No one but you (Only the good die young)

by Starssttars

Summary:

English is not my first languaje, sorry if theres mistakes!
DISCLAIMER: I do not support JK Rowling's disgusting views.

Bloody long fic about Regulus' time at Hogwarts — his chaotic friendship with the Slytherin Skittles, his whole complicated thing with James Potter, and how he somehow made it through. He’s trans — which, as you can imagine, didn’t exactly make things easier

This is a coming-of-age story full of bad decisions, potions gone wrong, secrets nobody’s supposed to know, and a whole lot of emotional repression.
There’s slow burn, there’s trauma, there’s flirting that’s probably illegal in some countries.

Featuring: trans!Regulus, Jegulus angst and pining, Rosekiller chaos, found family, complicated siblings, way too many feelings, and possibly some light yearning.

Chapter 1: ✧ 1970: The heart of the lion

January 27, 1970

Standing on the ceramic floor of the bathroom during a winter midnight seemed like standing on fresh morning snow—or at least that’s what he thought. He had never been allowed to play in the snow, and least of all barefoot. It was one of those silly, dangerous things that proper girls weren’t supposed to do. The now disassembled hair locks felt like sticky breadcrumbs under his feet. They stuck to the sole of his foot, feeling like a thousand tiny needles, and it felt like a strange mix of disgust and tickling. He wanted to shake them off, but part of him felt like he deserved to step on them. Like punishment. Like proof that he had finally destroyed the thing they loved so much about him.

He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror. He could both feel and see the tears in his eyes that ran down his cheeks, as if they were trying to win a race. His chest tightened and his throat burned. 

Oh gods, I screwed it up. 

He had always felt uncomfortable in his own body, as if he didn’t belong there. As if he’d been trapped in a costume sewn too tight, one stitched with rules and silence. He hated the curve of his waist and the small swell that had recently appeared on his chest—reminders that his body was turning into something he didn’t want, something he hadn’t asked for. He hated his long hair, the same one his mother made the domestic elves braid tightly, painfully, when he was little, saying it made her daughter look “refined.” 

Even his name, Cassiopeia, didn’t feel like his. Nothing did. Every part of him felt borrowed, forced, wrong. It all felt like he was under a heavy costume with a harsh closure that he struggled to open, so he was drowning in that skin that wasn’t his, but he was forced to wear.

He remembered that summer night of last year when he and his older brother, Sirius, had sneaked out to play hopscotch in the backyard—something that had ended with them both being beaten up later. He remembered how the conversation went like.

"I don’t wanna be a girl. Girls are silly"

And then Sirius laughed.

"Well, maybe you aren’t meant to be a girl. What should I call you? " Sirius said, and Regulus stayed silent for a moment, blinking in confusion.

"Your new name, dumbass! If you wanna be a guy, you should have a new name. No guy out there is called Cassiopeia." Sirius smiled at him, and for once in his life, he felt like he could take the costume’s mask off and breathe.

"Look, up there! " His brother pointed at the sky, where the constellation Leo was, and he watched how his finger wandered across the stars in search of a new name.

"Regulus. The heart of the lion" Sirius said, and Regulus smiled to himself. Regulus.

 That certainly felt like him. He let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding and smiled more to himself than to his brother. Regulus.

From that day, Sirius had called him Regulus, and referred to him as a boy when their parents were not around. Even though he still felt trapped under a skin that wasn’t his, and he longed so badly to feel himself, it was nice seeing how someone could see him as he was—and not the girl his parents wanted him to be. Not as a future husband’s shadow. Not Cassiopeia. But Regulus.

So he was now standing in front of the mirror, a pair of scissors in his right hand, tears in his eyes, and a terrible haircut. He had tried to give himself a mullet, or something like that, but damn, he had screwed up. It was uneven, patchy, and somehow worse than before—

At least it is mine.

It was an act of defiance, even if it was clumsy.

He knocked on the bathroom wall, knowing his brother would hear him, because his room was just next door. 

"Sirius?" He says, and after a few minutes, he hears his brother’s voice.

"Yes? " Sirius’ voice echoes through the wall.

"...Please come" Regulus says, and Sirius let out an annoyed sigh.

"Okay! I’m coming! " he says, and just a few moments later, enters the bathroom, and his eyes widen at the sight of Regulus’ horrific haircut.

"Regulus, what the hell did you do!?"

"I just wanted a haircut! " Regulus bursted into tears. Sirius hugs him.

"Don’t cry, silly boy. C’mere, I’ll give you a goddamn haircut."

Sirius was like a magical hairdresser, just that he didn’t use magic at all. But with just a few cuts here and there, he transformed the mess on his head into a work of art. His now short curls looked magnificent. It wasn’t a super short hairstyle—his hair still covered his ears—but it was so short, and boyish, and he loved it so much. For once, he looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw Regulus instead of Cassiopeia. And maybe, just maybe, that was the closest he’d ever felt to real.

✧

When the sun was up that morning early, he went downstairs to have breakfast. They had breakfast every day at nine in the morning—one minute late and you wouldn’t eat for the rest of the day. His parents were strict. Very strict, he dared to say.

As soon as he entered the room with his everyday clothes—still elegant and classy, of course; not that his parents would ever allow him to wear something casual (that would be like staining the family image, even if no one saw it)—he saw all eyes on him.

 Even though Sirius hid his smile under a serious look, Regulus could still see how his lips turned upwards. After all, Sirius had never been the good liar in the family. Orion was shocked, and obviously mad, but the look that scared him the most was Walburga’s. She looked absolutely terrified, and almost yelled.

"Cassiopeia Adhara Black, what on Merlin’s beard did you do to your hair!?" Walburga said in a firm and scary voice. 

He always felt intimidated when she spoke. And of course, both he and Sirius were used to her being hella angry and yelling, but he had never heard her so mad. Regulus panicked. 

How the hell am I supposed to explain this?

 he thought, but words refused to come out of his mouth. He was no longer even thinking about what to say, but about the beating he was going to receive later—until he heard a savior’s voice.

"It was me, sorry. I... I thought it was funny, so I cut her hair while she slept" Sirius said.

Clearly, his brother was beaten up. The punches were so hard he could hear his father’s knuckles crashing on Sirius’ skin from the other room. He cried, and cried, the guilt eating him. Sirius was being beaten up so he didn’t have to. And yes, he felt like himself now with that hair, he felt happy—but at what cost?

Each thud echoed like a crack down his spine. He covered his ears with trembling hands, but the sound still slipped through, crawling under his skin like something venomous. He knew the rhythm by heart now: blow, silence, blow. And the silence was always worse. That pause between hits, where Orion probably waited for Sirius to cry out or beg—he never did. Sirius never screamed.

Regulus rocked back and forth on the floor outside the door, forehead pressed to the wood, whispering apologies that no one could hear. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Again and again, like a prayer.

The house was cold that morning, colder than usual, as if even the walls knew punishment was in the air. He could hear Walburga pacing downstairs, muttering about disgrace and shame, too steady for someone who had just let her son be brutalized.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. But it was the first time he was the reason. The first time someone bled for him.

And he hated how part of him—the smallest, cruelest part—felt grateful.

That night, long after the house had gone still and Regulus was lying curled up under his covers, eyes wide open and throat raw from holding in sobs, the door creaked open softly. A figure stepped inside, moving slowly, limping. Sirius.

His face was half-covered in shadows, but Regulus could make out the bruises along his cheek and the way he held his side when he walked.

Without a word, Sirius walked up to his bed and pulled the blanket higher over Regulus’ shoulders, then brushed his curls off his forehead with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence of the day.

"I’m okay" he whispered. "You don’t have to cry anymore"

And then he left, closing the door behind him with the softest click.

Regulus stayed awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling, hands gripping the edge of the blanket Sirius had tucked around him. He wanted to be brave like his brother. But all he could feel was shame.

✧

September 1, 1971

It was warm, the sun was already on top of the sky, and the air smelled like school—not because he had ever gone to school. He and his brother had been taught by governesses their whole life. But Sirius was finally eleven, and that meant he was going to Hogwarts—the school of magic Regulus had always dreamed of going to—and be away from their awful family during the whole year.

Regulus stood by the doorframe of Sirius’ bedroom, barefoot on the cold wooden floor, watching him pack with shaky hands. He hadn’t said anything yet. Just stood there, frozen, like if he stayed quiet enough, the moment wouldn’t become real. Sirius hummed softly to himself as he folded one of his robes, stuffing it carelessly into the trunk.

His chest felt tight. His throat burned. His arms ached with the need to cling onto his brother and beg him to stay. But he didn’t. Because he knew Sirius wouldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Sirius had always taken the blows for him. Always stepped in first. Always laughed the loudest. And now he was going to leave him alone in that cursed house, with the yelling, the cold silences, and their parents' eyes sharp like blades. Regulus didn’t blame him. He envied him.

Sirius was packing up his things—not many, if he was being honest: his clothes, school books, and supplies. His brother was still there, but he couldn’t help but think about the year that was waiting for him.

 It is going to be an awful year

 Without Sirius to be the face of the family, all that responsibility leaned on Regulus, and he knew just how hard it was going to be—mostly because he would be alone.

"I don’t want you to go... I want to go with you!" Regulus said, trying not to cry, as he clung to his torso as strongly as a tick grabs onto a dog.

"I’ll be back during winter holidays, and then we’ll spend all summer together, and I’ll tell you about my adventures and friends, okay, Reggie?" He said, making sure their parents didn’t hear.

Regulus’ lip trembled a bit, as if he were about to cry, but he refused to, not wanting to seem weak.

"I’ll miss having you at home' he said, and Sirius softly patted his head.

"You’ll be at Hogwarts next year too, and we’ll be best mates, okay?" He smiled, and Regulus faked a smile just so Sirius wouldn’t worry about him, though not even he fell for his lie.

He wasn’t gonna be okay—and they both knew it.

He watched the train disappear, his small hand still raised in a goodbye wave, long after Sirius had vanished behind clouds of steam. The platform grew quieter and quieter until it was only him and his parents again, their rigid posture like statues carved out of ice. His mother's hand rested heavy on his shoulder, like a leash. His father's silence was worse than any word. They just turned around and expected him to follow.

✧

The house felt bigger without Sirius. Bigger and colder. The rooms echoed louder. The air tasted like dust and discipline. There was no one to sneak into his bed after a nightmare. No one to whisper jokes behind Walburga’s back. No one to defend him when he was scolded for standing too hunched, speaking too softly, smiling too wide.

The beatings became more frequent.

Orion would pour himself another drink before calling Regulus into the study, and Walburga started paying more attention to him—inspecting his posture, his handwriting, his tone of voice. His every move was under a microscope. One time, he dared to ask for seconds at dinner and was slapped so hard he couldn't chew on that side for three days.

He stopped talking unless asked to.

Stopped crying too.

That year, the governess quit three months in. Regulus never found out why. They didn’t hire another one. Walburga said it was time he started studying on his own, like a proper Black. Most days, he spent alone in the library, memorizing books he couldn’t understand just to avoid punishment. The only joy he had was watching the snow fall outside the windows and pretending he was on the Hogwarts grounds.

That year was made of long, unbearable dinners in complete silence. Of slaps for misbehaving and long lectures for crying. Of hours locked in his room being told to reflect on his actions. Of forced tea parties with pure-blood girls and lessons on how to walk, speak, and sit properly—like a lady. That year was hell. And he survived it only by thinking of Sirius.

next year, I’ll go to Hogwarts too. I’ll find Sirius. He’ll keep his promise. We’ll be best mates. 

✧

Chapter 2: ✧First year: The bloom, the blink and the boom

 

September 1, 1972

The station was filled with noise, steam, and goodbyes. But he only heard the silence between them. Sirius hadn't looked at him once since they arrived. Not that that was new. They hadn't spoken to each other all summer. That was in part his fault, because yes, he had been the one who avoided Sirius all summer—but who could blame him? He deserved it. He hadn't received a single letter from Sirius. Not a single one. Not even a scrap of parchment with his messy handwriting. Regulus had waited. Every day. He'd sneak into the hallway after the morning owls arrived, just to check. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care. But he always checked. And every time the sky was empty, something in him cracked.

And during that time without Sirius, the house was more silent than usual—but not because it was peaceful; it was the kind of silence that screamed. The kind of silence that seeps into your skin, that curls up in your chest and presses on your lungs. It was colder without him. Not just the air, but everything. Meals were quieter. Their parents were harsher. And when he lay awake at night, he could still hear Sirius' laugh echo in his head, like a ghost refusing to leave. 

At first, Sirius had tried talking to him. Even though Regulus avoided him, he yapped about how Gryffindor was the best and how amazing his new friends were. They called themselves the Marauders—how ridiculous was that? Remus, a tall orphan boy, and a half-blood. Peter, the quiet one who laughed at everything Sirius said. And then there was James. 

James Potter.

Sirius wouldn’t shut up about him. Apparently, they had become really close friends. Best mates, he said once, like it meant something. Like Regulus hadn't been the one who knew all of Sirius’ secrets before them. From what he knew, the Potters were blood traitors, but even so, he couldn’t deny that boy had caught his attention just a bit. Maybe more than a bit. He remembered the way Sirius spoke about him—bright-eyed, animated, like James had hung the stars in the sky himself.

Yes, of course he remembered.

He had avoided Sirius, yes, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t listened. He had heard every word. Every detail. And it had hurt to keep silent. It had hurt to act like none of it mattered. But how could he pretend when Sirius hadn’t written to him once? Not even to say I miss you, or I'm sorry. He’d been replaced—exchanged for a group of loud, laughing boys who didn’t know the first thing about Sirius. Who didn’t know how he snored when he was really tired, or how he still flinched when Walburga raised her voice.

And now, as if that weren’t enough, Regulus watched him run. Run away from him and their family the second they stepped onto the platform. He didn’t even glance back. No “good luck.” No smile. Not even a nod. Just laughter, echoing in the steam, as a boy he recognized as James tugged him forward into the crowd.

James Potter...

There he was. A pretty boy with smooth, sun-kissed skin that glowed in the morning light, and eyes the color of dark coffee—the kind Regulus longed for every morning, just to feel something. His smile was easy, and Sirius looked at him like he was the center of the bloody universe.

He was staring when Walburga’s fingers caught his chin and tugged it back to her.

"Are you listening to me, Cassiopeia? Don’t be disrespectful!" her voice was cold, sharp like a slap.

"Sorry, Mother. It won’t happen again" He said firmly, forcing his voice to stay steady.

"Your brother disappointed us" she said, her smile brittle and cruel. "But you, my girl... I know you’ll make us proud. A Slytherin, like the rest of the family...you have that look in your eyes, worth of a slytherin"

Her smile was not praise. It was a warning. A demand. Regulus nodded, even though every part of him wanted to scream.

Ever since Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor, the Black name had become a burden too heavy to carry alone—and he had been the one left holding it. The perfect daughter. The one who stayed. The one who didn’t run. The one who swallowed everything and said thank you.

And oh, how he envied Sirius.

Because he had those boys' laugh, and their friendship, and maybe more—and because Sirius had gotten to break free. He had been brave enough to be the wrong Black. To be loud and rebellious.He got to laugh and joke and run toward his friends while Regulus stood still, stuck at his mother’s side like a porcelain doll in a cracked glass case. Cause Sirius was the brave one, and he was the quiet one. The obedient one. The one who never cried too loud or spoke too much.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

It still hurt. Like a wound that never got the chance to heal. Like being abandoned without a word.

So he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, and lifted his chin like he’d been taught. Not because he was proud—but because he had no choice. Because if he faltered, if he let it show, then they would win. She would win. And he refused to give her that.

If he had to carry the weight of the Black name, he’d do it with his head high. Even if it shattered him from the inside.

He got into the train, and started to walk, looking for a compartment to sit in. He passed by the one Sirius and his friends were in; he didn't smile, just stared at them for a second, and felt James' eyes on him—intense, curious. Then he saw him whisper something to Sirius.

 They are laughing. 

They’re mocking me.

he thought. 

Of course they are. 

His stomach twisted.

He kept walking, trying to ignore the heavy weight on his chest. He just wanted an empty compartment, Somewhere to disappear. But every door he opened was full—loud, chaotic, people throwing chocolate frogs and waving wands. 

None of them will want me there anyway. 

He was about to give up when he reached the last one. Inside, there were two kids, probably twins.

They both looked at him with curiosity. They had silver hair falling in soft locks, eyes as dark as ink, and warm cappuccino-colored skin.

"Hi! I’m Pandora Rosier, but my friends call me Panda!-the girl beamed. -This is my twin, Evan" She tilted her head with a dreamy, almost fae-like expression. 

She looked whimsical and sweet, like something out of a fairytale Regulus had never been allowed to read.

Evan gave a small nod, polite and calm, and Regulus froze. He opened his mouth to introduce himself, then hesitated. Should he say Cassiopeia? Should he use the name his family still clung to like a curse? He tried. The word almost came out. But it caught in his throat.

"I’m Regulus. Regulus Arcturus Black. Just call me Reg, or Archie… please not Reggie" he said, quickly. 

His voice trembled a little. He wasn’t used to saying his name out loud like that. Not to strangers. Not as himself.

"Nice to meet you, Reg" Pandora said with a kind smile that felt like sunlight on his face.

 Evan just nodded again, and Regulus sat across from them, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was relief or fear.

They talked for a while—nothing too deep. Favorite spells they hoped to learn. What house they wanted to be in. Pandora wanted Ravenclaw, Evan hadn’t even thought about it. Regulus just hoped they’d let him into Slytherin.

Then, suddenly, the compartment door slid open, and a boy burst in. He had messy dark brown hair, tired eyes, and a wide grin like he was already up to something.

"Some ridiculous lads that call themselves the Marauders didn’t let me sit with them" the boy said dramatically, rolling his eyes." One of them literally barked at me. Barked.- He huffed, then—without asking—jumped (yes, jumped) into the seat right next to Regulus.

"I'm Bartemius Crouch Jr. Barty for friends, so Barty for you" he grinned.

Regulus blinked. He sat with his feet on the seat. Regulus almost gasped. His mother would’ve skinned him alive for that. But Barty didn’t look like he cared about rules. He looked free.

"i… I’m Regulus. Call me Reg or Archie. Just… not Reggie" he repeated, softer this time. It already felt easier to say.

Pandora reintroduced herself, this time adding.

"This is Evan. He doesn’t talk much, but he listens better than anyone." Evan gave her a fond look and shrugged.

Barty laughed, already pulling out a chocolate bar from his robe pocket. 

"Well, good! I talk enough for all of us anyway"

And he did. Barty talked about absolutely everything. About a Muggle book he stole from his father’s collection. About how boring his house was. About his theory that maybe ghosts could taste food, they just didn’t want to admit it. He was weird. Chaotic. But Regulus found himself smiling. Genuinely smiling.

Pandora spoke too, but only when she had something to say. She was clever. Thoughtful. Regulus liked the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about plants and magical creatures. Evan didn’t say much at all, but he watched everything. He saw everything.

Regulus looked around at them—at the chaos and the quiet and the kindness. For the first time in a long while, his chest didn’t feel like it was caving in.

Maybe I won’t be alone. He thought. Maybe he could make friends, after all. Maybe Hogwarts wouldn’t be as terrible as he feared. Maybe, this was the start of something better.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window as the train started moving. The platform slid away slowly at first, then faster, like it couldn't wait to be rid of him. His mother had already vanished into the crowd, her perfume lingering on his collar like a warning. 

The compartment fell into a comfortable kind of chaos. Barty was now dramatically reenacting how Sirius had barked at him.

"Like a bloody dog, I swear on Merlin's socks!"

—while Pandora giggled, half-curled up on her seat, and Evan rolled his eyes in mock disbelief.

Regulus didn’t join the laughter, but the corners of his mouth twitched, like his face was remembering how to smile.

"You’re quiet' Pandora said, tilting her head at him "like a curious cat" But you don’t feel quiet.

Regulus blinked.

"What do I feel like, then?"

She shrugged, a dreamy smile spreading across her lips.

"Like thunder in the distance. Not loud yet. But there. Waiting"

He didn't know what to say to that. No one had ever described him that way before. No one had ever looked at him like that before—not as the Black heir, not as the disappointment’s sibling. Just... like himself.

And maybe that’s why it hurt when Barty brought him up.

"By the way, that Potter guy—James? I get why your brother's obsessed with him. Bit of a prat, but sort of... stupidly charming, isn't he?"

Regulus froze. His throat tightened.

Barty didn’t notice, or maybe he didn’t care. He kept going.

"I mean, he’s got that arrogant look–Like he knows the whole world is his, and he’s just being generous by sharing it." Barty said.

Regulus looked away, jaw clenched.

"They made fun of me" he said suddenly, his voice low.

Barty raised an eyebrow.

"Who did?"

"Them. Sirius. And Potter. When I walked past."

He didn’t mean to say it. It slipped out like a wound splitting open.

There was a pause. Pandora frowned, looking at him carefully.

"Are you sure they were making fun of you?"

Regulus didn’t answer. He couldn’t be sure. But it didn’t matter. It felt like they were. Why else would Potter look at him and then whisper to Sirius? He could hear that whispered message on his mind.

That is your brother? He is pathetic!

Look! That boy there looks like a girl, and hes so ugly.

He stopped thinking about it.

"I don’t care" he said, sharper than intended.

But the words tasted like rust and old grief.

Pandora didn’t push. She just leaned forward and placed a sugared fruit from her pocket in his hand.

"You look like someone who needs something sweet."

Regulus looked down at the small candy, unwrapped and soft from the heat of her palm. He stared at it, then nodded, almost imperceptibly.

He swallowed hard, staring at the candy, at the shifting light on the floor, anywhere but them.

"Thanks" he whispered.

The train rocked gently, and the compartment buzzed with laughter and low conversation again. Regulus leaned back, the sugar dissolving slowly on his tongue. The bitterness in his chest didn’t disappear, but it softened around the edges.

Maybe he wasn’t thunder yet.

But he could be. One day.

And when he was, he swore they would all hear it.

Notes:

So here is the second chapter! I hope you love it! <3
Finally introducing the Slytherin Skittles, dont worry, i'll be adding Dorcas too, soon.
Ihave a few more chapters already writting, buuut i'll be posting once or twice a week, mostly twice, not all of them together
Next chapter probably out on monday<3

Chapter 3: ☼The Marauders ride again (and the boy in the hallway)

Notes:

Something different this chapter...hope you love it.
Btw i know i said i'd be posting on monday, but i decided to do it earlier, happy easter to those who celebrate!

September 1, 1972

 

 

James arrived at King's Cross Station for his second year at Hogwarts. He was with his parents, along with Peter and his family. He had known Peter since they were kids — they’d grown up in the same town and had always been close. Their families were friends too, having known each other for ages.

 

The sun spilled through the great glass windows, casting warm patches of light across the bustling station. James tapped his foot with the rhythm of the crowd, trunk already packed and owl cage swinging in his hand. He and Peter were looking around for Remus — and maybe even Sirius, if he could escape from his family. James didn’t know much about the Blacks, except that they were known for their obsession with blood purity. From what Sirius had told him, they were complete assholes. The only exception seemed to be his younger brother, Regulus. James remembered that name well; Sirius talked about him a lot.

 

He was lost in thought when Peter tugged at his arm.

 

"There’s Remus!" Peter said, pointing.

They both ran to him.

 

Remus had voluminous short curls — apparently he’d let his hair grow. He had told them that the children’s home he lived in used to shave all their heads, so he had been bald when they met him last year. He hadn’t grown much taller — still about an inch shorter than James — but he had gained a new pair of silver scars on his arms. He said he fought a lot with the mean kids there.

James grinned when he saw him.

 

"Oi, Remus! Look at you, all fancy and curly."

Remus rolled his eyes but smiled, a crooked thing that tugged at one side of his mouth.

 

"Got sick of buzz cut" He said simply.

 

Peter tilted his head.

 

"It looks good. Makes you look older."

 

"Thanks, I think" Remus replied, voice quieter. He shifted his weight and subtly pulled his sleeves down, hiding the silvery lines crisscrossing his skin.

 

James noticed, but didn’t say anything. He just bumped his shoulder lightly against Remus’s. 

Friendly. Reassuring. Familiar.

 

After a few more minutes of looking around, James spotted the Blacks. Sirius’s parents looked just as intimidating as he remembered. His mother was stiff as stone, lips pinched tight, eyes darting around as if the crowd personally offended her. His father stood beside her like a shadow with eyebrows.

 

Next to them stood who he supposed was Regulus. He was noticeably shorter than Sirius — who loved to brag about being the tallest marauder — and had short, loose black curls that reached his ears. His eyes were the same grey as Sirius’s, but they didn’t shine as brightly. He looked… sad. Not crying sad. Quiet sad. Lonely sad.

Sirius spotted them and jogged over, dragging his trunk behind him with unnecessary violence. James tugged at his sleeve.

 

"Hey, mate! How shitty was your summer?" James asked, already guessing the answer.

 

"Oh, it was the worst" Sirius said with a groan, dropping his trunk with a thud that made a nearby cat hiss. "And my brother’s an ass now too. Not only did he ignore every letter I sent last year, but he avoided me all summer."

 

James remembered how Sirius used to write to Regulus once or twice a week, waiting for a reply that never came. He remembered how Sirius stopped talking about it around June.

 

"Did he ever explain why?" Remus asked quietly, brows drawn.

 

Sirius shrugged, his mouth tightening.

 

"Not a word. I tried cornering him once, but Mother sent him upstairs and then hexed me for being ‘disrespectful.’ "He did finger quotes in the air, then added, "Guess he’s their perfect little heir now."

 

James looked back toward the platform. Regulus was still standing near their parents, silent and still. His hands were clasped behind his back in perfect posture, and he kept his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as his mother scolded him; or maybe just told him something, it was hard to guess the difference when we’re talking about Walburga Black.

 

"He looks miserable" James muttered.

Sirius scoffed.

 

"Yeah, well. Maybe he likes it. Maybe he likes being their little pure-blood puppet."

 

He said it like a joke, but it came out bitter. Like metal in the mouth. James saw the tightness in Sirius’s jaw, the twitch of something raw behind his eyes.

The train whistle blew, loud and sharp.

 

"We should go" Peter said, adjusting his grip on his owl cage.

 

They began dragging their trunks toward the barrier, blending into the crowd of students and families. James glanced over his shoulder once more. Regulus hadn’t moved.

They crossed onto Platform 9¾, where the scarlet train was already steaming. The platform buzzed with noise and excitement. Laughter, hugs, owls screeching, trunks bumping over stone.

Inside the train, they found an empty compartment near the back. Sirius threw himself across one bench dramatically, arms flung wide like he was claiming a throne. Peter and Remus wrestled their trunks into the luggage rack, nearly braining each other twice in the process.

James stood by the door for a second longer than necessary, gaze drifting down the corridor. He saw Regulus standing in front of their compartment. Their eyes met. Regulus's face was blank, unreadable — but not cold. Just… unsure.

James frowned.

He thought Regulus might be looking for a place to sit, so he patted Sirius’ leg.

 

"Hey mate, won't you let him sit with us?" he whispered into Sirius’ ear.

 

"What? No! We’re the Marauders. As we said before, no first year will sit with us, let alone Regulus" Sirius said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

James looked back at the hallway in search of Regulus, but it was now empty. Just the echo of footsteps, fading.

He sat down slowly, jaw tight, and stared out the window.

Sirius began rummaging through his bag, probably in search of snacks or a deck of cards.

Peter and Remus had begun bickering about which Chocolate Frog cards they already had.

But James kept thinking about grey eyes in the corridor, and how quietly someone could disappear

James rested his forehead against the glass. The train jolted forward, and King's Cross began to blur behind clouds of steam. His eyes stayed on the corridor, even when there was nothing left to look at.

He didn't know why, exactly, but there was something about the way Regulus had looked at him. Not angry. Not exactly sad, either. Just… uncertain. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to come in.

 

What if I had just waved him over?

 

He rubbed the back of his neck, annoyed with himself for thinking about it so much.

 

"Oi, James, you’re awfully quiet" Peter said, chewing on a massive piece of licorice. 

 

"Everything alright?"

 

James shrugged.

 

"Yeah. Just… watching the scenery."

 

"Are you sure you didn’t hit your head getting the trunk up?" Sirius asked from across the compartment, smirking.

 

"Hilarious" James said, flopping back into his seat.

Remus had a book open on his lap, but he clearly wasn’t reading. He looked at Sirius with a half-smile.

 

"Did your mum yell at you a lot this time, or just the usual?"

Sirius rolled his eyes.

 

"Oh, the usual. ‘Sirius, stop dressing like a commoner.’ ‘Sirius, don’t speak so vulgarly.’ , 'Sirius, if you bring that stray cat into the house again, I swear I’ll Avada Kedavra it.’ " He said imitating Walburga's voice.

 

His impression of her was so spot-on that Peter nearly choked laughing.

 

"Spoiler alert, I brought the cat back" Sirius smiled.

"The stray cat?" Remus asked, amused.

 

"Yeah. His name’s Beluz and he sleeps on my father’s cloak and covers it with fur. He loves me."

 

"Or maybe he just hates your dad" James offered.

 

"Who doesn’t?" Sirius said, throwing himself back like a rag doll.

 

They laughed. The sound filled the compartment easily, comfortably — the kind of laughter that only came with a second year of inside jokes, shared detentions, and late-night adventures.

James let himself relax into it, enjoying that second-year confidence that came with not being the new kids anymore.

But his thoughts drifted, just for a second, back to the corridor. Back to that still figure in the shadows. The way Regulus had looked at them — at him —with something James couldn’t quite place.

 

He shook it off.

 

Let it go.

 

They were the Marauders. This was their year. No reason to get caught up thinking about someone who clearly didn’t want to be part of it.

 

Still, he caught himself glancing at the door once or twice more.

 

Just in case.

☼

 

Chapter 4: ✧First year: Hogwarts, at last

He didn’t know exactly how long the ride to Hogwarts had lasted, but judging by the sun already setting over the hills, it must’ve been close to eight hours. The trip was long — really long — but surprisingly fun. More fun than he ever thought it could be.

Barty talked non-stop, Pandora showed them a levitating charm she’d learned over the holidays — Wingardium Leviosa — and they spent the rest of the ride making things float around the compartment. She even tried teaching it to them. Regulus and Evan picked it up without much trouble, but Barty somehow managed to blow up a Chocolate Frog instead of levitating it.

He’d had fun — real fun — but gods, he was exhausted. He’d never talked so much, or felt so free, so… himself.

When the train finally arrived at Hogwarts, the first years were led to carriages that took them up to the castle. Regulus didn’t pay much attention to the fact that the carriages were moving on their own, and neither did Evan or Barty. Only Pandora seemed fascinated by it.

 

"What’re you looking at?" Barty asked, practically smashing his face against the window to see what she was staring at.

 

"The horses" she said.

 

Barty laughed like she’d just said something completely insane. Regulus didn’t blame him — as far as he could tell, there was nothing there.

 

"Do you do drugs, Panda?" Barty said between snorts of laughter. "A horse? Really?"

 

"Yes! They’re Thestrals" she replied, gently pushing Barty back from the window. "And sit down, you’re going to fall and hit your head."

 

Barty rolled his eyes.

"I’m not gonna fall, don’t be ridiculou-"

 

Before he could finish the sentence, the carriage gave a sharp jolt, and he toppled forward, smacking his head against the seat in front of him.

Evan burst into laughter, and Pandora followed immediately. Someone helped Barty sit back up, still groaning. Regulus hesitated for a moment — what if Barty got mad? What if he wasn’t supposed to laugh?

But then Barty tried to stand again, tripped over his own foot, and fell face-first onto the floor.

A loud, unexpected laugh escaped Regulus’s mouth.

It felt strange. And good. Even more when they all started to laugh and then helped Barty.

 

✧

 

The carriages rolled to a stop after a few minutes, just outside the front gates of the castle. The sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in orange and violet, casting long shadows over the grounds. A teacher — tall, with a kind face and a wand that glowed at the tip — instructed them to line up and follow the path to the entrance; Her name was Minerva McGonagall.

 

They walked in a loose group up a series of wide stone steps that led to the castle. Regulus noticed the way the torches lining the path flickered on by themselves as they passed, casting golden light over the mossy stone walls.

 

Pandora and Evan lagged behind a little, whispering about something Regulus couldn’t quite hear. Up ahead, Barty was walking beside him, kicking rocks with every step.

 

"Hey" said a voice beside him, cutting through the quiet.

 

Regulus turned his head and found Barty walking at his pace, hands in his pockets and a slightly softer expression than usual.

 

"What?" Regulus asked, not coldly, but cautious.

 

"Nothing. You’re quiet. Are you always like this or are you just planning to take over the castle in the first week?"

 

Regulus let out a short laugh, involuntarily.

 

"I’m not planning anything."

 

"Pity. I already pictured you bossing everyone around."

Regulus glanced at him sideways.

 

"And would you let me?"

 

"Depends. If you let me blow up more frogs, maybe."

Silence stretched between them, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. They walked in sync, their steps unconsciously matching. The air was warm and smelled of damp stone and fresh torchlight.

 

"I never had friends" Regulus said suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

 

 His voice came out quiet, like he was admitting something he hadn’t even realized he needed to say.

Barty didn’t reply immediately. He just kept walking, eyes forward, posture relaxed.

 

"I did" he said eventually. "But they were all idiots."

Regulus looked at him.

 Barty wasn’t smiling, not really, but he didn’t seem sad either. Just… honest.

 

"Maybe we’ll do better this time" Barty added after a beat, shrugging one shoulder.

Regulus let himself smile, a small, real thing.

 

"Maybe" Regulus said, glancing sideways at him.

 

They kept walking in silence for a moment. The wind brushed through the trees, and the castle loomed ahead, majestic and ancient. The gravel crunched softly beneath their shoes, the occasional murmur from the students behind them the only other sound.

Then Barty broke the silence, his voice softer than before.

 

"You always this quiet?" Barty asked

 

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He shrugged.

 

"I just… don’t talk much, I guess." He replied

 

Barty nodded thoughtfully, hands tucked in his robe pockets. 

 

"I think I’ve always felt like… if I start talking, I’ll say something wrong. And it’ll stick." He said

 

"That’s what words do- Barty said, more serious now. They stay. Even when people pretend they don’t."

 

They walked a little more. Pandora and Evan had slowed down behind them, caught in their own conversation.

Regulus hesitated before asking.

 

"And you don’t care if people hear the wrong thing?"

 

"Not enough to stay quiet" Barty said simply, and smiled.

 

They reached the stone stairs that led to the castle. The soft light from the torches flickered against the stone, and the shadows stretched long behind them.

 

"You’re not what I expected" Regulus said quietly. Barty raised an eyebrow.

 

"What did you expect?" He says

 

"Don’t know. I just thought… everyone would be fake. Or cruel. I didn’t think anyone would really talk to me. Not like this."

Barty gave him a sideways look. 

 

"That’s a sad thing to expect, mate" He giggled.

 

They stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, both looking up at the towering front doors of the castle. Barty bumped his shoulder lightly against Regulus’s.

Barty spoke, voice almost playful again.

"I’m not fake, and I’m definitely not cruel. At worst, I’m a bit dramatic."

 

"I think I can handle dramatic-Regulus smiled, a small one, but real."

 

"Good" Barty said. "Cause I’ve decided I like you. And I’m terrible at liking people, so you better not disappoint me"

Regulus laughed under his breath. 

 

"No pressure, then" Barty grinned. 

 

"None at all."

 

There was something weirdly comforting about Barty — something loud and ridiculous, sure, but also... honest. Like he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. Regulus envied that. A lot.

And Regulus couldn’t help but think, as the golden light of the Entrance Hall spilled over them and the smell of old stone and wax filled the air, that maybe, just maybe, this place wouldn’t be as lonely as he’d feared.

They kept walking in sync. It felt easy.

 

✧

 

As they reached the top of the stairs, Regulus stopped for a second. Hogwarts loomed before them, lit by hundreds of floating torches and the fading light of day. The castle looked like something out of a dream — towers that pierced the clouds, high arched windows, endless spires and bridges that connected them like threads of light.

He had never seen anything so breathtaking.

The stone gleamed in the firelight. Ivy crept up the sides of the towers. There were carved gargoyles and stained glass windows and banners fluttering gently with the breeze.

It was magic. Proper magic.

And it was his now.

When they stepped inside, Regulus had to stop himself from gasping.

The entrance hall was enormous. The ceiling stretched so high it disappeared into shadows. The floor was black stone, polished until it reflected the torchlight. There were staircases moving in the distance, portraits whispering on the walls, and suits of armor that seemed to shift when no one was looking.

They were led into the Great Hall — and this time, Regulus did gasp, quietly.

The ceiling was enchanted to reflect the sky — now a deep indigo, stars blinking gently overhead. Thousands of floating candles hung in midair, illuminating four long tables where the older students were already seated. At the far end, the staff table sat beneath a raised platform, with professors in long robes watching them arrive.

The Sorting Hat sat alone on a stool in the middle of the front, looking worn and ancient and very much alive.

His chest tightened.

This was it.

They were called up one by one, in alphabetical order. Regulus could barely hear the names. His heart pounded as he watched others walk up, sit on the stool, and have the hat placed on their head. Some were sorted quickly, others took longer. There were cheers, claps, whispers.

Barty went before him. The hat hesitated for a second before it shouted.

 

"SLYTHERIN!"

 

He hopped off the stool, beaming, and made his way to the table with a swagger that made the older students chuckle.

Then it was Regulus's turn.

He swallowed hard as his name was called.

 

"Black, Regulus."

 

Whispers spread across the hall.

He stepped forward, aware of a hundred eyes on him. Somewhere among the crowd, he thought he saw Sirius staring — but he didn’t look.

 

The hat was placed on his head, slipping over his eyes and casting the world in darkness.

"Ah, another Black" the hat muttered in his ear. "I know your type. Ambitious, clever… and a heart that wants to prove something, doesn’t it? Not quite like your brother. No, you’re quieter. More precise. Loyal… but careful. Oh yes, you’ll do well in"

 

"SLYTHERIN!"

 

The hat was lifted off.

He stood and walked to the Slytherin table, where Barty was already waving him over. Pandora joined soon after, and then Evan.

His friends. His house.

He sat down, still a little breathless. He noticed that Mcgonagall, the teacher that was calling the students, called him Regulus, not Cassiopeia. He wondered why his name was written like that, but he decided not to mind, he was happy.

Across the hall, at the Gryffindor table, Sirius wasn’t clapping.

He was staring.

Regulus looked away.

Chapter 5: ✧First year: Barty's brooding moral support

 

A Slytherin prefect with perfectly combed hair and a voice like cold water led them through the dungeons after the feast, their footsteps echoing through the long, winding corridors beneath the castle. The air was cooler here, thicker, like it had stories to tell if only you listened long enough.

Regulus had never seen anything like it. The greenish glow of enchanted torches shimmered off damp stone walls, and the occasional window carved into the rock revealed the lake outside, casting rippling shadows on the floors. It felt ancient. Heavy with history. The kind of place that didn’t ask you to belong — it demanded it.

The entrance to the Slytherin common room was hidden behind a blank stretch of stone wall. The prefect whispered a password — something in Latin Regulus didn’t catch — and the wall slid open to reveal a long, low-ceilinged room bathed in green and silver light. Dark wood furniture, soft emerald armchairs, and a massive fireplace crackling with blue-tinged flames gave it an eerie, elegant warmth. The windows looked directly into the depths of the lake, where shadows of fish and kelp danced in the dark water.

It was beautiful in a strange, quiet way. Not the blinding, golden kind of beauty you saw in storybooks, but the kind you had to look closer to see — shadowed and still and sharp around the edges. Regulus felt like it suited him.

Their dormitory was up a spiral staircase to the right of the common room. He was glad to find that he’d been placed in the same room as Evan and Barty. Their trunks were already at the foot of each bed, the green velvet hangings drawn back slightly as if waiting to be claimed.

Regulus sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hand along the dark green blanket. 

 

"We're really here" Evan said behind him, a little breathless.

 

Barty flopped dramatically onto his own bed.

 

"And we didn’t even get cursed on our first night. Bit of a disappointment, really."

 

Regulus smiled softly. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. Evan sat cross-legged on his bed, tugging his shoes off with a sigh.

 

"So… first impressions, guys?" He asked, glancing between the other two.

 

Barty stretched his arms above his head and let them fall with a dramatic flop.

 

"Ten out of ten for theatrics. Floating candles, talking hat, mysterious lake lair. What more could I ask for? Maybe a ghost fight. That'd be bloody cool"

 

"You’re impossible" Evan muttered, shaking his head.

Regulus chuckled under his breath and leaned back against the headboard.

 

"I think I like it" he admitted.

 

Evan raised an eyebrow. "You think?"

 

Regulus hesitated. "It’s just… all of this feels like a dream someone else is having. I didn’t think it would feel like this."

 

"Like what?" Barty asked, his tone less joking now.

Regulus glanced at him.

 

"Like it’s mine."

 

There was a moment of quiet. The lake outside the window shimmered, casting moving shadows across the ceiling. Barty sat up slightly.

 

"It is" he said. "It’s ours now. The castle, the house, the stupid common room with the creepy underwater vibe, all of it. We get to make it ours."

 

Evan gave him a look. "That was surprisingly optimistic of you."

 

Barty grinned. "Don’t get used to it."

 

Regulus smiled again. Not the guarded kind he wore at home, but something lighter.

He looked at them — Evan, serious and quietly curious; Barty, wild and unfiltered — and felt something shift inside him. A beginning.

 

"Alright then" he said softly. "Let’s make it ours."

 

✧

 

The first few days went by fast — like really fast. It was all a bit of a blur, honestly. One second they were getting sorted, and the next he was half-asleep in a classroom, trying to remember if it was Swish and Flick or Flick and Swish.

Classes weren’t bad, just… a lot. Potions was his favorite so far — everything quiet and precise, like a puzzle that made sense if you just followed the rules. Charms was fun, too, especially when Barty set a quill on fire, by accident (or so he claimed). Transfiguration was hard, but fascinating in a what the hell is happening sort of way.

Evan turned out to be better at everything than he let on. He acted chill, always kind of detached, like he didn’t really care — but Regulus could tell he was paying attention to everything. Sharp eyes. Smart. Strange in a calm, unreadable way.

 

Barty, on the other hand, was impossible to ignore. Loud, dramatic, constantly moving. He had something to say about everything, and somehow, he actually made it fun. Regulus didn’t really understand him yet, but he liked having him around. Barty made things less heavy.

They explored a lot. Got lost at least three times — once ending up in a hallway that smelled like tea and had wallpaper made of moving birds. Pandora tried to steal a floating candle. Evan nearly fell into a trick stair. Regulus just… kept looking around, trying to take it all in.

Hogwarts was weird. Not in a bad way. In a this place has secrets and I kind of want to know them all kind of way. The ghosts were chatty, and there were paintings that insulted people under their breath.

 

At night, back in the dorm, it was easier to breath. Their room was cold and kind of dark, with stone walls and deep green curtains. Evan always read before bed. Barty always talked. Regulus just listened, most of the time — sometimes adding something, sometimes not. But it felt… good. Comfortable. Like maybe, for the first time, he wasn’t completely out of place.

Maybe even like he belonged.

It was late — not too late, but late enough that the common room had gone quiet, the fire burning low and casting weird shadows on the stone walls. Most of the other first years had gone to bed already, but the three of them were still there, spread across one of the green velvet couches like they owned the place.

Evan was lying on his back, legs hanging over the armrest, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading cause he was to distracted watching Barty. Barty had taken up most of the space, sitting cross-legged with a pile of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans in his lap, tossing them in the air and trying to catch them in his mouth.

Regulus was curled up on the other end of the couch, half-watching them, half-watching the fire, still trying to figure out how this had happened. How he ended up here — tired, warm, and not entirely miserable.

 

"You guys are so lucky you have me" Barty announced, after catching a bean and immediately regretting it. "That one tasted like moldy socks. Evan, try it."

 

"Why would I try something that just made you gag?" Evan said without looking up.

 

"Because friendship is built on trust and shared suffering."

 

Regulus snorted.

 

"That sounds like something a cult leader would say."

Barty grinned. 

 

"Thank you. I take that as a compliment."

 

There was a pause. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, the castle creaked — like it was shifting in its sleep.

 

"Hey, what do you think the Bloody Baron’s deal is?" Barty asked suddenly, turning toward them like he’d just remembered something crucial.

 

Evan closed his book. "You mean besides being dead and covered in blood?"

 

"Yeah, like. Was he murdered? Did he kill someone? Did he have a tragic backstory? Was he in love with a Hufflepuff who broke his heart and now he haunts the dungeons forever? I need answers."

 

"You could just ask him" Regulus said, eyebrow raised.

Barty made a face. "He glides like two inches off the floor and stares at people without blinking. That’s not someone you ask about their love life."

 

Evan laughed. Actually laughed. Regulus felt weirdly proud of that.

 

"Anyway" Barty continued, now sprawled on his stomach across their legs, "I give us two weeks before we’re kicked out of Slytherin for being too fun."

 

"You’re the only one who’s 'fun'" Regulus said, but he didn’t mean it like an insult.

 

"Exactly. And you two are the brooding moral support." Barty said.

 

Evan looked at Regulus. "You brooding? I thought that was my role."

 

"You can both brood" Barty said, waving a hand lazily.

 

 "Just don’t do it at the same time or I’ll die of boredom"

 

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling — a small, stupid smile that wouldn’t go away.

 

He didn’t know when things had shifted. When these two had stopped being just the people he sat next to in class and had become something else. Something warmer. Something almost safe, in just a few weeks.

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Evan was distant and cold, and Barty could be completely impossible. But they made space for him — without asking, without forcing it — like they knew he wasn’t used to being allowed to just be.

 

Regulus felt it settle in his chest: he liked being here. He liked them.

 

He liked the way Evan argued with professors like he knew better (and sometimes did). He liked how Barty said whatever he was thinking, even when it made no sense, just to make someone laugh. He liked how, somehow, they didn’t make him feel like he had to perform or prove anything. He could just… sit. Breathe.

And maybe that meant something.

Maybe it meant everything.

He let his head fall back against the couch, eyes half-closed, listening to them bicker over which Bertie Bott’s bean flavor was the worst (Evan said liver, Barty insisted it was earwax; Regulus hadn't even dared to bite one).

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

They were loud, and ridiculous, and probably going to get him in trouble someday.

But Merlin help him, Regulus was starting to hope they never left.

 

"Well" Evan said with a yawn as he stood up, "I’m going to bed. If I keep listening to Barty talk about Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, I might actually start crying."

 

Barty rolled his eyes, no annoyed, just playfully, even as he was already stretching and rubbing his eyes.

The three of them walked down the long, cool corridor that led from the common room to the dormitories. The torches flickered as they passed, casting long shadows on the greenish stone walls — like the castle was breathing, quiet and alive.

Their dorm was spacious, with four-poster beds and dark velvet curtains. The windows looked out into the lake, and tonight, faint glowing bubbles floated past, along with the blurry shape of something large moving in the deep — something nameless, something only Hogwarts would know.

Evan threw himself onto his bed without even bothering to change his clothes. Barty didn’t pull the curtains shut, just flopped onto the mattress and started snoring almost instantly.

 

Regulus, however, stayed sitting on the edge of his bed. He changed into his pajamas in silence and slipped under the covers, but he already knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. It never did.

It wasn’t new.

He’d had insomnia for as long as he could remember. Sometimes it was because his head wouldn’t shut up. Other times, it felt like his body simply refused to rest. He would lie awake, listening to his mother’s footsteps echoing down the hallway, to Sirius breathing across the room (back when they used to share one), to the groaning wood of a house that never seemed to sleep either.

Some nights, he wished something would take him away. Other nights, he just wished someone would come in and hold him — though he would’ve never dared to ask for it.

This place wasn’t all that different.

He closed his eyes, but his thoughts kept running. The castle, the endless corridors, the paintings that stared back at him like they knew his name.

He thought about Sirius too. About how he hadn’t said a word to him since they got there. How he’d looked at him during the Sorting Ceremony — like he didn’t recognize him. Like he didn’t want to.

 

And still, some part of Regulus — the part that still ached a little — had hoped his brother would say something. Stop him. Reach out. Anything.

But Sirius hadn’t.

And that, in its own way, said everything.

Regulus turned onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position. He listened to the slow, steady breathing of his roommates. To the quiet bubbling of the lake outside. He tried to focus on that. On what was.

Evan and Barty were strange, loud, occasionally insufferable. But they were here. And maybe, in some small way, they were his.

He sighed. Closed his eyes again.

And slowly — gently — he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 6: ✧First year: Sleeping beauty and the cauldron

November 10, 1972

Over the past few weeks at Hogwarts, Regulus had discovered he was actually pretty good at Potions—and, to his own surprise, that he really liked it.

Sure, it wasn't like he enjoyed attending Potions class, especially not first thing in the morning with half the Slytherin table still half-asleep, but there was something inherently fascinating about it. The idea that a handful of chopped plants, crushed roots, and powdered beetle eyes could blend into something that could knock a full-grown wizard out cold—it was intriguing. He liked the process, the precision, the quiet perfectionism it required.

Barty, on the other hand, wasn’t quite on the same page.

He wasn’t terrible, per se. Not exactly. But Potions definitely wasn’t his strongest subject, and today would only prove that further.

They left class that day with a basic understanding of how to brew a Sleeping Draught—or at least most of them did. And with Barty in the arms of Professor Slughorn, dead asleep,after having somehow managed to ingest their potion.

The classroom itself was located in the dungeons—something Regulus actually liked. It didn’t have windows, which made it feel oddly cocooned, and the walls were covered in shelves filled with bizarre and unpleasant-looking ingredients. Pandora had once told him that the more dangerous stuff was kept in the locked cabinets behind Slughorn’s desk.

That morning, as everyone settled into their stone tables, Slughorn waddled to the front of the room, smiling warmly at the class.

 

“Sleeping Draughts today,” he announced. “Page ten. Should be straightforward enough—no need for a full lesson, and you all know where the ingredients are by now.”

 

Pandora pulled out the textbook, flipping to the page. She and Regulus began reading through the instructions, while Evan lit the flame under their cauldron. Regulus’s eyes flicked up for a second, just in time to catch Barty with his chin propped up in his hand, very obviously not reading and very obviously staring at Evan.

 

“Barty,” Pandora said “go get us four sprigs of Valerian root and the poppy essence. Page ten. Try not to confuse it with anything toxic.”

 

Barty groaned like it physically pained him to move, but stood up anyway and shuffled off to the supply shelves. He wasn’t dumb. Quite the opposite—he was clever, sharp, and quick-witted enough that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in Ravenclaw. But when it came to classes, he was so lazy it bordered on artistic.

A few minutes later, he returned and dumped the ingredients on the table with a dramatic sigh.

 

“So now what?” he asked, glancing at the open book. “Do we just chuck it all in and hope for the best?”

 

“If you want it to explode in our faces, sure,” Pandora said without looking up.

 

Evan chuckled, reaching over to pat Barty on the head like a particularly dumb but lovable pet.

 

“Come on, sleepyhead,” he said. “Let’s get this started.”

 

They started working, more or less coordinated. Pandora was the best at measuring and cutting ingredients with almost surgical precision, while Regulus stirred the mixture at exactly the right rhythm, following the clockwise pattern the book instructed. Evan added the poppy essence with a flourish, dramatically lifting the vial like it was Felix Felicis and not something meant to knock people out.

Barty mostly just hovered around the table, occasionally passing them tools or asking questions that made it abundantly clear he had no idea what they were doing.

After about fifteen minutes, the potion had turned a soft, swirling indigo, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. Regulus leaned in slightly, just to observe the consistency. It was smooth, not too thick, no clumps. Almost textbook perfect.

