toast jammed between his teeth. Melting butter runs down his fingers and he licks up the stray droplets, wipes the rest on his pants.
Regulus is there waiting for him, every time, sometimes yawning, sometimes wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, sometimes (very rarely) not there at all. Those are the days James sits around and whistles and waits, and knows his job; that when Regulus does stumble in with a hints of red stuck to his eyes, the tip of his nose, the telltale sniffle of early morning tears, James jumps up and smiles and cracks a joke and does everything possible for Regulus to smile.
Prongs,
We miss you! It’s ever so dull in Wales. So many sheep. I’ve been restraining myself so far about making jokes about what the farmers get up to with them on cold and lonely nights so far, but I can only do so much. Moony’s mum is very nice. A bit dizzy, but there you go. I’ve been learning ever so much about the Muggle ways of doing things. For instance, did you know that they can harness lightning and turn it into eleck elick elcictryick power currents in their homes???? And things just turn on with the flick of a switch??? I think Moony’s mum thinks I’m thick, but it’s just so much fun to make their lights go on and off. I’m still scared of the toaster though. That’s okay. Plenty of time to get used to it.
How is Kent? Have you seen my Any dashing Southern lasses to take your mind off Lily? I’m sure she’ll be alright once we’re back at school. Has she replied to any of your letters yet?
Moony wants me to ask if you’ve been to the White Cliffs of Dover yet. He’s tucked up in bed now, bless him. The first full moon went okay, but things were a bit odd without you and the rat. Speaking of, did you also get a letter full of complaints from Wormy??? I made the mistake of mentioning those Muggle Pureblood extremists to him before he left and now he seems to think I’m a Muggle history enthusiast. Also, what’s all this about fleas?? I told him I don’t get them– if you tell him about that time you had to get me a treatment from the vet then you’re dead to me, Prongs, don’t think I won’t snap those pretty antlers.
Anyway, I hope alls going well with the Potters. Send your mum and dad my love, yeah? If you see I don’t want Please look out for Try not to get up to too much mischief without me.
Write back soon, or I might be reduced to defiling a sheep in my infinite boredom.
Pads
The summer storm comes upon them suddenly. A deluge of rain and grey skies and rumbling thunder; it is enough to keep even the bravest souls indoors. Regulus rests his head on his knee from where he is sat at a window in the library, one leg dangling off the perch toward the ground. The rain is beating its small fists against the glass, dribbling down sulkily as they fail to make their way inside.
His mother is in a foul mood; she’d planned on having a tea party with her lady friends in the courtyard. She’d been halfway to making Kreacher hold a shield above their heads when his father had intervened, a rare voice of reason. She was now lounging in the sitting room, fanning herself for respite from muggy summer heat.
Regulus himself had on his lightest shirt, a pair of shorts. He was still too-hot, a layer of clammy sweat coating his skin. He’d run a cold bath in the morning to try and escape, but that had only proven to be a brief – wonderful! – interlude.
He had just begun drifting off, in a position that was bound to give him a crick in his neck when– there–!
An owl flies up to the window, bedraggled and wet, and looking altogether very perturbed. Regulus hurries to push up the window, just enough to let it inside. Droplets of rain take their opportunity to enter, making their smug homes in tiny dark splashes against the wood, the elaborate patterned rug.
“Shh, shh,” he soothes, shutting the window and letting the owl hop up and onto his arm. “You’re alright. You're alright, now. Merlin, who’s sending you out in this weather?”
The owl hoots indignantly, as if to say yes, isn’t it just ridiculous!
The letter tied haphazardly to its leg is enough to make Regulus snort, rolling his eyes dramatically up to the ceiling. It is, of course, James.
Reg,
Ever so bored with this storm. Do you think the Lestranges’ event will be cancelled? They usually do a garden party, and I can’t see how that’ll work. Here’s hoping. I cannot be arsed to listen to your loving cousin get sauced and turn on her Celestina impression– or worse, try to talk to me. Merlin, the things I know about that woman’s sex life.
What are you up to? Say you’re not occupied and want me to come for a visit. I’ll Floo in a heartbeat, and we can sit in your nice greenhouse and have Bipsy ply us with cold things. I’ll bring the Gobstones.
Please don’t send Whiskey back in this weather– if you’re keen for me to come, just give me a bell on the Floo. If not, Whiskey is yours forever– my bequest to you as I will be dead from boredom and humidity.
Yours with hope,
JFP
Regulus finds himself biting his lip to keep from smiling as he read the letter, once, then twice.
