Chapter Text
REMUS
Sirius leaving marks the start of a very long, agonizing month that refuses to end and somehow only gets worse by the day. Apparently Remus Lupin’s life was looking a little too steady, so the universe went ahead and dumped every possible inconvenience onto his head all at once.
For starters, James is taking Sirius’ absence about as well as Remus expected: disastrously. He decides that the best cure for heartbreak is self-destruction, and he starts trimming years off his lifespan in creative new ways. He keeps sneaking down to the pitch even after Hooch’s very clear, very public ban—and three times, Remus catches him limping back up from the changing rooms with grass stains on his knees and that stupid guilty grin. The last attempt ends with James nearly earning himself detention after landing straight in the Hippogriff enclosure.
Remus keeps telling himself to stop thinking about Sirius, and of course it never works. His eyes wander to the empty bed like an idiot, still half-hoping Sirius will just show up one night, laugh it all off, and forgive James, forgive him, forgive everyone. But that’s not Sirius. Sirius holds a grudge like it’s a sport, and Remus knows it. Still—Merlin, it hurts more than he’ll ever admit out loud.
And the dreams don’t help. Every night, it’s Sirius’ mouth against his, Sirius’ hands gripping his hips, Sirius’ low, wrecked noise when Remus kissed the skin between his shoulder blades. He wakes up with his whole body thrumming, sweaty, too aware of himself, the urge pressing against his ribs, clawing at him.
It’s driving him mad.
The wolf is wound up and restless, twitchier than ever with the full moon coming on the 13th. He almost bites Lily’s fingers off when she tries to flatten his hair, which is, admittedly, not his proudest moment. And because he made the fatal mistake of joining her inter-house study group, he now spends his afternoons choking on her perfume—something aggressively floral, like she rolled around in a greenhouse—and trying not to inhale the maddeningly sweet smell of her hair. He doesn’t even know what it is, but it sticks, and now his jumpers smell faintly of Lily Evans, and it won’t come off no matter how much he scrubs.
He now finds himself in one of those sessions, sitting across from Lily at one of the library tables, surrounded by piles of books on Intra-Wand Magical Resonance Theory and Advanced Transfiguration Conversions—all of which sounds difficult enough to make Remus want to lie face-down on the table and never get up. About seven other Fifth and Sixth-Years look equally overwhelmed, ink dripping on parchment and wands swishing as they attempt to keep up with Lily’s relentless pace.
At the moment, Lily is trying to convince Fergus MacDougal that Switching Spells require precision, not just brute force. Fergus insists that if he just channels “a wee bit more power” into his wand, he’ll manage to swap the ears off a teacup. A teacup which, for the record, is sitting lopsided in the middle of the table, very much untouched. The seat next to Lily is empty, because Amber Bullwark managed to botch a simple Cushioning Charm and had to be taken to the Hospital Wing with her head swollen to the size of a Quaffle.
And Remus is now stuck on Metamorphic Hex Reversal, which is as terrible as it sounds and twice as pointless. His patience is wearing thin, and he can’t concentrate for more than three seconds at a time—not with Lily’s perfume clogging up his nose, Fergus wheezing with every breath like a deflating set of bagpipes, and all those chairs scraping, books slamming shut, and quills scratching.
Honestly, what’s the point of calling it a library if it’s going to sound like a bloody train station? This is impossible.
Lily is still mid-lecture, waving her quill to punctuate her words. “No, Fergus, you cannot just—force it out and hope it works. That’s not how Switching Spells function. You’ll blow your wand up if you keep—”
But she doesn’t get to finish, because James materializes at her side—still in his Quidditch uniform, broom in hand like a crutch, and Remus prays to Merlin he hasn’t hit the hippogriffs this time—and drops into the empty chair beside her like a sack of potatoes. She turns to him, but he’s already shoving a hand into her hair.
“Evans,” he says, grinning as he ruffles it into a mess. “Looking studious as ever.”
Lily gasps like he’s just hexed her, dropping her quill. “James! Absolutely not—don’t touch—Merlin’s sake, look what you’ve done!” She touches her hair with both hands, trying to smooth it back into place, glaring at him with bright red cheeks.
And Remus blinks. Bright red—
Wait a damn minute.
All of a sudden, her scent shifts to something stronger, sharper, overpowering the smell of ink and parchment. Remus goes stiff, then follows the trail with his eyes—from Lily, clearly flustered, hands fussing at her hair, to James, who’s grinning at her with dark shadows under her eyes and looking thoroughly exhausted.
Lily scolds James a bit more, Fergus and the teacup clearly forgotten, but she doesn’t push him away. If anything, she leans in without realizing it, their shoulders knocking.
And Remus exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
Oh, bloody hell.
She catches him looking at her, and raises an eyebrow at him, but Remus just shrugs. He’ll talk to her later. He has to.
But then one of the Sixth Years closes a book with a sound that almost makes Remus’ ears bleed—he turns to her, welcoming the distraction, and just snaps.
“Merlin, can you guys just—be quiet?”
He regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth, but it’s too late.
