Silencio Cordis

by nreid

Summary:

For Regulus, there is a before the letter, and an after the letter. Before the letter he felt things—emotions, now, it’s like they’re blocked, not all of them, but the heavy ones. The ones that wished he too would be placed in Gryffindor—simply to be with his brother again.

Or, James is a curious person—and Regulus’s rings intrigue him.

Chapter 1: The Train

Notes:

Hello! This is my first ever fic so yk, keep that in mind when reading loll.

This is going to be a very long fic spanning over the Marauders seventh year and then post Hogwarts with the war.

Also if you see a typo, no you didn’t :)
I will try to put TW’s for every chapter but if I miss anything let me know!

TW’s for this chapter
Torture(fairly detailed)
References to animal torture(not depicted)
Depictions of insomnia

I think that it’s but ofc lemme know if there is anything I missed!!

Enjoy :))

Regulus feels like he’s going to faint. The pain is searing and unrelenting. He’s endured it for what feels like hours but in reality is probably only fifteen minutes. Surely that should be enough?

Bellatrix is still laughing maniacally, the sound echos all around him- a sign she’s not bored yet. Not done playing with him. He could fight back. He could torture her right back- although he’s never done it on a person before. He hasn’t managed to. He struggles enough when he’s forced to do it on animals. That’s not the point though. The point is for him to endure. So he will. He’ll writhe on the floor, bite his lip so hard it bleeds and scream every so often when the pain becomes too unbearable- because as strong as he is there is only so much pain he can take.

But he’ll endure.

Bellatrix finally eases up on him when his mother holds up her hand, signalling for her to stop, a stern finality in the movement. Bellatrix slumps her shoulders and goes to sit on the sofa next to her husband- Rodolphus, disappointed that her fun has ended.

“Up.” his mother commands, her voice is sharp, there’s never any uncertainty when she speaks. There doesn’t have to be, anything she says goes. Which is why Regulus slowly picks himself up off the floor. He tries to do it without wincing- he does have some dignity left- but the twenty? Minutes of torture he just endured make that difficult.

When he stands, he straightens to his regular perfect posture- he’ll be damned if he gets tortured again for slumping. Walburga simply nods and walks to a grand chair in the study. Then she waves a hand dismissively in his direction and conversation resumes amongst the guests.

Regulus walks stiffly up the stairs to his bedroom. At least his mother didn’t make him stay and converse after having been tortured. That would have been well- torture. He walks to his room and casts a quick recognition charm. A handy spell he created at the beginning of the summer to alert him if anyone comes within five feet of his door. It would give him a second to compose himself, should he need to.

Torture is a fairly normal event at pure blood dinners. Although last summer Regulus didn’t get tasked with being the entertainment as much. That was Sirius. Regulus didn’t realize it at the time but he had it good. Sirius took the brunt. He would still get tortured every now and again- but he was secondary.

It’s more now. So much more. Even Sirius didn’t get tortured this much. But he supposes his parents are worried. They lost one heir. Now they’re onto the spare. They can’t afford to lose him too.

Regulus hasn’t allowed himself to think about his brother all summer. It’s a weakness- one he can’t afford, not when his mother can peer into his mind whenever she pleases. But he returns to Hogwarts tomorrow, and he knows it’s inevitable he’ll see Sirius. And maybe it’s the lingering ache from the punishment he endured- the longest he’s ever withstood- that’s made his mind softer than usual, more vulnerable to memory.

Maybe that’s why Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor. He had the courage to leave. To run from everything Regulus couldn't. While Regulus stayed behind, rooted in a home that devoured him alive.

His mind aches when he thinks about that night- so he lets it wander to another. The night he got Sirius’s letter. The one that said he’d been sorted into Gryffindor. That he’d already made friends. New ones. People who weren’t Regulus.

He remembers reading it and feeling... sad, mostly. A quiet, heavy kind of sadness, the kind that sinks in slowly. He hadn’t expected to be sorted into the same househe wasn’t that naïve—but some part of him had hoped. Hoped they’d still be on the same side, somehow.

But by morning, the sadness had soured into something sharper. Anger. Anger that Sirius had thrown away the family name without a second thought. Anger that he’d left Regulus alone to deal with the mess at home.

Regulus detached, almost like he lost a piece of himself when he got that letter.

Sirius had noticed it when he arrived home for Christmas break. He noticed the cold look in Regulus’ eyes, and how he didn’t laugh as much with him.

For Regulus, there is a before the letter, and an after the letter. Before the letter he felt things- emotions, now, it’s like they’re blocked, not all of them, but the heavy ones. The ones that wished he too would be placed in Gryffindor- simply to be with his brother again.

His mind hurts. It always hurts- Regulus blames his constant headaches on all the inbreeding in his family, it’s probably fucked up the wiring in his brain- but it hurts more now. Maybe that’s why his mind is slipping and letting him think about his brother.

He takes a breath and rubs his eyes.

Emotions are a liability, Regulus. They cloud judgment and invite exploitation. You must suppress them- completely. Such weakness is intolerable.

The memory flashes in his mind- the last time he had been upset over his brother. Walburga has never been one for comforting her children, and that day had been no different. That had been the first time she made him use the imperious curse. Not on a human- at least not then- but on an animal.

Regulus remembers crying for hours after.

To top off the splitting pain in his head- he feels the familiar ache of pain on the palm of his right hand. He traces the jagged scar, he’s had it for a couple of years. He can’t remember how it happened- the memory is blurry, but it aches sometimes- the worst being when he fails to succeed in obeying his mother’s cruel commands.

He thinks it’s his bodies way of chastising him for being so weak.

When he gets to Hogwarts he’ll brew pain potions for it. Just like he does every year. He can’t brew any at home- his mother believes that pain should be handled without potions to subdue it.

He pulls out his wand and casts a quick numbing spell on his hand- it’s not as good as the pain potions but it will have to do for now. He can normally handle the aching pain from his palm- but his head is still throbbing and that’s taking up the majority of his pain tolerance at the moment.

He changes, brushes his teeth and then attempts to go to sleep.

Its futile. Regulus hasn’t had a good night sleep since Sirius left. It had already been difficult before that, but the loss of comfort that he was next door was taken from him- and so restless nights bring him day to day.

~~~~

James can’t wait to see Remus and Peter. He saw them a decent amount over the break when they all met up, but the break is always a stark contrast to the rest of the year. He’s used to seeing his friends everyday- eating meals together, planning pranks, being inseparable. Still, he has Sirius though. Every day. His best friend. His brother.

James knows Sirius escaping his house was the hardest thing he’s ever done. But now they share a home, and James sees him every morning over breakfast, every night before bed. He couldn’t be happier.

His mum drops them off early at King’s Cross, and with one last kiss and hug to the both of them- she says goodbye with a bright smile and only slightly wet eyes.

They run through the barrier- smiling and laughing brightly- like they always do when they’re together. James can’t imagine life without Sirius. He’s lucky they became friends.

He remembers the first day he saw him- Sirius had a deep scowl etched into his face. One that was mirrored on his parents standing behind him- and on a little boy who was clutching Sirius’s hand. He remembers thinking that they were a very scowly family. But then Sirius had crouched down to his knees in front of the little boy- his parents expressions had soured more at that- and said something that made the boy smile. James remembers thinking that if someone who was a part of such a scowly family could bring joy to such a sad little kid- then he was worth getting to know.

His mother had always taught him to not judge a book by its cover- in this case- a boy by his scowl. So James took that to heart, marched right up to Sirius, and held out his hand.

Sirius had looked dazed for a moment before snapping out of it and holding his hand out to meet James’s. He smiled brightly at him- but when James had motioned for them to head over to the train- he hesitated and crouched down again to bring his brother into a hug- he whispered something into the boy’s ear- but the boy didn’t pay any mind to Sirius. Instead opting to glare at James, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in what must’ve been an attempt to look menacing- but he was so tiny and so angry, it had only made James let out a small laugh.

That had only led the boy to scowl harder.

Now here they were again. Back where they first met. Boarding the train for their last year at Hogwarts.

Once inside their usual compartment, James is practically buzzing with excitement. Not just about seeing Remus and Peter again, but also about going back to the castle. Back to late-night snack runs under his invisibility cloak, sneaking out to Hogsmeade, and elaborate pranks.

When Remus and Peter finally walk in, James jumps up and pulls them both into a tight hug. Sirius joins in, wrapping his arms around them and in this moment everything feels perfect.

He wishes it could always be like this- laughing with his friends, safe and together. But he knows the world outside Hogwarts is changing. There’s a war coming. And he’ll fight. He’ll fight to keep the people in his arms safe- no matter what it takes.

Remus is the first to break out. “We saw you last Wednesday James.” He mutters, dropping into his seat in the corner of the compartment. But James doesn’t miss the small smile that tugs on the corner of Remus’s mouth.

James drops into the seat opposite of Remus and claps his hands together loudly. Peter settles in next to him and Sirius goes to sit next to Remus. “So,“ he says excitedly, “what’s our big prank to kick this year off.”

Remus barely even looks up from his book. “Don’t you think we’re a bit old for that? We’re going into our last year, pranks are getting… childish.”

“Too old for pranks” Sirius exclaims dramatically, “childish?” he puts a hand to his chest in mock hurt. This gets Remus to fully look up and glance at Sirius with an amused grin on his face. James hasn’t missed the way Remus has been looking at Sirius lately, nor the way Sirius looks back. But it’s not his place to say anything. Not yet. He’ll give them a few more months before he will eventually go crazy and intervene.

“I think we should do something big the morning before classes start,” Peter adds in, ignoring Sirius’ dramatics. He leans forward in his seat, “something to get cancelled.” The grin on his face is playful but cunning. James knows that Peter can be an evil genius when he wants to be.

“I like the way you’re thinking Pete!” Sirius exclaims, also leaning forward in his seat.

~~~~

Remus and Peter head off first to change into their robes. James and Sirius stay behind to guard the compartment- it’s unlikely anyone would steal it this late into the ride, but still.

When they return, James grabs his robes and the two of them set off towards the back of the train.

As they pass by compartments James peers into them- not in a creepy way, just in a ‘I’m curious about other people’ type of way. He smiles and waves at the people he knows- like when they pass by the compartment where Mary, Lily and Marlene are all seated and chatting animatedly. But others, like the seventh year Slytherins they pass, he just pulls his face into a tight line and continues walking.

Three compartments before they reach the washrooms- he feels Sirius stiffen beside him, curious he pries his eyes from the second year Ravenclaws who are seated in the compartment before, and looks to the compartment Sirius is staring blankly at.

First he sees Rosier and Crouch, Rosier is sprawled across Crouch’s lap, asleep. Crouch is absently running his hand through Rosiers light blood curls, while chatting with Pandora- a nice Ravenclaw who hangs out with them a lot- and Meadows. When his eyes drift from Meadows to the boy seated next to her, he finds the reason for Sirius’s stillness.

He should have known who would be inside. No one but Regulus can cause Sirius to show such a pained expression on his face.

Regulus is reading. His jaw set, black curls falling gracefully over his forehead. He’s seemingly uninterested in the conversation his friends are having and oblivious to Sirius and James, who are, admittedly staring rather creepily into their compartment.

Pandora is the first to spot them. She offers a polite smile and wave. James returns it then goes to drag Sirius away before the others notice them staring.

Sirius stays firmly in place despite James’s tugging until Regulus finally looks up and locks eyes with his brother. They both stare at each other, tight jaws and narrowed eyes. It’s a silent stalemate. A thousand things unsaid pass between them.

Then, after only a moment, Regulus looks away- returning to his book. He never even looked at James.

James doesn’t know why, but that stings.

Regulus flips a page, rings catching in the light. There are two on his left hand that he can see but the other hand is hidden behind the book. James leans slightly, trying to see if there are any on hid right-

“Come on Prongs.” Sirius says quietly, tugging him away.

James sighs and lets himself be pulled, but he glances back once more before fully turning.

He’s always been curious about Regulus. Sirius’s brother. The one that didn’t run. The one who stayed.

He remembers the summer night when Sirius showed up at his house, bloodied and broken. Trembling with something deeper than pain. His nose was crooked, and blood dripped into his eyes from a gash on his forehead. But it was the way he sobbed- “he wouldn’t come James. He wouldn’t leave them.”

They don’t talk about that night. Sirius shuts him down every time.

So James remains curious. Curious about why Regulus wouldn’t leave them. Why he stayed. And, apparently, he’s also curious about Regulus’ rings.

Notes:

So. Regulus. Is. Not. Okay.

But like, in the pettiest, most emotionally repressed, tortured-heir way possible.

So apparently torture is apparently just a fun little appetizer at Black family dinners 🫠

Regulus’s pain tolerance is high, but his tolerance for Sirius’s betrayal? Lower.

Also, his brain is fried from all the inbreeding (his words not mine) and honestly, mood.

And then James “sunshine incarnate” Potter makes an entrance, hugs his friends like the golden retriever he is. Honestly the contrast between James and Regulus is so funny to me. One is literally being tortured and the other is busy doing group hugs.

Also, James’s curiosity is literally me anytime someone hot wears rings. I swear it just makes them like ten times more attractive.

Thanks for reading <3

Tell Regulus you’re proud of him for surviving the most traumatic family reunion ever.

Chapter 2: Spinning Stairways

Notes:

TW’s for this chapter:

Swearing
Brief mention of vomiting(witnessed by the POV character)

Enjoy :))

The Sorting Ceremony drones on, Regulus thinks it is quite possibly the most boring event he’s ever had the displeasure of sitting through- and he’s endured dozens of pure-blood dinners.

It’s long, dull and they don’t even let you eat while having to watch it- no, they withhold the food until every little child has been placed into a House. Barbaric.

Regulus hadn’t eaten a single thing on the train, and now his stomach is growling in quiet protest. He’s avoided train food ever since third year, when Barty projectile vomited a colourful display of sweets directly onto Regulus’ robes.

“Eva Pettigrew,” Professor McGonagall calls out, her voice booming across the Hall. A little girl with mousy brown hair done up in two pigtails approaches the stool. McGonagall sets the hat upon her head- it barely even brushes her scalp before shouting “Ravenclaw!” The girl lights up, beaming as she jumps off the chair to go sit with her new housemates.

At last, the final first-year is sorted and Regulus practically sighs when the food materializes. The Great Hall erupts in chatter, and the scrape of utensils. Regulus reaches for the potatoes, his patience fraying with the cacophony.

He thinks everyone should learn to shut up. There’s no need to be screaming to your friends across the hall. Regulus shoots a glare to a couple of Slytherins across from him- and certainly no need to chew with your mouth open.

Honestly, Regulus thinks the entire school should disappear. Then he could eat in peace. Well- everyone except for Barty, Evan, Dorcas, and Pandora. The rest of them can honestly fuck off.

He tunes into the conversation his friends are having, and catches the tail end of Barty’s sentence.

“-maybe the most detentions of the year?”

Noticing Regulus’ puzzled expression, Barry elaborates with a grin. “I was saying that I want to break a school record this year. Most detentions sounds fun but your brother and his friends have held that title since their first year.” He gestures lazily over his shoulder toward the Gryffindor table.

Regulus bites back the ‘he’s not my brother’ and simply nods. “Why not aim for the most OWL’s? You’re smart enough.”

Barty feigns shock and gasps, putting a hand to his heart- as he he’d just been struck. “As I live and breathe, did Regulus Black just say I’m smart!” He grins. Salazar, Barty is one of the most dramatic people he’s ever met.

“But no Regulus,” Barty says wagging a finger in his direction. “I want to break the record that’ll piss my father off the most.” He then winks, grabs an apple, and shoves it into his mouth.

~~~~

After a busy night of planning (and a covert snack run to the kitchens), the Marauders are finally ready for their first prank of the year.

It’s practically tradition at this point. Every year since second year, they’ve kicked things off with a bang. The first one had been a masterpiece- Remus had brewed a powder that rained down from the ceilings and dyed everyone’s hair bright red for hours. Of course, James, Peter, and Sirius had taken full credit when teachers came around asking questions. Which had earned them several weeks’ worth of detention. Worth it.

They’d taken Peter’s plan of cancelling classes to heart- hoping to miss the first day back. If all goes well, James fully intends to return to their dorm and sleep. He’s exhausted, and judging by the bags under his friend’s eyes, so are they.

Still, there’s no hiding the excitement dancing in their expressions. The giddy kind that only comes before a well-executed prank.

They’d fallen asleep late last night and they’re now up again bright and early at five to complete the final enchantments.

They’ve come up with a spell to make the stairs unpredictable- more so than they already are. So that students will have difficulty getting to their classes. James wonders briefly if the first-years will think this is normal. He almost feels bad. Almost.

They had agreed to separate, cover ground faster. James finishes charming the last staircase on his list and makes his way to their chosen vantage point- a spot with a perfect view of the central staircases.

Sirius, Remus, and Peter are already waiting for him when he arrives, all wearing identical grins. They huddle close to the wall and wait, barely able to contain their anticipation.

~~~~

Their first victims are a gaggle of second-year Ravenclaws. As soon as they step onto a landing, the staircase beneath them jolts violently and begins spinning them in dizzying circles. They cling to the railings in a panic, trying to keep upright as the speed increases.

“I think that one is spun too fast.” Remus says, sounding far too pleased for someone who claims to dislike breaking the rules.

“I told you we needed a buffering charm,” James replies through a grin. “But did anyone listen to me? No. Everyone just wants chaos.”

“Chaos is the point,” Sirius declares, slinging an arm around James’ shoulder. “Besides, it builds character.”

James snorts in response and turns back to the staircases looming above. More students have emerged from their dormitories and are falling victim to their antics.

They watch as a pair of Gryffindors find themselves stranded on a landing with no stairs connected to it, marooned in midair.

Below them- the spinning Ravenclaws have been flung onto a different landing from where they first started. One of them is leaning over the railing and hurling. James winces.

But the best is when one of the rotating staircases slams to a sudden stop, launching a group of Hufflepuffs into a tangled pile at the bottom step.

They all start bursting out in laughter- Peter doubles over and clutches his stomach, nearly falling to the floor in his fit of giggles.

James is glowing with pride. The stairs are moving at random intervals, splitting corridors and sending entire groups of students to the wrong floors. It’s a masterpiece. The Marauders’ crowning achievement- at least until the next one.

Remus is the first to suggest a retreat. “We should disappear before we get caught standing here.”

They all nod. They’ve done this enough times to know the routine- watch the fun, slip away before anyone can point fingers, and let whispers of the Marauders grow louder in their absence.

As they start back through a side corridor, Sirius looks over his shoulder at the mayhem behind them. “You think Dumbledore will know it’s us?”

James grins. “I think Dumbledore always knows it’s us.”

“And he hasn’t expelled us yet.” Peter exclaims, wide eyed with wonder.

“Because we’re brilliant.” Sirius answers, flashing his teeth at Peter.

Remus hums. “Or he’s just waiting for us to blow ourselves up.”

“Details,” James says waving a hand at Remus. They all burst out in laughter once more.

They disappear into a shortcut they discovered in third year, leading them straight to the Great Hall.

Only a handful of students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor have made it past the stairs and into the Great Hall. And, of course, every Slytherin. Their dorms are below in the dungeons, meaning none of them had to brave the stairs to get here.

They had all agreed last night that they’d find a way to target the Slytherins later on in the year. Fair’s fair, after all.

James finds his gaze wandering to the Slytherin table. He scans it once, then again. When he still doesn’t find who he’s looking for, he sighs and walks to the Gryffindor table before his friends notice where he was looking.

~~~~

Regulus gets out of bed early in the morning- he needs to find a suitable classroom to brew his pain potions, and any others he might need. The last thing he needs is someone walking in on him when he’s brewing- too many questions, too many risks.

Some of the ingredients he uses aren't exactly approved for student use, and explaining why he knows how to stabilize a volatile tincture at five in the morning isn't exactly a conversation he’s willing to have.

He moves silently through the dungeons, wand in hand and footsteps light. Most of the school is still asleep, the corridors bathed in a dim blue-grey light that seeps in through the high, narrow windows. It’s quiet in the mornings- maybe that’s why Regulus has always been a morning person. Less people up to disturb him.

First, he checks the room he used last year. Much to his disappointment, there’s fresh writing on the board and the desks are no longer layered in dust. Clearly it’s being used again. A pity. That room had been perfect- spacious, well-warded, and tucked far enough from any main corridors that no one ever wondered past.

He’s at least grateful that he had taken the time on the last day of term to erase any trace of his presence. He’d banished the lingering shadows of dark magic, scrubbed away the scent of potions and smoke. Left it spotless, unassuming- normal. Just another forgotten classroom.

He sighs and reluctantly turns to leave, going to check for a new room.

He spends the next fifteen minutes searching, slipping in and out of classrooms like a ghost. One has a broken ventilation- no good for brewing. Another is far too open, windows facing the main courtyard. The third has signs of recent activity. He scowls. Hogwarts really ought to provide better classrooms for him.

Finally, just as the barest hints of sunlight begin to seep through the high windows, he finds it. An abandoned Arithmancy room tucked behind a narrow corridor.

Dust clings to the desks, thick and undisturbed. The heavy shutters block out the growing light, and the door clicks shut behind him with a satisfying finality.

The workbench is still sturdy, the shelves intact. There’s even a sink in the corner, rusted but functional. The room is still in the dungeons so he won’t have to go very far to reach it- an added bonus.

He casts a quick ward to silence the room, and another to obscure any light that might escape under the door. Then he shrugs off his robes, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.

~~~~

After an hour of meticulous work, the room is now well warded, clean, and set up for him to start brewing potions. He’ll have to gather ingredients tonight- build up a new stash. He can get away with using most of them from Slughorn, but some even his Professor doesn’t posses.

But. He’s content with the work done today and so he calls it and heads to the Great Hall for breakfast.

The nice thing about sharing a dorm with Barty and Evan is that they don’t ask questions when he’s not there when they wake up- or when they fall asleep. Nor do they ask questions when he returns sweaty and dirty after going for a late night broom ride to clear his mind.

He’s thinking about how he’s going to persuade Slughorn to give him a half dozen cauldrons- when he hears crying.

He pauses, listening for the source. His steps are light and silent as he turns a corner and sees a girl, she’s huddled on the floor, hugging her knees and rocking slightly as sobs shake her body.

Vaguely he remembers her from the sorting ceremony, so he’s fairly certain that she’s a first-year- but he’s also certain that she’s a Ravenclaw, the blue on her robes helps him to conclude this.

Why is a Ravenclaw first-year in the dungeons during breakfast time?

He steps forward, allowing his steps be loud- deliberately announcing his presence.

Startled, the girl looks up at him through bleary eyes. “I didn’t mean to come all the way down here.” She says, sounding scared for his reaction to her presence. Her voice is hoarse from all the crying, small and cracked around the edges.

He steps further into the corridor, boots clicking softly against the stone floor. His presence is calm, composed. Controlled. The girl watches him with wide, uncertain eyes, but she doesn’t move, remaining huddled in a ball on the floor.

“You’re lost.” He says. More statement than question. His voice is cold but not unkind.

She nods, sniffing. “I was trying to get to the Great Hall. The stairs kept changing-“ she cuts herself off, realizing how ridiculous the explanation sounds. “I followed a group, but I lost them on a landing and then everything started spinning in circles, and I-I ended up down here.”

Regulus frowns at that. He knows the stairs are unpredictable. And to be fair, he did get lost his fair share during first-year. But he’s never seen them spin in circles before.

Her chin trembles slightly, but she swallows the rest of her emotion. She’s embarrassed.

He sighs softly through his nose. “Ravenclaw, right”

She nods again.

“You’re two floors too deep. Come on.” He turns without waiting for her response. For a second, she doesn’t move, Regulus can’t hear any movement so he glances back, expression impatient.

“Well?” He says.

She scrambles to her feet, wobbling slightly as she tries to catch up. Regulus doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t ask if she’s okay, or if she needs a hand. He assumes she’ll manage.

They walk in silence for a few turns before eventually she breaks and speaks again. “I’m Eva.” Her voice is slightly more confident now- not as timid and broken as before.

Regulus doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then, “I know.”

She frowns. “You know my name?”

He doesn’t look at her when he replies. “Your brother is Peter Pettigrew.”

“Oh.” She glances down. “He probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew I was walking with a Slytherin.”

A dry smile touches Regulus’ mouth, though it never reaches his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing nobody has to know.”

She doesn’t reply to that but he can feel her gaze on him. They continue up through the castle, moving through hidden corridors and side passages that Regulus doesn’t care to share his knowledge of. She’ll forget about them by tomorrow anyways.

Eventually, the faint noise of morning voices drifts towards them- students gathered in the Great Hall.

They reach the threshold and Regulus turns to go over to the Slytherin table.

“Wait.”

He turns, regarding the girl that stands before him. She hesitates for a moment. “Thank you. For helping me.”

Regulus’ expression doesn’t shift. “Don’t get used to it.”

And with that he turns and walks to the Slytherins before she can say anything else. Leaving her standing in the entranceway.

Notes:

We didn’t get any Jegulus in this chapter, it is labeled a slow burn for a reason, but don’t worry there is a lot of them in the next chapter. :)

Also Regulus being nice? That’s a first.
Barty might be unhinged, but he’s also my favorite- wanting to break a school record for most detentions just to spite his father? Iconic behavior.
And yes, this won’t be the last you see of little Eva Pettigrew. She’s got more to her than just tears and pigtails.

Chapter 3: Truth or Dare?

Notes:

TW’s for this chapter:
Mentions of vomiting
Underage drinking

I think that’s it?

(Also if you read last chapter before it was updated I suggest rereading it because I changed the second half of it.)

Enjoy :))

Much to James’ delight, the school cancelled classes midway through the day. The chaos caused by the enchanted staircases had led to a flood of complaints from professors about students arriving thirty minutes late to class.

There were too many lost students, too many vomit incidents, and at least one staircase that had spontaneously tried to ascend into the ceiling- only to get stuck halfway. Flitwick nearly had a heart attack.

The entire Great Hall erupted into cheers when Dumbledore made the announcement at lunch, even as he looked directly at the Gryffindor table like he knew exactly who was responsible.

As they raced up to their dorms, smiles split their faces, and laughter echoed through the corridors. They’d successfully pulled off the prank with no one the wiser- well, mostly. And they had even managed to get the afternoon classes canceled.

They were supposed to have a double Transfiguration block in the afternoon, and as much as James loves Minnie- a double for any class is pure torture.

The four of them now tumble into the common room, still breathless from laughing, and collapse on the sofas.

“M’could sleep for a year.” Peter mumbles, face smushed into a cushion, his eyes already drifting shut.

“Uh uh Mister” James says, wagging a finger at him. “No wasting free afternoons.”

Peter, of course, knows the rule well. Never waste a free afternoon. James had invented it in second-year after catching all three of them napping on a Saturday afternoon. He’d said something along the lines of “You’re wasting your childhood!” Before dragging them outside to race broomsticks for two hours.

“Stupid rule.” Peter mutters- although it came out sounding more like “stubib rule.”- his face still buried in the sofa.

“No rest for the wicked.” Sirius chimes in, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

James nods approvingly. “Up you get. You’re playing me in chess.” He tugs on Peter’s arm until he finally stumbles over, grumbling the whole way before flopping into the chair opposite James.

“Hey!” Sirius calls from across the room. “How come you never want to play me?”

Peter points a finger at him, looking remarkably like a mother scolding her child. “Because you flip the board over every time you lose- which is every time you play.”

~~~~

A few hours later and James is still playing chess against Peter. He’s managed to win once- but in nine games that’s not a very good record.

In the end they did end up all going to their dorm to take a quick power nap, but James had woken them after only thirty minutes.

Now Sirius and Remus are huddled by the window, shoulders brushing, each smoking a cigarette and speaking in low, easy tones.

“Up for a game boys.” The voice belongs to Marlene McKinnon who seems to have materialized out of thin air beside where he and Peter are playing. She wiggles her eyebrows at them and, without waiting for a response, drags them to the center of the room and plops them onto the floor.

Sirius and Remus are already seated in the circle, presumably roped in by Lily or Mary, who are seated next to them, wide grins stretched across their faces.

Most of the common room has cleared out by now. Apart from their little group, only a few stragglers linger around. It’s getting pretty late, and James figures the school will have repaired the stairways by tomorrow- sadly, no more cancelled classes.

Marlene is the last to sit down, completing the circle. Somehow she’s acquired muggle alcohol- vodka, judging from the label. And is already pouring it into shot glasses and passing them around.

As soon as a glass gets passed to down the circle to Sirius, he yips and downs it in one go.

“Oi!” Marlene reaches over to smack Sirius on his head. “No drinking yet, Black.”

Sirius pouts dramatically in response.

James snorts. “You just caused the school to shut down. Maybe wait a bit before committing another crime.”

“AH-HA.” Marlene yelps excitedly. “I knew it was you lot who pulled that little stunt.”

“That was you!” Lily gasps, covering her mouth with a hand. “I had to comfort about a half dozen first-years… and one sixth-year.”

Sirius only grins, swipes two fingers across his lips in a closing action, twists them- and then pretends to chuck the key behind him.

“Guess we’ll just have to get him drunk enough to confess all his secrets.” Mary says, refilling Sirius’ glass.

“Yes!” Marlene exclaims. “I propose Spin the Bottle, but if you fail to kiss the person it lands on,” she pauses for dramatic effect while a playful smile tugs on her lips. “And you take a shot.” Laughing, she raises her glass and looks around the circle expectantly.

“Not happening McKinnon.” Remus huffs and struggles to get up- his knees cracking in the process. Godric, Remus is such an old man.

Sirius’ lips jut out in a ridiculous pout and he looks up sadly at Remus. “Oh come on Moony, please?” He blinks up at him through his eyelashes.

Remus stares at him for a second- then sighs and sits back down again. All James can do is roll his eyes at his two best friends. Honestly, the both of them are blind.

“But I’m not doing spin the bottle.” Remus states firmly. “Come up with a different game.”

Eventually they agree on Truth or Dare. “I’ll go first!” Lily exclaims then taps a finger to her lips in a mock expression. “Sirius! Truth or Dare?” She giggles and looks at him, smiling.

“You know me Evans,” he grins “got to go with dare” he winks at her and clasps his hands in his lap. Patiently awaiting his fate.

Lily’s eyes twinkle, a playful expression on her face. “I dare you to sing the school anthem… while standing on that table” she points to the corner of the room where an empty table sits.

Without hesitation, Sirius jumps up from where he’s seated, runs over to the table and begins dramatically singing the anthem, complete with exaggerate flourishes. They all erupt in laughter and applaud him when he finishes. Sirius bows deeply then waves like a how a princess would- “Thank you, Thank you” he wipes his very dry eyes, feigning emotional crying. Then jumps off the table and joins the circle once more.

Sirius grins like a madman- leaning back on his hands, “my turn!” he looks to Mary- who turns a bit red. They all know how crazy Sirius’ dares are. “Alright McDonald, truth… or dare?” he smirks at her, a million ideas for dares probably running through his head.

Mary seems to realize this and shakes her head, wagging her finger at Sirius. “Nuh uh Black, I know you. Truth.” Sirius only pouts for a second before a mischievous grin spreads across his face- Mary goes red again.

“Okay then, be honest now- have you ever had a crush on a professor?” Mary narrows her eyes at him.

“Seriously?”

“Oh hunny,” James already knows what Sirius is going to say next- he throws his face into his hands. “I’m always Sirius.” A collective groan echoes through the group, but Sirius just grins wildly. “Now don’t go trying to distract me. You never answered my question.”

Marlene smirks at Mary “Cmon, just answer. If it’s Slughorn, blink twice and I’ll get you professional help.

Mary simply shakes her head, she drums her fingers on the floor, her face unreadable. She pauses just long enough that everyone leans in slightly. Then, without a word, she reaches out, grabs the shot glass in front of her, and downs it in one swift motion.

Sirius howls in laughter. “Oh my- SHE TOOK THE SHOT! THAT MEANS YES! THATS A YES!”

Lily’s mouth drops open in horror- like she can’t believe someone could ever have a crush on a professor. Even though James, Sirius, and Peter have all had a little crush on Minnie at one point. “Mary!?”

James’ eyes go wide, “Wait wait wait- it’s not Dumbledore, is it? Please tell me it’s not Dumbledore.

Mary remains impassive. “I’m not saying anything.”

Marlene laughs and looks slightly scandalized. “Oh you minx! I am never letting this go.”

Peter chips in, leaning forward. “Should we be guessing? Can we guess?”

Sirius- already gasping. “It’s Kettleburn, isn’t it? All those missing limbs? Irresistible.” Everyone bursts into laughter.