Slughorn walked by just then, his round belly wobbling slightly as he moved between tables.

“Oh, splendid work, dears!” he said cheerfully, stopping at their cauldron. He peered into it, nodding with a pleased hum. “That’s one of the finest Sleeping Draughts I’ve seen from a first-year class. With a dosage this pure, it could probably keep someone asleep for days.”

 

He chuckled warmly, clearly impressed, then wandered off toward the Gryffindor-Slytherin table behind them.

 

“Days?” Barty repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Damn.”

 

Evan grinned and dipped the spoon they had been using into the potion, scooping out a small amount. He turned to Barty with an exaggerated flourish, eyes full of mischief.

 

“Well then,” he said mock-seriously, “your turn to shine, Crouch. Try this and tell us if it works.”

 

Regulus let out a soft snort, thinking Barty would roll his eyes or slap the spoon away.

Instead, Barty blinked once, shrugged, and—without a second of hesitation—tipped the spoon into his mouth.

Pandora gasped.

Evan froze.

Regulus just stared in disbelief.

 

“You absolute idiot—” he started, but Barty was already swaying slightly.

His eyelids fluttered. He blinked once. Twice.

Barty swayed slightly, his eyelids fluttering once, twice—then his head tipped forward and he collapsed toward the stone table. Evan, almost on instinct, reached out and caught him just in time to stop his head from hitting the edge. 

For a second, no one moved.

Then Evan muttered,

 “Oh, shit.”

Regulus crouched a little to look. “He’s fine. Just sleeping. Like a bloody idiot.”

 

At that moment, Slughorn turned around again, probably alerted by the sudden lack of noise at their table—or maybe he just knew trouble when it happened in his class.

He took one look at Barty, limp in Evan’s arms, and let out a deep sigh.

 

“Oh, dear me. These children and their nonsense!” he huffed, not sounding especially angry. More like mildly inconvenienced.

 

Evan gave him a sheepish look, still cradling Barty like a dramatic prince in a very ridiculous tragedy.

 

“I didn’t think he’d actually drink it,” he mumbled.

 

“Yes, well, that’s the problem with dares, isn’t it?”

 

 Slughorn said, already pulling out his wand.

With a lazy flick, he levitated Barty gently out of Evan’s arms, and the boy floated mid-air, looking unusually peaceful for someone who’d just made a reckless life choice.

 

“I’ll take him to the infirmary. He should wake up by tomorrow. Or… Thursday, maybe.”

 

And with that, Slughorn exited the classroom, mumbling something about “brilliant minds, no common sense,” as Barty’s unconscious body floated along behind him like a very dramatic balloon.

Evan got a week of detention, doing who knows who, but he still managed to visit Barty in the infirmary everyday. He wouldnt admit it to anyone, but he felt guily. Sure, it had been a foolish thing to do, but he couldnt have expected Barty to take it seriously.

✧

Evan got a week of detention, cleaning cauldrons and things in the dungeons, but he still managed to visit Barty in the infirmary every day. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Regulus could tell he felt guilty. Sure, it had been a foolish thing to do—giving someone a sleeping draught as a joke—but he probably hadn’t expected Barty to actually drink it. Then again, this was Barty they were talking about.

Four days after the incident, Barty finally woke up. Regulus and Pandora visited him that same afternoon. The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and herbs, and Madam Pomfrey was bustling around, muttering about reckless students and the dangers of misused potions. When they reached Barty’s bed, he looked pale but awake, propped up against a stack of pillows with a lazy smile on his face like nothing had happened.

They talked for a while—Pandora fussed over him, demanded to know how he felt, and then reminded him that if he ever tried something that stupid again, she’d personally hex him. Barty only grinned, which, Regulus supposed, was a good sign. Eventually, Pandora had to leave to study for their upcoming Charms exam, and Regulus stayed behind.

There was a short silence before Barty spoke again, quieter this time.

 

“When I woke up,” he said, glancing at Regulus, “Evan was there. Just sitting next to me, like an idiot. He kept apologising over and over—didn’t even let me say anything at first.”

 

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

 

Barty nodded. “I had to interrupt him. Told him I was fine. That it was my fault too, for actually drinking it.”

 

Regulus snorted. “He’s been visiting every day. Even with detention. Slughorn’s got him scrubbing cauldrons and reorganising every single vial in the dungeon, but he still finds time.”

Barty smiled to himself, the corners of his mouth curling up faintly as he sank further into the pillow, as if Evan's punishment, or visits, gave him satisfaction.

Chapter 7: ✧First year: Stolen glances

December 1, 1972

The snow arrived later than usual this year, just with the start of December. It was thick, quiet flakes that softened the edges of the castle and painted the grounds in pale silver. Regulus liked this kind of cold—the kind that bit at your fingers and cheeks but made the world feel slower, quieter, as if wrapped in a blanket of stillness.

He had gone outside mostly to be alone, away from the warm chaos of the common room and the never-ending chatter in the corridors, and to see the snow, touch it. He had always seen the snow from inside the house, through the thick windows that he wasn’t even allowed to open during that time of the year. Snow meant cold feet and colder rules. Wet footprints on the carpet were punishable offences. Laughing too loud by the windows would earn him a glare. There were no snowball fights at Grimmauld Place. No sledding. No slipping on purpose and laughing about it. Just frost on the glass and silence.

He dragged his fingers lightly along the stone wall as he walked, letting them gather snowflakes that melted instantly on contact. His breath fogged in the air before him.

He didn’t know what he was looking for.

Maybe the quiet. Maybe the cold. Maybe just the feeling of being outside of time, out here where nothing asked anything of him.

He thought of Sirius.

Of how they used to sit under the same windows, shoulder to shoulder, silently enduring the weight of the house around them. They hadn’t always hated each other. They had been just two boys trying to stay warm in a freezing, loveless house. Regulus remembered sneaking into Sirius’ room when thunder shook the windows. He remembered whispered stories under blankets, and Sirius letting him hold the candle.

Sometimes, late at night, he missed him.

He missed the only person who had ever truly understood what it meant to grow up in that house. He missed his laughter, loud and defiant, and the way he used to ruffle Regulus’ hair when no one was watching.

His chest ached with the memory.

He didnt expect anyone else to be out in this weather, everyone was either in classes, in their common rooms, or just anywhere in the castle but outside; so it was perfect for him, he could just walk alone, no eyes on him.

But there he was.

Standing near the edge of the Black Lake, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, head tilted upward to let the snow land on his face. His glasses were fogged, hair a mess as usual. He looked… peaceful. Unlike how he looked in class or on the Quidditch pitch, or just always.

 

James

 

Regulus didn’t move. He stayed half-hidden behind a tree, just far enough to go unnoticed. Or so he thought.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring. There was something about watching James like this—alone, quiet, not surrounded by his loud friends or flashing his trademark smirk—that made him feel...peace, somehow, and the need to be sitting besides him, and talk. He envied Sirius for having James as a friend, cause even though he was a troublemaker, and fun while he was surrounded by people, there was just...something, about seeing him alone, so deep in his own thoughts.

Then, James turned.

Their eyes met across the snowy courtyard. James squinted slightly, like he hadn’t been sure if he was imagining things. His expression shifted—something unreadable, surprised maybe, or just confused.

Regulus didn’t look away.

Not immediately.

James didn't look away either.

He just stood there, brows slightly drawn together, eyes locked with Regulus’. The snow kept falling between them, soft and slow, but Regulus suddenly felt too exposed, too bare under that gaze.

He looked away first,something twisted in his stomach—embarrassment, mostly, but also a sharp stab of something else, something quieter and more dangerous. He turned on his heel and walked off, hoping the snow would swallow the sound of his footsteps.

By the time he reached the entrance to the dungeons, his cheeks burned—not from the cold.

He muttered the password and stepped into the Slytherin common room, the green glow of the lake outside casting everything in a strange light. It was warm inside, filled with the usual murmur of voices and crackling from the fireplace, but it didn’t reach him. Not really.

He sank into one of the leather armchairs near the fire, resting his head back, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Why had he looked at him like that?

Why had he been looking in the first place?

He closed his eyes, trying to shake it off.

But James Potter’s face stayed with him.

Across the room, Pandora was curled up on the couch with a pile of books on her lap, mouthing incantations under her breath as she studied for tomorrow’s Charms exam. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, quill tucked behind her ear, wand tapping lightly against her thigh with each repetition.

Just beside her, in the other couch, Evan sat with Barty leaning against him, fast asleep or nearly there, his head resting on Evan’s shoulder. Evan didn’t seem to mind. He was lazily flipping through the charms book too, one arm draped casually behind Barty, his fingers occasionally brushing against Barty’s sleeve as if to check he was still there.

It was oddly domestic, the three of them scattered around the fire like that, and Regulus felt something loosen in his chest. For a moment, the snow outside and the warmth inside blurred together, and he let himself sink deeper into the chair, eyes tracing the glow of the flames as they danced.

No one looked up when he came in.

No one questioned why his face was flushed or why his hands trembled just a bit.

He was grateful for that.

Regulus stayed silent, letting the crackle of the fire and the rustle of Pandora’s pages fill the quiet. His gaze lingered on Barty and Evan for a moment longer — the soft rise and fall of Barty’s chest, the way Evan tilted his head slightly toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They looked… comfortable. Safe. Like they belonged there.

He glanced at Pandora, still muttering spells, her hand twirling her wand absentmindedly. She’d probably ace the Charms exam tomorrow. She always did well, even when she claimed otherwise.

Regulus folded his arms around himself, pulling his knees up just a bit, and rested his chin them.

He thought of James again — how his eyes had locked with his for that one long second in the courtyard. Not with confusion, not with mockery… just seeing him.

He hated how it had made his chest feel tight. Hated how he’d had to look away first.

He didn’t even know why he’d been staring in the first place. Curiosity? Annoyance? Or something else he refused to name?

It didn’t matter.

He was a Black, a Slytherin, a boy with everything laid out before him like a carefully set table. He wasn’t supposed to care about James Potter or why he looked at him.

 

✧

 

December 9, 1972

The library was nearly empty, as it usually was after dinner. Most students preferred to cram during lunch breaks or late-night group study sessions, but Regulus liked this time — when the lamps were low, the air was hushed, and the dust floated gently through golden beams of light.

He sat at a corner table, textbooks spread out before him, quill tapping rhythmically against the edge of the parchment. His Ancient Runes exam was tomorrow, and the symbols were beginning to blur together.

Across from him, Barty lounged with a book in his lap — Magical Law and Its Implications, which he wasn’t actually reading. His gaze was fixed on the vaulted ceiling, fingers absently twirling his wand. Regulus didn’t even know why he was here. Barty never studied.

“You’re not even pretending anymore,” Regulus said dryly, not looking up.

“I came to be supportive,” Barty replied, stretching out like a cat. “Isn’t that enough?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Supportive would be letting me focus.”

“I am. My presence is inspiring.”

“You’re a distraction.”

Barty smirked, but said nothing. He turned a page dramatically, then dropped his wand and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Regulus glanced at him, trying not to smile. “You know, you’re infuriating.”

“And yet,” Barty said with a theatrical sigh, “you keep inviting me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t not.”

Regulus huffed and went back to his notes, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

 

It wasn’t that Barty was lazy — not exactly. He was brilliant, in that way that made professors both nervous and frustrated. He never paid attention in class, rarely took notes, and handed in assignments that were scrawled in the margins of old newspaper clippings. But he remembered everything. He processed information like some kind of strange, magical computer.

 

Regulus envied it, a little. The ease with which Barty seemed to understand the world, even if he never cared enough to show it.

Sometimes, egulus wondered what it would be like to have that kind of mind — sharp, restless, always spinning.

Barty sat in silence for a few minutes, then murmured, “You’re going to ace that exam, by the way.”

Regulus looked up. “How would you know?”

“Because you’re you,” Barty said simply. “And you never do anything halfway.”

Regulus blinked. It wasn’t a compliment, not exactly — Barty didn’t do compliments — but it was something. And it made something warm settle low in his stomach.

He turned back to his notes, heart beating a little faster than before.

 

✧

December 13, 1972

 

December 13th arrived wrapped in frost. The windows of the Great Hall were fogged with condensation, and the enchanted ceiling mirrored the pale grey sky outside. Snow was falling again, slower than the days before, like it couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to stick.

 

Regulus sat quietly at the Slytherin table, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea. Across from him, Barty was stuffing toast into his mouth while Evan lazily poked at a pile of eggs, clearly half-asleep. Pandora was flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly, the tip of her wand tapping rhythmically against the table as she skimmed the pages.

 

 

“I’m telling you,” Evan said suddenly, brushing crumbs from his lap, “Professor Slughorn definitely fancies Sprout.”

 

Pandora made a gagging noise without even looking up. “That’s the most cursed thing you’ve ever said. Please take it back.”

 

“I won’t,” Evan said smugly. “He gave her one of those crystallized pineapples last week. That’s romance, that is.”

 

Barty scoffed. “Maybe he’s just bribing her for better mandrakes.”

 

“Right,” Pandora muttered, flipping a page. “Because nothing says academic partnership like tropical fruit and intense eye contact.”

 

Regulus smiled faintly behind his mug. He didn’t say anything, just let the conversation settle around him like a blanket. Safe. Familiar. Warm.

It had become something of a routine: the four of them drifting into breakfast early, claiming their corner of the table before the rest of the school poured in. And Regulus… Regulus liked it. The quiet before the noise. The comfort of familiar voices. The gentle rhythm of friendship that didn’t demand too much from him.

 

He hadn’t expected it—that he’d ever feel at home like this. That he’d sit at breakfast and not wish he were somewhere else.

 

Sometimes he still caught himself waiting for it to fall apart.

 

But it hadn’t.

 

Not yet.

 

He turned slightly to glance toward the front of the Hall—and there he was.

 

James Potter, already halfway through a conversation with Sirius, hands moving animatedly, his laugh carrying faintly across the distance.

 

Regulus hadn’t meant to look.

 

And he definitely hadn’t meant to feel anything at the sight of him.

 

But there it was.

 

That ridiculous, open grin. That mop of unbrushed hair. The way he seemed to exist like he wasn’t aware the world could be cruel.

 

Regulus looked away before their eyes could meet. He wasn’t doing this. Not today.

 

But his stomach was tight, and his pulse had picked up like it always did when James was near—even when he wasn’t trying to be.

 

 

Pandora shifted beside him, stretching her arms over her head. “If Barty doesn’t stop wearing that awful green jumper, I will set it on fire.”

 

“It’s festive,” Barty said defensively, cheeks full of toast.

 

“It’s horrifying,” she shot back.

 

Evan snorted. “Looks like an elf threw up on it.”

 

Regulus laughed under his breath, grateful for the distraction.

 

He reached for another slice of toast, ignoring the flicker of something inside him that still hadn’t settled.

 

The quiet thrill of almost being seen.

 

He shoved the thought aside and leaned a little closer into the warmth of his friends’ voices.

 

✧

Chapter 8: ☼ A Lesson in Frogonomics

December 13,1972

James had been thinking about that look again.

That look Regulus Black gave him sometimes, like James was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve but couldn’t help staring at anyway. It wasn’t disdain—He would’ve recognized that. It wasn’t jealousy either; Regulus didn’t seem the type to envy someone like James. No, it was something quieter, sharper. Like he was watching James from behind a wall of glass, analyzing every move, every joke, every flick of his wand during class, like he was trying to catch him slipping up. Or maybe like he was waiting for something.

James didn’t mind being looked at, obviously. He was James Potter—he liked attention, basked in it most days. But Regulus’ gaze made him feel oddly exposed. Like he was being read. It was unnerving in a way nothing else was. Even more so when their eyes met across the Great Hall and Regulus didn’t look away right away, didn’t flinch or blush or sneer. He just... stared. Calmly. Curiously. And sometimes—maybe James was imagining it—like he almost wanted to smile.

And then he wouldn’t smile. He’d just look down again, and James would be left blinking at his toast, weirdly unsettled for the rest of breakfast.

He didn’t tell Sirius, obviously. Sirius would spiral into a whole rant about his brother being a manipulative, brainwashed miniature Death Eater, and James didn’t want that. Besides, it wasn’t like he was interested. He was just... curious. That was all. Just wondering what went on in Regulus Black’s head, when he sat all perfect and proper at the Slytherin table, back straight, hands folded, talking quietly to his friends.

Just wondering.

He shook the thought off now, leaning back in the common room couch and twirling his wand between his fingers as the others argued about prank logistics.

It was late at night, and despite it being so close to the Christmas holidays, the Marauders were still wide awake, huddled together in their room, planning a prank on the Slytherins. The moonlight that entered the window reflected on their faces, and the mess of parchment, half-eaten sweets, and chocolate frogs spread across the floor like the aftermath of a very small, very chaotic war.

Peter had suggested doing the prank after the break—something about “starting fresh” and “not risking a last-minute detention”—but the others had quickly shot that down.

“No way,” James had said, shaking his head. “We’ve got to end the term with a bang. A proper Marauder finale.”

 

Sirius had nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. We can’t just... fade out quietly. That’s not our brand.”

 

One would expect Remus to be the voice of reason in all of this, the one to talk them down and insist they focus on studying for exams or, at the very least, not commit magical crimes. But in truth, he was often the brain behind their most elaborate schemes. He had a mind for details, strategy, and subtlety that the others... lacked. Spectacularly.

James liked to joke that Remus had two sides: the calm, quiet prefect who reminded them to finish their essays, and the chaotic genius who once hexed every Slytherin quill in the Great Hall to scream whenever they wrote anything nasty.

 

“He’s the real menace,” James said now, leaning back against the couch with a grin. “Looks all innocent with his sweaters and prefect badge, but he’s worse than all of us combined.”

 

Sirius snorted. “He just hides it better.”

 

Remus, sitting cross-legged on the rug, gave them both a withering look. “I can still hear you, you know.”

 

“See?” James said, smirking. “Dangerous and defensive. Lethal combo.” 

 

Remus rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

 

The prank they were currently working on was deceptively simple in concept: enchant chocolate frogs so they would follow Slytherin students around the castle, jumping at their heels and hurling ridiculous, childish insults at them in high-pitched voices. Not so offensive that they'd get into serious trouble—but annoying enough to be unforgettable.

Remus had spent the better part of the week inventing a charm that would animate the frogs and give them just enough intelligence to be irritating. Now, he was trying to teach it to the others.

It wasn’t meant to be a difficult spell. In theory. But theory rarely applied cleanly when James and Sirius were involved.

Remus had already mastered it, of course. Peter, surprisingly, had caught on rather quickly, managing to make one frog call Sirius a “fluffy-haired dolt” before it melted back into chocolate. James and Sirius, however, were struggling.

 

“Bachitraridus!” Sirius yelled, waving his wand with unnecessary flourish like he was conducting a very dramatic orchestra.

 

Remus winced. “It’s Batrachirridus, not Bachitraridus. That’s not even close.”

 

He pointed to the frog Sirius had just enchanted. It had come to life, sure—but it turned immediately on Peter.

 

“Oi!” the frog screeched. “You look like you failed Transfiguration in the womb!”

 

Peter let out a startled squeak. “Hey! The frog is insulting me!”

 

“Finite incantatem!” Peter muttered quickly, and the frog flopped back into its chocolate form, mid-rant.

 

Remus chuckled. “That won’t happen when the prank’s ready, don’t worry, Wormy. I’ve already worked out the targeting charm.”

 

Peter looked skeptical, eyeing the chocolate frog like it might leap at him again.

 

“Alright, listen up,” Remus said, turning his attention back to the others. “You’ve got to get the pronunciation right. Say it with me—Batrachirridus.” He demonstrated, his wand moving in a smooth, circular flick.

 

“Batrachirridus!” James echoed confidently, mimicking Remus’ tone and wand movement.

 

The frog on the floor began to twitch, then sprang up, hopping around them and shouting, “You smell like flobberworm dung!” and “Your face could curdle potions!”

 

James doubled over laughing. “It works! That’s bloody brilliant, Moony!”

 

Remus cancelled the spell with a wave. “See? Easy.”

“Pads, your turn,” he said, nodding to Sirius.

 

Sirius rolled his shoulders dramatically. “Alright. Stand back and behold the magic.”

 

“Bachatrirridus!” he bellowed.

 

The frog jerked upright, blinked twice, and launched itself straight at Sirius’ chest. Then, in a high-pitched, irritating voice, it began a relentless tirade.

 

“Great hair, terrible magic. Classic Black!”

 

“Ohhh, look at me, I’m Sirius Black, heir of trauma and bad decisions!”

 

“I’ve seen better wandwork from a flobberworm in a tutu!”

 

Sirius froze for a second, eyes wide. “What the—”

Remus burst out laughing first, followed closely by Peter, who nearly choked on a Bertie Bott’s bean.

 

James actually fell off the couch, wheezing. “It’s roasting you, Pads!”

 

“Get this thing off me!” Sirius shouted, trying to pry the frog off as it bounced up to his shoulder and shouted, “I’m Sirius Black and I think yelling spells makes them stronger!”

 

Remus was laughing so hard he had to clutch his stomach. Peter was wiping tears from his eyes, and James, sprawled on the floor, was kicking his legs helplessly.

They were cracking up. Completely losing it.

 

“Alright, alright!” Remus finally managed between gasps of laughter. He waved his wand and cancelled the spell.

The frog instantly froze and fell off Sirius’ shoulder with a soft plop.

 

Sirius scowled, red in the face but grinning. He grabbed the frog and chucked it onto the couch like it had personally betrayed him.

 

“That frog has issues,” he muttered, brushing himself off.

 

Remus smirked. “No, you just suck at Latin.”

 

James, still wheezing, managed to sit up. “We have to keep that version for the prototype.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Sirius said, though he was already laughing again. “If any of those frogs say ‘heir of trauma and bad decisions’ in public, I’m hexing all of you.”

 

“No promises,” Remus said, eyes twinkling.

And just like that, they went back to practicing—four boys, a handful of cursed frogs, and a prank waiting to happen.

 

☼

 

December 15,1972

 

The Hogwarts Express was set to depart just before lunch, and the castle was buzzing with end-of-term energy. It was still early, and most students were enjoying breakfast in the Great Hall, chatting loudly and shovelling toast into their mouths before the long journey home.

 

Well—most students.

 

The Marauders were nowhere near the Great Hall’s tables. Instead, they were stationed just outside the doors, lurking in the corridor with a massive box stuffed with chocolate frogs—one hundred, to be exact. The box gave a suspicious little twitch every now and then, and Peter had to sit on the lid to keep it from rattling open too soon.

 

“Alright, Moony, it’s time,” James whispered, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. “I’ll open the box on three. You cast the charm. Pads, Wormtail—ready at the doors?”

 

Sirius gave a thumbs up. Peter nodded nervously.

 

James grinned, mischief practically radiating from his face. “Okay—one... two…” He paused dramatically, checking that everyone was in position. Then—

 

“Three!”

 

He flung open the lid, and right on cue, Remus flicked his wand and muttered, "Batrachirridus." A soft pulse of magic shot through the air, and all at once, the frogs sprang to life.

 

Pandemonium erupted as a hundred enchanted chocolate frogs leapt into the Great Hall, making a beeline for the Slytherin table. Screams and yelps echoed through the vast room as the frogs launched themselves at startled students, croaking out insult after insult in squeaky, mocking voices.

 

The Marauders leaned around the doorway, practically doubled over with laughter as the chaos unfolded.

 

Slytherins scrambled in all directions, trying to bat the frogs away, but the enchanted sweets were relentless. Some jumped into bowls of porridge, others bounced off students’ heads, and a few clung to cloaks like very loud, very rude barnacles.

 

The true icing of the cake, however, came when Snape and Mulciber bolted from the table, sprinting down the length of the hall with a cluster of frogs in hot pursuit, shouting things like:

 

“Run, greasy, run!”

 

“Mulciber smells like troll feet!”

 

“Oi, nice nose, Snivellus!”

 

James was practically wheezing. “I definitely didn’t add an extra enchantment to make them chase those two in particular,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “That would be entirely too petty.”

 

Sirius was leaning against the wall, breathless with laughter. “Absolutely not. Completely unprovoked. Total coincidence.”

 

“Look at them go!” Peter cackled, pointing as Snape tripped over his own robes and nearly face-planted into the floor, the frogs gleefully croaking insults around him.

“Best send-off ever,” Sirius muttered, wiping a tear from his eye. “I swear, this is going down in Marauder history.”

And as the Great Hall descended into chaos and croaking, the four boys slipped away quietly, their laughter echoing through the corridor like the final note of a symphony.

Chapter 9: ✧First year: Frogageddon

Summary:

End of first term! That means next chapter is Christmas at Grimmaud Place...
Hope you love it, anddd if you do, please send kudos <3

December 16, 1972

It was early in the morning, and the train was leaving that day just before lunch. The Great Hall was filled with the comforting hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery on plates. Outside, a pale winter light spilled through the enchanted ceiling, casting a silver glow over everything. They were all gathered for breakfast—one last meal before the break.

Regulus was seated beside Pandora, and across from them sat Barty and Evan, both of whom looked as though they hadn’t properly slept in days. He had grown quite close to Panda—surprisingly so. They spoke often now, about everything and nothing. She was easy to talk to, always knowing when to press and when to stay quiet. He didn’t remember the moment they’d become so close friends—it had just happened, naturally, like if it was meant to be like that.

He was savouring these final moments of calm. In just a few hours, he’d be back at Grimmauld Place, and the very thought of it made his stomach twist. He’d found out recently that some students were allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays. He had wanted to—desperately—but his parents had sent for him. That was that. There was never really a choice, was there?

Barty, Panda and Evan were also returning home.

 

“I’d rather stay,” Barty said, stabbing at a sausage with unnecessary violence. “Sharing a house with my father is hardly a delight,” he added, rolling his eyes with theatrical disdain.

 

“Yeah, same here,” Evan muttered. He didn’t elaborate—he never did—but Regulus knew better than to ask. Everyone had their secrets, and he knew, from his family, that the Rosiers were also involved in...well, 'dark magic'.

 

Regulus understood them perfectly. Truly, he did. Going home meant becoming a version of himself he was starting to resent—a polished, perfect Black, obedient and cold. He hated it. He hated the way the house swallowed him whole, the way the air felt heavier there, like it was pressing down on his chest.

He hated having to be Cassiopeia.

At least Sirius would be there.

That thought had crept in uninvited, and he tried to push it away. It shouldn’t matter anymore.

Sirius wouldn’t speak to him. He hadn’t in months. Regulus had tried, at first. He’d looked for him in the corridors, lingered near the Gryffindor table at meals, even waited by the Tower once like an idiot. But Sirius had made it painfully clear—he was done. Regulus didn’t exist anymore.

Still, he’d be there. Somewhere in that cursed house. That had to count for something… right?

No. He shook the thought from his head. Sirius hated him now. He’d be entirely alone, just another shadow in that dreadful place.

At the very least, he wouldn’t be the one bearing the full brunt of their parents’ wrath—not this time. Even if the thought made him feel selfish, bitter, wrong…well, screw Sirius. He had it coming. He left. He abandoned him.

Let him burn too.

Regulus was still lost in that thought when a sudden, high-pitched scream echoed through the Great Hall. He blinked and turned his head just in time to see a blur of green leap across the Slytherin table.

Then another.

And another.

And then, chaos.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of frogs were suddenly hopping across the floor, leaping onto plates, into mugs, onto shoulders. They were everywhere, croaking loudly and wildly. One launched itself straight into Evan’s lap, causing him to yelp and nearly tip over his pumpkin juice. Another landed squarely in Barty’s hair, and Regulus let out a bark of laughter before he could stop himself.

 

“What the bloody—?” Barty swatted at the frog, eyes wide in horror. “Why is it slimy?!”

 

Pandora squealed as one leapt onto the table and knocked over the jam jar. “Oh my Godric—Reg, it's on your toast!”

 

Regulus stared, expression flat. “Charming.” He said, and just when the frog was about to insult him, he shut it down.

 

The Gryffindor table was roaring with laughter. He didn’t need to look to know who was behind it. It was obvious. He could practically hear James Potter’s triumphant cackling and see Peter Pettigrew doubled over, slapping the table. Remus Lupin was probably shaking his head, pretending to disapprove while secretly enjoying every second of it.

And Sirius.

He glanced towards the Gryffindor table, against his better judgment. Sirius was indeed there, slouched beside Potter, laughing in that unrestrained way Regulus hadn’t heard in ages. His head was thrown back, curls bouncing, eyes lit up with mischief. He looked alive. He looked free.

The sight twisted something sharp and awful in Regulus’s chest.

 

“Brilliant,” Barty muttered, holding up his robes like a shield as a frog launched itself from the floor. “Absolutely brilliant. Who lets in a bloody plague of frogs?”

 

“You know exactly who,” Pandora said, trying to coax one off her lap without touching it.

 

“Of course,” Evan grumbled. “The Marauders.”

 

Regulus said nothing. But while the others ducked and swatted, he simply reached for his wand and muttered under his breath, “Finite incantatem"

With a flick and a twist of his wrist, a faint pulse of pale light shimmered around him and his friends. The frogs that had been actively leaping at them froze mid-hop, blinked dumbly, then began hopping away in random directions—harmless now, no longer bewitched to target Slytherins specifically.

The enchantment had been clever enough—Obviously marauders work—but not too complicated to unravel. 

He lowered his wand calmly and took a sip of tea.

 

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly, as Barty brushed frog slime off his shoulder.

 

“You’re terrifying,” Barty muttered.

 

“Brilliant, but terrifying,” Pandora added, looking mildly impressed.

 

Evan grunted. “Can you teach me that?”

 

Regulus didn’t answer, but smiled a bit. He just kept staring across the hall, watching the Marauders howl with laughter, as frogs continued to rain down havoc.

Even as his shoes still squelched slightly under the table, and a professor finally shouted for order, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Sirius had laughed.

 

✧

 

The train felt colder than it had the last time they’d taken it. And not just because it was winter.

Regulus sat by the window, watching frost creep along the glass in delicate veins. The sky was a pale, dull grey, and Hogwarts had already disappeared behind a haze of snow and smoke. There was no more golden warmth in the air, no illusion of safety. Only the rattling of the wheels and the knowledge that he was going home.

Home.

He pressed his forehead lightly to the glass.

Across from him, Barty was going on about a rumour he’d heard from a third-year—that a troll had been spotted in the Forbidden Forest. Evan looked unimpressed, and Pandora kept making disbelieving faces, but Barty was fully committed to the drama.

 

“I’m telling you, it’s real,” Barty insisted. “Slughorn cancelled his walk to the greenhouses, and McGonagall looked shaken yesterday at dinner.”

 

“She always looks shaken when she’s near you,” Evan muttered.

 

“I’m charming,” Barty declared. “It’s unsettling for older people.”

 

Pandora rolled her eyes. “It’s unsettling for everyone, darling.”

 

Regulus didn’t say much. He let their voices surround him, a soft buffer against the creeping dread that pressed tighter with every mile the train covered. But it was only delaying the inevitable.

The moment he stepped off this train, the mask would have to come back on.

“You know,” Barty said, stretching dramatically, “I’m craving something unhealthy. I vote we go find the trolley. Maybe the Hufflepufs haven’t bought all the chocolate frogs yet.”

 

Evan stood with him. “Save me from his spending spree,” he told Pandora.

 

She gave him a mock salute.

The two boys disappeared into the corridor, their laughter fading quickly. The silence that followed was comfortable, at first. Then the cold started to creep in again.

 

Pandora turned slightly toward Regulus, tucking her legs beneath her. “You’ve been quiet.”

He didn’t answer right away. He was still staring out the window, but she knew he wasn’t really seeing the snow.

 

“I don’t want to go back,” he said softly.

Pandora nodded. “Yeah… me neither.”

 

“I wish I could stay. At Hogwarts. Or at least...” His voice trailed off.

 

She waited, watching him. He turned toward her, met her gaze for a breath, then looked down at his hands.

 

“I wish I could just be myself,” he murmured.

Pandora went still.

There was a pause—a moment where the air between them shifted, tightened slightly. She didn’t speak. Regulus felt it. That flicker of confusion behind her eyes. The question she didn’t ask.

But she didn’t press him. She just let the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer, then exhaled.

 

“I think… a lot of people feel that way,” she said quietly.

Regulus gave a small nod. He didn’t look up.

 

“But it’s worse when you have to pretend, isn’t it?” she added.

That made him lift his head.

She was smiling at him gently now, without pity. Just understanding. Or trying to offer it.

 

“You pretend too?” he asked.

 

“Of course,” she said. “Everyone does. I pretend I’m not scared of things. I pretend I’ve got everything under control. I pretend that it’s okay when people don’t listen to me.”

 

He tilted his head. “But you always seem... sure of yourself.”

 

Pandora chuckled. “That’s the best kind of pretending.”

He almost smiled.

 

She reached forward and nudged his knee with her foot. “You’re allowed to hate going home. Doesn’t make you ungrateful or spoiled or whatever nonsense people say.”

 

Regulus looked back out the window.

 

“I just wish it didn’t feel like becoming someone else,” he said, almost to himself.

 

Pandora didn’t reply right away, but she didn’t shift away from him either. She leaned her head against the side of the seat, facing him, legs still tucked beneath her like she was nesting in the quiet.

 

“You’ll survive it,” she said finally. “Because you’re brilliant. And you have us.”

 

He let her words settle into the space between them. He didn’t say thank you, but she didn’t expect him to.

Her hand drifted to rest beside his on the seat. Not quite touching, but close enough that their pinkies brushed whenever the train jolted.

And maybe she didn’t know everything. Maybe she didn’t understand what he meant entirely.

But she was still here.

And right now, that mattered more than anything.

As the train rumbled on, carrying them closer to everything Regulus didn’t want to face, he let his eyes fall shut for a moment. The cold still pressed against the windowpane. The air still smelled faintly of metal, smoke and old sweets. And his chest still ached with the weight of returning home.

But Pandora’s presence was a warmth that lingered, steady and quiet.

She didn’t ask too many questions. She didn’t push. She never demanded answers he wasn’t ready to give.

And yet, somehow, she understood more than anyone.

He didn’t know if it was because they’d both learned to survive by keeping parts of themselves tucked away—or if it was just who she was. But there was a calm in her company, a quiet kind of knowing that made him feel a little less like a stranger in his own skin.

She was, in many ways, the person he trusted most. The person who didn’t need to know everything to care deeply. The person who had, again and again, sat beside him in silence and still made him feel seen.

Pandora understood the version of him that no one else even tried to see.

And as the train thundered south and the sky grew darker by degrees, Regulus realised something.

He didn’t feel quite so alone anymore.

Not really.

The compartment door slid open with a loud clatter, and Barty all but stumbled inside, arms overloaded with sweets.

 

 “We’re back!” he announced triumphantly, nearly dropping a pile of Chocolate Frogs onto the floor. “I got enough sugar to kill a hippogriff.”

 

Evan followed with a calmer pace, holding a paper bag full of Every Flavour Beans and what looked like three pumpkin pasties.

 

“You’ve both lost your minds,” Pandora said, amused, taking a frog from the pile and examining it like it might bite her.

 

“Correction,” Evan said dryly. “He lost his mind. I was just the escort.”

 

Barty flopped down dramatically next to Pandora and dumped half the sweets between them. “You’re welcome, peasants.”

 

Regulus let out a quiet snort. He reached for a liquorice wand, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly despite himself.

Maybe the cold hadn’t left. Maybe the thought of Grimmauld Place still turned his stomach.

But for now, here, in this warm little bubble of noise and laughter and friends— for now, he could breathe, and that was enough.

 

Chapter 10: ✧ First year: A Black Christmas

The days leading up to Christmas were as cold and distant as always in the Black household. Regulus felt like a ghost in his own home—just another shadow against the walls, ignored by his parents, barely acknowledged by Sirius. It was as if they were all trapped in a cold, miserable dance, and Regulus was a participant who no one cared to notice.

Sirius hadn’t spoken to him once. No words, no greetings, just the occasional glance, and even then, Sirius quickly looked away. Regulus knew better than to try to speak to him. There was nothing to say anymore. It was always the same—the gap between them widening with every passing day. He had learned to accept it. It was safer to stay silent, to endure the distance, than to risk whatever fragile connection they had left.

But when their eyes met, for just a brief second, Regulus felt something stir in his chest—a flicker of the brother he once knew, the one who had cared for him, the one who had called him "Archie" before all of this, before the walls and the anger and the betrayal. It hurt, but Regulus could never let on. Not to anyone, and certainly not to Sirius.

 

✧

 

December 24, 1972

 

When Christmas Eve arrived, the Black family gathered for dinner, the house heavy with the tension that always seemed to hang in the air. The room was painfully quiet, as it always was when the Blacks gathered for a meal. Walburga and Orion sat at the head of the table, their faces stern, their eyes sharp, their voices clipped. Sirius was silent as well, barely touching his food, just staring at his plate as if hoping the meal would disappear.

Regulus sat opposite him, eyes fixed on the cold plate before him. He had barely touched his food. There was no point. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt hungry—at least not in any way that mattered. Every bite felt like ash in his mouth.

The room was suffocating, filled with the occasional clink of silverware, but no conversation to break the silence. Walburga occasionally made harsh comments about the state of the house or the lack of progress in their "family business." Orion asked questions that Regulus didn’t answer, and when he did speak, his voice was flat, distant.

The air seemed to thicken when Sirius broke the silence.

 

“Archie, pass me the salt,” he said, his voice barely audible, but enough to break the monotony.

 

Regulus turned to look at him, heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, their eyes locked, and Regulus felt a surge of longing, of desperation to bridge the gap between them. He moved his hand toward the salt shaker, with almost happines at his brother speaking to him.

The name stung, more than it should have. "Archie" was an old nickname, one that Sirius had started to use. It came from his name, Regulus, ans Sirius was now using because he could not call him Regulus in front of their parents, but he didnt want to call him Cassiopeia. And that simple gesture was so dear to him.

Walburga’s sharp voice cut through the moment.

 

 “Archie? Where did you get that name, Sirius?” Her gaze flickered over to Regulus, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

 

Sirius paused for a moment, as if considering whether or not to lie. Then, without missing a beat, he spoke. “It’s from Cassiopeia’s second name. Adhara,” he said, his voice calm, though there was a slight edge to it. Of course it was a lie, but he hid it so well.

 

The tension in the room grew heavier. Walburga’s lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything further. Regulus could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to see the judgment in her eyes, the way she regarded him as something broken, something unworthy of their name.

 

The silence that followed was oppressive. Orion cleared his throat, breaking the stillness. "How are your grades?" he asked, his voice low, commanding. "You should be doing better. If you want to be worthy of the Black name, you need to excel in every way."

Regulus stiffened but didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His grades were always acceptable, but that was never enough for his father. Nothing ever was.

 

Sirius didn’t answer right away either. He was still staring down at his plate, his hand gripping his fork a little too tightly. But then, his voice came again, quiet and flat. "My grades are fine," he said, his words laced with something like indifference.

 

“And you, Cassiopeia?” Walburga's voice broke through the silence again, sharp and biting. 

 

"They are good" He said. Orion nodded.

 

"Why do you wear your hair so short Cassiopeia?" Walburga's words were laced with disdain, and the way she said "Cassiopeia" sent a cold shiver down Regulus’s spine. It wasn’t a name. It was a weapon.

 

Regulus didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He had learned long ago that any attempt to explain himself to his mother was futile. She would never understand. She would never see him as he was. She would never accept him. He didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to fight.

Sirius, surprisingly, spoke up again. "What’s it to you, mother?" His voice was soft, but there was an undeniable bite to it. "Hi- Her hair, her choices—they don’t concern you."

Walburga’s eyes flared in outrage, but she held her tongue. She didn’t respond, but her fury was palpable. She looked between Regulus and Sirius, her gaze like a blade, and Regulus could feel the weight of her eyes on him. He wanted to shrink away, to disappear into the shadows of the room. But he couldn’t. He was stuck here, trapped in this house with these people who would never understand him.

The rest of the dinner passed in an agonizing silence. The small talk between his parents was bitter, filled with the usual venom and accusations. Regulus couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him with kindness. He felt invisible, suffocated by the weight of their expectations, by the constant reminder that he was never enough for them.

When the meal finally ended, and the family dispersed to their respective corners of the house, Regulus remained at the table for a long time, staring down at his untouched plate. The emptiness in his chest felt deeper than ever. He couldn’t escape the feeling that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he changed, nothing would ever be enough.

And as Sirius’s footsteps faded into the distance, Regulus was left alone, surrounded by the deafening silence of the house and the unbearable weight of everything left unsaid.

 

✧

 

That night, Regulus lay awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts that refused to quiet. He had spent the entire evening lost in the numbness of their family’s cold indifference, but now, alone in his room, the silence was unbearable. His body was exhausted, drained from the weight of the day, yet his mind wouldn’t stop, constantly turning over everything that had happened during dinner.

Sirius’s words echoed in his mind. "What’s it to you, mother?" It had been a subtle defiance, an unexpected defense. Regulus wasn’t used to that, not from Sirius, not anymore. He was not the type to protect him—not after everything. But in that brief moment, in the midst of their mother’s cruel words, Sirius had stood up for him, if only for a second. Even how he had been about to say his and had to change that for hers. At least, Sirius did see him as a boy, even though he hated him.

It made no sense. Why would Sirius, who had turned his back on Regulus, suddenly defend him? Why had he even called him "Archie" in the first place? It wasn’t a name used lightly. It wasn’t a name that carried with it the weight of their parents' expectations or their harsh love. It was something personal, something Sirius had used when they were still close, when they had still been brothers in the truest sense of the word.

The room was too cold, too lonely, the darkness too thick. Regulus’s mind kept spiraling back to those moments, those flashes of something that felt too painful to acknowledge—too painful to hold on to. He could still hear the way Sirius’s voice had softened when he said it, the way he had called him "Archie" without hesitation, without the usual disdain or anger that usually laced his words. It made Regulus’s heart ache in ways he didn’t know how to explain.

Regulus closed his eyes, but the tears that threatened to fall stayed hidden, buried deep inside. He didn’t deserve to cry. He had to keep going. He had to endure it all, the cold, the distance, the endless expectation to be something he wasn’t.

His chest ached, and the emptiness of the room felt suffocating. He turned over onto his side, trying to find some comfort in the unfamiliar sheets, but sleep wouldn’t come. It never did when his mind was racing with too many thoughts, too many contradictions.

He thought about the way Walburga had questioned his short hair, how she had looked at him with disdain, as if every choice he made was an affront to her.

He wished that, despite everything, there was still some small piece of his brother left in Sirius. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was a dream that would never come true. But that didn’t stop Regulus from hoping, even if he knew deep down that hoping for it would only hurt more in the end.

The minutes stretched on like hours, and the pain of his thoughts became unbearable. Regulus shifted again, pulling the covers tighter around him, as if trying to ward off the cold of the night, the cold of his heart. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him, but it never came.

 

✧

 

That morning, the only gift Regulus received from his parents was an elegant dress, carefully wrapped in rich velvet. He stared at it for a moment, the weight of its absurdity settling heavily in his chest. He’d never wear it. It was just another reminder of the life they expected him to lead, the person they wanted him to be—someone he was not.

When he returned to his room later that day, still wrapped in the cold silence of his house, he found a small, square box on his bed. It was simple, with no extravagant ribbons or ornaments, just a plain cardboard exterior. There was a small note tucked under the lid.

 

Open at Hogwarts,

Barty.

 

✧

Notes:

Honestly, i loved this chapter, full of Black brothers angst!.
And, this doesn't have to do anything with the chapter, but I've just finished writing second year (ofc, this is still first year, but well im writing fast HAHAHAHAH) and omg last chapters of it got me giggling and kicking my feet as if I weren't the one writing it.
Spoiler: Rosekiller!!! (I just love them sm)

Chapter 11: ✧First year: Heavy as Lead

January 8, 1973

The train ride back to Hogwarts had felt longer than usual, though maybe that was just because none of them were in the mood for conversation. They had found their compartment quickly—Barty had practically thrown himself onto the seat, legs up, arms behind his head—and for a while, no one said much. The air was thick with that strange, post-holiday quiet. Not heavy, exactly, but… tense. Like everyone was carrying something they weren’t ready to set down yet.

Pandora talked a little about the snow in the garden, how it had piled so high she could barely open her window. She said it like it was funny, but her voice was too light, like she was trying to distract herself. Evan scoffed and muttered something about pureblood pretensions and their father's obsession with family image. They all nodded, gave half-smiles. It was enough.

But no one talked too deeply. No one asked the kinds of questions that needed real answers. It was like they had silently agreed to leave the worst parts behind, at least for the ride.

Regulus said even less. He didn’t want to talk about Grimmauld Place. About the way the house felt heavier in December, the shadows colder. About how his mother still called him by a name that no longer fit, and how Sirius’s absence echoed louder with every passing day.

So instead, they let the topic die. No one had really enjoyed the break. That was enough. That was understood.

Regulus leaned his head against the cool glass of the window and watched the fields blur by. The closer they got to Hogwarts, the easier it became to breathe again.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew they all felt it: they were finally going home.

Not home home. But close enough.

✧

It really felt so good being back at Hogwarts, his room, his bed, his friends...just being him, being Regulus.

There was something about the castle that made him feel like he belonged, even when he wasn't sure of who he truly was. The grand hallways, the cold stone, the soft glow of the candles in the Great Hall—it all felt familiar. Even the chilly air outside, as it kissed his skin when he walked from the train, was somehow comforting. Hogwarts was his home, in a way that Grimmauld place would never be. The idea of being somewhere that wasn’t his room in his family's mansion felt like a relief, even if it was only temporary.

And now, with everyone back in the same place, things felt like they could finally settle again. His friends, all moving through their days together again. There were no secrets here, nothing to hide—not that anyone really knew anything that mattered, anyway. For a moment, it was as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. Just Hogwarts, and the quiet hum of students reuniting.

Barty, though, was practically bouncing with excitement, showing off his latest obsession. His eyes were wide as he held up a vinyl with both hands like it was something sacred. The break hadn't been really pleasing to him either, but he had convinced his mother to buy his vinyls, and he was practicaly in love with them. Regulus watched him for a moment, eyebrow raised, unsure of the intensity of Barty's enthusiasm.

"I fucking love this band," Barty said, grinning from ear to ear as he waved the album in front of them. It was all part of Barty’s charm—how he could get so lost in something, how everything he liked was the best thing in the world. His voice was full of that contagious energy that made it impossible to ignore him.

Regulus leaned in to look at the cover, noticing how it was so simple, yet it had a strange sort of draw. It wasn’t the kind of album you'd see in every shop or hear about in passing, but that was exactly what made it feel special—like a secret only a select few knew about. There was an old man hunched over, carrying sticks across his back, his face weathered like he'd lived through years of hardship. It was strangely captivating in its simplicity, almost haunting.

 

Barty was too excited to notice Regulus’ quiet inspection. “It’s called Led Zeppelin. Robert Plant’s an icon, really.” His voice was so full of admiration that Regulus couldn’t help but listen. “Did you know,” Barty continued, his eyes lighting up with that glint of discovery, “that the name Led Zeppelin came from a joke? Keith Moon—you know, from The Who—he once said that the band would go down like a lead balloon. Total disaster. So Jimmy Page, being a bloody genius, took it, twisted it, made it legendary. Changed lead to led so people wouldn’t pronounce it wrong. Isn’t that brilliant? Turning an insult into an icon. That’s art, guys. That’s defiance.” Barty finished, practically vibrating with excitement.

Evan raised an eyebrow, lazily flipping a page of the magazine in front of him. “So basically they named themselves after a joke. Very punk of them.”

“It wasn’t a joke,” Barty snapped. “It was prophecy. They knew they were going to burn everything down and build something better from the ashes.”

Regulus, who had been quietly watching the album cover, gave a small shrug. “Sounds heavy.”

Barty grinned, leaning back like he’d just won something. “Exactly. Heavy as lead. But they flew, Regulus. That’s the point.”

Evan scoffed, but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes. “Merlin, you sound like you’re in love with them.”

“I am,” Barty said, completely unfazed. “Unironically. Every song is a spell.”

Regulus let out the smallest of huffs, the closest he ever got to a laugh. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not a musician.”

“Why?” Barty asked, too quick.

“Because you’d start a cult,” Regulus muttered, and Evan actually laughed.

There was a beat of silence. Then Barty leaned forward, suddenly serious again—but this time softer.

“Did you open your Christmas present?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly.

Regulus blinked. “The box from you? No. It said open at Hogwarts"

Evan let out a low whistle. “You’re braver than I am. I opened mine the second the owl landed anyways"

Barty ignored him. “Open it. Tonight.”

Regulus tilted his head, curious now. “What is it?”

Barty smiled like he was trying not to. “Just open it. But… alright, fine. I’ll ruin the surprise a little. It’s a record player.”

Regulus froze. “A Muggle one?”

Barty nodded. “Mine’s at home. Didn’t want to drag it through the train, it’s huge. But I thought—maybe—if you had one too, we could start building a little collection here. Keep a box full of our vinyls. Share them. Listen.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Something warm curled low in his chest, uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity.

“That’s…” he cleared his throat. “That’s actually very thoughtful.” 

Barty smiled.

“Go on,” Barty urged, practically bouncing. “Open it.”

Regulus shot him a sideways look before carefully peeling away the paper. Inside, nestled perfectly, was a sleek, black record player. He blinked, surprised. “You—this is—”

“Yeah, I know,” Barty interrupted, grinning. “It’s Muggle, but it’s brilliant."

Barty grabbed Led Zeppelin IV from the floor, just beside him. He wasn’t sure if it was the gift itself or the way Barty was watching him, but the gesture felt more personal than it should’ve.

“This…” Regulus trailed off, looking at Barty, who was watching him eagerly. “This is…” His voice faltered for a second. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah, well, you're a lot too,” Barty said with a wink. “Now, let’s listen. It’s better with the vinyl.”

Regulus nodded, setting up the record player. He lowered the needle gently, and the room filled with the electric hum of the first track, Black Dog. The sound was thick, aggressive. The rhythm was relentless.

Evan, who had been lounging with his feet up on the armrest of the couch, sat up a little. “Bloody hell, this is loud.”

Barty didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy watching Regulus, trying to gauge his reaction. “It’s meant to be. The whole point is that it grabs you. You like it?”

Regulus took a moment, then nodded. “It’s… intense.”

Evan smirked. “I think I’m in love with it already.”

Barty laughed, glancing over at Evan. “You’re just as obnoxious as this song, Rosier.”

The three of them settled into a comfortable silence as the album played on. Rock and Roll came next, fast and brash, and Barty’s grin widened, his fingers tapping along to the beat.

“Now, this one, I swear, it’s my anthem,” Barty said. “It’s everything—loud, reckless. Feels like freedom.”

Regulus wasn’t sure he agreed, but he could understand why Barty liked it. He could feel the energy of the song, how it invited rebellion, even if he didn’t fully embrace it.

As Stairway to Heaven began, the mood settled deeper, softer, almost reverent. Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him. It was overwhelming in a way that made his chest tighten. It felt too personal, like a secret he wasn’t meant to know.

“This one,” Regulus finally said, opening his eyes, “I like this one the most"

Barty, who had been humming along, smiled.

"Its a huge hit, a great song, i love it"

Regulus gave him a small, faint smile but didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to.

The rest of the album played out. Misty Mountain Hop was loud and rowdy, and Evan laughed, his foot tapping.

Four Sticks was raw, a bit off-kilter, and Regulus found it a little unsettling. But Going to California—soft, wistful, aching—struck a chord in him. He didn’t say anything, but there was a part of him that was drawn to the simplicity of it. The longing in it.

Finally, When the Levee Breaks came on, and the room seemed to still for a moment. The thunderous rhythm filled the space, and Regulus felt it deep in his gut. There was something almost haunting about it, something that knew what was coming.