The girl blinks at him, startled, then mutters an apology and starts working on her parchment again. And the quills keep writing, pages keep turning, and Fergus is still breathing like a winded cow across the table.
Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. Brilliant, just—brilliant. It’s too much, all this, for him to handle at this moment. The timing couldn’t be worse, exams are less than five months away, and Remus really, really needs them to go well, if he wants to get somewhere. He needs to finish this chapter by today. He has to—
“Moony, you’re too stiff,” James says suddenly, leaning across Lily to jab him in the arm with the tip of his broom. “You need to relax. Take a break, have some fun.”
Remus glares at him over the pile of books. James is giving him an out, he’s aware of it, but he doesn’t have the energy for theatrics right now. “Some of us actually want to pass our exams, James,” he mutters, shifting away from the broom.
Lily nods in agreement, but her face is still flushed, and she doesn’t even tell James to move his broom off the table.
And Remus thinks, not for the first time, that he is surrounded by idiots.
REGULUS
The room is empty, with only a bed, a desk, a dresser and four walls. It’s not a palace, to say the least, but it’s better than sharing with that idiot, and it gives Regulus much time to think, plan, and most importantly, drown in his own misery.
He hates how quiet it is—too much space for his thoughts to claw their way up, for his mother’s voice to crawl back under his skin. He still feels it sometimes, the cold drag of her magic ravaging his head, ripping secrets out like weeds.
The nightmares don’t stop. They leave him wrung out and useless, feeling like a child again. At least nobody hears him here, the sound never making it past the walls. He gets through it the only way he can—he asks Pomfrey for a sleeping draught, downs a bottle a day, and hopes it will keep him under. One night it doesn’t; he wakes soaked from the waist below, and his stomach twists with shame so strong he vows to never let it happen again.
The attacks are worse now, too, coming when he least expects them. One hits in the bathroom and leaves him curled over the sink for twenty minutes before he can drag himself out. He stumbles into Astronomy late and pale, and Professor Mirren docks him ten points without even looking. Another strikes when Slughorn claps him on the shoulder during detention, loud and cheerful. Regulus folds in on himself, clawing at his chest for air, while Slughorn keeps talking about some bloody wine, completely oblivious.
It always feels the same: a hand at his throat, pressing until he can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t do anything—his head splitting in two, caving under her weight.
But that’s not the worst of it. He can take that, because he has to.
James, on the other hand, is a problem.
He’s persistent—too persistent—always showing up, chasing him down corridors, the tap of his crutch echoing everywhere Regulus goes. And Regulus can’t, won’t, let himself give in. He can’t even entertain the thought of being close to James, talking to him, not now. Not for anyone else to tear memory out of him and put it on display. He can’t afford that.
Once, outside the library, James catches him before he can slip away—he blocks the corridor with his crutch, eyes desperate, and says, “Reg”, with that stupidly earnest tone of his that makes Regulus want to throw himself at him. But right then he can only spit out something cold, force his face into a trembling blank mask, and shove past him. He doesn’t let himself think about how much it costs to keep walking. He feels James’ eyes on him as he walks away.
Now, he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars. It’s useless, all of this, and it’s his fault. He didn’t think ahead enough, didn’t account for his mother’s Legilimency. For some stupid, naive reason, he hadn’t even thought she could violate him like that. Her usual cruelty, even when painful and imposing, had never breached the silent walls he held around himself. And they had been weak, flimsy, to a frankly humiliating extent.
Which is why he sent the bloody note. Short and unsigned, but he would understand. He always knows when there’s blood in the water.
And now Regulus sits on the bed, muscles taut, waiting, barely keeping himself from spiralling. He’s been following the patterns on the floor with his eyes, tracing the cracks in the stone over and over until they blur. He doesn’t even know if he’ll come. Realistically, he shouldn’t—but Regulus kept the note vague enough to bait his curiosity. That’s usually enough.
His gaze drifts to the desk, to the unwrapped piece of parchment resting there. It’s Nelle’s, and it was delivered by a vicious, fierce owl that nearly bit his fingers off when he untied it. She writes that they’ve made Tom-Pierre the Secret Keeper for the Fidelius, and that the bird is not to leave the manor again, for his own safety.
Regrettably, Regulus misses her—just a little. Her bluntness kept him sane in that house, her sheer determination something he can respect. Now it feels like he’s drowning in nothing but secrets, lies, and a fear so deep it swallows him whole.
She’d understand. They’d shared the abyss, once.
The door opens without a knock, and he flinches, startled.
“New lodgings, Regulus?”
Evan is leaning against the frame, all dark skin and sharp angles that could cut—just as Regulus remembers him. His sleeves are shoved up to the elbows, exposing the thin scar along his wrist. Regulus hates that mark, because it’s his—his teeth, sunk into Evan’s forearm. It almost feels like a different person, but he’ll have to live with it.
Registering the lack of response, Evan clicks his tongue, looking around the room. “It’s quite plain, is it not?” he comments, slowly, stepping inside and locking the door. “That’s very… un-Black of you.”
Regulus holds his gaze, picking at the edge of the bandage in his hand. He still doesn’t say anything.