~~~~

Regulus arrives to Potions class early- like he always does. He’s the first one there, as usual, and that means he gets his pick of seats.

Over the years Regulus has perfected the art of choosing the ideal spot.

He scans the room- and finds it. Second row, third seat from the left. Close enough to the front to catch every word Slughorn says, but not so close that Slughorn might try to engage him in conversation- or worse, drag him into one of his infamous Slug Club meetings.

The professor has tried several times already to rope him in, but Regulus has cycled through every excuse in the book. Illness. Studying. A family death- twice.

He places his books down with care- textbook, notebook, a perfectly sharpened quill- and reaches for his textbook. He’s already read the course outline twice over, but he skims it again. He may be younger than his whole class, but he refuses to be outperformed.

His body is still, his eyes scanning the parchment with quiet precision.

Today they are supposed to be brewing the Draught of Peace. He will admit that it’s not a simple potion- it’s complex and requires an intricate knowledge of each ingredient and how they react with each other.

Every step demands precision, from the careful simmering of the infusion to the exact timing of when to stir counterclockwise. One mistake- too much valerian, too little hellebore- and the potion could curdle, lose potency, or worse, produce effects opposite of peace.
Regulus doesn’t find it daunting. Potions are methodical, dependable, they follow rules, unlike people. If you put in the right ingredients, at the right time, with the right technique, you are rewarded. There’s a comfort in that. A certainty.

The classroom is still quiet, just the faint bubbling of leftover cauldrons from the morning class and the low tick of the ancient clock on the wall. Regulus breathes it in- the calm before the others arrive. The quiet is predictable. Safe. He likes it that way.

He doesn’t look up when the door opens and the room begins to fill, the shuffle of shoes, the clatter of bags, and loud chatter. He tunes it all out, making it distant, as if he exists in a separate realm of solitude.

Dorcas arrives and plops down next to Regulus. He’s glad that he has a friend in this class- though he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting that to her.

A sly grin rests on her face. “Did you hear about the staircase incident?”

Regulus doesn’t look up. Unimpressed. “That was juvenile.”

Dorcas chuckles, unfazed. "Still, it caused quite the stir. Professors were in a frenzy trying to fix it yesterday.”

Regulus finally looks at her then, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He regards her for a moment before coming to a conclusion.

“You think it was brillant.” It’s more statement than question. He knows how to read one of his best friends.

Dorcas shrugs, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’m not the only one.”

Regulus just rolls his eyes and returns to his book without another word.

The room fills steadily, Slytherins and Gryffindors mixing in a discordant hum. He notes it without interest. It’s only when he hears the familiar, jarring burst of laughter that he stiffens.

Sirius.

Loud as ever. As if nothing at all has changed.

His laugh is like a knife through silk- loud, bright, and impossible to ignore. He can hear Sirius’ friends trailing in behind him like a parade.

Regulus keeps his eyes on the page. Clenching his jaw, he tries to focus on the printed lines- but he’s not absorbing any of the words anymore.

Slughorn bursts into the classroom just as the final students are settling in, his purple robes billowing behind him and his arms are full of scrolls and sample vials.

“Right, everyone! Quills away, wands out, caldrons clean- today we’re brewing the Draught of Peace.” He announces cheerfully. “One of the more detailed and difficult brews you’ll encounter this year. I expect focus, care, and please. For the love of Salazar, no explosions.” He looks pointedly towards a table in the back.

Curious, Regulus follows Slughorn’s gaze, landing on Peter Pettigrew- who’s turning red with the attention.

He notes the similarities between him and his sister- the same mousy brown hair and wide, watchful eyes.

He hadn’t actually minded his short encounter with the girl- she had talked a little, but not too much that he had felt inclined to ditch her in an abandoned classroom and say, “here’s the Great Hall! Now leave.”

Pettigrew is partnered with Potter, whose knee bouncing beneath the desk, a subtle, constant motion, like his body hasn’t quite figured out how to be still.

While he’s already looking back, he lets his eyes search for him. He’s seated next to Lupin on the opposite side of the class, hunched over his textbook with posture his mother would frown upon.

“Ah and before we begin- I’d like to welcome young Mr Black.”

Regulus’ head snaps back to the front.

“You may know that he’s a year below you all. A sixth-year, placed in advanced Potions by special recommendation. Don’t let him show you all up, hmm?”

He hears Sirius scoff faintly across the room- sharp and familiar, like a splinter under skin. He's heard that sound a thousand times before, in hallways, in arguments, in the heavy silence of home.

Regulus doesn't look. He grits his teeth and keeps his gaze pinned to the front of the room, unmoving, unbothered- or at least, that's how he makes it seem. He will not give Sirius the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

Regulus is going to strangle Slughorn.

A few murmurs ripple across the room before Slughorn launches into the brewing instructions.

Regulus begins. He works efficiently, movements precise and controlled. He listens but he doesn’t need to- he’s memorized the method already.

He measures his ingredients with care, lets the potion simmer under his wand, and breathes in the soft, almost sweet scent of calming vapours.

Dorcas clears her throat next to him. Disturbing his peace- good thing he’s brewing a Draught for that.

“A little help?” She grins sheepishly at him.

He waves his hand at her, ushering her to move away. He regards the potion for only a moment before turning and heading to the ingredients pantry- the one designated for students. Although he’s allowed access to Slughorn’s personal pantry on his own time.

Perks of sucking up to teachers.

He grabs a moonstone and walks back to their desk. Dorcas moves aside again, trusting that he knows what he’s doing. Even though moonstone isn’t mentioned anywhere in the instructions.

She had stirred it before adding the beat root- inside of stirring it after. A small mistake and easily fixed by adding a moonstone in and letting it boil for an extra three minutes.

He returns back to his own potion and begins crushing the valerian. In the book it says to chop them- but Regulus knows better.

Regulus finishes well before anyone else. The liquid in his cauldron the perfect shade of silvery grey.

Slughorn shuffles past to inspect his cauldron. “Exquisite work, Mr Black. Precisely the colour and clarity I like to see. You may bottle and label it.”

With an approving nod- he turns to leave, heading over to a student whose cauldron is a ghastly green and violently bubbling over.

Regulus unscrews the corks, neatly fills two vials, and pockets one of them. He leaves the other on Slughorn’s desk.

With the help of Regulus, Dorcas finishes soon after. Her potion is silvery grey- just like how it should be, but the viscosity is slightly off. Regulus is sure Slughorn will only dock one or two marks for that.

“Regulus, if you wouldn’t mind lending a hand for some extra credit-“ Slughorn calls out from the table he was at before, the ghastly green has now turned to a murky brown. “This will take a while and Potter and Pettigrew could use a bit of guidance.”

Regulus’ expression doesn’t shift, but a small muscle in his jaw twitches. He nods at Slughorn, not bothering to argue, and drags Dorcas with him to the back.

Pettigrew and Potter are hunched over their shared table, Pettigrew is frantically checking his notes while Potter pokes at his potion with his wand.

Dorcas immediately goes to lean on the table in front of Pettigrew. Prying him away from his notes. They start talking about some sort of gossip that Regulus has no interest in- something about a fourth-year who accidentally hexed her own eyebrows off.

Are they friends? That’s news to Regulus. He’s never seen them interact before. Or maybe that’s just Dorcas. Ever the social butterfly. She could strike up a conversation with a brick wall and somehow leave with a secret.

Pettigrew’s potion is a disaster, Dorcas is helping where she can, but she seems more interested in the gossip.

That leaves Potter.

Potter’s potion is only slightly better, but not by much. His cauldron emits a faintly sour smell and the liquid is too dark, almost stormy. He’s chewing his lip, squinting at his notes with a furrowed brow, a confused expression etched into his face.

Regulus steps closer, peering into the cauldron.

Potter looks up and startles a little. His face splits into a surprised grin. “Oh, hello,” he says sounding far too cheerful. “Here to help me, are you?”

Regulus gives him a flat look. “Slughorn sent me.” He says curtly. Tamping down any idea that he’s here willingly.

He nods towards the bubbling potion, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Looks like you could use all the help you can get.”

For a second, Potter just stares at him, like he’s not sure if he heard correctly. His mouth parts open in shock- and then he laughs, a low, genuine chuckle that catches Regulus off guard.

Regulus stiffens, his brows knitting together. He doesn’t understand what’s so funny.

Potter seems to note this and regains composure. “Just- uh, wasn’t expecting for you to be the joking type.” He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to grin, eyes bright behind his crooked glasses.

Regulus narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not.”

Potter furrows his brows for a second and shifts in his stool before nodding his head towards Regulus’ desk. “Did you seriously already finish? That’s mental.”

Regulus doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead angling his head towards the potion again. It has the wrong viscosity and colour entirely.

Potter follows his gaze and grimaces.

“You’ve added the Boomslang skin before letting the hellebore steep. That destabilizes it.” Regulus says flatly, voice clinical. “And you’re stirring it like it’s soup.”

Potter blinks at him- leaning over the cauldron and pokes the surface again with his wand like it’s personally betrayed him. “How can you know that from looking at it?”

Regulus stares blankly at him, saying nothing. He just lifts his hand slowly, taps the exact step in Potter’s textbook where the instructions had been clearly- and apparently uselessly- written out.

Right where it says to steep the hellebore before adding the Boomslang skin.

Potter cranes his neck, squinting at the page. “Wait- you’re meant to steep it first? I swear I read that-“

Regulus doesn’t bother in responding, he just watches as realization dawns across Potter’s face.

It’s a small thing- the way Potter’s nose scrunches up when he’s confused, the way his mouth twists slightly to the side like he’s fighting with himself.
The thought crosses Regulus’ mind, unbidden and unwelcome: He’s expressive. Far too easy to read if you know what to look for.

Regulus shifts his gaze back to the potion, tamping the observation down. It’s irrelevant.

Potter scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Right. Well. How do I fix it, then?”

“Start over.”

Potter blanches at him. Then groans, tipping his head back dramatically. “You’re kidding. Do you know how bloody long it took me to chop the valerian?”

“Crush it.” Regulus corrects coolly “Don’t chop.”

Potter whips his head back down. “What-? Where does it say that?” He leans over the textbook again- eyes frantically scanning the page.

“It doesn’t.” Regulus answers simply, voice measured.

Potter blinks at him, open mouthed. “How the hell do you know that then?” He says, sounding a little awed despite himself.

Regulus just shrugs, not offering anything else.

Without another word, he draws his wand and, with a swift, practiced motion, clears away the ruined potion- the mess vanishing with a quiet hiss. He resets the station neatly, wiping down the workspace as if Potter’s disastrous attempt had never happened.

Potter watches him work. He can feel the his burning gaze boring into him. “You’re like dangerously efficient, you know that?”

Regulus ignores him and moves to start setting out the ingredients in the proper order, movements crisp.

Potter grins to himself, apparently unfazed by the lack of response, and begins crushing his valerian roots under Regulus’ sharp, watchful eyes.

Potter works quieter now, though he occasionally glances sideways at Regulus as if half expecting him to scold him again.

Regulus just watches, saying nothing expect for the occasional correction.

~~~~

Regulus is slicing the lacewing flies with precision, rhythmically slicing them into small pieces. The clock is ticking down, and they’re nowhere near finished so he has to help Potter even more.

This boy is honestly the calmest person Regulus has ever met. It’s quite frankly annoying. He’s relaxed in his movements- even now he’s supposed to be paying attention to the potion and stirring counter-clockwise, but Regulus can feel his gaze lingering on him instead, unsettling in its intensity.

Regulus’ movements grow sharper, the knife striking the board with a force that betrays his growing irritation. He focuses on the task at hand, determined not to let Potter's scrutiny affect him.

“Eyes on the potion Potter.” He snaps, sharper than intended.

Potter chuckles, utterly unfazed. “Yes, sir.” He says cheekily. Regulus can hear the grin in his voice. But Potter returns dutifully back to his work.

Regulus really doesn’t understand why everything is so funny to this boy.

They work mostly in silence after that, broken only by the soft chopping of ingredients and the low bubble of simmering potions.

Dorcas is still laughing about something with Pettigrew, her voice carrying lightly over the room, but Regulus tunes it out.

When Potter finishes adding the powdered bicorn horn, Regulus tilts his head slightly, assessing the colour of the potion. Still a little too dark. He flicks his wand, adjusting the heat beneath the cauldron with a sharp, precise movement.

“You’re good at this,” Potter murmurs, voice low- almost in a whisper.

Unnaturally, a shiver runs down Regulus’ spine. He stiffens. Unfamiliar with the sensation.

His palm still hurts- he hasn’t had the chance to brew his paint potions yet. He presses his thumb briefly into it, grounding himself, focusing back on the potion, and refusing to look at Potter. “It’s not difficult if you pay attention.”

Potter simply hums thoughtfully. Not noticing the shift in Regulus’ tone. He stirs his potion exactly three times counterclockwise, just like Regulus had told him. “Still,” he says, voice still light. “Not everyone’s born knowing how to read between the lines.”

Regulus traces the scar etched in his palm, a subtle tic he doesn’t bother hiding. “Then they shouldn’t be in an advanced class.”

Potter laughs again- this time, softer. “Blimey. You’re a hard one to impress, aren’t you?”

Regulus says nothing. He focuses on the potion instead, watching as the once murky liquid slowly begins to clear, turning a soft, shimmering grey. Almost right.

Potter leans back slightly, careful not to jostle the table. His glasses slide a little down his nose. “You’re not what I thought you’d be like, you know.”

Regulus flicks his eyes toward him, a sharp, assessing glance. Curious despite himself. “And what did you think?”

Potter grins, lopsided and unapologetic. “Scarier.”

Regulus tilts his head minutely. He’s not sure if it’s an insult or not.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Potter adds quickly, catching the look. “You’re still terrifying. Just- less of an arse.” He grins again. “You could’ve let my potion blow up in my face, but you helped me instead.”

Regulus huffs a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “Slughorn told me to.” He reminds him.

Potter just shrugs- a grin still resting on his face, and goes back to stir the mixture- far too fast.

Regulus moves to adjust the stirring rod in Potter’s hand. His fingers grazing against the side of Potter’s knuckles briefly before settling on the ladle. He guides the motion, slowing it down.

Potter flicks his eyes up to Regulus, studying him. Regulus meets his gaze coolly. “You’re going too fast.” He says, his voice low. “Slow down.”

Potter grins widely at that, his brown eyes glinting in the dim light.

It takes Regulus a second to realize why Potter finds this so amusing. He rolls his eyes, exasperated at the immaturity.

“You’re a Neanderthal.” He mutters, pulling his hand back smoothly.

Potter just laughs again.

The potion shimmers properly now, the faint vapours rising in silvery threads.

“There.” Regulus steps back, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Almost acceptable.”

Potter beams at him like he’s just won a prize. “I’ll take it.”

Slughorn bustles back to their table just as Potter ladles a small sample of the potion into a vial. The professor claps his hands together. “Splendid, splendid!” Slughorn beams down at the potion. “Mr Potter, much improved! And of course-“ he turns his attention to Regulus, his eyes twinkling. “- I see we have our young prodigy to thank for this miraculous recovery.”

Regulus bristles inwardly at the word prodigy. But he keeps his expression still. Neutral.

Potter snorts under his breath. “Miraculous might be pushing it.”

Slughorn laughs good heartedly, oblivious. “No shame in learning from the best, m’boy. No shame at all!” And with that he turns to Pettigrew and audibly gasps at the sight of his potion. Muttering under his breath. “Oh Salazar.”

Pettigrew and Dorcas just burst into a fit of giggles.

Regulus pries his gaze from the two idiots and turns to leave- back to his own desk. But finds himself face-to-face with Potter- who is standing far too close.

“Learning from the best huh?” Potter bumps his shoulder lightly against Regulus’, grinning. “Prodigy.” Potter’s eyes are glistening.

Regulus wills himself not to react- not to flinch at the sudden contact, and not to smile. His mouth however, betrays him. His lips tug upwards, unbidden. He fights it. Hard.

He ends up scowling instead, rolling his eyes as he brushes past Potter to return to his seat.

“I saw that!” Potter calls after him, laughing.

Regulus doesn’t turn around. But the corner of his mouth twitches again despite himself.

Notes:

Introduced some more characters this chapter! I love the whole Gryffindor friend group, they’re so funny. Little bit of Wolfstar, James is absolutely true, they are one hundred percent blind.

And our first Jegulus interaction! It was a long one.
James is a flirt what can he say. And Reg is only slightly emotionally suppressed. :p

Chapter 4: Stolen Artifacts

Notes:

I’m pretty sure there are no TW’s for this chapter, it’s fairly lighthearted.

Enjoy :))

The wind lashes against Regulus’ face, sharp and biting as a whip. It’s colder than usual for a September night, the chill seeping into his very bones.

He swoops low over the pitch in an elegant arc, relishing in the speed, letting it strip the thoughts clean from his mind. The world blurs at the edges- everything disappears and all that matters is the rush of air in his lungs and the steady burn of focus behind his eyes.

He leans forward, tilting his broom down, cutting sharply toward the earth. The ground rushes up to meet him, fast. He’s gaining speed as he goes, his heart is hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t pull up. Not yet, he waits until the very last second- one more and he would have crashed into the grass- and only then does he yank his broom back up- the sudden pull straining his arms. He shoots skyward again like a slingshot.

The thrill is immediate and addictive. For one moment, he closes his eyes and lets the cold bite at him, daring it to find some weakness.

He takes another sharp dive, the broom vibrating under his hands, the world tilting wildly. A tight grin tugs at his mouth, fleeting and private.

He flies out of the pitch, towards the lake. The wind presses cool against his cheeks.

He's going slower now, letting the stillness of the night settle around him. Below, the dark water glimmers faintly under the moonlight.
He leans down, stretches out his hand, and lets his fingertips skim the surface of the lake- the chill biting at his skin. With a sharp flick, he shakes the water off and flexes his hand experimentally, testing for pain.

He’d finally brewed the pain potions last night, so it doesn’t ache as much. There’s still a low throb beneath the skin- but it’s manageable now. A significant improvement from the unbearable, pulsing pain he’d felt the other day.

He rises higher above the lake, hovering in the cool air. All around him the sky stretches out- endless, dark, and glittering.

He lets the broom sway in the wind, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in the crisp air.

When he opens them again, he finds him almost immediately. They always do. It’s like an instinct. Second nature at this point.

He always tells himself not to look- but Sirius isn’t the brightest star in the sky for no reason.

He knows where he is at any time. Familiar with where he’s shining at any point in the year.

For a brief, reckless second, he’s tempted to shout up at the sky- to demand answers, something, anything.

But he doesn’t. It would be foolish. The stars wouldn’t answer anyway.

He angles his broom back toward the pitch, flying low and careful. When he lands, he swings his leg over and dismounts smoothly, leaving the broom with the others in the storage shed.

Normally, he’d bring it with him back to the dorms, but tonight, he can’t be bothered to drag it through the castle.

Besides, there are prefects patrolling this time of night. If he gets caught wandering the halls, it’ll be far easier to come up with an excuse if he isn’t also carrying a broom under his arm.
Less evidence. Less questions.

He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and starts the long walk back toward the castle, the damp grass brushing against his shoes with every step.

The main entrance is out of the question- too many portraits there, too many chances to get caught.
He circles around the side of the castle instead, his shoes scuffing lightly on the stone pathways. His breath puffs out in front of him in little clouds.
The heavy oak doors near the Greenhouses are cracked open, just slightly. Probably forgotten by some careless student. He slips through them without a sound.

The corridors are dim, lit only by the occasional floating torch. He moves quickly. He knows the patrol patterns well enough by now to avoid the prefects but he still keeps to the shadows where he can.

He’s rounding a corner near the dungeons when he hears something-
a soft scuffling sound.
He freezes instantly, heart hammering.
Another student, maybe. Or a prefect. At this time in the patrol they’re supposed to be on the third floor, not the dungeons.
He presses himself tighter against the stone wall, mind already whirling with excuses- maybe a late night trip to the Hospital Wing- to visit an injured friend? That could work. Play the grieving card.

A small figure rounds the corner ahead of him.

It’s a girl.
Tiny, with brown hair falling messily around her face, a big baggy t-shirt and loose shorts draping off her body.
Eva Pettigrew.

She stops dead when she sees him, eyes wide. She looks like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t- which Regulus supposes she has. Though her expression is more sheepish than afraid.

She regains composure upon recognizing him. “Hello again!” Her voice sounding far too cheerfully for this hour.

Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose and fully steps out of the shadows “Eva,” he says flatly. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing wandering around in the dungeons. Again.”

She bounces slightly on her heels, nervous. “I’m looking for something,” she says simply, shrugging.

He sighs, eyeing her carefully. “You know I can’t help but to not believe you.”

Her face scrunches up at that.

“This is the second time I’ve found you in this exact corridor.”

“Oh so I am in the right spot, perfect!” She grins, oblivious to the now confused expression etched on Regulus’ face. She turns immediately- not worried that she was caught anymore, and begins scanning the floor. Searching for something.

Regulus watches her, bewildered. She’s crouching now, peering under a bench, and rummaging around for Merlin-knows-what.

“You lost something… here?” he asks slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of a dream halfway through waking up.

She nods. “Mhm. My bag. When I—” she cuts herself off, standing up again, then shrugs. “I didn’t notice till I got to class that I didn’t have my bag with me. And I realized that i must’ve accidentally forgotten to grab it when you.” She points a finger at him accusingly. “Rushed me into leaving!”

Regulus rolls his eyes, too tired to argue.

He crosses his arms, giving up on trying to control the situation. “What’s in the bag then, if you made it three days without needing the contents then I’m sure you can wait until an appropriate hour to look for it.”

Eva hesitates. “Well, there’s something special in there. Somthing special that doesn’t exactly belong to me.” She gives him a sheepish, guilty smile.

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly is this something special?”

She rocks back on her heals,weighing whether or not to say more. “It’s… um… sort of like a headband? But, like, fancy.”

That earns her a long, unblinking stare.
“A headband.” He repeats, deadpan.

She huffs. “Okay, not a headband, obviously. It’s... more like. Well, you’ll know it if you see it.”

He lets out a short, quiet breath, exasperated, but steps forward anyway, scanning the floor.

“You’re unbelievably lucky I don’t feel like explaining to Slughorn why a first-year Ravenclaw is roaming around the dungeons.”

Eva beams at him like he’s just offered her a chocolate frog. “You’re helping me?”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I’m ensuring you don’t get caught. Don’t misinterpret.”

She smirks. “You know I distinctly remember you saying that I shouldn’t get used to you helping me.” She says in a teasing tone.

Regulus shoots her a glare. “I can still report you.” He warns.

“And I could still report you,” she counters sweetly. “Don’t forget we’re both out past curfew.”

The corner of Regulus’ mouth quirks up. Maybe this girl isn’t so bad.

Together, they scan the corridor, poking into corners and peering behind doors. Eva’s brow furrows deeper with each passing minute.

“I swear it was here…” she murmurs, half to herself. “I don’t know where else I would have lost it- oh, wait!”

She drops to the ground with a clunk, kneeling next to a suit-of-armour. One that has a small bag laying beside its foot.

The bag is a light grey, practically fully camouflaged into the grey of the suit-of-armour. It must have been kicked accidentally by an unknowing student- and hasn’t been found since.

Regulus crouches down beside her- much more gracefully than she had.

Eva flips open the main flap and begins rummaging through the mess inside- crumpled parchment, broken quills, at least one half-eaten chocolate biscuit- before pausing.

Her fingers close around something.
She pulls it out carefully, unfolding a worn scarf that’s wrapped around it with slow fingers. Nestled inside, dulled by dust but still unmistakably elegant, is a diadem.

Not just any diadem. The diadem.

The Ravenclaw diadem is currently grasped in the hands of a first-year.

The first and only time Regulus has ever seen this was in a picture, in a textbook of History of Magic.

Even dusty- the photo didn’t do it justice.

It catches the low torchlight in a flash of silver and faint blue- the delicate inscription barely visible along the band.

Regulus freezes. His eyes locking on it in a scrutinizing gaze. “That’s not a headband,” he says quietly.

Eva cradles it carefully in both hands, sheepish. “Yeah… I kind of figured that out once I got a better look at it. It’s… something else, isn’t it?”

His gaze narrows. “Where did you get this?” He says- ignoring her question.

She blinks at him, a scared look flashes in her eyes but she quickly conceals it.

“I stole it.” The words spill from her mouth, toppling over each other.

Regulus nods. “Yes, I figured as much, but where did you get it.” He repeats the question.

“Some junk room on the seventh floor. I was out exploring my first night here and come across these big oak doors, I was curious, so I went inside. Only the find the messiest, crowded room I’ve ever seen. There was junk everywhere but I just… found it sitting there, on top of a pile of dusty books.”

Regulus doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the diadem, a strange tension creeping into his shoulders. There’s something wrong with it- not visibly, but in the air. He can feel a strong pulse of dark magic.

“Don’t wear it,” he says sharply. He doesn’t know if it’s dangerous yet.

Eva startles. “I wasn’t going to! I promise. I just-“ she huffs, shaking her head.

“Go on.” His voice is softer this time. He forgot that she’s just a first year, still a kid.

She looks up at him, her eyes wide- hopeful. She breathes in a determined breath and starts. “I felt a pull.” She pauses again, uncertain on how he’ll react. “When I was in the room I felt a pull. A magical pull- like something strong was dragging me to it. So I grabbed it and stuffed it into my bag.”

He sighs but nods his head. It’s too late at night for him to go fully into the depths of the pull she felt. The pull of dark magic and the magic behind a founders object.

He straightens slowly. “Wrap it back up. Don’t let anyone see it. And don’t lose it again.”

“Are you going to tell someone that I stole it?” She asks. Looking up at him. She wraps it back in the scarf, gently placing it into her bag. Then she stands as well.

Regulus pauses for a long moment.
“No,” he says eventually.

Eva looks at him curiously, but doesn’t question it. She slings the bag over her shoulder.

He turns, beginning to walk back toward the corridor’s end. After a moment, Eva falls into step beside him.
“Is it important?” she asks, her voice a low whisper.

Regulus doesn’t look at her, keeping his eyes forward. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s very old.”

He walks in the direction of the Ravenclaw dorms, and if Eva notices, she doesn’t comment on it. Probably for the best.

Regulus wants to inspect it further. It’s not every day you find a founders object. He supposes he could confiscate it from her- make up some lie and say it belongs to the school.

Would she believe that? Probably not considering his earlier reaction. But he shouldn’t care if she believes him or not. He shouldn’t care about what she thinks of him.

She’s a smart kid- evident through her house and through both of their interactions. And Regulus doesn’t doubt that she’ll try and find out more about it. Inspect it further, just like he wants to.

The diadem was supposedly lost as well. Guess it’s not anymore.

A first-year found it in a junk room on the seventh floor with big oak doors.

Regulus pauses at that. He’s been to the seventh floor hundreds of times, he’s been everywhere it the castle. He insisted in his first year to learn the layout of the castle.

He had it memorized in a week.

He’s convinced that he knows about more hidden passages than the rest of the students combined.

And yet. Never has he ever found a room fitting that description.

“Eva.” He asks quizzingly. Looking down at her.

“Yes?”

“Can you show me the room that you mentioned, the one where you found the diadem.”

She puzzles at this for a moment. Before a sly grin spreads across her face. “I could… if you tell me about this diadem, clearly you know something about it that I don’t.”

Regulus sighs reluctantly. She’ll figure something out on her own anyways, so better it be from him and not from her sneaking into the library at night- something she seems to like doing in her past time.

He looks down at her again- at her devious little grin- and lets out a quiet laugh- blame it on the sleep deprivation.

“Yes. You have yourself a deal, you little menace.” His voice carries more amusement than irritation.

She hops up once and claps her hands together quietly before outstretching her hand towards him, grinning widely.

Regulus meets her in the middle and they shake on it.

“Saturday night, seven o’clock, library.” He pauses. “And bring the diadem.”

When they reach the Ravenclaw common room, Regulus turns to go without another word.

“Wait.”

He pauses, then glances back at her over his shoulder.

“Thank you. For helping me. Again.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, unbidden, the memory of their first meeting flickering in his mind.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but his tone is gentler this time- teasing.

He turns to go again, and hears her laugh softly from behind him.

Maybe that’s just how they say goodbye.

Notes:

Eva is officially my new favourite character (sorry Barty). She’s just so cute! And so sneaky, getting Regulus to make a deal with her and even scolding him for being out late- please, she’s adorable. And Regulus is so much nicer to her than he is to anyone else. He has a soft spot. Shockingly enough.

Also, the way Regulus always knows where Sirius is- he might pretend to hate him, but that’s his older brother. Of course he keeps track.

Chapter 5: Restless Nights

Notes:

This is a heavy one, TW’s for this chapter:

Torture(very detailed)
Fighting
Blood
Broken bones
Panic attacks
References to starvation

Enjoy :))

Interlude- Barty

His father is screaming at him. The words are incoherent, but full of rage. The only thing that’s clear is his wand, pointed directly at Barty’s face.

His pulse races. Hands slick with sweat. He’s shaking, barely able to breathe through the suffocating pounding of his heart. But he stands his ground- plants his feet, juts his chin out, and stares his father down, head on.

His father looks mental- eyes wide and bloodshot, hair wild and matted with sweat and blood from a cut on his forehead. It drips down his face- into his eyes, making him look even more unhinged.

Barty’s body trembles, not from fear, but from the strain of holding himself together- of not breaking. His ribs are on fire from where the last curses hit. The cracks in his bones are sending shockwaves of pain with every breath.

His right leg burns- blistering, raw, and already swollen, courtesy of the Furnunclus jinx.

His father’s eyes are crazed. He shakes with rage as he takes a slow step closer, still pointing his wand at Barty.

His mind is whirling, searching for a solution. He’s pinned against the wall, no wand, and his father has hit him with multiple spells already, weakening him.

Clearly, his father isn’t holding back tonight.

His mom is standing behind his father, trembling. Distantly, Barty hears her shouting for it to stop. For his father to stop. Her cries are pleading, agonizing. But he cant look at her. He keeps his eyes locked on his father. He already knows what’s coming.

The Cruciatus Curse rips through his body again. Agony slices deep into his chest, but this time, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t scream. He just breathes through the fiery pain.

He has no wand, no strength left in his limbs, but he has rage.

He shakes, willing his father to end it. Stop the pain. But he won’t. Barty landed a hit before his father disarmed him, and he won’t let that go.

His breaths come in quick, sharp gasps. Heart hammering against his chest. Every inhale is a struggle.

But his hands- his hands are steady.

His father steps closer, eyes gleaming with a sick hunger for victory. Barty knows he can’t take another hit. His body is at its limit.

Something inside him snaps.

He doesn’t care anymore. Not about the pain. Not if he dies tonight. Not about anything.

His father never even sees his fist fly.

It connects with the side of his face in a sickening crunch. His father stumbles back, wand dropping to the floor.

Blood pours from his broken nose, spattering across the tiles, pooling in a puddle.

But Barty doesn’t stop.

Fury crashes through him like a tidal wave. His father lies on the ground, eyes wide with shock- but Barty doesn’t care. That face is so much like his own, but this time, it’s not Barty who’s broken.

He’s snapped. He’s gone mental.

Just like his father.

Barty kicks. Once. Twice. Three times.

The first hit goes to the nose, the next to the ribs, and then-

Then it’s like he can’t stop.

His fists are a blur of motion, striking anywhere and everywhere- his father’s face, his chest, his ribs, his stomach.

Every blow is a release. Pure catharsis. Rage courses through his veins, hotter and stronger than anything he’s ever felt.

His father’s pain is nothing compared to his own.

Nothing.

Let him feel the pain that Barty feels, let him know what it’s like.

Each punch lands with sick rhythm. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t care if he’s killing him. His hands are slick with blood- his father’s blood, but it doesn’t matter. His mind is gone- lost in the frenzy.

The screams- his screams, mix with his father’s tortured gasps, echoing in his skull. His vision blurs. His body screams for mercy, but he doesn’t listen.

He keeps hitting.

And hitting.

And hitting.

His father’s body is still beneath him, limp- unrecognizable.

But Barty doesn’t stop.

He can’t stop.

His hands ache, his arms are on fire, but it’s like an instinct now, his body is on autopilot. He can’t feel anything but the desperate need to erase every ounce of pain that his father has ever caused him.

It’s only when he can’t breathe, when his throat closes around his screams- that he realizes what he’s done. His hands are trembling, slick with blood. His vision clouds with tears. His body shakes with exhaustion.

It’s only then, as his father’s broken form lies at his feet, that Barty’s world goes black- and he collapses into oblivion, the pain finally taking its toll.