He glanced at Barty, and their eyes met. Barty didn’t say anything, but there was something in his gaze, something that made Regulus feel like maybe, just maybe, they were both standing at the edge of something they couldn’t quite explain.

When the song ended, Barty spoke, voice quieter now. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

Regulus looked down at the record. “It’s heavy"

Barty nodded, and Evan didn’t say a word, sensing that this moment was something more than just music.

After a few beats, Barty broke the silence. “I told you,” he said with a smirk. “Vinyl’s the way to go. You get it now?”

Regulus nodded slowly. “I do.”

Chapter 12: ✧First year: The Slytherin Skittles

During the entire month of January, Led Zeppelin was the soundtrack of their dormitory. Not just the fourth album—though that one played more often than most—but all of them. Barty owned every single record, and they rotated through them so frequently that Regulus was convinced they’d grow sick of the band entirely by February.

He’d assumed it would be annoying, trying to concentrate on homework with music blaring from the gramophone. But surprisingly, it was rather comforting. There was something grounding about the combination of parchment, ink, and the band's sound. For once, his mind wasn’t drowning in a hundred tangled thoughts—it was just homework and Led Zeppelin.

There were exceptions, of course. Like when Evan and Barty started singing along—neither of them blessed with anything close to Robert Plant’s sublime voice. Evan would pretend to shred an invisible electric guitar, leaping from bed to bed with wild hair and dramatic flair. Barty, meanwhile, banged on the furniture with his wand as if he were manning an imaginary drum kit. Those moments made Regulus genuinely consider murder, though he usually restrained himself to launching a book at one of their heads. Quite generous of him, all things considered.

The winter of January 1973 was probably the coldest Regulus had ever experienced. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was because the castle’s windows were layered with thick frost or because, for the first time, he actually went outside. At home, stepping into the garden was unthinkable. But here, he ran across the snow-covered grounds, threw snowballs with Barty, Pandora, and Evan, laughed until his stomach ached.

Despite the bitter wind and numb fingers, it was the warmest winter he’d ever had. Warm from the firelight in the common room and Great Hall. Warm from the friends who, for once, genuinely cared. Warmer, certainly, than the cold, feelingless walls of Grimmauld Place.

It was hard to pinpoint when exactly, but Regulus started noticing that things were changing. He was spending more time outside, more time with them—Barty’s constant energy, Evan’s jokes, and Pandora’s absurd theories that somehow made perfect sense.

Pandora was the most baffling of them all. She had a way of making everything feel lighter. When she smiled, it wasn’t the typical forced smile people gave to get by; it was real, like she was genuinely happy to be in the moment with you. And yet, she wasn’t trying to make anyone feel that way. She just was.

She could convince anyone to do anything. She could pull people into her orbit with just a glance, a word, a laugh. And Regulus had found himself more than once at the center of it. It was strange, how easy it had become to be with her, how quickly she’d wormed her way into his life.

He hated to admit it, but he liked it. He liked the way she didn’t ask for anything in return. She just was, in a way that made him feel like he could be too. Without trying, without hiding behind walls.

It wasn’t a feeling Regulus was accustomed to, but somehow, it was one he was beginning to crave.

✧

January 30, 1973

That afternoon in the library, Regulus was hunched over a thick Arithmancy textbook, his parchment a mess of crossed-out numbers and smudged ink. He was trying very hard not to stab his quill through the page when Pandora Lovegood dropped into the seat across from him with far too much enthusiasm for a place dedicated to silence.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at him.

Regulus glanced up, suspicious. “What.”

She grinned. “You look like you’re about to duel your homework.”

He returned his gaze to the page. “I am.”

Pandora reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a Chocolate Frog, which she placed delicately on top of his notes.

“What is this?” he asked, unamused.

“A morale booster,” she replied, tone completely serious. “You’re spiraling. I could see it from across the room.”

“I am not spiraling,” he muttered, but made no move to remove the frog.

She leaned in slightly. “You mutter to yourself when you get frustrated. It’s very charming. Very ‘tortured academic.’”

“I do not—” He cut himself off with a quiet sigh and finally looked at her properly. “You’re insufferable.”

“I try my best,” Pandora said cheerfully. Then, without warning, she reached across the table and began to rearrange his quill, inkwell, and notes with dramatic flair.

“There. Now it’s slightly less tragic.”

Regulus blinked at the neat little setup she’d left behind. “That is not where I had—”

“Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Everything was aligned to the exact angle of the desk corner. Who does that?”

“I do,” he said flatly.

“Exactly.” She beamed. “You’re like a very elegant, grumpy librarian.” She giggled.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re the worst.”

Pandora shrugged and bit the head off the Chocolate Frog she’d apparently claimed for herself. “Yet here you are.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat to it. She pulled a second frog from her pocket—he had no idea how many she was hoarding—and placed it beside his parchment like it belonged there.

“Backup morale,” she said.

Regulus stared at the frog, then at her. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, with no malice behind those words, just in an affectionate way.

“And you’re still grumpy,” she replied, already standing. “But I’m working on that.”

Regulus was adding figures with the focus of an alchemist while Panda braided her long silver locks, her hair even messier than before and a smile that promised nothing good.

“Regulus,” she said seriously, “this is a matter of life and death.”

He didn’t look up. “No. I already told you I’m not helping you sneak into the Astronomy Tower again, or helping a domestic elf escape.”

“It’s not that,” she replied, placing both hands on the table like she was about to make a formal declaration. “You need vitamin D.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sunlight,” she clarified. “Fresh air. Movement. It’s genuinely concerning how many hours you’ve spent sitting here with that expression like… ‘I’d rather perish than speak to another human being.’”

Regulus turned his head slowly. “Panda. I’m studying. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Liar. I saw you frown when that first number didn’t add up. And then you talked to yourself. Don’t deny it—you said ‘how can that be’ like three times.”

“That proves nothing.” Regulus closed his eyes for a moment. “Why are you really here?”

“Because Evan and Barty are outside throwing snow at each other like five-year-olds, and I want you to come too.”

“No,” he said, turning back to his parchment. “Thank you, but no.”

Pandora plucked the quill from his hand.

“Panda.”

“Come on. Just half an hour. You don’t even have to participate. Just stand there like a judgmental old man and critique us while we make fools of ourselves.”

He stared at her, expressionless. “Why would that be fun for me?”

“Because you’ll get to watch me shove Barty face-first into a snowdrift. And Evan will probably fall over all on his own.”

There was a pause. Regulus blinked. Pandora was smiling at him with one eyebrow raised, the confident look of someone who knew she’d already won.

He sighed, pushing the books aside.

“Thirty minutes,” he muttered.

“Deal!”

And before he could change his mind, she was tugging him out of the library by the sleeve, laughing as he tried not to look like he was giving in too easily.

He didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but somehow, Pandora had become… familiar. Not in the way Barty or Evan were—a force of chaos orbiting loudly but still sweetly around him—but something quieter, warmer. She had a way of pulling people toward her without trying, without faking a smile or smoothing her edges. It wasn’t performance. It was just her. Honest, strange, and impossible to ignore. And somehow, without him noticing, she’d pulled him in too. No matter how many times he said no, she always found a way to make him say yes. And mean it.

The cold wind nipped at Regulus’s face as he stood there, slightly out of breath from the snowball fight that had taken over the grounds. He hadn’t been this carefree in years, if ever. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d just thrown himself into something without overthinking it. The snowball fight had been chaotic—Evan had slipped halfway through, Barty had tried to "dodge" by rolling into a snowdrift, and Pandora had laughed so hard she almost choked on the snow.

Now, they were all lying back in the snow, faces red from the wind and from laughing, staring up at the sky. Regulus couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace. For once, the cold didn’t seem so unbearable.

Pandora was the first to speak, her voice muffled by the snow beneath her. “This is insane. I don’t know why we’ve never done this before.”

Barty, who had been lying with his arms spread out like a starfish, looked over at her. “It’s because Regulus is such a stick in the mud.” He said it with an exaggerated tone, earning an indignant look from Regulus.

“I’m not a stick in the mud,” Regulus muttered, though he had to admit that he wouldn’t have been caught dead running around in the snow back at home.

Pandora laughed, poking him in the ribs. “You totally are. But look at you now! You’re practically glowing.”

Evan, still sitting upright, brushed snow from his coat. “It’s true, though. You’ve been hanging out with us a lot lately. What’s up with that?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know how to put it into words. The truth was, he was starting to enjoy their company, even if it was in the strangest ways. They had their quirks, their chaos—but it felt real, unpolished. For once, he wasn’t pretending to be someone he wasn’t. They didn’t ask for anything.

Barty, who had been silent for a moment, suddenly turned his head and grinned. “We need a name. We can’t keep running around being so freaking cool and not have a name.”

“A name?” Pandora raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah! Every good group has a name,” Barty said, though that was clearly not true. “We need one that shows how we’re... you know, dangerous and cool.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to be terrified or amused. “Dangerous?" He chuckled. "Let me guess. You have an idea?”

Barty sat up in the snow, his face lighting up with excitement. “Well, I have this one in mind. It matches us so well, since it’s cool like us,” Barty said. “The Slytherin Skittles!”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Regulus burst out laughing, despite himself. Pandora followed, her laughter echoing through the air, and Evan joined in, shaking his head but clearly amused.

Pandora wiped away a tear from laughing. “Okay, but why Skittles? I mean, we’re supposed to be dangerous, aren't we? Why would a sack of colorful candies be dangerous?"

Barty grinned even wider. “Exactly! We’re Slytherins, so we’re supposed to be all dark and mysterious, right? But we’re not that. We’re... we’re unpredictable! Like Skittles—sweet and colorful on the outside, but inside, you never know what you’re gonna get. It’s perfect.”

Evan chuckled. “Just that you do know what you’re gonna get, silly. The flavor depends on the color,” Evan said, and Barty rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, Rosie, you’re ruining the metaphor,” he said. “Not to mention, we’re a bit of a mixed bag, aren’t we?”

Regulus gave a small, amused snort. “So, we’re the candy of the Slytherin House?”

Pandora, still grinning, raised her arms. “I’m in. It’s ridiculous, but it works. We’re a bunch of oddballs, and I kind of love that about us.”

“The Slytherin Skittles,” Evan repeated, as if tasting the words. “Yeah, I can get behind that.”

Regulus, still chuckling, lay back in the snow. He hadn’t realized it until just then, but he didn’t feel like an outsider anymore. He wasn’t just the quiet, brooding boy from Slytherin. He was part of something. Part of this.

"The Slytherin Skittles," he murmured, the words tasting sweet on his tongue. Once again, in a long while, he didn’t feel like he needed to be anywhere else.i

✧

 

Chapter 13: ✧First year: A curse not learned at Hogwarts

Notes:

Right, so this was meant to go up tomorrow, but here we are!
!!!Spoilers? Sort of?!!!
I'm already cracking on while writting third year and, I swear, it's absolutely dreadful (in the best possible way). Utterly heart-wrenching. Like, I need to post it ASAP or I’ll explode. So if I manage to wrap it up by the end of the month, maybe more frequent updates? (Even though i already post 3 times a week)
Lemme know what you think, and chuck us a kudos, yeah? Love ya lots.

February 12, 1973

When he woke up that morning, the first thing he noticed was the damp, warm feeling between his legs. For a second, in that groggy state between dreams and waking, he thought he was bleeding—badly. His heart started racing, panic setting in like a switch flipped in his brain. He yanked the sheets back in alarm and found a dark red stain spreading across the fabric.

His breath caught in his throat. Blood. Was he dying? Had something happened?

And then—realization struck like cold water to the face. Oh. Oh. Fucking periods.

A deep, bone-deep dread settled in his chest, weighing him down like lead. He sat there, frozen for a long moment, staring at the stain. The nausea was rising fast. It felt like the universe had picked the worst possible way to remind him that his body still wasn’t really his. Still didn’t match who he was. Still betrayed him in the most intimate, humiliating ways.

His hands trembled. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He hated—loathed—the fact that this was still part of his reality. How could something so natural feel so violating?

And then he started to tear up.

He didn’t want to. Crying was useless. Weak. What was the point? But the tears welled up anyway. He felt so alone in that moment, so impossibly small and wrong and ashamed. His mother had never explained periods to him. She had always treated them like some unspoken curse. A "ladies' matter." And Regulus had grown up pretending to be one of those ladies, pretending to be the perfect daughter. So of course no one had thought to tell him anything real.

How was he supposed to know what to do now?

He glanced across the dorm room. Barty and Evan were both snoring lightly in their beds. It was early—thankfully. The sun hadn’t even risen properly yet. They wouldn’t wake for another hour or two, if he was lucky.

He scrambled to strip the sheets off his bed, balling them up and shoving them into the laundry basket at the foot of the stairs. His fingers worked quickly, with practiced shame, like if he moved fast enough, he could erase the whole thing. Then he changed into clean pants and pulled on a hoodie, not even caring if it matched.

There was only one person he could think of who might understand.

He rushed through the corridors, silent and purposeful. The girls’ staircase was enchanted to keep boys out, of course—but the magic never worked on him. That cruel irony was one of the only blessings he could count on.

When he reached Pandora’s room, he knocked softly before slipping in. She was alone, as always this early. Her roommates were already at Quidditch training—Regulus remembered her telling him that weeks ago. She was sitting on her bed, half-asleep and rubbing her eyes, when she saw him.

"Reg? Why are you here? How did the stairs—?" she asked, frowning, clearly confused.

He couldn’t hold it in anymore. The dam burst. Tears slipped down his cheeks.

"Why am I like this, Panda?" he whispered. His voice cracked. “Why?"

Pandora’s expression softened immediately. She got up and crossed the room to him, wrapping her arms around his tense frame.

"Oh, Reg… you’re absolutely perfect. What do you mean, ‘like this’?” she murmured against his shoulder.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to see her face, but not enough to lose the comfort of her arms. His throat tightened.

“There’s something I’ve never told anyone,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not Evan, not Barty… no one.”

He could feel the panic curling inside him again, hot and sharp. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he should shut up. He wasn't even sure why he came here—maybe he just wanted someone to make him feel human for a second. But now, standing in front of her, it felt terrifyingly real. His fingers clenched the hem of his hoodie.

“I… It’s not something people understand,” he continued, voice trembling. “It’s not something people… accept. Not in my family. Not in Slytherin. Probably not anywhere.”

He paused, tried to take a breath, but it caught halfway.

“They’d think I’m disgusting. Or confused. Or just looking for attention. I’m scared you’ll think that too. I’m scared you’ll stop looking at me the way you do.”

Pandora didn’t interrupt. She didn’t rush him or demand he explain faster. She just held him, nodding slowly, her hands steady on his arms.

“You don’t have to be scared,” she said softly. “You can trust me, Reg. I swear, you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, I won’t stop looking at you the way I do.”

He looked down, blinking fast, then finally—finally—forced the words out.

“I wasn’t born a boy,” he said, and his voice cracked around it. “I… everyone thinks I was. Everyone thinks I’m just this quiet, weird Slytherin kid. But I’m not who they think I am. I was born like a girl. That’s what they called me. What my parents still think I am. But I’m not. I never was"

Pandora took his hand without hesitation, squeezed it.

“Okay,” she said. “I know you, you’re Regulus. You’re a boy. And I’m so proud of you for telling me.”

Regulus stood still, breathing hard, like saying it had taken everything out of him. Pandora’s hand in his was the only thing grounding him. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She just held on, like she always did when things got dark.

But even after the words were out, the shame still burned hot behind his ribs. He lowered his gaze, voice barely above a whisper.

“And this morning… I woke up and—” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I thought I was bleeding. Like, really bleeding. I panicked. But it was just—fuck—it was just a period.”

Pandora blinked, her eyes softening even more, if that was even possible.

“Oh, Reg…”

“I didn’t know what to do,” he muttered, hating how small his voice sounded. “I just… I’ve never talked about it with anyone. My mum never explained it. It was always something ‘ladylike’ that we weren’t supposed to mention. I thought—I thought if I ignored it, it would stop happening. That maybe if I just pretended hard enough, my body would get the message. But it didn’t.”

Pandora gently guided him to sit on the edge of her bed. She sat beside him, close but not crowding him, her knee brushing his.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “First of all, I’m so, so sorry you had to deal with that alone. You should’ve never had to. And second… thank you for telling me. That takes guts, Reg.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t feel brave. Feels humiliating.”

“But it’s not,” she said quickly. “It’s human. And I know it feels like your body is betraying you, but it doesn’t define you. You’re still you. You’re still a boy. Periods don’t get to take that away from you.”

He nodded slowly, not trusting his voice.

After a second, Pandora stood up and opened her wardrobe. She pulled out a little tin box with flowers painted on the lid, rummaged through it, and grabbed a couple of pads.

“I’ve got you,” she said simply, holding them out.

Regulus stared at them like they were made of glass. “I don’t even know how to use that properly.”

She smiled, sitting back down beside him. “Then I’ll teach you. I had to learn too, remember? First time I got mine, I cried in the bathroom for an hour and thought I was dying. It’s awful. But I promise it gets easier.” She giggles.

Regulus took the pads carefully, his fingers brushing hers. “Thanks. For not making this weird.”

“It’s not weird,” she said. “It’s you. And I love you exactly as you are.”

He blinked. “You—what?”

“Platonically, idiot,” she added with a grin, bumping his shoulder lightly. “But yeah. I love you. You’re my best friend, and you’re brave, and I’ve got your back, always."

Something in his chest cracked open at that. The kind of crack that let the light in.

“…Can I stay here a while?” he asked, quietly. “Just until I feel like… myself again.”

“Of course you can,” she said, already making room on the bed. “You can stay as long as you need.”

And for the first time that morning, Regulus felt a little less like a mistake.

Pandora had piled a few pillows against the headboard, and now they were both leaning back against them, a light blanket draped over their legs. The room was quiet, soft morning light filtering in through the window. It felt like the world had hit pause just for them.

Regulus hadn’t said anything in a while. Not because he was uncomfortable—just... drained. Like all the weight he’d been carrying for so long had been released, and now he didn’t know how to carry nothing.

Pandora didn’t push him. She just stayed close, offering her quiet presence like a steady anchor.

Eventually, his voice broke the silence.

“I don’t want the others to know yet,” he said softly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Not Barty. Not Evan. I’m not ready.”

Pandora turned her head toward him, her expression gentle but steady. “You don’t have to be.”

“Barty says he doesn’t care about anything,” Regulus murmured, twisting the edge of the blanket in his hands. “But sometimes he makes comments. About bodies, or queer people. And Evan… he’s quieter, but I don’t really know what he thinks. I’m scared they’ll look at me differently. Or laugh. Or worse—feel sorry for me.”

“They won’t feel sorry for you,” Pandora said firmly, without hesitation. “And if they do, they’re idiots. And I’ll personally make sure they regret it.”

That made him smile—just a little. “Thanks, Panda.”

She smiled back, but her eyes stayed serious as she reached over and lightly took his hand.

“Do you want me to keep it just between us?” she asked. “Not tell anyone, not even if they ask?”

He nodded slowly, finally meeting her eyes. There was something fragile in his face, like every word cost something.

“Yeah. Just for now. I don’t know when I’ll be ready. Maybe never. But for now… I just want it to be ours.”

Pandora’s fingers closed around his, warm and sure.

“I promise, Reg. It’s your truth. Yours to share when you’re ready. I won’t say a word. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever—unless you tell me I can.”

He swallowed hard. That kind of loyalty wasn’t something he was used to. It almost hurt, how easily she gave it.

So he just nodded again, and then, barely a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Pandora leaned her head gently on his shoulder.

“Always.”

And they stayed like that a little longer, saying nothing, letting the silence settle. Outside, the sun kept climbing slowly over the castle, and for the first time in a long time, Regulus didn’t feel quite so alone in his truth.

 

✧

February 14, 1973

That morning in the Great Hall, the usual breakfast chatter had transformed into something louder, brighter, and oddly sweeter. Flowers, candies, letters, and even the occasional enchanted paper heart fluttered around the elder students like butterflies. The Gryffindor table was almost drowning in rose petals—courtesy of a pair of overly ambitious fifth-years who thought roses raining from the ceiling would impress their dates. It didn’t.

He had seen James giving Lily a heart-shaped box with chocolates. At first, she refused to accept it with an exasperated sigh and that deadly stare of hers, but then took it anyway, rolling her eyes in defeat, as if granting him a minor victory just to shut him up. Sirius had once told him—back when they were still speaking—that James had a fat-ass crush on this ginger girl called Lily Evans. Regulus could see it now. James looked like he might melt when she touched his wrist, even just to push the box back toward him.

He hated Valentine’s Day. Or rather, he hated how much it reminded him of the things he wasn’t allowed to want.

Regulus sat a little straighter and stared at his plate, stabbing a slice of toast with his knife as if it had personally offended him. To his left, Evan and Barty were deep in one of their usual idiotic competitions.

“I’m just saying,” Barty drawled, biting into an apple, “I’m more charming. I’ve got the hair. The smile. Girls like a bit of mystery, and I’m oozing it.”

Evan scoffed. “You’re oozing something, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, please. If anyone’s going to get a girlfriend first, it’s me,” Barty insisted, tossing the apple core onto a napkin. “Who even talks to you, besides me and Reg?”

Evan raised an eyebrow and leaned back lazily against the bench. “Unlike you, I don’t need to talk. I just exist. That’s enough."

Barty snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re losing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Regulus didn’t even try to hide his sigh. “You’re both pathetic.”

That shut them up for a beat. Then, as if summoned by fate to break the tension, Pandora floated into their corner of the table, light as a breeze, and sat herself next to Regulus 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said cheerfully, placing a chocolate frog in front of each of them.

She smelled like vanilla and old books.

Barty blinked. “You got us chocolate frogs?”

“Of course,” Pandora replied with a soft smile. “Frogs are very romantic, if you think about it. Transformation, kisses, destiny…”

Regulus stared at her, unsure whether to thank her or tell her she was mental. But when he caught the genuine warmth in her expression, he gave the tiniest nod and pocketed the frog.

Evan was already halfway through his. “So, if I kiss the frog, will it turn into my true love?” he joked, chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth.

Pandora nodded solemnly. “Possibly. But only if you’re ready to accept them.”

Barty snorted. “Merlin, I love you.”

Pandora just smiled. “You’re not ready.”

Regulus let out a quiet breath through his nose that might’ve been the closest thing to a laugh.

Maybe Valentine’s Day wasn’t entirely terrible.

✧

Chapter 14: ✧First year: Shared birthdays and stolen cakes

April 23, 1973

March had been quiet—deceptively so. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it: no grand revelations, no catastrophic arguments, no outbursts. Just the slow, methodical progression of time marked by exams, assignments, and the looming pressure of the upcoming term evaluations. The days blurred together under the weight of revision schedules and practicals—Potions essays, Defense duels, endless Transfiguration theory. It wasn't exciting. It wasn’t awful either. Just dull. And yet, Regulus found something almost comforting in the monotony. He threw himself into his studies with a kind of desperation, as if academic success could drown out the rest of it—his thoughts, the memories, the ache that sat stubbornly in his chest.

He had two more periods in that time—one in the early middle of March, the other just a few days into April. By now, he knew what to do. The panic wasn’t as sharp as the first time. He handled it. Efficiently, even. He had all the supplies ready, knew the timing of it, how long it would last, what kind of pain potions helped best. He had even found ways to be discreet about it, to hide the worst of the symptoms from his classmates. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Every time it happened, it felt like betrayal. Like his body was screaming a truth he refused to accept. The dysphoria was unbearable—he could barely look at himself for days afterward, avoiding mirrors, changing clothes in the dark. He hated the way his skin felt. Hated the weight of it. It made him want to tear out of his own body, crawl out of it and become someone else entirely—someone real. Someone right.

He didn’t talk about it. He didn’t think he ever could. Not with anyone. It was his burden to carry, tucked away neatly behind good grades and perfect posture. By the time April truly began, he was tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. But he kept going. He always did. That was what he was best at, wasn’t it? Pretending everything was fine. That he was fine. That there was nothing wrong. That he wasn’t quietly falling apart inside his own skin.

But that day was different. That day mattered. Because it was Evan and Pandora’s birthday—and not just any birthday, but their twelfth. They were twins, which meant the celebration had to be doubled, of course. Two people, two presents, two opportunities to get it right. And Regulus wanted to get it right. He had spent most of March secretly thinking about it, planning, trying to find the perfect gift for each of them. Something that would show them he cared. Something personal.

For Pandora, the choice had come to him like a whisper. Herbology. She adored it—could talk for hours about soil types and magical root systems, and didn’t mind when no one else understood a word. So he found her a book, but not just any book. A special one. The Green Grimoire it was called, bound in a hard, deep purple cover, with a delicate golden lily embroidered into the leather. Inside, it was breathtaking—over a thousand pages filled with every plant imaginable, magical and mundane, categorized with hand-drawn illustrations that looked so alive they could leap off the parchment. There were notes scrawled in the margins in a fine old hand, detailing rare uses and brewing techniques, secrets passed down through generations. He had even added a little inscription inside the front cover. Just a line. Just his name.

Evan was harder. Regulus didn’t know him in the same way. He didn’t talk as much as Pandora did—at least not to him. But he had noticed things. Like the way Evan always lingered by the moving photographs in the corridors, watching them with a quiet kind of wonder. Like he thought they might reveal some hidden truth if he stared long enough. So Regulus saved up and bought him something he’d seen in a tiny magical supplies shop in Hogsmeade: a camera. But not a regular one—a magical one, charmed to capture and print moving photos. It came with a small stack of enchanted film and a little leather case. He imagined Evan carrying it around the castle, collecting moments, turning them into something he could hold.

He didn’t know if they’d like their gifts. Not really. But he hoped they would. For once, he wanted something he did to be enough. Just once.

Barty had organized a small party, just for them, and he was uncharacteristically secretive about it. He disappeared for hours the night before, only to return with crumbs on his collar and a smug smile that dared anyone to question him. He stole some cake from the kitchen, that was supposed to be for breakfast—he didn't say how he stole it, that was a minor detail, he explained. What mattered was that they had it, and that it was chocolate and tall and rich with layers of magically whipped cream. He’d even managed to get some candles he enchanted to flicker in all shades of silver and green, dancing like fireflies above the frosting.

The party itself was warm and oddly domestic for a bunch of twelve-year-olds in a stone common room lit only by the fire. The four of them—Barty, Pandora, Evan, and Regulus—sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fireplace. Regulus didn’t say much, but he watched them with a soft, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, feeling something twist in his chest that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

When it was time for the gifts, Barty insisted on going last. Regulus gave Pandora her book—The Green Grimoire—and her eyes lit up like spellfire. She gasped and clutched it to her chest like it was a sacred object. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, running her fingers over the embroidered lily. Then Regulus handed Evan the magical camera, and Evan's face broke into the kind of grin that made you feel like the sun had risen early. He looked stunned. “I’ve wanted one of these for—Reg, this is brilliant!”

Then it was Barty’s turn. He stood dramatically, cleared his throat like an actor about to perform, and presented two small, round boxes tied with silver ribbon. One for Pandora, one for Evan—and then, from his pocket, a third one for Regulus. “Because it’s not fair if you’re left out,” he said with a shrug, smiling at Regulus’s surprised eyes.

Inside each box was a delicate, palm-sized mirror—ornate and rimmed with silver and green enamel. “They’re charmed,” Barty explained, “so you can talk to each other no matter where you are. Say the other’s name, and they’ll see your face and hear your voice. Even if we’re in detention. Or dead. Though preferably not dead.” He winked. Pandora teared up immediately and hugged him so tightly he nearly toppled backward. Evan just laughed and clutched the mirror like it was gold. Regulus didn’t say anything, but he held the little mirror in his hand for the rest of the morning.

They lit the enchanted candles, sang a quiet version of Happy Birthday in the common room, and ate most of the cake with their hands because Barty had forgotten to steal forks. It was messy and sticky and wonderful. For a little while, Regulus almost forgot the weight in his chest.

Later, they made their way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, still giggling from the sugar rush, but none of them really hungry. 

The Great Hall was just waking up—sunlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling, owls delivering mail, and sleepy students pouring pumpkin juice. Everything was normal until Barty climbed on top of the Slytherin table. He cleared his throat loudly and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, and everyone who matters, today is a sacred day. The birth of Evan and Pandora Rosier–bow before them!”

Without waiting, he launched into a dramatically off-key version of “Happy Birthday,” waving his arms like a conductor. At first, only the Slytherins joined in, then almost every Ravenclaw, and even a couple of Hufflepuffs chimed in with giggles.

The Gryffindors, however, remained pointedly silent.

Slughorn rose from his seat, clearly trying not to smile. “Mr. Crouch, off the table at once! That’s five points from Slytherin—”

“Oh, come on!" Barty protested, hopping down lightly. “Two points. It’s their birthday.”

Slughorn sighed and rubbed his temples. “Fine. Two. But next time it'll be 10"

Evan and Pandora were glowing with delight, and Regulus, watching from across the table, felt a warmth that stayed with him long after the candles in the common room had burned out.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of laughter, dramatic sighs, and increasingly ridiculous renditions of “Happy Birthday,” all led by Barty. No matter which class they were in—Charms, Potions, even History of Magic—he would wait for the perfect moment of silence before launching into the song with theatrical flair. At first, the professors tried to stop him, but when the rest of the students inevitably joined in (clapping along, some even harmonizing), they gave up. Pandora and Evan pretended to be annoyed each time, but their grins always gave them away.

That night, after changing into their pajamas and settling in by the fire, Pandora curled up beside Regulus on the biggest couch in the common room. The herbology book he’d given her rested on his lap, heavy and beautiful, its golden lily glinting in the firelight.

“Thank you for this, Reg,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. Honestly. It even smells like old books and flowers. How did you know I’d love it so much?”

Regulus shrugged, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You never shut up about gillyweed and screechsnap. It wasn’t hard to guess.”

She laughed softly, nudging him with her elbow. “Still. You’re the only one who ever listens that closely.”

There was a pause. Pandora traced the edge of the book with her fingers.

“I’m really glad you’re our friend,” she said quietly. “You make things feel... safe.”

Regulus blinked, taken aback. His throat felt tight, but he managed a quiet, “I’m glad you’re mine too.”

They stayed like that for a while—leaning against each other, the fire crackling beside them, the world outside the common room briefly forgotten.

Pandora eventually sat up just enough to open the book in Regulus’s lap, carefully flipping through its thick, illustrated pages. She gasped softly when she landed on a full spread of lilies—painted in soft, glowing watercolors, labeled with their names, properties, and uses in both magical and medicinal practices.

“Oh—Reg, look.” Her fingers brushed over the golden-edged petals. “Lilies. They’re my favorite.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Really?”

She nodded. “Yeah. They’re a bit sad, I guess. People think they’re just for funerals. But they’re also symbols of renewal. Of hope. Did you know that? They bloom even in places where everything else has died.”

There was a softness in her voice as she spoke, something that made Regulus’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

“They’re quiet, too,” she added. “Not flashy like roses. Just… gentle. But strong.”

He looked at her, taking in the way the firelight danced across her face, the way her eyes shimmered with something that looked almost like wonder. And for a second, he felt lucky to know her. To be here, with her, in this small and safe moment.

 

✧

Chapter 15: ✧First year: Quidditch, up close

May 16, 1973

The Great Hall buzzed with chatter, but it wasn’t the usual lighthearted conversations about classes or upcoming holidays. There was an electric tension in the air that seemed to hang over everyone, especially the students who were eagerly awaiting the upcoming Quidditch match. The final of the year—Slytherin versus Gryffindor. It was the game everyone had been talking about for weeks, and the rivalry between the two houses only fueled the anticipation.

Barty sat at the table, a smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the room. Regulus, Pandora, and Evan were all talking, but Barty barely heard their words. His mind was focused on the game—on the glory of seeing Slytherin utterly destroy Gryffindor. At least, that was what he hoped for, he told them.He was certain that Slytherin would dominate, but there was a small part of him that entertained the possibility of an upset, though he quickly pushed it aside. Gryffindor was no match for Slytherin, and he wasn’t going to entertain any delusions otherwise.

“I’m telling you, we should definitely go,” Barty said, almost too casually. He glanced around at his friends, catching their puzzled expressions.

“Why would we go?” Pandora asked, her voice laced with skepticism. “We’re first years. We can’t even play.”

Barty’s grin only grew wider. “Exactly. That’s why we should go watch the real players. The best of the best. It’ll be a bloodbath out there.”

Evan raised an eyebrow. “Slytherin versus Gryffindor, huh? You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

“Well, of course I am,” Barty said with a slight chuckle. “Who wouldn’t be? We’re going to watch Slytherin destroy Gryffindor. It’s a chance to see how the real champions play.”

Regulus, usually quiet during these kinds of debates, joined in.

 “But we could always just skip it,” he said, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s mandatory or anything.”

Barty shot him a sharp look, eyes gleaming with excitement. “No, no, no. You don’t get it, Reg. This is the match of the year. The entire school’s going to be there. You’d be crazy to miss it.”

Pandora, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “I don’t know, Barty. What if we don’t enjoy it?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll love it,” Barty insisted. “I’ll even let you cheer for Slytherin if it makes you feel better. Trust me, it’s gonna be worth it.”

After a bit more back and forth, the group reluctantly agreed to go. None of them were particularly keen on the idea, but Barty’s enthusiasm was contagious, and after all, how often did you get to see a match like this?

✧

The Quidditch pitch was buzzing with energy as they arrived. The stands were packed with students from both houses, and the noise was deafening. Regulus could feel the tension in the air, the sense of rivalry that was palpable as both teams prepared to take the field.

As the players filed onto the pitch, Barty leaned over to Regulus, his voice low but full of disdain.

 “James Potter is all talk. He’s got no talent. It’s all a show to him—just a way to get attention. He’s nothing special.”

Regulus glanced at the Gryffindor team as they took their positions. James Potter stood out among them, his posture confident, his eyes sharp. Regulus couldn’t help but observe him closely, the way he moved, the way he held himself on his broom. There was something undeniable about James’s presence. It wasn’t just the cocky grin or the posture; it was the way he commanded attention on the field, how his every movement seemed calculated. Regulus didn’t say it aloud, but in that moment, he could tell—James was good. Very good.

The match began with a roar from the crowd. The Quaffle was tossed into the air, the game officially underway. Regulus was spellbound. This wasn’t just a game; it was a spectacle. The skill on display was far beyond anything he had imagined. Pandora and Evan were both wide-eyed with excitement as they watched the teams swoop and dive through the air.

The Gryffindor team was quick and relentless, but Slytherin wasn’t backing down. Both teams were evenly matched, with each side determined to take the lead. Regulus couldn’t help but be captivated by the speed and precision of the game. Despite Barty’s earlier dismissals, it was hard not to admit that Gryffindor had some serious players.

As the match continued, the tension built. It was anyone’s game, and the crowd could hardly contain their excitement. But then, disaster struck.

James Potter, while weaving through the air with the Quaffle, was struck hard in the head by a Bludger. Regulus’s breath caught in his throat as he watched James plummet from his broom, the sickening sound of the impact ringing out across the pitch. The crowd gasped, and the Gryffindor players rushed to James’s side.

Regulus’s eyes widened in shock as he watched James’s body crumple to the ground. But what truly caught his attention was Mulciber. The Slytherin Beater had swung his bat with malicious intent, his eyes dark with anger as he watched James fall. Regulus knew it wasn’t an accident. Mulciber had aimed for James on purpose. He had wanted to take him out of the game.

The realization hit Regulus like a ton of bricks. The fury, the rivalry—it had crossed a line. And he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that what had just happened wasn’t just part of the game. It was personal.

The tension in the stands exploded. Gryffindor students began shouting, anger flooding the air, while Slytherins jeered from the other side. The fight that broke out was chaotic, and before Regulus could fully process what was happening, Barty had already jumped into the fray. He was throwing punches with a second-year Gryffindor, landing a solid blow to the boy’s face before the fight was broken up.

Barty returned to his friends, a satisfied look on his face despite the bruise forming on his cheek. 

“That’s how you deal with Gryffindors,” he muttered under his breath, clearly relishing in the chaos.

✧

After the match ended and the dust settled, Regulus found himself following Barty to the infirmary. His mind was still racing, the events of the match playing over and over in his head. James was taken to Madame Pomfrey’s office, and as they entered the hospital wing, Regulus could hear the soft murmur of conversation between Madame Pomfrey and the Healers who were attending to James.

Regulus’s eyes darted to the bed where James lay, unconscious and still. He could feel the unease settle in his stomach as he stood there, watching from a distance. Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin and Sirius were standing next to James, despite Madame Pomfrey telling them to go.

Barty, who was nursing his own bruised eye, didn’t seem concerned about James at all. He was too busy bragging about the fight and how he had punched that Gryffindor. But Regulus couldn’t tear his eyes away from James. There was something about him—something that made Regulus feel conflicted.

As Madame Pomfrey continued to fuss over Barty, Regulus stood still, his gaze shifting between James and the rest of the room. Despite everything, despite the rivalry, there was a genuine respect that James had earned. 

He was a skilled player, and even if Regulus wouldn’t admit it aloud, James’s talent was undeniable. There was a kind of ease in the way he flew, a natural instinct that couldn’t be taught. But Regulus wasn’t the kind of boy to accept second place—not quietly, at least. If Potter could shine like that, then so could he. No, he would shine brighter. That day, standing silently in the infirmary while James Potter lay unconscious, Regulus made a promise to himself: next year, he would join the Quidditch team. He wouldn’t just play—he would be the best. Better than Potter.

 

✧

Notes:

Can you believe it’s already been a whole month since I started posting this? We’re almost at the end of first year now! Second year is absolutely lovely (and a tad chaotic, in the best way). I’m SO excited for you to read it — things get brilliantly messy towards the end and i freaking love it.
I loved this chapter– jegulus blooming! (Or maybe some rivalry between them?)
If it tickled your fancy, leave a kudos and have a wander through the comments — much love <3

Chapter 16: ✧First year: Birthday b-sides: Houses of the holy

Notes:

Can't believe this is actually the final chapter of first year—madness! Summer's up next, innit?
I’m obsessed with the whole birthday dynamic—like, excuse me, midnight present exchange? That's bloody brilliant.
Also, you can never go wrong with a proper Led Zeppelin album, can you? And Houses of the Holy, babe? Shit it Slaps.

Spring began to fade into a warm summer, the kind that wrapped the castle in golden haze and left the stone corridors lazily buzzing with anticipation. The end of the semester was only a few days away. That Quidditch match—the one that had started with cheers and sunlight—had ended up descending into chaos, bruises, and far too much shouting. Yet somehow, Slytherin came out as the champion.

Regulus supposed he should've felt proud. And he did, to an extent. But beneath the thrill of victory, something gnawed at him. He didn’t dare to admit—at least not aloud—that the outcome had been rather unfair. Not after all the celebrations, not when his teammates hoisted the Cup like a promise. He kept his mouth shut for the sake of house loyalty. That was what a good son, a good Slytherin, was meant to do.

James Potter had woken up just a day after the accident. Or, well, incident might be a better word. Regulus told others that he had heard Potter was fine, but truthfully… he knew. He had cut a shallow strip on his leg that morning, barely more than a scratch, just enough to sting a bit. Just enough to justify a visit to the infirmary and check, quietly, secretly, if the boy he didn’t really care about was awake.

Not that he cared. Of course not. He didn’t even know James Potter. But the weight of the green and silver scarf around his neck made him feel guilty for how things had unfolded. Guilty in the particular way only Slytherins were taught to carry—with silence and subtlety.

When he stepped into the infirmary, it was quiet, the late afternoon sun filtering in through the windows in golden beams. A student from Hufflepuff sat on one of the beds, holding an ice pack to her wrist. Madame Pomfrey was tending to her, murmuring comfort and wrapping the injury with care. Regulus stood by the door, uncertain.

Then, his eyes fell on the far bed. James Potter was asleep—deeply, from the looks of it. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in every direction, his face relaxed in a way it never was when awake. Without thinking, Regulus slid a hand into his pocket, found a folded scrap of parchment he always kept for notes, and took out a quill. He sat at the small desk near the entrance and, in his elegant, flowing script, wrote just four words:

“I hope you get better soon.”

No name. No clue. Just the soft curve of ink, a message pressed down by hesitation and something far more dangerous. He folded it once and, heart thrumming strangely, crossed the room to place it gently on the nightstand beside Potter’s bed.

Then he stepped back, taking his place near the cabinet, waiting as Madame Pomfrey continued her work on the Hufflepuff girl. His leg still stung—he hadn’t bothered to clean the cut properly—but he wasn’t really there for that.

He was distracted, half-watching the dust float in the sunlight, when he turned and realized James Potter was no longer asleep.

He was awake. And staring directly at him.

Regulus froze, breath catching. His face flushed—out of embarrassment, surely—but he couldn’t look away. Potter’s gaze wasn’t mocking, or smug. Just… curious. And maybe a little confused. It looked like he was about to say something.

Before he could, Madame Pomfrey turned around and noticed him.

“And you, little one? What happened?” she asked kindly, her voice snapping him out of it.

“Oh,” Regulus replied quickly, smoothly, “I scraped my leg against one of the stone walls on the way to class. Hurts a bit. Could I get a bandage?”

He lied with practiced ease. It was something he had learned to do long ago, something necessary in a house where the truth could wound more than any curse. The words rolled off his tongue like silk.

Madame Pomfrey nodded and moved to gather what he needed. Regulus took one final glance at the boy across the room—still looking at him, eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to place him.

He would never know what James Potter had been about to say—if he had meant to say anything at all.

✧

June 24,1973

That morning, Regulus woke up to someone repeatedly jumping on his bed. His bed—as in Regulus' own bed, the one he preferred to keep untouched and neatly made. He opened one eye, half-ready to hex whoever was disturbing his precious order, only to see Barty’s ecstatic face beaming down at him.

“Wake up, lads, it’s my birthday!” Barty announced triumphantly, as though the entire world had been waiting for that moment. Without waiting for a reply, he launched a pillow across the room, hitting Evan square in the face.

Evan groaned. “It’s fucking Monday, Barty. Could you maybe not do your yearly dramatics on top of me?”

Regulus grumbled something incomprehensible and rolled onto his side, trying to escape Barty’s bony knees.

“Fine, fine,” Barty relented, finally hopping off Regulus and beginning to pace around the room, already brimming with chaotic energy. “But come on, wake up! I want my presents!”

They found Pandora curled up in one of the armchairs in the common room, wrapped in her usual layers of mismatched scarves, sipping tea that smelled vaguely of peppermint and ink. She greeted Barty with a sleepy smile and a dramatic bow, which he returned with exaggerated flair.

Regulus lingered behind the others, still in his nightclothes, arms crossed, trying to appear unimpressed.

“Where’s yours, Reg?” Barty asked, eyes already gleaming with anticipation.

“Not yet,” Regulus said, raising a brow. “You know the deal. Midnight. We exchange then.”

Barty gave a small pout but nodded. “Right. Our new annual mutual celebration. Got it.”

Evan, in his usual unceremonious way, pulled a small, black velvet box from his robe pocket and tossed it at Barty.

“Don’t throw it!” Barty yelped, catching it mid-air. “You’re lucky I’ve got Quidditch reflexes.”

Inside was a silver ring, elegantly simple but textured like rough stone. In its centre sat a polished opal that shifted colours as it caught the light—blues, greens, and flashes of something warmer.

“I know it’s not a lot,” Evan began, his tone suddenly quieter. “But I thought you might—”

Barty didn’t let him finish. He grinned, then hurled the pillow from the couch at Evan’s face. “I love it, idiot.”

Evan looked away, rubbing his jaw, but Regulus saw the faintest blush creep up his neck.

Pandora handed over her gift next: a long, narrow box wrapped in dark green fabric. Barty opened it with mock ceremony, tossing the lid aside—and stopped. Inside was a dreamcatcher, unlike any Regulus had seen before. It was delicate yet strange: black thread woven in a tight, chaotic web, adorned with tiny crystals that shimmered softly in the common room light. Hanging from the bottom were small bones, feathers dyed midnight blue, and a single silver bell that didn’t make any sound.

Pandora leaned forward, hands clasped. “It doesn’t catch dreams. That’s a myth. But it does confuse nightmares—scrambles them, makes them forget what they were screaming about. I enchanted it myself.”

Barty tilted his head. “I don’t have nightmares,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not a crybaby. Nice decoration, though.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. Liar. He’d seen Barty wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, fingers trembling like he’d been holding onto something too tight. He’d heard the muttered apologies, the breathless gasps, the muffled groans like he was trying not to be heard. Barty always laughed it off. Said it was just the heat. Said he’d been dreaming about girls. Or Quidditch. Or both.

But Regulus knew better. He always had.

Pandora didn’t call him out. She just smiled knowingly and said, “Hang it above your bed anyway. Can’t hurt.”

Barty nodded once, quick and almost imperceptible, and set the dreamcatcher gently back in the box.

None of them went to classes that day. Barty had declared, with the dramatic confidence of a self-proclaimed king, that birthdays should be national holidays—his birthday, specifically. “I am far too important for essays and lectures today,” he’d said, arms spread wide, still wearing his pyjamas and the opal ring Evan gave him. “If any of you go to class, I’ll personally curse your eyebrows off.”

Regulus hadn’t even argued. Honestly, it was nice to have an excuse. He always felt on edge skipping lessons, but something about the way Barty made it sound like a sacred rule, an unbreakable tradition passed down through centuries of pure-blood madness, made it easier to go along with.

So they stayed in the Slytherin common room, draped over armchairs and lying on the carpeted floor, as if the space belonged entirely to them. The lake outside the windows shimmered green and blue with the movement of kelpies in the water, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. 

Piles of sweets appeared slowly throughout the morning. Chocolate frogs, sugar quills, pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and weird imported candies that Barty had been saving since the start of term. He threw every unopened box into the centre of the room and declared, “Feast, you peasants,” before taking the best chocolate for himself.

Evan complained about the sugar overload, but still ate an entire package of fizzing whizzbees. Pandora transfigured a licorice wand into a tiny, edible dragon, which promptly bit Barty’s thumb before melting. Regulus quietly opened a chocolate frog, ignoring the card. He already had the whole set twice.

The conversation flowed like it always did when they were alone—jumping from ridiculous debates to personal questions no one answered seriously. Barty sat cross-legged in the centre, reigning over the chaos with a crooked crown made of twisted sweet wrappers and licorice.

“You know,” Evan said thoughtfully, picking at the wrapper of a caramel truffle, “we could make this a yearly thing. Skip everything this day, Make it a ritual.”

“It already is a ritual,” Barty said. “The annual Barty-Crouch-Is-Too-Brilliant-For-School Day. I expect gifts and worship every year.”

“I’ll make you a shrine next time,” Regulus said dryly.

Barty grinned. “You already do. It’s called ‘tolerating me.', i mean, you realle gotta like me to" 

They all laughed together. It was nice, hearing their laughs accompanying his.

They stayed like that for hours. The common room buzzed around them, other students coming and going, but the four of them had carved out a little world inside it. Regulus felt strangely safe, surrounded by sugar and laughter and people who, for all their sharp edges, made him feel like he didn’t always have to be on guard.

As the afternoon drifted toward evening, Pandora rested her head on his shoulder. Barty lay stretched across the couch, with his feet on Evan's lap, humming a Led Zeppelin song under his breath. 

✧

After dinner, the four of them stayed up late, lingering at the Slytherin table longer than most of the students, talking nonsense and laughing over half-melted chocolate frogs and empty cups of pumpkin juice. The castle seemed quieter than usual when they finally walked back to the dungeons. It felt like they were the only ones awake in the world, as if the birthday itself had stretched into something a bit magical, a bit secret, just for them.

It was almost midnight when Barty, still buzzing with energy, jumped onto Regulus’ bed and pulled him up by the wrist.

“Come on! Common room. Our gift exchange!” he said, practically vibrating, already holding a squared box in his hands, wrapped in messy green paper.

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling. He reached under his bed and grabbed a package he had hidden there earlier. He’d hesitated for a while about what to give Barty. It had to be something good—something that didn’t feel forced, or cliché. In the end, he’d settled on the newest Led Zeppelin album, Houses of the Holy, which had come out just a month ago. He knew Barty was obsessed with them—he had gone on and on about the band for months.

When they arrived at the common room, it was dimly lit by the soft glow of the fireplace. The emerald flames danced quietly in the grate, casting flickers of green light over the stone walls. The four of them settled close together on the floor in front of it, as if instinctively drawn to the warmth and the hush of the moment.

They waited out the last few minutes of the day, teasing each other and passing around the final scraps of Barty’s sweets. And then the clock struck twelve—soft and faraway, echoing from somewhere in the heart of the castle.

Without hesitation, Barty and Regulus exchanged their boxes, and both immediately tore into the paper. Regulus blinked in surprise as he looked down and saw the exact same album—Houses of the Holy, but this one was the deluxe edition.

There was a moment of silence, the kind that stretches a little too long, before they locked eyes and burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.

“Looks like you two share the same neuron,” Pandora said with a snort.

“We’re keeping both!” Barty announced dramatically. “Obviously. Different editions"

They were still laughing when Evan handed Regulus a soft, dark fabric bag. “This one’s from both Panda and me,” he said, almost shyly.

Inside, there was a notebook—black leather, elegant and sturdy, with his initials R.A.B. embroidered in silver thread on the bottom corner. It was simple, but beautiful, and something about it felt just right in his hands.

“The pages refill themselves when you run out,” Pandora said, leaning closer. “But they don’t take up more space. It’s like—endless. But neat.”

“We thought of it together,” Evan added. “We always see you writing. So… figured you deserved something proper for it.”

Regulus looked down at the notebook again, and his chest swelled just a little. Not that he would ever say so. But it was perfect.

“I love it,” he said, quietly. “Thank you. Really.”

He traced the silver lettering on the corner of the cover. It wasn’t loud or flashy. It was something meant just for him.

And that, maybe, was what made it feel so special.

✧

That morning, the Great Hall was buzzing with early chatter and the scent of toast, pumpkin jam, and fresh coffee. It was one of those bright late June days when Hogwarts felt more alive than ever, even with the bittersweet tension of the semester drawing to a close.

Regulus made his way to the Slytherin table with Barty, Pandora, and Evan, still yawning, his hair messily sticking up from having fallen asleep with it damp the night before. As soon as they sat down, Barty was already clearing his throat in preparation.

“Don’t even think about it,” Regulus said flatly, not even glancing up from his plate.

“What?” Barty asked with exaggerated innocence, clearly faking it. “Singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to my dearest friend? After the beautiful, off-key serenade I gave the Rosier twins? You’re heartless.”

“Don’t,” Regulus murmured, though he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Barty sighed dramatically but didn’t push it—at least not immediately. Pandora kissed Regulus on the cheek in silence, and Evan passed him a cookie he’d saved from the day before, wordlessly sliding it next to his tea.

They chatted lazily while they ate, talking about the exams they’d finished, what they were doing over the summer, and how little time was left before the train ride home. It was peaceful in a strange, soft way.

Then, as Regulus was mid-sip of his juice, his eyes drifted across the Hall—and locked with Sirius’s.

It was brief. Cold. The kind of stare that felt like a slap even if it came without words. Sirius looked at him the way he always did now: like he didn’t know him. Like they hadn’t grown up under the same roof. Like they were nothing more than strangers.

But there was something else, too. Something buried so deeply it could’ve easily been Regulus’s own imagination. A crack in that coldness. A flicker of... something. He didn’t know what it was, but he clung to the hope that behind that hard stare, Sirius was silently wishing him a happy birthday.

He looked away quickly, focusing on the present, on the people who stayed. On the warmth beside him instead of the cold across the room.

Later that afternoon, after Potions, Pandora tugged gently on his sleeve as they walked out of the classroom.