It isn't a difficult decision to make.
The still-bedraggled owl – Whiskey – flutters onto his shoulder and chirrups in his ear as he slides off the window seat.
“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, scratching at the downy feathers on its chest. “I’ll get you a treat for getting to me in this horrible weather, come on.”
Once Whiskey is nibbling happily on a dried bit of meat, Regulus gives James a ring on the Floo, green flames crackling up in the dark glittering fireplace. It takes a moment– Floo request from, James, it’s me, come on, hurry up– before James is stepping out of the fireplace, grinning like a cat with all the cream.
“Reg! Thank goodness. And Whiskey! Merlin, this weather’s a bit nuts, isn’t it?” As if to agree, the sky outside rumbles and crashes, giant hail like Gobstones hitting the roof. They both flinch, and Whiskey seems to roll her eyes, still chewing on a bit of mouse.
Regulus suddenly feels very awkward, standing in the middle of the library, underdressed - though James is in a similarly practical outfit – and gangly, childish. James looks effortlessly cool, hair tousled and shirt unbuttoned casually. Regulus’ eyes keep darting to and from the bits of exposed skin, and James is looking at him, and there is something crackling between their shared gaze, and he is opening his mouth, eyes dark and–
Another crash-bang, this time with the windows lighting up white. They both turn, twin gasps – Regulus does not shriek, no matter how much James insists – before looking back at each other and bursting into peals of laughter.
Dearest Prongs,
Not much to report from Wales. Again. There never is. It’s nice to get to spend this much time one on one with Sirius. We might be We’ve been going on lots of walks around the farms– he uses this time to get all of his ‘defiling sheep’ jokes out so he doesn’t accidentally slip up in front of Mum.
How are your parents going? How is the season? Sirius has been trying to explain what the Society Season is like to me, but I keep getting stuck on imagining the houses shifting like that. I thought it was only Hogwarts? Does the Cottage (we won’t even talk about that ridiculous name– anything with above seven bedrooms is a Mansion, or a Manor, at the very least) have staircases that move too? What is the point of those anyway? Actually, nevermind. I know you don’t read your textbooks. No reason to start expecting you to just because we’re going into seventh year.
Speaking of reading, have you started the book I gave you yet? I know you think it’s dry but really, once you’re in it you won’t be able to stop. It’s surprisingly racy, for the time period, and I think you’ll really like the ideas in it, the questions it raises– is love at any cost worth it? Or is a safe but dissatisfying marriage the preferable option? Do at least start it. I’m dying to talk to someone about it, and Sirius won’t read anything that isn’t a Quidditch biography.
We had the first moon earlier this week, as I’m sure Pads told you. It went as well as can be expected, I think.
Say, have you been over to the White Cliffs of Dover yet? I asked Sirius to put it in his letter but I can never be sure if he’s listening to me or not. They are very important to a lot of British literature, both Muggle and Wizarding. Not to mention that they’re beautiful, and atmospheric– one could even say Romantic– in the traditional sense, of course! Go on a rainy day, then you can really live out your deep-dark fantasy of being a Byronian hero. No, I shan’t explain what that is. You can look it up.
Jeepers, this got long, fast. I have to go, Sirius is whinging for attention again. He’s like a dog with a bone– hah!
Write soon!
Moony
It is a quiet day in; James has gone to visit a relative with his mother and father.
“So boring,” Regulus remembers him saying, pulling on his socks in the clearing, “I mean, I’m kidding. Aunt Dorea isn’t all bad. She’s just– well. She isn’t all bad.”
“I’d put your worst relative against mine and win any day,” he’d replied, wry.
“Don’t do that!” James had laughed, “we’ll end up finding out exactly how we’re related!”
Regulus is wandering around the house now, rediscovering old nooks and crannies. He’d spent far less time inside this summer than he’d anticipated, and he murmurs out an apology for neglecting the beautiful house. Dust motes float aimlessly through the air, catching on the sunbeams and bobbing their white heads up and down. There is the faint noise of music and chatter from his father's study, somewhere down the corridor. There are guests, and they are not for Regulus to see.
He keeps going, past the booms of adult laughter, past the well lit halls with tall glass windows, into the deeper corners of the house. Here, the shadows are still and peaceful, frames undisturbed, and the dimness is practically baked into the dark oak floors. There is a house elf standing on the runner carpet, arms stretching upwards to direct a feather duster, making its way slowly across the skirting board. She yelps as she sees him, and bobs hastily into a curtsy, before vanishing herself and the duster away.