~~~~

Barty jerks awake like he’d been yanked from underwater- gasping, wild-eyed, his chest heaving. Pain splinters through his skull, blooming sharp and immediate behind his eyes.

His hands were already at his face, clawing at his temples like he can rip the dream out by force.

But it clings to him. Every vivid detail, every sound still echoing in his ears.

He could feel it- himself- snapping, losing control. Becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be.

His father.

He drags his hands down his face, nails scratching, desperate to scrape the memory away. To carve out the thoughts, the pain, the twisted satisfaction that still pulses through him like a poison.

He wants it gone.

All of it.

His hands fall into his lap, damp with sweat and tears. His throat burns- raw, aching. He must have been screaming.

He’s done it enough times now to know. He places a silencing charm around his bed every night.

So Evan and Regulus don’t see how broken he is.

How broken he is by the hands of his own father.

The fury drains from his chest, replaced by a familiar hollowness. What’s left is wreckage- shaking limbs, uneven breaths, a body strung together with grief.

He tries to breathe slowly. Tries to calm the trembling in his hands. But it’s useless.

He pulls back the bed curtains, then swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor is a biting cold against his bare feet.

Evan’s bed is just across from his, curtains open- he always leaves them open. He’s lying on his side, facing Barty. Blond hair sprawled across his forehead. His breaths are deep and slow, and his lips are parted slightly, a light sheen of drool visible on his lower lip.

Barty just stares. Watches.

It’s weird. He knows that. But it helps. It helps level out his breathing, and bring focus back to his mind. Evan’s stillness anchors him, reminds him that something -someone- in this world is untouched.

Evan shifts, letting out a soft hum as he turns onto his back.

Barty exhales, like the sound gave him permission to move.

He stands. Walks slowly, quietly. When he reaches the edge of Evan’s bed, he hesitates. He always does. He feels guilty waking him up, even though Evan has told him, over and over, that he doesn’t mind.

So Barty reaches down and brushes a hand through his hair. Soft. Familiar.

He leans down, “Evan.” He whispers.

Evan stirs. His head twitches slightly, then his eyes flutter open. Blinking up at Barty, confusion giving way to concern the moment he sees him- messy hair, tear-streaked face, eyes red and shining.

Evan shifts, pulling the blanket back in a silent invitation.

Without out a word, Barty climbs into the bed, moving carefully so he doesn’t shake it too much. The mattress dips beneath him, the warmth of Evan’s body already seeping into his skin.

He lies on his side, facing away, curling in on himself like he can fold into the smallest possible shape.

A few seconds pass. Then a hand touches his back.

It’s gentle. Just resting there, not pushing, not asking questions.

Barty closes his eyes. His body shudders with the aftershocks of crying, but he doesn't pull away. He lets the hand stay. It helps.

They don’t talk. They rarely do during these moments. Talking would make it real- give it shape and form, and Barty doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to explain the nightmare, or how real it felt, or the part of him that didn’t feel horrified by the violence but relieved.
He doesn’t want to say, I liked it. I liked watching him break.

He couldn’t handle hearing that out loud.

Evan’s hand rubs slow circles into his back. The motion is steady, grounding. Like he's reminding Barty that he's still here, that the nightmare is over. That he isn’t alone.

Barty breathes in the scent of Evan’s sheets. It smells like lavender and parchment. Safe. Familiar. Something stable in a world that keeps tilting beneath his feet.

Eventually, he speaks. Just a whisper.
“I hate him.”

He doesn’t specify who. He doesn’t have to.

Evan’s fingers still for a moment, then resume their slow rhythm.

“I know,” he says softly.

That’s it. No judgment. No pity. Just acknowledgment.

Barty pushes backwards slowly so his back is pressed against Evan’s chest. He feels him freeze- just for a second- then adjust, wrapping an arm loosely around his waist.

He stares at the dark fabric of Evan’s blankets, eyes wide and dry now, every muscle aching from tension. Evan's heartbeat thuds gently against his spine, and Barty focuses on that. On the simple, human rhythm of someone who isn't asking him to be okay.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Barely audible.

Evan doesn’t say anything.

But his arm tightens around him, just slightly.

~~~~

The common room is fairly quiet. The fire’s burned low by now, crackling softly as golden light flickers across the rug. Outside, wind scrapes across the castle walls like restless fingers.

A few students are still milling around, heads bent low over homework or talking in hushed tones. It’s late, almost curfew.

James and Sirius are lying on a sofa. Facing each other with their legs intertwined. Sirius is curled into one end, a book- A History of Magic- resting on his stomach, though he hasn’t flipped a page in nearly fifteen minutes.

James is sprawled the opposite way, glasses sliding down his nose as he stares down at the parchment stretched across his lap. He’s scribbling out Quidditch plays, planning for Gryffindor’s first practice on Sunday.

It’s his second year as captain. Frank passed the mantle down last year, and they’d won the cup under James.

He’s determined to win again. Two years, two cups- it would be brilliant. But it’s hard to concentrate on the plays with Sirius’ gaze boring into him.

James looks up, catches Sirius watching. Again. But Sirius just huffs and looks away quickly, resuming his act of reading.

James frowns. “Alright,” he says, placing his quill and parchment on the rug. “Out with it.”

Sirius doesn’t look up. “Nothing,” he mutters. His voice sounding oddly pitiful.

“You’re staring- and brooding,” James says.

“Am not.”

“You are. You’ve got your brooding face on.”

Sirius huffs. “I don’t have a brooding face.”

James raises an eyebrow. “You absolutely do. Like your regular face, but with more sulking. And storm clouds.”

That earns a reluctant smirk, but Sirius still doesn’t look at him. He stares into the fire instead, jaw clenched. James waits a beat, then nudges him gently with his foot. “C’mon. Out with it.”

Sirius’s fingers twitch at the edges of his sleeves, like he wants to pull at the threads but knows better. “The other day. In Potions.”

James straightens slightly. “What about it?”

Sirius runs a hand through his hair. “With… Regulus.”

James blinks. Oh.

That hadn’t been what he was expecting.

“Right,” he says slowly. “You mean when Slughorn forced him help me?”

Sirius nods, still watching the fire. “Did he… say anything?”

James thinks for a moment. “Not really. He was quiet. Bossy. Knew what he was doing though. Honestly, I’d have burned the whole room down without him.” He lets out a quiet laugh.

Sirius finally looks over. An unreadable expression etched into his face. “And?”

“And… what?”

Sirius shrugs too quickly. “Dunno. Just wondered.”

James watches him, more carefully now.

It’s the most Sirius has said about Regulus since he left home. Usually, just the name is enough to make him shut down- or snap- or change the subject entirely. But now, he’s asking.

There’s something hesitant in his voice. Uncertain. Almost timid. A word James would never associate with Sirius- but that’s what it is.

James leans back, folding his arms loosely. “He’s different than I thought he’d be.”

Clearly Sirius is struggling to find the words to approach the topic, so he’s giving him an in.

Sirius snorts. “Yeah. That’s Reg for you.”

“No, I mean-” James frowns. “I thought he’d be colder. I don’t know. I’ve built this picture in my head of someone scary and sharp-edged. And… he kind of is. But not exactly. He’s calculated, yeah. Bit scary. Just… I don’t know.”

He trails off, not even knowing where he was going with that.

“He didn’t used to be like that,” Sirius says, quieter now. “He was… softer. Not nice, exactly, but he cared. About things. About me.”

James doesn’t interrupt. He just waits, letting Sirius speak at his own pace.

“I don’t know when it changed,” Sirius goes on, eyes on the floor. “Maybe it was gradual. Maybe I missed it. But now he’s just… cold. Like something hollowed him out from the inside.”

Sirius sits up straighter, letting his book fall to the floor with a thud. He begins restlessly picking at his nails.

“I keep thinking about when we were kids- did you know that he hated thunder? Said it sounded like shouting. He’d climb into bed with me and we’d pretend we were somewhere else.”

James hadn’t known that. And he’s certain Regulus would hex him into next week if he ever found out that James does now.

“He used to follow me around like a shadow- now- now he won’t even look at me. He’d copy everything I did. Walk like me. Talk like me. Once he even tried to charm his hair to look like mine.”

James can picture it clearly- a little boy with storm-grey eyes chasing after Sirius, trying to match his pace, his stance, his smile.

Sirius shallows hard. “He got Cruciod for five whole minutes for stealing Bellatrix’s wand. He was four.” He spits those last words out, like they were burning his mouth.

James’s heart lurches. He knows Sirius was tortured in that house- and that Regulus might still be getting tortured. But to do that to a child- to a four-year-old- it makes something in James clench.

Sirius never talks about his home- before he left it James hadn’t even known the horrors that happen behind those walls. Sirius had never told anyone- of course James could always tell something was wrong, Sirius would come back from breaks, broken, bruised and sometimes he wouldn’t talk for days.

But he’d never told anyone.

It normally took him a couple weeks to get fully back to himself. But as many times as they had asked Sirius what was the matter- he never spilled anything.

In third-year Sirius started staying at the Potters over Christmas and Easter breaks, he had never given any indication that it was an escape, he’d just said he wanted to spend the time with James- and Remus and Peter when they came over as well.

James and his parents had always welcomed him with open arms- not prying or asking any questions about why he didn’t want to be with his family on Christmas.

The first and only time Sirius had spoken about it- the abuse- was when he’d arrived at James’ house in the middle of summer before their sixth-year.

He’d shown up at the Potter’s doorstep, half-covered in blood, nearly incoherent with panic. Kept sobbing about his brother.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

After they had managed to calm him down and had healed the worst of his injuries, James’ parents had pressed him for more information, wanting to know everything that had happened in that house.

They’d interrogated James too, asking him if he knew anything. But James hadn’t-. Sirius had never told him.

It was only after a couple nights of sobbing, mumbling words, but otherwise silence- that Sirius had broken apart. The truth spilled out of him in choked gasps and broken peices- the torture, the starvation, the curse-scars- everything.

It had shattered James- he hadn’t known. He hadn’t know what his best friend was going through. He could have helped. Could have gotten him out sooner.

But he supposed that’s why Sirius never told him.

They stayed in bed for a week. James holding Sirius together while feeling himself splinter apart. Silent, except for the crying- raw and desperate. They were a broken mess. Each for their own similar- but different reasons.

The whole time Sirius had begged James parents to get Regulus out- go to the Ministry if they must, anything to get him away from that house.

They tried.

They had gone to Walburga first, appealing as calmly as they could while pressing her to meet them and discuss.

The letters had all been returned back- unopened.

So they went to the Ministry next. Demanded an investigation. Demanded for them to take Regulus away from that house.

The ministry had gone to the house. They met with Regulus- spoke to him alone. They had offered him an out.

But he had refused. Said he was fine where he was and that he didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to run like his traitor brother.

The ministry had told them exactly that, saying that they can’t take a kid away if he doesn’t want to be taken.

That had only broken Sirius- and James, even more.

Maybe Regulus really did want to stay- James doesn’t even know if he’s still being tortured. It could have just been Sirius- he’s reckless and acts out.

Regulus, however, is the ‘perfect child’ Slytherin, top of his classes, friends with all the bigoted pure-bloods. In the eyes of Walburga that should be perfect.

Maybe she doesn’t have any reason to hurt him anymore.

James clings to this idea like a lifeline. He has to.

Because the alternative is too cruel.

He hardly knows anything about Regulus anymore, not really. This is the most Sirius has ever said.

James knew him a bit more in the first couple of years Regulus was at Hogwarts. He wouldn’t exactly hang out with them- but a couple times they had joined him in the library, or talked briefly in the hallways.

Though- as much as James had always tried talking to him- Regulus had shut him down. He doesn’t know exactly why, but Regulus seemed to like him the least out of Sirius’ friends.

At least he would talk to Peter and Remus.

James can still picture him- small, sharp and stubborn, but sweet in a way Sirius never was.
He remembers thinking how young he looked. How pure.

And now, thinking of that same boy being hurt- tortured- makes James’ stomach twist.
How could anyone look at a kid like that and do him harm? How could they see someone so little and kind, and still-.

He forces the thought down, jaw clenched. But the image of Regulus- small and sweet and terrified- lingers in his mind, unwanted.

The silence around them stretches. The only sound is the murmur of other students and the crackling of the fire.

“I left him,” Sirius mutters, voice turning bitter. “He stayed. And now it’s like he’s built walls even higher than before.”

“You didn’t leave Pads, you escaped.” He says the words softly, knowing he had to trek carefully. This is the first time since last summer that Sirius has mentioned this.

Sirius just shakes his head, guilt flashes in his eyes as he looks to James.

“What did you two talk about?” His voice is soft- hesitant and there’s a flicker of jealousy in it, barely masked.

James blinks, caught off guard by the shift. But he realizes that Sirius won’t talk anymore about that night so he’ll oblige to the change.

He presses his lips together before answering. “Nothing big. He was helping me. I pushed him into talking, and he’d shoot back snarky comments. He’s actually pretty funny- made a few remarks that bordered on jokes. If you squint.”

Sirius looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. “Jokes?”

“I said bordered,” James defends. “Don’t get excited. He still looks like he wants to hex anyone who breathes too loud. But he was… normal. A bit snarky. He’s kind of brilliant, actually.”

Sirius looks away again.

James leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “You could talk to him.”

Sirius laughs, bitter and low. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d love that.” He swallows, jaw tightening. His hand clenches around the edge of the couch.

“I don’t know how to talk to him anymore,” he says at last, voice sounding smaller than James has heard in a long time.

James doesn’t push. He just nods. Lets the silence settle again.

It’s not uncomfortable, never is with Sirius.

The fire has burned low, casting long shadows across the rug. Sirius leans further into the cushions- his book on the floor forgotten.
James turns back to his parchment, quill in hand, but the diagrams blur before his eyes- lines and loops fading beneath the weight of green eyes and a voice like frost.

Notes:

Well that was a lot. Barty and Sirius are going through it- so is James and Regulus- pretty much everyone is having it rough right now.

Barty’s biggest fear is him becoming his dad that’s so heart wrenching :( but Evan’s there to remind him that he was someone, I love them they are so cute(even though Barry’s a little insane)

Also James and Sirius’ friendship is so precious. James knows him- knows not to push, just let him talk. And the backstory of that night is very rough.

Chapter 6: Unexpected Company

Notes:

This is a pretty long one and we get Jegulus at the end :)

Tw’s for this chapter:
References to torture
References to hexing people
Burning skin(short description)
Talk of prejudice against specific blood types
Disassociation(not from POV character)
Discutions of a massacre
Briefly mentioned dead bodies
Swearing

Enjoy :))

The Great Hall hums with its usual morning noise- clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, and idle voices layered over one another.

Regulus is chewing his toast slowly, his gaze fixed on Barty across the table. There’s a tension clinging to him this morning- subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders are tense, his hands are shaking and there’s a glassy look in his eyes. The signs of a nightmare- always about his father.

Regulus has learned to read the signs early, because once they surface, the day unravels. Barty reacts in one of two ways. Either he lashes out- hexes someone for brushing against him in the hallway, snaps at professors, picks fights. Or he folds inward, quiet and unreachable, like some door inside him has been bolted shut.

Today looks like one of the quiet ones. The kind where Barty shuts down instead of blowing up.

Regulus doesn’t ask. He never does. He just watches.

The good thing about their group is no one needs things explained. No one asks about flinching or silences or the bruises that bloom darker after holidays. They don’t stare when someone shows up angry or hollowed out.

Because they all know.

Because they all come from homes that teach magic with pain.

Barty and Regulus have it the worst- not that it’s a competition. But the Rosiers and Meadows don’t exactly torture their kids for sport- that doesn’t mean it’s good. It just means it’s quieter. More strategic.

They used to talk about it more when they were younger. Regulus remembers the five of them crammed into a bed during first-year, trading horror stories like some twisted badge of honour.

Who’d been hit the hardest. Hexed the worse.

Regulus had always won.

There was the time his mother caught him reading a Muggle book. She’d told him to burn it- but not just to toss into the fire. No. That would have been too easy. Instead, she made him hold it in the flames until the book- and the skin on Regulus’ hands practically melted off. His flesh had been black and blistering- bone visible beneath the ruined mess.

She hadn’t healed it until the next day- once she’d decided he’d learned his lesson.
She said it was to “burn the filth out of him.”

They don’t talk like that anymore. The jokes have dried up. Some things stop being funny when they keep happening.

Across from him, Evan talks quietly to his sister, Pandora. She sits with them often, despite her Ravenclaw tie. No one comments anymore. The last person who did, walked around with their mouth sealed shut for a week.

Evan keeps glancing sideways at Barty- concern flickering in his eyes. It’s subtle, but Regulus catches it. He also notes their legs pressed together beneath the table. It isn’t new- they’ve always been close. Barty trusts him. Leans on him.

Like last night, when Regulus came back late from walking Eva to her dorm, he’d found them curled together in Evan’s bed. Which confirms the suspicion that this is a quiet day. After a bad nightmare Regulus has found that if Barty goes to someone right away- normally Evan, and he calms down, grounds himself. Then the day goes better- still not perfect but better.

Barty doesn’t speak, and he’s watching the conversation between Evan and Pandora like it’s far away- his hands still trembling. Regulus doesn’t say anything. There’s no point. Barty wouldn’t respond, not really. He’ll float through the day like a ghost until something triggers him or the feeling wears off.

Regulus turns his attention down the table and suddenly realizes Dorcas isn’t here. He scans the Slytherin table- nothing- not surprising. She doesn’t like any of the other Slytherins. Called them bigots right to their faces.

Barty, Evan, and Regulus being the acceptions.

He agrees with her, mostly. The blood status thing? He couldn’t care less about. Some of the best spells he’s seen were cast by half-bloods and muggleborns.

Power isn’t in blood, it’s in skill.

Discipline. Control.

Still- he’s always felt a strange pull, maybe that’s why he can’t fully agree. The contempt that flickers in him doesn’t feel like his own. But it’s there, passed down from his family.

Inherited. Ingrained.

He takes a sip of his pumpkin juice and waits for a lull in the conversation.

“Where’s Dorcas?”

Barty doesn’t react- like he didn’t even hear Regulus but Evan points over his shoulder toward the Gryffindor table. “Over there.” Regulus follows his hand and finds her.

Dorcas is sitting with Peter Pettigrew, laughing- full-bodied, loud. She’s surrounded by Gryffindors: Pettigrew, Potter, and a girl Regulus doesn’t recognize. She has shaggy blond hair dyed pink at the ends, piercings stacked up her ears and rings glinting on every finger. Regulus is pretty sure he just saw a flash of a tattoo peaking from under her shirt.

Dorcas is leaned toward her, eyes bright.

Regulus watches for a moment. He figures it must’ve started after that Potions class- where Dorcas and Pettigrew had gossiped for the whole class instead of brewing. She must’ve fallen in with his friends. Probably a good thing. She deserves people she doesn’t despise.

The thing that breaks Regulus’ gaze is Evan’s voice- sharp and a little too loud.
“Holy shit.”
There’s a flicker of fear in it, just enough to make Regulus whip his head toward him. Evan’s clutching the newspaper, mouth gaping. Barty leans in to read over his shoulder- his eyes going quickly from glazed to wide and scared.

Pandora and Regulus are on the other side of the table- too far to see what’s caused this reaction.

Without hesitation, Regulus turns to a fifth-year next to him and snatches his copy of the Prophet. The boy squawks in protest, but Regulus ignores him. The idiot wasn’t even reading the front page- just some ridiculous column about exotic pixies.

He flips to the front, angling the paper so Pandora can see too.

And then he stops.

So does the room.

It’s not instant. Just a slow spreading hush, like a ripple across a still lake. One student. Then another. Heads bent low over their papers, expressions shifting- confused, then stunned, then quietly horrified.

Across the top of the Prophet, in bold black print:

MASSACRE IN DEVON: DARK MARK RISES- "LORD VOLDEMORT" CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY

Below it is a moving photo. Smoke rising over a small Muggle village- houses collapsed, flames still smoldering. There are piles of covered bodies surrounded by Aurors- who all share the same grief stricken face.

And above it all, painted in the clouds in ghostly green- is the Dark Mark, looming eerily.

Regulus stares at the headline. The word- Voldemort- stares back.

Not the Dark Lord. Not He Who Must Not Be Named. No euphemisms. No soft language. Just truth, inked in black and white.

He’s heard it before. In hushed tones, behind closed doors. In the cold of the drawing room. Whispers that sounded more like reverence.

He'd known it was coming. Maybe not this soon. Maybe not like this. But it doesn’t shock him.

Now it’s real. Public. Declared.

A warning, dressed as a headline.

Regulus folds the paper with careful precision. Presses down the creases and slides it back to the kid without a word.

Then he picks up his toast.

And takes another bite.

~~~~

Regulus arrives at the library ten minutes before seven o’clock. He expects Eva to show up at seven- maybe later. She is a first-year, after all. They have no concept of time.

But, when he steps into the library- he spots her immediately.

She’s seated at one of the larger oak tables near the back, practically buried in a fortress of books. Her head is bent over one of them, brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed in concentration. She flips a page and murmurs something under her breath.

He reaches the table and pauses, watching her for a moment. She doesn’t even glance up.

Regulus clears his throat.

Eva jumps- startled, and her head snaps up.

“Oh- hi! Sorry, didn’t see ya there.” She grins brightly and gestures to the chair across from her. “Here, sit there. I’ve already found a couple of books on the diadem. Did you know that it belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw? One of the founders of this school!”

“Yes,” he says clinically. “I did know that.”

“Oh.” She visibly deflates, her excitement dimming for just a moment. Her nose scrunches and she gives him a half-hearted glare. “You could’ve at least pretended to be impressed.”

“Every pure-blood knows that,” he replies, matter-of-fact. “It’s taught long before you ever get to Hogwarts.“

“Well. I’m not a pure-blood.” She says, chin lifted defiantly. There’s a challenge in her tone- as if she’s bracing for him to sneer, scoff, or worse, curse her. And honestly, he doesn’t blame her. Slytherin pure-bloods have a reputation for a reason.

Regulus falters, visibly caught off guard.“Oh- I’d assumed you were. Isn’t your brother a pure-blood?”

“Yes.” She replies simply. Her voice is clipped. Cold. But Regulus can hear the fear in it- still scared for his response. It’s as if the roles have been reversed- now she’s the one guarding herself, and he’s the one asking too many questions.

A tense silence stretches between them. Regulus remains standing, looking down at her. She fidgets under his gaze, her facade slowly cracking as she realizes that he doesn’t care she’s not a pure-blood.

Then, finally, she cracks.

“My dad,” she says, voice low but steady. “Peter’s and my dad had an affair. With a muggle. So I’m only a half-blood. And Peter is only my half-brother.”

“Ah.” It’s the only thing he can say. He doesn’t know which part upsets her the most- whether it’s the fact she’s a half-blood, half-sister, or born from an affair, Regulus doesn’t know. And he won’t ask. But he regrets pushing. Regulus can recognize shame, even when it’s carefully disguised as anger.

“Well then,” he says softer this time. “Yes. That is impressive. That you learned that so quickly.”

She beams, all warmth again, and gestures once more to the chair across from her.

“No.” He says, beginning to gather the books she’s grabbed already. “We’re not staying here.”

Her brow furrows. “We’re not? Why did you tell me to meet you here, then?”

He doesn’t bother answering. Just turns and walks towards the stacks without looking back- knowing she’ll follow. And sure enough, a moment later he hears her scramble up and hurry after him.

“You know,” she huffs, catching up to his side. “You come off as a pretty grumpy guy.”

Regulus nods. “Yes, I do know that.”

She glares at him again, but it lacks real heat. He suspects she’s more amused than annoyed.

They walk in silence as Regulus weaves through the aisles, scanning spines with efficient precision. Every time he finds something on the Hogwarts founders or dark magic, he pulls it down and adds it to the growing pile in his arms. Eva follows his lead, grabbing titles he passes over and clutching them against her chest.

Regulus knows about the Founders’ objects. Like he said to Eva- all pure-bloods do- it's the sort of thing you're taught before you even set foot in Hogwarts, part of the mythology you're raised on. One for each House: Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Godric Gryffindor’s sword. Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. Salazar Slytherin’s locket.

Of course, everyone learns the basics by first year- Professor Binns rattles off the list during one of his first History of Magic lectures, though half the class is too busy falling asleep to care.

But he’s done proper research- actual reading, not just whatever watered-down version Binns mumbles through in class. Or the heavily Slytherin biased stories he’s heard at home. He’d looked into all of the objects, their whereabouts, importance, and myths. Anything there is to know about them- Regulus had it learnt by first-year. But he’d never found anything real on the Ravenclaw diadem. Just myths, and stories by old cooks who were probably drunk while writing them. All he knows is it was lost- until Eva found it.

And yet never, not once, in all his research, had he read anything that suggested dark magic was tied to any of the artifacts.

That’s why he’s so curious about this. A Founders artifact is intriguing enough on its own- but this one hums like a curse, thrumming faintly with something old and hungry. It doesn’t just radiate magic- it pulls. And that kind of darkness, that quiet, ancient lure?

That’s what makes it irresistible.

Regulus knows dark magic. His house is swimming in it. Jewelry, books, family heirlooms. He’s handled cursed objects, flipped through grimoires most seventh-years wouldn’t dare open, and walked past portraits that whisper in Parseltongue.

And yet none of them feel like the diadem.

The magic in it is different. Hungrier. Like there’s something inside of it. Somthing alive.

By the time he’s added five more books to the pile and Eva’s arms are full, they finally leave the library.

They don’t speak until they’ve turned a corner, far from curious ears. Then, predictably, Eva explodes.

“Where are we going? Why do you have books on dark magic? Why does a founders object have dark magic? Is that what it is? The diadem has dark magic? And how do you even know? I mean it feels kinda… evil- but are you sure? What if it’s just enchanted or something?” You could be wrong, right?”

Regulus doesn’t answer- not yet.

He leads them down into the dungeons, growing cooler and damper the deeper they go. Eva’s still chattering behind him- half rant, half theory- but her voice falters as he comes to a stop.

In front of them is nothing but a blank stretch of damp stone wall, dimly lit by a flickering torch further down the corridor.

“Uh…” Eva says slowly, peering at the stone, then at him. “There’s nothing there.”

Regulus doesn’t answer. He just pulls his wand out with a practiced flick, then lifts it to eye level.

“Salvio Aula,” he says clearly.

The wall shimmers faintly- like a ripple across water- and then melts away, revealing an arching wooden door set into a black stone frame.

Eva gasps.

It’s the strongest ward he knows- a concealment charm he found buried in an old volume from the Black family library. It doesn’t just lock the door, it erases it. To anyone who doesn’t know it’s there, the entrance simply doesn’t exist.

He’d been forced to find a solution last year- after walking in on a couple snogging halfway to naked in the corner of his classroom. They must’ve thought the space was abandoned. Regulus had spent the rest of the day horrified and deeply inconvenienced. The memory alone still made him shudder.

Regulus steps through first. He’s cleaned the place up- dusted the shelves and swept the floors. And he did manage to persuade Slughorn to give him a half dozen cauldrons- all of which are lined neatly by the wall and have have various potions brewing in them.

The scent of herbs and old parchment lingers in the air. He crosses to the large oak table at the center and drops his stack of books onto an already cluttered pile of scrolls and notes.

Eva steps in after him, eyes wide. “What is this place?”

“Secret classroom,” he says in a teasing tone- an amused grin resting on his face. “No one else knows about it.”

“You have a secret classroom!” She repeats, her voice jumping an octave. “This is insane. This is- wait, no one? Like no one no one?”

“No one.” He starts organizing the books by topic. “You’re the first.”

Eva stares at him, stunned. “Why me?”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He smooths a hand over a worn piece of parchment, lining it up perfectly with the edge of the table. “Because you ask the right questions.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Then he turns fully toward her.

“And because I trust you.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but before she can respond, he lifts his hand. “You’ll need to know the spell if you want to come back.”

Eva blinks, caught off guard. “I can come back?”

Regulus tilts his head. “We’re not going to crack this in one day, are we?”

She watches him for a moment, then grins- excited, determined. He recognizes the glint in her eyes because he feels it too. Curiosity. The need to know more about this diadem.

“Put your books down.” He instructs, walking back through the doorway.

Eva sets her stack down carefully, then follows him outside. He turns to face the door and raises his wand.

"Salvio Aula." He says the words clearly, enunciating each syllable, and sweeps his wand down in a practiced, elaborate arc.

The veil falls again, cloaking the door as if it never existed.

“It means ‘to shield the hall.’” He explains, still facing the wall. “It cloaks the room behind a magical veil, bound specifically to this wall. You’ll need to cast it every time you enter and exit.”

He turns towards her, expectant. “Now you try.”

Eva pulls out her wand, points it to the now bare wall and mimics his movements. Her brows furrowed in concentration. “Salvio Aula.”

Nothing. The door remains vanished

Again,” he instructs. “Focus on what you want. Magic doesn’t respond to half-formed thoughts.”

She exhales sharply, grounding herself. She tries again. “Salvio Aula.”

This time, the stone ripples before revealing the door. Regulus allows the faintest flicker of approval to cross his face. “Good. Magic is intent-based. The wall recognizes yours now.”

Eva grins, clearly pleased with herself. “Feels like the wall’s a bit judgy, if you ask me.”

Regulus smirks. “It is. But at least it let you through.”

He won’t say it out loud, but it is impressive. The spell isn't simple- and she’s only been learning magic for a week.