“Hey,” she whispered, “come with me for a second.”

Without waiting for an answer, she led him down a quieter hallway near the greenhouses. The air smelled of damp grass and lavender, and the castle felt quieter there, like it was holding its breath.

“What is it?” Regulus asked, frowning slightly.

“I have one more gift for you,” she said, rummaging through her bag and pulling out a black cloth pouch.

“Another one?” he raised a brow, curious.

Pandora gave him a soft, knowing smile—one of her rare ones, the kind that said she saw more than she let on.

“I know since your first period... well, your chest started changing. And I noticed you started wearing baggier clothes. Jumpers, layers. Always hiding yourself a little.”

Regulus froze, the breath catching in his throat. He had never said it aloud. Not once. But of course, Pandora knew, he always felt so seen when it came to her, she noticed every little detail.

“So... I made this for you,” she continued, her voice gentle. “It’s a binder. I made it myself with soft fabric and a few more things. It’ll be easy to wear, and it won’t give you any trouble.”

He opened the pouch slowly. Inside was a neatly folded black binder—simple, clean, the material smooth but firm.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” she interrupted, firm but kind. “Because I love you. Because I know who you are. And you deserve to feel comfortable, at least as much as you can, in your own skin.”

Regulus clutched the pouch tightly against his chest, words failing him for a moment. Then he looked up at her, eyes shimmering ever so slightly.

“Thank you, Panda.”

She reached out and gave his arm a soft squeeze. “Happy birthday, Reg.”

✧

June 29, 1973

The platform buzzed with voices and the sharp hiss of steam as the Hogwarts Express prepared to leave. The sun shone lazily through thin clouds, casting soft light on the crowd of students saying their goodbyes. Regulus stood with Pandora, Barty, and Evan, the four of them unusually quiet, their trunks already loaded onto the train.

It was strange, the way the end of the year always felt—half relief, half grief. None of them looked particularly eager to leave, but none could say so aloud either.

“Well,” Barty said after a moment, trying to lighten the mood, “at least we’ve survived a year of academic torture"

“Barely,” Pandora murmured. “And I’m not ready to go back. Not this year.”

Regulus nodded. He understood too well. The thought of returning home, of all the silence and weight that waited for him there, settled like lead in his stomach. The castle had been chaotic, but it had also been safe. Full of corners and people he had learned to trust, if only a little.

They boarded at the last possible moment, finding a compartment near the end of the train. No one sat properly—Evan leaned against the window, Pandora curled in the corner with a book open but unread, and Barty lay across the floor like a cat in the sun. Regulus sat beside Barty, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the green blur of the passing landscape.

“I wish we had more time,” he said suddenly.

“We always wish that,” Evan replied, not unkindly.

The train pulled farther from the castle, its towers vanishing behind trees and hills.

But for now, they had this: the hum of the train beneath them, a few shared laughs, a few stolen glances. A little more time before everything changed again.

And for Regulus, that had to be enough.

✧

Chapter 17: ✧ Summer 1973

Summary:

I know im way too late with this chapter, had a busy week and i totally forgot, HAHAHAH, hope you love it! (If you even can, cause DAMN)

Regulus spent most days in silence.

He’d asked them not to send letters—please, don’t owl me, don’t write. He didn’t explain why, but they understood. Walburga opened all his post. Anything unfamiliar would be torn before it could be read, or worse, used against him.

Still, they tried. He knew they would.

A few times, the enchanted mirror flickered softly in his drawer. Once, Pandora’s voice echoed faintly: Reg? Are you there?

He didn’t answer.

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he was scared. Scared that his mother would hear. That she’d take the mirror away. And that, if he ever really needed it—if something truly broke—he wouldn’t have it.

So he let it flicker. Let it fade.

He was always cold, even in the middle of summer.

The house was big and beautiful, but its walls knew how to whisper. Knew how to bruise. The silence here wasn’t soft—it was sharp. Tense. Ready to crack.

Walburga didn’t need to yell. She only had to look. And her looks carried centuries of expectation, of shame, of threat. She didn’t hit him much that summer—just a few sharp reminders, the kind that left skin stinging and silence thicker. Not like Sirius, who burned too loud to be ignored, and took the bruises like war medals.

He was obedient. Quiet. Graceful. Her little girl, wrapped in silk and silence.

He didn’t wear the binder Pandora made him. Not here. Not yet. He wore long robes and stayed small. Invisible.

He knew how to walk without making a sound.

Once, after a long dinner where his father said nothing and his mother listed all the ways in which he was almost acceptable, Regulus went back to his room and wrote a letter he never sent.

 

Dear Barty,

I’m losing my mind here. I thought being alone might be a relief, but it’s only loud in a different way.

The house creaks like it’s breathing. My mother’s voice echoes in my head even when she’s not speaking.

I miss you. All of you.

I won’t send this. But I needed to write it.

–R.A.B

He folded it and hid it inside his journal. He never even sealed the envelope.

Most days, he stayed in bed longer than he should. Counted the cracks in the ceiling. Traced imaginary constellations on the wall.

He didn’t cry.

Not really.

He was scared, but he’d never admit it. Not even to himself.

He wasn't gonna fight.

Just wait.

Wait for September.

Wait for noise.

Wait to exist again.

✧

Chapter 18: ✧Second year: Dorcas Meadowes

Summary:

Omg we are in second year! I was so exited to finally introduce Dorcas

September 1, 1973

When they were at King’s Cross, he pretended to listen. He nodded at the right times, eyes down, posture perfect, just like his mother expected. Her voice, shrill and sharp, filled the air with commands: how he had to behave like a Black, earn top marks, uphold the family name, and never—ever—bring shame to them. But Regulus wasn’t listening. Not really.

It was an act. A quiet rebellion. The only kind he could afford.

Every word she spoke felt like a blade. Not because of what she said, but because of how little it mattered. He could memorize every syllable and it would still never be enough.

His father didn’t speak at all. Not to him. Orion's eyes had drifted past him like smoke—like Regulus was just a shadow cast by Sirius' disgrace. His attention, when it existed, was entirely consumed by what Sirius had done, where he had gone, who he had become.

And Regulus... Regulus was still there. Still trying. Still dying a little inside every time they called him Cassiopeia.

He walked away as soon as he could. Not running—he wasn't suicidal—but with long strides and a stiff back, refusing to look behind. He didn’t want to see his mother’s cold eyes or the pitying glances of bystanders. He didn’t want to see Sirius either—didn’t want to see the way he’d already disappeared into the arms of his Gryffindor friends, laughing like nothing had ever mattered between them.

If Sirius didn’t want him anymore, then fine. He wouldn’t beg. His pride wouldn’t let him.

Even if all he wanted was to curl under a blanket beside his brother like they used to, whispering stories back and forth by wandlight.

The train was already half-full. He moved slowly, eyes scanning the windows of each compartment—looking for Evan and Pandora’s silvery hair, for Barty’s wild blur of energy—but he found nothing familiar. Too early, probably. 

Just as he passed one of the compartments, something made him stop. He hadn't meant to look inside, but his eyes flicked toward the window out of habit—and there he was again.

James Potter.

Their eyes met for half a second.

It was enough.

Regulus felt his chest tighten. There was no curiosity in Potter’s gaze this time, no trace of the puzzled intrigue he’d caught on the platform a year ago. This look was sharper, colder. Like a blade that had finally found its edge. It wasn’t quite hate—but it carried the shape of it. The beginning of something bitter.

Regulus didn’t look away, not immediately. He just raised his chin a little, unreadable, and kept walking.

He told himself it didn’t matter, but the sting of it followed him down the corridor.

Only one nearly-empty compartment remained, all the way at the back of the train. Inside sat a girl, alone. Her skin was deep brown and glowing against the morning light. Her braids were long, intricate, beautiful, falling down her back in dark, elegant waves. She sat with her legs crossed, flipping through a Transfiguration textbook like she had all the time in the world.

Regulus hesitated a second, then slid the door open quietly. He cleared his throat.

“You don’t mind if my friends and i sit here, do you? Every other cabin is full.”

She looked up, blinking once before smiling. “No problem at all.”

Her voice was calm, grounded. Confident.

“I’m Dorcas,” she added after a second. “Dorcas Meadowes.”

He blinked. He knew that name. Of course he did—she was in Slytherin, just like him. Quiet, sharp, always with her wand ready and her homework flawless. She wasn’t loud like the others. She didn’t strut or boast. She simply was—steady and impossible to shake.

She glanced up from the book in her lap as Regulus sat down across from her. Her eyes were sharp, curious, but not unkind.

“I’ve seen you around,” she said after a pause. “You’re always sitting near the door in Potions. Always taking notes like your life depends on it.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “Observant.”

“I try,” she said, smiling. 

“Regulus Black.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Yeah. I figured.”

He bristled, but before he could reply, she added quickly, “Not because of your brother. You just have… that sort of presence.”

Regulus blinked. “Is that a good thing?”

She smirked. “I haven’t decided yet.”

There was a beat of silence. The train gave a small jolt as it started to move.

“I thought you’d be more... cold,” Dorcas said, watching him. “Or at least arrogant.”

“And I thought you were in Ravenclaw,” he shot back.

“Rude,” she grinned. “I’m a Slytherin through and through.”

He tilted his head, curious now. “Really?”

“You think only people like Mulciber and Snape belong in Slytherin?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Ambition looks different on everyone.”

Regulus considered that. “That’s… actually a good point.”

“I know,” she said simply.

He smirked.

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, the soft clatter of the train on the tracks filling the space between them.

Then, a little softer, Dorcas asked, “Rough morning?”

He blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

“No. But I’ve had enough of those to recognize the look.”

Regulus hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Rough.”

Dorcas leaned back in her seat. “Well, for what it’s worth, you can hide here. I won’t ask questions.”

He looked at her. She didn’t look away.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

She smiled again. “Anytime, Black.”

Suddendly, the compartment door slammed open.

“REG!” came Barty’s unmistakable voice, loud and completely inappropriate for the early morning.

He bounded in like a storm, green-streaked hair bouncing with each step. Evan followed at a slower pace, hair tied back neatly into a half-up style, and looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Pandora floated in last, radiant and a little chaotic as always, her long locs adorned with glittering butterfly clips that gently fluttered.

“Oh no,” Regulus muttered, not moving from his seat. “They’ve found me.” He joked.

Dorcas looked both amused and slightly alarmed.

“You’re Dorcas, right?” Barty said, plopping himself next to Regulus. “Top of the class in Charms. Teachers love you. Honestly, it’s disgusting.”

“Thanks?” Dorcas said, unsure whether to laugh or hex him.

“That’s Evan,” Barty continued, pointing with zero grace. “And that’s Pandora. And this miserable creature,” he added, patting Regulus’ arm, “is our local brooding genius.”

“Charmed,” Pandora said, sliding in beside Dorcas and grinning. “Your braids are stunning.”

“Oh thanks!" Dorcas said, eyes flicking to the butterflies. “Those are enchanted?”

“They wave their wings” Pandora whispered. “Sometimes they fly off. It’s fine.”

Evan nodded at Dorcas, silent but acknowledging her presence with a cool sort of respect.

Within moments, they were all talking—chaotically, but easily. Dorcas was caught between stories of misfired spells, and Barty’s latest obsession: magically altering the flavor of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans.

“No, no, listen,” Barty said, waving his hands. “I’ve been trying to enchant them to only taste like desserts. Like chocolate cake or treacle tart.”

“And what did they taste like instead?” Dorcas asked, already giggling.

Barty groaned. “Laundry water. Three in a row. I think It ended up badly"

“He cried,” Pandora added solemnly.

“I did not cry,” Barty huffed.

“He made Evan test one and Evan spat it out on a first year,” Regulus said casually.

“I warned him" Evan muttered.

Dorcas laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve never spoken to you all before.”

“Because you look too put-together,” Barty grinned. “But it’s a lie, isn’t it? You’re a little bit of a menace underneath.”

“She’s one of us,” Pandora declared. “I knew it the second she insulted Regulus.”

“Hey—” Regulus started, but Dorcas just smiled.

“What are you, then?” she asked. “A gang? A coven? Hogwarts’ most tolerable disaster?”

“A family,” Pandora said at the same time Barty announced, “A walking safety hazard.”

Regulus leaned back, a small smirk forming. “The Slytherin Skittles.”

Dorcas blinked. “I’m sorry. The what?”

“Don’t ask,” Evan muttered.

“It’s perfect,” Pandora gasped. “We’re all different. Colors. Chaos. Emotional dysfunctions.”

“Like the candy,” Regulus explained, almost proudly. 

Barty threw an arm around Dorcas’ shoulder. “Welcome to the bag.”

She grinned, warm and real. “I’m honored.”

The rest of the ride blurred into loud laughter, playful arguments, and whispered ideas for ridiculous experiments and future chaos. And Regulus, sitting among them, felt something rare and unfamiliar settle in his chest.

Once again, he belonged.

 

✧

 

Chapter 19: ☼Blame it on the boy

Summary:

I knowww you lot missed James <3 Our sunshine boy is back—finally! I missed him too, not gonna lie, hahah.
Hope you enjoy this one—
Honestly, I'm a bit obsessed with this chapter. James thinking about Regulus?? Yes please, give us all of that, thank you very much.
P.S. Leave some kudos and drop a comment if you liked it—I’d really appreciate it <3
Love ya lots x

James Potter didn’t usually notice people like Regulus Black.

Not because they were better or worse—just because Slytherins stuck with Slytherins, and James had enough going on between Quidditch, the Marauders, and what he sometimes felt was a sacred duty to make Remus Lupin laugh on his bad days–aka, full moon week– But that day, standing on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he saw him. He made sure no one noticed he had stared at him for maybe a bit too long.

Regulus was with his mother. Standing stiffly at her side like he’d been raised for display. He’d grown sharper, and taller too–not a lot, though– His posture was flawless, like he’d been trained in it.

He would say that he barely recognized him, but that boy, oh it was the same boy of always.

He remembered that day in the infirmary, last term, when he had woken up and saw that note. 

Hope you get better soon

The cursive writting was so elegant and long, so well trained, and it looked pretty much like Sirius', but James knew it well enough to know his was more of a mess.

That day, his gaze crossed with–or looked for– Regulus'.

He wondered, if just for a second, if it had been him who left that note, but shake the thought, since it was actually really ridiculous.

Regulus Black wasn't a nice person. If being Walburga and Orion's perfect son didn't say enough, he was a Slytherin, his gaze was sharp and no good words could come from his mouth.

He didn’t think about it out loud. Didn’t say a word even as they climbed into their usual compartment, James flopping across from Sirius, Peter chattering about some joke from last term, and Remus quietly pulling a book from his bag.

They were loud, the way they always were. But James’s mind kept flickering back to the platform. To Sirius’s silence. To Regulus’s face. To how Sirius suffered in his house, and it was in part Regulus' fault, for setting those expectatives their parents put on Sirius.

James looked up just in time to see Regulus passing by, glancing into each compartment like he was searching for someone.

For a moment—just one—James met his eyes, again.

He didn’t know what he expected to see there. Curiosity? Recognition? But there was none of that. Regulus’s gaze was unreadable. Blank, almost. Cold in a way that felt practiced. James realized his expression must be heavy with a slight breeze of hatred, as he thought of the not so innocent boy, who had more fault of others pain that he thought.

Regulus looked away

It wasn’t hate. Not yet, or maybe it was, he didn't know, but something settled heavy in his chest. A weird sort of irritation that didn’t have a name.

Regulus Black. The perfect Black. The one who hadn’t fought. Who never did.

James didn’t realize, just then, that part of him had already started to blame him for things he didn’t understand.

For Sirius pain, for the actions of their family.

☼

The Great Hall was exactly the same as every year.

Candles floating. The ceiling enchanted with the bright night sky. Everything soaked in the hum of excitement that came with the first night back. James sat beside Sirius, his eyes already scanning the plates as the food appeared.

"Summer felt long as hell," Sirius muttered, stabbing a potato.

"My mum had a talk with me yesterday at dinner" Sirius added, twirling his fork. "Said there’s still time to ‘redeem myself.’ Can you believe that? Said i could be more like Regulus, a perfect child"

"Redeem yourself from what?" Peter asked, chewing noisily. "Being in Gryffindor? Being cooler than them?"

"From thinking for myself, apparently." Sirius glanced toward the Slytherin table, jaw tight. “From not ending up like him.”

The silence that followed didn’t last long—but it stayed heavy in James’s ears.

He remembered all the times Sirius had talked about his family. That cursed house. Their obsession with blood. The pathetic expectations.

And especially, the brother.

Regulus.

Perfect Regulus, Sirius used to say, sometimes with venom, sometimes with something more like grief. They love him because he says yes. Because he doesn’t ask questions.

James had heard so much about him that he’d built an image of Regulus in his head long before today. An image of a coward. A golden child. The good son.

And now that he’d seen him again—clean robes, smooth posture, dead eyes—that image was starting to solidify. Regulus was a coward.

He didn’t know what Regulus had done. But he hadn’t run.

And for James, that was beginning to feel like enough.

Dumbledore stood to give his usual welcome. His voice filled the hall as the students listened, some more attentively than others. James wasn’t paying close attention—his eyes drifted again to the Slytherin table.

Regulus sat near the end, surrounded by others, but somehow still alone. He wasn’t speaking. Just eating neatly, precisely. 

James looked away, irritated with himself.

He didn’t know this boy, but there was something about him that made James uneasy. That stirred something in him—something bitter and unfair.

He was polished. Cold. Exactly the sort of person who would sit quietly while his brother got torn apart for being different.

Maybe it was the way Sirius tightened every time his name came up. The way he joked with that edge of steel whenever someone mentioned ‘family.’ The way he’d spent the summer deflecting pain with internal sarcasm, like it was the only way he knew how to survive.

James didn’t know that for sure. He didn’t have proof.

But the feeling sat there anyway.

"You alright?" Remus asked, breaking into his thoughts.

James blinked. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous."

James smiled weakly, then glanced again—just once—toward Regulus.

And this time, Regulus was already looking at him.

Their eyes met again, and for a second, neither of them looked away. Regulus’s brow twitched. Not a frown, not confusion—just something unreadable.

James turned back to his plate.

“So,” Sirius said, stabbing a piece of bacon with unnecessary force–he was aparently, in the mood of stabbing food. “are we all pretending we’re going to be responsible this year, or just Remus?”

“Speak for yourself,” Remus replied, buttering his toast calmly. “I’m already planning my weekly study schedule.”

James snorted. “Nerd.”

“jealous” Remus said without looking up.

“I’m going to try not to get detention until at least the second week,” Peter announced proudly.

“A bold goal,” Sirius said with mock seriousness. “Very ambitious.”

“I mean it this time!”

“Sure, Wormtail,” James grinned. “And I’m going to become Minister for Magic.”

“I’m just excited we can go to Hogsmeade now,” Peter said quickly. “No more sneaking out, no more hiding under the Cloak…”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Sirius asked. “Now it’s all legal.”

“We’ll find new ways to cause chaos,” James said, grinning. “I was thinking we charm Filch’s cat to sing opera, or maybe rock"

Remus groaned. “Merlin, no. She already haunts my nightmares.”

“Picture it,” Sirius said dramatically. “Mrs. Norris belting out Life's a Gas in the middle of the corridor.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Peter admitted.

James laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, it’s settled then. This year: less detentions–we try– more pranks, lots of butterbeer.”

“And Remus will try to pretend he’s above it all,” Sirius added.

“I’m giving up on you lot by October,” Remus said calmly.

“October?” James smirked. “That’s generous.”

Sirius leaned back with a grin. “It’s going to be a good year, lads. I can feel it.”

☼

Notes:

“Life’s a Gas”—the song Sirius mentions—is by T. Rex, in case you didn’t know!
Absolutely love them, genuinely. My all-time favourite band, hands down.

Chapter 20: ✧Second year: As in Her Majesty

Notes:

I swear, Barty’s the biggest Keep Yourself Alive defender out there, love him.
Black brothers angst, innit.
Hope you love it <3

September 13,1973

The first week of classes started heavier than last year. The professors weren’t holding back, piling on essays and readings as if they had a personal vendetta against second-years. Regulus felt it deep in his spine—both from stress and from hours hunched over parchment by candlelight. Astronomy had already assigned a star chart. Potions expected a three-foot scroll comparing antidotes. Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by a new professor who insisted on surprise tests and actual spell duels in class.

Still, it was good to be back. The cold stone corridors of the dungeons, the distant sound of the lake lapping against rock, even the mildew-scented air of the Slytherin common room—it all felt like a kind of comfort. A horrible comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

He was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, when Barty arrived like a storm. The boy always moved like he was about to deliver world-altering news. Regulus loved that about him, though, his never ending energy and enthusiasm.

“I brought something,” Barty said, dumping his trunk dramatically beside the sofa. "Something fucking brilliant.”

Pandora, lounging on the floor with a Divination book she wasn’t actually reading, looked up with vague interest. Evan was by the fireplace, sketching on the margins of his papers instead of actually doing the homework. Regulus raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Barty rifled through his things and pulled out a vinyl wrapped in translucent, slightly purple plastic.

“This,” he announced, holding it like it was sacred, “is Queen. Their first album. Came out this July. Muggle band, obviously. But—incredible.”

He knelt beside the small Vinyl player he had smuggled into school last year. 

“Listen to this,” Barty said, placing the vinyl on the turntable and dropping the needle.

The first notes rang out sharp and energetic. Guitars, layered and bright. A voice—powerful, dramatic, theatrical in a way that made Regulus look up in surprise.

I was told a million times 

of all the troubles in my way Might grow a little wiser

Little better every day

But if I crossed a million rivers

And I rode a million miles

Then I'd still be where I started

 

“Is that the singer?” Evan asked, pushing away his notes, clearly impressed despite himself. “He sounds like he’s… narrating an opera?"

“That’s Freddie Mercury,” Barty said proudly. “Muggle. Writes most of the songs. Also plays the piano. And yeah—his voice is ridiculously good. Wait until you hear ‘my Fairy king'"

Regulus allowed himself to smile, just a little. “You’ve listened to the whole thing already?”

“About 8 times" Barty said. “And a half. Played it every day before coming back. My mum said if she had to hear ‘Keep Yourself Alive’ one more time, she’d curse the record.”

As the music built, something uncoiled in Regulus’s chest. There was a kind of defiance in the song—loud, fast, like it didn’t care who was listening. It didn’t sound like the other Muggle music Barty sometimes brought. It wasn’t dull or repetitive or soft. It was… furious. Joyful. Chaotic.

Exactly like Barty.

Exactly like Regulus wanted to feel, sometimes.

The week passed slowly, each day dragging under the weight of new schedules and too little sleep. Still, every night after finishing homework (or abandoning it halfway through), the group gathered in their dorm. Barty would play another song, sometimes pausing the record to explain lyrics or theories about what the band really meant.

“I think thats the best” Pandora asked one night after ‘Doing All Right.’

“Definitely not the best Panda, your crazy, really? Having songs like 'keep yourself alive'? Nah" Barty said. 

Evan rolled his eyes, but even he started humming bits of the songs under his breath. Regulus found himself looking forward to that hour before bed when everything slowed down. When Barty’s record spun and the rest of the world fell away.

On the fifth night, they were all sprawled across the dormitory like corpses after battle. Charms had been particularly brutal—Professor Flitwick had made them practice levitating their books onto the topmost shelf, which meant hours of repeated Wingardium Leviosa until their arms were sore, even though they had learned that spell last year, Flitwick insisted it was practice.

Regulus lay on his back, eyes half-closed, listening to Barty flip the vinyl.

Rhye. Seven Seas. Kingdoms and fantasy and strange names. He liked that. He liked that these Muggle musicians sang about things that weren’t mundane. That they built myths and magic with chords and lyrics.

✧

September 22,1973

On Saturday morning, Regulus woke up early. Earlier than usual.

The sun hadn’t yet risen above the lake, and everything was bathed in dull, grey light, a muted world where nothing seemed fully awake yet.

He sat up slowly, pulling on his casual clothes and shoes, moving through the motions with a mechanical sort of grace, and slipped out of the room without a sound.

The corridors were quiet. He liked them that way.

Before everyone else woke up, before the noise and expectation filled the air like smoke, thick and choking.

Here, in the emptiness, he could almost pretend he was the only one left. That there was no one waiting to judge him, to push or pull him in a hundred different directions.

He walked all the way to the Astronomy Tower and climbed the spiral stairs until he reached the top, his hand brushing lightly against the stone wall for balance.

He liked to spend his free time there. He wasn’t sure if he was technically allowed to be up there outside of lessons, but he never bothered to ask. It didn't matter.

Up there, it was silent.

Up there, he could see everything—the lake, the forest, the shadowed outlines of the grounds.

And at night, the stars. Though lately he had been avoiding the constellations that hurt the most.

Canis Major. Cassiopeia.

Names that just left an ache behind his ribs.

The cold wind bit at his face, pulling at his robe and tugging strands of his hair into his eyes, but he didn’t mind.

The sky was lightening—pink and pale blue, streaked with mist like a painting left unfinished.

He thought about the week.

About how different this year already felt.

How Sirius hadn’t looked at him once. Not at the feast, not in the corridors, not even by accident.

It was like he didn’t exist.

Or worse, like he did, but Sirius had made a conscious decision to pretend otherwise.

The pure blood first years, who knew about the Black family, were already whispering about the infamous Black brothers, but it was all wrong, all broken. They were strangers now, divided by anger and choices neither of them would take back.

Regulus swallowed hard, the cold scratching down his throat.

He remembered, sharply, how Sirius used to drag him out of bed when they were small, whispering about sneaking up to the attic to watch the stars before anyone noticed they were gone.

He remembered the way Sirius would laugh, loud and reckless, spinning wild stories about the constellations—making them seem like adventures instead of cages.

It had been easier, then. Before Sirius had decided he hated everything they were supposed to be.

Regulus hated it too, but couldn't bring himself to do it openly, he was too much of a coward for that.

He closed his eyes, letting the wind push against him, imagining for a second that it could knock all of it out of him. The guilt. The longing. The bitterness.

It didn’t.

When he opened his eyes again, the world looked no different.

But his thoughts shifted—almost against his will—to Barty.

Barty, who had looked at him this week—not with pity, not with disdain—but like he was... something.

Something worth noticing.

Barty didn’t flinch when Regulus spoke too softly, didn’t mock him when he hesitated before answering questions, didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was.

He seemed, strangely, to enjoy it. To enjoy him.

It wasn’t much.

A few shared glances. A smirk over breakfast. A long conversation in the library when Barty had slouched into the chair across from him without an invitation, and stayed, talking about old magic, about Quidditch, about nothing and everything.

But it was something.

It was enough to keep him breathing when everything else felt tight and small.

He thought about Freddie Mercury, belting “Keep Yourself Alive” like a man on fire, and smiled, just a little.

Maybe that was what this year was going to be.

Fire and wind. Noise and movement.

Something loud enough to drown out everything else.

He sat on the stone ledge and let the wind mess up his hair, let it chill him to the bone, and he stayed there as the sun began to climb, as the sky flushed warmer and the grey bled away into gold.

For a little while longer, he let himself believe it might be true.

✧

That night, Barty pulled out the record again.

Evan was lying on his bed nearby, had just finished transfiguration homework.

The dormitory was dim, lit only by a few candles floating close to the floor, throwing long, soft shadows over the stone walls.

Barty didn’t say anything. He just held the record up, like an invitation.

Regulus gave a slight nod, not trusting himself to speak.

The player crackled to life, the needle trembling slightly as it found its place.

The music filled the room, and Regulus pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead against them, letting the sound wash over him.

It had been easier, once.

Before everything shifted, cracked, and split open.

It had been easier, even when he had to endure their parents' wrath.

It had been easier, because Sirius had been there.

He remembered late nights when Sirius would sneak into his room, laughing too loudly, dragging Regulus out of bed to look at the stars from the window ledge.

He remembered thinking it would always be like that.

That there would always be someone reaching for him in the dark.

Now there was nothing.

Not even a glance across the Great Hall.

Not even a ghost of acknowledgment.

The bed creaked as Evan shifted, tossing his homework aside with a heavy sigh.

"Merlin," he muttered into the room, voice low, "its fucking depressive in here"

But there was no real annoyance in it.

Just tiredness. Familiar, aching tiredness.

Barty chuckled under his breath but didn’t answer.

He just leaned back against his bed, arms folded, watching the record spin.

Regulus didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t say anything.

He wanted to.

Wanted to say, It’s not the music. Its not the homework It’s me.

Wanted to say, I think something’s wrong with me. I think I’m disappearing.

Instead, he just sat there, breathing in the music, feeling it buzz against his skin.

After a while, Regulus rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. His breathing slowed, heavy and even. Hsqueezed his eyes shut for a moment, willing the tightness in his throat to go away.

When he opened them again, the room was the same.

The record still spun.

The candles still flickered.

Barty and Evan were still there. A now quiet, steady presence against the cold. It wasn’t much; it wasn’t enough to fix anything.

But it was something.

But maybe it actually was enough to fix everything, if he let it.

If he let himself fall into it, let himself believe that people could stay.

That they wouldn’t leave just because he wasn’t loud enough, brave enough, enough.

But Regulus didn’t know how to do that yet.

Or maybe he didn’t want to.

Maybe some part of him still clung to the broken shape of what he had lost.

Still clung to Sirius—angry, golden, reckless Sirius—like a boy clutching the last burning embers of a fire he didn't know how to put out.

Letting go would mean admitting that Sirius was never coming back to him.

That the door was closed for good.

That there was no apology, no late-night laughter waiting for him on the other side.

And Regulus wasn’t ready for that.

Maybe he never would be.

So he sat there, silent, letting the music coil around him like smoke, letting the warmth of Barty's and Evan’s presence anchor him to the room, to the now.

To something that was real, even if it wasn't the thing he still dreamed about at night.

His eyes stung, but he didn’t cry.

He just breathed.

In and out.

The candles flickered low.

The record kept spinning.

 

Chapter 21: ✧Second year:Lessons above the ground

September 28, 1973

The sky over Hogwarts hung low and heavy, a sheet of dull grey that pressed down on the Quidditch pitch. A thin drizzle clung to everything: the grass, the stands, the stiff new Slytherin robes that Regulus Black pulled tighter around himself.

It was late September, and the cold had already begun to seep into his bones, same as the Quidditch practices, and the search of a new seeker for the Slytherin team.

Good. He needed it.

He needed something sharp and real to focus on, to avoid, at least for a bit, his responsabilities.

Regulus shifted his grip on the broomstick, feeling the smooth wood slick with mist. He stood among a small group of hopefuls — third-years mostly — all trying out for the open Seeker position. His heart drummed steadily in his chest, but it wasn’t fear.

It was hunger.

He wanted this.

It hadn't been a demand from his parents, or some idle expectation. For once, it was something Regulus had chosen himself.

When the Captain, Wilkes, announced the tryouts, Regulus was the first to sign his name on the list pinned outside the Slytherin common room.

He remembered the sneers from some of the older students — Black’s little brother thinks he can fly — but he didn’t care.

Wilkes was watching him now with a flat, critical stare.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp-eyed, Anton Wilkes was a fifth year student, the kind of Slytherin that their House was proud of: ruthless, efficient, mean, impossible to impress; and he expected nothing less than perfection from his team.

Regulus had heard the stories — how Wilkes once threw a Beater off the team mid-season for missing a single block — and he knew this was not the kind of boy who gave second chances.

Good. Regulus didn’t want charity.

He wanted a place he earned.

He had spent the whole summer thinking about it: about James Potter, soaring across the Gryffindor pitch, arrogant and brilliant, flashing that unbearable grin as he caught the Quaffle or pulled off a risky feint.

Regulus remembered sitting in the stands, watching him, feeling a sick knot tighten in his gut.

James was good. Really good.

Everyone knew it.

But Regulus could be better.

He would be better.

"Black" Wilkes barked, voice cutting through the drizzle.

Regulus stepped forward, mounting his broom with smooth, practiced movements. Above him, the sky threatened heavier rain, and the wind picked up, tugging at his hair.

He leaned forward and kicked off.

The broom rose beneath him, steady and sure. The cold air slapped his face, fresh and biting, and Regulus pressed closer to the handle, slicing through the drizzle like an arrow.

He felt the pitch fall away below him — the tiny dots of teammates, the blurred green of the field — and something deep inside him cracked open.

For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn't thinking about Sirius.

Or about his mother’s withering stares.

Or about the empty corridors and locked doors of Grimmauld Place.

There was only this: the air, the speed, the fierce, defiant burn in his chest.

He twisted into a sharp dive, pulling up just before he hit the ground, the broom shuddering under the strain. A few people on the pitch shouted — whether in approval or warning, he didn’t know — but Regulus grinned, teeth bared against the cold.

He could do this.

He would fly faster, sharper, stronger than anyone else.

He would make them see him.

He would make him see. Just so he knew Regulus was better, or at least he could be.

The broom responded easily under his hands, every shift of weight and pressure sending it darting through the air. Wilkes — Anton Wilkes, as Regulus had learned — stood below, arms crossed over his chest, watching with a narrowed gaze that gave away nothing.

After a few minutes of basic flying drills, Wilkes barked.

 "Enough. Black, land."

Regulus obeyed immediately, boots hitting the damp grass with a soft thud. His fingers ached slightly from gripping the broom in the cold, but he straightened up, setting his jaw.

Wilkes stalked toward him, his long strides cutting through the mist.

"Seeker's not about flying pretty circles," he said curtly. "You need eyes like a hawk. Reflexes. Nerves."

Regulus said nothing, only nodded.

Good. He didn’t want speeches. He wanted tests.

Wilkes pulled a small silver ball from his pocket — not a real Snitch, but a charmed replica, fast and erratic enough to mimic one.

"Catch it," he ordered simply. "Fast as you can."

The ball shot into the air with a sharp whirr.

Regulus kicked off pretty quickly.

The chase was brutal: the ball zig-zagged unpredictably, diving and soaring in jagged patterns, and the mist blurred the edges of his vision. The cold stung his cheeks. His robes clung damply to his back.

But Regulus moved like a knife through the air — sharp, precise, relentless.

He didn’t think. He reacted.

A sudden drop — he twisted into a dive.

A sharp veer to the left — he flattened himself against the broom, adjusting instantly.

Down below, Wilkes watched, still as a statue.

Regulus's fingers closed around the ball just inches above the ground, his broom humming with the force of his pull-up. He landed smoothly, tossing the ball once in his hand before holding it out to Wilkes without a word.

For a moment, the Captain simply stared at him, unreadable.

Then — a small, almost imperceptible nod.

"You'll do," Wilkes said, voice clipped. "Be at practice tomorrow. Six o'clock. Don't be late."

A crack of thunder rumbled distantly across the mountains as Wilkes turned away to bark orders at the next hopeful.

Regulus exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his muscles.

It was only then — as he wiped the drizzle from his face — that he noticed them.

Across the pitch, a few Gryffindors were practicing too — throwing Quaffles in tight, complicated formations.

James Potter was among them, instantly recognizable even at a distance: his hair as hopelessly messy as always, red robes catching the wind, moving with that same effortless, maddening sort of grace that made it impossible not to look twice.

Sirius was there too, lounging on his broom a little lazier than the others, shouting teasing insults between throws.

Regulus's stomach twisted.

He could feel it — both of them had turned, just slightly, just enough.

Watching him.

Judging him.

James, with that assessing, skeptical look like he was deciding whether Regulus was worth a damn.

Sirius, with a twist of something uglier on his face — disgust, maybe, or disappointment.

Regulus met their stares for half a second before looking away, blood pounding in his ears.

It didn’t matter.

He had caught the snitch.

He had impressed Wilkes.

He had got into the team.

They didn't matter.

Tightening his grip on the broom, Regulus turned and walked off the pitch, the drizzle soaking into his hair and robes.

He didn't look back.

✧

The locker rooms were freezing.

Regulus lingered near the benches, pretending to tighten the laces of his boots as he listened to the others laughing and talking as they finished. It was always the same, in the sports or just normal showers in hogwarts, the ones they took everyday — he waited until they were gone, until the thud of lockers and the slap of wet towels faded into silence.

He couldn’t risk it.

He never had. 

Better to be cold and alone than to chance someone walking in, someone seeing what wasn't supposed to be seen.

The wrongness of it would be too obvious. Too dangerous.

When the last echo of footsteps disappeared, Regulus peeled off his damp practice robes and moved stiffly toward the showers.

The water, as always, was freezing. Not because there wasn't hot water, but because Regulus liked standing under the cold, almost painful one to punish himself, sometimes, with a reason, sometimes, just for everything.

He pipes groaned as he twisted the tap, and the thin stream warmed only slightly, never enough to chase the chill from his bones.

He stepped under it anyway, letting it run over him.

With his forehead pressed against the cold tile, Regulus closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, trying to ground himself.

He should have been happy.

He had flown well. Wilkes had approved. He was going to be Seeker.

It was everything he wanted.

It was everything.

It was.

Wasn't it?

But instead, what replayed in his mind was the memory of James Potter standing on the sidelines, his broom tucked under one arm, his wet hair dark against his forehead.

Watching.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly–or maybe a bit of it. But worse — indifferently.

Like Regulus wasn't worth noticing at all.

Heat flared in his chest despite the cold water.

I'll show him, Regulus thought, the words curling tight inside him. I'll show them all.

He tilted his face up into the spray, letting the frigid stream wash over him until his skin felt raw, scrubbing away the frustration, the shame, the restless, aching need to prove himself.

When he finally turned off the water, the silence felt heavier than before — but steadier, somehow.

He would be ready.

No matter what it cost.

✧

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled low, throwing shadows against the green-stoned walls. It was late — most of the younger students had already gone to bed — and the room smelled faintly of damp wool and smoke from the storm still raging outside.

Regulus sat curled in one of the deep leather chairs, a towel draped over his shoulders, hair still damp from the drizzle. His broom rested against the armrest, and he spun the fake Snitch idly between his fingers, the silver gleaming in the firelight.

Across from him, Panda perched cross-legged on the rug, plaiting strands of her pale hair together with nimble fingers. Evan— sprawled sideways in a second armchair — was flipping through a worn copy of Quidditch Tactics of the Twentieth Century, occasionally making disdainful noises under his breath.

And Barty sat on the edge of Evan's chair, now practically vibrating with excitement.

"Well?" Barty demanded, for what must have been the third time. "Did you make it or not?"

Regulus smirked slightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Barty fidget.

Then he flicked the silver ball once into the air and caught it neatly.

"Yeah," he said simply. "I'm in."

Pandora gasped, clapping her hands together with a delighted little laugh.

"Oi, Reg, that’s brilliant!"

Barty let out a loud whoop, slapping Regulus on the back hard enough to jolt him forward.

"I knew it! I bloody knew you would!" he crowed, grinning wide. "You're going to be the best Seeker Slytherin's had in decades, you'll see!"

Evan snorted without looking up from his book.

"That's a low bar," he drawled. "Last year's Seeker couldn't catch a cold."

Regulus rolled his eyes and giggled, but couldn't suppress the flush of satisfaction warming his chest. He leaned back, letting the chair swallow him, and allowed himself a small, private smile.

Pandora shifted closer, tilting her head at him, her braid slipping over one shoulder.

"Did Wilkes say anything?"

Regulus shrugged, tossing the ball again.

"He said, 'You'll do.'"

Evan chuckled dryly.

"High praise from Wilkes. Means he actually thinks you're worth something."

Regulus's smile grew a little sharper.

Good. That was what he wanted.

Not empty words. Not pity.

Proof.

Barty jabbed him with an elbow, nearly knocking the Snitch out of his hand.

"You have to practice loads," he said seriously. "You have to crush Gryffindor this year. Potter's good, but you're better. I bet you’ll wipe that smug look off his face."

At the mention of Potter, Regulus felt a flicker of the old bitterness twist inside him — the memory of those sharp, maddeningly perceptive eyes on the pitch earlier, steady and unreadable in a way that made Regulus want to look away and look again all at once.

I'll be better, he thought. I'll show them all.

Pandora gave him a bright, mischievous smile.

"We'll be your biggest fans," she said, leaning her chin on her knees. "Even if you fall flat on your face."

Regulus laughed — quietly, but real — and the fire crackled louder, like it was laughing with them.

For the first time in a long time, he felt something light and fierce stir in his chest.

Hope.

He was going to fly.

And he was going to win.

✧

Chapter 22: ☼All Green and Steel and Bloody Brilliant, Slytherin Prince.

James hadn’t meant to watch.

Honestly, he hadn’t. It was just supposed to be a quick fly-around with Sirius—nothing serious, just some practice loops to clear their heads. They’d both been restless all morning, snapping at each other in class, barely listening to McGonagall’s lecture on Transfiguration theory. Sirius had tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at James with the word 'Fly?' scrawled across it in messy but yet perfect handwriting, and James had nodded without hesitation.

They needed it. Needed the air. The movement. The freedom.

But now James couldn’t take his bloody eyes off the other side of the pitch.

Slytherin tryouts.

And right in the middle of it all—Regulus Black.

“You’ve got to be joking,” James muttered, hovering midair as he stared across the field.

Sirius followed his gaze and made a sound that was halfway between a scoff and a groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

James turned to look at him. “He didn’t tell you?”

Sirius laughed humorlessly. “He hasn’t said a word to me since Christmas. But of course he’s trying out. If I’m on the team, then he has to be.”

James watched as Regulus mounted his broom like he was being knighted rather than getting ready to fly. Everything about him was sharp and neat—his posture perfect, his expression unreadable. The green and silver of his scarf looked brand new. It probably was.

“What position do you reckon he’s trying for?” Peter called from the stands, squinting at the line of students.

“Seeker,” Remus said without looking up from his book. “Heard Mulciber and Snape talking about it in Potions.”

James sighed. “Of course.”

It was the most Regulus position there was—no teamwork, no passing, no grit. Just glory, solo. A clean, polished role for a clean, polished boy.

He caught the Quaffle Sirius tossed him and passed it back harder than necessary.

“Easy,” Sirius said with a smirk. “We’re not in a match.”

“I know,” James muttered.

But he didn’t stop glancing over.

Across the pitch, Regulus was lifting off.

And fuck, he was good.

Not just competent. Not just decent-for-a-second-year. No, he was effortless. He moved like the air bent to him, like his broom had been built to obey. There was no flailing, no overcorrection—he flew in lines, crisp and precise, slicing through the sky with every turn.

It was annoying.

It was irritating that someone like Regulus could be that smooth. He wasn't just angry because Sirius was angry. He was because Sirius had told him everything about his little brother, his family—the way he acted like a prince at home, the way he never stood up for Sirius, unlike he did. The way he always chose to be silent when it mattered.

Regulus Black was cold. Pretentious. A perfect little puppet.

Regulus Black, was again, a coward.

And now he was flying like he owned the bloody sky.

Sirius didn’t speak. He was watching too, arms crossed tightly, jaw set.

“Maybe he won’t make it,” Peter offered hesitantly from the stands.

James shot him a look.

“Mate,” Sirius said darkly, “he’ll make it. You think they’ll pass on a Black? Even if he were shit, they'd put him on just for the name.”

James frowned. “He’s not shit, though.”

Sirius’s eyes flicked to him.

“I mean, he’s not,” James said quickly. “He’s fast. Balanced. Controlled.”

“That’s not flying, that’s posing,” Sirius snapped. “He’s rehearsed it. Probably spent all summer in some private pitch practicing until he could look perfect.”

James didn’t reply.

He wasn’t sure Sirius was wrong. But he wasn’t sure he was right, either.

Because whatever Regulus had done to get that good—it had worked.

They flew a few more laps. James forced himself to focus, to fall into the familiar rhythm of practice. Pass, dodge, loop, feint. He shouted when Sirius got too close and grinned when he outmaneuvered him in a dive. It felt good—real, messy, unpredictable.

Unlike what was happening across the pitch.

Eventually they landed. James rolled his shoulders and shook out his hands.

“I need water,” he muttered.

Sirius nodded and followed him toward the stands.

Peter tossed James a bottle. Remus was still flipping through a battered old book but clearly had been watching more than reading.

“So,” he said mildly, “your brother’s in.”

“What?” James asked.

Remus tilted his head toward the Slytherin side. Sure enough, Regulus was standing off to one side while the rest of the hopefuls cleared out. Wilkes—the current captain—was walking away without even glancing at him.

“He didn’t shake his hand,” Peter noted.

“Because Wilkes a prick,” Remus said flatly. “He doesn’t like Regulus. He doesn't actually like anyone.Thinks he’s too clean. Too clever.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Thought he’d love that. Isn’t that what Slytherins go for?”

Sirius shrugged. “Guess hes mad Regulus will take all the looks instead of him" 

“Well,” Peter said with forced brightness, “he’s Seeker now. No team required, hes the golden boy"

Sirius didn’t laugh. Sometimes, James could see through Sirius' eyes when they talked about his brother. It wasn't all hate he held for him, or maybe, it was. He couldn't be sure, bit he knew Sirius didn't let out all he thought.

James looked back at the pitch. Regulus was walking toward the castle alone, broom tucked neatly under one arm. Not smiling. Not triumphant. Just… calm.

Like it had been inevitable.

Something in James’s stomach twisted.

It was just competitiveness.

Just irritation.

Not… anything else.

He took another long sip of water.

He wasn't jealous. 

☼

That night, the Great Hall buzzed with news. Marlene Mckinnon, a girl their age, friends with Lily, and Mary Macdonald; ran to them during dinner.

“Did you hear?” She said. “Slytherin’s new Seeker—Black’s little brother.”

“Is he good?” Lily asked.

“Dunno. Looks like he thinks he is.” Lily said, while Mary ate her soup, clearly not interested on it a single bit.

James kept his head down, stabbing at his mashed potatoes.

Across the table, Sirius was dead silent, eyes fixed on his plate.

“You alright, mate?” James asked.

Sirius nodded once. “Fine.”

But his hands were clenched.

“Do you want to hex his broom?” Peter whispered. “We could do it.”

James cracked a grin, but it didn’t last.

Because deep down, he didn’t want to hex Regulus.

He wanted to beat him. Properly. Fairly. In the air. To show he was actually better. 

He wasn't sure if he wanted to prove it to people, or to himself, but decided to ignore that feeling inside him.

☼

A few days later, they crossed paths in the corridor.

James wasn’t expecting it. He was coming out of the library, late at night, rubbing at his temples after two hours of pretending to study. And there he was—Regulus. Alone, as always, walking like he owned the space around him.

They almost bumped into each other at the corner.

Regulus stopped short.

James stared.

He hadn’t been this close to him in ages. Up close, Regulus was all fine features and sharp edges. His uniform was immaculate, his tie was tight, perfect and straight. His eyes, pale and unreadable, met James’s without a flinch.

Neither of them said a word.

And then Regulus stepped around him and kept walking.

Like he hadn’t even seen him.

James stood there, stunned.

And angry.

Not because he wanted attention—he didn’t give a toss what Regulus thought of him. But that cool, detached silence—it grated. It made James want to shout something. To force a reaction.

☼

October 7, 1973

The next time they were on the pitch at the same time, James told himself he wasn’t watching.

But he was.

Regulus practiced alone, near the goalposts. Tight circles. Quick dives. Controlled ascents. Everything crisp. Everything silent.

James flew harder, faster, more recklessly.

He wanted the sky to remember his name. 

He started watching Regulus while he practised. Just to learn his strategies.

☼

October 15, 1973

By the end of the week, everyone was talking about the first match of the season, a bit late that year due to some repairing they were doing to the Quidditch pitch,—Gryffindor vs. Slytherin.

James felt the usual fire in his chest. He lived for matches. The adrenaline, the strategy, the roar of the crowd. He loved how he felt when he was flying, he felt free.

But this time, it felt different.

This time, the Seeker wasn’t some anonymous Slytherin twat.

It was Regulus Black.

And James didn’t know what he wanted more—

To win.

To humiliate him.

To prove Sirius they still better.

To prove himself right?

Or maybe—just maybe—

To understand how someone so untouchable could make him feel so small.

Notes:

This is not a Jegulus moment. James is merely obsessively analysing Regulus’s every move out of pure, heterosexual spite. Obviously. It’s not gay, he just loathes him with laser focus, alright???
Looove this chapter. James’ POV is a bit of a challenge to write — im so wrapped up in Regulus’ perspective that it’s hard to untangle, but that’s half the fun, innit?

Chapter 23: ✧Second year: Postmarked from nowhere

October 24 ,1973

Professor Derwent was clearly trying to murder them. Slowly. With homework. Alaric Derwent, their defence against the dark arts teacher, was absolutely crazy.

“I’m not doing it,” Barty said flatly, stabbing a sausage like it had personally insulted him–again, he seemed to have a stabbing kink or something– “I refuse. He can fail me. I don’t care.”

“Yes you do,” said Pandora, not even looking up from her toast. “You always care when it’s too late.”

Barty scoffed. “That’s different. That’s about pride. This is about injustice.”

“He gave us two feet of theory,” Evan muttered. “On fear. Fear. How are we supposed to write that much about fear?”

“He wants an essay, practice dueling, a written quiz, and homework questions,” Pandora added, ticking them off on her fingers. “It’s Defence Against the Dark Arts, not Advanced Literary Analysis.”

Dorcas sighed through her nose. “I love Defence. But even I think this is ridiculous.”

Regulus sipped his tea, watching his classmates suffer with mild amusement. “Didn’t he say this was supposed to be the ‘most practical year yet’?”

“He said it would be hands-on,” Evan corrected. “Instead, I’m writing about how fear affects reaction speed while feeling fear about the deadline.”

“He said we’ve ‘lost discipline,’” Dorcas said. “And then gave a speech about how the mind must be ‘as sharp as the wand.’”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he lost his mind.”

Pandora giggled. “I mean, he did call me ‘Polly’ last week.”

Barty groaned. “He thinks I’m called Barny. Barny Crouch Jr. Kill me now.”

“I don’t know why he expects us to retain anything when I spend half the class trying not to fall asleep,” Evan said.

“Because he drones,” Pandora replied. “He could be reading the ingredients off a potion bottle and I’d still end up with drool on my desk.”

Dorcas looked mildly horrified. “I re-did my notes three times last night just to make sure I got the wording right.”

Barty slammed down his fork. “You’re the problem. You enable him.”

“I like passing my exams, sorry,” she said, not sorry at all.

Evan leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying, if the goal is to make us afraid so we remember more… it’s working. I’ve never been more scared in my life.”

Barty grinned. “Maybe that was the lesson all along. Psychological warfare.”

The table went quiet for a moment, each of them contemplating the pile of essays, quizzes, and revision that awaited.

“I hate school,” Evan said.

“Same,” said Barty.

“oh youre lazyness in person” said Pandora."i think thats complaining too much"

Dorcas took a sip of juice. “I’m still going to ace it.”

“We know,” they all said at once.

Regulus smirked. “At least we’ll die educated.” He joked, and they laughed.

"Yeah, if me make it to the christmast break" Dorcas said, still giggly.

✧

They made it through the day with minimal bloodshed—mostly metaphorical—and dragged themselves back to the Slytherin dormitory just as the torches in the corridors flickered to life.

Regulus was still rubbing at the ink smudge on his hand from Charms when Evan stopped dead in the middle of the room.

“What is that?”

Regulus looked up. On Evan’s bed, placed neatly atop his pillow, was a folded piece of pale pink parchment with red hearts and a ribbon. No owl. No name. Just… there.

Barty raised an eyebrow. 

"Did you finally get cursed?”

Evan blinked, then crossed the room and picked it up like it might explode.

 “There’s glitter on this.” 

He unfolded the letter. His eyes moved quickly across the page. Then slower. Then he just… stared.

Barty stepped closer, arms crossed. “Well? What does it say? Did someone confess hating your haircut?”