There was a nursery here once, and playroom, in these long-forgotten corners of the house. The door creaks with disuse as Regulus pushes it open. White, ghostly linens have been placed carefully across each item of furniture, and the sun touches them all with gentle hands, careful not to disturb the memories resting underneath. Through their fingers, the faint outlines of cribs, a dresser, a chest.
There is a mirror on the far wall, and as Regulus caught a glimpse of his own reflection, he frowns. There had been an entirely unfamiliar expression on his face.
The door clicks gently shut behind him as he left.
He ends up spending most of the afternoon in the family study. He’d completed most of his Arithmetic homework, and had given up on Charms before he’d even begun. There is a mug of cooling tea on the ground beside him, and the remaining crumbs from an afternoon sandwich.
He wanders the room, pulling at books with titles that sound interesting, or with spines that shudder to the touch. Anything too dark wasn’t kept here. That was for his father's office.
There is a strange melancholy that has overtaken him for the day, and he wants to get to the source of it, a wriggling tooth, an itch high up on his back. That is when he comes across the photos.
Regulus stares down at the album fallen open on his lap, portraits and pictures gazing up at him and laughing behind thin fingers, footprints on the wet sand and waves crashing endlessly on a summer beach shore. Biting into the vibrancy of his childhood made his back teeth ache. He couldn’t tell what he misses more; the carelessness of his own happiness, or his brother's.
He wonders if Sirius ever thinks as much as he does about their shared youth, or if in his mind there had never been a happy moment, only the interlude between their mothers furrowed brow and fathers silence. Regulus feels as if he’s chosen the wrong thing to preserve, his childish longing for sweets overcoming the necessary bitterness of long forgotten memories. He wonders how much of Sirius’ sweetness has him in it at all. He wonders how much of Sirius’ sweetness depends on James.
It's a thought that makes his mouth pinch, age old selfishness acrid at the back of his throat.
He is worried that there's something wrong with him. Perhaps that Sirius had been able to see it before anyone else, and as soon as he could get away, he had, with his new friends and his new life and his new family. His poisoned little brother and their poisonous family, and there he was, with a clean face and a shining white smile.
There are memories that Regulus held onto– still holds on to, glimmers of light caught in tight, chubby, childish fists, moth wings fluttering and beating at the insides of his palms. Perhaps they would flourish if he let them go, but he was too scared of the possibility of them leaving to find out.
There was one particular summer, where they went to the beach. He remembers his father, a basket in hand and clothed in light linens, a marked departure from his usual austere wardrobe. He’d been smiling, but his expression is hard to actually see, like looking through warped glass in Regulus’ mind's eye. His mother is clearer. She had been holding Sirius’ small hand in her own, as he led her down the beach, chatting away. Their footprints in the sand were messy, Sirius and his mother’s coming together to look like a 3 legged beast had tumbled down the beach. Regulus had tried to fit his feet into each one's deep indent, leaving no trace of himself behind.
His mother, smoothing her pale hands down Sirius’ face, a thick white layer of sun protection potion. Sirius had squirmed around, but had for the most part borne the treatment with grace. Their heads, bent together as Sirius whispered something in her ear, the crinkle of his mothers eyes as she smiled, laughing down delightedly at her oldest, and favourite son. Regulus sat, and watched.
That had been a few years before Sirius had gone to Hogwarts. Years before the dreaded Sorting.
Regulus has always wondered if he could pin it down to a day, a day when his mother stopped smiling so much, and his father stopped playing with them, and his brother stopped being his friend. He wonders why finding this day matters so much to him, if it even exists. After thinking about it so often, he thinks he’s come to the only obvious conclusion. If he can pinpoint the day that everything went wrong, then he can see how much of a part he really had to play, and whether his sin was being too loud, or too needy, too much, or if it was sitting, and watching, and doing nothing at all.
Good gentlemen of Wales,
I’ve decided to owl you as one, mainly because I can’t be arsed writing the same news twice over. Is this okay? If it isn’t, you need only come to Kent and have it out with me– this is not a joke. Society season is well and truly in its swing, and Mum and Dad, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that this summer I will be dressed only in purple. Purple . And not a nice lilac, either, it’s all dark and broody. I look like a bloody blueberry. I am begging you to come here and put me out of my misery. Perhaps you could put some poison on a letter? I’m not picky.