He gestures for her to step back through the door with him. They re-enter the room, the flickering candlelight and low hum of the potions brewing welcomes them back. Regulus seals the door with another flick of his wand.

He moves to the long oak table, already cluttered with scrolls, loose notes, and ink pots. He clears the space with the sweep of his arm.

Eva reaches into her bag and withdrawals the diadem. She’d brought it, just like he had asked. Regulus’ eyes inspect it carefully before moving back to their pile of books.

“Alright,” he says, flipping open the top book. “The last known record of the diadem was in the early 1000s. The daughter of Rowena- Helena, was jealous of her mother’s wisdom and the attention it gathered. So she stole her diadem and ran off to Albania. Rowena sent the Bloody Baron after her, to bring her home, but instead, he fell in love with her, then murdered her when she didn’t return his feelings.”

Eva gapes. “Damn.”

Regulus nods. “That was the last known trace of it- until you found it last week.”

“So it was stolen. And then just… vanished for a thousand years. But that can’t be right, if the diadem has supposedly been lost for over a thousand years. Then when did it get cursed? Did Helena do that? And if she did then who brought it to that room?”

Regulus looks at her expectantly, he can practically see the gears shifting in her mind.

“You think someone found it before me. And that someone cursed it with something- some sort of dark magic.”

Regulus nods, pleased that she came to the same conclusion as him. “And I’m hoping they kept records. Start with anything referencing the Founders, or artifact enchantments. We’re looking for names- historical accounts, researchers, even rumors. Someone had to document something.”

Regulus’ eyes flicker to the diadem again. Searching it- willing for it to tell them its secrets, but he wont examine it yet. Won’t put Eva at risk before he knows what magic they’re dealing with. One wrong move and it could blow up for all they know.

“Eva,” he says slowly. “Leave the diadem here tonight.”

She blinks. “Why? I’m not going to break it.”

“That’s not the concern,” he says, tone sharper than he means. He exhales, softer this time. “I don’t know what kind of magic we’re dealing with. It’s old. And dark. I’d rather not find out it’s cursed the hard way.”

Eva frowns, eyes narrowing slightly. “You really think it’s that dangerous?”

“I think it’s unpredictable.” His gaze lingers on the diadem.

There’s a beat of silence between them, the room quiet but heavy. Finally, she nods, a reluctant sort of agreement.

“Fine,” she says. “But if it bites, I’m blaming you.”

Regulus allows the corner of his mouth to twitch. “Fair.”

Eva settles into the chair beside him, already pulling a thick leather-bound volume toward her. The spine creaking as she opens it.

~~~~

They read in silence for a couple hours. Only the soft rustle of turning pages, the occasional scribble of quill on parchment, and the bubbling sound of potion brews fill the space.

Half the stuff that Regulus is reading- he’s read before. Back in first year when he’d done research and found nothing- just like right now.

“Merlin,” Eva mutters, dragging a hand through her hair. “This is all just speculation and fairy tales. Did you know there’s a whole theory that the diadem gives the wearer second sight?”

Regulus doesn’t look up. “It doesn’t.”

“Alright, walking library,” she huffs, nudging him with her elbow. “When do I get to know everything you do?”

“When you stop asking questions with answers you already suspect.”

Eva grins, then turns another page- and freezes. “Wait.”

Regulus looks up sharply. “What?”

She leans closer to the open book, finger tracing a block of faded text. “Here- listen to this. ‘Speculations say that the Ravenclaw heirloom was possessed by a foreign collector in the 1700s. Records of this were burned during the Ministry purge of 1782, but his notes were rumored to have been passed down to his son.”

Regulus’s brows lift. He reaches for the book, turning it toward him to examine the text himself. “No name?”

“None.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “Just ‘the collector.’ But this says he had it. At least briefly.”

Regulus frowns, mind racing. In all his research, he’s never come across anything like this. And yes- maybe it’s just another myth, a rambling lie from some half-mad collector. But maybe it’s real. And maybe it’s their first actual lead.

He’d briefly considered handing it over to Dumbledore. Even the Ministry. But Regulus trusts those two about as far as he can throw a Hippogriff.

“Do you think he’s the one who cursed it?” Eva asks quietly.

“Maybe,” Regulus replies, slow and thoughtful. “But why bring it here? Why hide it in a room at Hogwarts?”

Eva groans and drops her face into her hands. “We’re getting nowhere. Too many questions and none of these stupid books have answers.”

Regulus shuts his book with a soft thud. “We’re done for today. We’ll come back another time.”

Her head snaps up. “What! No! I’m fine- we can keep reading.”

But he’s already stood up and is now stacking books onto an empty shelf. “You’re young, you’ve been reading for hours, and you’re clearly exhausted. Go sleep.”

Eva pouts. “But I didn’t even show you the room.”

Regulus gives her a glance, calm but final. “Show me another day.”

~~~~

Regulus’s mind is a whirlwind- restless, spiraling, heavy. So, he went to the only place in the castle where the world seems to still, the Astronomy Tower.

It’s near midnight now. He’s been here for hours, ever since he dropped Eva off at Ravenclaw Tower. He hasn’t moved much, barely shifted from where he leans against the railing. The cold from the metal has long since seeped through his robes and into his skin, but he doesn’t care.

He exhales, forcing his mind to focus. They haven’t learned anything tonight. Nothing useful. Nothing new. Just half-baked theories, fragments of rumors passed down through whispers and dusty journals. All dead ends.

It’s possible the collector really did have it. It’s as good a place to start as any. But even if it is the truth- that still leaves them about two-hundred years in the past- with mo clue where it went next.

They’ll have to try and find his notes. Maybe they hold something useful, a mention of where he put it- or who he may have given it to after he died. Regulus doesn’t think that the collector would be the one to curse it. Which means it had to have been someone after him.

Regulus tilts his head back, eyes tracing the constellations. The sky steadies him- familiar, constant. Canis Major hangs high tonight, bright and unmissable. He finds the star without thinking. Instinct.

He finds Sirius.

His fingers drift to his palm, rubbing the old scar. The ache is dull tonight, but present all the same.
“Tu me manques.” He murmurs- soft as a breath, carried away by the wind.

~~~~

James isn’t close enough to hear at first. The wind swallows the words before they can reach him- shuffling them off into the dark like secrets not meant for prying ears.

It’s too intimate. Too raw. Like stumbling into a confession he was never meant to hear.

He takes a careful step forward. Just one. He doesn't mean to intrude, but curiosity tugs at him like a hook beneath the ribs. Maybe Regulus will say something else.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stills.

And then, like a string pulled taut, he whirls, every muscle coiling in a sudden snap of tension. The shift in his body is sudden- like a predator scenting danger. His shoulders draw back, and his wand is in his hand before James can even register the movement.

“Who’s there?” Regulus snaps. His voice is sharp and utterly commanding.

Shit.

James curses silently and lifts the invisibility cloak off his head, the cool fabric slipping between his fingers as the night air hits him fully.

“Don’t hex- ! It’s just me.” He blurts quickly, raising his hands a little in surrender. His voice is breathy with guilt and adrenaline.

Regulus doesn’t lower the wand.

His eyes- sharp and glassy in the moonlight, rake over James in full- tracking his movements, and pausing on the crumpled silver shimmer of the cloak.

His grip on his wand tightens.

Regulus stares, unmoving, unreadable. “Is that a fucking invisibility cloak.” He snaps.

“Yeah,” James winces. “But I wasn’t spying or anything- I swear. I just came up here to think. Same as you, I guess.”

Which is true. Mostly. He had needed air. A break from his mountain of Charms homework. But also… he’d seen Regulus’s name flicker alone up here on the Marauder’s Map. And curiosity- unreasonable and persistent- had gotten the better of him.

Not his finest moment.

Regulus’s gaze pins him like frostbite. “And you just happened to be wearing an Invisibility Cloak?”

James shrugs, trying for sheepish. “Old habit.”

The silence between them stretches, filled only by the wind carving paths around the tower. Regulus stands with the wand still raised, a statue of suspicion and control. But something in his posture has shifted. The threat lingers, but the heat behind it has cooled.

“You can lower the wand now.” James says softly.

Regulus’s mouth twitches- barely. Then a slow, deliberate smirk crawls across his face. “Show me the cloak, and I’ll think about it.”

James rolls his eyes, but there’s no real irritation behind it. He holds it out, the moonlight rippling across its silvery folds like liquid light. “Here. Happy?”

Regulus lowers the wand, but doesn’t holster it. He’s still holding it loosely in his hand- careful, controlled. Always so damn composed.

James studies him in the tentative quiet that follows. Regulus always looks a little out of reach, like the edge of a blade- sharp, polished, and dangerous if you get too close. Moonlight catches on the high curve of his cheekbone, trailing down the clean line of his jaw. Wind-tossed strands of hair curl around his face, softening his severity.

Regulus takes a careful step forward, not close enough to touch- but close enough to inspect. His expression is trained intently on the cloak.

“I’ve read about them, but I’ve never seen one.” Regulus murmurs, eyes flickering over the cloak. He doesn’t touch it yet, but he looks tempted.

“My dad gave it to me.” James says, then hesitates before adding. “You can try it on, if you want.”

He doesn’t know why he offers. Maybe he wants to impress him. Maybe he likes seeing Regulus’ cold expression crack as curiosity seeps into his features.

Regulus arches a brow. “Are you offering me a turn with your priceless family heirloom?”

James shrugs. “Sure. I mean, only if you swear not to vanish and run off with it.”

“No promises.” Regulus replies smoothly, and before James can respond, he slips the cloak from his hand and tosses it over his shoulders.

And then he’s gone.

James blinks, stunned, even though he knew that would happen. He’s just normally the one using it not seeing it be used. He turns in a slow circle, grinning. “Regulus?”

There’s no answer. Just the wind and the pounding of his heart. Silence passes for a long moment.

Then-

“I could hex you right now and you’d never see it coming.” Regulus’ voice comes from somewhere behind him.

James jumps, spinning around. His heart thuds in his chest. “Bloody hell, Regulus!”

There’s no more reply. Just utter silence once again.

“Regulus?” he calls into the night. No response. “Are you actually going to curse me?” He pauses. Nothing. Again.

“You know, it’s really weird being on the other end of this. Usually it’s me sneaking around under it. I don’t think I’ve ever actually watched someone else use it. Do you feel like you're really invisible, or is it just sort of… like having a blanket over your head but knowing no one can see you?”

Still nothing.

James keeps turning in a slow circle, peering into shadows. “Because that’s what it feels like to me. Just a blanket.” He pauses again, listening for sounds. “It gets kind of breezy up here, doesn’t it? You’d think we’d all be freezing doing Astronomy at night- honestly, I think the real test is just surviving the cold. It’s brutal. I’ve thought about charming some warming socks, but that feels a bit like cheating, doesn’t it? Then again-”

He feels it then- a breath, warm and sudden, brushing the side of his neck.

“You talk too much,” Regulus says, quieter this time.

James shivers, involuntarily, because Regulus’s voice- sharp and smooth and slightly amused- cuts through the night air like a whisper of something far too intimate.

James heart beats rapidly in his chest- even though Regulus basically just told him to shut up.

“You’re enjoying this,” James accuses, though his voice hitches.

“I have to get something out of this conversation.” Regulus replies dully, still hidden.

James laughs, the sound startling and echoing across the tower. “Alright, give it back now, I look bloody mental taking to myself.”

“You always look mental.” The voice comes from behind the other ear now, and James spins. But Regulus is already peeling the cloak back.

Regulus appears a step in front of him, a sly grin ghosting across his face. He looks younger like this- wind-tousled hair, collar slightly skewed, and that faint curve of a smile softening his usual sharpness. It’s strange, seeing him undone, even just a little. He’s always so pristine, like something carved from ice.

Moonlight dances over his face, catching in the sharp angles- cheekbone, jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. His expression is nearly unreadable but there’s the barest flicker of amusement visible in his eyes.

James watches him, strangely aware of how close they’re standing.

Regulus folds the fabric with meticulous fingers and hands it back with a faint look of disdain. “Fine craftsmanship. Not practical though. Too long.”

James grins as he takes it, tucking it back into his pocket. “Maybe you’re just short.”

Regulus hums, noncommittal, his eyes flick up to James’, cool and unimpressed. Honestly, he’s not that short but with their close proximity Regulus has to tilt his chin up to meet James’ gaze.

His eyes lingers on James a second longer than necessary. Expression completely unreadable. Then he turns, slow and deliberate, as if reclaiming the moment- denying James the indulgence of looking at him any longer.

But James watches anyway.

The wind picks up again, brushing Regulus’s hair across his forehead. His collar’s still skewed, sleeves pushed up to the elbow like he stopped caring halfway through getting dressed. His tie’s loose, barely knotted. It’s strange seeing him like this- young and so boyish instead of his usual poshness. And stranger still how James finds this version of him harder to look away from.

He pauses for a moment, unsure if Regulus wants him to follow- or leave him alone. It’s probably the former but he takes a step forward anyway.

He leans on the railing beside Regulus- the metals cool under his skin, and shivers, the breeze here is sharper, biting at the back of his neck.

For a while, they don’t say anything. The wind whistles gently above them, and James stares out over the dark expanse of forest, trying not to glance sideways too much.

But he’s thinking. He’s always thinking, lately.

It’s hard not to, after what Sirius said.
His voice had been sharp with something he was pretending wasn’t pain. That Regulus used to get punished. Hurt. Tortured, and James still hates how clinical it sounded, how flat it landed. Like a fact from a textbook, not a memory that keeps Sirius up at night.

Because Regulus. Small, cold Regulus, with his perfect posture and frost-tipped words and unreadable face- James can’t stop imagining that boy, only four years old and flinching under a wand by his mother’s hand. Can’t stop seeing it now, behind the sharpness of his gaze and the deliberate distance he keeps from everyone.

He wonders if it still happens.

The idea makes his stomach lurch every time he thinks it. He could ask. But how the hell do you ask someone that?
Do they still hurt you at home? Does she?

James can’t even picture the words forming. And honestly- he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer.

What gets him the most, though, is that Regulus didn’t leave. Not when he had the chance. His parents, Sirius, the Ministry-they all offered him a way out. An open door. But Regulus refused. Chose to stay.

And ever since that night with Sirius- that conversation James can’t get out of his head, he’s been watching Regulus more closely. In class, in the corridors, across the Great Hall. He doesn’t even try to make excuses for it anymore.

The way he sits in Potions with his hands clasped neatly, back straight, never fidgeting- except with his rings, slow and subtle under his thumb, like the only concession to nerves he’ll allow himself.

James has never been close enough to properly examine them.

James glances at him again, his gaze dropping to Regulus’ hands, pale fingers curl against the railing, deliberate and precise even in stillness- and then to his rings, two on his right, two on his left. All silver and fairly simple in design, except for one. The one turning slowly beneath Regulus’s thumb. It’s etched with tiny stars, and the outer band spins.

A fidget ring, James realizes.

“Nice rings.” James says, trying for casual, like he's trying to disguise the fact that he’s been staring.

Regulus doesn’t look at him. “They’ve been in the family for generations.” he says, clipped. “They’re not for style.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Right. And the spinny one’s just for ancestral gravitas, then?”

That earns him a tiny laugh- barely a sound, but definitely real. Regulus exhales through his nose and flicks the ring once, just to prove a point. “It helps me think.” He mutters.

James smiles. “I like it.”

He says it like it means nothing, but he catches the way Regulus’s thumb pauses briefly on the metal.

Then, as Regulus shifts, moonlight strikes a pale line across his palm- his right one. James’s eyes flick to it instinctively.

A scar.

Jagged and uneven, the kind that didn’t get the proper healing spell. It runs from below the base of the thumb diagonally toward the edge of his hand. Not old enough to be faded, not new enough to look clean.

James’ breath catches. “What happened to your hand?” He doesn’t even think- just blurts it out.

James has never been known for boundaries- he tells his friends everything, and they tell him everything. But this is Regulus- who doesn’t share, and who hardly even shows any emotion. And James had forgotten that.

Regulus’s posture changes immediately. His fingers curl into a loose fist, and his whole frame seems to draw inward, like a door closing.

“That’s none of your business,” he says, voice cold again.

Just like that, the moment cracks.

The faint grin, the flicker of amusement, the way Regulus had actually laughed- gone. Snuffed out like a candle. And James feels it like a blow to the ribs. Of course he’d ruined it.

James swallows. “Right. Sorry.”

When Regulus finally looks to him, his glare is immediate, sharp enough to draw blood. “I should go to bed. It’s getting late,” he mutters, the sneer curling at the edge of his voice like armor snapping back into place.

Notes:

Whoa, a lot happened. Regulus and Eva are working together on a horcrux! (Though they don’t know it yet). Dream team right there. Also Eva being scared that Regulus was going to curse her for being a half-blood was so sad, but our boy does not give a single fuck about blood status. Yay!

And we get our first look into the wizarding war- starting off with a bang. Thanks Voldy.

And yes there is a tag for Dumbledore bashing, Regulus hates him as much as I do.

Literally my favourite scene so far is the one of Reg prancing around James- invisible, and making him all flustered. It felt so out of character but also so fitting.

Then James noticed the scar- whoops. If ya can’t tell James doesn’t really like to think before speaking so- blame his brashness on the fact that he was raised in a normal house (unlike some people we know). But ya he just had to ruin the moment.

Chapter 7: Between the Lines

Notes:

TW’s for this chapter:

References to past massacre
Swearing (will probably be in every chapter)
Blood
Injury
Descriptions of trauma
Torture (implied from past events)
Medical scenes (healing, pain, injury)
Sleep deprivation

Enjoy :))

Interlude- Sirius

It’s mid afternoon, and Sirius and Remus are sitting in the Gryffindor common room doing homework. Or, rather, Remus is working. Sirius is trying- and failing- to pretend he’s doing the same.

Sirius is slouched low on the couch, legs stretched out, one ankle propped up over the other. His Transfiguration essay lies open on his lap, but the parchment remains stubbornly blank, save for the date and his name scribbled in the top right corner. His quill hangs limp in his fingers, hovering like he might- any second now- write something. He won’t.

Across from him, Remus is curled over his work, shoulders hunched, his brow furrowed in concentration. At least he’s able to get some work done, he’s already got a full page and a half. His handwriting is annoyingly neat, all careful lines and evenly spaced letters.

Remus runs a hand through his dark brown curls, pushing them out of his eyes, only for them to fall stubbornly again a second later. The last threads of sunlight filter through the tall towers windows, catches in his hair, turning it golden at the tips. His jumper sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, revealing tanned skin, freckles, and constatations of scars that Sirius could trace from memory.

There’s a new mark near his cheekbone- a thick, angry line that slices just under his right eye. It’s mostly healed now, but it’s still pink and tender-looking. Sirius had noticed it the second Remus had stepped onto the train at King’s Cross. It was from the last full moon. The one Sirius wasn’t allowed to be there for.

This summer, Remus had spent nearly a month at the Potter’s. They’d had the best full moon of his life- no new wounds, no blood, no broken bones. Just the woods and the stars and Sirius curled beside him as Padfoot until morning.

Then, Remus had gone home for a weekend.

And he hadn’t been allowed back. He’d been forced to be without them for a full moon. Sirius had been livid. He wanted to argue. To beg Lyall if he must. But Remus had just given him a tight lipped smile and said it would be fine.

It hadn’t been.

Sirius forces his gaze away from the scar- away from Remus, and land on the folded Daily Prophet left on the table. It’s from the weekend. The headline still screams in its heavy black print.

A chill runs through him that has nothing to do with the early-autumn draft sneaking in through the tower windows.

A massacre. Eleven people dead- Muggles, mostly. A small village flattened like a stomped insect. Whole families gone. Dozens injured.

He knew there was a war coming. Everyone did. There’ve been whispers for months now- explosions in Bristol, an entire Auror team missing, cryptic symbols scorched into walls. Raids, bodies, cover-ups. But this- this is different.

This is an announcement.

Voldemort, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord, isn’t hiding anymore. No more cloak-and-dagger. He’s here. And he’s drawing lines.

Sirius already knows which side his family is standing on.

He already knows which side Regulus is standing on.

The thought hits like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing. His hand tightens around his quill.

“Your quill’s bleeding.” Remus says softly.

Sirius blinks down. Sure enough, black ink is pooling in the middle of his parchment, his hand having pressed too hard on the nib.

“Shit,” he mutters, grabbing a cloth from the table and dabbing at the mess.

Remus shifts slightly, angling toward him now. His voice softens. “You alright?”

Sirius shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “Peachy.”

Remus, of course, doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t push either, just watches Sirius with a gaze so piercing that he struggles not to flinch under.

“You’ve been tense all day.”

Sirius snorts, though it lacks any hint of humour. “You read the paper,” he says flatly. “I’m not the only one.”

Remus leans back, folding his arms. “I did read it. I just think letting it devour your whole evening might be a bit counterproductive.”

Sirius scoffs, jaw tightening. “Hard to be productive when you know that your little brother is going to be joining the man that did it.”

Remus’ expression shifts, his brow furrows. “By choice?”

Sirius shakes his head, eyes hard. “Who the fuck knows anymore?” He snaps. “He won’t even look at me let alone talk to me.”

Remus is quiet for a beat. The weight of his gaze heavy- studying him the way Remus always does. Thoughtfully. Patiently. Like Sirius is a riddle he’s nearly solved.

“You’re nothing like them, Sirius.”

The words land carefully, like he’s afraid they might break something if he’s not careful. And maybe they will. Sirius swallows hard. He knows it’s true- or he wants to believe it’s true- but growing up in that house leaves something behind. The lessons. The punishments. The projected prejudice. It clings to him like darkness sewn into every corner of his mind.

Sirius turns away, blinking hard. His throat feels tight, and he hates that Remus sees through him so easily. He didn’t ask to be understood, and it rattles something loose in his chest when Remus offers it so gently.

After a long pause, Remus adds lightly, “You’re still bleeding ink.”

Sirius lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Fuck this essay.”

A small laugh escapes Remus, and Sirius clings to the sound like it’s a rope back to solid ground.

The portrait hole creaks open just then, and Peter steps through, cheeks pink, scarf askew around his neck. He shivers dramatically and drops into an armchair beside them.

“Cold as a banshee out there,” he groans. “You’d think it was bloody January.”

“Where were you?” Remus asks, peering over his parchment.

Peter shrugs. “Out with my sister. Wanted to check in. See how she’s doing.”

“Oh yeah?” Sirius asks, glad for the change of subject. “How is little Pettigrew faring?”

“Eva’s fine. We walked around the lake. Talked a bit. She said she’s made some friends already, which is good.”

Sirius nods, but the creak of the boys’ dormitory stairs pulls his attention up. Footsteps descend, and James appears, tugging a wool jumper down over his head. His hair- already infamous for its constant defiance- is an absolute wreck, sticking out in every direction like he’s just fought off a hurricane and lost. But it’s not the hair that stops Sirius.

It’s everything else.

His jaw is tight, the muscle ticking at the corner. His shoulders are set too straight, too stiff, like he's holding something heavy and invisible. And his eyes- normally bright, always burning with laughter or mischief or the promise of some half-thought-out plan- are dulled at the edges. Dimmed like a candle snuffed in a draft.

James hides it well. He always has. He knows how to smile when he’s falling apart, how to crack a joke when needed. To most people, he’s still the same- still James Potter, golden boy, seeker of sunshine and center of every room. But Sirius sees it. He always does.

Because James isn’t just his friend. He’s family- closer than blood, chosen with purpose. And Sirius knows every version of him. The one who dances around the common room after a match, the one who wipes his tears with the sleeve of his robes. The one who loves too much and too hard and never knows when to stop trying to fix things.

James and his fucking savior complex.

It’s going to kill him one day.

He cares so deeply that it aches to watch. About the imminent war, about the people in the paper, about the names they don’t know, yet mourn anyway. But James doesn’t cry. He doesn’t scream. He smiles instead- grits his teeth and becomes someone steady because he thinks he has to be. Because if he isn’t, who will be?

He makes space for everyone else’s grief and doesn’t leave any for himself.

And Sirius hates it. Hates how well James plays the part. Hates how no one else sees the cracks because he hides them behind that stupid crooked grin and the sparkle in his voice. Hates how much he wants to protect him from everything, when James insists on walking right into the fire.

“Oi,” James says as he descends the final steps, his voice a bit hoarse. “Pads, we’ve got practice.”

Sirius groans. “Now? But Wormy’s just arrived and I’m so invested in the tale of Eva’s social life.”

Peter scowls. “Sod off.”

James shoots Sirius a pointed look. “First match is in two weeks. Ravenclaw’s got a new captain- bit of a tyrant. They’ve been practicing since the second day of term. And we need to stay sharp if we’re going to beat them and win the cup again this year.”

Sirius sighs, dragging himself up and stretching his arms overhead. “Fine, fine. Bludgers it is.”

He looks back at Remus, grinning. “Try not to miss me too much, Moony.”

Remus snorts, rolling his eyes, but Sirius catches the small smile as he turns away.

~~~~

The sky hangs low and heavy overhead like a solid sheet of grey that promises rain. Sirius rolls his shoulder with a soft crack, leather gloves creaking as he grips his broom. Even through the enchanted fabric, the chill sinks in, numbing the tips of his fingers.

The team clusters together on the pitch, breaths rising in soft clouds that hang briefly in the frigid air before vanishing. James steps forward, broom tucked under one arm. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold but his voice is clear, carrying across the quiet with the easy authority. There’s something effortless about it, the way he commands attention without ever needing to demand it. James was made for this- being captain, leading. It’s in his posture, he’s a natural, and Sirius knows it.

“Alright,” James begins, sweeping his gaze across the group. “Same formation we ran last practice- it worked well so we’re sticking with it. Marls, Pads-” He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching, “- I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I want more aggression in your hits. Don’t hold back.”

Marlene grins like a wolf, tilts her head back and shoots James a look thick with mischief. “You’ve got it, Cap,” she says cheerily, stretching her arms behind her like she’s warming up for war.

James lets out a short laugh, but Sirius catches the tension in his eyes- the way it lingers at the corners, tight and quiet. No one else seems to notice.

“Naomi, Oliver,” James continues, turning to his fellow chasers. “I want precision. Clean passes. Dont get lazy.”

Naomi nods sharply, ponytail swinging behind her, and Oliver adjusts his glasses with a grunt of acknowledgement.

Then James turns to Abigail, the youngest among them. She’s quick on a broom- so small and light she can slip around them easily, a good trait for a seeker to have. She’s already astride her broom, boots tapping against the pitch as she hovers just off the ground.

“You’re on solo sprints today. Take the sky, find your rhythm. I’ll toss a few snitches later and clock your catch times.”

Abigail nods, wide-eyed but determined, gripping her broom hard.

James plants the end of his broom into the dirt, scanning the team one last time. “First game is in ten days,” he says, voice low but firm. “Don’t make me regret giving you Sundays off.”

A chorus of “Yes, Captain.” rings out, voices layered with adrenaline and laughter.

One by one, they kicks off from the ground in a rush of wind and blurred motion. The chill deepens as they climb, brooms slicing into the air, the pitch falls away below. Sirius rises and meets Marlene by the goalposts and soon they’re circling high above the stands, bats at the ready. The Quaffle goes into play, and the game unfolds in dizzying motion.

They don’t stop for over an hour. When they finally descend, sweat is sticking to their backs beneath layers of padding and uniform. Sirius’ cheeks are flushed, he runs a gloved hand through his damp hair.

After they’ve showered and cleaned up, Marlene, James, and Sirius head up toward the castle for supper. They went over in practice today so it’s already half way done, but if they move quickly they’ll have plenty of time to eat.

They’re just reaching the top of the sloping hill when they see them.

Mulciber, Avery, Travers, and Wilkes.

They step out from behind one of the castle walls, shadows peeling back to reveal sneers and wands already in hand.

“Evening,” Mulciber drawls, voice laced with mockery. “Rough practice?”

Sirius halts, already reaching for his wand. So do James and Marlene- instinctively and subtly. They don’t fire though. Not yet.

James squares his shoulders and takes a deliberate step forward. “Oh, piss off, Mulciber.”

Mulciber’s grin only widens. “Hey, I was only asking a question. Trying to be nice and all.”

“You wouldn’t know nice if it punched you in the face.” Marlene snaps, voice sharp, all earlier amusement stripped.

Avery’s eyes land on her and his mouth curls in a menacing sneer. “Shut your mouth, McKinnon. Or we’ll do it for you.”

Sirius slides in front of her without even thinking. “You lot really this desperate for attention? Or just bored of hexing first-years?”

Mulciber tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. “We’re just here for a bit of fun. Thought you might want to play.”

“Yeah?” Sirius says coolly. “What’s the game? Outnumber and maim?”

Travers smiles, cold and tight. “Something like that.”

Then he fires- straight at James.

But James is ready- a shield comes up just in time before Travers’ red blast hits him.

Sirius ducks low, spinning sideways and sends a hex barreling toward Travers. It hits him hard, slamming him the brick walls of the castle with a sickening crack. Wilkes retaliates instantly, sending a spiral of white-hot fire twisting towards them. Marlene extinguishes it midair with a clean cutting curse.

Then Avery lunges, wand snapping in a vicious arc. The air pulses violently. James throws up a block a second too late. The impact of the curse hits him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet- he flies backward and hits the ground with a sickening thud. His head strikes stone.

Sirius’s heart lurches. “Prongs!” he shouts, eyes wide.

“Sirius!” Marlene yells- but her warning comes too late.

A curse tears through the air and hits him square in the side. He doesn’t see who fired it- he’d been too focused on James.

Pain erupts through him, hot and sharp. Sirius doubles over, clutching his ribs as blood begins to seeps through his shirt, warm and steady.

He forces himself up and he looks back to James- who’s already moving, crawling, pushing upright despite the hit.

Sirius catches sight of the faint shimmer of a shield around James- Marlene must have cast it while he was down. Smart. Sirius hadn’t even thought of it

Still clutching his side, Sirius hurls a Blasting Curse at Mulciber that sends him skidding back across the grass.

“Marlene, right!” he shouts, pivoting just as she lashes a Stunning Spell at Wilkes. It hits. He drops hard, crumpling with a grunt.

But it leaves her open.

Travers fires- quick and brutal. The curse hits her in the ribs. She stumbles, breath gone- and then another hex slams into her.

Then another.

And another.

The three remaining Slytherins had turned on her in tandem, faster than breath.

Marlene’s wand slips from her hand. Then her knees buckle, and she goes down.

The blood stains her shirt in seconds- dark, fast, and terrifying.

“Marlene!” Sirius roars.

He turns toward her, instinct shredding through him. James is already diving, wand up, catching a curse to the side that burns the fabric off his shoulder- but he doesn’t flinch. He hits the grass beside her hard, casts something bright and fast that knocks Avery clean off his feet. Avery lands unconscious, wand spinning from his fingers.

Sirius doesn’t think- he just fires.

His wand pulses violently with energy. The curse that shoots out is half blasting, half raw fury. It catches Mulciber dead-on and sends him sprawling ten feet back with a sickening thud. Travers is crawling toward his wand when Sirius hits him with an angry burst of light.

Silence falls like a stone.

They’re down.

All of them.

And Marlene isn’t moving.

Sirius hits his knees beside her, slipping on the wet grass. His hands tremble violently as he reaches for her. “Fuck- Marlene-”

James is already there, kneeing in the blood-soaked grass, cradling her. His hands are pressed to her chest, trying to slow the bleeding, but it’s no use, she’s bleeding too fast.