Evan didn’t answer, as he read the letter. He then passed it to Regulus without a word.

Regulus read.

 Hi Evan,

I know this is weird, but I like you. A lot. I don’t know why, you just… you seem cute. And I like how you talk, and how you laugh when you say mean things quietly.

I always see you at breakfast. One time I looked at you and you looked back, I think. Maybe not. But I got nervous anyway.

I don’t want you to know who I am yet, I’m too shy. Maybe one day.

I’m not weird, I swear, i just like you really much.

—secret admirer

He blinked once. Twice. Then snorted.

“No way,” said Barty, looking at the letter. “You got a love letter? In glitter ink?”

“It’s not funny,” Evan muttered, ears turning pink. “Who the hell wrote this?”

“I like how she says she’s not weird,” Regulus said, “which means she’s definitely weird.”

Barty stealed the letter from Evan's hand and ran to the common room with Pandora and Dorcas.

"Oi! Panda, Dorcas! Look at this!" He said, handing them the letter. Before Evan could reach it.

They read it quietly.

Dorcas looked thoughtful. “It’s kind of sweet. In a twelve-year-old-trying-to-be-mysterious way.”

“I bet it’s that second-year who always drops her cauldron near you,” Pandora said. “Or the one from Herbology who stares at you instead of the plants.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Evan said quickly, folding the letter and shoving it in his pocket like it might bite.

Regulus watched him, head tilted slightly. For someone so vocal about not caring, Evan looked… rattled. And maybe a little pleased, even though he trued not to show it off.

Interesting.

Chapter 24: ✧Second year: Dear Evan, who?

Summary:

Thanks for reading! Last chapter actually got many hits, im so thanksfull! If you enjoyed the chapter, do feel free to leave a kudo or drop a comment — even just a simple “<3” means the world. I'd absolutely love hearing your thoughts on Evan, Barty, or those letters 👀

November 7, 1973

Evan had spent the past two weeks scrutinizing every girl their age in an increasingly desperate attempt to discover who had been sending him the anonymous letters—because no, it hadn't just been one letter, but four, each more embarrassingly heartfelt than the last. He paid attention to how they spoke, searching for familiar phrases or turns of phrase that matched the letters’ tone. He tried to catch someone staring at him for a second too long in the corridors, or whispering to a friend when he walked by. He lingered in the common room and at the Great Hall, eavesdropping on conversations that might give him a clue. But despite all his efforts—despite the subtle interrogations and the hours of overthinking—he’d come up with absolutely nothing.

At first, Barty had found the whole thing hilarious. He’d teased Evan relentlessly about his mysterious admirer, throwing out ridiculous guesses and making exaggerated romantic comments every time Evan opened that letter. He even joked that Evan was finally getting a girlfriend. But as time went on—and the second, third, and eventually fourth letter arrived—something in Barty’s attitude began to shift. Evan, who at first had laughed it off, started to show real curiosity, even excitement. He spent time reading and rereading the letters, keeping them tucked safely in his trunk, and sometimes staring off with a strange look on his face, imagining who might be behind them. That’s when Barty started acting... different. He stopped joking, stopped teasing when the letters came up. He began insisting Evan was wasting his time with something so “pointless” and “childish,” claiming it was clearly going nowhere. Whenever someone mentioned the letters in passing, Barty would scowl or roll his eyes, his voice turning sharp, almost annoyed. Evan didn't seemed to notice the shift, or maybe was to busy with this misterious girl to care, but they all did—and they didn’t quite know what to make of it.

The change puzzled Regulus more than he wanted to admit. He couldn’t understand why Barty, who usually didn’t care about things like that was suddenly so bothered by a few silly love letters Evan was getting. At first, he had assumed it was just Barty being his usual dramatic self—jealous of attention that wasn’t directed at him, maybe. But the more he watched, the more it seemed like something deeper, something sharper, was at play. Barty wasn’t just annoyed—he was tense, restless, like the whole thing struck a nerve he didn’t want to acknowledge. He found himself going over it in his head, again and again, trying to piece it together. Why did it upset Barty so much that someone liked Evan? Why did he look away every time Evan smiled reading a new letter? Why did his voice turn cold when he said it didn’t matter?

But no matter how many times he turned the questions over, he couldn’t find the answer. And for some reason, that bothered him almost as much as Barty’s behavior.

✧

November 13, 1973

That morning at breakfast, Pandora and Dorcas were full of energy, their heads close together as they whispered and laughed over their newest obsession: figuring out the identity of Evan’s secret admirer. They were spinning wild theories, bouncing names and ideas off each other like it was the most thrilling mystery Hogwarts had seen in years. Evan, for once, had actually joined in with enthusiasm, grinning as he listened to their speculation. He even grabbed a spare bit of parchment and began jotting down what he dramatically called "investigative notes"—cross-referencing handwriting styles and common phrases, eliminating suspects like he was solving a murder case.

By the time their toasts and porridge had gone cold, they’d reached a conclusion: it couldn’t possibly be a Slytherin girl—Evan would’ve noticed. Probably not a Gryffindor either, too bold, too noisy. That narrowed it down to Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Regulus, sitting nearby, wasn’t part of the conversation–not cause they weren't including him, they did, and he chose to stay silent–but found himself listening closely anyway. He followed their reasoning, occasionally nodding, and even started mentally listing all the girls their age from those two houses, sorting through faces and voices like he was playing along silently.

But while everyone else at the table seemed animated by the mystery, Regulus’s gaze eventually shifted to Barty, who was seated just across from them, absently stirring his porridge. The bowl had long gone cold, and he hadn’t taken a single bite. He wasn’t even pretending to eat—just pushing the spoon around in circles with a vacant, tight-lipped expression. His shoulders were stiff, jaw set, eyes distant.

He looked upset. Really upset.

Regulus had tried talking to him earlier that morning, just a casual comment about the weather, or maybe a snide remark about the way a first-year had tripped over their shoelaces in the common room—but Barty had brushed him off. Pandora and Dorcas had tried too, even joking with him in their usual way, but he hadn’t even mustered a smirk. There was no case. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to laugh, didn’t want to eat.

And the more Regulus watched him, the more that tight feeling in his chest grew—uncomfortable and restless, like he was standing too close to a fire without knowing why it was burning.

✧

November 20, 1973

Defense Against the Dark Arts started worse than anyone expected. Professor Derwent greeted them with his usual severe expression and that voice that always sounded irritated, even when there was no reason for it. The moment they stepped into the classroom, he demanded the piles of homework he'd assigned the previous week—three essays, two comparison charts, and a glossary of spells that honestly felt more like seventh-year material than second.

"I don’t care if you left your scrolls in the common room, if it rained on them, or if a ferret ate them," Derwent said, pacing between desks. "If you don’t have everything I asked for, you get a zero."

Regulus dropped his pile of parchment on the desk with a sigh. Evan, sitting beside him, muttered something that definitely sounded like an insult. Pandora arrived a few seconds later, breathless, the ink on her last page still drying. Dorcas didn’t even bother to hide her glare as she handed in her papers. Barty had arrived at least ten minutes before everyone, but sat alone at the other corner of the classroom.

Once everyone was seated, Derwent raised a stack of new scrolls and began passing them around.

"Theoretical exam," he announced, like he was handing out chocolate frogs. "You have forty minutes. No talking. No looking around. And yes, everything is on it."

Regulus picked up his quill with resignation and glanced at the title. "Identification and Classification of Dark Creatures: Part I: X"

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered as he filled in his name at the top. “Who fights off a boggart by writing an essay?”

Evan barely suppressed a laugh.

Derwent didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care, because he returned to his desk with a satisfied huff, as if he’d just handed them a gift and expected gratitude in return.

Fifteen minutes of silence passed, broken only by the scratching of quills. Regulus was focused on a question about grindylows, his brows furrowed, when he felt something tap his elbow. He looked down: a folded note. Evan.

He opened it subtly.

“Answers to 4 and 6 pls, don’t hate me.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but still scribbled the answers in tiny writing—just enough for Evan to decipher—and slid the parchment back under the desk with a nudge of his foot.

Evan gave him a grateful grin, the kind that could've made anyone think he hadn’t just asked for help cheating on a test. Regulus shook his head and turned back to his own parchment. He was halfway through a long-winded explanation about Flobberworms when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Evan was still writing. Head low, mouth twitching with concentration, quill moving quickly. Too quickly.

And then—

“Mr. Rosier,” Derwent said sharply.

The room went dead silent.

Regulus’s hand froze mid-word.

“Bring me that exam. Now.”

Evan’s face drained of color. He stood up without a word, his fingers clutching the parchment like it might crumble. He walked to the front, slow and stiff, and placed the scroll on Derwent’s desk.

The professor didn’t even look at it. He crossed his arms.

“Sit down. Zero. You might wanna cheat better next time"

Evan turned and walked back to his seat, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Regulus watched him from the corner of his eye. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw tight. He didn’t say anything.

Neither did Regulus.

The silence that followed was heavier than before, stretched taut like a string ready to snap. Pandora stopped writing. Dorcas looked back and forth between the two of them. Regulus lowered his gaze and forced himself to keep writing, even though his mind was blank now, all the definitions and classifications leaking out of his head like water through a sieve.

He kept thinking about Evan’s expression, he didn't look like he cared much, hadn't even tried to deny it or argue.

Ten more minutes passed. Then five. Derwent called for the exams to be handed in, and the shuffle of parchment and dragging of chairs broke the silence. Regulus handed his scroll in last.

As they were leaving the classroom, no one said anything.

But just before they reached the staircase, Evan stopped and turned to Regulus.

“Thanks for trying,” he said, voice quiet.

Regulus blinked. “You got caught.”

“Yeah. Still.”

Then he walked off, hands shoved into his pockets.

Regulus stood there for a second longer, unsure why his chest felt tight. Barty brushed past him a second later, giving him a look that was unreadable—maybe annoyed, maybe disappointed, maybe both.

“Idiots,” Barty muttered under his breath.

Regulus didn’t know if he meant Evan, him, or everyone.

Chapter 25: ✧Second year: Twisted Aims Mid-air

December 2, 1973

 

The morning of the Quidditch match dawned bright and cold, the sky clear except for a few streaks of cloud that promised perfect flying weather. It was the first match of the year. They usually started in october but they'd been fixing the pitch by that time.

The castle buzzed with energy. Students from every house were talking in hushed, excited voices, exchanging predictions and friendly bets in corridors and over breakfast. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who weren’t playing, had taken sides—some because they had friends on the teams, others because they just loved the drama of a Slytherin versus Gryffindor match.

Regulus could feel it too. There was something electric in the air. Everyone in the common room had gotten up early, dressed in house colors, and gathered around him at breakfast. Dorcas had ruffled his hair and told him not to fall off his broom. Pandora made him eat half her toast. Even Evan, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, gave him a thumbs-up and muttered, 

 

“Don’t let those lions win.”

But it was Barty’s presence that stood out the most.

He hadn’t spoken much to any of them for the past few weeks—not since the letters started arriving for Evan. But this morning, he sat across from Regulus and actually looked at him.

 

"You’ve got this," he said simply, then went back to buttering his bread.

 

It wasn’t much, but it felt like everything.

 

✧

 

Regulus didn’t feel nervous. Not really. He had trained for this, and he knew he was good. He’d been preparing for weeks. His grip on the broom was steady. His mind was clear. The locker rooms were filled with the sound of padding footsteps and quiet pep talks, but he stayed focused.

That is, until they stepped out onto the pitch.

The Gryffindor team entered just as Slytherin’s players lined up. James was already laughing with his teammates, tossing his hair back in that effortlessly annoying way. He looked so confident, so sure of himself, like he belonged in the sky.

Regulus’s stomach flipped.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as fourteen players shot into the air. The Quaffle zipped between red and green robes in a blur. Bludgers flew in every direction. The commentator, a loud Hufflepuff fifth-year, screamed updates with barely-contained glee.

Regulus kept his eyes sharp. The golden Snitch was elusive, but he’d caught a glimpse of it once, darting near the Gryffindor goalposts, before it vanished again.

Above him, chasers zoomed past. Sirius was playing aggressively as always, knocking Quaffles from Slytherin hands with precision. The Gryffindor Beaters sent Bludgers whizzing past heads and broom handles.

The score was neck and neck.

Regulus kept circling, higher and higher. He saw James below him, passing the Quaffle, dodging players, shouting instructions. Regulus didn’t want to admit how graceful he looked in the air, how much he seemed born for this.

Then—there. A glint of gold.

Regulus dove.

His broom tipped down sharply, wind rushing past his ears. The crowd gasped as he streaked across the pitch, his eyes locked on the Snitch. The Gryffindor Seeker noticed a second too late and began chasing him.

It was close. So close.

Regulus could almost feel the fluttering wings under his fingers.

But something moved in the corner of his eye—a Bludger, spinning fast, heading right for him.

Someone shouted. Regulus turned his head just in time to see James.

James, who had seen it coming. James, who had pulled a bat from one of the Gryffindor Beaters—ripped it straight from their grip mid-air. He was rushing toward the Bludger, arm raised.

He swung.

The Bludger veered slightly—but not enough.

It slammed into Regulus’s wrist with a sickening crack.

Pain shot up his arm. He cried out, lost control for a split second, and the broom dipped dangerously. The Snitch darted away.

Regulus clutched his broom with his good hand, heart pounding. His wrist was throbbing, useless. He felt like he might be sick.

The Gryffindor Seeker zoomed past him.

A moment later, the whistle blew. The game was over.

Gryffindor had won.

The stands erupted into wild cheers, but the Slytherin section was silent.

Regulus descended slowly, white-faced. As soon as he landed, Madam Hooch rushed over, wand out, examining his arm. It was broken. Clean break, she said. He’d need to go to the Hospital Wing.

But no one was listening to her.

They were all looking at James.

A group of Slytherins had already surrounded him, shouting. Their voices loud, accusing. 

 

"You did it on purpose! You stole the bat and hit the Bludger at him!"

 

James was stunned. “What? No—I was trying to stop it—”

 

Barty stood behind Evan, arms crossed. “Sure you were, Potter.”

 

Even some of the Hufflepuffs in the stands were murmuring. From their angle, and because of the thick clouds, it really had looked like James had ripped the bat from a teammate just to aim at Regulus.

Regulus wanted to speak up. He wanted to say that wasn’t what happened. He’d seen it. James had tried to help–thing that Regulus couldn't deny, surpirsed him.

But the pain in his arm was blinding, and the words wouldn’t come.

Professor McGonagall and Slughorn arrived, trying to calm the crowd. After a quick, tense discussion between the heads of houses and Madam Hooch, the verdict was announced:

Thirty points from Gryffindor for endangering another player.

Gasps. Shouts.

James’s face went pale. He didn’t argue. He just looked at Regulus, eyes wide and searching, like he was silently asking for something—understanding, maybe. Forgiveness.

Regulus looked away.

 

✧

 

 

The infirmary smelled like lavender and something antiseptic. Regulus sat on one of the high beds, cradling his arm against his chest as Madam Pomfrey bustled around gathering potions and muttering under her breath.

He was still in his Quidditch robes, his hair a mess, mud on his shoes. His heart was finally slowing down, but the pain throbbed with every beat.

Madam Pomfrey returned and gently examined the injury again, this time with more care. “Clean break,” she confirmed, just like Hooch had said. “You’re lucky it didn’t shatter. You’ll need a Skele-Gro dose tonight, and rest. No broom for a month at least.”

He just nodded, numb.

Outside the window, he could still hear the faint echo of the crowd dispersing.

He should have said something. About James.

He hadn’t meant to hurt him, he had tried to stop the Bludger. He’d taken the bat because there hadn’t been time to yell.

But how could he defend James in front of everyone? It would be almost like betraying Slytherin, mostly because they were now winning the house cup, because how Griffindor had been rested thirty points, they were now above them.

He sighed and leaned back against the pillow.

He didn’t even notice he had started crying until Madam Pomfrey pressed a cold cloth to his forehead and told him to rest.

He didn’t ask if anyone was waiting outside.

He didn’t want to know.

He didn't want to know why he was crying.

Stress, maybe. The shock of the hit? Or the weight on his back for having–and maybe even wanting– to stay silent, to not say what in reality happened, cause it would affect him, and his house. 

Chapter 26: ✧Second year: Tuff Luck

Summary:

Last chapter before christmas break! Wonder what awaits...
I'd appreciate if you left some kudos and comment, love ya <3

December 11, 1973

It had started off as a good day. Cold, yes—but quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your bones and made everything feel a little slower, a little softer.

His wrist was better due to the skele-gro dose he took, but he still couldn't play Quidditch till january. The semester was winding down, and with only a few days left before the winter break, there was a certain calmness in the air. That week, the professors had all eased up on the workload. No tests, no essays, no impossible assignments. Just light classes to keep them occupied until they could pack their trunks and head home. That day had been especially gentle: herbology in the morning, then astronomy, and finally potions. A short day, and for once, a peaceful one.

Regulus had been savoring it. Every quiet hour, every lazy moment between classes felt like a small, borrowed gift. These were the last few calm days before he’d be forced to return home—before he’d have to become Cassiopeia again. The name felt like a curse every time it echoed through the manor’s cold halls. At home, he was expected to be perfect. Silent. Obedient. Unquestionably Black. And worst of all, he would have to see Sirius again.

Oh, Sirius.

Just the thought of his brother’s name made something twist in his chest. Every day, Regulus mourned the loss of him. Not just the physical distance, but the absence of the bond they used to share. Sirius had been his right hand once—or, well, his left, considering Regulus was left-handed. Not that it mattered. He’d been forced to learn to write with his right hand as a child anyway; left-handedness was a "defect" in his mother's eyes. Another thing to fix. Another thing to bury.

He knew what awaited him at Grimmauld Place: the cold stares, the judgment, the suffocating expectations. But nothing weighed heavier than the thought of Sirius looking at him with hate in his eyes. The way he loathed him now, like Regulus was nothing but a traitor. Like he had chosen to be born into this family. Chosen to stay.

And it hurt—God, it hurt more than he would ever dare to admit, even to himself.

Later that day, as was routine, he waited until all the other boys had left the showers. He always did. He couldn’t risk someone noticing, someone seeing something they shouldn’t. But when he finally undressed and glanced down, his breath caught.

There it was—a fucking red lake staining his underwear.

Really? Now?

His heart began to race as panic surged through him. Not again. Not here. Not today.

Without wasting another second, he threw on his robes and practically sprinted through the common room, his eyes scanning the space to make sure no one was paying attention. The stairs leading to the girls’ dormitory were enchanted to keep boys out, but the magic never stopped him. Not someone like him.

He reached Pandora’s room and knocked once before slipping inside.

Pandora was sitting cross-legged on the floor, parchment spread out in front of her, scribbling something with a quill. Dorcas sat beside her, head tilted in confusion the moment Regulus entered. Her eyebrows shot up—clearly shocked to see a boy in the girls’ room, and even more confused by how he had managed to get past the stairs.

Pandora looked between Dorcas and Regulus, clearly taking in the situation with practiced grace. She smiled gently, like she always did, and rose to her feet.

"Pads? Tampons?" she asked, as casually as if she'd been offering tea.

"Umh... yeah, pads," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks were burning. He didn’t meet Dorcas’s eyes. She was his friend, of course, but he hadn’t told anyone—anyone—besides Pandora about this. Not Barty. Not Evan. Not even when the pain curled in his lower stomach so bad he could barely walk.

Pandora nodded and disappeared into her trunk, returning a moment later with a small bag that looked like it had enough supplies to last him weeks. She handed it to him with a soft, knowing look. Then, both of them turned to Dorcas, who hadn’t said a word.

Regulus shifted on his feet, clinging to the bag like a lifeline. His hands were shaking.

"You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to," Dorcas said gently, her expression softening when she saw the fear flickering in his eyes. "Really."

Regulus opened his mouth, then closed it again. Swallowed hard. He looked down, then back up.

"No, I—" He took a deep breath. "I want to. You’re my friend, really. And I trust you."

Dorcas didn’t say anything at first—just nodded, her expression soft in a way that made Regulus feel a little less exposed. Pandora placed a gentle hand on his back, steady and reassuring, like she was silently reminding him that he was safe here.

Regulus swallowed hard. There was a tight knot in his throat, the kind that showed up whenever he thought too much about all of this. But right now, he couldn’t not think about it. He couldn’t not say it.

Dorcas didn’t speak at first—just blinked, her eyes darting between him and Pandora with quiet confusion. Regulus could feel the panic tightening in his chest, like a hand around his lungs. He hadn’t planned this. He wasn’t ready. But the blood on his underwear had forced his hand.

Pandora gave him a reassuring look, steady and calm, the kind of look that always made things feel a little less terrifying.

Regulus took a deep breath. His voice felt trapped in his throat, but he forced it out anyway.

"I need you not to freak out.” he said, barely above a whisper. 

Dorcas nodded slowly, her expression softening.

He looked down, fingers tightening around the bag of pads. “You know how… everyone sees me as a guy. And I am a guy. That’s not the lie.” He swallowed hard. “But I wasn’t born that way. Not… officially. Everyone thinks I’m just another boy, but I wasn’t—at least, not at birth.”

Dorcas frowned slightly, trying to follow.

"I was assigned female at birth. No one knows. Not Evan, not Barty, not anyone. Just Panda. She’s the only one I’ve ever told.” he said. The word felt heavy, sharp on his tongue. He didn't mention Sirius, of course. But he had been the first one.

He finally looked up, waiting for the shock, the questions, the distance that always came in his nightmares.

But Dorcas didn’t pull away. She didn’t even blink.

Instead, she let out a breath and said, “Okay.”

Regulus stared at her. “Okay?”

Dorcas gave a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. I mean, it doesn’t change anything. You’re still Regulus. You’ve always been Regulus. I just didn’t know this part of the story.”

He blinked rapidly, as if her words didn’t quite make sense.

“You’re not… weirded out?” he asked, voice shaky.

“Of course not,” she said, scooting a little closer on the floor. “I don’t care how you were born. I care that you’re you. And I’m glad you told me.”

Pandora grinned at him from the side, proud and calm as always.

Regulus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders slumped a little, tension finally starting to melt from his body.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “Really.”

“Anytime,” Dorcas replied, gently nudging his arm. “Also, for the record, if you ever need pads or anything again—just ask. We’ve got your back, Reg.”

 Regulus smiled.

✧

December 15th

The sky outside was a dull grey, heavy with the promise of snow that never quite came. Inside the second-year Slytherin boys’ dormitory, warmth clung to the walls, filled with the smell of folded clothes, parchment, and the ever-present hint of Evan’s cologne.

Regulus sat cross-legged on the floor, trunk open, robes and books half-packed. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of a green scarf. Barty was sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling as if it owed him answers. Evan stood beside his own bed, folding his clothes with mechanical precision.

“Are you bringing all your textbooks?” Evan asked without looking up.

Regulus shook his head. “Just Defense and Potions. I doubt I’ll actually open them.”

“Good,” Barty muttered. “If I catch you studying over break, I’m disowning you.”

“You can’t disown what you never owned,” Evan said dryly.

Barty smirked. “Tell that to my father.”

Regulus gave a faint laugh, folding a jumper and placing it in his trunk without much care. Packing always felt like sealing himself in. Preparing to go back into a life that fit worse every year.

“I don’t want to go,” he said suddenly, voice low.

Silence followed, too long to be casual. Evan turned his head slowly. Barty sat up.

“No one does,” Barty said after a beat. “Except Dorcas"

Regulus kept his eyes on the nearly-full trunk.

“It’s not just that I don’t want to go,” he said, a little more quietly. “It’s that I… I feel like I have to be someone else there. And I don’t think I can keep doing it.”

The other two didn’t say anything right away. Then Evan crossed the room, sat on the edge of Regulus’s bed, and raised an eyebrow.

“You always say weird cryptic things before the holidays. This the usual existential dread, or something worse?”

Regulus let out a breath, shaky, but said nothing.

“I’m serious,” Barty said, softer than usual. “Is something going on?”

Regulus shook his head, more to shut the questions down than to answer them honestly.

“It’s just… everything’s expectations. I don’t know how to exist there without pretending. And I’m tired of pretending.”

Evan frowned. “They still going on about your future?”

“Always,” Regulus muttered. “The ideal son. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who’s still ‘loyal.’”

Barty snorted. “They don’t know a damn thing.”

Regulus didn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to argue or agree. He just pressed his fingers to his temple, wishing he could disappear—just for a while.

Evan leaned back on his hands. “You could always stay at my place. My mum probably won’t notice if another Black shows up. She’s too busy running off with whatever man she’s seeing this month.”

Regulus smiled faintly. “Thanks. But I think it’d be worse if I didn’t show up. More questions.”

“You ever think of just not going back?” Barty asked suddenly, eyes glinting with something sharp. “Like, really. Just staying."

Regulus hesitated. “All the time.”

And it was true. Every year it got harder to walk through the front door of Number Twelve and become someone he wasn’t. Someone he never was. But he still did it. Because it was expected. Because not doing it would mean questions he couldn’t answer. Would mean confrontation he wasn’t ready for.

“I just want to be left alone,” he said quietly.

Evan stood and closed his trunk with a soft click. “Well, you’ve got six more months when we’re back here. That’s something.”

Barty swung his legs off the bed. “Want to skip dinner and sneak into the kitchens instead?”

Regulus looked up at them. “That sounds… actually good.”

Evan smirked. “Come on, then.”

As they left the room, Regulus cast one last glance at his closed trunk. At the life waiting inside it. At the mask he'd have to wear again, so polished it barely had cracks anymore.

He closed the door behind him, not looking back.

Chapter 27: ✧Second year: A Black Christmas II

Summary:

SORRY! I messed up the chapters, i just noticed, damn. I uploaded last chapter as the 27, but it was actually the 28, so i deleted it and well, here you have those two chapters today! Sorry for the mistake.

Grimmauld place had always felt like this, but now it felt worse. Like it was watching him. He could feel it in the walls, in the old wood creaking as if it were trying to say something. Like the portraits—those damn portraits—had eyes that followed his every move. Grimmauld Place wasn’t just old; it was alive. And it hated him.

Regulus crossed the room to where he had left Pandora’s notebook on the armchair. He had told himself that he would write, that he would put his thoughts somewhere that wasn’t this house. Somewhere he could breathe.

He opened the notebook, holding the quill in his hand, but the words wouldn’t come. Not yet. His fingers trembled slightly, but it wasn’t from the cold.

He stared at the blank page, feeling the weight of every breath he took. The same pressure, the same suffocating feeling that had built up in his chest since he’d arrived here. Since he’d walked back into Grimmauld Place.

December 30th – Not to be sent

Dear Barty,

I think I’m going mad. Again.

It’s like last year, but worse. The walls feel closer. The silence is louder. My skin doesn’t fit right. Everything I do feels wrong, like I’m wearing someone else’s life and pretending it’s mine. I wake up in the morning and for a few seconds, I forget where I am—and those seconds are the only moments of peace I get.

I can’t breathe in this house, Barty. It’s like the air is made of dust and old expectations. Every time I walk past the drawing room, I swear I hear my father’s voice even when he’s not there. My mother doesn’t speak much, but when she does, it’s only to tell me how proud she is, how well I’m growing, how perfect I’m becoming.

She doesn’t know me at all.

They don’t see me, not really. They see what they want to see. And I let them. I always let them. Because what’s the alternative? Sirius already chose the other path and look what it got him—hatred, exile, and silence.

And I still miss him.

Is that pathetic?

The thing is—I know how this house works. I know how it gets inside your head. It twists things. It whispers when you're not listening. It reminds you of who you're meant to be, not who you are. And you start believing it, because it's easier than fighting.

I don't want to believe it, Barty. But I’m tired. And scared. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending I’m not crumbling.

Im going insane in here.

You’d probably laugh and tell me to blow something up just to feel better. You always say the wrong thing at the right time. You make everything sound stupid and simple. I miss that. I miss you.

I miss me.

I’m writing this because I needed to get it out of my head before it swallows me whole. But I’m not going to send it. I don’t want you to see me like this.

You’re my best friend. And I need to protect the parts of me that still feel okay when I’m with you. The version of me that jokes and rolls his eyes and doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

I’ll be back soon. Just a few more days. And I’ll pretend this never happened.

(But I needed you to know. Even if you never read this.)

—R.A.B

Chapter 28: ✧Second year: Tea Leaves and False (?) Prophecies

Summary:

Heres the 28! (Sorry again, Hahahah)

January 5, 1974

The Great Hall buzzed with life, though a little less chaotically than usual. The students had returned from the holidays slowly, trickling in over the last few days until the tables felt full again. Regulus sat at the Slytherin table, his arms resting lazily on the polished surface, chin in one hand. Across from him, Barty was halfway through a conversation with Evan about a prank Peeves had pulled on the Ravenclaws earlier that morning. It was weird seeing Barty so animated again, he had been acting mad for months before christmast, but no love letters were now mentioned and he looked happy.

“…and then it just exploded, like full-on, glitter everywhere, even in Flitwick’s ears,” Barty was saying, eyes wide.

“Serves them right for thinking they’re smarter than everyone,” Evan muttered.

Regulus wasn’t really listening. He let the sound of their voices wash over him, warm and meaningless. No one talked about the holidays. No one asked how it had been. He could see it in their faces—they were all holding it in, like a collective agreement. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Except Dorcas.

She was sitting with them today, which wasn’t unusual, and she’d brought a book along with her. A thick, worn hardcover with a cracked spine and delicate golden lettering on the front.

“The Iliad?” Barty asked with an arched brow. “Seriously?”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. “My grandparents gave it to me. They came over for Christmas. They love classics. It’s kind of a tradition. I got Jane Eyre last year"

Pandora, seated beside her, leaned closer to read the faded title. “Is it good?” She asked. "I mean, the iliad"

“It’s a war,” Dorcas said, shrugging. “Men fighting and dying dramatically over a girl. And a lot of sulking. You’d like it, Bart.”

“Don't think so. I do appreciate a good sulk, though” Barty said, grinning.

Regulus smiled faintly. Not because it was funny, but because it felt nice, for a moment, to sit among them and hear voices and laughter that weren’t cold or rehearsed. Barty snudged his leg gently under the table.

“Do you think I could win a war if I stole someone’s boyfriend?” He asked.

Evan choked on his juice.

Evan grinned. “Depends. Who’s the boyfriend?”

Dorcas laughed. “You? Probably. You’d charm the army into fighting for you and then vanish before the final battle.”

No one else seemed to notice, but Barty blushed and pretente to lace his shoes to he didn't have to look at them.

“I’d simply float above it all,” Pandora said dreamily. “Like Aphrodite.”

Regulus let their words fill the space where his thoughts were usually too loud. No one asked why he was quiet. No one mentioned Sirius. No one said “Cassiopeia.” He was just Regulus, sitting at breakfast, letting his tea go cold.

For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he was made of glass, and he was really happy about it all.

✧

January 11, 1974

The Tower where Divination was held was cold, the staircase narrow and twisting. Regulus trudged up behind Barty, who was complaining quietly about the number of steps, and Dorcas, who kept slipping on her robes.

Just before reaching the trapdoor, Regulus glanced back down the staircase—and caught a glimpse of Pandora and Evan turning down a different corridor, walking away from the Tower.

“They never come to Divination,” he muttered.

“What?” Barty asked, pausing with his hand on the trapdoor.

“Pandora and Evan. I’ve never seen them in this class.”

Barty shrugged. “Maybe they’re just lucky.”

“I saw them talking to McGonagall last year, once. Right before class the first class ever. Thought it was weird.”

Dorcas raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they’re Seers and didn’t want to embarrass the rest of us.” She said, but no one considered her words.

“Maybe they bribed McGonagall to get out of it,” Barty added. “I would.”

The trapdoor creaked open, and the three of them climbed into a room heavy with incense. It smelled like lavender and something vaguely burnt. The space was round and dimly lit, full of low tables, overstuffed cushions, and draped fabric. Hanging crystal balls swung lazily in the smoky air.

Professor Selene Greaves stood at the front of the room, wrapped in purple velvet and silk scarves. Her blonde-grey hair was twisted into elaborate braids, and she wore six rings on each hand.

“Ah, the stars align and you arrive,” she said in a voice that sounded like it belonged in a theatre rather than a classroom.

“Here we go,” Barty whispered.

They sat on cushions, forming a half-circle. Greaves waved her hands dramatically.

“Today, we read the leaves,” she declared. “The truth is steeped in the dregs, children. Your future floats on the surface of your tea.”

Regulus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Greaves passed out delicate china cups filled with weak, bitter tea. They were instructed to drink it slowly, then swirl the last few drops and present their cups to their partners.

Dorcas ended up paired with a Hufflepuff girl, Eloween Fairbourne. When she peered into his cup, she squinted and said, “Um. I think I see a duck?”

“A duck?” Greaves repeated, gliding over. “Let me see, dear.”

She took the cup and spun it slowly. “Ah… yes. A duck. Interesting. Water, intuition, change. This could be a sign of transformation. Or possibly a new romantic interest.”

Barty snorted next to him. Regulus sighed. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but vague curiosity and the scent of stale mint.
Just as Barty finished snorting at the idea of a duck predicting a romantic journey, Professor Greaves glided toward him, her movements as slow and fluid as the smoke from the incense burning around them. Her violet robes shimmered faintly in the dim light, and her silvery-grey hair jingled with tiny bells as she moved.

She stopped beside his cushion and gave him an almost eerie smile. "And what do your leaves whisper, Mr. Crouch?" she asked, taking his teacup with an exaggerated gentleness.

Barty rolled his eyes dramatically but didn’t resist. “If it says I’m going to fall in love with a duck, I’m leaving,” he muttered under his breath, but his words were laced with a barely contained smirk.

Greaves didn’t respond right away. Instead, she slowly swirled the cup, her fingers tracing the edge of the porcelain. She tilted it just slightly, as though consulting it for some hidden knowledge. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she peered into the dark tea leaves.

“Hmm...” she hummed, her voice distant. “Very interesting. A broken chain... and, ah, there it is—clear as day—spines curled around a heart”

Barty raised an eyebrow, a sneer playing at the corner of his mouth. “What does that mean, then? Should I be worried about crashing with a thorny bush?”

Greaves ignored the sarcasm in his voice and gave him a look that was both serene and knowing. “Jealousy. Deep, simmering jealousy,” she began, her tone not in the least bit shaken. “And... the unexpected discovery of your true love.”

Barty’s lips twisted into a snide grin. “Right. Jealousy. And true love. Really?”

The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Regulus could feel the weight of the words lingering in the air, but Barty was clearly unfazed.

“I mean, it’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?” Barty leaned back on his cushion, looking more bored than anything else. “This whole class is ridiculous. You want me to believe that tea leaves are some sort of prophecy?”

Greaves didn’t flinch at his mockery. Instead, she placed the cup back down and met his gaze head-on, her expression still calm, almost too calm. “Belief is irrelevant, Mr. Crouch,” she said softly, but there was an edge to her voice now. “The leaves don’t care whether you believe in them. The truth remains, whether you choose to accept it or not.”

Barty snorted. “And I’m supposed to take that seriously? This is a bloody joke.”

Regulus could see the flicker of something beneath Barty’s usual bravado—a brief flash of discomfort, maybe even doubt. But it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Instead, Barty just leaned back further, crossing his arms. “Look, I don’t need some old woman telling me that I’m jealous of anyone, much less that I’m gonna find some ‘true love.’” He made air quotes. “It’s just... nonsense.”

Greaves smiled faintly, almost sadly. “That is your choice to make, Mr. Crouch. Deny it all you want. But the heart knows what it desires, even when the mind chooses to ignore it.”

Dorcas stifled a laugh behind her hand. She whispered something to him, but Regulus wasn’t paying attention. He was watching Barty, who was now clearly annoyed, though he was trying to hide it behind a mask of indifference.

“I still think it’s absurd,” Barty muttered, almost to himself, rubbing the back of his neck.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Maybe the leaves are right,” he said quietly, but his voice was teasing, as though he were trying to poke at Barty without admitting it outright.

Barty shot him a glare. “Not you too, Reg. Don’t tell me you’re buying into this.”

Regulus smirked. “I’m just saying, you could use some self-reflection.”

Barty scoffed but didn’t respond. Instead, he shot another glance at Greaves, who was moving to the next student, her smile remaining fixed, as if she knew something Barty didn’t.

“I’d like to see you try to find your true love,” Barty grumbled, glancing back at the cup like it might bite him. “I can’t imagine how that would go.”

Greaves, moving past him now, gave a final, almost imperceptible nod. “You’ll see, Mr. Crouch,” she said, her voice light but laced with something deeper. “Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow... but the leaves will find their way into the light.”

Regulus watched Barty as the last of Greaves' cryptic words hung in the air. Barty’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He simply sank deeper into his cushion, looking utterly unconvinced.

Regulus couldn’t help it; a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know, Barty... you could always take a different approach. Stop fighting everything so hard. You might get better results.”

Barty glanced over at him, eyes narrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

But before Regulus could answer, Greaves had moved on to the next person. Barty’s gaze shifted back to his cup, then to Regulus, as if still trying to figure out if the teasing was just that or something more.

Regulus didn’t offer him anything more. There was a strange, undeniable weight to what had just happened—a momentary glance into something more complex than the usual banter they shared. Greaves was good at this, at seeing things in others, whether they were ready for it or not.

As the class continued, Barty fell silent. Regulus couldn't stop wondering if, somewhere in the back of his mind, the idea of true love—of jealousy, of being seen—was bothering him more than he'd admit.

Chapter 29: ✧Second year: Lady letters

Summary:

Evan’s got a girlfriend, much to Barty’s annoyance. Regulus starts to notice there’s more going on beneath the surface.

January 15, 1974

The letter arrived at breakfast.

It was a small envelope, pink-colored with no name on the front, only the faint shimmer of enchantment that told Regulus it had been spelled to go directly to Evan. He watched out of the corner of his eye as it floated over the Slytherin table and landed neatly on Evan’s plate, narrowly missing his toast.

“What the hell,” Evan muttered, raising an eyebrow. He opened it casually, like he didn’t care, but Regulus knew him too well. His fingers trembled just slightly.

Barty leaned over to look, chewing on an apple. “Another love letter?”

Evan didn’t answer. His eyes flicked back and forth over the parchment, then his lips quirked into a grin. “She wants to meet me. Today.”

Pandora gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Lady letters reveals herself! Merlin, I need to know who it is!”

Dorcas snorted. “What time?”

“Three. By the lake.”

Regulus blinked. “That's specific.”

“She says she’s ready. Wants to tell me in person. I suppose I should go, right?”

“No,” Barty said flatly, picking at his toast. “It’s probably some girl with a crush and nothing better to do.”

Dorcas kicked him under the table. “Don’t be rude.”

Barty didn’t reply. He stared down at his plate like it had personally offended him.

“Go,” said Pandora, smiling. “You have to! You’ve been wondering about this for weeks. Maybe she’s actually lovely.”

Evan looked pleased. “I’ll go.”

✧

The common room was buzzing that afternoon.

Evan had gone to meet the girl, and the others stayed behind like kids waiting for the results of an exam. Dorcas and Pandora made guesses about the girl’s identity — “Hufflepuff,” “Ravenclaw,” “third year,” “second year" “brunette” “curly hair” — and laughed themselves silly. Regulus mostly listened. He couldn’t deny he was curious too, though not as loudly.

Barty was in a mood. He lounged in an armchair by the fire, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, snapping at anything that moved.

“Cheer up,” Pandora told him. “Maybe you’ll get a secret admirer too.”

“I hope not,” Barty muttered.

They waited.

Around four, Evan finally returned, hair windblown, cheeks pink from the cold and… something else. 

“Well?” Dorcas practically shouted. “Tell us everything!”

Evan grinned, dropping onto the couch. “Her name is Eloween. Eloween Fairbourne. She’s a Hufflepuff.”

Pandora squealed.

“She’s… beautiful,” Evan continued, a little dazed. “Long blonde hair, very straight, little fringe. Big blue eyes. Really sweet voice.”

Regulus could picture her already. He glanced at Dorcas, who frowned thoughtfully.

“Eloween Fairbourne,” she said slowly. “Wait. She’s in Divination! Sits next to me sometimes. Always smells like sugar quills.”

“Yeah, that’s probably her,” Evan said, still smiling. “She said she’s been watching me for a while. That she was too shy to talk to me directly. But she liked my handwriting on the Defense essays we put on the board.”

“That’s—” Regulus began, but Evan interrupted.

“I kissed her.”

Silence.

“I kissed her,” Evan repeated, more sure of it now. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh my god,” Dorcas laughed. “Evan!”

“You have a girlfriend now?” Pandora asked, eyes wide.

“Apparently,” Evan said, still a little shocked. “It just… happened.”

Regulus felt something pinch in his chest, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t that he was jealous. Not exactly.

Barty stood up abruptly.

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped.

Evan blinked. “What?”

“You’re throwing yourself at the first girl who likes you. It’s pathetic.”

“Excuse me?” Evan said, his voice sharp now.

“You don’t even know her,” Barty said, louder. “She could be lying!"

“She’s not,” Evan said firmly.

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re being a dick,” Dorcas snapped.

“She’s just a girl,” Barty continued, ignoring them. “And you’re acting like she’s your soulmate or something.”

Evan’s face hardened. “Maybe I like her. Maybe I want to be happy!"

Barty scoffed and turned away. “Stupid,” he muttered, and stormed off toward the dorms, slamming the door behind him.

The silence left behind was heavy.

“Okay,” Dorcas said softly. “That was… a lot.”

Pandora looked toward the stairs.

“He’s just being an arse. Hates someone whos not him receives attention” Evan said, but his voice had lost its cheer.

Regulus didn’t say anything. He was still watching the closed door. Something ugly churned in his stomach, and for once, he couldn’t tell who he was feeling sorry for.

✧

January 20, 1974

Evan was always with her now.

Eloween Fairbourne — sweet, soft-voiced, always-smiling Eloween — had officially become part of their world, whether they wanted it or not. Regulus couldn’t take three steps through the castle without seeing them together. Laughing in the Great Hall. Huddled close in the courtyard. Sitting in the library, noses nearly touching, whispering like it was all so secret and special.

It made Regulus sick.

She wasn’t even bad, which was worse. She was kind, polite, a bit shy but clearly clever. She had that Hufflepuff warmth, the kind that made everyone feel like she already knew their name. Regulus wanted to hate her, but mostly he just hated how easily Evan had slipped into this… softness.

It didn’t suit him. Or maybe it suited him too well.

That evening, the common room was packed. The fire roared in the hearth, and sixth- and seventh-years lounged on velvet couches, parchment and textbooks spread across low tables, ignored. The scent of mint tea and ink filled the air.

Regulus, Barty, Pandora and Dorcas had taken the far corner, the quieter one, hidden between two tall bookcases. It was their usual spot, but it didn’t feel quite the same anymore.

“He gave her his Slytherin scarf,” Barty muttered, peering over his book. “Can you believe that?”

Pandora snorted. “He gave you his Slytherin scarf once."

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

"Yes! I was cold!" Barty defended himself.

"Well maybe she was cold, too" Dorcas said.

“God, they’re unbearable,” Barty said, not looking up from his Transfiguration notes. “Look at them. Like they’re the only two people in the bloody world.”

“They’re happy,” Dorcas said, stretching her legs out across the floor. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“Because it’s pathetic,” Barty snapped.

Pandora gave him a look. “You say that like you’ve never been happy.”

Barty let out a cold laugh. “Yes i have!”

“Oh, Merlin,” Dorcas muttered under her breath.

Regulus glanced at Evan and Eloween again. She was braiding a tiny section of his hair while he spoke animatedly about something, grinning like an idiot. It was like watching someone he knew slowly disappear into something he couldn’t recognize. Or maybe didn’t want to.

“She's not even that interesting,” Barty added sharply. “She just stands there and smiles like she’s in a fairy tale. It’s annoying.”

“She’s nice,” Dorcas said. “And she makes him happy. That’s not annoying, that’s sweet.”

“It’s weak,” Barty hissed. “He’s supposed to be focused. We’re not here to fall in love like bloody Ravenclaws writing poetry by the lake.”

“Are you actually angry that Evan’s in love?” Dorcas asked, eyes narrowing. “Or are you angry he’s not paying attention to you anymore?”

Silence.

Regulus didn’t breathe.

Barty slammed his quill down on the table. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t.”

The flames from the fireplace crackled too loudly. Evan and Eloween laughed again, their heads so close their foreheads nearly touched.

Pandora leaned closer to Regulus, whispering, “He’s going to explode.”

“He already is,” Regulus whispered back.

Barty stood abruptly. “I’m done with this conversation.”

“You’re always done when someone’s right,” Dorcas called after him as he stalked toward the dormitories.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look back.

✧

Later, when the room had thinned out and Evan and Eloween had finally disappeared, Regulus found himself alone with Dorcas and Pandora. None of them were reading anymore.

“I really don’t get it,” Dorcas said, voice low. “why would Barty be so mad?"

“Just give him time” Pandora replied softly, arms crossed as she stared into the fire.

Regulus stared at the stairs where Barty had vanished, the shadows along the staircase long and oddly heavy in the firelight. Something in his chest twisted, cold and tight.

They sat in silence for a moment. The fire crackled, the castle creaked like it always did when the walls settled at night. But something about the air felt… off.

It was more than just Barty's temper or his usual dramatics. Regulus had seen him annoyed before — irritated, impatient, even cruel. But this was something else. There had been something wild in his eyes when Dorcas had said that. Something brittle and unspoken, like a glass pane held too tight in shaking hands.

Regulus couldn’t shake the feeling — that strange, gnawing certainty that Barty was spiraling inward, further and faster than any of them realized.

He’d always known Barty had sharp edges, the kind that cut inward just as much as they sliced outward. But tonight, Regulus had felt something different in him. A kind of hurt he didn’t recognize. A loneliness buried so deep, it looked like rage.

And maybe it was...?

“I think hes..." Regulus said suddenly, not quite realizing he’d spoken aloud.

Dorcas and Pandora both looked at him.

Regulus didn’t elaborate. He just kept staring at the stairs, as if he could see through them. As if he could follow Barty into the shadows and find whatever part of him had gone silent.

But the castle stayed quiet. And Barty didn’t come back down.

Chapter 30: ✧☼Second year: valentine's day

Summary:

It’s Valentine’s Day — the usual mess of sweets, mixed signals, and people bumping into each other at the worst possible moment.

February 14, 1974

Breakfast in the great hall was louder than usual. Pandora had once again gone out of her way to give each of them small paper bags of sweets—charmed chocolate frogs, sugar quills, little enchanted red-and-gold hearts that beat like real ones. She’d handed them out with a wide smile, practically bouncing from couch to armchair to bedpost, even waking up a grumpy Barty by dropping a truffle into his mouth before he could complain.

“Happy Valentine’s!” she chirped as she thrust a bag into Regulus’s hands.

Evan, curled up beside Eloween on the rug by the fire, held up a sugar quill between his teeth. 

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he didn’t stop the small smile that crept up his lips. The morning had started warm—literally and metaphorically. There was a faint sweetness in the air, a mix of chocolate, firewood, and cheap perfume. The kind of perfume that lingered in the collars of the fourth years after their flings behind greenhouses.

Eloween and Evan were practically glued together on the rug, and it was honestly starting to get on Regulus’s nerves. They were whispering and giggling and feeding each other little heart-shaped caramels. Evan kissed her cheek twice in the span of thirty seconds. Regulus caught Barty glaring at them from his seat near the window, his spoon clanking a little too loud against his bowl.

“Do you think they’ll start speaking in unison soon?” Dorcas muttered, dropping into the seat beside Regulus.

Regulus smirked. “Only if they merge into one disgustingly happy blob.”

“Don't tempt them,” Pandora said with mock seriousness.

They all laughed, except Barty, who gave a huff and returned to his breakfast with extra aggression.

Regulus felt…strange. This kind of day never sat right with him. The forced sweetness, the public declarations, the expectation to be open about things he spent his whole life hiding. It always made him uneasy. Maybe that’s why he kept sneaking glances at Barty. Because Barty didn’t pretend. Barty didn’t play along.

But even Barty looked on edge today, like a tightly-wound clock waiting to snap.

Regulus sighed, fingers toying with the ribbon Pandora had tied around the bag of sweets. He didn’t say it out loud, but he appreciated it more than he let on.

✧

After lunch, everyone scattered—some to class, others to roam the castle. Regulus didn’t have anything until later, so he decided to head to the library. It was quiet there, especially in the early afternoon, and he liked the soft rustle of pages better than the echo of laughter in the common room.

He took one of the intermediate corridors—not far from the Great Hall, but far enough to be peaceful. The kind of hallway where time seemed to slow, where the castle breathed quietly.

He turned a corner, mind somewhere else entirely—maybe already in the library—and collided, hard, with someone.

“Merlin!” Regulus hissed, stumbling a step back.

A startled voice followed immediately, breathless. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

James Potter.

Of course.

His hair was even messier than usual, like he’d been running his hands through it all day, and his glasses sat crooked on his face. He held a small, heart-shaped box in one hand, partially open, with a crumpled ribbon barely hanging on.

Regulus froze. So did James. For half a second they just looked at each other, blinking.

Then James, still catching his breath, blurted out, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Regulus stared at him. “What?”

“I mean—fuck, no. I—sorry,” James stammered, eyes wide now as recognition fully dawned. “Regulus.”

There was a strange flicker in his face, some invisible switch flipping, as if he were only just realizing who he’d bumped into. The air between them shifted—awkward, too warm for the corridor’s chill.

“Thanks?” Regulus said, voice unsure, more of a question than anything else.

James’s eyes widened like he didn’t mean to say that, like the words had escaped without his brain’s permission.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and backed up, already starting to walk away. “Right—uh—see you.”

Regulus stood there in the corridor, frozen, the echo of James’s voice still ringing in his ears.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

He’d said it like he meant it. Like it was meant for him.

And for some reason, that small, awkward phrase settled under Regulus’s skin like a spark, refusing to go out.

He pressed a hand to his chest, as if that would slow it down, as if he could convince himself it wasn’t a big deal. Just a phrase. Just a stupid, accidental phrase from someone clearly too distracted to know what he was saying.

But still… there had been something in James’s voice. Not romantic, not obvious—just strange. Hesitant. As if he'd forgotten what world he was in for a moment. As if saying "Happy Valentine’s Day" to Regulus Black wasn’t a mistake, just...

And his eyes. There was something about his eyes.

Regulus took a shaky breath and turned around, heading straight for the library. He needed to clear his mind.

Books. He needed books. Silence. Anything but this.

✧

☼

Valentine’s Day. Again.

Just like every year since third year, James had prepared a gift for Lily Evans. Nothing too dramatic this time—just a small box of chocolates, some enchanted with silly little charms, others flavored with things she liked. And a handwritten note. Not a grand declaration of love. Just a simple: “Thought of you today.”

He left it beside her plate on the Gryffindor table before she arrived. Then he walked away, waited, and came back later, pretending he wasn’t checking.

When he returned, the box was gone.

For a second, his heart jumped. Maybe—maybe she’d taken it. Maybe this time—

But hours later, he found the box again. In a forgotten corner of the corridor. Unopened. Untouched. The note still inside. No scribbled reply. No sarcastic comment. Just… abandoned.

So either someone had moved it, or Lily herself had left it there.

Brilliant.

Back in the common room, the Marauders did what they always did when James looked miserable: they tried to cheer him up.

“You’re too good for her, mate,” Sirius said, flopping dramatically onto the sofa. “Besides, why would you want a girlfriend when you’ve already got us?”

“Literally, we’re more fun than any girl,” Peter added, his mouth full of a stolen chocolate from who-knows-where.

Remus didn’t say anything, but gave James a soft, understanding smile.

James let out a weak laugh. “Yeah. I guess.”