Literally no news from my end. I caught up with Alice and Frank (remember them? Alice was the Beater before you took over, Pads, and Frank, her boyfriend, was always trailing behind her). They’re married now– only two years older than us, and married! I tried not to look too horrified when she flashed her rings at me. Other than that… let’s see. Narcissa Black has been wearing a lot of white, and looking awfully cozy with that Malfoy fellow. Everyone seems to be hearing wedding bells this season. It’s sickening. Evan Rosier is following Emmeline Vance around like a bad smell, but I don’t think she’s actually noticed, dozy girl. The Prewetts show up to every party in matching robes, like actually matching, and they’ve got Molly with them, even though she’s a Weasley now, and hideously pregnant besides. Usually it’s Molly in men’s robes (she must have spelled them to fit over her belly, but I’d never say that, as we’re in polite company here, hey lads?), but the other day Gid and Fab (the twins, Pads, can you describe them to Moony? I won’t do it justice here) were in dresses – it was awesome. All the stuffy old people were scandalised. Walburga Someone smashed a glass. They’re so cool.
No, before you ask, Moony. I haven’t started that ruddy book. It’s been busy, and the writing is a bit dry, no? I know it’s a classic, but come on, it’s summer! I’m meant to be giving these poor eyes a break from reading!
Okay, fine. Merlin, I can feel you glaring at me from across the country. I promise to have read at least enough of it to have a discussion with you upon my return. Happy?
Pads, I want to tell you I haven’t It’s a bit complic I’ve been spending heaps of time in our clearing. It’s just how I remember it (don’t you say that every year?). Any thoughts on how we I can make the next few parties interesting? I didn’t pack my Zonkos box, but I suppose I can owl order something, if you have any bright ideas.
Yes, I have heard from Wormy. He seems to think we’ve abandoned him, and has given himself a psychosomatic case of fleas in our absence. I solemnly swear that I will not tell him about the time I had to pick you up flea potion from the vets, Sirius. Um. I might have just told Moony though.
I’ll leave you to explain that one mate,
All my love and fat wet kisses (and love from Mum and Dad, too!!!!)
Prongs
The first time they get drunk in the clearing began late in the afternoon. James waits in the clearing by himself for a while, but when Regulus still hasn’t shown after two rounds of solo Explosive Snap, he makes his way up to the Black residence. There’s no sign of Regulus in any of his usual places. He grabs the arm of one of the house elves bustling past, asking after him.
“Master Regulus is being in his quiet room,” she whispers, clearly not one of the ones that the Blacks trained to be public-facing, and quite scared to be confronted by a confused teenager.
“Oh. Will you take me to him?”
“Master Regulus is asking not to be disturbed by family.” The elf looks like she is going to burst into tears now. James tries to put on his gentlest voice.
“Well, I’m not family,” speaking slowly and carefully. He is beginning to suspect that this elf was a bit dim. “Do you think he’d mind if I came to see him?”
She shakes her head and takes his hand, apparating them to a door that looks like it comes from the Left Wing. The Residential Wing. James hasn’t been here yet. He shudders, displacing the awful squeezy feeling that came with Side-Alonging with house elves, steels himself, and knocks on the door.
“No.” The voice behind the door sounds wet and small, and James’ heart swoops, just a little.
He knocks again.
“Bipsy, please, it’s too hot for cocoa!”
Knocks once more. In the two weeks that they’ve spent together, James has learned the value of repetition to get Regulus to give in.
There’s a scuffle of movement from the other side, and James smiles. He’s won.
Regulus wrenches open the door, wiping his nose on his sleeve and looking utterly dishevelled. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, and his cheeks are flushed bright pink. When his gaze meets James’, it’s like he’s been hit with a Stinging Jinx. His back snaps straight, his hands dropping to his sides, face shuttering.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
James catches the door before it can slam in his face.
“Regulus? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Obviously. Please leave.”
It’s going to take a lot more than that to satisfy James’ curiosity about this situation. A week ago, he would have left, and never mentioned it to Regulus or anyone again. But that was a week ago. Nudging his foot into the door, he snakes his arm out, lightning quick, and grabs Regulus’ arm.
“Come on, Reg, I know just the cure.” His hand has landed on the patch of snot, and he tries to use the revulsion to cover the fact that he’s touching Regulus, and his arm is warm , and there , just under the thin cloth of his shirt, and there’s something sparking in James’ chest about it.