“She’s breathing,” James pants, voice cracked and raw. “She’s- she’s still- her pulse is there, it’s just-”

“She needs Pomfrey. Now,” Sirius snaps.

His own tshirt is ripped open- slowly seeping blood, and his arm is blistering with a cruse he hadn’t even felt. James is pale, head bleeding in multiple places from where he landed on the ground. Sirius imagines he probably has a concussion- maybe even a couple broken bones.

But none of it matters.

Sirius scoops Marlene into his arms, cradling her gently but urgently.

They run.

The run through the castle is a blur. Up the hill. Through the massive oak doors that fly open with a flick of James’s wand.

They don’t stop until the hospital wing doors slam open ahead of them.

“Pomfrey!” James shouts.

She’s already moving before they reach the nearest bed. “Get her down- Black, Potter, what happened?”

“Ambush,” Sirius snaps, breathless, not seeing the point in giving details when Marlene is bleeding out and weaving in and out of consciousness.

Pomfrey begins circling her wand over Marlene, muttering incantations. “Who did this?”

“Mulciber, Travers, Wilkes, and Avery,” James says. “They targeted her- three spells in a row. Fast.”

Pomfrey rips open the front of Marlene’s shirt with a sharp flick and keeps working, wand moving in smooth, practiced arcs. Then she turns slightly over her shoulder. “Regulus- blood replenishing potion, now.”

That snaps Sirius out of his frenzy.

Regulus?

Sirius whips his head around and sees him. He’s standing near the back of the hospital wing, half-hidden behind one of the tall potion cupboards. He doesn’t look surprised, or even particularly interested. Just focused. His sleeves are rolled neatly to his elbows, and he moves with quiet efficiency, already crossing the room with a vial in hand.

What the hell is he doing here?

Regulus stops at the bedside and passes the potion over without a word. Pomfrey takes it, uncorks the vial with a practiced twist, and gently tilts it to Marlene’s mouth, steadying her head as she coaxes the liquid past her lips.

“She’s going to be alright,” Pomfrey says after a long moment. “But both of you need treatment- you’re bleeding.” She turns to Regulus. “Regulus, see to their wounds, will you?”

He nods once, no protest- but a hint of annoyance flashes across his features.

James and Sirius exchange a look- too confused, too exhausted to argue- and they follow Regulus to the beds beside Marlene’s.

Regulus disappears back into the cupboard, returning with an armful of potions and a roll of bandages. He sets everything down with deliberate precision. Sirius opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, throat suddenly dry.

Regulus holds out a bottle without looking at him. “Drink.”

“I’m not taking anything from-“

“Fine,” Regulus cuts in coldly. “Bleed out for all I care.”

James lets out a short laugh. Sirius shoots him a glare, deeply betrayed. “Fine,” he mutters, yanking the cork off and downing the potion in one go. It tastes awful- bitter and sharp- but he knows better than to sip it. Hospital wing potions always taste like poison.

Regulus turns to James next, his wand already alight. He draws a long ribbon of silver light across James’s temple, sealing the gashes with casual expertise. “Hold still,” he mutters.

James obeys silently.

As if freed from Regulus’ unnerving presence, Sirius finally speaks.

“Is Marlene going to be okay?” he asks, voice low.

Regulus doesn’t turn. He continues working on James’ head, wand gliding in precise movements. James has been unusually quiet, eyes fixed intently on Regulus as he works.

“Yes,” he says shortly. “Pomfrey’s a good healer.”

Sirius wants to ask more. Like why Regulus is even here. Why he’s helping Pomfrey. Why he knows so much about healing magic. But he doesn’t.

“You’ve got a second-grade concussion,” Regulus says to James. “Lie down. Flat. Don’t move.”

James does exactly that.

Regulus finishes with James head and then heals a cut along his jaw. “You’ll have a headache for a few days. But the swelling’s down. No lingering damage.” He pauses and grabs three potions from his collection. “Take one of this if the pain gets worse.”

Regulus moves between their two beds like he’s done it a hundred times. Maybe he has. He lifts Sirius’s shirt, revealing the long gash across his ribs. Sirius had nearly forgotten it. But now, the sharp sting returns. Regulus traces it with his wand- slow, steady- and Sirius hisses through gritted teeth as the skin begins to seal, sticky and hot. Then Regulus grabs a poultice.

“Fuck-” Sirius flinches as Regulus presses it into his side.

“Hold still.”

“Tell me that doesn’t hurt like hell and I’ll call you a liar.” Sirius grits out.

“It’s drawing out the residual curse,” Regulus replies coolly. “Leave it untreated and your muscle will rot. I assumed you’d prefer pain.”

Sirius glares at him but stays still.

Regulus moves on to the blistering burn on Sirius’s upper arm- the one Wilkes sent. He doesn’t say a word, just sweeps his wand silently across the skin. Layer by layer, the bubbled flesh smooths and cools until only a faint pink mark remains.

Sirius watches his brother work, jaw clenched. Since when can he do wordless magic? Thats something even Remus hasn’t managed yet.

Regulus dabs a salve across the remaining scrapes and cuts, smoothing it in with practiced fingers.

“Regulus, a little help please!” Pomfrey’s voice calls from behind the curtain.

He turns to Sirius, holding out the jar. “Finish rubbing this in.”

And then he’s gone, vanishing behind the curtain in a sweep of dark robes. Sirius watches the space he left behind, his jaw tight clenched. With a low sigh, he turns his attention back to his arm, dipping two fingers into the tin of salve. The ointment is thick and cool, and he rubs it gently into the tender, pink skin where the burn had been. It stings at first, then numbs.

Beside him, James lies still on the next bed, one arm draped loosely across his stomach, eyes half-lidded and glazed with exhaustion. He’s barely spoken this whole time.

From beyond the curtain, they can hear Regulus’s voice- low and steady, responding to Pomfrey’s directions.

When he’s done with the salve, Sirius leans his head back against the pillow. His side aches. His arm throbs. His whole body feels like it’s been hexed through a brick wall. But Marlene is alive. And James is breathing.

He strains to listen in on their conversation, he wants to hear something, anything- about how Marlene is doing.

But exhaustion creeps in, heavy and fast. The edges of the world blur. And Sirius drifts, finally, into unconsciousness.

~~~~

James lies curled up in bed, covers bunched up around his waist- kicked off in restless fidgeting. The curtains around his four-poster hang open, though the room is dark and still. Everyone else is asleep by this point.

James exhales slowly through his nose, his head aching in that dull, bruised way that feels more like bone-deep exhaustion than injury now. Madam Pomfrey had finally cleared him and Sirius yesterday, but Marlene still hasn’t left the hospital wing.

They’d gone to see her earlier that afternoon. She’d been conscious but pale, her skin nearly blending into the white of the sheets. Her eyes kept drifting shut mid-sentence, the pain and blood loss still weighing heavily on her.

James can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop replaying it- how close they came to losing her.

He turns onto his side and reaches for the Marauder’s Map lying open on the bed beside him. His hands graze over the parchment- soft and familiar beneath his fingers. It’s creased in the middle from being folded too many times, and the ink is faint in some corners where it’s been touched too often. He stares at it like it might offer him answers, or comfort, or clarity- anything, really, other than the heavy silence that stretches around him.

The glow of the dimming fire casts a low, flickering light across the bed, illuminating the map and painting soft shadows across James’s face. Finally, he activates the ink with a whispered “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The castle blooms to life beneath his fingertips. Endless corridors, spiraling staircases, secret passages only they know about. His eyes flick instinctively toward the hospital wing. Marlene McKinnon is still printed in thin, curling ink in one of the beds, unmoving.

He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes dragging away from her name even though it feels wrong to look away. But his gaze drifts- upward, outward, to the Astronomy Tower.

And there it is again.

Regulus Black.

A single name alone in the highest point of the castle.

James frowns, heart tightening in a way he doesn’t know how to name. He shifts on the bed, the map crinkling softly under the movement.

James had looked last night too. The name had been there then as well- Regulus Black, printed neatly in small inked letters, hovering alone at the edge of the Astronomy Tower. Same as it is now.

He knows he shouldn’t go. Knows he’s probably the last person Regulus wants to see.

But he keeps staring at that name on the map anyway, fingers tightening around the parchment like holding it hard enough might quiet the part of him that’s already made up its mind.

Because Regulus had helped Marlene. He’d helped Sirius. He’d helped James. He’d been steady and controlled the whole time, like he’d done it a million times before- and maybe he has. The steadiness and precision of his magic certainly indicates that. The sheer control of it- not just competence. Mastery. He’d healed James’s head like he’d been doing it since birth- quick, sure, clean.

His magic hadn’t even needed words.

James huffs out a breath and flops his head back onto his pillow, the map slipping off his chest and settling beside him in a crinkle of parchment. The ceiling of the dormitory is faintly dappled with the soft, shifting shadows of the fire still burning low. He watches them flicker across the fabric canopy above him, eyes unfocused, jaw tight.

His head still aches- not in the splitting, nauseating way it did after the hit, but in a low, nagging throb that feels like it’s lodged behind his eyes. Regulus said it would pass in a few days. And James hadn’t doubted him, not for a second.
That, more than anything, is what gets him.

He hadn’t doubted him. Not even a little.

And that- well. That’s strange, isn’t it?

James lifts a hand and rubs at his face, palms dragging down over his cheeks. He shouldn’t care. Regulus had treated them like strangers- like obligations. Not even an acknowledgment, not a single flicker of anything beneath all that cool efficiency. And still, James had watched him like he was trying to read a book with half the pages torn out.

Most of all, James wants to ask him why.

Not even how. Not “how can you do that” or “how did you know what to use.”

Just- why.

Why did you help her?

Why did you help him?
Why did you help me?

James drags a hand through his hair, breathing out a quiet, frustrated laugh. He feels like an idiot. He shouldn’t care this much.

But he does.

And maybe that’s why he’d made up his mind several minutes ago, even if he’d only just fully admitted it to himself.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floor. The map flutters slightly as he moves, still open to the same name, the same spot- Regulus Black, Astronomy Tower.

James stares at it one last time, then folds it shut and stuffs it into the pocket of his pants. He doesn’t bother changing out of his sweatpants and T-shirt. He doesn’t even grab his invisibility cloak.

The halls are quiet as he slips out. No one stops him, no portraits shout warnings. The torches burn low, casting long shadows that trail after him like ghosts. He moves on autopilot- up staircases, through archways, around familiar bends- until the narrow passage to the Astronomy Tower opens up before him.

His pulse picks up.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. All he knows is that Regulus is up there. Alone.

So he starts to climb.

Each step echoes faintly in the stairwell, but he doesn’t slow. At the top, the heavy wooden door is slightly ajar. A thin stream of moonlight slices through the gap, silver and cold.

James hesitates- just for a second.

Then he reaches out, pushes the door open.

And steps into the quiet.

Immediately he’s hit with a strong burst of wind, brushing against his skin and tugging at the sleeves of his shirt.

Regulus is sitting this time, his legs dangling over the edge of the tower. He looks equally youthful and throughly weathered by the world. It’s a contradiction he wears confidently.

James’s steps are soft, but not silent. Regulus must hear him. And yet he doesn’t turn, he just sits- posture impeccably straight.

“I could hear you coming five staircases down,” Regulus says finally, voice low, flat.

James stops a few feet behind him, hands in his pockets. “Didn’t try to be quiet.”

Regulus exhales through his nose, still not turning. “What do you want, Potter?”

James shrugs, even though Regulus can’t see it. “To thank you.”

At that, Regulus finally turns.

The moonlight catches the edge of his face- sharp cheekbone, long eyelashes. And for a moment, James forgets how to speak.

His eyes trail up, slow and steady, until they meet James’. They’re green. Not soft or warm, but cold, sharp- like glass shattered underwater. And yet there’s something about them that pins James in place.

A flicker of confusion crosses Regulus’s face- so brief James almost misses it- but then it’s gone. The mask of indifference sliding over again easily.

“To thank me?” Regulus asks, one brow arching with clinical detachment.

“Yes.” James says, voice quieter than he meant, he takes a small step closer. “For saving us. For Marlene. For Sirius. For me.”

Regulus huffs and turns around again, looking back out into the sky. “I was just doing my job.”

James watches him for a moment, then clears his throat. “Can I sit?” His voice is tentative, careful.

“Does it matter what I say?” He replies dryly.

James lets out a quiet, half-laugh. “Yes. It does” He doesn’t want to be a nuisance, he’s just- well, curious. “If you really want me to leave, I will.”

The words are careful, each one measured. He’d placed the decision firmly in Regulus’ hands.

Regulus turns again, slowly, gaze cold and piercing. His eyes search James’ face for something- mockery, maybe. Ulterior motive. James isn’t sure.

He looks like he’s about to say yes. Tell James to leave. Like the words are perched right on the edge of his tongue, ready to cut. So James prepares himself. He braces for the rejection- nod once, then leave. No dramatics. He’ll just go.

“I don’t own the Astronomy Tower.” Regulus says, flatly.

Oh.

Well then.

James blinks, thrown. That wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. It’s something in between. The closest thing to permission Regulus Black may be capable of giving.

“Right…” James says, voice softer this time.

He hesitates- just for a beat- before stepping forward and lowering himself onto the edge tower, keeping a careful distance between them. He doesn’t want to push his luck.

The silence stretches.

Regulus doesn’t look at him. His eyes still fixed on the stars- he’s always looking at the stars. Like they’re more tolerable than whatever James might have to say.

James follows his gaze. The night is sharp and clear, the moon hanging low and heavy above the Forbidden Forest. It’s quiet in the way Hogwarts gets when everyone else is asleep- peaceful.

“I meant it,” James says eventually, voice low. “What I said earlier. Thank you.”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. But James catches the faint twitch of his jaw, like he’s trying not to react.

“And like I said earlier,” Regulus replies, tone clipped, “I was just doing my job.”

James turns his head, watching him carefully. “What do you mean by that? ‘Your job.’”

Regulus doesn’t look over. His eyes stay on the horizon, on the jagged edge of the treetops beneath the moonlight. “I help Pomfrey,” he says after a moment. “With potions. Slughorn asked me to assist him with it in fifth year. And at some point, he just… handed it off to me entirely.”

James blinks. “All the potions?”

Regulus’s mouth twitches- something like a humorless smile. “Most of them. Blood-Replenishing, Skelegro, Pepperup. The more complicated ones. She trusts me to get them right.”

James shifts slightly on the bench, eyes still on him. “And what about the healing? That wasn’t just brewing.”

Regulus exhales through his nose, slow and quiet. “Sometimes she’s busy with another patient. And if I’m there, I help.”

“You know a lot of healing spells.” James says. It’s not a question.

Regulus finally glances at him, something sharp in his gaze. “You sound surprised.”

James nods slowly, eyes scanning Regulus’s face. “I am,” he admits. “But not in a bad way.”

Regulus doesn’t respond.

“I mean, you were-" James hesitates. “You were good. Fast at it. And I felt loads better when you were done. Like you’d done it a hundred times.”

“I have.” Regulus says simply.

James hums, leaning back slightly on his hands. “You ever think about doing it for real?” he asks. “Healing. Like… as a career.”

Something flickers across Regulus’s face- there and gone again, a split-second crack in the armor.

But for once James can read Regulus- why he reacted that way to a simple question. Because Regulus doesn’t get to choose. Because his life’s been planned out for him- every step of the future already drawn in ink too dark to erase. Just like Sirius’s would’ve been, if he hadn’t broken away.

James swallows, the night air suddenly colder.

With Voldemort rising and half the Slytherins already whispering promises, it’s not hard to guess where Regulus will end up.

And yet…

Here he is. Brewing potions for the hospital wing. Helping Madam Pomfrey. Helping patients.

Saving Marlene.

Saving Sirius.

Saving James.

Maybe that’s why James is still sitting here, why he’s looking at Regulus like he’s something more than what he’s been raised to be, and why some impossible part of him still believe that maybe Regulus won’t follow the path carved out for him.

Maybe James can help him see that.

Maybe he can get him out.

Just like Sirius got out.

The Ministry had already offered him an out- an out that he hadn’t taken. James had thought- at the time- that it was because Regulus didn’t want it. That he’d chosen to stay. Chosen the family. The name. The side.

But maybe it hadn’t been a choice at all.

That house- that family- they don’t raise you, they program you. They twist up your insides until you can’t tell what’s yours anymore. Your voice. Your will. Your wants.

Maybe the Regulus who wanted that out didn’t get a say.

Maybe he never has.

Sirius had never talked about his home. Not really. Not until he left for good. But once he had- once the dam cracked and James’ parents demanded answers, demanded to know what had happened- he’d spilled like a flood. Like years of silence and control and fear had finally snapped all at once. And it poured out of him. Raw. Angry. Unstoppable.

James remembers lying there, curled up in his bed with Sirius, stunned, as he’d had laid it all bare- all the rules, all the punishments.

He hadn’t just left- he’d escaped.

And James wonders now, looking at Regulus, if he’s like how Sirius was- a dam waiting to crack- to spill all of its secrets.

Regulus never even answered James’ question. Hadn’t offered so much as a shrug or a nod. Just that flicker- barely perceptible- a pause in his composure, a sliver of hesitation. But that’s all James needs.

Because hesitation means doubt.

And doubt? Doubt is something James can work with. Doubt is the crack in the armor. The loose thread he can tug until the whole thing unravels.

Because deep down, James knows- no matter how coldly Regulus speaks, no matter how carefully he wears his mask- he’s not beyond saving. Not yet. He’s not like Mulciber or Wilkes or Avery or Travers. There’s still something there.

That flicker proves it.

And James can exploit that. Not cruelly. Not manipulatively. But carefully. Steadily. He can feed that doubt until it becomes a question, and that question becomes a choice- and then, one day, a decision.

To walk away. To be more than the name he was born into. To see the world beyond the walls of Grimmauld Place.

James wants him to see it. He needs him to see it. Because if Regulus Black, heir to a family that worships blood purity like gospel, can look that future in the face and say no- then it means James hasn’t been naïve to hope.

It means Sirius isn’t just an exception.

It means the war might still be winnable, not just with wands and duels and curses- but with people. With choices.

And maybe, selfishly, it means James isn’t wrong to see something in Regulus. Something worth fighting for.

Because that flicker of hesitation wasn’t nothing. It was the start of a crack.

And all James wants to do now is make it wider.

Notes:

So evidently James and Regulus aren’t the only slow burn going on here- both Sirius and Remus are a little slow to the realization that they’re literally in love with each other. Like yes Sirius- it is completely normal to get lost starring into your best friends eyes. Mhm.

And the fight- the Slytherins were definitely waiting for them- they’re getting a tad too brave with the rise of Voldemort.

Poor Marlene, but at least Regulus and Pomfrey saved her! And then Reg saving his brother and James after :p. I love that scene. Even though it’s written in Sirius’ POV, you can very obviously tell that James falling already by this point.

Oh James, and his savior complex. Both with the massacre and his hope in saving Regulus. He’s too innocent for this world.

Chapter 8: Skull and Snake

Notes:

TW’s for this chapter:

Mentions of massacres
Self harm? (I’m not sure if it actually qualifies as it but I just want to put that out there).
Swearing

Enjoy :))

More attacks have been showing up in the paper. In the past week, there’s been one every other day- like clockwork.

It makes for a terribly depressing breakfast, if Regulus is being honest.

The front page is always the same: raids, burned-out homes, bodies. It always ends the same way, too- with that sickly green mark hanging in the sky like a victory banner. A skull, with a serpent curling from its mouth.

Dramatic. Theatrical. And quite frankly- hideous.

But that’s the mark. The one Regulus will be forced to get.

Figures. If you’re going to join a cult, might as well commit to terrible branding too.

Other Slytherins have already started whispering about it- not so much whispers as poorly-disguised bragging. Whose father has it. Whose mother delivered orders directly from the Dark Lord himself. Some of them are practically vibrating with excitement, like it’s a badge of honour. The inner left forearm, they say, grinning like fools. That’s where it goes. Black ink, burned into the skin like loyalty seared into bone.

It looks like something a bored child would doodle in the margins of a textbook. And yet, that’s what he’s meant to wear. Forever. Just below the skin. A constant, burning reminder that he never had a say.

Regulus has no doubt that he’ll get it. He is a Black after all. Heir to one of the oldest and most powerful pure-blood lines in the world. The name itself might as well come with a pre-written contract in blood. The only reason he hasn’t received the official summons is because they don’t need to send one.

The silence from his parents is louder than any letter.

So of course he’ll be marked. It’s practically a rite of passage. The official seal of approval.

Congratulations. You're now a walking billboard for genocide.

He wonders if he’ll get a pat on the head afterward.

Even before the attacks started ramping up, before the Prophet started printing words like massacre and uprising, Voldemort’s name had already slithered through the halls of Grimmauld Place. Always with a reverence in their voices, treated like the future of wizardkind itself.

Maybe that’s why Regulus can’t bring himself to look at the stars tonight. Can’t bear to lift his eyes toward the sky and see his brother still burning there- bright and untouchable.

Instead, he sits with his back pressed against the tower wall, legs drawn in, knees pulled close to his chest. The stone behind him drains the warmth from his spine, the cold creeps inward until it settles deep in his bones. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t so much as flinch when the wind claws at his robes and slips like a thief beneath his collar.

His eyes stay fixed on the heavy wooden door across the tower. He doesn’t glance back.

He won’t look.

Regulus presses his fingertips into his right palm. They find the jagged scar almost instinctively. He traces the familiar ridge once, then presses down harder- nails digging into the soft flesh until it stings, until they leave behind tiny crescents like moon phases carved into his hand.

He eases up after a moment, fingers loosening as the tension seeps from his knuckles. His hand relaxes in his lap, the sting of his nails fading into a dull throb. He leans his head against the wall and listens to the quiet, the way the wind whistles through the open arches of the tower.

He knows the silence won’t last long.

It never does.

He hasn’t come up here in two nights- he needed the space, the illusion of control- but it never seems to matter. Every time he sits here, Potter shows up.

As if on cue, the sound comes, the faint creak of hinges below, followed by the dull thud of footsteps climbing the spiral staircase.

Regulus doesn’t react. Keeps his body perfectly still. Expression flat. He doesn't bother pretending he doesn't know who it is- it’s always Potter. It’s like the boy has some sort of unholy radar that pings whenever Regulus would rather be alone.

The footsteps draw closer, echoing louder against the stone until they stop just behind the door. A beat. Then another. And then it creaks open.

Potter steps inside, framed by the moonlight that spills in behind him, his silhouette cast in pale silver. His hair is a mess- no surprise. He’s not in uniform, just a grey hoodie that looks a size too big and a pair of red-and-white striped pyjama pants.

Potter’s gaze catches on him, eyes widening just a fraction when he notices Regulus facing the door.

“Hey.” He says, soft and surprised, like he hadn’t expected to find him already here.

Regulus doesn’t say a word.

Potter doesn’t need a greeting anyway. Of course not. He crosses the space with practiced ease, dropping down beside him like this is routine. Regulus doesn’t move to make space. So naturally, Potter makes his own.

He sits close. Too close. Their shoulders brush, and the fabric of Potter’s ridiculous pyjama pants rustles faintly in the breeze.

Regulus stiffens immediately with the contact. Does this boy know nothing of boundaries?

He’s like a golden retriever, needing to thrive on physical contact no matter who the person was.

Once Potter’s settled in he speaks again. “Why do you come up here?” His voice comes off as casual but it also sounds careful, like he’s afraid of shatter something.

Regulus exhales slowly. “Because it’s quiet,” he says flatly, then cuts a glance over. “Was quiet, anyway. Until you decided to start showing up.”

Potter just laughs- loud and unbothered- and Regulus looks at him with a look of ‘this proves my point.’

The sound fades into silence again, but only for a moment.

“You’re not looking at the stars tonight,” Potter says eventually. He’s not actually looking at the stars either. He’s looking at Regulus. Has been since he walked in.

Regulus keeps his eyes trained on the stonework across the tower. “Astute observation.”

Potter just laughs, undeterred. It’s low and warm, just a breath of sound more than anything, like the boy is vibrating with sunlight and has no idea how to turn it off. But Regulus can feel it. Literally. He can feel the shake of Potters shoulders brushing against his.

“So,” he says after a pause, in that maddeningly easy tone he always uses. “Slughorn looked about two seconds from naming a new potion after you today.”

Regulus hums. “He was being dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Potter snorts. “You brewed the Pepper-up in under fifteen minutes. It was perfect.”

Regulus shrugs one shoulder, the movement minimal. “That’s what happens when you follow instructions.”

“Uh-huh,” Potter says, voice bright with amusement. “Bet Slughorn’s already composing your recommendation for Most Gifted Slytherin of the Century.”

Regulus finally glances at him. “He likes flattery. He’s an idiot.”

Potter’s grin only widens, completely unfazed by Regulus calling their professor an idiot. “And you’re a prodigy. Should I start calling you that? Prodigy. Has a nice ring to it.”

“If you ever call me that,” Regulus says flatly. “I’ll hex your teeth out one by one.”

Potter leans back against the stone like he’s been complimented. “See? Even your death threats are efficient. Classic Prodigy behavior.”

Regulus exhales through his nose, already regretting ever acknowledging him.

There’s a beat of quiet, but it’s the kind that feels like it’s just waiting to be filled. Potter never lets it stay quiet for long.

“You watching the game tomorrow?” he asks, voice light.

“Maybe.” Is his only response.

Potter hums. “You should. Our Seeker is even better this year, might give you a run for your money.”

Regulus tilts his head, gaze flat. “Is that your attempt at flattery?”

James grins- lazy, a little crooked “Depends. Is it working?”

Regulus lets the silence stretch, just long enough for tension to coil in the space between them. Potter shifts beside him, but doesn’t pull away. Their shoulders are still pressed together. Heads turned now- close enough that Regulus can see the edge of stubble along James’s jaw, the faint curve of a freckle just under his left eye.

“Only if you’re trying to get hexed,” Regulus says finally, voice low.

“Always such a charmer.” Potters eyes lighten. “A charmer and a prodigy.”

Regulus rolls his eyes and turns back to face the door.

“You really should come to the match,” James says after a moment, voice quieter now. “We’re going to win. I can feel it.”

Regulus hums noncommittally, but doesn’t respond.

“Ravenclaw’s keeper can’t block for shit.” James continues. “And Sirius has practically perfected this move where he knocks the Quaffle out of the way with a Bludger-“

At the mention of Sirius, Regulus shifts. Not much, just enough to break the contact between their shoulders.

James falters. “Right. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, voice softer now. “I didn’t mean-“

But Regulus cuts him off, standing in one fluid motion. “Next time, try flattery that doesn’t involve my brother.”

He doesn’t look at Potter. Doesn’t need to. He’s already halfway to the door by the time Potter exhales.

 

~~~~

 

Regulus is stretched out across his bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other idly flipping pages in the thick, weathered book resting on his stomach. The spine cracks faintly each time he turns a page, a low, repetitive sound he finds oddly calming. It's one of the older volumes he and Eva had found buried deep in the library.

They’ve met nearly every other day since then, always under the pretence of research. But Regulus isn’t quite sure when it stopped being about the Diadem and started becoming something closer to just… hanging out.

They still discuss whatever scraps of information they manage to dig up- usually useless, vague legends and secondhand theories. Though yesterday, tucked in a dusty appendix behind an essay on Rowena Ravenclaw’s lineage, Eva had found something new: a name. Thaddeus Greymoor- the collector who allegedly had possession of the Diadem for a brief period of time.

Regulus had spent hours flipping through ancient volumes of pure-blood surnames dating back to the seventeenth century, but came up empty handed. So this morning, he’d sent a letter to Kreacher asking him to discretely pursue it. See if he could find out what Regulus couldn’t.

In between their increasingly infrequent research sessions, he’s started teaching her spells. A few practical ones- Salvio Aula, for cloaking entrances. Just last week, she’d asked him to teach her Muffliato after overhearing a teacher mention it briefly in class. It’s complex magic, well beyond the expected range of a first-year, and yet Eva had managed it with a kind of focused, stubborn precision that he finds impressive.

She also gossips. Endlessly. Most of it overhead in the Ravenclaw common room. Like the fifth-year who got caught brewing Amortentia in the back of Herbology class. He’d claimed that it was for ‘educational purposes.’ But eventually ended up confessing he was trying to spike his ex’s perfume. Regulus pretends to find it trivial and he does- mostly, but he’s also more entertained than he’d care to admit.

Sometimes, she’ll catch his eye in the corridor and flash him that bright, unbothered smile she always wears- like she’s never once considered that their friendship might be odd. A first-year Ravenclaw grinning at a sixth-year Slytherin like they’re old friends. Though every time, without fail, he finds himself smiling back. Even when he’s with his friends, he still lifts a hand in return- just more subtly then, a discreet twitch of his fingers by his side or a glance that lingers a beat too long.

He’s mid-turn of a page when something solid collides sharply with his shoulder.

The book slips from his hand and lands beside him with a muted thud, its worn pages fanning open against the green duvet. Regulus blinks, pulled abruptly from the quiet rhythm of his thoughts. He lifts his head, gaze cool and pointed, and turns it in the direction of the thrower.

Dorcas.

She’s sprawled leisurely across Evan’s bed like she owns it, propped up on one elbow with a self-satisfied smirk curling the edge of her mouth. Her other shoe- the matching pair to the one she just hurled- is dangling from her fingertips, a clear threat that she’s prepared to repeat the offense if necessary.

Regulus retrieves the book and sets it back on his lap before picking up the shoe and tossing it back- unceremoniously.

He raises a brow. “What?”

Dorcas catches the shoe with an obnoxiously graceful flick of her wrist. “I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes.”

“I wasn’t listening,” Regulus replies dryly, already glancing down at the open pages again.

Evan snorts from where he lies across the room. He and Barty are tangled up in a heap on Barty’s bed- Evan is slouched against the wall, his legs flung haphazardly over Barty’s lap, while Barty seems entirely unconcerned, idly picking at the fraying hem of Evan’s jeans with the vague focus of someone trying not to fall asleep.

Dorcas ignores them both and pushes herself upwards with an exaggerated flair. “I said,” she repeats loudly, enunciating each word. “We should go to a party.”

“I’d rather stay here and let you throw your other shoe at me,” he says flatly, not even bothering to lift his gaze fully- just tilting his head with deliberate disinterest.

Dorcas huffs and rolls her eyes. “It’s a Gryffindor one.” She says, trying for breezy but already bracing herself for his reaction. “And it’s tonight.”

Regulus finally looks at her properly, unimpressed. “You’re not doing a very good job at convincing me.” He replies dully.

Barty looks up from his lazy sprawl across the bed, his hands still rested on Evan’s ankle. His eyes spark with sudden interest, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he points a dramatic finger toward Dorcas. “Ha. I knew he’d say no,” he says, all smug satisfaction.

Dorcas lets out a loud, theatrical huff, whipping around to glare at him. “Hey! He hasn’t said no yet,” she argues.

“No.”

Dorcas stares at him in silence for a moment, mouth open like she might protest again- before she groans dramatically and flops backward onto Evan’s bed, her arm thrown across her face like she’s in the final act of a tragic play. Barty and Evan just laugh.

“Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

Barty cackles. “That’s what makes him fun.”

Regulus returns to his book, settling back into the quiet rhythm of the words. But Dorcas isn’t finished. She pushes herself up swiftly, eyes bright with determination. “Marlene invited me,” she says, voice eager. “And she wants me to bring my friends. It’s a celebration for the Quidditch match- win or lose. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs will be there too, not just Gryffindors. And it’s not even in the Gryffindor common room. They managed to secure a classroom somewhere else- they said they’ll have wards up as well so Filch won’t find it.”