But the disappointment sat heavy in his chest, like a weight he couldn’t shake. He didn’t want to admit how much he'd hoped this year would be different. That maybe, after all these years, Lily would finally see he meant it. That he wasn’t just the loud-mouthed Gryffindor who hexed Slytherins for fun.

He spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the castle, trying to ignore the hearts floating in the air, the giggling couples, the magically animated rose petals trailing behind love-struck students. He hated Valentine’s Day. He really, really did.

He didn’t have class until later, and he hadn’t eaten much since breakfast, so he figured he’d head back to the Great Hall to grab something quick.

He turned a corner too fast, mind spinning, and slammed straight into someone.

“Sorry!” he blurted, instinctively reaching out to steady them. He hadn’t even looked yet. Then he did.

Regulus Black.

Of course.

Because the universe had decided to humiliate him further today.

Regulus’s dark hair shimmered in the filtered sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows, each strand catching the light like threads of ink. His skin was pale and smooth, the kind that looked carved from marble, and his lashes—ridiculously long—cast shadows over sharp, unreadable eyes. The deep scowl on his face did absolutely nothing to calm the storm in James’s chest. If anything, it made him look even more—

James blinked. What the hell.

James froze. His brain short-circuited. And then, for some unfathomable reason, the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Regulus stared at him. “What?”

“I mean—fuck, no. I—sorry,” He stammered, eyes wide now as recognition fully dawned. “Regulus.”

Regulus blinked at him like he’d just spoken in Parseltongue. “Thanks?” he replied, but it came out as a question, unsure and suspicious all at once.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and backed up, already starting to walk away. “Right—uh—see you.”

And then he ran.

He didn’t walk. He didn’t calmly excuse himself. He ran.

Down the corridor. Around the corner. Down the stairs.

His heart was pounding so fast it felt like it might break through his ribs.

What the hell had that been? 

Why had he said that to Regulus Black of all people?

Why had his pulse jumped the second he saw him?

It wasn’t Lily.

Not this time.

It hadn’t been for a while now, had it?

Notes:

DOUBLE POV! Loved writing it honestly, hope you love reading it. Let me know what you think, and drop a kudo if you enjoyed it <3

Chapter 31: ✧Second year: secret infatuation, catched.

Summary:

Barty’s enjoying every second of it — not that Regulus can blame him, now that he’s realised exactly what Barty’s feeling.

February 26, 1974

Eloween and Evan were still so sweet it made them mad.

Or at least, they had been. Lately, things were changing—subtly, but Regulus noticed. He always noticed.

Over the past week, Evan had mentioned—once, maybe twice, or perhaps four times if Regulus was being honest—that Eloween had seemed a little distant. He never sounded worried, not exactly. Just slightly confused. Slightly… off. As if he were trying to convince himself that everything was fine.

And every time he said it, Barty would smile.

Not a wide, obvious smile. Not a smirk. Just this faint little twitch at the corners of his mouth, like the smallest crack in a porcelain mask. It was the kind of smile someone made when they knew something they weren’t supposed to, or when they’d just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

Regulus didn’t say anything about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

It was becoming unbearable.

Regulus used to think Barty was just being Barty—annoyed, dramatic, impossible to please. But now…

Now he realised. The way Barty acted, the bitterness in his voice, the storm behind his eyes?

It wasn’t just irritation.

It was jealousy.

And not jealousy of Evan for having someone.

Jealousy of Eloween.

One night, Dorcas was curled up in the common room armchair, reading The Iliad again. She’d been obsessed with it lately, underlining passages and muttering in Ancient Greek under her breath. Regulus had been pretending to do his homework when Barty walked in, dropped onto the floor beside her, and said, with the most casual venom.

“So? Do you think I could win a war if I stole someone’s boyfriend? You didn't answer clearly last time"

Dorcas had barely looked up. “Which war?”

“That’s not the point,” Barty replied. “The point is: would I win?”

At the time, Regulus had rolled his eyes. Just Barty being cryptic again. But now, the words haunted him.

He was fucking doing it.

Regulus didn’t know exactly what Barty had done, but Eloween was pulling away. Regulus could feel it, even if Evan was too wrapped up in his own hopefulness to see it.

And Barty? Barty was thriving on it.

There was no doubt in Regulus’s mind anymore.

Barty fancied Evan.

So that morning, when Pandora asked him to take a walk outside before classes, he agreed without hesitation. Anything to get out of the common room. Anything to clear his head.

The snow was already melting, the spring approaching slowly. The ground was soft beneath their boots, and the bare trees stretched thin fingers into the pale sky. The courtyard was quiet, just the two of them walking side by side, not speaking at first. It was a comfortable silence. It was easy, being with Panda.

“Panda?” he said, finally breaking the quiet. She hummed in response, gaze drifting across the landscape. “I think Barty is in love with your brother,” he said.

She didn’t pause. “Oh, yeah. I know.”

Regulus blinked. “Wait. You know?”

“I know,” she said again, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

“He told you?”

“No,” she said with a soft chuckle, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “But it’s painfully obvious.”

Regulus stared at her for a second longer, trying to process that. She kept walking, like it didn’t require further explanation.

“And Evan?” he asked.

“Oh, Evan is clearly in the same situation,” she said lightly. “Sure, Elowen is cute, and nice, and I like her. But you really don’t know how much he talks about Barty during the holidays. Barty this, Barty that. I miss Barty. Barty would hate this. Barty would love this. It’s kind of exhausting.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

She nodded, smiling to herself. “Yeah. I think Eloween’s just… convenient. And sweet, obviously. But she’s not Barty.”

“They’re just too dumb to realise,” she added, almost fondly.

Regulus let out a low breath, a half-laugh. “So… you’re okay?”

She tilted her head. “With what? With them being in love but too stupid to realise?”

Regulus snorted. “Well, yeah. That too. But i mean, with them being… you know. Gay?”

“Oh, that.” Her face softened, and her voice went warm. “Yeah, it’s fine. I like people being themselves, you know?”

She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like there had never been a question.

They walked in silence again after that, but it wasn’t heavy. If anything, Regulus felt lighter than he had in weeks. Pandora didn’t press, didn’t pry, didn’t make it strange. She just… let things be.

“I think that’s the best thing about you,” he said, his voice quiet. “You never make a big deal out of anything. You just… understand.”

She turned toward him, surprised, then smiled—soft and true. “Well, thanks. But that’s what friends are for, right?”

The wind picked up around them, cool and clean, brushing against Regulus’s cheek like something alive. In the distance, a bird sang—faint and hesitant, like it was testing the return of spring.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Chapter 32: ✧Second year: Bittersweet symphony

Summary:

The letters did their job; and no one knows what exactly happened when Evan stormed into the dorm after, but Dorcas’s birthday brought a brief truce.

March passed without much excitement—just another Quidditch match–Slytherin and Hufflepuff– more homework, and increasing tension between Evan and Eloween. Regulus wasn’t entirely sure what was going on between them, but he had noticed the way Eloween seemed distant lately. Evan mentioned it more than once during meals or while they were walking to class, his brows furrowed in confusion. Every time he brought it up, Barty would smile just slightly, like the curl of a secret kept too tightly.

It wasn’t just Regulus who noticed. Pandora and Dorcas exchanged glances behind Evan’s back each time he brought up Eloween’s odd behavior. Something was off. They could all feel it.

“He said she’s been distant,” Regulus had muttered to Dorcas and Pandora a few days ago. “Every time he mentions it, Barty looks like he just won the lottery.”

That unease solidified on the afternoon of March 30, Regulus, Pandora, and Dorcas were sitting near the fireplace, trying to finish a Transfiguration essay, when the door slammed open. Everyone looked up.

“I need to talk to you,” Elowen said simply.

Evan nodded, glancing briefly at the three of them. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

They disappeared into the corridor. For a while, everything was quiet except for the low crackling of the fire and the scratching of Dorcas’s quill.

 Eloween had pulled Evan aside near the greenhouses. They were too far for Regulus to hear from the upside corridor's window, but he could read lips pretty well, and see Evan’s hands gesturing sharply through the window of a hallway, Elowen folding her arms, her head shaking with finality. And then she turned and walked away, not even glancing back.

Evan stood there, motionless, for a moment that felt frozen in time. Then he returned to the common room alone, cheeks flushed, shoulders tense, his face pale with disbelief.

Then Evan returned, alone.

His face was blank at first, but then it twisted into something like rage. He walked past them without a word and went straight up to the boys’ dormitory.

A few seconds later, they heard another door slam.

Pandora blinked. “That… didn’t sound good.”

Regulus stood up, his eyes on the staircase. “She broke up with him.”

“How do you know?” Dorcas asked.

“Read their lips. She told him she got letters,” he said slowly, “letters that ‘proved’ he didn’t care anymore. But he didn’t write them. I know Evan—he wouldn’t do that.”

Pandora sat upright. “You think…?”

“Yes,” Regulus answered. “It was Barty. Who else would do something like that?”

Dorcas sighed. “Bloody idiot. And now they’re probably shouting at each other upstairs.”

Regulus didn’t reply. He couldn’t stop thinking about Evan’s face—tight with betrayal, his whole body shaking. He’d gone straight to Barty. There was no doubt about it now.

Pandora seemed to sense his thoughts. “Well, nothing we can do now. Let them yell it out.”

Dorcas nudged her gently. “Speaking of things we can do… my birthday’s in two days.”

Pandora grinned, and Regulus was grateful for the distraction.

“Oh, we’re throwing you a party,” she said. “It won’t be huge, but we’ll decorate the common room. I’m thinking floating candles, maybe a few sweets from Honeydukes—”

“Balloons,” Dorcas said immediately.

“Balloons?” Regulus echoed.

“Absolutely,” she confirmed. “No birthday is complete without them.”

So they planned. Between complaints about Barty, whispered concerns over Evan, and stressed comments about upcoming exams, they made a small list of what they’d need. Pandora promised to sneak down to the kitchens. Regulus said he’d handle decorations. Dorcas was forbidden from helping in any way.

And though Regulus couldn’t shake the sound of Evan’s furious footsteps or the sick twist in his stomach, he added, “We’ll make it nice.”

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, their mood had lightened just a little.

✧

April 2, 1974

By the time Dorcas’s birthday arrived, the tension hadn’t gone away—it had only transformed.

Barty and Evan weren’t arguing anymore. In fact, they barely spoke. But what was worse was that now they acted like magnets too nervous to touch. Nervous glances across the room. Constant blushing. Sitting far too close at meals but not saying a word. Walking down corridors shoulder-to-shoulder, brushing fingers like it was by accident.

They looked flustered all the time.

Regulus had been watching it unfold with wide-eyed disbelief. Whatever had happened after Evan confronted Barty—whatever was said, or shouted, or confessed—had clearly left them in some sort of awkward, breathless limbo.

“He won’t shut up about Barty,” Pandora had whispered that morning. “Won’t say what happened, but won’t stop thinking about him either.”

And Barty? For all his usual sharpness, he had grown uncharacteristically quiet. Like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he’d been caught.

But tonight wasn’t about them. It was about Dorcas.

The Slytherin common room had been transformed. There were floating green and silver candles, charmed to sparkle faintly, and several enchanted balloons that drifted lazily near the ceiling. A small pile of sweets sat on a low table, and soft music played from a wireless in the corner. Pandora had even enchanted the fireplace to glow purple and gold, Dorcas’s favorite colors.

Dorcas looked around with wide eyes. “You did all this?”

Regulus smirked. “We had help. Pandora practically threatened the house-elves into giving us their best biscuits.”

“I did not threaten,” Pandora said airily. “I negotiated.”

They laughed. Even Evan, who had spent the last two days in a strange daze, managed a small smile. He was standing beside Barty—too close, in Regulus’s opinion—and both of them looked… nervous.

They barely spoke to each other, but they stood shoulder to shoulder, like magnets held just shy of touching. Every time their arms brushed, one of them would flush and look away. During dinner earlier, Regulus had noticed the same thing: sitting too close, bumping knees under the table, quiet glances exchanged.

Something had changed between them.

“Thank you,” Dorcas said, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“For what?”

“For this,” she said. “For everything.”

He shrugged. “You deserve it.”

A few people joined them—Pandora had even invited a couple of Ravenclaws Dorcas liked. The common room buzzed gently with conversation and laughter. Regulus found himself watching Barty and Evan more than he should’ve, trying to decipher whatever fragile truce they had struck.

At one point, Barty tried to sneak a piece of cake without using a plate and ended up dropping it on his jumper. Evan laughed—not cruelly, but with a softness Regulus hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Barty blushed, then looked away, but Evan’s hand lingered at his elbow for just a second too long.

Later, while everyone was dancing to a loud Lez Zeppelin song, Pandora grabbed Regulus by the sleeve.

“They’re in love,” she whispered, pointing at Barty and Evan with her head.

Regulus didn’t even bother denying it.

“Do you think they’ll admit it?” he asked.

“Eventually,” she said, sipping her butterbeer. “Maybe not tonight. But soon.”

The rest of the night passed with laughter and cake, games and music, and for a few hours, everything felt okay.

Even Evan and Barty.

Even Regulus.

He wasn’t sure when things had gotten so complicated, but in that moment, surrounded by his friends, he felt like maybe—just maybe—they could figure it all out.

He looked over at Dorcas, who was laughing with her mouth full of icing, and smiled.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered.

Notes:

Is it Rosekiller we're seeing??

Chapter 33: ✧Second year: Shared birthdays and another stolen cake

Summary:

The twins birthday!!

April 23, 1974

The Great Hall buzzed with morning chatter, the sunlight slipping through the tall windows a little warmer than it had been the week before. Spring was in the air—soft breezes drifted through the cracks in the stone walls, and tiny pink flowers were beginning to bloom in the cracks along the path to the castle. The scent of fresh grass and awakening earth clung to the students’ robes, and for once, the Slytherin table wasn’t filled with silent brooding but a soft hum of expectation.

It was April 23—Evan and Pandora’s birthday.

Regulus sat beside Dorcas and Pandora, sipping his tea and pretending not to glance every five seconds at Evan and Barty, who sat across from them, unusually close. Evan was smiling in that sleepy way he always did in the mornings, and Barty was leaning on the table with his chin in his hand, looking at him like he hung the stars.

Regulus had just picked up a piece of toast when he noticed Barty shifting.

Uh-oh.

Barty stood up. No, not just stood—he climbed. With the kind of theatrical flourish only Barty Crouch Jr. could pull off, he stepped up onto the bench and then, without hesitation, onto the Slytherin table itself.

A collective groan rose from the prefects.

“Barty—” Regulus warned, but it was too late.

“GOOD MORNING, HOGWARTS!” Barty shouted, arms outstretched. “TODAY, WE CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF THE MOST FABULOUS, GORGEOUS, BRILLIANT, ICONIC TWINS THIS CASTLE HAS EVER KNOWN—”

“Oh no,” Evan muttered, though he was clearly holding back a grin.

“EVAN AND PANDORA ROSIER!” Barty declared, and then without missing a beat, burst into a raucous version of “Happy Birthday to You,” clapping loudly between every line and gesturing for the rest of the hall to join in.

And they did.

The Ravenclaw table joined in next, followed by most of Hufflepuff. Even some Gryffindors.

By the second verse, everyone was singing.

Pandora looked halfway between delighted and mortified, her cheeks flushed pink. Evan was shaking his head, but he was laughing. Dorcas had her face buried in her arms, wheezing.

When Barty finished, he bowed low on the table and nearly knocked over the pumpkin juice.

Professor Slughorn stood from the staff table, adjusting his waistcoat with a frown. “Mr. Crouch,” he called, voice grave, “do get down this instant!”

Barty grinned innocently. “Anything for you, Professor.”

He hopped down—nearly squashing a plate of sausages—and slid back into his seat beside Evan like nothing had happened.

Slughorn cleared his throat. “ten points from Slytherin… again.”

"Five. Because its their–" Barty said.

"Their birthday, yes" Slughorn said almost tired. "Five points from Slytherin, then"

The table groaned.

“You did the exact same thing last year,” Regulus muttered.

Barty smirked. “And I’ll do it again next year, too.”

Pandora leaned over the table. “You’re absolutely mental."

“You love it,” Barty shot back.

Evan just shook his head, nudging Barty’s knee under the table. “You’re a menace.”

“Only for you, birthday boy,” Barty said, with a wink.

Regulus rolled his eyes so hard it hurt.

Still, he had to admit—there was something oddly sweet about it. The way Barty always remembered. The way he made a spectacle not just because he liked attention (which he did) but because he wanted Evan and Pandora to feel special.

The Great Hall gradually returned to normal, though Regulus noticed several people from other houses nodding at the twins in greeting, or calling out quick birthday wishes as they passed. The Slytherin table remained buzzing, everyone now awake thanks to Barty’s impromptu performance.

Pandora was already halfway through her second scone. “Do you think he’s going to do that in every class again?”

Evan lifted her head. “Please no.”

Regulus glanced at Barty, who looked suspiciously smug. “He absolutely is.”

Barty sipped his tea, all innocence. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

If Evan and Pandora thought Barty would limit his theatricality to breakfast, they were sorely mistaken.

The moment the door to their first class—Transfiguration—swung open, Barty burst in with a flourish, arms raised.

“IT’S THE ROSIER TWINS’ BIRTHDAY!”

Professor McGonagall blinked at him, unimpressed. She had just lifted her teacup and now slowly set it down, watching him over her spectacles.

“Happy birthday to you,” Barty sang, utterly undeterred. “Happy birthday to you…”

Regulus buried his face in his hands as Barty marched down the aisle between desks, gesturing grandly at Evan and Pandora, both of whom had turned an identical shade of red.

To Regulus's dismay (and mild amusement), everyone joined in again—less enthusiastically than at breakfast, but still loud enough to echo off the stone walls.

Pandora groaned into her elbow. Evan looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. Barty just kept singing, his voice getting louder with every line, until even Professor McGonagall had to fight a smile.

“Mr. Crouch,” she said dryly as the song ended, “while your commitment to tradition is… admirable, please take your seat.”

Barty winked and slid into the seat next to Evan, whispering something that made Evan laugh into his sleeve.

In Charms, it was the same.

They’d barely taken their places when Barty leapt up again and shouted, “STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING—THEY’RE ONE YEAR CLOSER TO DEATH!”

Professor Flitwick dropped his wand.

The class erupted into laughter, and once again, Barty led a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” This time, he conjured a burst of green and gold sparks that spelled out Happy B-Day Twins above their heads. Evan ducked, Pandora swatted them away like flies, and Barty beamed like a madman.

By lunch, everyone at Hogwarts knew it was Evan and Pandora’s birthday.

Regulus sat with his arms crossed, watching Barty and Evan whisper in the corner of the common room while Pandora opened a card from Dorcas. She looked suspiciously emotional. “She charmed it to play Fleetwood mac when you open it,” she explained, wiping her eyes. “I could cry.”

“You are crying,” said Regulus.

“Shut up.”

Evan tossed a chocolate frog at Pandora. “Oi, youre crying again.”

“Birthday emotions,” Pandora said, dramatically fanning her face with the card. “Fleetwood does that to me.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but smiled. The atmosphere was warmer today, not just in temperature. It was the kind of birthday where everything felt a bit lighter, a bit sillier—like Barty’s chaos had somehow wrapped them all in this cozy, ridiculous energy.

✧

Later that night, when the halls had quieted and the castle slipped into its usual sleepy stillness, Regulus returned to the common room after a quick walk only to find Barty gone.

Pandora glanced up from where she and Evan were sitting on the couch, surrounded by wrapping paper and half-eaten treats. “Barty’s vanished,” she said. “Didn’t say where he was going.”

Regulus furrowed his brows. “Hm.”

They didn’t have to wonder long.

Exactly ten minutes later, the portrait swung open and in crept Barty—robes dusty, hair windswept, and arms full of something wrapped in a checkered cloth.

“Ta-da,” he whispered, plopping the bundle on the table.

It was a cake.

A lopsided, chocolate-frosted cake, clearly homemade by the elves and still a bit warm. There was a strawberry in the middle and a few candy letters pressed awkwardly into the top that spelled: HBD EVAN + PANDA– the N was upside down, but none of them mentioned it.

“You didn’t,” Evan said, standing up slowly.

“I did,” Barty replied, grinning.

“You broke into the kitchens again.”

“I like to think of it as a heroic heist for love.”

Pandora squealed. “Barty, that’s—insane. I love it.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said, pulling a spoon from his sleeve. “Just eat it.”

He cut a massive slice and handed it to Evan first, then to Pandora. He gave Regulus one with significantly more frosting (“because you’re the meanest and you deserve to be sweetened up”), and Dorcas one shaped like a wonky triangle.

As they sat on the rug and dug in, Regulus watched Evan lean into Barty’s shoulder and say something too quiet to hear. Barty turned his head slightly, smiling in that smug but soft way he had when Evan was involved, and said something back.

Evan laughed, and for a second, rested his head against Barty’s.

Regulus didn’t look away this time.

They were stupid. Stupid and messy and chaotic. But they were happy.

He took another bite of cake and sighed.

“You going to sing again?” he asked Barty.

Barty grinned. “What, right now?”

“No, next year.”

“Oh. Obviously.”

Regulus smirked. “Figured out"

Chapter 34: ✧Second year: not-so secret infatuation, catched.

June 14, 1974

It was warm. Really warm. The kind of early summer heat that clung to your skin like a second, sticky layer. That time of the year when Regulus’s wardrobe inevitably reduced itself to oversized shirts—always loose enough to hide his binder underneath—and slightly wrinkled bermuda shorts that reached just above the knee

It was Saturday, and Regulus wanted to study for their final Potions exam—he really did—but he was practically melting inside the library. The air was still and suffocating, the kind that made parchment curl at the edges and ink smudge under your fingers. His dormitory wasn’t much better, maybe even worse, and just as he was about to resign himself to becoming one with the chair, Barty appeared out of nowhere, dropping into the seat beside him like a summer storm.

“Still studying? You’re gonna ace it, Reg, don’t worry so much,” Barty announced, ruffling Regulus’s hair in that annoyingly aggressive way of his.

Regulus swatted his hand away. “Barty, I swear—”

“Come walk with me,” Barty interrupted with a grin, already half-rising from his seat. “We’ll come back later. I promise.”

Regulus sighed dramatically, closing his book. “Fine. But we’re back in an hour. And you’re studying with me. No excuses.”

“Okay, okay,” Barty agreed, already practically jogging toward the door.

To Regulus’s surprise, the air outside was actually bearable—less oppressive than the library, at least. A soft breeze rustled the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and the sun warmed their skin without threatening to fry it. They wandered aimlessly across the grounds, talking about everything and nothing—classes, professors, how they’d probably fail History of Magic because Binns was impossibly boring, and how Barty was considering trying out for the Quidditch team next year.

Then, out of nowhere, and after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Barty spoke.

“Hey, Reg?” Barty asked, a little quieter this time.

Regulus hummed in response, glancing sideways at him. They were near the edge of the forest now, the shadows of the trees stretching long on the grass.

Barty hesitated for a second, looking around as if to make sure no one was within earshot—though it was just the two of them out there.

“I think I fancy Evan,” he said quickly. “I mean—I don’t think I do. I do. I really do.”

Regulus blinked. Then a slow, knowing smile crept across his face. “See? I told you. Greaves did too—jealousy and love, remember?”

“Oh, shut up, you little brat,” Barty muttered, shoving him lightly and ruffling his hair again. Regulus didn’t bother fighting it this time.

Barty looked away for a moment before continuing, his voice a bit more serious. “I knew it was wrong, but I was... blinded by jealousy, I guess. So I wrote those letters. The ones Eloween got. I pretended to be Evan. Made them sound a bit cold, like he wasn’t into her anymore. It worked. She broke up with him.”

Regulus’s eyes widened. “You what?”

“Yeah,” Barty said, almost sheepishly. “Then Evan came storming into our dorm. Started yelling, saying I ruined everything and—Merlin, he was loud. And annoying. So I Snogged him.”

Regulus stopped walking, staring at him. “You—you snogged him?!”

Barty shrugged, cheeks slightly flushed. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t know what else to do. I’d never kissed anyone before. Hell, I’m twelve! But then he... kissed me back. So I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

Regulus was still staring. “Bloody hell, Barty. That’s—”

“Fucking incredible? I know,” Barty said, grinning now.

“I was gonna say crazy. Completely insane. But... yeah, I guess incredible works too.” Regulus shook his head. “It was about time. Honestly, you two were probably the only ones who didn’t realize you liked each other.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong,” Barty said with a chuckle. “So, yeah. Then we just... smiled at each other like idiots and snogged again. A few times. It was... nice, I guess.”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy.

“We didn’t really talk about it afterward, so it’s not, like, official or anything. But... I think we’re sort of... together now? Maybe?”

Regulus smiled. “Yeah. Sounds like you are.”

He just looked at Barty, at the little furrow between his brows, the way he kept kicking at loose pebbles as they walked, like the ground had suddenly become very interesting.

It was weird. Not bad weird—just strange, seeing Barty like that. Vulnerable. Almost soft.

Regulus bumped their shoulders together lightly. “I’m happy for you, you know. As much as I want to hex you for meddling with those letters... I’m glad it turned out like this.”

Barty snorted. “Yeah, well. I still don’t know if he’s going to yell at me again tomorrow. Or punch me. Or kiss me. Or all three.”

Regulus chuckled. “With Evan? Probably all three.”

They kept walking, the breeze brushing gently against their skin, ruffling the edge of Barty’s shirt. The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky, painting the clouds with that soft golden-pink that only showed up at the very end of spring days. Regulus loved that hour. It made everything feel more distant and more alive at once.

“So...” Barty started, kicking a stick. “Do you think I screwed it up already?”

“No,” Regulus said simply. “I think you might’ve saved it. In your... very dramatic, Barty-like way.”

Barty looked at him, lips twitching. “Thanks. I think.”

They paused near the edge of the lake, where the water shimmered in the golden light and the surface barely rippled with the wind. Regulus sat down on the grass without saying a word, and Barty followed.

They sat in silence for a bit, letting the stillness of the place stretch around them like a blanket. Students’ voices echoed faintly in the distance, carried by the wind, but here it felt quiet. Peaceful.

Regulus picked at a blade of grass. “You know, it’s kind of funny.”

“What is?”

“Evan being the first one to have a... I don’t know, a thing. A relationship. I always thought it’d be you. Or Dorcas, maybe. Eloween wasn't even that serious if Evan was in love with you that whole time, though, so guess you and him were the first ones"

Barty raised an eyebrow. “What, and not you?”

Regulus laughed under his breath. “No way. I’m way too busy"

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Barty didn’t press that, which Regulus appreciated. He just leaned back on his hands, staring at the sky.

“I think we should skip studying,” he said eventually.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “You promised.”

“Yeah, but hear me out—we’ll study tomorrow. Tonight we sit here. We watch the sun go down. And then we sneak into the kitchens and get some of that treacle tart Evan likes so i can win his heart"

"I think you already won his heart" Regulus said and pretended to consider it for a moment. “...Only if you do all the work tomorrow.”

Barty grinned. “Deal.”

And just like that, the weight of the day melted away. No potions test, no hidden letters, no complicated feelings. Just two friends on the grass, watching the sky shift colors

✧

June 22, 1974

The heat had become almost oppressive, clinging to the air like a second skin. Summer was fast approaching, unmistakably so, and with it came the end of the academic year. The castle, usually cool and cavernous, now seemed to trap the warmth within its stone walls, making the corridors feel heavy and sluggish. Most students bore the discomfort with giddy anticipation — eager for the holidays, for the freedom of home and the promise of lazy, golden days. But among the Skittles, that same excitement was notably absent. None of them seemed particularly thrilled by the looming end of term.

Well — Dorcas was the exception, of course. She was always the exception. There was a certain sparkle in her eyes lately, a lightness to her steps that suggested some private delight.

Pandora, on the other hand, had been behaving rather oddly. Regulus had noticed her in hushed conversation with Professor McGonagall more times than he could count, always speaking in low, hurried tones. When asked about it, she simply offered an evasive smile and a quick change of subject. Eventually, they had stopped pressing her.

Evan had adopted a similar secrecy, though in his case, it was harder to tell whether he was hiding something or merely distracted. His attention had been consumed almost entirely by Barty as of late — a preoccupation that rendered him largely indifferent to all else.

Regulus couldn’t blame him, not really. They all knew the truth: neither of the twins wished to return home — not Barty, and certainly not him. There was nothing waiting for them there but silence and shadows.

And yet, in some small, inexplicable corner of his heart, Regulus felt the faintest tug of longing. A yearning to see Sirius again — not to speak, perhaps not even to be seen — but simply to be in the same room, to catch a fleeting glance. Even if it were only a look of disappointment, or worse, contempt.

It hurt more than he would ever admit, even to himself, how thoroughly they had unraveled. How a bond once stitched so tightly had come undone with such irrevocable ease.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, back resting against the warm wood frame, a copy of The Iliad balanced in his lap. Dorcas had lent it to him after she finished it — pressing it into his hands one morning without ceremony, murmuring something about “doom and destiny” and how it seemed like the sort of thing he might appreciate. She hadn’t been wrong.

Regulus had found the prose both beautiful and brutal. There was a clarity to it, a sharpness in the way it portrayed pride and grief and rage. The gods were capricious, the heroes doomed, and fate — well, fate was always the cruelest character of all.

He turned a page slowly, letting his eyes linger on the passage where Achilles drags Hector’s body through the dust, rage and mourning indistinguishable.

There was something strangely comforting about it. Familiar, almost.

How many of us are condemned to play roles written for us before we even draw breath? he thought, tracing the edge of the page with his thumb. Hector dies for honour. Achilles dies for grief. Patroclus dies for love. And none of them are ever truly seen.

He thought of Sirius — his brother, his Achilles. So incandescent, so reckless, so brilliant it hurt to look at him for too long. And yet, here they were, on opposite sides of a war they never chose, pretending not to care, both too proud to admit they were still bleeding.

Perhaps the resemblance was foolish. Perhaps he was foolish.

Mad, even — to find echoes of his brother in an ancient epic, to see fragments of Sirius scattered between lines written thousands of years ago. But he couldn't help it. His mind worked that way, grasping for patterns in the chaos, weaving meaning into the void.

He had always done it — drawn parallels where there were none, searched for connections in the spaces between words, between glances. It made things easier to understand. It made the unbearable feel poetic, at least.

Maybe I am mad, he thought, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, but what’s the alternative? To feel nothing at all?

He had never known how to silence the part of him that still missed Sirius — not the public, infamous version of him, but the one who used to sneak him sweets under the dinner table, who used to mock their mother’s posture with an exaggerated tilt of the chin until Regulus choked on laughter. The Sirius who used to look at him like he was worth something.

Now, even the memory of that gaze stung. Like a burn you didn't notice until someone touched it.

He often wondered if Sirius ever thought of him, ever traced back the quiet moments that used to bind them together. Somehow, he doubted it. Sirius burned too brightly to look back.

Still, he clung to the thought — foolish, mad, deluded — that maybe, just maybe, he would walk through the front door this summer and see him. Just see him. No embrace, no forgiveness. Just one glance.

A glance would be enough.

Regulus closed the book gently and let it rest against his chest, staring up at the canopy above his bed. The heat pressed in around him like a weight, and the voices of other students echoed faintly through the door, full of joy and noise he couldn’t bring himself to share.

And still, beneath it all, a flicker of something he refused to name — a wish, perhaps — that he could return home and see Sirius, just once. Even if it was only from across the room. Even if the look he received was cold and withering.

At least it would mean he had been seen.

Chapter 35: ✧Second year: Birthday b-sides: Zinc Alloy and the Hidden Riders of Tomorrow + Queen II

June 24, 1974

He was seated at the long dining table in Grimmauld Place. The room was dim, cloaked in shadow despite the flickering light of the chandelier above, whose candles burned with a sickly, greenish hue. Across from him sat his parents — silent, rigid, their faces expressionless masks of porcelain. Sirius was there, too, beside them, but his eyes were dull, almost vacant, like the glassy stare of a statue. No one spoke.

The air felt heavy, suffocating, as though the very walls of the house were leaning in to listen. There was a hum — low, discordant — like a swarm of insects just beneath the surface of hearing.

Regulus opened his mouth to speak, to ask why they were all there, why it was so cold, but the words never came. His throat was dry, choked by invisible hands.

Then, with a suddenness that made his blood run cold, his mother reached for the butter knife beside her plate. Her fingers curled around it with a deliberate, unnatural slowness. She looked up.

Her eyes — Merlin, her eyes.

 

They were wild, not with rage but with something far more terrible: a divine, ecstatic madness. Her pupils were too wide, the whites of her eyes nearly swallowed whole. She was smiling — not with affection, but with something ancient and inhuman. A grotesque parody of motherhood.

“Mother?” Regulus asked, his voice hoarse and trembling. “What are you—?”

But she didn’t seem to hear him. Didn’t even glance his way.

Without warning, she raised the knife and brought it down — not toward him, but to her left — and released it.

Thunk.

The blade landed with a dull, wet sound, embedded in the face of the person sitting beside Regulus.

He turned, breath caught in his lungs.

It was James.

His eyes were wide, frozen in shock. Blood was blooming from his cheek where the knife had sunk deep into the bone, a crimson flower opening slowly, petal by petal.

Regulus stumbled backward, nearly knocking over his chair. His legs tangled in something—fabric. A robe? No, a dress. He looked down and realised he was wearing his mother’s old wedding dress, long and trailing, absurdly heavy.

He tried to run. His feet scraped against the wooden floor as he scrambled, half-crawling, toward the door. But before he could rise, a shadow fell over him.

Sirius.

He was standing above him now, eyes shining with something sharp and hungry.

Regulus tried to speak, to plead — but no sound emerged.

Walburga stood silently behind her elder son, her hand reaching once more for the knife. She pulled it free from James’ face with a sickening squelch and passed it to Sirius, reverently, as if it were a family heirloom.

Sirius raised it. His hand didn’t tremble.

Regulus pressed himself against the wall.

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please…”

But Sirius didn’t speak. He raised the blade.

Regulus shut his eyes, bracing for the pain. He could feel it — the chill of metal against his skin, the pressure of fingers wrapping around his arms, shaking him—

Shaking him?

“Reg.”

A voice broke through the silence.

“Reg, wake up. You're dreaming.”

The hands that gripped his arms weren’t violent — they were warm, steady. He blinked. Light poured in through the windows. The musty walls of Grimmauld were gone.

Evan was crouched beside his bed, brow furrowed in concern.

“Merlin, you were thrashing like mad,” he said softly. “You alright?”

Regulus sat up slowly, heart pounding, sweat clinging to his skin like ice. His gaze darted around the room, just to be sure. No knives. No blood. No Sirius.

Only Evan.

And the echo of a dream that had felt far too real.

“Umh… yes, I’m alright,” he murmured, his voice still raspy from sleep. Slowly, he sat up in bed, running a hand through his tousled hair as he tried to steady his breathing. The remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs, but Evan’s presence grounded him.

Evan gave him a look — half curious, half relieved — and nodded. “Don’t make too much noise,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “I didn’t wake you just for fun. I need your help with something.”

Regulus huffed a soft laugh, the corners of his mouth lifting despite the lingering unease. “Evan, he’s not going to wake up from a few whispers. Barty sleeps with the weight and stubbornness of solid iron.”

He giggled quietly, almost in disbelief at his own metaphor, and shook his head. “You could march a brass band through this room and he wouldn’t stir.”

Evan laughed softly, the sound echoing lightly through the quiet dormitory. Then, without another word, he tugged at Regulus’ sleeve and led him out of the room. Both were still in their pajamas, their hair tousled from sleep, and their steps slow, reluctant to break the heavy silence of dawn.

They padded down the hallway and into the Slytherin common room, which was entirely deserted. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the greenish stone walls. Evan glanced around instinctively, as though someone might be lurking nearby, but of course no one was — it was far too early for that.

“Did he…?” Evan began, his voice barely above a whisper.

Regulus sank into the armchair closest to the fire and nodded. “Yes. He told me about the letters.”

But Evan didn’t look satisfied. His eyes lingered on Regulus, as if waiting for something more.

“And the kisses,” Regulus added, almost with a sigh, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A faint flush colored Evan’s cheeks. “I thought so. I figured you were the one he’d tell. You’re closest to him, after all.”

There was a brief silence, filled only by the faint crackling of the flames.

“I’m just not sure he actually likes me,” Evan admitted, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I think… I think he might just be messing with me.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, clearly appalled. “What? Evan, have you lost your mind? He’s completely gone for you.”

Evan let out a nervous laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Regulus said, leaning forward. “He wouldn’t have done all of that — the letters, the kiss—kisses — if he didn’t mean it. You know how Barty is. He doesn’t waste his time with things he doesn’t care about, He doesn’t pretend.”

Evan shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wrapped his arms around his knees. He looked strangely small, sitting there in the soft green light, as if he were trying to fold himself into something unnoticeable.

“He just…” Regulus continued, his voice softer now, “doesn’t know how to show affection properly."

Evan opened his mouth to protest, but Regulus lifted a hand lightly, cutting him off before he could.

“I know he’s not easy,” he continued. “And Merlin knows he’s infuriating and proud and dramatic. But he isn’t cruel, Evan. Not with you. Not in this.”

Evan looked down, tugging at a loose thread on the sleeve of his pajama shirt, his brows furrowed.

“I just… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels too much, and then suddenly not enough,” he muttered. “He’s warm one moment, distant the next. And I can’t tell if it’s me or just—him.”

Regulus leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “It’s him. But it’s not your fault. Barty has been taught that vulnerability is weakness. That softness is a liability. And he is terrified of wanting something so badly that it could hurt him.”

Evan’s eyes lifted to meet his, something unspoken passing between them.

“You don’t have to understand him entirely,” Regulus went on, more gently now. “You just have to be patient, and — perhaps most of all — honest. He’s not playing games, Evan. He’s just... scared. And in love with you, whether he realizes it or not.”

Evan let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Do you think he’ll ever say it?”

Regulus smiled faintly, his gaze drifting to the low-burning fire.

“I think, if you wait long enough, he might just surprise you.”

Evan smiled, a little sheepishly.

“Okay, so… I’ve got this for him. It might be a bit ridiculous, but—well.”

He reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and produced a small velvet pouch, identical to the one he had used the previous year. With delicate care, he opened it to reveal a silver ring: a serpent, coiled gracefully, its tiny emerald eyes glinting in the dim common room light.

Regulus leaned in, examining it with quiet appreciation. It was elegant, yes—but more than that, it was thoughtful. It suited Barty. Dangerous. Sharp. Beautiful.

“He liked the one I gave him last year,” Evan said, his voice soft, almost uncertain. “So I thought—well, maybe he’d want another. A pair, sort of. But… I don’t know. Maybe it’s silly.”

Regulus looked at him, expression warm but resolute.

“What? No, Evan. Not at all. I promise you—he’ll love it.”

He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “He never takes off the one you gave him last year. Not even when he sleeps. I’ve seen it. He fiddles with it when he’s anxious, and I know he thinks of you.”

Evan’s eyes widened slightly, hope flickering behind them.

“You promise?” he asked, almost in a whisper, as if afraid the moment might dissolve if he spoke too loudly.

Regulus smiled, that rare, sincere smile that softened the aristocratic sharpness of his features.

“I swear it. Really.”

There was a silence then—comfortable, quiet. Outside the common room windows, the lake shimmered in the faint pre-dawn light. Evan looked down at the ring again, rolling it between his fingers.

“Thanks, Reg,” he murmured. “For… all of it.”

Regulus simply nodded. There were some things that didn’t need to be said aloud.

That day, as had become tradition, and as Barty himself had proclaimed the year before, they didn’t attend a single class. Instead, they remained in the Slytherin common room all day—lounging, laughing, indulging in far too many sweets, and occupying themselves with delightfully ridiculous activities that made them feel, for once, like ordinary teenagers.

Barty was particularly excited about his gifts. His eyes sparkled with that unmistakable brand of mischief he carried everywhere, but there was something softer underneath it, too—something quietly expectant. When Evan finally presented him with his gift, Barty’s cheeks flushed a colour Regulus rarely saw on him.

Dorcas, ever quick to catch the smallest shift in expression, immediately teased him for it.

“Oh, he’s blushing!” she laughed, nudging him with the edge of a chocolate frog box. “Merlin, Barty, you’re not going to cry, are you?”

Barty, instead of retorting, only turned redder. He slipped the ring onto his finger with great care, the silver snake coiling neatly around his knuckle, emerald eyes catching the firelight. He looked at it for a long moment before murmuring a quiet, “Thanks,” to Evan—barely audible, but unmistakably sincere.

Later that day, as Regulus stepped into their dormitory, he paused at the door. Evan had just entered a few seconds before him, and Barty—perhaps forgetting they weren’t alone—leaned in and pressed an innocent kiss to Evan’s lips.

Regulus didn’t say a word. He simply acted as though he hadn’t seen it, quietly heading toward his bed. But they both knew he had.

And when their eyes met, all three of them burst into quiet laughter—light, airy, and completely without malice. Just boys, basking in their shared secret, in the warmth of a moment that would surely become a memory.

✧ 

At night, he was waiting for the clock to hit midnight, so he would eschange his gifts with Barty. He had gotten Barty a vinyl from a band he had discovered during the holidays–because of Sirius, who he had seen trying to listen to it when their parents were gone one day– and thought Barty would like. Not as much as Led Zeppelin, though, he didn't think Barty could ever love something more than he loved Led Zeppelin.

He was, while waiting, finishing some homework in the room, when Barty entered basically jumping.

"Come on Reg! Five minutes to twelve, grab my gift, now!" Barty exclaimed, and they both grabbed each others gifts', and went to the common room were the girls and Evan were waiting.

Regulus couldn’t help but chuckle. He slid the record into a slim, green-and-silver paper bag and followed Barty out of the dormitory, the two of them hurrying down to the common room where Evan, Dorcas, and Pandora were already gathered. Evan was lying upside-down on the couch, Dorcas had transfigured a pillow into a party hat, and Pandora was handing out fizzing sweets shaped like little dragons.

At exactly midnight, Barty clapped his hands.

“Gifts! Now!”

They exchanged their packages ceremoniously, as if conducting a royal rite.

Regulus handed him the vinyl with a quiet, “I thought you might like this,” and Barty ripped the wrapping with reckless enthusiasm. His eyes widened the moment he saw the cover.

“Oh—T. Rex? I’ve never heard this one. Merlin’s pants, the name alone!” he said with a delighted laugh. “‘Zinc Alloy and the Hidden Riders of Tomorrow’—what kind of lunatic comes up with that?”

“Marc Bolan, apparently,” Regulus replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s strange, but I think it suits you.”

Barty grinned like he’d just won a Quidditch match. “I love it. You always find the weirdest, best things.”

Regulus flushed slightly, then turned his attention to the gift in his lap. It was wrapped carefully, and inside was another vinyl—Queen II.

His heart actually stuttered.

“You remembered I liked the first one,” he said softly, running his fingers over the artwork. The cover was dramatic, dark, powerful—the kind of thing that felt important just by existing.

“Of course I did,” Barty said, suddenly quieter. “You said it was one of the best things you'd ever heard. And this one’s even better. I think it’s got a song called March of the Black Queen, which feels kind of appropriate for you."

Regulus smiled down at the record in his hands, his chest warm in a way he wasn’t used to. He looked up just in time to catch Barty already unwrapping the vinyl, inspecting the back cover with the kind of attention he usually reserved for ancient runes or Led Zeppelin lyrics. His fingers traced the printed song titles like they mattered.

Across the room, Evan was mock-arguing with Pandora about who had given the better gift, Dorcas was laughing with her mouth full of chocolate frogs, but for a moment, all of that faded into a soft blur. Regulus looked at Barty—his flushed cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes, the way he was clearly trying not to look too excited—and he thought that maybe this was his favorite part of the whole day.

Barty caught him looking and smiled, a real one, not one of his smirks or sneers. Regulus looked down, his face warming, but didn’t stop smiling either.

They didn’t say anything else just then. They didn’t have to.

✧

Chapter 36: ✧Summer 1974

Summer was being shit, as usual.

It was always the same: the air too heavy to breathe, the silence too loud to stand. Grimmauld Place had a way of pressing against his ribs like a weight — not enough to crush him, but just enough to make sure he never forgot he was trapped. Trapped not just in the house, but in another name, another self.

Regulus had counted the days since he’d returned home from Hogwarts. Twenty-three, so far. Twenty-three days of cold stares, measured words, and the ever-tightening feeling that he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Not here, and not there either. Not with them — not with Sirius, not anymore.

He spent most of his time in his room, trying to read, writting letters he never sent. Listening. This house was always alive with whispers: footsteps on the stairs, muffled arguments, the low clink of glasses after dinner. And sometimes, things worse than that. Sounds he didn’t like thinking about. Sounds he tried to ignore.

Sirius barely spoke to him anymore. He barely spoke to anyone. He’d storm in late to meals, eat in silence, and leave before their parents had a chance to sink their claws into him — though lately, Orion had stopped waiting. Lately, Sirius couldn’t seem to make it through the day without something going wrong.

It was a constant tug-of-war. A new battle every evening. Regulus had learned to stay quiet, keep his head down, and maybe — just maybe — survive the summer that way.

But Sirius didn’t keep quiet. Sirius never kept quiet. And Orion’s patience was thinning.

Still, Regulus hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected how violent things would become. How fast everything would fall apart.

It started, like most things did in this house, with a single comment. A word too bold. A name said too loudly. And then a fight.

And Regulus had listened — from the hallway, from behind his bedroom door, from the stairs — as Sirius said the kind of things no one ever said to Orion Black and lived to forget.

The argument began, like most did in that house, with a passing comment. Orion had muttered something about “dangerous friendships,” and for once, Sirius didn’t hold back.

“They’re more loyal, more courageous, and more magical than any pureblood in this wretched family" he snapped.

Orion’s eyes narrowed. “You dare compare them filthy mudbloods to us?”

Sirius stood his ground. “They're better than you'll ever be, you brain impaired bastard" 

Then Regulus had heard it—thud after thud echoing through the walls, the dull impact of fist or hand against flesh and wood. No shouting this time, just the relentless pounding as if the house itself seized Sirius for his insolence.

When the final crash faded away, the household sank into an uneasy hush. Plates clinked in the kitchen; footsteps retreated. But Regulus stayed frozen in the hallway, heart hammering, ears ringing.

✧ 

Later, while everyone else drifted off, he remained behind, fingers trembling against the polished bannister. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself forward, each step a march into fire.

Orion was by the fireplace, glass in hand, staring into the embers. He didn’t look up when Regulus cleared his throat.

“F-Father?” Regulus’s voice was small, barely more than a squeak.

Orion’s head tilted—an invitation.

Regulus swallowed. He clutched his sleeves. “I… I wanted to say something. About Sirius.”

Orion’s expression darkened, but he waited, glass poised mid-air.

Regulus’s throat went dry. “He—he’s not trying to shame the family. He’s just… different. And maybe if—if you tried to understand him, just a little, he wouldn’t be—”

He never finished.

Orion moved like lightning. A stinging backhand across Regulus’s face threw him into the wall. His cheek burned, ears ringing.

“You dare defend him to me?” Orion growled, low and venomous. “That blood traitor? That failure?”

Regulus whimpered and closed his eyes. He knew better than to reply.

Orion’s grip seized his collar. “You think you know better than me, Cassiopeia?”

The name struck him deeper than the slap. He flinched.

“You think you’ll teach me how to raise my son?” With a shove, Regulus hit the floor hard.

He lay there, trembling, staring at Orion’s polished shoes.

“Fine,” Orion muttered, smoothing his robes. “If you care so much about him, you’ll learn what it costs.”

He turned on his heel, voice calm again. “And so will he.”

✧ 

That night, just after dinner, Regulus heard Orion stormed into Sirius’s bedroom without warning. The sounds started again. Regulus darted back to his room but couldn’t escape the echoes: a chair tipping, the scrape of something sharp, a strangled cry.

That kind of screaming—raw and broken—ripped into Regulus’s chest. He pressed his hands over his ears, but nothing could drown it out. Sirius never cried, but it was different now.

He knew what that noise meant. He’d heard it before, in nightmares: glass against skin.

He curled up on his bed, knees to chest, shaking. Guilt stabbed him. He had spoken up—tried to stop the violence, a stupid act—and now Sirius paid the price.

When at last the screams ceased, a suffocating quiet fell. Regulus lay there so long he lost track of time, tears searing his cheeks.

Regulus heard the crash and ran to the door, but by the time he got there, Orion was gone. Sirius lay on the floor, blood on his lip, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. There was a huge, deep cut running along his forearm, jagged and raw like it had been carved with something blunt. Blood poured from it in thick, steady streams, soaking his sleeve and dripping onto the floor in dark, heavy splatters. The skin around the wound was torn and inflamed, and the edges gaped open, exposing muscle beneath. His hand trembled violently at his side, fingers twitching as though they couldn’t quite decide whether to clench or go limp. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and each heartbeat seemed to force more of it out, pulsing rhythmically from the gash.

Regulus’s legs gave out as he knelt beside his brother. “Sirius…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I tried— I went to speak to him. I just wanted to—”

Sirius’s head snapped up, eyes blazing fury through bruised lids. “You what?” he rasped. “You talked to him?”

“I didn’t know— I thought maybe—” Regulus’s voice trembled. “I just wanted it to stop.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Sirius pushed himself upright, breath sharp with pain. “You opened your mouth and he came back with a fucking weapon.”

“No— I didn’t know he’d— I would never—”

“But you did.” Sirius laughed, hollow and broken. “You always do. You watch. You say nothing. And now you go to him? What did you say, Regulus? Did you sit there sipping tea while he planned it out?”

“I didn’t— I swear— I just wanted to protect you.”

“Then you should’ve kept your mouth shut,” Sirius hissed. “But of course you didn’t. You never know anything. You just pretend to be kind.”

Regulus flinched. “I do care.”

“No, you don’t,” Sirius said, voice low and burning. “You’d sell your own brother if it made your life easier. You already did.”

Regulus staggered back as if struck.

“Well done, Cassiopeia,” Sirius spat, and shoved the door closed in his face.

That July 28th of 1974, Sirius called him Cassiopeia — a name he hadn’t used in four years. It was meant to hurt. And it did.

✧

He spent the rest of the summer crying into his pillow, muffling the sounds so no one would hear. Not that anyone would’ve cared — not here. Not in this house.

Most nights, he stayed awake until the sky began to shift from black to gray. During the day, he barely left his room. He scribbled notes to Barty on the magic notebook. He wrote about nothing and everything — about the way the walls seemed to breathe when no one was speaking, about how dinner felt like walking barefoot through glass, about the exact words Sirius had said to him that night.

But he never sent them. He couldn’t. What would Barty even say? What could anyone say, when your own brother — the one who used to ruffle your hair and sneak you sweets and tell you stories about dragons — looked you in the eye and said you were just like your parents?

He’d known for a while now that things were changing. That Sirius had started to look at him differently. Less like a brother and more like a symbol of everything he hated. Regulus had noticed the glances across the table, the way Sirius would leave the room the second he entered, the way he spoke about “purebloods” with that sharp edge in his voice, like the very word made him sick.

But still, this?

This was different.

It was one thing to drift apart. It was another to be hated. And Regulus didn’t think he could survive knowing that Sirius — his Sirius — hated him.

He replayed that night over and over again in his head. The things Sirius had said. The way he had looked at him, like he was worse than nothing. And it wasn’t just the words — it was the truth behind them. Sirius had meant it.

And that hurt more than any punch Orion had thrown.

Because Regulus had tried. He had tried to help. He had tried to be enough. And none of it had mattered.

Now, every time he passed Sirius in the corridor, he looked down. Every time he heard his voice — angry, distant, muffled through a closed door — he held his breath. He had lost him. And maybe he had never truly had him in the first place.