“Must be nice, being the Wizarding World’s most famous grieving widower,” Evan adds, taking a step toward him. “Slughorn really does have a spot for tragic little heirs.”
Regulus’ jaw tenses. “You don’t know anything,” he says, voice low.
Evan tilts his head, his dark eyes glinting. “Don’t I? I’d say I know quite a lot. Especially about you.” Another step closer, and Regulus has nowhere to go—another inch and his back will hit the mattress. “What’s wrong? Are classrooms and broom cupboards not good enough for you anymore, Reggie? Missing the luxury of a mattress?”
And just like that, the memory of it floods him: the cold press of a desk against his back, the scrape of teeth, the rush, the urgency.
“Don’t be a child,” Regulus snaps, though his voice is not as steady as he’d like it to be. He forces the words out, already feeling the heat creeping up his neck. “I need your help.”
The silence that follows makes him hate himself even more, for being this weak, for needing him, of all people. But he stays put, looking up at him with practiced calm.
Evan’s smirk widens, and it’s dangerous, just as prickly as it was back then. He steps even closer, tossing his robe onto the chair without a look, already loosening his tie. “I knew you’d come crawling back eventually,” he says, his tone laced with boredom, easy, smooth. “Just wondered how long you’d last.”
He’s still looking at him when his hands go to his belt, his long fingers working the buckle with ease. It’s slow, deliberate, a bit of a show, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Regulus’ blood goes cold, his stomach dropping as he watches Evan move from the belt to the fly of his trousers.
“Stop.”
The word comes out in a hiss, and he’s moving before he can think better of it. He stands up, and closes his hand tightly around Evan’s wrist, fixing it in place. His grip is strong, but he’s shaking a little. Evan’s skin is cold under his touch. Familiar.
Evan goes still, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes narrow slightly, and he arches an eyebrow, a spark of curiosity crossing his face.
The air has shifted. Something’s different.
“That’s not what I want,” Regulus says, enunciating every syllable. “I need you to teach me Occlumency.”
The word lands, and Regulus sees it nestle in Evan’s mind.
His smirk fades, brows furrowing, and for a second he’s completely frozen, watching Regulus with an intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle. Evan’s hands fall from his trousers; then, slowly, methodically, he starts refastening the buckle, his lips slightly parted. When he speaks again, his tone is cool, calculated, the ease from earlier gone.
“Occlumency,” he repeats, as if he’s testing the word on his tongue. He comes forward until their foreheads almost touch, and Regulus lets go of his wrist like he’s been burned, but he does not pull away.
There’s a million different reasons why he would do something like this, and he enjoys none of them. He’s coaxed himself into believing this is his best shot at changing something, at weaponizing his freedom in a useful way, at protecting James from afar.
He believes it, but Merlin, is Evan making it harder for his conviction to hold.
“Why now?” Evan asks softly, bumping their foreheads once, his eyes mapping Regulus’ face. “Did something happen at the Mulciber estate that didn’t make it into the Prophet, Regulus?”
Regulus doesn’t answer, because he can’t. Every possible word said right now is a knife he holds toward himself. So instead he lifts his chin, forcing steadiness into his voice: “If you want me to tell you anything, you’ll have to make the Unbreakable Vow.”
For a moment, Evan doesn’t move at all. Then his mouth curves, slowly—the smile Regulus remembers, the one he’s had pressed to his neck countless times before. And it’s not mocking this time—it’s hungry.
“You do realise what you’re asking?” he murmurs, almost idly. His eyes move all over him, assessing him. “You think I’d die for this?”
Regulus doesn’t blink. “I know you wouldn’t. That’s what I’m counting on.” He presses a hand to Evan’s chest, shoving him back a step. “And you like games too much to walk away.”
Evan exhales. Then, after a beat, he laughs under his breath. “I was wrong. I don’t know you at all.”
Regulus refuses to bite. He just waits.
“You really must be desperate,” Evan says, quieter now.
The silence between them drags on, heavy, neither of them giving ground. But then Evan shifts, and walks past him. He drops onto the desk with a thud, his fingers absently running along the scar on his forearm.
“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll play.”
Relief hits Regulus before he can stop it, quick and ugly and complicated. He doesn’t fully know what he’s inviting in, what this means for him, or James, or anyone he holds in his mind, but he doesn’t care. He’s desperate enough for that.
“But not for free. I want something in return,” Evan adds, slyly.
Regulus’ head whips back to him. “What?”
Evan’s eyes are bright, and he brushes a pale dread out of his face, smirking even wider. In a second, he’s back next to him, slinging an arm around Regulus’ shoulders.
“You, with me. In public,” he says, half-singing, fighting Regulus’ attempts at pushing him away with surprising ease. “I want you as my closest friend. The tragic Regulus Black at my side, where everyone can see him, can you imagine?”
He squeezes Regulus’ shoulder, then lets him go. His eyes are covered in shadows. “You keep me close, I keep your secrets. That’s the deal.”
The revulsion twists in Regulus’ gut, but he doesn’t have the luxury of refusing, and they both know it. He grinds his teeth, then groans:
“Fine.”
Evan extends his hand, casual as anything, and Regulus takes it.