That catches his attention- if only because the name finally lands. Marlene. The hospital wing. The blood. Pomfrey’s muttered incantations. He hadn’t known her name then, just the outline of a girl barely conscious on a bed, pale as parchment.

Now, looking back on it, he remembers her as the girl laughing loudly with Dorcas at the Gryffindor table. Blond and pink hair a mess, shoulder pressed to Dorcas’s as if nothing in the world could touch her. Alive in that insufferable Gryffindor way- too bold, too bright.

And flying in a match today? That’s not bravery, it’s borderline suicidal. Reckless, if not completely idiotic.

He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until Dorcas grins and says, “That’s the face of interest.”

“No.” he says immediately, voice flat.

Dorcas doesn’t press, not directly. Instead, she leans forward, chin propped in her palm, and says, almost idly. “Well. I think I like her.”

Ah. So that’s why she’s so interested in going.

He’d already known that Dorcas is gay. She’d told him last year, straightforward and unapologetic, daring him to object. A declaration made with her chin lifted and her gaze steady, like someone who’d long since decided she wasn’t going to apologize for who she was.

He hadn’t said anything- just nodded once and moved on. Not out of indifference exactly, but because there had been nothing to say. It wasn’t a revelation that demanded a response.

He hadn’t cared then, and he doesn’t now.

Because it’s not something that should matter. Not to him. Dorcas can snog whoever she wants. It doesn’t make her any less irritating or bold or loyal. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s the only one in this room who can throw a shoe at his head and get away with it.

“McKinnon?” Regulus asks finally, shifting place as he presses his thumb to the center of his palm, where the skin still feels uneven. The ache has been sharper lately- more than the usual potions can handle. He’ll have to up the dosage.

Dorcas just shrugs, her expression utterly shameless. “She’s hot.”

He lifts a brow, unimpressed. “You said that about the seventh-year who hexed you in the corridor last month.”

Dorcas waves a dismissive hand, a lazy grin spreading across her face. “She was hot too.“

Regulus doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he casts a brief look toward the clock on the far wall, its ticking soft but insistent in the quiet lull between their banter. Nearly time.

“I’m going,” he says abruptly, closing the book with a soft snap. He swings his legs off the bed and rises to his feet, crossing to where his cloak hangs neatly from a hook on the back of his bed.

Evan’s head lifts from where it rests against Barty’s shoulder. He blinks, frowning slightly. “You’re going to the party?” he asks, the surprise unmistakable in his voice.

Dorcas sits bolt upright, bright-eyed. “Wait- seriously?”

“No,” Regulus mutters, not bothering to look up as he adjusts the clasp of his cloak. “Meeting someone before the match.”

“Who?” Barty asks, brows lifting in genuine bemusement. “You don’t have any other friends besides us.”

Regulus pointedly ignores the comment and walks over to his bedside table to grab his wand. He picks it up and tucks it smoothly into the inside of his sleeve.

Evan pushes himself up on one elbow, tilting his head, puzzled. “I thought we were all going to watch the game together.”

“No.” Regulus says simply. “I’ll be watching it with her.”

Dorcas perks up instantly, like a dog catching a scent. “Her?” she echoes, straightening. “Wait, her? Who is her? Since when do you have feelings? Do you like her? Oh my god, do you like her?”

He pauses in the doorway just long enough to shoot her a pointed glare before turning on his heal and walking out.

 

~~~~

 

“This is not a habit.” Regulus mutters as Eva drags him by the sleeve through the thinning crowd headed toward the pitch.

Eva beams up at him, eyes gleaming. “Of course not. It’s a one-time exception to show moral support for your very charming companion who wants to learn the secrets of quidditch.“

“I’m not charmed.”

“You’re deeply charmed.”

Regulus doesn’t dignify that with a response. He tightens his scarf as they near the stands, the late September air biting cold and sharp through the wool of his robes. Eva leads the way up, practically glowing with excitement, a Ravenclaw rosette pinned proudly to her jumper.

Regulus climbs slowly behind her, eyes flickering across the crowd. They find seats at the top row, tucked into a quiet corner that’s far from the noise but still offers a clear view.

Madam Hooch blows her whistle, sharp and shrill. Down on the grass, the two Captains step forward- Potter and the new Ravenclaw lead, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with dark curls. They shake hands, speak briefly, then step back.

Then: the release.

A second whistles screams, and the pitch erupts in movement. Red and blue streak upward like colliding comets. Players burst into the sky, blurs of robes and motion and noise. The crowd comes alive with cheers and chants.

Regulus folds his arms over his chest and leans back, eyes narrowing as the game takes shape.

Within only fifteen minutes the match is up sixty-twenty to Gryffindor. Predictably.

Potter is at the center of it all- having scored fifty out of the sixty points. He cuts through Ravenclaw’s defense like he was born to do it, laughing as he loops past Chasers and barely dodges a Bludger aimed straight at his ribs. His passes are quick and fluid, every single one lands where it’s meant to. It’s infuriating.

He’s show-off on a broom with too much talent for his own good.

Regulus watches, arms folded, and jaw set.

He doesn’t know why Potter keeps showing up at the astronomy tower.

Regulus doesn’t go every night- there’s no pattern to it, no set time. He doesn’t know if Potter goes on the nights he doesn’t. But whenever he’s there, without fail, Potter arrives too. And every time, he dives straight into conversation like it’s something they’ve always done.

At first, Regulus found it annoying, even a little odd, but now it’s almost expected.

Potter can definitely still be a nuisance, no doubt about that- the never ending chatter and his constant probing. But lately, the things he says that used to make Regulus want to turn and jump off the tower have been fewer and farther between. He’s still a handful, just a more tolerable one.

Potter scores again. The crowd erupts- cheers from the Gryffindors and groans from the Ravenclaws.

Eva stands and throws her hands up as she yells a half-hearted comment at the Ravenclaw keeper. She flops back down beside him, still breathless from shouting. “You’d have blocked that.”

“I’m not a Keeper.”

“I’m just saying. You fly better than all of them combined.”

Regulus raises a brow. “When have you seen me fly?”

Eva shrugs simply, her typical casual innocence. “I’ve watched a couple of the Slytherin practices in the mornings before classes.”

Huh. He’d never noticed her. He wonders how many mornings she’d been there and he hadn’t seen her.

“Also,” she adds, grinning. “Completely unrelated question- how hard is it to learn Quidditch?”

He blinks at her. “You’ve never played?”

“Nope.” She replies easily. “I live with my mum in a muggle neighbourhood. Kinda hard to go around flying there.”

Regulus nods absently, he’d almost forgotten that her parents were separated, and that she’s a half-blood.

“I’ve flown at my dad’s though, with Peter.” She continues. “And in flying classes of course. But they don’t teach much. You’d be a much better teacher.”

He rolls his eyes but a faint grin ghosts across his face. “What position?”

She leans forward eagerly. “I want to do Chaser. Or maybe Seeker- but I’d have to duel some fifth year for it and I’m not sure if I’m ready for bloodshed.”

“You’re not.”

“Thank you for your honesty. Anyway, would you help me? You’re insanely good, Reg.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

She nudges him. “Come on. Just a few broom sessions. Please. I’ll owe you. I’ll do your Potions homework. I’ll give you my chocolate frogs for a week. I’ll-”

“Stop talking.”

She stops. Smiling innocently.

Regulus sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

Eva claps her hands softly and beams.
He returns his gaze to the game.

The game is won a short while later, to Gryffindor. Their Seeker had caught the Snitch, but they’d been so far ahead in points that the outcome had already been sealed long before it was in her hand. The stands erupted anyway, scarlet and gold flooding the pitch like a wave, cheers echoing across the grounds.

As they descend the steps with the dispersing crowd, Eva pokes him in the side. “Are you going to the post-match party tonight?”

He glances sideways at her, brow arching as they weave past a group of third-years still buzzing about Gryffindor’s last goal. “How do you know about that?”

She waves a hand like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I have my ways.”

He huffs out a breath, half scoff, half laugh. “No. I’m not going.”

She gasps, clutching her chest like he’s just mortally wounded her. “Why ever not!”

“People,” he replies flatly. “Loud ones.”

“You’re not even going to pretend to make up a better excuse?” She counters, grinning up at him as a gust of wind pulls a few strands of hair from her braid.

Regulus rolls his eyes. “You’re not even going. Why do you care so much?”

“How do you know I’m not going?” She says, lips twitching into a smug smile.

He shoots her a pointed look. “Because you’re eleven and there will be alcohol.”

“Fine,” she says dramatically. “Then I’ll live vicariously through you.” She wags a finger at him. “But that means you actually have to go.”

Notes:

Will Regulus go to the party? Will he not? Guess we’ll have to see.

Lowkey Regulus is a tad dramatic for running off at the first mention of his brother but honestly—valid.

And I love how he’s so apprehensive about when James goes to meet him but at the same time he’s meeting Eva to go and gossip with her.

Chapter 9: The Party

Notes:

TW’s for this chapter:

Underage drinking

Honestly think that’s it? Despite that the chapter is kinda heavy so… :p

Enjoy :))

The classroom is already packed when they arrive- music humming low under the chatter, lanterns floating high overhead in warm red and gold tones. Someone’s spelled glittering confetti to drift slowly from the ceiling, vanishing just before it touches the floor.

Regulus steps inside with Dorcas beside him, Evan, Barty, and Pandora trailing behind. Dorcas is laughing at something Barty said when her eyes catch on someone across the room. “Oi- Marlene!” she calls, raising a hand to wave her over.

Marlene breaks away from the crowd near the drinks table, her cup sloshing slightly as she weaves through bodies. Her cheeks are flushed, hair a little windblown, and there’s a faint scar across her temple still healing. She comes to a stop in front of the group, her eyes going wide the moment they land on Regulus.

“Oh- hey,” she says, blinking. “Regulus right? You helped Pomfrey save me.“

Regulus’s posture doesn’t shift, but his expression tightens, guarded out of habit. “I didn’t know you were friends with Cas,” she adds, glancing at Dorcas before looking back at him. “Thanks, by the way. For what you did. I don’t really remember it all but I know you were there, helping.“

Dorcas’s brow furrows. “Hold on- what?” She turns to Regulus, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“I help Pomfrey in the hospital wing sometimes.” Regulus says with a shrug. “Happened to be there when she came in bleeding.”

There’s a short beat of silence while he’s met with the confused expression of all four of his friends.

“How the fuck did we not know that, mate?” Barty asks, baffled.

Evan narrows his eyes. “What, do you sneak out of bed to do medical work in secret?”

Pandora lets out an effervescent laugh. “He probably does. Would explain why he’s always slipping away.”

That’s just one of the many. Hospital wing, Eva, and- astronomy tower, with Potter

Regulus rolls his eyes. “It’s not a secret. I just never thought it was worth mentioning.”

He’s met with four puzzled expressions once again.

“Right,” Marlene says with a grin, recovering quickly. “Well. Since you know Dorcas, I guess that makes us friends too. I’m Marlene.” She steps forward without hesitation and offers him her hand.

Regulus freezes for a fraction too long. Physical contact isn’t something he’s ever been comfortable with- it always feels too much, too exposed- but this is for Dorcas, and in a strange, peripheral way, for Eva too. He draws in a shallow breath and then, carefully, places his hand in Marlene’s.

“Regulus.”

Introductions follow- each of them chiming in with names and nods.

“Brilliant,” Marlene says after everyone’s accounted for. “Now that we’re all properly introduced- drinks?” She gestures toward the table with an elbow, already turning. “Come on, I’ll show you the setup. Someone smuggled in actual French wine and everything. Very avant garde.”

Regulus winces at her pronunciation.

Dorcas grins and loops her arm through Marlene’s. “You're coming too, hospital boy,” she says over her shoulder, amusement dancing in her voice.

He lets out a quiet, resigned sigh and follows.

 

~~~~

 

James is absolutely sloshed.

He’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had- six? Eight? Who’s keeping track? Certainly not him. Every time someone offered him a new glass, he’d raised it with a triumphant, “To Gryffindor!” and that seemed to do the trick.

But hey! They’re celebrating a win, after all.

They’d wiped the pitch with Ravenclaw earlier that afternoon- clean, brutal, brilliant. The team had played one of their best games yet, clearly all that extra practice had paid off.

The post-match high still thrums through his chest like a second heartbeat. He’s only a little sad their Seeker, Abigail, is too young to be at the party. She’d caught the Snitch in a dive that made the whole crowd gasp- even the Ravenclaw’s, she deserved the loudest toast of the night. Still, the rest of the team had shown up in full force and were immediately welcomed with cheers, flying high-fives, and more than one round of shots.

James had barely stepped through the door before someone thrust a butterbeer-spiked-with-something-stronger into his hand. Now, his face is flushed, his shirt is half-untucked, and his words are starting to slur.

He’s weaving his way back from the drinks table, arms overloaded with four more drinks, each one on the brink of slipping. He stumbles toward the corner where Sirius is half-sprawled across a couch like he owns the place- which, knowing Sirius, he’s probably already claimed he does. Remus is perched on the arm beside him and Peter’s on the floor with a bottle of mead and an entire plate of party snacks balanced on his knees.

“There’s my boys!” James all but practically yells, stumbling the last few steps and setting the cups down before dramatically draping himself over Sirius and Remus like some sort of Quidditch-themed cape.

Sirius makes a noise like he’s dying. “Godric Gryffindor, get off me- your elbow’s in my kidney.”

“Celebrate with me, you coward,” James slurs.

“You’re a menace,” Sirius laughs, poking him in his side. “What drink number are you on now?”

James waves his hands as though swatting the comment away. “The night is still young.” With that he finally peels himself off them and flops beside Peter instead, grabbing a chocolate frog and nearly missing his mouth trying to eat it.

Remus leans back, scanning the room. “It’s not even eleven o’clock and practically everyone’s drunk.”

“Victory tradition,” Sirius says with a shrug. “Win a match, lose your liver.”

“More like victory stupidity,” Remus mutters.

James grins, hazy and bright. He lifts his glass toward the floating lanterns above. “To victory and stupidity!”

Sirius clinks his cup against James’s with a mock bow. “Cheers to that, Captain.”

Remus chuckles reluctantly, and Peter gives a half-hearted cheer before reaching for another tart.

James takes another sip, the world around him spinning gently, warm and buzzing.

He’s just starting to settle into the haze when he feels Sirius’ knee goes rigid against his back. James glances over, but Sirius is already locked in, jaw set and eyes fixed across the room.

“What the fuck is he doing here.” His voice isn’t angry. Not really. Just… stunned.

Curious, James follows his gaze- and immediately regrets the sharp turn of his head. The room tilts for a second, lights too bright, his skull echoing like a beater’s bat just made contact with the inside of it.

He squints, blinks.

And then he sees him.

Regulus.

He’s standing in a corner beside Dorcas and Pandora, holding a glass of something that catches the light like amber. He doesn’t look drunk though. He barely even looks relaxed.

James hadn’t expected him tonight. He’d half thought about sneaking a glance at the Marauder’s Map, maybe finding him up at the astronomy tower and ditching the party to join him. But instead, here he is, standing by the wall, dressed all in black like always, posture far too stuff for a party.

James narrows his eyes like he’s trying to see something more clearly through the alcohol haze.

Why the hell is Regulus always so composed?

Even here, in a room full of drunk teenagers and floating confetti, with music pulsing under their feet, Regulus looks like he stepped out of a painting- sharp edges and unreadable eyes, all clean lines and composed silence while the rest of the room blurs around him. Regal, untouchable, slightly tragic. Lit softly in the glow of the floating lanterns, his features look almost unreal: the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant curl of his black hair, the piercing green eyes that never seem to settle.

James blinks.

It hasn’t escaped his knowledge that he’s become a little obsessed. He practically buzzes the whole day in anticipation, hoping tonight will be one of those nights- the ones where he climbs the stairs to the Astronomy Tower and finds Regulus already there, half-shrouded in starlight. He checks the Map more than he should, lingering too long over that tiny labeled dot- Regulus Black- and feeling far too disappointed when it doesn’t appear near the tower.

He keeps telling himself it’s just to get Regulus out, planting that little seed of doubt and watering it until it grows. But he hasn’t so much as brought up the idea of Regulus leaving his house- not when he knows it’d spook him, making him disappear even earlier than he already does.

Sirius is still staring when James finally pries his eyes away. The flickering lantern light catching in his eyes, reflecting something distant and bitter.

After a moment, Sirius shakes his head once, like he’s trying to dislodge something, and leans back into the couch. “Didn’t think he’d come,” he mutters. “He hates this kind of thing.”

“Ya, me neither.” James swallows, turning back toward Regulus- who, at that exact moment, smiles at something Dorcas says. It’s a small smile, faint and short-lived, but it’s there.

Sirius snorts under his breath. “Godric. He must be really drunk if he’s smiling.”

James doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t take his eyes off of Regulus. He just lifts his drink and downs the rest.

 

~~~~

 

If James had been drunk before then he’s absolutely hammered now.

The room still beats with loud chatter and even louder music, vibrating like a second pulse under his skin.

He’s leaning against the wall, legs barely holding him upright, talking- or attempting to talk- to Mary, Marlene, and Dorcas. He quite likes Dorcas. She’s only recently started slipping into their circle, but James likes her loud voice and the way she always says exactly what she’s thinking. Confident. Quick. Kind of like Sirius. Maybe that’s why he likes her so much.

He’s only half-listening. The room is spinning in slow, syrupy circles and his drunken thoughts keep drifting- keep pulling toward a dark-haired boy on the other side of the room.

It’s only when he hears Dorcas say that boys name that his head jerks towards them, a little too fast to be subtle. “What?”

Dorcas blinks, caught off guard by the intensity of it. Then she smirks, amused by it. “I was just saying to Marlene and Mary that I think Reg has a secret crush.”

James’s stomach lurches. “Who?” He blurts, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Dorcas shrugs. “Dunno, all he said was that he was going to watch the game with some girl.”

His stomach drops. He tries to keep his expression neutral, but it probably isn’t working. He can feel the heat rise in his cheeks, and not from the alcohol.

Marlene glances at him, frowning faintly. “You alright, James?”

“Peachy,” he says quickly, flashing a grin that he knows is crooked. “Just- bit dizzy. Think I need air.”

He pushes off the wall and stumbles slightly, catching himself on the corner of a table. His drink sloshes over the rim. Dorcas calls something after him, probably teasing, but he doesn’t catch it.

He makes his way out of the room, weaving through bodies, his eyes are scanning instinctively for black curls and green eyes even as his chest aches in a way he doesn't have the words for.

A girl.

Of course it’s a girl. Of course it is. What else would it be?

Regulus is a pure-blood bigot after all. What was he hoping for? For it to be a boy? For it to be him?

Oh.

He exhales sharply, the sound almost lost beneath the muffled thump of music from the other room. His spine hits the wall behind him with a quiet thud as he stares ahead, unseeing. The corridor is empty, lit only by one flickering torch. His hand curls tighter around his cup, but he doesn’t raise it to drink. Doesn’t trust himself not to throw it instead.

Because the realization settles fast, heavy, and far too real.

He wants it to be him. Has wanted that for longer than he’s let himself admit. All the nights lingering in the Astronomy Tower, all the times he caught himself glancing at Regulus across the library, the classroom, the common corridor, he thought he was just curious. Wanting to know more about the brother of his best friend.

But it isn’t fascination.

It’s longing.

James presses the back of his head against the wall and laughs, breathless.

“Oh, fuck.”

~~~~

 

The party is loud.

Not deafening, exactly, but enough that Regulus has to lean in when Evan says something, and even then, he only catches about half of it. Barty laughs like whatever it was was hilarious. Regulus doesn’t bother asking him to repeat it.

He’s standing near the back of the classroom-turned-party-space, shoulder against the wall, drink in hand.

There’s music playing from the front corner- something fast and chaotic- and the room is packed to the brim with students who all smell like drunken pirates. The stench of alcohol hangs thick in the air, making his nose twitch and his stomach twist. Someone’s elbow grazes his side, and he has to twist away from a half-spilled cup aimed dangerously close to his shoes. There’s too many limbs, too much noise, too much everything.

Barty’s holding court as usual, one arm slung lazily over Evan’s shoulder, the other precariously gripping a cup that’s already sloshed half its contents onto the floor. He’s talking animatedly about something but Regulus has long since tuned out their conversation. Evan nods along with the kind of patience that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s heard the story.

“You could at least pretend to be enjoying yourself,” Barty nudges him with his elbow, practically yelling over the noise.

“I am enjoying myself,” Regulus replies dryly.

Evan raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Tell your face that.”

Regulus rolls his eyes and sips his drink, mostly to avoid replying. It's too sweet. Whatever it is, someone’s spiked it. He can feel the artificial warmth in his throat, the kind that makes people think they’re having fun when really they’re just sweating under too many enchantments and bad lighting.

He finishes the drink then sets the empty cup on a windowsill behind him. The warmth is already dissipating, leaving a headache in its place.

“I’m going,” he announces.

Evan blinks. “You just got here.”

“Exactly,” Regulus says, already stepping away from the wall. “I fulfilled the social requirement. Now I’m free.”

Barty rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop him.

Regulus slips through the crowd, brushing past two Hufflepuffs locked in what can only be described as a dramatic interpretation of a romance novel. Subtlety, clearly, isn’t part of their vocabulary.

The air feels thinner as soon as he gets out the door, like the classroom’s been pressing in on him the entire time. The corridor is dim and quiet- mercifully so. Regulus takes a breath, slower this time, finally able to think without the thump of music rattling through his skull.

He turns toward the stairs, already thinking about the blessed silence and his own bed. But he only makes it a few steps before movement in his peripheral vision halts him.

There’s someone leaning against the far wall, half-slouched beneath a flickering torch. Regulus pauses, squints.

Potter.

It takes him a second to really register it. James is half in shadow, his back against the stone, but his head hung low. His hair’s an absolute mess- worse than usual- and his shirt is rumpled, only half-buttoned.

There’s a drink in his hand, but it hangs forgotten at his side, tilted just enough that a bit has soaked into his cuff. He looks... off. His face is flushed, but not with the cheerful, overconfident expression Regulus is used to seeing on him. No- Potter looks like something’s been broken open.

Something tightens in his chest before he can name it. The sensible thing to do would be to walk away, leave the moment behind like he always does. But then James’s head lifts.

And their eyes meet.

Regulus keeps his voice even, almost bored. “Potter.” He says in acknowledgment.

For a moment, James doesn’t say anything. His eyes flicker, searching Regulus’s face like he’s looking for something that isn’t there- or for something that he hopes to be there. Then, like a dam breaking, his expression shifts and a sharp, bitter laugh escapes him. It’s not the usual bright, teasing grin, but something rawer, edged with frustration.

“That’s it? Just ‘Potter’?” he says, voice rough. “What, after two? Three weeks of talking, that’s not enough to be on a first name basis?”

Regulus narrows his eyes. James is far too drunk right now. And quite frankly, Regulus can’t bring himself to care about Potter’s random emotional unraveling. So without another word, he starts to turn away.

Potter lurches a step forward, voice slurred but sharp enough to stop him. “How do you do that? How do you just not care? How are you so fucking good at walking away?”

Regulus freezes mid-step. His spine straightens and his shoulders draw back. He flexes his right hand once before turning back, movements slow and deliberate.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He snaps, voice low but seething.

Potter steps closer again, not quite steady on his feet, but determined anyway. “You! You’re my problem.” He snaps right back, voice harsher than Regulus has ever heard from him.

Regulus blinks, caught off guard, but James barrels on, words tumbling out in a rush.

“I go up to that bloody tower every night. Only for you to say three words and vanish, and then I go back like a bleeding idiot hoping you’ll say four.”

Regulus scoffs sharply. “So don’t come.”

The words shoot out before he can temper them, and a flicker of pain flashes across James’s face. Potter has always worn his emotions too openly- especially like this, half-drunk and teetering on the edge of something pathetic. Regulus sees it, registers it, and for a split second, something in him twists. But he ignores it. Buries it. He’s already drawn blood; might as well finish the cut.

“I never even asked you to come,” he goes on, voice cold and controlled, his practiced voice. Regulus is the one advancing now, each step deliberate. “Not once. And yet, you show up every time- invading my space, then acting wounded when I leave.”

James flinches.

Regulus huffs out a sharp breath, exasperated and quite frankly confused with this whole conversation. He takes one last step forward, until there’s barely any space between them. “So I don’t know what I did to damage your precious fucking ego, Potter, but clearly you’re drunk. So do us both a favour and sleep it off.”

They’re close enough now that Regulus can see the way James’s throat moves when he swallows, the faint lines between his brows, and the frustration brimming behind his eyes.

Potter just stares at him, his expression cycling through emotions too quickly to pin down- anger, hurt, sadness, but then they fade, bleeding into something softer, almost pleading.

“Then tell me to stop,” James says, voice low, stripped of heat now, raw in a way that feels startling. There’s no bite in it, no bravado. Just quiet sincerity, like he’s offering something Regulus doesn’t know how to take.

Regulus blinks. The words don’t register at first- don’t make sense in the way they’re meant to. Or maybe they do, and he just doesn’t want to hear them. His breath catches, just slightly, but his expression stays cold.

“I just did.” he says flatly.

But it doesn’t land. Not like he wants it to.

Potter doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just holds Regulus’s gaze, stubborn in that infuriating way of his, like he’s waiting for him to finally be honest.

And they’re close. Far too close. Regulus can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of James’s sleeve against his own, the smell of firewhisky and pine soap clinging to his skin. He could count the freckles across James’s nose if he wanted to.

“Not like that,” Potter says, quieter this time, barely above a breath. “Not to push me away. Not to hurt me. I mean… if you actually want me gone.”

Regulus inhales, too shallow, lungs barely catching the air. James’s breath fans across his face, warm and laced with whatever he’s been drinking, but it’s not the alcohol making the room feel thick. It’s him.

It’s the way James is looking at him now- not angry, not even sad. Just… steady. Unflinching. Like he’s made up his mind about something, and Regulus is the last to know.

He can’t answer that question. Not truthfully. So he says the next thing he can reach for.

“I’m not some project, Potter,” he snaps, but it lacks any bite. It sounds to hollow even to his own ears. “This thing- whatever it is that you’re doing. I’m not Sirius. I’m not another Black brother that you can save.”

There’s a pause where James just looks at him in that classic Potter stare. He studies Regulus like he’s trying to see past the surface, past the sharp edges and rehearsed indifference. Like he already knows there’s something else beneath it all- he just doesn’t know what yet.

The silence stretches between them, taut and humming. And then James speaks, barely above a whisper, breath fanning across Regulus’s face.

“Do you need to be saved?”

James’s words land like a curse to the chest- quiet, but far too direct. Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. For a moment, he feels that sharp familiar pain shoot from his palm, he flexes it once before straightening and tightening his jaw.

He blinks, slow and deliberate. “No.”

A lie, maybe. Or maybe not. He’s not sure himself. But it’s the only word he can force out, even if his voice is hallow while saying it.

“And if this is all some twisted mission to fix me, Potter,” he says, voice colder now. “Then you should stop showing up.”

The moment the words leave him, the pain shifts, subtly but unmistakable. The dull ache that's been pulsing in his hand, buried beneath his anger, suddenly eases.

Potter stills.

His expression flickers- sharp and stricken, like he’s just been slapped- but he doesn’t speak. Just stares, like he’s waiting for Regulus to take it back.

He doesn’t.

He also doesn’t wait for a reply. He brushes past Potter, steps measured and spine held straight.

By the time he reaches the corner, the ache has dulled again- back to its usual pain. It’s still there though- always there. Manageable now. Buried.

Notes:

Regulus Black: secret hospital job that even his best friends didn’t know about. Only showed up to the party to ‘fulfill the social requirement.” (Let’s be honest here, it was for Eva.)

Meanwhile, James Potter: absolutely no filter, zero chill, and currently operating at maximum vulnerability thanks to Firewhisky and feelings™. He’s the literary equivalent of a “Live Laugh Love” sign if it also punched you in the heart.

Also, let’s all take a moment for James realizing—finally—that maybe this thing with Regulus isn’t just curiosity or Sirius-adjacent guilt. No. It’s ✨emotions✨. My boy’s in love and doesn’t even know what to do with it except show up uninvited, stare longingly, and hope Regulus catches the vibe.

Regulus, however, nearly walked out on James’s little emotional breakdown like it was a mildly inconvenient class discussion.

And then—

“Do you need to be saved?”

—yeah, that one hurt me too. Regulus may be emotionally suppressed, but damn he clocked James on that one.

Anyway.

Thanks for reading. Next chapter we follow Mr. “I’m Fine™” to his secret sad-boy lair.

Stay tuned. :p

Chapter 10: Choices

Notes:

Okay wow it’s been a while since I last updated, sorry about that. My finals season has just ended so I’ll have more time to write. Since it’s summer now I will probably post a chapter once a week let’s say—for now—every Tuesday. I don’t actually know if I’ll stick to that and I honestly might post two a week, it really depends.

All that being said this is a very long chapter and so a lot of trigger warnings 😬

TW’s for this chapter:
Swearing
Depictions of torture
Abandonment issues
Bigotry
Massacres
Terrorists
Talk of killing people for sport

I think that’s it

Enjoy :))

He turns the corner and keeps walking, his footsteps echoing against the stone. Regulus half-expects to hear James behind him—charging after him like he always does, full of dramatics and big speeches and feelings he clearly hasn’t figured out how to manage.

But nothing comes. Just the soft tap of his own shoes and the distant dripping of old pipes overhead.

James had said that if Regulus told him to go, told him to stop, he would. And apparently, he meant it.

Fine.

Regulus doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Doesn’t let his mind circle back to the way Potter had looked at him, like he was trying to see through him. Like he actually gave a shit. That kind of thing never leads anywhere good.

He turns another corner to the dungeons, but he doesn’t go to the Slytherin dorms. There are people there. Noisy, obnoxious, overgrown children who can’t tell their own mouths from their arses. Suffice to say he’s had enough of people tonight—enough of Gryffindors with hazel eyes, sharp but soft angles, and of voices that drop with emotion.

Enough of him.

Regulus keeps walking deeper into the castle, where the stones grow darker and the air thinner. His hand is still aching faintly—not as sharp now that he’s walked away. Maybe that’s all he needed. Space.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the dead-end corridor, dimly lit by a single flickering torch. To anyone else, there’s nothing here. Just stone and silence. But Regulus isn’t anyone else.

He draws his wand and raises it with a flick, not even bothering to speak the words aloud. He doesn’t need to—not anymore. Silent casting used to feel like a challenge, something sharp and difficult and finicky. But now? Now it’s second nature. The movement flows out of him without hesitation, the magic following so quickly, so smoothly, that he barely has to think about the action. It doesn’t feel like casting so much as breathing. The spell slips out like instinct, quiet and familiar, like it’s always been there, just beneath his skin.

It’s cleaner this way. Quieter. More controlled. And there’s a strange satisfaction in that—something private, something entirely his.

The wall ripples, then peels away like mist parting at sea, revealing the hidden wooden door set into black stone.

The room is supposed to be empty. But when Regulus opens the door and steps inside, someone’s already there.

“Eva?”

She’s sitting cross-legged on one of the long tables, surrounded by open books and crumpled parchment. Her hair is half up, half falling into her eyes, and she’s scribbling something down furiously—only to snap upright at his voice.

“Oh hey,” she says, blinking. Then her expression shifts into something mock-serious. “You weren’t supposed to come here tonight, mister.” She wags a very non-menacing finger at him. “You were supposed to be out socializing. Mingling. Engaging in the thrilling world of adolescent joy.”