Regulus resists for a cursory moment, before mumbling something about stubborn so-and-so’s (where on Earth could he be picking up these turns of phrase, James wonders), and lets himself be dragged out of the bedroom, out of the Black residence, and, after making a quick stop at the Summer Cottage, they’re walking down to the clearing. There is a bag between them, and it’s clinking.
“Right,” James says as they sit down under the oak tree, Regulus still moving carefully, like he’s worried any sudden movements might dislodge the tears again. “Since you’re the misery today– it’s an expression, Regulus, don’t be dramatic– since you have the misery, you get to choose. On the menu tonight, we have–” he roots into the bag and pulls out the three bottles he’d pilfered from the well-stocked Potter liquor cabinet with a flourish. “A mostly full bottle of Firewhiskey; a half full Dwarven Ferment Vodka,” at this one, he pulls a face. He and Sirius had had a disastrous night with the first half of this bottle last summer, if he was remembering correctly. “Or… two thirds of a bottle of… oh, this one’s Muggle, I think, San Jose Tequila!”
Regulus, whose face had gone into a twisty thing that looked almost like a smile, snatches the Dwarven Ferment out of James’ hand. For himself, James decides to be brave and try the Muggle tequila. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a selection of juices and two cups, and when he turns back, Regulus is swigging from the neck of his bottle.
“Regulus! You don't have to- I brought mixers, I’m not a savage!” James makes sure to sound affronted, but he’s laughing, and takes a gulp of his own bottle to keep Regulus company while he makes their drinks.
They talk about nothing for a while, and drink in silence for a while, and around the third drink James feels brave enough to ask.
“So. Would you like to talk about your little tantrum earlier?” It comes out snarkier than he intended. He knows, a little, what the Blacks can be like from Sirius, and he doesn’t want to be mean. Not about this.
Regulus, whose cheeks are pink and eyes a little glassy, has sprawled into the gaps between the roots of their tree. He throws his arm over his eyes, a silly, exaggerated gesture that sends James into fits of giggles.
“It was so stupid. No, James, don’t laugh, I’m very sad. I’m very sad about a very stupid thing.” James lightens. It mustn’t be serious, then.
“Go on, Reg, I’m dying to know. Who had you all teary? Was it a girl? Did your girlfriend return your owl unopened?” James is still laughing.
Regulus has gone very still, his arm still over his face.
“My brother, actually.”
James stops laughing. They’d been dancing around the topic of Sirius. He's like a frayed nerve between them, too raw to touch. The air is soupy.
“Oh, Regulus.” The silence drags. It’s all he can say.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just–” his voice shudders, and James can see his chin dimpling. He’s trying not to cry. “I just. I’d hoped he’d read it, before he sent it back.”
James doesn’t know what to do. His head is swimming. He leans over to Regulus, who is still nestled in the roots of the oak.
“Reg? Can you–” he nudges the arm. “Can you look?”
Regulus moves his arm, and his eyes are glossy, but he isn’t crying. James realises how much he wants to keep it that way. Something in his chest baulks at the idea of making Regulus cry.
“Listen– let’s forget about it. Sirius can be a prick, we both know that. And– and lets– oh, fuck it Reg, lets talk about something else. Anything. Wanna play Questions?” This is playing dirty, and he knows it. Regulus loves Questions.
He gives a tiny nod, and it isn’t wobbly, but it certainly isn’t firm. Still, his chin has stopped trembling, and that’s progress. James pulls him up, and they’re sitting cross-legged, opposite each other, knee to knee, but not quite touching. James can feel the heat in the air, radiating towards him from Regulus’ body, pulling him in. He leans forward and jostles his leg, trying to pull the mood back up.
“You’ve the misery today. You get to start.”
Regulus smirks at this, a little shark smile. This can’t be good.
“Alright. But James, if you forfeit, you drink.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay.” He nods once, sharply, and the smirk spreads into a nasty grin. “Who was your latest wet dream about?”
“Straight into the sex ones?” James splutters, indignant. There’s no fucking way he’s answering this, mostly because it was Peter. He is not into Peter – at all – but he isn’t in control of his dreams, and anyway, he doesn’t want to give Regulus the wrong idea. He shoots Regulus a glare and downs half his drink.
“If you’re going to play that game,” James thinks for a moment, then smiles sweetly. “Alright then. Do you have a crush?”
He doesn’t know why his brain is circling around the topic, needling Regulus about a girlfriend earlier and now this. He doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be. He doesn’t know if he wants an answer at all.
“Yes.” Regulus says, short.