He thought about writing one last letter to Barty.

One where he’d say the things he didn’t dare say out loud.

One where he’d admit how scared he was of becoming just another Black.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he crumpled the parchment, set it on fire with a flick of his wand, and watched it burn to ash in the palm of his hand.

✧

Chapter 37: ✧ Third year: Beneath the surface

Summary:

Second year has come to an end, what does third year hold?

September 1, 1974 

It was finally time to return to Hogwarts. To return home.

And yet, something about it felt wrong this year. It lacked the quiet comfort, the breath of relief it used to bring. Late summer clung to everything with a suffocating warmth, the kind that turned long sleeves into cages of sweat and silence. The sun bore down relentlessly, and he felt it most cruelly under the weight of the clothes he'd been forced to wear.

His parents had insisted — she was older now, they’d said, more of a lady, and it was time to start dressing like one. They'd chosen a long skirt for him, elegant and heavy, and the shame of it clung to his skin more tightly than the fabric itself. He had wanted to cry when he stepped outside. If anyone from school saw him like that, it would be the end. And worst of all, his mother had ordered him to remove the sweater he clung to, arguing it would only make him sweat, make him smell — make him unpresentable.

But how could he take it off, when it was the only thing hiding the truth? The sweater hung from his shoulders like a funeral shroud, veiling the secret rotting beneath.

The wound had not healed. Not even close. It had been over a month since that night — that terrible, echoing night — when Orion had lost whatever remained of his soul and taken a jagged shard of glass to Sirius’s skin. The night Sirius screamed until his voice vanished, until his throat was raw and useless. The night Regulus, trembling and breathless with something too dark to name, had picked up a broken frame and carved the same pain into his own flesh. A deep, uneven gash etched into the soft inside of his left forearm, mirroring his brother’s wound in brutal symmetry. It should’ve begun to heal. But he wouldn't let it.

Each time a thin layer of scab dared to form, he tore it away — with his fingers, his nails, or even his teeth if need be. Sometimes, the pain dulled into background noise, something almost familiar. On those days, he hurt himself harder, just to feel it. Just to remind himself. Because pity was a luxury he didn’t deserve.

Other times, when his hands acted before his mind could catch up, he tore the skin deeper. It stung like fire. It bled like confession. Again and again.

The skin around it was angry and red, swollen, burning. The edges of the wound had taken on a yellowish hue, sick and sour, and each morning he found the same thick, repugnant blend of pus and blood clinging to the surface like decay. He could smell it now, faintly. Rot. He knew what was happening. Knew the flesh was dying. And still, he wouldn’t — couldn’t — let it close. That would be forgiveness. And he hadn’t earned that.

By day, he covered it with long sleeves or makeshift bandages, careful and quiet. No one noticed. No one ever did. But at night, in the silence of his dormitory bed, he would stare at it beneath the moonlight. A sentence carved into his skin. A permanent reminder. A punishment.

Of what he’d done.

Or what he hadn't stopped.

He stepped onto the train with his head low and his heart clenched tightly in his chest, silently begging to go unnoticed. The last thing he wanted — the last thing he could endure — was someone seeing him like this. It would ruin him. It would unravel the fragile strings holding him together.

Without looking back, he hurried through the narrow corridor, slipping into the bathroom. The mirror caught a glimpse of him as he entered, but he avoided his own reflection. He couldn't bear to see the shadows under his eyes, the dullness in them, the ghost of bruises that still clung faintly to his skin.

He changed into a pair of pressed trousers, smoothing them with shaky hands. The robe felt heavy when he pulled it over his shoulders, and it was just adding more weight he no longer wanted to carry. With a deep breath, he stepped out and made his way down the train.

The platform outside was still crowded. Parents and younger siblings stood in clusters, waving and calling out goodbyes, voices thick with affection and hope. It made his stomach twist. He glanced out the window and saw a little boy crying as his sister boarded the train. Their mother bent to hug him, soothing him softly.

Regulus looked away.

He thought of Sirius — again, as he always did lately, and honestly had always done. Thought about the first time they had taken this train, how he had stood on the platform, small and wide-eyed, watching as Sirius climbed aboard with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had waved so hard his arm hurt. And Sirius looked back.

You'll come to hogwarts next year too, and we'll be best mates.

He promised. 

Swallowing hard, Regulus turned down the corridor, dragging his trunk behind him. His steps felt heavy, his breath shallow. Then, suddenly, a sound — clear, bright, and familiar — cut through the murmur of the train.

A laugh. Loud and unbothered.

Barty.

Regulus didn’t need to see him to know. That laugh was unmistakable — reckless, sharp, full of something wild and burning. And just like that, the tightness in his chest shifted, softened. Not gone, not even close, but no longer suffocating.

He followed the sound down the hall, toward the compartment where his friends would be. For now, he would pretend. Pretend he was still whole. Pretend he hadn’t spent the summer trying to hold his world together with trembling fingers. Pretend he hadn’t lost the one person he thought he could never lose.

“Oi, Reg, how was your summer?” Barty asked, casual as ever, with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes — as if he hadn’t noticed the faint shadow beneath Regulus’s.

Regulus stood in the doorway for a moment, assessing the arrangement. Evan was already slouched beside Barty, their knees nearly touching, talking low and fast about something Regulus couldn’t hear. There was no space left on that side of the compartment — not unless he wanted to squeeze in between them, which he most certainly did not.

So, without comment, he moved to the opposite bench and settled between the window and Pandora, who greeted him with a soft “hello” and a reassuring glance. Dorcas, seated at the end, offered him a smile.

Regulus sat with careful precision, straight-backed, placing his bag neatly by his feet. He turned to the window, letting the fleeting images outside blur into colour and light. He could feel Barty’s gaze still on him, searching for cracks.

The sun was beginning to shift across the sky, casting narrow beams of gold through the train windows. Dust swirled in the light, and Regulus watched it for a moment, just to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. His back was straight, his hands neatly folded on his lap, as though posture could anchor him, could stop the trembling that still lingered beneath his skin.

“I suppose it was dreadful,” he said at last, voice calm, composed — too composed. “But I imagine you already guessed that.”

Barty tilted his head, watching him carefully now. Regulus could feel it — that particular way Barty looked at him when he suspected something was deeply wrong but didn’t want to scare him into silence.

Regulus let out a soft exhale, as if the words cost him something.

“I spent most of it reading, hiding in my room when I could. Nothing terribly exciting, unless you consider surviving my father’s temper a thrilling summer pastime.”

He turned to the window, his voice barely above a murmur. “It was worse than usual.”

Silence settled in the compartment. Evan had stopped flipping through his book. Pandora shifted slightly, her eyes flicking toward Barty.

Regulus kept his gaze on the passing platform.

“There’s a particular sort of exhaustion that comes from being treated like you’re nothing,” he continued, still too calm, too distant. “As if your worth is conditional. As if love — or whatever poor imitation of it they offer — must be earned through obedience.”

He swallowed, throat tight.

“And I failed. Spectacularly.”

No one said anything for a moment. Then Barty, gently, “Reg…”

But Regulus shook his head, just once, the movement sharp.

“I’m not telling you this to gain your pity,” he said quickly. “I only thought— since you asked.”

He finally turned back toward them, eyes cool and guarded.

“Now, if you’d all be so kind,” he added, almost bitterly polite, “I’d much rather speak of anything but Grimmauld Place. Tell me — has anyone done anything remotely interesting this summer? Something that doesn’t involve blood, bruises or ancestral disappointment?”

The others exchanged glances. And slowly, carefully, Dorcas began to speak of a holiday she took with her grandparents, and the moment shifted, softened. But Barty stayed quiet, eyes never leaving Regulus — as if he was trying to understand something unsaid. And Regulus hated it. Hated the way Barty looked at him like that, as though he could see through the careful posture and quiet poise, right into the part of him that had failed. That had stayed. That hadn’t fought hard enough.

He wondered what Barty saw — a coward, maybe. A boy who let his brother take the blows meant for him. A boy who couldn’t even bring himself to send a letter.

Regulus turned back toward the window, jaw tight, the glass cool against his temple. He didn’t want to be seen. Not like this.

✧ 

He wasn't sure when exactly it had happened — the blurring of thoughts, the heaviness behind his eyes — but he must have drifted off to sleep at some point. The rhythm of the train and the muted conversation had lulled him into that half-place between waking and dreaming. The next thing he remembered was the gentle pressure of a hand on his arm, and a voice calling his name.

“Oi, Reg? Wake up,” came Pandora’s soft murmur, careful not to startle him. “We’ve about an hour left before we reach Hogwarts. Barty and Evan have just gone off to buy some sweets.”

Regulus blinked slowly, adjusting to the light that filtered through the cabin window. Dorcas was no longer in her seat, though he hadn’t heard her leave.

“Where’s Cas?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep. Pandora hadn’t mentioned her.

“She’s in the loo,” she replied simply, then hesitated — just long enough for Regulus to notice the shift in her tone.

“Reg…” she said again, quieter this time.

“Yes?” he responded, brows slightly raised in curiosity.

Pandora paused, studying him in that careful, deliberate way of hers. Then she asked, without accusation, but not without concern: “Why are you wearing a sweater?”

For a second, he didn’t understand. Then it hit him.

Ah.

He stiffened imperceptibly, though his expression didn’t waver. No one had said anything earlier — perhaps because he’d been asleep, or perhaps they’d been too polite to mention it. But now, with Pandora’s question hanging in the air like fog, he felt uncomfortably exposed. The sleeves were too long for the weather, the wool too heavy for early September. It was the kind of thing someone might wear to ward off a chill — or to conceal something they didn’t want seen.

He opened his mouth, searching for a response, something easy and dismissive — he was cold, he liked this sweater, he hadn’t slept well, anything. But nothing came. Because none of it would be entirely true, and Pandora, clever as she was, would know the difference.

So instead, he looked out the window again, voice quiet and controlled.

“I didn’t feel like wearing my uniform yet,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Pandora didn’t press. She simply nodded, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, as if she knew there was more to say — and was choosing, just for now, to let him keep it.

When the others returned to the compartment — arms full of chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties, cheeks flushed from the bustle of the trolley — Pandora didn’t mention the subject again. Not even in passing. And Regulus found that... admirable. There was a quiet dignity to her restraint, a grace in the way she allowed him to keep what little privacy he had left. It was in moments like these — in the silences she so carefully upheld, in the secrets she never asked him to explain — that he realised how deeply he trusted her.

Chapter 38: ✧ Third year: Carried it too long

That same night, after the welcome feast and the Sorting ceremony — all the pomp and chatter and flickering candlelight — Pandora slipped beside him and, with a conspiratorial glance, led him out of the common room. The castle was quieter now, wrapped in shadows and soft echoes. The grounds, though still clinging to the warmth of summer, had cooled under the absence of sun, the air gentler against their skin.

They walked in silence for a while, their steps muffled by grass and earth. Regulus didn’t mind the quiet; Pandora’s silences never felt heavy.

Eventually, she spoke — quietly, as though afraid the night might overhear.

“So,” she said, her tone laced with gentleness, but not without purpose. “The sweater?”

Regulus sighed, long and slow. He tilted his head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at her, half a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “How is it that you always notice everything?” he asked, voice low, quiet. “You just… know, somehow.”

“I pay attention,” she said simply. “And something’s wrong, Reg. I can smell it. It’s faint — nothing anyone else would notice, not really. Could be disguised as sweat, or summer air, or old robes. But I know it’s not. So…” She looked at him, not with accusation, but with patience. “What is it?”

Then, wordlessly, he reached for the hem of the sweater and began to pull it over his head.

The air felt colder without it, though it wasn’t cold at all — it was just that his body had gone tense, stiff with shame. When the fabric cleared his arms, he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to look at her.

The wound was revealed slowly, piece by piece, under the dim moonlight: raw and angry, the skin purpled and blackened at the edges, crusted with scabs that hadn’t healed properly. There was a dark patch where the flesh had split open — deep and jagged, still slightly wet, like it had been irritated from contact with fabric. The smell was faint but unmistakable: that sour, metallic staleness of something infected.

Pandora inhaled sharply. Not a gasp — more like the way someone draws breath before saying something important. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment before dropping to her side.

“Reg…” she said softly, eyes wide. “Why would you let it get like this?”

He clenched his jaw. Still, he wouldn’t look at her.

“I didn’t mean to let it fester,” he muttered. “I just…"

She was quiet for a moment, like she was weighing every word she could possibly say.

“Did you do this?” she asked, finally. Her voice didn’t carry judgment — only fear. Concern. The kind that came from loving someone too much to pretend she didn’t see.

He swallowed. His throat felt dry.

“It’s complicated,” he whispered. “It was me, but, Sirius–"

Pandora stepped in front of him slowly, gently, like he was something fragile. She didn’t touch the wound — didn’t even reach for him. She just looked at him, her face soft with worry.

“You can’t just leave it like that,” she said. “It’ll get worse.”

Regulus nodded, barely.

“I know.”

“And you can’t keep hiding everything, Reg. Not from me.”

He finally met her gaze.

“I’m not hiding,” he said, though his voice betrayed the lie.

But she didn’t call him out on it. She only nodded once, and said, “Alright, then. But let me help you clean it. Please"

He nodded, and without exchanging another word, they made their way to the Herbology greenhouses. Returning to the common room was out of the question — it was far too late, and the thought of facing so many eyes, so many questions, was unbearable.

As they reached the entrance, Regulus frowned slightly when Pandora reached for the door and opened it with ease.

"Why do you have the key?" he asked, suspicion tinged with genuine curiosity.

She grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, I don’t,” she said, almost proudly. “Alohomora.”

Of course. Pandora never let little things like locks stand in her way.

Inside, the air was humid and smelled faintly of soil, sap, and crushed mint leaves. The glass panes above them were fogged from the warmth within meeting the chill of the night air outside. The place was eerily still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the soft dripping of water from some enchanted pipe.

“There should be medical supplies in here,” she explained, her voice lowered into something near a whisper, though no one else was around. “I overheard Professor Sprout mention it once. In case someone is injured and, for whatever reason, can’t make it to the hospital wing."

She knelt beside a low cupboard near one of the back tables, pulling it open and rummaging with practiced care. Bottles clinked softly. Regulus watched her move, grateful beyond words for the quiet competence with which she handled everything — as though it were all perfectly normal, as though helping a friend patch up a wound acquired through heartbreak and desperation was just another task in a long day; and perhaps, for Pandora, it was.

It took a while — far longer than Regulus had anticipated. The wound was far worse than he had allowed himself to admit, ragged at the edges and dark with dried blood. The skin around it was inflamed, angry and raw, and the cut itself oozed slightly each time Pandora pressed the soaked cloth against it. She didn’t flinch, though. Her hands were steady, careful, even as she worked in silence.

The procedure was slow, almost surgical. She cleaned the wound with a mix of tinctures she identified by scent alone, then dabbed it dry with cotton pads, murmuring soft apologies whenever he winced. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her mouth set in a tight line — a rare expression for someone usually so light-hearted.

Once the cleaning was done, she applied a thick salve that smelled faintly of lavender and iron, then began wrapping it in fresh, sterile bandages. She worked with an odd sort of tenderness, precise and deliberate, as if by being gentle enough she could undo not just the damage to his skin, but the pain that lay beneath it.

When she finally tied the end of the bandage with a small knot, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. “There,” she whispered, “that should hold. But, Reg… you need to let it heal this time.”

He nodded, barely. He didn’t trust his voice not to betray him.

Back in the common room, warm and low-lit from the flickering fireplace, Regulus and Pandora spotted Evan and Barty nestled into one of the large velvet sofas near the hearth. The fire cast golden shadows across their faces, dancing in the hollows of their cheeks. Barty was lounging with his usual irreverence, one leg slung over the arm of the couch, a bag of sweets resting on his lap. He looked up as they approached, eyebrows raised in that familiar mix of curiosity and mischief.

“Oi, Reg, Panda — where’ve you been?” he asked, casually tossing a liquorice wand into his mouth, his words slightly muffled as he chewed. “abandoned us or something?”

Regulus froze, heart leaping uncomfortably in his chest. His mind scrambled for an answer, any answer, but all he could feel was the dull ache beneath his freshly bandaged skin, and the sharp edge of panic pressing at the back of his throat.

But Pandora, ever composed, answered before he could stammer out something regrettable.

“Oh, nothing quite so dramatic,” she said breezily, her voice smooth as silk. “We were simply having a look at the classrooms, scoping out which electives we might sign up for this year. You know how it is — last-minute decisions and all that. I’m thinking about Ancient Runes, but Regulus seems keen on Arithmancy.”

Her tone was light, perfectly pitched — not overly defensive, not suspiciously casual. Just two students preparing for the term ahead. It was an impeccable lie, told with the grace of someone used to dancing around truth for the sake of protecting those she cared for.

Barty shrugged, seemingly satisfied, and offered them the open bag of sweets without pressing further. Regulus accepted one with a nod of thanks, silently grateful — not just for the sugar to keep his hands busy, but for Pandora. For always knowing what to say when he didn’t.

Notes:

Sorry, i wont be posting so often for some time, I have some complications. Still, i'll be posting at least once a week!

Chapter 39: ✧ Third year: Resentment, clash ( XXXXX creature, do not feed!)

Summary:

REGULUS BALLET DANCER!!! (Love this headcanon, i HAD to include it)

September 7, 1974

By the second week of term, Hogwarts had already settled into its usual rhythm — the murmur of students in corridors, the soft echo of bells marking the end of lessons, the distinct smell of ink and damp stone lingering in the air. And with it, came the moment to begin the elective classes they had signed up for the week before — or, at least, that they ought to have.

Regulus, in his not-so typical fashion, had made his choices at the very last moment. He had signed up for Care of Magical Creatures, though he could hardly recall why, perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps simply because it sounded less dreadful than the alternatives. The rest of his time, he had expected to spend with his friends. All of them had picked different subjects–kind of–and somehow he had managed to scribble his name onto a few of the same lists, hoping to land wherever they did.

Astronomy and Divination, now optional, had both crossed his mind to abandon entirely. He loved the stars, but they were just remembering him bad memories now; and Greaves' rambling predictions felt like riddles wrapped in smoke. Still, the alternative was even worse. Dropping them would mean having to choose between Muggle Studies, where he’d be surrounded by the kind of conversations that made his blood boil; or Ancient Runes, which might as well have been written in Gobbledegook for all he understood.

So he lingered in indecision, caught somewhere between apathy and dread, hoping the matter would quietly resolve itself, or, if he was honest, that Professors would simply forget to notice and he could just not sign to any extra class.

Of course, they never forgot anything, so Regulus ended up signed for Care of magical creatures, divination, and astronomy.

It was still rather early in the morning, and the air carried that particular crispness which always accompanied the first weeks of September at Hogwarts. The dew had not yet lifted from the grass, and the sky was a pale, reluctant blue. They were to have their first lesson of Care of Magical Creatures—a subject Regulus wasn't quite sure what to expect from. He had, admittedly, never spent much time in the company of magical beasts—aside from the odd family owl or a particularly unpleasant incident involving a doxy infestation in the attic—but he, like most of the Skittles, had considered it wise to acquire at least a fundamental understanding of them.

Barty, of course, had enrolled for entirely different reasons. “Could be a laugh,” he’d said, which usually meant “might get bitten.”

The class took place in a paddock situated at the edge of the grounds, not far from the boundary of the Forbidden Forest. It was an open, grassy enclosure, with wooden posts and a worn fence that had seen better days. The area felt secluded, comfortably removed from the usual bustle of castle life, and while the distant shadows of the forest loomed beyond, the spot itself seemed safe—unless, of course, Barty decided to provoke something with fangs.

Their professor, a certain Oswald Jorkins, was an elderly, rather round gentleman with a snowy white short beard. He had the disposition of a slightly distracted grandfather and an evident fondness for creatures of all kinds. A puffskein lived in the breast pocket of his worn tweed coat, bobbing and bouncing with theatrical elegance, as though performing pirouettes along the stitching. It reminded Regulus of his childhood; though, admittedly, most things did these days

He had begun ballet when he was barely two years old, an arrangement orchestrated, no doubt, by his mother’s unspoken desire for perfection and grace. And though the reasons behind it were complex, layered in expectations he could not yet name at the time, he had grown to love it—genuinely, fervently. The control, the fluidity, the stillness within the movement—it had been one of the very few things about his early years he truly cherished.

He hadn’t danced in years, not properly. Not since he’d started Hogwarts, where he had long since learned to keep such things locked tightly away. But sometimes, when the castle was quiet and everyone else asleep, he would find an empty room and allow his body to remember. It was a private ritual, delicate and unspeakable. He had never breathed a word of it to anyone. Not even Pandora, who he usually told most things.

Professor Jorkins, unlike most professors, had not brought a textbook or even a set of notes. Regulus supposed that after decades of working with magical creatures, one acquired a level of confidence that rendered guidebooks unnecessary—at least for the first week of a basic-level class.

“Well,” the old man began, his voice carrying with surprising clarity for someone so diminutive, “I imagine by now you’ve come across the classification system used by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—likely during your Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons. It's printed in most of your textbooks, though Merlin knows how many of you have actually read that far.”

He cast a pointed glance around the group, though his eyes twinkled with amusement rather than reproach.

Barty spoke up before anyone else could. It wasn’t surprising—Regulus had long grown accustomed to the way Barty absorbed information, often without seeming to try. He rarely participated in class discussions unless something caught his interest, but when he did, he always knew precisely what he was talking about.

“They’re classified by how dangerous they are,” Barty said smoothly, as if reciting something he'd read in passing and then committed to memory for the sake of it. “The scale runs from X to XXXXX.”

Professor Jorkins gave a nod of approval. “Quite right, Mr. Crouch. One X for the harmless and wholly domesticated, five for the sort of creature that will very likely attempt to eat you before you’ve finished reading its entry.”

He chuckled at his own joke, while the students exchanged glances—some amused, others slightly nervous, as if Jorkins would casually bring a basilic next class.

“Look, Eloween’s in this class too,” Dorcas murmured delicately, leaning in just enough for her words to reach him without attracting attention. She tilted her head slightly in the girl’s direction, an understated gesture refined from lots of subtle gossip in shared company.

Regulus hesitated before shifting his gaze. He had no intention of being caught staring—particularly not by a girl whose romantic drama he wanted no part in—but he risked a quick glance.

Eloween Fairbourne stood a few paces away, her arms folded, blond fringe perfectly in place despite the morning breeze. Her expression, however, was far from composed. Her eyes were locked on Evan, her gaze sharp, unamused, and unmistakably irritated—as if she were trying to set him aflame by sheer force of will. Regulus followed her line of sight and saw Evan, laughing far too easily at something Barty had just said. The way his shoulder brushed Barty’s was subtle, but not unnoticeable.

It didn’t take a Legilimens to understand what had soured Eloween’s mood.

Before Regulus could so much as formulate a comment on the scene, Professor Jorkins cleared his throat with theatrical intent and stepped forward to command the group’s attention.

“We shall begin,” he announced in a tone both cheery and firm, “with the basics—harmless creatures, classified with a single ‘X’. Now then, can anyone name one such creature?”

There was a brief pause, during which several students shifted awkwardly in place, but Barty’s voice rang out, unbothered and clear:

“Puffskeins.”

Regulus allowed himself the faintest smirk. Of course Barty would answer first. 

But before Jorkins could respond, Elowen Fairbourne’s voice cut in, crisp and confident. “No,” she said, wearing the sort of smug expression that belonged more in a courtroom than a paddock. “Those are commonly mistaken for Class X creatures, but they are, in fact, Class XX. Flobberworms are classified as X.”

A beat passed.

“Very well, Miss Fairbourne,” Jorkins replied, evidently pleased with the correction, though his tone remained neutral. “Quite right. Puffskeins, while extremely docile, do require a degree of care that exceeds the lowest classification. Flobberworms, however, are perhaps the least remarkable beings in the magical kingdom—and utterly harmless.”

Elowen gave a little victorious tilt of her chin. Barty looked wholly unfazed, as though being one-upped in a lesson he didn’t even care for wasn’t worth acknowledging.

Regulus glanced toward Dorcas, who raised an eyebrow and mouthed, dramatic, with a small grin.

The remainder of the lesson unfolded in much the same fashion: a subtle, simmering battle of wits between Elowen and Barty, each apparently determined to outshine the other in a display of encyclopaedic knowledge and overly confident assertions. While Professor Jorkins maintained a genial disposition throughout, it was clear to anyone with a pair of eyes—or ears—that he was somewhat amused by the unspoken competition.

By the time the class was dismissed, the sun had risen higher in the sky, casting a golden warmth across the grounds as students began the walk back toward the castle. The Skittles moved in a loose group, scattered across the path, stretching limbs and chatting amongst themselves.

Barty, walking with a noticeable huff, flung his arms upward in theatrical exasperation. “Merlin’s beard, I swear I hate your insufferable ex-girlfriend, Evan,” he declared, his voice dripping with indignation. “She struts about as though she’s written Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them herself.”

Evan let out a light chuckle, nudging Barty’s arm gently with his elbow. “Oh, come off it, Barty, She’s not that bad. She’s still nice.”

“She broke up with you!" Barty snapped, halting in his stride to deliver the statement with gravity, as though presenting irrefutable evidence in court.

Evan shrugged, unbothered. “And whose fault was that, hmm?” he replied, cocking an eyebrow at him in mock innocence.

At that, Barty rolled his eyes with great dramatic flair, muttered something inaudible under his breath, and promptly picked up his pace, marching a few paces ahead of the group with an air of indignant pride.

Regulus, watching the interaction unfold with mild amusement, exchanged a look with Dorcas, who merely shook her head and whispered, “Honestly, they’re unbearable.”

Pandora let out a soft giggle, the sound light and amused as the group continued their walk. “It’s only a matter of time until they actually talk about their feelings,” she remarked, glancing ahead to where Barty was still pointedly marching several paces ahead, as if physical distance might shield him from emotional entanglement.

“Isn’t it just?” Dorcas agreed, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “The tension’s unbearable. It’s like watching a very slow-moving explosion.”

Regulus said nothing.

He simply kept walking, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, eyes fixed on the path ahead. It wasn’t that he disagreed with them—in fact, he thought they were entirely right. But he knew things they didn’t. Things neither Pandora nor Dorcas had been told. Like the fact that Evan and Barty had snogged that night.

That wasn’t a minor detail, and yet it changed nothing. Because despite that kiss, nothing had come of it. No whispered confessions, no heartfelt conversations. Just the same charged silence, the same stolen glances, the same stubborn refusal to say aloud what was plainly written all over their faces.

He wasn’t even sure if they realised how obvious they were.

He sighed quietly, more to himself than anything, and allowed his friends’ chatter to carry on without him.

Chapter 40: ☼Only If I Win

September 15, 1974

James Potter had never been more serious about anything in his life—not even about pranking Filch or trying to impress Lily. Quidditch training had well and truly begun, and with the first match of the season—Gryffindor versus Slytherin—looming on the horizon, he was throwing himself into preparation with the kind of obsessive dedication that made even his friends raise their eyebrows.

He wasn’t just planning to play well; he was planning to absolutely smash it. To fly circles around those smug Slytherins and make it crystal clear who the better team was. As captain, he had something to prove—not just to the rest of the school, but to himself. He’d earned the title. Now he had to live up to it.

“Oi, Potter, you planning to kill us or just make sure we can’t walk tomorrow?” grumbled Marlene, a blonde Griffindor girl who was friends with Lily, as she dismounted her broom, cheeks flushed and hair stuck to her forehead.

“Only the best survive,” James said cheerfully, pacing the pitch like a general surveying a battlefield. “Victory isn’t built on comfort.”

“Victory isn’t built on collapsed lungs, either,” she shot back.

James grinned but said nothing. He felt the pressure tightening in his chest, but he welcomed it. He needed that edge, that reminder that this wasn’t just any game—it was Gryffindor versus Slytherin. It was him versus them. Him versus Regulus, that little posh boy who thought he was better than anyone else just because he was a Black.

The thought of Regulus made something twist in his gut, something sharp and stupid he didn’t want to name. 

Regulus

Regulus

Regulus

Not that James cared.

But it was something; he couldn't deny, Something itchy and persistent, crawling under his skin.

“Oi, Earth to Potter,” Sirius called, waving a hand in front of his face. “You're doing that thing again. The brooding. It’s weird.”

James blinked. “Not brooding. Strategizing.”

“Sure. Strategizing about Lily's arse, maybe.”

James nearly tripped over his broom. “I am not—”

“You so are.”

“I’m not!”

Sirius just smirked and turned away, clearly not believing a word of it.

By the time they returned to the castle, James was sore, soaked, and half-frozen, but his mind was still whirring with plans. Plays. Position shifts. Counterstrategies for Slytherin’s brutal Beaters. He couldn’t afford to lose—not this year's cup, not when Griffindor had a perfect streak.

Later that day, the Great Hall buzzed with its usual noise: clinking cutlery, chattering students, the occasional burst of laughter echoing off the high, enchanted ceiling. James strolled in late, hair still damp from the showers, feeling equal parts exhausted and electric. Training had been brutal.

He spotted Lily Evans halfway down the Gryffindor table, surrounded by her usual circle–Mary McDonald, and Marlene. Her red hair caught the candlelight like it always did—like it was intentional. James tugged at the collar of his robes, smoothed his fringe, and walked over with the easy swagger he’d perfected over the years.

“Evans,” he said, sliding into the bench beside her without asking, “has anyone ever told you that you make pumpkin juice look like an accessory?”

Lily didn’t even look up. “Only every time I try to drink it in peace, Potter.”

Undeterred, he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice. “You know, I’ve been told Quidditch captains are irresistible. It’s practically science. Tragic if you don’t test the theory.”

Now she looked up, eyebrow arched. “Is that before or after they run their team into the ground with three-hour drills?”

He clutched his chest, mock-wounded. “You wound me.”

“Not as much as those poor Beaters’ rotator cuffs.”

Somewhere behind him, he heard Sirius snort. James didn’t turn. He kept smiling.

“You should come to the match,” he said, more softly this time. “Gryffindor versus Slytherin. First game of the season. I plan on making history.”

Lily met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, he thought maybe—maybe—she was impressed. But then she just shrugged, bored. “I always go to the matches. I watch Marlene"

And just like that, she turned back to her friends, her attention already gone.

James sat there for a moment longer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The rejection wasn’t new—it wasn’t even that sharp anymore. He was used to chasing. Used to brushing it off with a joke and a wink.

Still, as he got up and wandered toward his usual seat beside Sirius and Remus, he felt it linger. That edge of wanting to be seen, to be impressive. To be enough.

“Smooth,” Sirius said around a mouthful of bread.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on,” Remus added, grinning as he passed the pumpkin juice. “You led with the pumpkin juice line? Again?”

“It’s a classic,” James muttered, pouring himself a glass and pretending his ears weren’t going red.

“It’s a disaster,” Peter said helpfully.

“An absolute tragedy,” Sirius agreed solemnly. “I’ve seen first-years flirt with more finesse. And they this awful nice muscles”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Remus said, smirking. “He’s relying too heavily on muscles power. No substance.”

“I have plenty of substance,” James insisted, stabbing a sausage with more force than necessary. “I’m dripping with substance.”

“Sure,” said Sirius, “and it’s pooling around your feet every time Evans shuts you down.”

James groaned, dropping his head onto the table with a dull thud.

Peter patted his back. “It’s okay, mate. Maybe next time try asking her a normal question. Like, I don’t know, if she wants gravy.”

“Oh yes,” Sirius said, putting on a high voice. “‘Evans, you and mashed potatoes were meant to be.’”

Remus snorted into his cup. “Or: ‘Evans, are you a roast chicken? Because I want you at every Sunday dinner for the rest of my life.’”

“I hate all of you,” James mumbled into the table.

“You love us,” Sirius said sweetly. “Just not as much as you love making a complete fool of yourself.”

James raised his head, face flushed but smiling despite himself. “At least I try. When’s the last time any of you talked to a girl without using sarcasm as a defense mechanism?”

“Fair point,” Peter admitted while nodding at Sirius's face.

“Shut up, Potter,” Sirius said, ruffling his hair. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still batting zero.”

“Just wait,” James said, biting into a piece of toast with newfound determination. “Come match day, she’ll be cheering my name.”

“Sure she will,” Sirius said, deadpan. “Right after she cheers for Marlene."

James wiped his mouth, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Dead to me. All of you.”

James reached for a piece of pie and plastered a grin back onto his face, sharp and defiant. “I’m going to destroy Slytherin in that match, win Evans over, and rub it in all your smug little faces. Just you wait.”

His friends laughed, tossing more jabs his way, but he barely heard them.

And if his eyes drifted briefly to the Slytherin table—to the far end where Regulus sat with perfect posture, not looking at him at all and if he felt something twist, deep and inconvenient, well—

That was nobody’s business but his own.

Later that night, the common room buzzed softly with the rustle of parchment and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. James had sprawled himself across the rug, a textbook open beside him, untouched. Sirius lay on the couch upside down, legs hanging over the backrest, quill twirling idly between his fingers.

“Come on,” Remus groaned from the armchair, parchment already half-filled with neat handwriting. “You said you’d study tonight. That was the deal.”

“I am studying,” James said, poking the textbook with his wand like it might absorb the information through contact.

“You’re lying on the floor.”

“Exactly. Grounding myself in the foundation of knowledge.”

Remus sighed the sigh of someone who had known these three too long to expect better. “You have an exam in two days. Do you even remember what subject it is?”

“Something magical,” James offered. “Probably.”

“Charms,” Peter piped up, not looking up from his notes. “Professor Flitwick said he’d test us on Summoning Spells and the theory behind wand gestures.”

“Oh, Peter, you traitor,” Sirius groaned. “Why would you encourage this academic tyranny?”

“Because I’d like to pass,” Peter said simply. “And because Remus is scary when he’s disappointed."

Remus smiled, but it was the kind of smile that promised he’d steal all your sweets if you didn’t focus.

James rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I just think it’s a little unfair that we’re expected to duel dark wizards and understand wand law. Seems excessive.”

“Well,” Sirius said, “you could always drop out and become a magical plumber.”

James raised a hand lazily. “Actually doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Alright, that’s it.” Remus snapped his textbook shut. “We’re doing a quiz.”

Both Sirius and James groaned in unison.

“You didn’t even let me finish explaining it!”

“That’s why we groaned,” James muttered.

Peter looked mildly excited. “Are there points?”

“Yes,” Remus said, grabbing a scrap of parchment. “And no sweets for the loser.”

That got their attention.

“Fine,” Sirius said, sitting up properly for the first time all night. “But I’m only playing because I’m starving and I know Peter’s been hoarding chocolate frogs again.”

Peter gasped in betrayal.

James grabbed his wand and grinned. “Alright, Lupin. Quiz us. Let’s see if your ridiculous study sessions have actually taught us anything.”

Remus just smirked, flipping to a fresh page. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“All right,” Remus said, tapping his quill against his knee. “First question: what’s the incantation for the Summoning Charm?”

“Aacciooo,” Sirius drawled theatrically, waving his arm like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Accio,” Peter corrected quickly. “With a firm upward flick.”

Remus nodded. “One point to Peter. Zero for the clown on the couch.”

“I’m not a clown,” Sirius muttered. “I’m a performer.”

“Second question,” Remus continued, ignoring him. “What’s the key principle behind successful non-verbal spellwork?”

James blinked. “Uh—something about intent?”

“That’s half a point, maybe,” Remus said. “Anyone else?”

“Focus and visualization of the intended outcome,” Peter recited, sounding almost smug.

“Merlin, Wormtail,” Sirius said, mock-shocked. “When did you eat a textbook?”

“Unlike you lot,” Peter said, puffing up slightly, “I listen in class.”

James snorted and flopped back onto the carpet. “I’m starting to think Peter’s the real genius here.”

“He is,” Remus said without missing a beat.

“Betrayal!” Sirius cried. “First Peter, now you? What’s next—James voluntarily studying?”

James raised a hand from the floor. “Don’t count on it.”

“Final question for now,” Remus said. “And this one’s worth double. What’s the fundamental difference between a charm and a curse?”

Sirius opened his mouth, clearly about to say something ridiculous, but James beat him to it:

“One’s used to mess with people,” he said, “and the other’s the same thing but with better PR.”

Remus facepalmed. Peter burst out laughing, nearly spilling his inkpot.

“Zero points,” Remus said, exasperated.

James sat up and raised a finger. “But bonus points for flair, yeah?”

“Zero points,” Remus repeated. “Now everyone go over your theory notes before bed.”

Sirius dramatically slumped backward onto the armchair. “This man’s going to kill us before the exams do.”

“Hopefully after you pass,” Remus said, already flipping through the next chapter.

James glanced at Sirius with a groan. “Tomorrow we run Quidditch drills ‘til our lungs collapse, and tonight Lupin tortures us with theory.”

“Whose idea was it to be friends with a genius with the soul of a prefect?” Sirius muttered.

“You lot,” Remus said calmly. “I just wanted to be in peace.”

Eventually, Remus gave in—not to their whining, but to the clock. It was late, and even he had to admit that no amount of memorizing theory was worth the risk of falling asleep mid-lecture tomorrow.

“Off to bed,” he said, standing and gathering his books. “If I catch any of you skipping classes, i will hex you. Fair warning.”

“Yes, Mum,” Sirius said, already sprawled across the couch like he intended to sleep there.

Peter yawned loudly and padded off toward the dorms, mumbling something about needing his eight hours.

James lingered for a moment, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. His eyes flicked briefly to the window. The sky was clear, full of stars, and somewhere out there, the Quidditch pitch was waiting.

He had a match to win. A team to lead. And, maybe—just maybe—something to prove.

But that could wait till morning.

He slung an arm lazily around Sirius, half dragging him off the couch.

“C’mon, starboy,” he said, grinning. “Big day tomorrow. We’ve got flying to do"

Sirius huffed in response, and together they made their way upstairs—tired, loud, and entirely themselves.

 

Chapter 41: ✧ Third year: Jitterbug love

September 22

“I don’t think he actually likes me,” Barty murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

He hadn’t really spoken to Evan since their last Care of Magical Creatures lesson. It wasn’t that Evan was ignoring him—on the contrary, he’d still looked at Barty with the same quiet warmth—but Barty’s pride had wedged itself between them, a silent wall he wasn’t ready to tear down.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” came the calm reply. He was leaning casually against the polished wooden frame of Barty’s bed, arms crossed, gaze soft. “Of course he does.”

The dormitory was quiet around them, bathed in the gentle afternoon light that filtered through the tall windows. Evan had left a while ago, offering to help Pandora and Dorcas with something neither of them had quite caught. Now it was just the two of them, and the silence between words felt heavier than usual.

Barty let out a frustrated sigh and sat down on the edge of the mattress, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“But he’s mad at me,” he insisted. “Just because I said that thing about Elowen.”

“Well,” came the response, slow and deliberate, “yes, Barty. You do have a rather remarkable tendency to insult everyone around you for absolutely no reason.”

He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, not unkindly, but with a kind of weary amusement that made Barty huff and roll his eyes.

“And what if I do?” Barty shot back, the defensiveness in his tone poorly masking the flicker of guilt in his eyes. “He can’t just be mad at me for that.”

“Yes, he can,” came the immediate reply, firm but not harsh. “He totally can, Barty.”

Barty fell silent for a moment, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor as if searching for something to hold onto. The sunlight from the window caught the edge of his cheekbone, sharp and pale.

“Well… yeah. Maybe you’re right,” he admitted eventually, voice lower, slower. “Still. He should talk to me. Not just pretend I don’t exist.” His fingers tightened around the hem of his sleeve again, tugging restlessly. “It’s not fair.”

“He’s not pretending anything' came the gentle correction. “And he’s not avoiding you.” 

There was a pause. Then, softer—almost like an accusation disguised as kindness, he spoke.

“You are.”

Barty looked everywhere but at him. The floor, the window, the bedpost—anything to avoid those eyes that always seemed to see too much.

“You two should talk about your feelings, you know?” he said softly, not unkindly. “Even Panda and Cas think the same. And they don’t even know you two kissed.”

Barty flinched slightly, his jaw clenching. He let out a breath through his nose, short and sharp, like he was trying to hold something in.

“I can’t,” he said at last. “We can’t. I mean—it’s just a silly thing, it’ll pass.”

His voice trembled, barely, but enough to betray him.

“We’re young. I–I’ll find a girlfriend, and it’ll pass. It’s not even that serious.”

He spoke the words like he was reciting them from a script, one he’d written himself and rehearsed too many times. But the way he hunched his shoulders, the way he blinked too quickly, gave him away.

“Barty…” his voice was quiet now, almost cautious, like he was stepping across thin ice. “You know it won’t just pass.”

He waited a moment, but Barty didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“Since when do you like him?” he asked, gentler still. “I’m quite aware it’s been a long time—”

“I’m not a– fag!” Barty snapped, the words sharp and sudden, slicing through the calm like broken glass.

Regulus froze.

Barty’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white. His breath came in short, uneven bursts, like he was struggling to keep something from unraveling inside him.

“I’m— I’m not,” he stammered, voice cracking. “Im not even sure if i like him, really"

There was a silence that followed—dense, aching, and full of all the things Barty couldn’t say.

“Talk to him,” Regulus said softly, voice steady despite the weight of the moment.

Barty looked at him, startled—as if those three words had caught him completely off guard.

“Okay yes, i do like him,” he said, breathless. “I really do.”

There was something raw in his voice, something unguarded. He exhaled shakily, as if the truth had been pressing against his ribs for weeks, begging to be let out.

“Damn, I’m so in love with him, Reg,” he whispered, like it hurt to say, like he hadn’t just spit out that slur moments ago.

As if shame and love weren’t trying to strangle each other in his throat.

But they were. And Regulus saw it—all of it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t recoil. He simply looked at Barty, steady and quiet, and stayed exactly where he was, letting the silence hold them both, and then showed an understanding smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s why you have to talk to him,” he said gently. “Because it’s not silly. It’s real. And if you keep it inside, it’ll only grow heavier.”

He paused, eyes steady on Barty’s. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Barty swallowed hard, his shoulders sagging as if some of the weight might finally lift.

"… you’re right,” he muttered, voice barely audible.

Regulus nodded, giving him a small, reassuring squeeze on the arm.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

✧

September 24, 1974

“Where’s Evan? And Barty?” Dorcas asked the moment she stepped into the common room and noticed they weren’t sitting beside him and Pandora as usual.

As no one else was left in the common room, they let themselves relax, the silence now filled with the warm crackle of a vinyl spinning softly in the corner. Today, it was Tanx (the Visconti master) setting the mood with its melodies. The music wrapped around them like a gentle companion. All the Skittles were fans of T. Rex, really. It was the kind of music that seemed to pulse through their veins, the soundtrack to their reckless youth and quiet moments alike. Somehow, thir sound felt like the perfect backdrop to everything.

“Evan locked himself in the dorm,” Pandora replied, not looking up as she carefully brushed silver polish over her thumbnail. “And I think Barty’s in there with him.”

We've got to get together

We've got to get together

Oh yes we have

Oh yes we have

Dorcas raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk spreading across her face.

“So they’re finally going to talk, huh?”

“Looks like it,” Pandora said, blowing gently on her nails, as if this development had been inevitable all along.

“Are we placing bets?” he asked.

Because jitterbug love

Is going all around

Jitterbug love is going all around now

“Absolutely,” Dorcas said at once. “Five sickles says they kiss within the hour.”

“That’s bold,” Pandora replied, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I’ll say… they argue for twenty minutes, one of them storms off, and nothing gets resolved. Ten sickles.”

He smirked. “I’ll bet...twenty sickles they talk, cry a little, deny everything, and then stare at each other longingly for the next two weeks like idiots.”

Dorcas burst out laughing. “Now that’s the most likely scenario.”

“You’d think they were the leads in a tragic novel the way they act,” Pandora added, rolling her eyes fondly.

“Please,” He said dryly, “even tragic novel characters have more communication skills.”

Here it comes again

We`ll rock and roll together

We`ll even stroll together

Oh yes we will

Oh yes we will

One, Two, Three

Regulus leaned back against the sofa, watching the flicker of flames in the hearth. Pandora and Dorcas exchanged glances and smiles, but soon their chatter faded, and silence settled between them.

There was no need for words. The air was heavy with what remained unspoken.

Regulus let his mind drift beyond the common room, beyond the firelight, to that closed door a floor above.

He thought about love — how complicated it always was. It wasn’t a book with clear pages or simple instructions. It was confusion, fear, hope, pain, and sometimes, the sweetest certainty.

It's a shame it's sunken rags

The way you play me down

He wondered if Barty and Evan knew what lay ahead, or if they were simply stumbling blindly, like so many before them.

The fire crackled softly, and Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence wash over him. Love was a battle, a mystery that sometimes you won, and other times it simply taught you how to fall better.

Perhaps this time, he thought, they might learn to rise together.

It's a shame the way you treat me like a fool

So ride on, fight on

Love is gonna win

He guessed it was worth fighting for, wasn’t it? Love. In any form it chose to show itself. Not just Barty and Evan, but Sirius too — who, for love of his friends and of himself, had essentially run away. 

He, who didn’t always know how to show love properly, but truly tried, for his friends, or as once did, his brother. Dorcas’s grandmother, who had fallen for a Muggle and defied her pureblood family to be with him.

Love had to be worth it; didn’t it? And not just love itself, but who you chose to love. Maybe, one day, he could be worthy of someone’s love — someone who saw past all the doubts and fears, someone who cared for him just as fiercely. Perhaps that was the hope he needed to hold on to.

Fight on, ride on

Love is gonna win

✧

Notes:

First song is Jitterbug love, second one sunken rags, both by t.rex!

Chapter 42: ✧ Third year: not-so secret infatuation, resolved! kind of?

Summary:

Angsty chapter? Kinda?

September 30, 1974

"Come now, Barty! You can’t possibly intend to keep it secret forever," Regulus said, narrowing his eyes in pointed exasperation. "Just tell me—what happened?"

Neither Barty nor Evan had breathed a word about what had transpired that day behind the closed doors of the dormitory. The rest of the group had been left to speculate in maddening silence. Had they argued? Reconciled? Declared some unspoken truth and promptly buried it? The ambiguity was intolerable.

Barty groaned, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair. "Alright, alright! Bloody hell, you don’t give up, do you? Fine, you win this one, Reggie."

"Do not call me Reggie, you absolute miscreant"

There was a beat of silence. And then Barty burst out laughing.

"Merlin’s knickers, miscreant? What century are you from? Do all the noble Black children learn their insults from Victorian etiquette books?"

Regulus crossed his arms, haughtily unamused. "At least I don’t resort to ‘tosser’ every time I lack vocabulary." He said, just causing Barty to laugh more.

"Miscreant? Seriously? Who even says that?" he cackled. "What’s next? You gonna call me a scoundrel and slap me with a glove?"

Regulus sighed through his nose, the picture of offended dignity. "Well, if it fits—"

"Oh, it fits, Your Royal Slytherinness. But come on—miscreant? You sound like a pensioner scolding a toddler at a tea party."

"Frankly, Barty, I find it impressive that you can speak at all when you so clearly lack a functioning brain."

Barty snorted. "There it is! The posh rage! Go on then, insult me again. Call me a rascal this time. Or—wait, no—a dreadful little cad!"  

Regulus gave him a withering look. "You're being profoundly tiresome."

"And there it is again!" Barty whooped. "I swear, talking to you is like getting hexed by a thesaurus."

"Oh, do shut up and simply tell me what happened already," Regulus said, exasperated, giving Barty a light, almost mocking pat on the head as if addressing a particularly unruly pet.

Barty blinked, then scoffed. "Alright, alright. Bit rude, don’t you think?"

"Not nearly rude enough," Regulus muttered under his breath.

"Well," Barty began, drawing out the word as though reluctant to revisit the memory, "first we just... sort of stood there. Like complete idiots. Didn’t say a word. Just staring at each other like—Like two idiots who’d gone and caught feelings and didn’t know what the hell to do about it.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "If that isn’t precisely what you two have been doing every single day for the past ten months."

Barty snorted and threw him a look. "Shut up, you little miscreant," he said, deliberately mimicking Regulus’s earlier insult with exaggerated poshness. "Honestly, who even talks like that? Are you secretly eighty?"

Regulus rolled his eyes with regal disdain, choosing not to dignify the comment with an answer.

"And then..." Barty hesitated. "Well, we talked. Sort of."

Regulus tilted his head, intrigued. "Let me guess—Evan spoke first?"

Barty shook his head. "Nope. Wasn’t him."

"Wait, truly?" Regulus blinked in surprise. "That’s rather unexpected. He’s always had the more... pacifying nature. The peacemaker type. I assumed you’d dig your heels in out of sheer bloody pride."

"Yeah, that’s what I thought too," Barty admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "But he... I don’t know. Out of nowhere he just started crying—actually crying—and then he hugged me. Full on. I was completely lost. Like, what the hell was I supposed to do with that?"

Regulus stared at him, momentarily at a loss for words. Then he said, quietly, "I imagine... you hugged him back?"

Barty looked away, muttering, "'Course I did. Eventually. I’m not that heartless."

"You’re rather close, on occasion."

"Oi!"

Regulus fixed him with a steady gaze, voice calm but edged with impatience.

“So, Barty… after that unexpected display of sentiment, what happened next? Don’t leave me hanging, mate. I’ve got the feeling you’re still keeping half the story to yourself.”

Barty shrugged, grinning.

“Well, I’m not exactly an open book, alright? But if you wanna know…" He flopped back in his seat, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“After Evan started blubbing and hugging me, we just… sat on the floor next to the bed. Then we talked about all the stuff we’d been avoiding for months. Stuff we didn’t wanna admit even to ourselves.”

Regulus frowned slightly, voice lowering but curious.

“And what kinda stuff? Don’t tell me it was just the usual ‘sorry, let’s pretend everything’s fine’ rubbish.”

Barty snorted.

“Nah, not like that. It was more like… confessing stuff, half pissed off, half hopeful. Evan said it hurt, the distance and all that. He was scared we’d lose what we had. And me? Well, I had to admit I’m not as tough as I act.”

Regulus nodded slowly, looking thoughtful.

“Interesting. So, some kind of reconciliation then? Or just a temporary truce to stop things from going to hell?”

Barty shrugged, a little smile on his face.

“Maybe a bit of both. But no fancy handshakes or promises"

“So, then… are you two… boyfriends now?” Regulus asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Nah,” Barty said with a shrug. “I mean, hell yeah, I even chucked my pride out the bloody window and asked him, but he said he’d rather wait. And he said sorry—a million times, honestly. But I told him it was fine, so… we just talked and agreed to be ourselves, you know? And when we’re ready, well… I’ll ask him again.”

Regulus gave a slow nod, lips twitching slightly at Barty’s straightforwardness.

“Ah, the delicate art of patience. How terribly tedious.”

Barty just grinned.

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep the drama down.”

“But… are you two alright now? I mean, it won’t be awkward between you again, will it?” he asked, tone softer now.

“Nah, we’re okay,” Barty said with a small smile. “Really.”

Regulus regarded him for a moment, then looked away, nodding once.

“Good. I rather like you better when you’re not stomping about like a storm in a teacup.”

Barty huffed a laugh. There was a pause, quiet but comfortable, and then Regulus said, almost absently,

“Just… don’t mess it up this time. Either of you"

Barty glanced at him sideways, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No promises, Your Highness.”

✧

October 5, 1974

Pandora, Dorcas, and Evan had come along to watch them practise Quidditch. Autumn had settled in properly by now—the air was cooler, the wind sharper—and everyone had begun to layer themselves in warmer clothing, something he had quietly been looking forward to. He’d been wearing long sleeves for over a month already, not for the chill, but to keep hidden the nasty infection that had formed around the still-healing wound. Pandora had done an excellent job cleaning it, but since it hadn’t been stitched, the recovery was slow and bothersome. He could already tell it would leave an awful scar—jagged and angry-looking. Not that he minded much; he just didn’t want anyone asking questions.