“I did.” He grumbles as he walks towards the table. He drops into the chair with a sigh that’s more tired than annoyed. “It was loud. And sticky. And there were too many people breathing near me.”

Eva snorts. “So… wildly successful, then?”

Regulus casts her a look, but there’s no real heat to it. “Why are you here?”

She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “I couldn’t sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut up. Figured I might as well try to make progress on this cursed diadem of doom before it starts whispering to me in my sleep.”

His eyes flick automatically to the object in question—still in its enchanted box, still faintly humming with that strange, unnerving energy. The lid is cracked open. He frowns.

“You left it out?”

“It’s in the box,” she says, a bit defensively. “Technically.”

Regulus flicks his wand. The books in front of her whisk themselves into a neat pile, and the box slides into his hands. He closes the lid fully, then stands to tuck it into the cupboard they keep locked at the back of the room.

Eva rolls her eyes. “You’re such a control freak.”

“Better than being whispered to in my sleep.” He replies in a mocking tone, already pulling his wand out again.

He arcs his wand over the pile of books and watches as they morph midair, twisting and stretching until they reshape into tall, vaguely human dummies, charred in places from past curses. They land on the floor with a thud, all lined up against the far wall.

She perks up. “Practice?”

Regulus nods, giving one last flick of his wand to move the tables and chairs out from the middle of the room.

Over the past two weeks, between their increasingly infrequent research sessions, Regulus has been teaching Eva spells. Curses, defences, they’ve even dabbled in some potions.

Surprisingly enough it hadn’t even been Eva who’d asked him to. He’d done it on his own accord, ever since he taught her the ward for the door, he’d been completely willing to teach her anything she’d asked. Honestly though, most of them were his own ideas. He doesn’t know why but it feels oddly grounding to pass something on. Like he's not just collecting everything in his head and letting it rot there.

Today, he has something new.

“This one’s trickier,” he says, raising his wand and stepping a bit closer to the first dummy. “It’s meant to disarm and stun at the same time—short burst of energy, but you have to get the timing right or it just fizzles out.”

He demonstrates, a quick, calculated motion. A flash of light bursts from his wand, colliding with the dummy’s chest in a loud crack. The impact knocks it backwards into the stone wall, where it slumps, smoking slightly.

Eva makes an impressed sound from behind him. “Bloody hell, Reg.”

“Try not to light your eyebrows on fire,” he mutters, stepping aside.

She hops off the table where she’d been half-hazardly sitting on just a moment ago and draws her wand, standing beside him now. “Alright. So it’s like—Expelliarmus and Stupefy had a baby and it hates me?”

“Essentially.”

He watches as she takes a stance, one foot slightly forward, wand held too tightly. She tries the spell, but her timing’s off—there’s a bright spark, a little fizz of magic—and nothing.

Regulus doesn’t say anything.

Eva groans and resets. “Again.” She grumbles to herself. She knows the drill by now. The first try is hardly ever any good. Nor is the second or third. But if you don’t keep trying you’ll never know if that next try was the one.

Her next curse hits, but the force is off. The dummy’s arm twitches and a corner of its shoulder darkens with smoke, but it doesn’t fall.

She mutters something under her breath, probably unkind, and tries again. Still nothing.

“Stop gripping your wand like it’s a sword,” Regulus says finally, stepping towards her and guiding her fingers around her wand to loosen. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Maybe because I’m trying not to fry myself alive.”

He ignores that. “It’s about rhythm. Let the energy collect—don’t force it, or it’ll backfire. Literally.”

She exhales slowly, nods once, and tries again.

This time the spell connects—less power than his, but enough to knock the dummy’s wand loose and send it staggering.

Eva lets out a triumphant noise and a satisfied “Ha!”

Regulus watches as the dummy wobbles for a second, then gives a slight nod of approval. “Better.”

Eva glances sideways at him. “You mean that?”

He shrugs, already moving to reset the stance of the dummy with a flick of his wand. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it.”

“High praise,” she laughs out.

Somewhere between curse number eighteen and Eva being blown across the room with a backwards shock, she yells: “I’m naming this one Rowen, and Rowen deserved that.”

Regulus raises a brow, amused. “What did Rowen ever do to you?”

Eva dusts herself off with dramatic flair. “He exists. That’s enough.”

She flops back onto the table like she’s just returned from war, then adds, “Also, he’s in my Herbology class and once said aloud, and I quote: ‘Girls aren’t built for advanced magical botany because their hands are too small to handle mandrakes properly.’”

Regulus pauses. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” she grumbles. “Then last week he accidentally spilled bubotuber pus on my notes and had the audacity to say it improved my handwriting.”

Regulus’s face goes flat. “And this person is still breathing?”

“Unfortunately,” Eva mutters, narrowing her eyes at the dummy now known as Rowen. “But not for long if I master this curse.”

Regulus huffs a quiet laugh, stepping up beside her again.

 

~~~~

 

True enough to his word, Potter hasn’t come back to the tower.

It’s been three nights since Regulus told him to stop showing up. Three nights where the Astronomy Tower has been—mercifully, infuriatingly—quiet. No loud sounds of footsteps. No casual, uninvited chatter cutting through the silence. No James Potter, leaning far too close for comfort.

He hasn’t said a word to Regulus since. Not outside the tower, not in passing. Not in Potions, where he sits two tables behind him, far enough to pretend Regulus isn’t there—but not far enough that Regulus can’t feel his eyes boring into him throughout the whole lesson.

He hasn’t so much as looked at him for too long. At least—not when he thinks Regulus is watching. But every time he catches Potters eyes staring at him—he looks away.

Now it’s the fourth night.

Regulus leans against the ledge, arms folded over the railing, and scowls at the constellations as if it’s their fault the silence feels so loud.

The Astronomy Tower is unusually still tonight. The wind is gentler, the air colder, and even though the end of September is drawing near, the sky is clearer than it’s been in days. Stars blink overhead like they know they’re being watched. It should be peaceful. Should feel like routine.

But it doesn’t.

He doesn’t even know when or why he started coming here in the first place. It had started gradually, sometime in first year—once a week, maybe. Usually out of obligation, to finish the odd Astronomy assignment or memorize star charts for a test. It was a place that felt disconnected from the castle, far from the noise of the Slytherin common room and any drama that may come with it.

Then, over the years, it became habit. Familiar. His place.

By third year he started slipping away more often, with or without homework. Just to breathe. By fourth, it was a near-nightly routine. But fifth year was different.

He didn’t go at all that first month back. Not once.

It wasn't because he'd grown out of it—if anything, he needed the stillness more than ever—but the thought of looking up at the sky made something twist in his chest. The constellations, once a place to get lost in, now felt like they were watching him back. Judging.

There were names up there he couldn’t bear to see.

He wasn’t ready to trace the stars and find that one—burning too bright, too familiar. The one that had disappeared from the house tapestry and reappeared above him instead.

So he stayed away. Spent his evenings in the library, in the common room, anywhere with a ceiling.

Eventually, he came back. The stars were still there, indifferent as always. But something about the sky didn’t feel quite the same anymore.

And neither did the tower.

And then James Potter had shown up, completely uninvited, and slowly began filling the silence.

But now here Regulus is again. Alone.

For some reason, it feels like he’s missing something he never agreed to want in the first place.

He hadn’t thought James would listen when he told him to go. Not really. Not when he never did before.

Regulus swallows hard and straightens. It’s been nearly an hour and he should go to bed. No reason to linger—he’s not expecting anything. He’s not hoping for anything, either.

He turns and starts down the stairs, absently rubbing at his right palm. His footsteps echo softly, no voices, no movement. He rounds the last curve of the stairwell and stops short.

There’s a figure at the base of the stairs—slouched, not quite blocking the way, but unmistakably waiting. A mop of loose curly brown hair catches the faint orange torchlight, and Regulus feels the breath knock out of him in a quiet, undignified rush.

Potter.

His heart kicks. It’s instinct, a trained kind of alarm, but he slows it in a second.

James looks up quickly. “Sorry,” he says hastily, like he wasn’t expecting to have to encounter Regulus so soon. “I know. I know you told me to stop showing up. I wasn’t going to. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair. His robes are wrinkled and he doesn’t have a coat, just his uniform shirt half-tucked into his trousers, collar slightly askew. “I just need to ask you something.”

Regulus’s eyes narrow, the space behind his ribs tightening.

James’s hands twitch at his sides, then curl into fists. “Do you—do you actually believe all that shit they say?” His voice isn’t angry, just hesitant. “About blood. Purity. Worth.”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. He descends the final few steps slowly, the stone cool beneath his shoes, his eyes fixed on James. But he leaves a space between them, barely a few feet though it feels like a canyon.

He tilts his head slightly, considering James. “Would it change anything?”

Potter blinks, caught off guard by the question. “Maybe.”

Regulus huffs a short breath, but there’s no real amusement in it. He flexes his right hand before replying.

“If I said yes,” he says evenly, “you’d walk away?”

James meets his gaze, jaw tight. “If you said yes and meant it, yeah.”

The words land with a strange weight. A quiet finality in them. But Regulus doesn’t move. He just looks at Potter. A part of him wants to lie. Wants to say yes and see if James really would just leave.

But Regulus doesn’t lie, not this time, though he doesn’t know why.

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

He watches as something in James’s shoulders releases. Not relief, exactly. Just... less tension. Like he’d been bracing for worse.

Regulus shifts his weight slightly, eyes still fixed on James. “I don’t care about that,” he says again, a little firmer this time. “I never have.”

James looks at him for a moment, like he’s waiting to make sure it’s not some kind of trick. Then he glances away, jaw shifting like he’s biting back a thousand words. When he finally looks back, there’s something unreadable etched across his face. He nods once. “Okay.”

Regulus narrows his eyes slightly, unsure what he’d expected—an argument, maybe, or some dramatic proclamation. Of course, Potter would choose silence when it’s least convenient.

“Right,” he says, flatly. “Well, this has been a delight but I’m off to bed.”

He turns without waiting for a response and starts walking, his footsteps quiet on the stone floor. But he only makes it a few steps before light spills around the far corner—the warm glow of a lantern—followed by fast footsteps and the unmistakable clicking of claws on stone.

He stops.

“I know you saw someone, nasty little lawbreakers—always sneaking off, thinking I don’t know—” Filch’s voice cuts through the air, ragged and muttering, getting louder by the second as it echoes between the stone columns.

Before Regulus can react, a hand closes firmly around his wrist and yanks him back. He stumbles, barely catching himself as James pulls him behind one of the broader support pillars tucked into the shadows of the corridor.

“James—” he begins sharply, but James is already moving. He fumbles inside his pocket, and a moment later there’s a flick of silver as his invisibility cloak unfurls, catching the torchlight and flashing like liquid metal. With one swift motion, James swings it over them both, and the world dulls instantly.

The change is disorienting. The air around them feels denser somehow, muffled. The torchlight that lit the hallway just moments ago now glows faint and far off, dimming in a haze.

All outside sounds dull, as if cushioned, Filch’s footsteps still echo down the hall, but they seem farther away now, like they’re coming through water.

Regulus remembers the strange softness of the cloak from the last time he wore it. But that time, he was alone. Now, there’s James—pressed up beside him, warm and solid and far too close. The air under the cloak is stifling. Every breath Regulus takes brushes the edge of James’s collarbone. Every shift of weight has them brushing elbows, shoulders, hips.

He tries not to move.

James is focused on adjusting the cloak’s edge, making sure their feet aren’t visible. Regulus watches him—watches the line of his jaw, watches the tiny freckle beneath his left eye that you’d never notice from across a room but is impossible to ignore from here.

Regulus’s heart is beating so loudly in his chest that he’s certain James can hear it.

Regulus’s hand is still half-raised from when James grabbed him. He lowers it carefully, his knuckles brushing James’s chest. The only sound is their breathing, and the faint rustle of James’s sleeve as he finally stills.

James finishes adjusting the cloak, then glances down—his eyes meeting Regulus’s. For a moment, he just stares. The space between them is barely a breath, but the weight of the silence makes it feel even tighter. He inhales sharply, something flickering across his face. Then, in a voice barely audible beneath the cloak, he whispers, “You called me James.”

Regulus stiffens.

Before he can respond, footsteps grow louder—closer—echoing against the stone walls, followed by the low muttering of Filch’s voice.

“Shh,” Regulus hisses under his breath, instinctively snapping his gaze toward the corridor.

“I—” James starts again, voice softer but still insistent, but Regulus reacts faster.

He claps a hand over James’s mouth, palm pressed firm, fingers brushing against his jaw. It’s meant to be practical, necessary, but the heat of James’s skin under his hand sends a bolt of awareness through him.

“Don’t,” Regulus murmurs, barely moving his lips. His voice is sharp but quiet. “Do not get us caught because you can’t stop talking for two seconds.”

He doesn’t dare glance at James, but he can feel the way he’s smiling against his hand—like this is amusing.

Infuriating.

If he had room, he’d have silenced him with a spell, but in the tight space between pillar and wall, surrounded by folds of cloak and James’s maddening presence, his wand might as well be a mile away.

So instead, they both stay still—frozen in the dark, breathing each other’s air, waiting.

Mrs. Norris rounds the corner first, tail flicking with suspicion as she sniffs at the stone floor. Filch follows close behind, his lantern swinging in one hand and casting uneven shadows up the walls. His eyes are narrowed to slits behind smudged spectacles.

“Always think they’re clever, sneakin’ off like I don’t know,” he mutters darkly, peering down the corridor like he’s hoping to catch someone mid-sprint.

He pauses a few feet away, squinting into the gloom. Mrs. Norris comes to a stop directly in front of the pillar hiding them, her yellow eyes sharp and unblinking.

“Go on, girl,” Filch says, nudging her with his toe. “Where are they?”

Regulus’s breath hitches. His body tenses as if sheer stillness might make them more invisible than they already are. Beside him, James remains infuriatingly calm—too calm, like he’s enjoying this. Regulus still has his hand clamped around James’s mouth so he can feel when the corner of James’s mouth twitch’s into a smile. He shoots him a sharp glare—a silent warning not to say a single word. The message is clear even without words: Don’t. You. Dare. James doesn’t speak, but his grin deepens.

Regulus has never had a detention before, and he doesn’t intend to break that streak tonight. Potter, on the other hand, holds what must be a school-wide record for most hours served. Regulus has no desire to join his legacy—least of all by getting caught skulking around after curfew with him.

Mrs. Norris’s tail flicks once—twice—before she lifts her head, sniffing the air again. She inches closer, paws silent on the stone, and stops just a breath away from the hem of the cloak. Regulus unconsciously shifts, pressing closer into James. His shoulder brushes James’s chest, his jaw nearly touching the collar of James’s coat.

He can feel James's breath hitch this time. But the bastard is still amused.

Mrs. Norris stares directly at them for a long, dreadful moment—too long. Regulus swears she can see through the magic, or she smells them, he worries that she’s going to claw the cloak off and ruin everything.

But then she huffs, a disgruntled little noise, and turns sharply on her paws, stalking back to Filch’s feet.

“Hmph,” Filch mutters. “Bloody ghosts, always mucking about.”

He turns on his heel, lantern swinging again, and begins trudging back down the corridor. Mrs. Norris follows, glancing over her shoulder one last time before disappearing around the corner.

It takes another full minute before the sound of their footsteps disappears entirely. The corridor falls quiet again.

Regulus exhales slowly, only now realizing he’s been holding his breath the entire time. His palm is still pressed over James’s mouth—warm, slightly damp, the hush between them stretching thin—and when he finally looks up, James’s eyes are bright with mischief, a spark of amusement dancing in them. He’s still grinning like this is the funniest thing ever.

Regulus pulls his hand back quickly the moment he registers how long his hand had lingered, and wipes it—without ceremony—on the front of James’s shirt.

The motion is brisk, meant to be dismissive and indifferent but the contact lingers just long enough for him to register the warmth beneath the fabric.

It’s solid under his palm—steadier than he’d expected. Muscle, of course. Because of course James has to be built like he’s starring in some glorified wizard Quidditch league. He’s not surprised, not really, but it’s irritating to notice all the same.

For a moment, Regulus almost lets his fingers linger, curiosity tugging at him about how the fabric might feel beneath his touch. But just as quickly, he pulls away, mentally scolding himself for the pointless distraction. He begins to fully retract his hand, only for James to catch it before it can slip free. His fingers close around Regulus’s wrist—firm, steady, yet slow—like he’s deliberately holding onto the moment a little longer than necessary.

“You called me James,” he says again, his voice low and far too pleased with himself.

Regulus meets his gaze, expression flat but his eyes sharp. “If you’re that easily pleased, Potter,” he says, putting emphasis on the name just to make a point. “Then I shudder to think what the rest of your life must be like.”

James’s grin only stretches wider. “It’s looking up,” he replies smoothly.

Regulus rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck.

James simply grins, then he gestures with his head, the invisibility cloak still draped loosely over them. “Come on,” he says, his voice lower now, less flirtatious and more practical. “Filch might double back.”

Regulus raises a brow but doesn’t argue. He should protest—he doesn’t need a bloody escort—but James is already steering them down the corridor, a warm hand just brushing the small of his back, guiding him. James only lets it linger for a second before smartly retracting it.

Touch usually sets him on edge—something about it always feels invasive, too intimate, like it demands more of him than he’s willing to give. Even the casual kind, a hand on his shoulder or a brush of fingers, tends to make his skin crawl. It’s not fear exactly. Just a learned discomfort, something bone-deep and conditioned.

But Regulus hates how much he didn’t hate that.

They walk in silence, footfalls muffled beneath the cloak. The castle is hushed at this hour, the torches dimming low in their brackets. Every creak and groan of old stone seems louder in the absence of chatter and footsteps. Regulus doesn’t usually mind the quiet. But James breathes beside him like he has something to say.

Surprisingly enough, James doesn’t say anything until they arrive at the dungeons.

They reach the wall that leads down to the Slytherin quarters, James stops walking but doesn’t step back. They're still close beneath the cloak, shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath.

“Here you are,” James says softly.

Regulus turns slightly toward him, and their eyes meet again.

There’s a beat of silence where Regulus doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t know what to say. This whole thing feels too awkward, too formal.

Seemingly realizing that Regulus isn’t going to speak, James does, “Goodnight, Regulus.”

Regulus hesitates. “Goodnight James.”

James smiles widely, large and lopsided.

He pulls the cloak off with one practiced motion, and Regulus watches the light shift back around him. The moment breaks, but something lingers. And when Regulus turns to go down the stairs, he feels James’s gaze stay on him the whole way.

 

~~~~

 

Interlude- Evan’s POV

Evan had woken up to Barty slipping into his bed again. To be fair, Barty had done it quietly—moving with the kind of practiced care that suggested he was trying not to wake him. But Barty could never really go unnoticed. Even when he just walked into a room, Evan’s attention shifted. So when that familiar weight dipped the mattress beside him, there was no pretending to sleep. Not really. Not when it was Barty.

He used to jokingly protest—half-hearted things like “You’ve got your own bed, you know,” or “I’m not your emotional support pillow.” But Barty never listened, and Evan stopped pretending he minded.

Because he doesn’t. Not really.

What gets him isn’t the closeness, or even the fact that Barty only does this when something’s wrong. It’s the way Barty always curls in without thinking, like this is just what they do. Like Evan’s not holding his breath every time. It’s the ease of it all. That’s what makes it hard.

Having a massive crush on Barty since fourth year had been easy enough to ignore—back when they had their own beds, their own boundaries, and Barty wasn’t constantly invading his space like it belonged to him. But then Barty had apparently decided that personal space was optional, and somewhere along the line, slipping into Evan’s bed became a kind of unspoken ritual.

Of course Evan knows why. It’s the nightmares—dark, tangled things Barty never talks about. Visions laced with his father’s voice: sharp, unforgiving, impossible to outrun. Evan knows because he’s seen the aftermath too many times—the clenched jaw, the thousand-yard stare, the flicker of rage behind Barty’s eyes barely held in check.

And lately, it’s only gotten worse. The nights come more often now, and when they do, Barty just climbs in, silent and exhausted, and wraps himself around Evan like he’s anchoring himself to something solid. Something real.

Which unfortunately means Evan’s the one left trying to breathe normally while Barty sleeps half on top of him—warm and oblivious—as if they’re just friends. As if this doesn’t mean anything. But it does. At least, to Evan.

Right now, Barty is curled into him—cheek pressed to Evan’s chest, one arm slung carelessly across his waist, just another Tuesday night. And maybe for Barty, it is.

But for Evan, it’s torture. Quiet, aching, slow-burning torture.

The real issue—and there are several—is that Evan’s entire body is painfully aware of Barty’s. Every time Barty shifts a little closer, mumbles something in his sleep, or exhales against his collarbone, Evan has to mentally walk himself off a ledge.

He remembers the first time Barty came to him like this—after a nightmare, quiet and shaken, standing by Evan’s bed like he didn’t know where else to go. Evan had always known Barty had nightmares. Sometimes Barty forgot to put a silencing charm over his bed at night, and both Evan and Regulus would wake to the screams—tortured, inhuman sounds, like a hellhound howling through the dormitory. Sounds that had no business coming from a thirteen-year-old boy.

But the first night Barty climbed into bed with him was just after Christmas break, fourth year. He hadn’t said anything at first—just sat down on the edge of Evan’s bed, shoulders hunched and fingers digging into the blanket like he wasn’t sure if he was staying.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said something about his father. Evan still doesn’t know if Barty had been talking about something that actually happened or just the afterimage of a nightmare.

But he hadn’t asked for details. He didn’t need them.

Barty had looked like someone on the edge of something, and Evan had just lifted the covers without a word. That was all it took. And maybe that’s the most dangerous part—how easily Evan let him in.

By then, he’d already had a crush on Barty for a few months. He’d tried to will it away—successfully, at times. Or so he thought. But it turns out it's hard to kill a crush when the person you’re trying not to want starts showing up in the middle of the night and falling asleep on your chest.

It was one thing to spend his days watching Barty from across common rooms and corridors. But once Barty started taking over his nights too—soft breathing, steady heartbeat, weight pressed against him—Evan didn’t stand a chance.

He hadn’t told anyone else he was gay—except for Pandora. She’s the only one who knows everything. Maybe it’s because she’s family and they’ve always been close, sharing whispered secrets in their rooms at home and then later, in the quiet hours when the castle slept. Or maybe because she simply understands without judgment. When Evan finally admitted to liking Barty, Pandora didn’t bat an eye—just smiled and told him, “About time.”

Evan doesn’t actually know if he’s fully gay, at Hogwarts, no one really labels their sexuality as anything beyond “straight,” and even though Evan knows more nuanced terms from the muggle world, those didn’t exactly feel like they fit here.

He’d liked girls before, even dated one last year, though it hadn’t lasted long—she’d gotten upset when he told her she couldn’t sleep over, since that space was already reserved for Barty.

Now, as if sensing his thoughts, Barty stirs on his chest, mumbling something incoherent before shifting his leg so it practically wraps around Evan’s waist.

Evan freezes and stares harder at the ceiling like it’s personally offended him, willing himself not to react, not to feel how warm Barty is or how the weight of his thigh settles against him like it belongs there. His arm tightens slightly around Evan’s middle, his breath brushing the side of Evan’s neck in slow, steady waves.

This is fine. Completely fine.

Evan swallows hard and shifts just enough to try and make space between them—but Barty only makes a faint noise of protest and clings tighter, like Evan is a pillow he's intent on suffocating in his sleep.

Barty shifts again, a low breath catching in his throat, and for a second Evan thinks he’s still asleep—until Barty lifts his head sluggishly and blinks at him through a curtain of brown hair.

“Mm,” Barty grunts. “What time is it?”

Evan doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy trying not to react to the literal weight of the boy practically draped over him. “Late,” he mutters finally. “Or early.”

Barty hums again before letting his head drop back onto Evan’s chest with a tired sigh. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” Another lie. Barty always wakes him. Crawling into his bed in the middle of the night—cold, and shaking, too proud to admit to what chased him there.

Barty’s hand fists lightly in the fabric of Evan’s shirt, like anchoring himself there without thinking. Evan can feel each breath Barty takes against his ribs.

“They’re getting worse,” Barty mumbles, almost too quiet to catch. He doesn’t specify what they are. He doesn’t need to.

Evan hesitates. His hand hovers—uncertain—then settles lightly against Barty’s back. Just for a second. Just to say: I know.

Barty exhales shakily, like he’s been holding it in for too long. “I hate sleeping.”

“I know,” Evan says, this time his response is verbal. And he does. There’s silence for a bit. Just Barty breathing. Just Evan not letting himself think too hard about the weight across his chest or the way Barty’s leg is still looped casually around him like it belongs there.

The problem is that it kind of does.

But the real problem is that it doesn’t mean anything. Not to Barty.

But to Evan—it means too much. And he’s so, so tired of pretending it doesn’t.

Barty shifts again, his knee nudging higher against Evan’s hip, his hand curling slightly in the fabric of Evan’s shirt. “You don’t have to let me do this, you know. I’d get it.”

“Do what?” Evan asks, keeping his voice light even though something in his chest tightens.

“This.” Barty lifts his head slightly, glancing down at their bodies tangled together, the thin space—or lack thereof—between them. “Letting me be in your bed every other night like some kind of stray.”

“Yeah, well,” Evan mutters, “you bite less than a cat.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me in third year.”

“I did. That’s how I know.”

Barty snorts. His head drops back down on Evan’s chest, and for a second, it’s easy to pretend this is normal. Like Evan isn’t hyper-aware of every breath they share.

“I’m serious, though,” Barty says quietly. “You don’t have to let me.”

“I want to,” Evan says before he can stop himself.

Barty glances back up.

“I mean—” Evan clears his throat, “I don’t mind. It’s fine.”

Barty doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares at him, long enough that Evan starts to feel it—feel the weight of it settling in his ribs.

“…It’s just—you’re the only place I sleep properly.” Barty mutters finally, voice barely audible.

Evan’s throat is suddenly too tight. “Then stay,” he replies softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Barty doesn’t answer. He just rests his head back down on Evan’s chest and curls his fingers lightly against his side—just enough to say he heard. The weight of him shifts, settling more comfortably across Evan like he’s finally letting himself breathe.

Neither of them says another word. The dorm is still and quiet, lit only by the faint spill of starlight through the window.

Evan stares at the ceiling, every nerve alive with the weight of Barty draped across him—the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of him, the way it all feels so familiar by now. Too familiar.

His eyes drift across the room. Regulus’s bed curtains are open.

A clear indication he’s not there—Regulus would never leave them open if he were sleeping.

Evan has no idea where he keeps disappearing to in the middle of the night. He’s always known that Regulus goes to the astronomy tower, ever since first year, but it was never this often, and never this late.

Maybe he’s staying longer. Or maybe he’s not going there at all anymore. Maybe he’s found someplace else.

It’s not for lack of trying to figure it out. He and Barty have pressed Regulus on it more than once, but he never slips. He never gives even a crack of an answer.

Dorcas has been trying, too—though for entirely different reasons. She’s convinced Regulus is seeing someone and has been interrogating him all week about “the girl” he supposedly took to the last Quidditch match.

Maybe that’s who he keeps sneaking off to meet.

The thought wedges itself into Evan’s mind with quiet irritation. They’re supposed to be friends—best friends—and for Regulus to not even share who he’s dating, if he’s dating anyone, feels like a betrayal. Or maybe not quite a betrayal, but something close. A pulling away. A wall that wasn’t always there but has been building brick by quiet brick.

It’s not like Evan expects Regulus to tell him everything. Regulus has always been private, always careful with what he gives away. But still. They used to talk more about real things. About feelings, sometimes. About the war, and what might happen after school, and the way their families expect too much of them.

Evan exhales, tired of the direction his thoughts keep taking. He’s too drained to keep spiraling over Regulus’s secrets or whatever late-night rendezvous he’s off having. He just wants to rest—wants a moment of quiet before the day pulls him under again.

He lets out a slow breath and closes his eyes, trying to focus on the warmth pressed against him instead—the steady weight of Barty curled close, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. The only thing in this room that feels constant.

Eventually, Barty’s breath also deepens. His grip loosens slightly, his whole body softening into sleep.