A beat passes. James doesn’t push and gestures his drink in Regulus’ direction. Next question.
“First kiss?”
James grimaces. He can’t forfeit twice in a row, but this–
“First proper kiss, or first ever kiss?”
“Both?” Regulus chuckles, a shy thing.
“First ever– must have been Ethel Poisonwood. We were seven, and she was my neighbour. One day she came up to me and announced she’d like to be my girlfriend, so I kissed her. She told me she loved me afterwards, and I ran away,” he shakes his head, smiling. “She moved away after that, so we never broke up properly. Perhaps she’s still pining after me–”
Regulus kicks him.
“First proper, James, don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
The sanctity of the grove, of Questions, demands it. But–
“Reg– you won’t like this story.”
He sets his chin, stubborn.
“It was Remus Lupin.”
“What?” Regulus’ mouth drops open, the picture of shock. His lips, round and pink, shape a little ‘o’. It looks soft.
“Yes, okay, it was Moony– we were in third year, and we just wanted to see , to try it. And it was–” he laughs, soft. “Reg, it was a great kiss. Definitely eye-opening.”
“Yes, very sweet James– why wouldn’t I like this story?”
“S– your brother wouldn’t speak to me for a week afterwards. I didn’t know why. Peter thought it was because he thought we were bent, but it wasn’t that, it was– well anyway. They sorted it out. I didn’t kiss Moony again.”
Regulus’ mouth has gone rigid, pulling at the edges. The silence draws close, wrapping James up, tight across his chest.
An idea.
“My turn. Do you listen to Muggle music?” James knows his tone sounds too-bright, an edge of desperation in it. It doesn’t matter.
Regulus’ head snaps up. He looks caught. James shouts, pure joy.
“You do ! Oh, Merlin, yes ! The Pureblood Prince– enjoying Muggle music!” The brightness is real now. “Tell me, tell me. Who do you like? How did you get into it?”
The pinched look returns, but Regulus braves it, shakes it off.
“Sirius left some of his records behind. I like the one with the Blue Lady on it, and Simon and Gar– Simon and– Frinkle? I always forget the name. You know,” and he hums– hums! – the tune to Scarborough Fair. His voice is clear, sweet. James feels like he’s going to pass out.
The time passes like water. James’ glasses are askew, and so he takes them off. It’s nice, the blurs of the trees, Regulus’ face in sharp motion as he makes an impassioned argument for the lovemaking abilities of Professor Slughorn. James makes a valiant defence for Professor McGonagall.
Suddenly, it’s quiet, and James is just looking. Looking at Regulus. Looking at his face. It’s a nice face. Angular. The stars are out.
Regulus cocks an eyebrow. The space between them seems to stretch like taffy. James’ head is spinning in slow, lazy circles, and he is not, is not, is not looking at Regulus' lips.
“Something on my face, Potter?”
And before he can stop himself, James is leaning forward, and he brushes their lips together. It’s barely a kiss, just a tiny hopeful thing. He pulls back, looking into Regulus’ eyes. They’re shining, silver pools in the moonlight.
Then he realises what he’s done. He pulls back, sharp and shocked and scared.
“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry, Regulus, I think–” and he never does find out what he thinks, because Regulus is surging forward to capture his mouth with his own. It’s nothing like their first kiss. It’s hazy, and messy, and right.
James darts his tongue out to taste Regulus’ bottom lip, and is rewarded with a soft sigh, and Regulus’ mouth opening to let him in. His hands are on Regulus’ waist, and his back, and his chest, and he can feel Regulus’ heart, thrumming hummingbird-quick. His own couldn’t be far behind.
James had kissed girls before, of course, but nothing real, only at parties. Sirius jeering, Remus whooping, Peter teasing, these were the soundtracks of his prior kisses. Now, it was silent, just the crickets and the breeze, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of Regulus’ mouth.
There is something warm unspooling in James’ gut. They kiss longer, deeper, surer. Somehow, James is on his back, with Regulus on top of him. It felt good, the heavy certainty of him. Regulus is here, Regulus is real, Regulus is warm. James felt like he could do this forever.
They break apart after what could have been hours and could have been days. Regulus is breathless, leaning his forehead against James’, nose to nose, his hand curled in James’ hair. James is glad he’d taken off his glasses. He stares up at Regulus, wanting to say something, a sentence on the tip of his tongue– and then Regulus gets quickly to his feet, and wobbles over to the edge of the clearing to be sick.