They were merely running through the basics—flying drills, passing formations, nothing too strenuous. The first match of the season was fast approaching, scheduled for the end of next week. Their opponent would be Ravenclaw—not the most formidable of teams, but certainly not to be underestimated either. And of course, a win was a win; they needed every point they could get if they hoped to contend seriously for the Quidditch Cup. There was a certain restlessness in the air, the quiet anticipation that always came before the season truly began.

After a while, Remus and Peter Pettigrew made their way over to where they were sitting. Sirius and James dismounted from their brooms, the laughter fading into more subdued conversation. Sirius immediately threw his arms around Remus in a quick, familiar hug—something Regulus barely registered, his mind skimming over the gesture without really delving into it.

What caught Regulus’ attention more was the subtle shift in stature. Sirius, who had always been the tallest among them—towering effortlessly over the others—now seemed to be losing ground. Peter was still shorter, but James, and especially Remus, had visibly outgrown him. They now stood a good few inches taller than Sirius, a silent reminder of time’s relentless march.

His eyes flicked back to Sirius’s face, and for a moment he felt an odd mixture of admiration and melancholy. His brother seemed genuinely happy—so utterly untethered from the heavy legacy of the Black family that weighed on Regulus himself. There was no trace of the cold pride or bitter obligation that had haunted their home. Instead, Sirius carried himself with a careless joy, as if freed from every chain that had once bound him.

A faint shadow flickered behind the usual brightness in Sirius’s eyes—a subtle, almost imperceptible weariness that softened his otherwise radiant spirit. His hair, longer than the last time Regulus had seen it, was dark and once neatly trimmed, but now it cascaded in wild, untamed loose curls down to his shoulders. It framed his face with a reckless sort of freedom, each strand seeming to defy the very order of things—a stark contrast to the quiet fatigue that lingered beneath.

He shifted uncomfortably in his broom, pulling his sleeves down just a little further, shielding the lingering wound beneath from prying eyes. Sometimes, it wasn’t just the body that ached with time, but the soul as well.

Notes:

Sorry for the wait! After next week (when, by the way, comes a chapter I find rather exciting!) I’ll be posting more regularly again, every Tuesday and Thursday!
(Also, a little peek at this year: Jegulus. Just that word.)

Chapter 43: ✧ Third year: Slug Club Confidential (Gossip, Gold & Grudges)

Notes:

Im backkk. Sorry for the wait

October 17, 1974

Regulus was halfway through a particularly boring paragraph on bezoars when someone knocked at the door of the Slytherin common room.

He barely looked up—probably a first year needing help finding their cauldron, or some prefect chasing noise. But then he heard someone clear their throat.

"Mr Black?"

Regulus blinked, quill still in hand. Professor Slughorn stood in the doorway, wearing one of his violently green waistcoats and a wide, expectant smile.

"Yes, sir?"

"A word, if you please. Just outside, nothing dreadful," Slughorn added with a chuckle, already turning.

Regulus cast a confused look toward Pandora, who shrugged, and Evan, who mouthed, what did you do? Barty just rolled his eyes and went back to flicking Exploding Snap cards at the fireplace.

He followed Slughorn out into the stone corridor, a little tense, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"I won’t take much of your time," Slughorn began, walking at a slow pace. "It’s just that I’ve been keeping an eye on my more promising students. You know, the ones with real potential."

Regulus stayed silent. He hated compliments. They always felt like they came with strings attached.

"Your essays in Potions have been exemplary," Slughorn continued, hands clasped behind his back. "Elegant, concise, and you don’t explode things like others. Your technique is years ahead of most third-years."

"Thank you, sir," Regulus said carefully.

"And, of course," Slughorn smiled, "you are a Black. That sort of pedigree tends to carry expectations—though I judge talent on its own merits, of course."

Of course.

Slughorn stopped in front of a tapestry of a wizard trying to teach trolls ballet.

"I’m hosting a small gathering tomorrow evening. A little club of mine—nothing official. Just supper and conversation. I think you’d find it… enlightening. And perhaps enjoyable."

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "A club?"

"Indeed! The Slug Club, as my former students so charmingly called it. Quite a few went on to do very interesting things, you know. Ministers, Aurors, Quidditch stars…" Slughorn’s voice took on a dreamy note. "It’s an excellent opportunity to build connections."

There it was—the reason. Slughorn was collecting names like chocolate frog cards.

Regulus didn’t know how to feel about being one of them.

"I’d be honoured, sir," he said anyway, because he was a Black, and Blacks didn’t say no to opportunity.

"Excellent!" Slughorn beamed. "Seven o’clock sharp, my office. And bring your appetite, my boy—house-elves make a magnificent treacle tart."

He turned and waddled off, humming something tuneless.

Regulus stood frozen for a moment, then walked back to the common room.

"You look like you’ve been cursed," said Pandora.

Evan raised an eyebrow. "What was that about?"

Regulus sat back down, expression unreadable. "Apparently I’m going to dinner with Slughorn tomorrow."

Barty barked a laugh. "You’re joking."

"I’m not."

Pandora grinned. "So you’ve been collected."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I don’t think it’s a good thing."

"It is if there’s cake" Evan muttered, flipping through his Transfiguration textbook.

"Or if you plan to take over the Ministry by thirty," Barty added.

Regulus didn’t answer. He stared at the fire for a while, wondering what kind of future Slughorn saw in him. And if it matched the one he saw for himself.

Though he had never allowed himself the luxury of imagining one—not really. That kind of thinking felt distant, almost dangerous. A privilege meant for other people, people who laughed too loud and dreamed too big, as if the world would simply shape itself around them.

Regulus didn’t dream like that.

He didn't think about what he wanted to become, or where he’d be in ten years. His thoughts stayed rooted in the now—in the cold weight of expectation, the rules written in blood and silence, the sharp edge of survival.

He was too busy existing

Too busy staying quiet.

Too busy staying alive.

✧

He was, once again, wearing his mother’s old wedding dress. It clung to his body like seaweed, heavy with salt and silence. The lace sleeves scratched at his skin, and he could feel the tightness of the corset around his ribs, pressing like a warning.

He was lying in his childhood bed at Grimmauld Place—except it wasn’t quite the same. The ceiling was too high, the wallpaper too gold, and the room shimmered as if underwater. Outside the window, light spilled in golden streaks that danced on the floor, though there was no sun. The whole room seemed to tremble faintly.

Or maybe he was trembling; he couldn’t tell.

Everything felt wrong in the softest, most beautiful way—like a lie told in a lullaby.

Suddenly, the door creaked open. A silhouette stepped into the shifting light.

“Are you okay, Reggie?” the voice asked gently.

Regulus sat up, confused, disoriented. “Who are you? Where am I? Why is everything shaking, why—”

“Hey, Reggie. It’s me.”

The figure approached and sat on the edge of the bed. The dress crinkled beneath Regulus as the mattress dipped. The light finally reached the boy’s face—bronzed skin, dark brown hair, warm honey eyes.

He had only seen those eyes a few times. But they were impossible not to recognize.

“James,” he said. His voice didn’t sound like his, and either did his words. “James, you’re here.”

“I’m here, Reggie,” James said softly, as if he always had been.

“But… why?” Regulus’s throat tightened. The tremor in the room was stronger now—strong enough to make the bed rattle. “What is this? What’s happening? I don’t understand—”

“You’re going to wake up soon,” James interrupted, reaching into his pocket. “Take this.”

He handed Regulus a small, smooth green stone. It looked like it had been plucked from the bed of a river, still damp and cool in his palm. Regulus stared at it like it was a puzzle missing every piece but still demanding to be solved.

“Why would you give me this?” Regulus asked, his voice rising. “What does it mean? I don’t understand. What am I doing here? What is this place—?”

But before he could finish, the world cracked.

Like glass.

He woke with a sharp inhale.

The room was dark and still again—no golden light, no trembling walls. The dress was gone. His breathing was uneven, too loud in the silence of the dormitory. He glanced around. Barty was snoring softly. Evan had curled into a ball.

Neither of them had noticed; it was just after four a.m.

Regulus pressed his hand to his chest. He didn’t know why he felt like crying.

And he had no idea what the green stone meant. He searched for it on his pockets, but of course, it wasnt there, so only the memory of it was with him now. A memory he didn't know the meaning of.

✧

October 18, 1974

He hadn’t slept much the night before.

His dreams had clung to him like damp clothes, leaving him restless, eyes wide open in the dark.

The following day had dragged on painfully. The classes weren’t particularly engaging, and his brain felt wrapped in cotton, every sound distant, every word from a professor barely registering. He had spent most of the day on the edge of sleep, his head tipping forward during lectures, his eyes fluttering shut between blinking.

Everything felt slightly unreal, as if he were still halfway in the dream.

He was glad he could finally rest—

Until he remembered he had to attend Slughorn’s club in less than an hour.

A sigh escaped him as he dragged himself to the showers, eyes heavy, limbs leaden. The warm water made it worse; it felt like a lullaby against his skin, and he had to fight not to fall asleep standing up. He leaned against the cold tile wall for a moment longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into his bones.

Eventually, reluctantly, he changed into clean clothes—trying to look somewhat presentable, though he could barely keep his eyes open.

He arrived five minutes early, and Slughorn had the courtesy of letting him in.

“Rough day, Mr. Black?” Slughorn asked, adjusting a few framed pictures on the mantelpiece in a way that seemed entirely performative—just for show, just to seem interesting.

“Couldn’t drift off last night,” Regulus said.

It was only half the truth, but that counted for something.

“Oh, seems you were too excited about tonight! It’s normal, everyone is,” Slughorn beamed.

Regulus didn’t bother correcting him.

He stood quietly near the long, gleaming table, eyes fixed not on Professor Slughorn, but on the house-elves. They moved quickly and efficiently, placing silverware, polishing goblets, adjusting plates so precisely it looked choreographed. One of them paused to straighten a slightly tilted napkin, as if the entire evening depended on it.

Behind him, Slughorn was talking — of course he was.

“Brilliant students, some of them — oh, you’d be amazed! Jenny Blishwick, class of ’54, invented a line of self-warming cauldrons — huge hit in Scandinavia — and of course you’ve heard of Thaddeus Thorne, the youngest ever Department Head in the Department of International Magical Cooperation…”

Regulus barely registered the words. They washed over him like the sound of rain on a window, distant and repetitive. He wasn’t particularly interested in Slughorn’s parade of prodigies — at least not tonight. He hadn’t slept properly, and the soft golden candlelight and gentle tinkling of silverware were making it hard to stay awake on his feet.

Then, the door creaked open.

“Ah! Frank Longbottom and Alice Fortescue, our Head Boy and Girl!” Slughorn beamed, bustling forward to greet them.

Frank entered first, tall and composed, a quiet confidence in every step; and Alice followed close behind, wearing calm elegance like a second skin. Regulus recognized them — of course he did. They were both seventh years, brilliant students and widely admired. He also knew they were dating. That detail had always stuck with him for some reason.

Then after they greeted Slughorn and took their seats next to each other, came Lily Evans, her vivid red hair unmistakable even in the dim lighting. Regulus wasn’t surprised to see her — she was top of her year, sharp, articulate, and unnervingly competent at nearly everything. She was a brilliant witch. She greeted Slughorn warmly and took her seat with a natural ease that suggested she’d been here more than once. She smiled at him — out of politeness, surely. A girl like her would never willingly associate with someone bearing the Black name, someone from a blood supremacist family. And yet, out of all the empty seats available, she chose the one next to his.

The next figure to step in made him blink.

Elowen Fairbourne.

Regulus stiffened slightly. He hadn't expected her to be invited, didn't thought of the possibility ; though he couldn’t deny she was clever — he’d seen the marks she got in Charms, and she’d always had a quiet, methodical sort of brilliance. Still, her presence tugged uncomfortably at something he couldn’t quite name.

She looked at Regulus and smiled — actually smiled — before walking over to him.

“Hi, Regulus.”

“Hi,” he replied, snapping out of his brief, stunned silence.

He stared at her for a moment. She was smiling, but he could tell she wasn’t truly all right.

Her father—a Muggle—had gone missing about a week ago, likely taken by Death Eaters. It had been the talk of the school for days, whispered in corners and behind hands, but now the noise had quietened.

People had stopped asking.

As if silence would make it less real.

She then took a seat next to Lily Evans. Surprisingly, the two of them seemed to know each other, despite being in different years and houses — they began chatting almost immediately.

A blonde girl and a brunette boy entered next, speaking quietly to one another. Regulus didn’t know them. They were likely in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff— older, maybe fourth of fifth years — but he couldn’t place them beyond that.

He did, however, recognize Anton Wilkes as soon as he walked in. Quidditch captain. He gave Regulus a curt nod, which he returned out of politeness more than interest.

Five minutes passed. Slughorn was already beginning to explain the menu when the door opened again.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” said a familiar voice — light, casual — as he flipped his hair in that annoyingly effortless way and adjusted his glasses with infuriating charm.

James Potter.

Regulus froze for half a second before glancing sideways. Of course he would show up late — and of course, he’d enter like he owned the place. His hair was windswept as always, his robes slightly askew, like he’d rushed here and hadn’t bothered to fix himself up. He scanned the table, spotted the only empty chair — right next to Regulus — and sat down without a word.

“Mr. Potter,” Slughorn said with a fond chuckle. “Ever the dramatic entrance. Regulus, I trust you don’t mind the company?”

Regulus didn’t reply immediately. He watched as a house-elf delicately refilled a pitcher of pumpkin juice, focusing on the motion as if it could ground him. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, he acknowledged the professor.

James slid into the seat and leaned back with a quiet sigh.

“Evening,” he muttered, eyes forward.

Regulus gave the smallest tilt of his head in return. He wasn’t sure why the air between them suddenly felt so thick.

The meeting went on in a blur of polite conversation, laughter, and carefully prepared dishes brought in by the house-elves. Slughorn led most of the discussion, bouncing between topics — past students’ successes, Ministry gossip, and the occasional compliment tossed at whoever he deemed promising enough. Regulus spoke little, preferring to listen. That’s how he learned that the blonde girl was Amelia Bones, a sharp Ravenclaw with a quick wit, and the dark-haired boy was John Cresswell, another Ravenclaw, quieter but observant. They all talked, laughed even, and for a moment it almost felt normal, kinda.

James had, as always, tried to flirt with Lily. Normally, Regulus would’ve just rolled his eyes and tuned it out, but with James seated to his right and Lily to his left, he was effectively trapped in the middle of the most one-sided flirting attempt Hogwarts had ever seen.

James asked about her day, threw out a few cringe-worthy pick-up lines that made Lily roll her eyes — and Regulus nearly groan aloud.

Thankfully, Lily noticed his growing discomfort and seized the opportunity to use it as an escape.

“You’re being rude,” she said, turning to James with a sharp smile. “Don’t speak over Regulus — we should talk to him too.”

"Right. Sorry," James said, though he didn’t make much of an effort to include him after that.

Eventually, the conversation opened up enough that they all spoke a little — about classes, Quidditch, or Slughorn’s ridiculous obsession with crystallized pineapple — but James barely looked his way. Sometimes he outright ignored him.

Regulus understood. He was Sirius’ brother. A Black. One of them. For James, talking to him probably felt like betraying Sirius.

Chapter 44: ✧ Third year: Halloween drunken confessions.

October 29, 1974 

Everyone was excited for Halloween.

There was a certain feverish quality to the last days of October—an energy in the air, like static before a storm. The halls of Hogwarts buzzed with chatter about the upcoming party. Costumes, charms, bets on who’d show up in what. Even the professors seemed less stern than usual, as if they too were infected by the thrill of anticipation.

Regulus hated it.

He’d never understood the appeal. In theory, perhaps, he appreciated the aesthetic—black lace, candlelight, things that whispered of ghosts and death—but the execution was always far less elegant. Loud music, excessive laughter, people losing themselves in the shallow comfort of pretending to be someone else for a night. He didn't need a costume for that. He pretended every day.

He hadn’t planned on attending. In fact, he’d said so—several times, and with increasing sharpness.

“I’m not going,” he declared on the 26th, seated neatly in his usual spot in the common room, a thick volume of Arithmantic theory resting in his lap.

Dorcas had practically launched herself across the sofa. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m really not.”

“Skittles never attend parties alone without one another" Barty added dramatically from the armchair, one leg slung over the side like a languid cat. “It’s against our code. And frankly, against fashion.”

Pandora only looked at him, thoughtful. “You’ll come,” she said softly, “You always do. Eventually.”

Regulus sniffed, and turned a page.

But they didn’t stop.

Over the next three days, he endured a campaign so relentless it could have been orchestrated by the Ministry itself.

Dorcas left notes everywhere: in his textbooks, tucked into his robes, even inside his pillowcase.

"Be fun for once, darling," one read.

"You’ll regret missing it. You always regret missing things. Even if you pretend you don’t." said another.

Evan took a subtler approach. “Don’t be boring,” he said over breakfast on the 27th, not looking up from his toast. “It’s just a party, not a lifelong commitment."

And Barty—Merlin, Barty was the worst. On the night of the 28th, Regulus entered his dorm to find Barty dramatically sprawled across his bed, arms folded like he was already laid out for burial.

“You’re killing me,” he said without looking up. “Do you understand? My soul is withering.”

“You have five seconds to get off my sheets before I hex your eyebrows off.”

“You’ll come,” Barty said, rolling over to grin at him. “Eventually. I know how your brain works. First you say no. Then you insult us. Then you sulk. Then you show up at the last minute looking criminally good in black and acting like it was your idea all along.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It’s happened before.”

He wanted to argue. He really did. But the worst part—the most infuriating part—was that Barty was right.

Because on the 29th, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a quiet moment, late in the evening, with the four of them tucked into their usual corner of the Slytherin common room. Dorcas was painting Pandora’s nails black and gold while humming a Bowie song under her breath. Evan was reading upside down on the rug. Barty was making a very poor attempt at doing his Transfiguration essay, which mostly consisted of writing “Regulus is a bloody tyrant ” in the margins.

Regulus looked at them—his strange, too-loud, too-much friends—and felt something loosen in his chest.

He didn’t want to go to the party.

But he wanted to be with them.

And he was so very tired of pretending that he didn’t.

“I’ll go,” he said, and it was so quiet at first that Dorcas didn’t react.

Then she blinked. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll go. To the party.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then Dorcas shrieked. Pandora beamed. Barty flung a cushion at Evan, who choked on his laughter.

“You won’t regret it,” Dorcas said, grabbing his hand as if sealing a pact. “We’ll find you something spectacular to wear.”

“No glitter,” Regulus warned immediately.

“No promises,” Barty said.

Pandora leaned over, her voice soft as smoke. “Silver eyeliner. Just a little. Trust us.”

“I do trust you" Regulus said before he could stop himself.

They all looked at him.

It wasn’t like him to say things like that.

He looked down at his hands. Pale, slender, ink-stained. Still trembling slightly from something unnamed.

But when he looked back up, Barty was smiling—not his usual crooked grin, but something gentler, something unguarded—and Regulus found he didn’t mind.

Outside, the Lake rippled under the wind. October was drawing to a close, and something colder waited just ahead. But here, in the flickering green light of the common room, surrounded by people who saw him—even when he didn’t want to be seen— At least he wouldn’t face it alone.

✧

 He wasn’t even planning on showing up dressed up.

That had been his one condition. But, of course, they insisted.

“It’s a Halloween party,” Dorcas had said, as if he were being particularly dense. “You can’t not dress up.”

“I can, in fact"

Pandora, ever more diplomatic, had added gently, “You don’t have to do anything extravagant, Reg. Just… something. People will look at you oddly if you show up in uniform.”

“They already do.”

But he knew he was losing. He could feel it—like cold water slowly creeping over the edge of a basin. The Skittles never truly argued. They wore you down with affection, persistence, and glitter.

So eventually—grudgingly—he’d agreed to dress up as a vampire.

It was simple. Dark. Elegant. It didn’t scream for attention, and it didn’t require him to wear anything humiliating. No blood, no fake fangs, no overdone makeup. Just high-collared black robes, sleek boots, and a tailored cloak lined in deep wine red. With Dorcas’s help—and only because she’d threatened to hex his wardrobe—he added a few subtle details: a silver brooch at his throat, hair slicked back a little more sharply than usual, and, at Pandora’s insistence, a dusting of silver shimmer on his eyelids. Just enough to catch the candlelight.

“See?” Dorcas said, adjusting his collar. “modest, but still a costume"

Regulus nodded, but said nothing more as he looked at himself in the mirror. He did look good. Almost too good. It was unsettling.

He turned away.

Dorcas had gone for a pirate look—lace-up boots, a long red coat, a wide-brimmed hat with a feather that nearly took someone’s eye out every time she turned too quickly. Her dark lipstick matched the ruby in the hilt of her plastic sword, and her earrings had tiny moving skulls on them. She looked stunning.

Pandora was a mermaid—soft, flowing blues and greens, shimmery scales painted along her arms, seashells woven into her hair. She practically floated when she walked. She had even enchanted the fabric of her skirt to ripple like water. She looked like a dream—or a hallucination.

“They kinda match,” someone had commented earlier. And they did. The pirate and the mermaid. 

Barty, of course, had gone for drama. He had gone as a criminal, complete with magically inked tattoos, a striped shirt, and chains that jingled obnoxiously whenever he moved. Evan, in contrast, was dressed as a policeman—tight shirt, black gloves, and a pair of enchanted sunglasses that turned opaque when he smirked. 

They were ridiculous together. Loud. Flirtatious. Always a little too close. Laughing too much.

They’d asked him to match with them. To join their little themed duo and make it a trio.

“Come on,” Evan had said, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “You could be the corrupt judge or something.”

“Or the ex-lover turned informant,” Barty suggested with a gleam in his eye.

Regulus had said no immediately. Firmly. Not because he didn’t like themes. But because—

Because he would feel like a third wheel in a relationship that technically didn’t exist.

Technically.

Still, it was there. Everyone could see it—the way Barty always looked to Evan first when something funny happened, or how Evan gravitated toward Barty’s shoulder when he was tired. The inside jokes. The shared glances. The way their bickering had softened into something almost tender when they thought no one was paying attention.

They weren’t together. Not officially. Not openly. But the air between them crackled with the possibility of it.

Regulus couldn’t stand the idea of orbiting that. Of being near it. Of watching it unfold like a flower opening under moonlight—beautiful, but not for him.

So he chose the vampire. Alone. Classic. Separate.

He was good at that.

The first—three?—hours of the party weren’t as dull as he’d expected.

It was, to his great annoyance, actually enjoyable. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, obviously. But there was something oddly soothing in the low hum of music vibrating through the stone walls, the warm flicker of floating jack-o'-lanterns casting dancing shadows across costumes and laughter, and the way the room buzzed—not with chaos, but with a kind of festive anticipation.

He stayed mostly with the Skittles, who were in their element.

Pandora glided through the room like a creature of myth, all shimmer and grace, stopping to compliment people’s costumes or twirl under the lanterns. Dorcas was louder—throwing her head back when she laughed, pointing dramatically with her pirate sword every time someone made a bad joke. Barty and Evan were off somewhere, probably stealing things or hearts. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know.

Regulus was, as ever, on the edge of it all.

Close enough to be part of the moment. Far enough to not drown in it.

Someone tried to hand him a drink—not Butterbeer, but something bubbling ominously in a cup shaped like a skull.

He raised an eyebrow. “What is that?”

“Dunno,” said the boy, cheerfully slurring the word. “S’all mixed. Firewhisky, I think. Or brandy. Or pumpkin juice. Maybe all of ‘em.”

Regulus handed it back without a word.

He had no intention of participating in that particular mess. It wasn’t just that he didn’t drink—though he didn’t, not really—it was the principle of it. Third years shouldn’t be drinking. Fourth years shouldn’t be drinking. Fifth years, honestly, shouldn’t either, but he’d resigned himself to the fact that some of his peers were determined to drown their remaining brain cells in sticky, spiced alcohol.

He understood sixth and seventh years. Sort of. They were almost adults. Teetering on the edge of the real world. Let them flirt with recklessness. But the younger students? It felt... wrong. Immature. Performative.

He didn’t need liquor to enjoy himself.

Which was, admittedly, a surprise.

He'd expected to be brooding in some dark corner, pretending to look down on everyone while secretly wishing he were anywhere else. But instead, he found himself talking. Smiling, even. He let Pandora pull him into a slow spin once, cloak fluttering like wings behind him. He let Dorcas smear a bit of glitter on his cheekbone. He even laughed at one of Barty’s absolutely stupid jokes when the other boy reappeared, half a fake mustache falling off his face.

He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t even tipsy. He was simply comfortable; and it was unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.

After those few hours—pleasant, even amusing, in their strange way—Regulus began to feel the weight of it all.

It wasn’t just tiredness, though that too crept into his limbs like fog at twilight. It was the overstimulation, the sheer noise of it—the laughter, the bright lights, the chaotic swirl of colours and costumes and magic. He was used to silence, to dimness, to the echoing hush of the dungeons and the reliable chill of the lake pressing against the windows. This was... too much.

So, while the rest of the Skittles remained fully engaged—Pandora dancing with a seventh year in glittering robes, Barty and Evan whispering conspiratorially near the drinks table, Dorcas attempting to duel someone with her toy sword—Regulus quietly excused himself. None of them noticed.

He found a corner by a window—an arched one, framed in ivy and slightly fogged with the contrast of warm air inside and crisp autumn outside. The view was oddly comforting. For once, he could see something other than murky water and shifting tentacles.

He sat down on the windowsill, gathering his cloak around him, and let his eyes wander lazily across the room. The party was in full swing now. Music thrummed beneath the floor like a second heartbeat. People twirled, stumbled, shouted. He saw a third year trip and fall face-first into a bowl of caramel apples.

He huffed a small, private laugh.

Then his gaze caught a flash of familiar black hair. Sirius.

His brother was pressed against a wall, kissing a girl with rich brown skin and a cascade of dark, voluminous curls. Regulus tilted his head slightly. He’d heard something vague about Sirius having a new girlfriend—Mony? Mary? Something like that. He hadn’t bothered to commit it to memory. Seeing him now, so carefree, half-drunk, openly affectionate… it stirred something in Regulus, though he couldn’t quite name what.

He scanned the group. He could see Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew nearby—neither of them seemed particularly intoxicated—but James Potter was noticeably absent. Which meant, almost certainly, that he was off somewhere trying to charm Lily. Again. Some habits were eternal.

He was just about to return his gaze to the moonlight when he felt a weight beside him—and an arm, warm and uninvited, slinging itself casually around his shoulders.

“Nice party, huh?”

The voice was slurred. The breath smelled like Firewhisky. Regulus froze.

Of course some drunk Gryffindor had to treat him like a long-lost best mate. Just his luck.

“Um. Yeah,” he replied stiffly, trying not to recoil. Then he turned his head and saw who it was.

Of all the people in the castle, it had to be him.

James Potter.

James blinked at him, grinning lopsidedly. His glasses were slightly askew, his cheeks flushed, and his tie had been transfigured into a string of tiny golden bats.

“Hey, have you seen my friend Sirius?” he asked, voice still far too loud for how close they were. “You must know him! Sirius Black?”

Regulus’ stomach did something odd. “Um… no. Sorry. I haven’t,” he lied, heart thudding.

James frowned, peering at him as if trying to place his face. “You sure you don’t know him? I mean, everyone does. Really hot, long black hair, grey eyes. Always being dramatic? Looks like a painting and acts like a hurricane?”

Regulus tried not to react.

James chuckled and leaned in conspiratorially. “Though I have to admit—don’t tell anyone—his brother is way hotter.”

Time seemed to stop.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

He couldn’t mean... No. He couldn’t. Surely he was joking. Delirious. Mistaken.

He couldn’t possibly think he was more attractive than Sirius. Sirius was loud, wild, magnetic. Regulus was... well, not.

But as far as he knew, he was Sirius’ only brother.

“Oh. Is he?” he said, trying to keep his voice even, though it came out high and thin. “I don’t—I don’t know him.”

James grinned again, completely oblivious. “Yeah, well, if you don’t know Sirius, you probably don’t know him either. Unless you’re a Slytherin, but you don’t seem like one. You seem like a Hufflepuff. Super nice."

“Yeah. I’m a Hufflepuff,” Regulus lied, his voice barely above a whisper. “And no, I—definitely don’t know him. Sorry.”

“Great, well, His name is Regulus" James said brightly. “But don’t tell anyone I said that! My friends would murder me.”

He stood, swaying slightly, then patted Regulus on the shoulder as if they’d been close for years.

“My mates are probably waiting for me. See ya!”

And just like that, he vanished into the crowd, swallowed up by music and movement and gold and scarlet and laughter.

Regulus sat completely still, staring after him.

His heart was pounding. His hands were cold.

He reached up slowly and touched the place on his shoulder where James had patted him, as if to confirm that it had actually happened.

It had.

He exhaled, then let his head rest back against the cold stone behind him.

What the hell.

✧

Notes:

Rosekiller matching is everything in this world.
(Also, James?? Boy was PISSED off)

Chapter 45: ☼Romantic Disaster, Starring James Potter

Summary:

Basically James daydreaming bout Reg???

November 1, 1974

“I’m never drinking again. I quit,” James groaned, his voice hoarse as he buried his face in his pillow.

He was sprawled across his bed like a fallen soldier, one arm dangling off the edge, the other thrown dramatically over his eyes as if the light itself had personally offended him. His costume tie was still wrapped around his neck like a limp snake, and there was glitter on his cheek—whose glitter, he did not know.

“Same here,” Sirius mumbled from across the room. He wasn’t even in his own bed; instead, he was collapsed horizontally across Remus’s, boots still on, looking like he’d been dropped there from a great height.

Remus, who should have been annoyed by the invasion of his mattress, was instead sitting peacefully on the floor, sipping tea from a chipped Ravenclaw mug and flipping through a book like he was living in a different universe entirely.

Peter was still asleep under a mountain of blankets, snoring softly. Only the occasional shuffle or snort proved he was alive. He’d fallen asleep in full costume and hadn’t stirred since they'd stumbled in well past midnight.

James groaned louder. “My head hurts. It’s like there’s a goblin trapped in my skull trying to claw its way out.”

“You drank half a bottle of Firewhisky and then chased it with a potion someone probably brewed in a broom closet,” Remus said without looking up. “What did you think would happen?”

“I thought I’d have a good time!” James protested, dramatically throwing one arm over his face as if the sheer memory was too much to bear.

“You did,” Sirius rasped from Remus’s bed, where he lay like a corpse with sunglasses still perched on his nose for no reason at all. “You sang ‘Keep Yourself Alive’ to a phantom and then challenged it to a duel.”

“he started it,” James mumbled.

Remus sighed. “You insulted him, James.”

“Oh,” James said faintly. “Well. Maybe it had it coming.”

He rolled onto his side, clutching his head.

“Did I talk to Lily?” he asked suddenly.

Sirius made a thoughtful face. “I think so. Once. Maybe twice? There was a moment near the snack table when you looked deeply into her eyes and told her you’d die for her.”

James blinked. “That’s not so bad.”

“You were holding a deviled egg,” Sirius added. “And you dropped it on her shoe.”

James let out a long, pained groan and pulled a pillow over his face. “This is the end. This is how I die. Of shame. Right here. Let it be known I lived fast and died dumb.”

“Don’t worry,” Remus said dryly. “She didn’t even look mad. Just... vaguely disappointed.”

Sirius laughed, then winced. “Ow. My brain.”

“I hate everyone,” James muttered. “Especially past me. He’s the worst.”

“You did dance on a table,” Remus offered helpfully. “Twice.”

“You dared me!” James said, flinging a hand out in Sirius’s direction.

“And you accepted. I can’t be held accountable for your lack of judgment.”

Peter stirred in his bed, letting out a long sigh before immediately rolling back over and going still again.

“How is he still asleep?” Sirius asked.

“He’s always asleep,” James said. “If there was a war, Peter would sleep through it.”

“If there was a zombie apocalypse, Peter would sleep through it,” Remus muttered.

There was a beat of silence.

“Did anything weird happen last night?” James asked suddenly, lifting the pillow off his face just enough to peek out at his friends. “Like—super weird? Or just... you know. Anything I should be embarrassed about?”

Remus shrugged. “Besides the table dancing, the serenade to the suit of armor, the egg-on-the-shoe thing, and trying to toast with a floating candle?”

James winced. “Right. So, just a normal Halloween, then.”

“Pretty much,” Sirius said, and yawned. “Remind me never to let you near alcohol again.”

“You were worse than me!” James shot back. “You stole Peeves’ top hat.”

“I earned that hat,” Sirius mumbled proudly.

Remus rolled his eyes and stood up, stretching. “You two are hopeless.”

“Remus, please,” James begged weakly. “Make the room stop spinning.”

“Drink some water. Eat something. And maybe take a walk before lunch.”

“Or die quietly in bed,” James muttered. “That’s also an option.”

Remus gave him a gentle kick in the side. “Hydrate or perish.”

That morning, the Great Hall buzzed with an energy that felt louder than usual—even for a Sunday. Everyone was chattering about the night before: the costumes, the chaos, the kissing. Plates clinked with cutlery as people devoured greasy food in the universal attempt to battle hangovers. The faint scent of pumpkin still lingered in the air, mingling with the usual smells of eggs, toast, and regret.

James sat slumped over his plate, one cheek smushed against the side of his goblet. His eyes were barely open, and he was only half-listening to the conversation happening beside him—some ongoing discussion between Sirius and Peter about girls, or maybe socks, or maybe both.

“You spent all night snogging Mary,” Peter accused Sirius, gesturing vaguely with a sausage.

“I did not!” Sirius snapped, sounding almost offended. “Only after everyone was too tired to keep dancing or pretending to enjoy that ridiculous punch.”

“You two should find someone,” he added loftily, flicking toast crumbs from his sleeve. “At least James is properly pining over Lily.”

“Oh, well, he did make some attempts last night, after... the egg situation,” Peter muttered, hiding a grin behind his hand.

“Did he!?” Sirius sat up straight, suddenly engaged.

“Yeah,” Remus said dryly, not even looking up from his book. “You’d have seen it if you hadn’t been busy sticking your tongue down Mary’s throat.”

“Oh, shut up, you little miscreant,” Sirius said, smacking Remus on the shoulder with a grin. The insult didn’t even get a reaction anymore—they were all far too used to Sirius’s oddly formal vocabulary, like he was a disgraced Victorian lord stuck in a teenager’s body.

Peter leaned forward, eager to recount the story. “So, Lily was sitting with Marlene by the fireplace, right? And James just strolls over like it’s a romantic drama, holding one of those sad little flowers from the table decorations—”

James groaned into his goblet.

“—and just as he opens his mouth to say something, he steps on a pumpkin and falls straight into it.”

Sirius cackled. “Oh, mate. That explains the pumpkin guts in your hair last night. I thought you were trying out a new look.”

James barely registered the laughter. His attention, now slipping out of the conversation, drifted vaguely across the hall as his vision blurred a little from exhaustion.

Somewhere past the Ravenclaw table, across from them at the Slytherin end, sat someone with a posture so composed it stood out among the chaos of morning-after students. Straight back, arms folded lightly over a teacup, expression unreadable. Regal, almost.

Regulus.

He looked a lot like Sirius—everyone always said so—but James had never paid much attention to just how different they were until recently. Sirius had sharper features, cheekbones like razors, always in motion, always intense. But Regulus… Regulus was still. Measured. Where Sirius was fire and chaos, Regulus was all poised silence and cool precision. His eyes were larger—softer, somehow—and they caught the light from the floating candles in a way that made them seem almost unreal. Not quite grey, not quite green, but something in between, like stormlight reflected in glass. Framed by lashes so long and dark they looked drawn in charcoal, carefully, intentionally.

There was a calm elegance in the way he tilted his head to listen to the boy next to him—Evan, maybe?—without offering more than the faintest nod in reply. He didn’t smile. He rarely did. And yet he held a kind of gravity, like the world turned just slightly to keep him centered in it.

James squinted, sleep-blurred, trying to decide which thing caught the light more brilliantly: His grey-green eyes, or the cascade of inky curls that fell around them like velvet. His hair looked absurdly soft—too soft for someone with a glare like that. Like it would slide right through your fingers and vanish before you could hold on.

James didn’t realize he was staring until Peter’s voice yanked him back.

“...and then, to make it worse, he tried to stand up and slipped again, so the flower ended up inside a bowl of punch.”

“Oh, no,” Sirius said, doubled over with laughter. “A complete romantic disaster.”

James blinked, straightened up, and shook his head as if to clear it.

☼

"Okay, so I've got a plan," James announced dramatically, arms flung wide like he was about to unveil a masterpiece.

The rest of the Marauders barely looked up.

"I'll approach Lily after Charms and say something about us two dancing together at the party. How does that sound?" he asked, grinning like he’d just reinvented flirting.

They were all crammed into their dormitory. James and Peter were perched cross-legged on his bed, Remus was lounging on the floor–a terrible choice given his dodgy hip, but he'd never admit it–and Sirius was lying upside down across his own bed, feet dangling off the edge.

"Oh, brilliant," Remus said dryly, flipping a page of the book he wasn't really reading. "You've come up with another surefire way to crash out" 

"Oi, Moony!" James huffed, tugging at his already messy hair. "It’s a great plan. I don’t know what you mean."

"I mean," Remus muttered, "it sounds like you’re trying to guilt her into fancying you."

"Exactly!" Sirius chimed in, sitting up suddenly with an excited grin. "You’ve nailed it, mate. Emotional manipulation—always sexy."

James blinked. "That’s not what I meant."

"No, no, you’re definitely gonna catch some conversation with that," Sirius nodded, all mock sincerity. "Maybe even a restraining order."

"Alright, piss off, the lot of you," James muttered, though he couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "At least I’m doing something about my love life."

Remus raised an eyebrow. "And yet here we all are, single as ever. Truly, you’re our shining example."

Peter snorted. "I think it’s romantic, actually. He’s trying. He’s putting himself out there."

"Exactly! Thank you, Wormy." James gestured at him triumphantly. "Finally, someone who appreciates my efforts."

"But maybe," Peter added, chewing on a biscuit, "you could try talking to her about something she actually likes? Instead of, you know... you."

"Right. Cheers for that, Pete," James said, not sounding the least bit grateful.

Sirius flopped back dramatically. "You could always start with: 'Hello, Evans, lovely weather we're having, would you like to talk about the next quidditch match im playing?'"

"Very helpful, Pads."

"Or just, 'Hi, Lily, I’m an idiot, but I’m your idiot, if you ever change your mind.'"

James groaned and flopped onto the bed, covering his face with a pillow. "You lot are so unsupportive."

"We are supporting you," Remus said lightly. "We’re supporting you by making sure you don’t make a complete tit of yourself in public."

"Too late for that," Sirius added cheerfully. "The tit ship has sailed."

"Right, well," James mumbled from under the pillow, "you lot will see. After Charms, she’ll be swooning."

"Sure," Remus said with a smirk. "We’ll be here, picking out suits for the wedding next week."

They all burst out laughing as James lazily flipped them off without lifting his head.

“Piss off,” he grumbled. “Just give it a bit of time. She’ll fall for my undeniable giant charm before fifth year’s out.”

“Next year!?” Peter blinked. “That’s ages, mate.”

“Well, he’s been mooning over her for four years already,” Sirius snorted. “What’s one more? Man’s basically got a title in hopeless longing.”

“Shut it, Pads.”

“Just saying.”

“All right, all right,” James said, finally lifting his head, hair sticking up in every direction. “Here it is. Twenty Sickles says I won’t be single by the end of fifth year.”

That got their attention.

“Done,” Sirius said immediately, sitting up. “And when you lose, I’m buying something completely ridiculous with your money. A dancing cactus. Or matching socks for everyone that say ‘Prongs is pants at flirting’.”

“You’ll be eating those socks, mate,” James said, trying to sound confident but already mentally calculating whether Lily would hex him before or after he got the words out.

“Oh, I can’t wait,” Remus said, folding his arms behind his head. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Hey, I’m a catch!”

“Sure you are,” Peter said kindly. “Just... maybe don’t lead with that.”

☼

Of course, the conversation with Lily didn’t go exactly to plan.

“Hi, Lils,” James said, leaning casually against the corridor wall like he’d practised in the mirror.

“Potter,” she greeted, arching an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “Just heard a rumour we danced at the party the other night.”

“Oh, did we?” she said innocently, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Funny, I must’ve missed that between you falling face-first into the pumpkin trifle and nearly setting your sleeve on fire.”

James winced. “Right. Yeah. Minor incident. I was... slightly intoxicated.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You do realise you’re fourteen, right? Not forty, not even legal to drink butterbeer unsupervised.”

“Come on, Lils, it was just a bit of fun,” he said, throwing her a hopeful wink.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling public humiliation these days?” she replied sweetly.

James chuckled, trying to recover. “Still, you’ve got to admit... there was a spark between us.”

“Mm, yeah,” she said, pretending to think. “That was probably static electricity. From the polyester in your tragically awful dress robes.”

He blinked. “They were navy blue!”

“They were shiny,” she said flatly. “Like you mugged a Crup and wore its fur backwards.”

“Ouch,” he laughed, hand over his heart. “Right in the pride.”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Glad to see you’ve still got some left.”

James stood there, frozen, his smirk sliding slowly off his face. Behind him, footsteps echoed.

Sirius clapped him on the back. “That went well, Prongs,” he said cheerfully. "Proper smooth. Casanova who?"

James groaned. "Brilliant. Absolutely smashed it." 

Chapter 46: ✧ Third year: Beneath the Grey Sky

November 22, 1974

Regulus woke up before anyone else in the dormitory.

He didn’t mean to. He hadn’t even set an alarm charm like Barty usually did on exam days. But it was like his body had decided, without asking him, that the day of the match was not one to waste sleeping through. It was still dim outside, and he lay there for a minute, watching the silver light creep across the stone wall, his fingers resting quietly against the edge of his blanket.

He wasn’t nervous. That’s what he told himself. It was an easy match, no need to be nerveous.

Still, when he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, there was a familiar pressure blooming in his chest—not panic, not dread, just… tension. Like his ribs had decided they were too small to hold everything inside.

He dressed slowly. His green jumper was freshly cleaned, thanks to the house elves, and it smelled faintly of cedar. The Seeker badge felt heavy when he clipped it to his chest.

By the time he made it down to the Great Hall, there were only a few students scattered across the long tables. The sky above the enchanted ceiling was dull and grey, clouds swirling with the promise of cold wind. Perfect Quidditch weather, according to James Potter–not that he used to paid much attention to what he said, but he had overheard that in a shared practice – Regulus snorted softly at the thought, though he wasn’t sure why.

He took his usual seat at the Slytherin table, across from Pandora and Dorcas, who were already mid-argument about something that involved three folded pieces of parchment, a spoon, and a dead beetle.

“—I’m just saying, it’s unethical,” Pandora muttered, frowning.

Dorcas raised an eyebrow and held up the spoon like a weapon. “It’s not unethical if it works. Besides, the beetle was already dead.”

Regulus blinked. “Should I ask?”

“No,” both girls said at once.

Evan arrived a moment later, followed closely by Barty, who looked slightly out of breath and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Morning, my darling snakes,” Barty greeted, sliding into the seat beside Evan and dramatically stealing a piece of toast from his plate. “Big day. I assume we’ve all made peace with the inevitability of my future fame?”

“You’re not even playing,” Pandora pointed out, reaching for a muffin.

“And yet, somehow, I will still steal the spotlight.” Barty said, leaning an elbow on the table as if he’d just scored a point. 

Pandora rolled her eyes. “You’re benched because Wilkes said you broke formation during the last practice and nearly took his head off with a Bludger.”

Barty smiled as if he’d been told she was adorable. “Details.” Barty winked at Regulus. “Though of course, all eyes will be on our beloved Seeker.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

As more students trickled into the Hall, the energy shifted. Voices grew louder. Scarves were tied tighter. A group of second-year Slytherins were already chanting something unintelligible at the far end of the table, and across the room, the Ravenclaws sat calmly, as if the match wasn’t even happening.

Regulus poked at his porridge. He couldn’t eat much—his stomach had become a tight knot—but he forced down a few bites and sipped his tea slowly.

“You alright?” Evan asked quietly, nudging his shoulder.

Regulus nodded. “Fine.”

Barty hummed. “You’ll catch the Snitch. You’re better than that Ravenclaw Seeker. What’s her name again? Campbell?”

Regulus didn’t answer. He was watching the Gryffindor table.

Or more specifically, one person at the Gryffindor table.

James Potter sat with his usual gang—Lupin, Pettigrew, and well, Sirius.

They hadn’t spoken in months. Many months, which eventually turned into more than a year.

129 days — he’d counted — since the last time he’d snapped at him, angry and bitter.

But if that didn’t count, then it had really been 699 days,

though back then he had only asked for the salt,

and those were the only words he had spoken to him in a while.

So, if he was being honest — truly honest —

it had actually been 1,179 days.

Regulus didn’t even realize he was staring until Sirius looked up, mid-laugh at something Potter said. Their eyes locked for a split second—longer than a glance, shorter than a full second; and it was like being jolted with cold water.

Sirius’s smile faded, lips pressing into a thin line. Regulus didn’t look away. Neither did he.

Finally, Sirius blinked, turned back to his plate, and said something to James that made him laugh again.

Regulus didn’t move for a moment.

Pandora reached across the table and tapped his knuckles, gently. “Breathe.”

He let out a quiet breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

✧

The match began beneath a sky of grey and wind.

Regulus soared upward the moment Madam Hooch blew her whistle. The wind clawed at his face, but he didn’t care. From the first second, he was steady. Focused. Sharp.

He moved like he was made for this.

While the Chasers clashed in the center of the pitch and the Bludgers screamed through the air, Regulus floated just above the chaos—eyes scanning constantly, body perfectly still except for the occasional tilt of his broom.

Slytherin was playing hard. Had already scored twice in a matter of minutes. Were doing all smooth dodges and clever passes. Wilkes shouted instructions from the other end, barking like a war general, nothing different from the rest fo the matches.

Fifteen minutes in, one of the Beaters took a Bludger straight to the shoulder. It wasn’t intentional; a Ravenclaw Beater had aimed it at someone else, who swerved just in time. 

Madam Hooch blew her whistle. The game paused as healers rushed in.

From the Slytherin bench, Barty shot to his feet.

He didn’t even wait for permission.

Seconds later, Wilkes was shouting, “Crouch, get in! And for Merlin’s sake, follow the damn formation this time!”

Barty whooped, snatched his bat, and leapt onto his broom like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. Which he had; of course.

Back in the air, the match resumed.

With Barty now in the game, the energy shifted. He played recklessly, wildly—but effectively. He sent two Ravenclaws ducking for cover in his first five minutes and knocked a Bludger so hard it whistled past Emma Campbell’s head.

Regulus noticed all of it, but only distantly.

He had spotted the Snitch.

Just for a second—by the Ravenclaw goalposts, glinting like a spark of fire in the wind. Then it was gone. But he dove anyway.

So did Emma.

The two Seekers streaked across the pitch like arrows. The crowd gasped. Below them, the game kept raging—Chasers yelling, Bludgers crashing—but it all blurred out of focus.

Emma was good. Fast. She pulled ahead for a moment, reaching.

Regulus flattened himself against his broom, body a perfect line. The wind howled past him. He didn’t blink.

The Snitch reappeared, flashing between two players mid-turn.

Regulus leaned forward—

And reached.

His fingers closed around the fluttering wings just before Campbell’s hand swiped empty air.

The whistle blew. The crowd exploded.

Slytherin had won.

Regulus pulled up, Snitch in hand, and let the wind whip through his hair as he slowed down. His teammates were screaming. His friends approached to celebrate, and so did the team and the rest of the slytherins.

Regulus touched down slowly, boots hitting the grass with the quiet grace of someone who wasn't surprised. The Snitch still buzzed gently in his hand. 

He looked up at the stands—just for a second.

He felt a heavy look on him; thought it was Sirius.

But there, surrounded by gold and red, Potter was staring straight at him.

He didn’t clap. Didn’t cheer; of course, no griffindor would celebrate a slytherin victory.

But he didn’t look away either.

Which was something he was doing a lot lately. Staring at him. Not speaking. Not looking back when Regulus inevitably glanced away. Just—watching. As if trying to figure something out, or maybe waiting for something Regulus couldn’t give.

Regulus wondered what kind of thoughts went on in his head during those long, heavy stares.

Surely, he hated him.

But then—what kind of hateful things spun in that mind of his during the many minutes he spent watching him? What made him linger so long on someone he supposedly wanted nothing to do with?

Regulus didn’t know.

And worse—he hated that he wanted to.

All the people around him were suffocating him, honestly. The cheering, the slaps on the back, the sudden surge of hands reaching for him like he was something golden—it was too much. He wasn't used to that amount of attention. He never had been.

So he drifted away.

Quietly, carefully, he let the crowd engulf the rest of the team instead. Regulus slipped away.

The showers, luckily, were still empty—the match had just finished, and everyone else was still basking in the aftermath. It wasn’t a long walk across the pitch and out of the stadium; he could shower quickly, with no one seeing him, and go to the common room once clean.

But of course, he had to run into someone.

Quite literally.

He almost crashed into Sirius.

He’d been in too much of a hurry to pay attention to his surroundings—and there he was, right in front of him. Tense, expression unreadable at first.

Then it shifted.

He looked mad. Disappointed. Hurt, maybe. Regulus couldn’t tell anymore.

They just stared at each other for a few seconds. Weirdly still.

It felt like the world around them dimmed.

And just when Sirius made to move past him, Regulus reached out and stopped him.

“Sirius, please…” he said. It came out quieter than he meant it to. Almost like a whisper. Almost like a plea.

He wanted his brother back.

He needed him.

Sirius looked at him with that sharp, guarded stare—the one that always cut deeper than any curse could.

“I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. Don’t you understand?” he said.

The words landed like a slap.

Harsh. Final.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stood there as Sirius brushed past him and walked away like he hadn’t just gutted him in a single sentence.

He felt the tears burning in his eyes, pleading to roll out of them.

And he couldn't fight them back anymore.

He walked quickly to the showers, head down, fists clenched.

Locked himself in one of the stalls. Let the hot water run long before he even stepped in.

How could he say that so lightly?

Like it meant nothing.

Like brushing off some minor inconvenience.

His brother—his brother—the only person who had been with him for years and not once complained. The only one who had shielded him from their parents’ wrath, who had stood between him and their fury again and again.

The one who had helped him figure out who he was, and had accepted it without hesitation, without judgment.

Now he said he didn’t want anything to do with him.

Just like that.

He could let Regulus go so easily.

But Regulus couldn’t.

Sirius was his happiest memory of childhood. Maybe his only truly happy one. And he still treasured those moments with all his being—quiet late-night talks, forbidden laughter under blankets, arms thrown around each other in secret joy after escaping punishment.

Sirius was a part of who Regulus was.

He always would be.

But Regulus?

He was a shame Sirius couldn’t bear to carry anymore.

The wall felt cold under his fists, grounding him.

The tears in his eyes vanished among the drops of water falling from the shower, indistinguishable now.

It almost reminded him of his childhood.

Of the times when his parents had punished Sirius—for something he had done—and Regulus had locked himself in the shower to cry, where they wouldn’t hear him. Where he wouldn’t be punished again just for showing emotion.

Their parents, especially their father, had a particular method of punishment. One designed to hurt more than physically.

They’d punish the wrong child.

Punish the innocent.

To make them both feel guilty.

To make them turn on each other.

To remind them that love could be a weapon.

And maybe, it had worked after all.