Evan lets his eyes fall shut, one hand resting lightly on Barty’s back, and lets himself drift too. It’s easier this way—to pretend that this means nothing, that this is temporary. That maybe, just for tonight, he can be enough.

~~~~

Evan wakes to sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the curtains. The warmth pressed against his side is still there.

Barty.

He’s half draped over Evan again, one arm slung across his waist. His hair is a mess, sticking up at strange angles, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. It would almost be endearing if it weren’t so infuriatingly domestic.

Evan stays there for a while, letting the early sunlight spill through the lake across the bed and warm the both of them. Barty's weight is still draped over him, steady and quiet in sleep, and for a moment Evan lets himself enjoy it—just this, just now.

But they’re going to miss breakfast if they don’t move soon.

He shifts slightly, voice still thick with sleep. “Barty.”

Barty groans and buries his face deeper into Evan’s chest. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“I didn’t even think I was conscious fifteen minutes ago.”

Evan huffs a laugh despite himself. “We’re going to miss breakfast.”

“Not if you carry me.”

Evan rolls his eyes and nudges Barty in the side. “Get up, you absolute nightmare.”

Barty groans dramatically but finally rolls off of him, sprawling briefly across the mattress before sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Evan follows, stretching his arms above his head before reaching for his uniform folded neatly at in his dresser.

Across the room, Regulus’s bed is empty—curtains wide open, blankets smoothed. Evan pauses as he pulls his jumper over his head.

“Where’s he gone off to?” He questions, mostly to himself.

Barty glances up. “Reg?”

“Yeah.”

“Probably off snogging his mystery girl,” Barty says with a lazy grin, tugging on his tie the wrong way around.

Evan doesn’t reply. He buttons his shirt with a faint shake of his head, eyes on the empty bed across from his.

Regulus Black, mysterious as ever.

By the time they arrive at the Great Hall, both Barty and Evan are fully awake.

It’s half-empty when they arrive, quieter than usual—just a few stragglers and bleary-eyed seventh-years clutching at their last minutes of sleep.

The air smells like toast and burnt coffee, and Evan finishes tying Barty’s tie before dropping into a seat next to Avery. Barty says a quiet thanks and then goes to sit across from him, next to Mulciber.

Evan’s not especially fond of either of them. But they’re Slytherins, and unfortunately, that means proximity.

“You hear?” Mulciber says without preamble, jerking his chin at the copy of the Daily Prophet spread open beside his plate. “They hit a whole Muggle village last night.”

The image is still moving—roofs collapsed, fires burning low, and people screaming.

Avery leans in, voice lowered but gleeful. “My uncle said we might get to join in on one over Christmas break. Not an official initiation, but a test run. If we do well—Dark Mark before summer.”

Barty looks up, eyes glittering. Evan recognizes the expression immediately—dangerous, bright, hungry. It’s the look he gets when he’s moments from setting something on fire just to see what’ll happen. “You think I could get in?” Barty asks, like it’s a challenge. “Even with my father working for the Ministry? And him not being a death eater and all.”

Evan lowers his toast. His appetite disappears.

Mulciber just grins smugly. “Sure you can,” he nudges against Barry’s shoulder. “If you stick by the right people.”

“And,” Avery chimes in. “It would be beneficial for the Dark Lord to have an insider on Ministry affairs.”

“You think he’d want me to play double agent?” Barty questions, curious but still eager.

“Maybe,” Avery shrugs before returning to his breakfast. “My father says it’s moving quicker than expected. The Dark Lord wants younger blood. New recruits. You’d be a perfect match.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Evan says finally, the first words he’s spoken since they say down. His voice is flat, but his hand tightens around his glass.

Mulciber shrugs. “Just figured it’s better if we’re all on the same side. Crouch’s eagerness speaks for itself. And you—well.” He smirks, eyes flicking to Avery, then back. “The Rosiers have always known where to place their bets.”

Evan swallows down the bitterness building in his throat.

“Besides,” Avery adds, biting into a sausage. “They’re not asking you to sign your name in blood. Not yet.”

“But eventually?” Evan says, sharper than intended.

“Eventually,” Mulciber confirms with a smile. “That’s the point.”

“I will,” Barty says at once. “Sign in blood, take the mark, whatever it takes to piss my father off.”

Evan shoots him a look. “Will you.”

Barty meets his gaze. “And you wouldn’t?”

Evan shrugs, but it’s careful. Controlled. “The Rosiers already pledged years ago. I don’t exactly get a choice.”

“That’s the point,” Mulciber says. “None of us do. It’s legacy.” He nudges Barty with his elbow. “But there’s a difference between being born into something, and being worthy of it.”

Barty nods at that and Evan can feel the tension shift. He recognizes the feeling—when Barty’s trying not to look like he cares too much, even though he absolutely does.

“I’m not interested in being handed anything.” Barty replies with a glint in his eyes. “I want to earn it.”

Evan looks down at his plate. His stomach turns. Not out of fear—he’s known his future was laid out for him since he was ten years old—but something else. Something heavier. He knows where the Rosiers stand. He knows what his father expects. But hearing Barty say it—so easily, so willingly—makes something cold settle in his chest.

“You don’t even know what they’ll ask of you,” Evan says, voice low.

Barty shrugs. “Don’t care. I’ll do it.”

There’s a pause. Avery picks up his goblet like it’s a toast. “Cheers to that.”

The rest of breakfast circles around the same topic, but Evan has long since tuned it out. He’s just waiting for it to end.

When Barty finally stands to go to class, they walk out together.

They’re barely out of the Great Hall before Evan grabs the sleeve of Barty’s robe and yanks him sideways, down a quiet corridor just off the main stairs. Barty lets himself be pulled, stumbling a bit as Evan rounds a corner and stops only once they’re out of earshot.

“Alright,” Evan says, turning to face him. “What the fuck was that?”

Barty raises his eyebrows, a smirk already forming. “You’re going to have to be more specific. I’m charming in many ways.”

Evan doesn’t take the bait. “You said you’d get the Dark Mark. Sign your name in blood. Join them.” He says sharply. “Since when?”

“Since I realized it might piss off my father enough for him to finally die of shame.” Barty leans back against the stone wall, folding his arms. “Besides, why do you care? You were always going to join, now we can do it together.”

Evan stares at him. “That’s your reason?” He asks sharply, pointedly ignoring the second part. “To piss off your father?”

Barty shrugs, all casual bravado. “Seems like a good one.”

“You don’t even believe in any of it,” Evan says, incredulous. “You’ve spent the last six years calling Mulciber a swamp rat and Avery a knockoff aristocrat.”

“Well,” Barty says, “they’re still both of those things. But if I’ve got to pick a side, I’d rather be feared than laughed at. Wouldn’t you?”

Evan steps closer, his chest nearly brushing against Barty’s, but it’s so different than how they were less than an hour ago. “You’re not picking a side. You’re choosing to be apart of a group of terrorists.” He scoffs, voice going low. “Seriously Barty, did you see the paper? You want to go around killing innocent muggles like that?”

Barty laughs coolly under his breath. “You sound like your sister.”

Evan stiffens. “Don’t bring Pandora into this.”

“This isn’t about the Dark Lord, Evan.“
Barty pushes off the wall slightly so they’re even closer. “This is about not turning into him.”

Evan stares at him, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “You think this makes you different from him? Joining a war just to get under his skin?” He shakes his head, voice dropping. “That doesn’t make you better, Barty. That makes you exactly like him.”

Barty flinches.

It’s a low blow and Evan knows, it’s only because he knows Barty so well that he can get under his skin like this.

Barty’s whole body tenses like a string pulled too tight. For a second, he just stands there, blinking like he’s been hit, the words echoing somewhere too close to bone. “Don’t say that,” Barty snaps, his hands curl into fists at his sides. “You don’t get to say that.”

Evan doesn’t move. “Why? Because it’s true?”

Barty’s jaw clenches. “Because you have no idea what it’s like—what he’s like.” His voice cracks on the last word, but he barrels through. “You don’t know what it’s like to be raised by a man who looks at you like a failed experiment,” he growls. “Who would rather see you dead than disobedient. You get to stand there with your perfect family and your golden legacy and pretend like this is just about some stupid rebellion—”

Evan laughs bitterly. “No. No, my family is not perfect, I don’t get to pretend like this is some stupid rebellion. And I don’t get a choice. But you do.” He jabs a finger into Barty’s chest. “You do get a choice, Barty.” He pulls back his finger as the fight drains from his voice, leaving something raw and serious behind. “So choose wisely.”

Barty’s chest rises and falls fast, his breath uneven, like the fight inside him hasn’t quieted. The echo of Evan’s words seems to cling to the walls, and Evan can see beneath the bravado, the defiant mask. There’s a flicker—brief, almost imperceptible—but it’s there: uncertainty, doubt, and something far deeper. Evan knows that look all too well. It’s the look of a boy carrying scars no one else sees. The bruises that don’t heal.

Barty swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a fragile boat on rough water. His eyes dart away, clouded and glistening with unshed tears, betraying the storm beneath his controlled exterior. When his gaze finds Evan’s again, it’s quieter now, vulnerable—bleary with exhaustion and fear. “I don’t know what the right choice is anymore,” he admits, voice cracking just slightly, the weight of his uncertainty pressing through. “Maybe there isn’t one.”

The corridor feels smaller, the air thickening around them. Evan’s heart tightens, and the hardness in his expression softens. Without overthinking it, he lifts a hand and gently cups Barty’s jaw. His skin is warm under Evan’s palm, soft to the touch, and the tension in Barty’s face melts almost instantly at the contact. Barty leans into the touch like it’s instinct. “Then wait. Don’t rush. You have time.” He lets the words linger, hoping they land where they need to. “Just—don’t make any decisions yet, okay?“

Barty exhales—slow, shaky. Then he takes a half-step forward and lets his forehead drop onto Evan’s shoulder, the weight of him folding in like a wave collapsing. He’s taller, so he has to tilt slightly to fit, his body curling just enough to close the space between them. Evan barely breathes.

There’s a brief hesitation, a stutter of time, and then Evan’s arms come up, tentative at first, then more certain as they wrap around Barty’s back. He can feel everything: the hard line of Barty’s spine, the twitch of muscle beneath his shirt, the uneven pace of his breath.

Barty’s hands don’t rise—they just stay limp at his sides—but his chest presses forward like he’s trying to sink into Evan’s warmth, to become small and quiet, just a moment.

Evan closes his eyes. His fingers spread slowly across the fabric of Barty’s shirt, which is slightly rumpled because Barty never folds his clothes. The scent of Barty’s shampoo—something herbal and sharp, like pine and mint—is faint but unmistakable, clinging to his collar. He feels the press of Barty’s heartbeat through the thin layers of fabric, fast and shallow. He’s shaking, only a little, but Evan feels it everywhere.

And then Barty lets out a sound—a quiet, choked thing, more breath than voice—and nods against Evan’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll wait.”

Evan doesn’t let go. Not right away.

And neither does Barty.

Notes:

Wowow a lot happened.

Regulus and Evaaa! Omg they are actually my favs, I can’t get over their friendship and how Eva is literally already learning advanced spells, like yes girl, curse at Rowen!

And then Reg and James 🙃 forced proximity is one of my favourite tropes can you tell? No but I actually love how Reg was stressing over his perfect record and James was just a grinning little shit.

And last but not least, Evan and Barty, I love them so much your honor. Barty is a complex character that’s for sure but I’m glad we got to explore more of that in this chapter!

Chapter 11: The Room of Requirement

Notes:

Okay so I’m only a day late on the update, better late than never🫣.

Also, quick side note—I literally just realized last week that Eva is alarmingly similar to Evan (as in Evan Rosier) and Evans (as in Lily Evans). Like I could have picked literally any name for her and I somehow landed on the ones that’s literally one letter off of two preexisting characters. Whoops 🤷‍♀️

TW’s for this chapter:
Swearing
Mild physical assault
Bullying and verbal harassment (includes sexist and blood-status related insults)
Mentions of emotional suppression/avoidance

I think that’s it?

Enjoy :)))

James walks beside Regulus down the dim corridor, their footsteps careful, it’s long past curfew, and neither of them is keen on being caught again.

Since Filch had nearly caught them, James has made a habit of walking Regulus back to the Slytherin dorms. It’s the third time now. A new addition to their evenings. A few more minutes where James can steal glances under the soft flicker of torchlight—can simply look at Regulus without excuse or interruption.

He’d offered to walk him back that first night under the pretense of avoiding Filch and Mrs. Norris. Not that it mattered—they haven’t even bothered with the invisibility cloak since. They just walk side by side, exposed to the half-lit corridors that throw light across Regulus’s face. And maybe it’s that flickering light, or maybe it’s the hour, but James swears Regulus looks more like a secret than a person. Something beautiful and unreadable.

What surprised him most, though, was that Regulus had accepted. He’d expected a sharp retort, maybe a flat refusal, after all, he was already letting James talk to him at the astronomy tower, why should he allow James to indulge any further. But instead, Regulus had looked at him for a long moment and simply nodded. No argument. No sarcastic remark. Just agreement. That had been surprising. Regulus doesn’t usually let people in—especially not someone like James.

James doesn’t know if Regulus realizes it’s happening, how quickly James is falling for him, or if he’s just allowing it to happen in that quiet, almost calculated way he does everything.

James has never spent much time worrying about whether he liked boys or girls. It’s never felt like something he needed to define or defend. To him, love has always been love—loud and all-consuming, or quiet and aching, regardless of gender. He’s always been the kind of person who falls for people, not categories. If someone made his heart race or his stomach flip, that was enough. What mattered was the feeling—not the label.

And right now, that feeling has a name, and it's Regulus Black.

They walk in silence, the click of their shoes the only sound echoing off the stone, and for once James doesn’t try to fill the silence. It’s not uncomfortable. Regulus has this strange way of making silence feel deliberate, like it’s saying something on its own.

James glances at him. Regulus’s expression is unreadable as usual, but there’s a calmness to it that wasn’t there a month ago, when James first went to the tower under a whim of curiosity. He’s not quite smiling—Regulus doesn’t smile, not really—but there’s a softness around his eyes, a lightness in the set of his shoulders. James latches onto it like a lifeline.

He wishes it meant more than it probably does.

When they reach the turn that leads toward the Slytherin common room, they both slow. Every time, it happens the same way—like neither of them wants to be the first to leave. Regulus glances over at him, his hair catching the torchlight just barely, and James’s heart stumbles in his chest.

There it is again. That tiny, almost-smile. So brief it could be a trick of the light. But James sees it. Because he’s always looking.

God, this is getting dangerous.

He’s tried to convince himself it’s nothing, that it’ll pass. Just a stupid crush. But it’s getting harder and harder to pretend. Regulus is sharp and unreadable and somehow the quietest thing James has ever wanted. It’s not just that he’s beautiful—which he is, in an annoyingly pristine kind of way—it’s that James wants to know him. All of him. Even the parts that are cold.

Especially the parts that aren’t.

And it’s not just the liking Regulus part that’s a problem.

It’s Sirius.

James hasn’t told his best friend anything. Not about the tower. Not about the walks. Not about the way his stomach turns inside out when Regulus tilts his head and meets his gaze like he’s trying to figure him out.

James doesn’t really know how Sirius would react—the Black brothers have a complicated relationship, to say the least. The last time Regulus had come up in conversation was the night Sirius asked James about him. It was the same day Slughorn had forced Regulus to help James with a potion, and Sirius had nearly sounded jealous.

That had been the night where Sirius had told James that Regulus used to be scared of thunder.

Sirius hasn’t talked about Regulus since, even though he goes tense every time Slughorn praises Regulus in class, or he goes quiet when they pass him in the halls. He pretends he doesn’t care. But James knows better.

Because Regulus is still his brother, even if they don’t talk, even if they haven’t spoken directly in months, even if Sirius goes cold every time his name is brought up.

Which is why he hasn’t said anything. Not about how Regulus is different than James expected. Or how the boy who was supposed to be unreachable keeps letting James in, little by little.

He doesn’t know what’s worse—keeping it secret, or the fact that it probably doesn’t matter.

Because Regulus isn’t interested. Not like that. Not in him. And even if he were—James doesn’t let himself entertain it. Hogwarts isn’t exactly brimming with boys declaring their feelings for each other. And Regulus Black, with his starched collars and legacy name and impenetrable composure, is the last person who’d ever—

“What, waiting for an invitation inside?” Regulus says suddenly, snapping James out of his thoughts.

James blinks, caught off guard, then lets out a quiet laugh. “What, gonna offer me one?” he replies, grinning as he takes a step forward—small, deliberate—not quite closing the space between them, but enough that Regulus has to tilt his chin up to meet his eyes.

Regulus exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching in that way it does when he’s trying not to smile. “Ever the charmer, Potter,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. But there’s no real bite to it.

And that’s when James catches it—the faintest blush, a soft pink blooming high on Regulus’s cheekbones. It’s fleeting, almost imperceptible, but James notices. Of course he does. He’s been watching Regulus too closely for too long not to catch something like that.

Regulus recovers quickly. Shifts his weight and straightens his spine. “You should go,” he says, voice calm again, almost bored—but there’s a pull at his lips that doesn’t quite match.

James nods, though he doesn’t turn right away. He stays there a moment longer, letting the silence stretch just enough to feel like something. “Alright,” he says finally, softer now. “Goodnight, Regulus.”

“Goodnight James.” Regulus replies, saying it like it’s unfamiliar in his mouth, and he doesn’t wait for a reply before turning toward the common room door.

But James had seen it again: the almost-smile. The hint of warmth that shouldn’t be there. That shouldn’t be for him.
But is.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because now James knows.
Regulus Black can blush.
And James Potter? Is absolutely doomed.

He exhales, breath fogging briefly in the corridor’s chill, and starts walking to the Gryffindor dorms. The castle is quiet at this hour—long past curfew, past even the few restless souls who tend to wander late. Only portraits mutter sleepily as he passes, and even they don’t scold him tonight. Maybe they can tell. Maybe even they know that his guilt is already keeping him company.

Because it had been good. Not perfect, not romantic, not anything more than it should have been—but it had been good. Talking to Regulus. Listening to him. Watching the way the stars looked on his face, turning all his sharpness silver-soft. James had liked it. He liked him.

He likes Regulus.

And now he feels like shit.

He rubs the back of his neck and keeps his eyes forward. The common room’s still a few floors away, and he should take the moving stairs, but the thought of letting his thoughts pause even for a second feels unbearable.

The truth is, he should’ve told Sirius.

It had been weeks since James and Regulus had started this strange routine.

At first, it had just been about saving Regulus. That was the whole point. And yes—James is well aware that Regulus had said he doesn’t need saving—James has simply chosen to ignore that part. But somewhere along the way, the plan had shifted—burned at the edges—because James had started noticing things he wasn’t supposed to. Like the way the light catches on Regulus’s sharp angles, turning him almost ethereal. Or the way he hides those near-smiles, like letting them show would make him vulnerable.

And now?

Now, James is utterly, irrevocably fucked.

There’s no way Regulus is gay. No way he’d ever be interested in someone like James—even if there was something there. Which there isn’t. Not really. Not in any way that matters.

Sure, Regulus hadn’t said anything when James sat closer than he had before. He hadn’t moved away when their shoulders brushed, either. He had even let out that quiet little breath when James made a joke—something so close to a laugh James felt like he’d caught a shooting star in his hand. But it didn’t mean anything.

It can’t mean anything.

And James knows this.

James can’t explain it. Not really. He likes Regulus in spite of everything. The pureblood name. The coldness. The sharp edges and the silence. He likes him in the quiet moments—when Regulus forgets to be guarded, when something shifts behind his eyes, and for just a second, he lets James see it.
And James wants to know what that something is.

He exhales again, slower this time. He’s halfway down the third floor corridor now, the one with the trick step and the portrait of the witch who likes to gossip.

Maybe he’s being stupid. Maybe this is just one of those things he’ll look back on later and laugh at—God, remember that time I thought I had a thing for Regulus Black? Maybe this is just some ridiculous fluke of proximity and long nights and emotional masochism.

But tonight, on that tower, when Regulus looked at him and didn’t look away—James had felt it. The shift. The possibility.

He just doesn’t know what it means.

Or what to do with it.

Because even if Regulus did feel something—which, again, is a big fat if—what the hell would come of it? He’s a Black. James is a Potter. More importantly, James is Sirius’s best friend.

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffles it with frustration, and tries to shake the mess of thoughts loose.

By the time he reaches the Fat Lady’s portrait, he feels wrung out. Like the air’s been knocked out of him one slow breath at a time.

He mutters the password, and the portrait swings open silently. The common room is quiet, the fire low, casting shadows across the worn armchairs and faded rugs. It’s nearly empty—nearly being the key word.

Remus is curled up on the couch.

The Marauder’s Map open in his lap.

James freezes, one foot just past the threshold.

Remus had clearly been waiting for him, his eyes already lifted to meet James’s. He’s curled into the corner of the couch like he’s been there a while—legs tucked under him and the sleeves of his pyjama shirt are rolled up to his elbows.

James swallows and steps further inside. The portrait door swings shut behind him with a dull thud. “Remus.”

A beat.

“James.”

James’s gaze flickers to the map. It’s still active—tiny dots scattered in clustered groups through the common rooms, some drifting slowly through the castle corridors. His stomach turns.

He clears his throat. “How long have you been here?” The question sounds casual, but he's already doing the math on how much truth he can get away with.

Remus arches a brow. “Long enough to know that wasn’t just some hallway run-in.”

James exhales through his nose.

Shit.

He winces, jaw tightening.

“Right,” he says, his tone a little too breezy. “So I’m guessing you saw us at the tower, then?”

He winces again—this time at his own phrasing. Us. Whether it’s the implication that there’s something real there, or just the fact that he wants there to be—he’s not sure which bothers him more.

Remus doesn’t acknowledge the word. He just closes the map carefully, smoothing the edges like he’s folding up something delicate then sets it on the arm of the couch beside him.

“I did,” he replies eventually. “I saw you two at the astronomy tower. I saw you walk him back to the dungeons. And I saw you stop—and stay—for longer than just goodbye.”

James freezes again, he’s still standing near the entrance to the common room, not having taken another step. His mind flickers back to earlier—to when he’d walked Regulus back, to the way he’d leaned in at the last second, half-teasing, half-testing. But the way Remus said it… it sounds like he thinks it was something more.

“No,” James blurts, too fast. “No, it’s not—it’s not what you think. We didn’t… I mean, we didn’t kiss or anything.”

Remus’s expression doesn’t change. “I didn’t say you did.” He pauses for a moment. “I didn’t think you kissed him. You wouldn’t do that without telling Sirius first. And—considering Sirius’s head is still firmly attached—I’m guessing you haven’t. But judging by the disappointment in your voice when you said you hadn’t kissed him… I’d say you wanted to.”

James deflates slightly, running a hand through his hair as he walks over and drops onto the couch’s opposite end. His limbs feel too long, his skin too tight. “I just… I don’t know. We were just talking.”

Remus hums, not quite believing, not quite accusing. “Alright.”

“We were,” James insists.

Another pause.

“I believe you,” Remus replies, voice even. “But I’ve known you seven years, James. You don’t get this worked up over someone you’re just talking to.”

James closes his eyes briefly. Get it together, Potter.

“It’s not like that. I mean—it’s not what you think.”

Remus watches him, steady and patient. That’s the worst part. Remus never gets angry quickly. He just waits you out. Waits until you have no choice but to spill the truth.

James scrubs both hands over his face, dragging them down until they rest in his lap. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I do like him.”

Remus doesn't react immediately. He just leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. He doesn’t look surprised. “How long?”

James stares into the dying embers of the fireplace and lets out a strained laugh. “A while.” He admits. “I only realized it at the party but it started before that. It was just meant to be—look, it started as this thing where I thought I could help him. Save him, or whatever. But then it got… complicated.

Remus nods once. “He’s not who you thought he was.”

James looks up, startled.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Exactly.”

A pause.

“And what about Sirius?”

The question lands like a stone in his stomach.

“I haven’t told him.” James says, voice low.

“I gathered,” Remus says, voice soft. “What happens if he finds out?”

James lets out a bitter laugh. “He’ll kill me. Probably disown me. Ask McGonagall for a new best mate.”

Remus doesn’t smile.

“I’m not judging you, James,” he says finally. “But you have to be careful. You know who Regulus is. Who his family is. You know what Sirius has been through.”

James’s head snaps up. “I’m not doing this to hurt Sirius.”

“Again, I didn’t say you were.”

“It’s not like I planned this,” James goes on, frustration bleeding into his voice. “It just happened. And now I can’t stop thinking about him, and it’s a bloody nightmare because he’s—he’s Regulus Black. He’s the most complicated, infuriatingly emotionally constipated person I have ever met. He barely speaks half the time and when he does, it’s like pulling teeth, and yet—” He stops himself, groans. “God, he’s just… he’s so—”

Remus huffs a quiet laugh. “Sounds familiar.”

James gives him a half-hearted glare, but Remus just shrugs.

After a moment James huffs out another strained laugh and throws his hands up half-hazzardly “It’s not even like anything’s going to come of it. He doesn’t even like me like that. He’s not… He’s not like that.”

Remus frowns. “You sure?”

James blinks. “Yeah. I mean—I don’t know. He doesn’t act like it. He’s not… touchy. Or flirty. He never says anything outright.”

“He’s a Black,” Remus says gently. “He’s spent his whole life learning how not to say what he feels.”

James lets that sink in, honestly, he hadn’t thought of that, though he should. Of course he should have. He’s seen the way Sirius shuts down when it gets too real, too close to the bone. Why would Regulus be any different? But there’s no way—Regulus Black, liking a guy—liking James for that matter.

“Have you tried asking him?” Remus presses softly.

James barks a laugh, then smothers it quickly, glancing toward the dorm stairs.

“Oh, sure,” he says under his breath.“That’ll go over well. ‘Hey, Regulus, quick question—are you into blokes? Specifically me?’” James laughs again, quieter this time. “He’d probably hex me.”

Remus gives him a small, almost-smile. “Maybe. Or maybe he won’t.”

James groans and tips his head back against the couch. “I hate this. I hate all the secrets and not knowings.”

Remus sits back again, folding his arms across his chest. “Alright. Then be smart. Tell Sirius. Before he finds out another way.”

James stiffens. “That’s not—Remus, I can’t—he’ll lose it.”

Remus shrugs. “Maybe. But he’ll really lose it if he finds out by looking at the map one night and seeing his best friend and baby brother together.”

“I’m gonna start taking that thing with me.” James grumbles.

Remus lets out a quiet laugh and glances toward the dying fire. They both sit in silence for a while and James watches Remus. Now that he’s looking properly, James can see it—how pale Remus is, how tired he looks beneath the steady calm. There’s a tightness in his jaw he hadn’t noticed before, the kind that only shows up in the days before a full moon. The first full moon of the school year.

And suddenly James feels like shit, guilt crashes into him like a wave. He had completely forgotten. Full moon’s on Thursday. And here he is—rambling about Regulus, his feelings, his confusion—while Remus is sitting here, one day away from transforming, his body already starting to feel it. He should be in bed. He should be saving up his strength, not staying up late and comforting James.

James’s chest tightens, Remus had been selfless, while James hadn’t even asked if he was okay. What kind of friend does that make him?

He clears his throat, the words catching a little on the way out. “Thank you, Remus.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

James hesitates, then goes with the safe answer. Remus never likes to talk about it until he absolutely has to—until he’s already turning into the wolf. “For not hexing me. Or yelling. Or going all ‘moral high ground’ on me.”

“I’m saving that for when you actually kiss him.”

James laughs through a groan. “Godric, don’t say that.”

Remus just smirks, reaching for the map as he stands, his knees cracking on the way up. “Go to bed, James.”

 

~~~~

Interlude- Eva’s POV

Eva tucks a stray curl behind her ear, fingers brushing against the damp skin of her temple. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, but the heat has made every loose piece rebel, sticking to her face and neck like clingy vines. Even though it’s September—and they live in Britain, for Merlin’s sake—the air inside the Greenhouse is thick and suffocating.

The culprit: flamevine. Today’s assignment is observing the finicky plant, which apparently thrives in boiling temperatures and hisses if you so much as look at it wrong.

Eva leans in slightly, watching the curled crimson leaves twitch as if daring her to touch them. She doesn’t. Instead, she focuses on the conversation between Alcoa and Talia, the two girls she’s been glued to since the first day of school.

Alcoa is bubbly and bold, with a laugh that cuts through any awkward silence. She’s tall for her age, with a head of unruly curls that bounce whenever she talks animatedly (which is always). Her dark skin contrasts nicely with the green accessories she always wears. Earrings, necklaces, ribbons or bracelets, you name it and Alcoa has it in her—also green—jewelry box.

Eva and Talia often make jokes about how she would better be suited for Slytherin considering her favorite colour. But Eva’s grateful she’s isn’t. All three of them share a room in Ravenclaw Tower, and every night spent whispering across beds or hours spent uselessly complaining about homework makes Eva more certain she wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Her other best friend, Talia, is around Eva’s height with long black hair she usually wears in a single plait that hangs down her back. She’s quieter, slightly more reserved but throughout the past month she’s started opening up more and more around Eva and Alcoa. She’s still shy around other people but that only makes her more observant. Talia notices things that no one else does, like when Eva had come into the dorms one night, upset over a rude comment that Rowen had said to her—Talia had noticed and comforted her. Eva hadn’t even told her what happened. She hadn’t needed to. Talia had taken one look at her and quietly offered the last of her Honeydukes chocolate without asking a single question.

She’s observant in a way that makes Eva feel seen without ever having to explain herself.

They’re talking about their Herbology essays now—why they have to write essays for a class that’s essentially gardening—Eva has no clue why.

Talia’s proud of how many diagrams she managed to sneak into hers to reduce the amount of writing, and Alcoa, in true Alcoa fashion, is dramatically retelling (for the third time) how she had to completely redo hers entirely after knocking an entire mug of hot chocolate across her parchment.

She tells the story like one of the muggle books Eva grew up reading—half-tragedy, half-comedy—gesturing dramatically with her gloved hands and painting the scene as if Talia and Eva hadn’t been sitting right there at breakfast when it happened.

“You shrieked so loud, three people turned to look from the Slytherin table,” Eva says through a laugh.

“I was in crisis!” Alcoa protests. “That essay was, like, seventy percent of my brain last night.”

“You’d only written five inches,” Talia says, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly! All five inches were vital!”

Eva snorts, then grins. Honestly, the new essay had turned out great in the end. Mostly because Eva had caved and helped rewrite it after Alcoa had gone completely theatrical in the Great Hall—dropping to her knees, clutching at Eva’s robes, and dramatically proclaiming, “You’re literally the smartest person I know, please, please save me.”

Eva had helped, of course. She would’ve done it anyway. But she’d wanted to see how far Alcoa would go with the begging. Turns out: pretty far.

Eva smiles fondly at her friends as Professor Merrow begins to make her way down the rows, handing back their marked essays. When the professor finally reaches their table, she places three parchment scrolls face down with an approving look.

“Congratulations, Eva,” Professor Merrow says. “Highest mark in the class.”

Talia raises an eyebrow, already flipping over her own essay with quiet curiosity. Alcoa lets out a gasp and nearly dives across the table to see. “Oh, oh—what did you get?” she demands, practically bouncing on her toes.

Eva turns the parchment around to show them, letting them see the grade before she even looks at it herself. The smile that spreads across their faces tells her everything she needs to know.

“Top of the class,” Alcoa sighs dramatically, slumping against the table like she’s been personally wronged by Eva’s intelligence. She fake pouts, but Eva knows it's all for show. Alcoa’s grin is practically splitting her face, and there’s a glint of genuine pride in her eyes.

“Seriously though, Eva,” she adds, nudging her with her elbow. “How are you top of the class in every. Single. Class? It’s freakish.”

Eva lifts her chin with mock seriousness, then grins. “Pure spite. I refuse to let Rowen beat me at anything.”

Talia snorts into her sleeve. “Honestly, valid.”

Alcoa gasps, delighted. “So you’re powered by vengeance. I knew it.”

Talia laughs and Eva grins as she finally reads over the red-inked comments and grade.

She’s proud of her work, she worked hard on it. Spent hours perfecting her analysis of flamevine temperature cycles. Thought through every diagram, every phrasing. And… well.

She’d had a little help.

Not from a professor. Not from a textbook.

From Regulus Black.

That part she’s not planning to mention. Not even to Alcoa and Talia.

Eva knows she’s smart. She always has been.

When she was younger, her mum used to call her arrogant. Said she was too full of herself to notice anyone else. At the time, Eva hadn’t really understood what she meant—only that her curiosity and her need to ask ‘why?’ had somehow turned into something to be ashamed of.

But one afternoon, when she was eight, her mum had said it again, after Eva had corrected her on something small. And Peter had been there. He’d yelled at Eva’s mum and told her to stop shaming Eva for her intelligence. Then he’d pulled Eva aside, knelt down next to her and said gently, “It’s not arrogance, Eva. It’s confidence. And don’t let anyone take that from you.”

She’s carried those words with her ever since.

A part of her had wished to be sorted into Gryffindor—so she could be with Peter. It would’ve made things easier. But Peter had always told her she’d end up in Ravenclaw. Had said it with a kind of certainty that used to annoy her.

When she was nine, she told him she’d just stop being smart, then. So the Hat would put her in Gryffindor instead. Peter had only laughed and said, “It’s not just being smart that gets you into Ravenclaw, you know.”

And he’d been right.

Eva’s always understood things quickly. Always seen problems from angles other people don’t think to look at. Her professors call it clever. Rowen calls it annoying. But for her, it’s just how her brain works—breaking things down, flipping them around, looking for the thread that’ll make the whole thing come undone.

That’s what Ravenclaw is, to her. Not just intelligence, but the instinct to adapt. To twist and stretch and solve things no matter what.

Still, she knows she’s only eleven. And there’s a lot she doesn’t know.

Which is why, when they’d both been doing their respective assignments in their usual spot—him at one end of the desk, her curled up at the other—and Regulus had glanced over at her essay and asked, “Is that really the angle you want to take?” she hadn’t taken offense. He hadn’t said it with superiority or sarcasm, just curiosity. Like he actually wanted to hear her reasoning.

So she’d paused, reread the paragraph, and then-with a little help from Regulus—had rewritten the entire thesis.

That’s how Regulus worked. Whether it was essays or spells or their late-night theories about the diadem, he always started her off—offering the bare bones of something complicated, just enough to get her curious. But then he’d wait. Watch. Let her puzzle it out on her own.

If they were practicing a new charm, he’d make her try it five times—ten, if she was being sloppy—before he stepped in and offered her some more guidance. He’s always forcing her to reach for it herself.

He doesn’t do it to be cruel. He does it because he expects her to get it.

He’s smart too—brilliant, actually. The kind of clever that apparently gets him into seventh year classes.

Eva’s honestly surprised he wasn’t sorted into Ravenclaw himself. If it came down to intelligence and precision, he fits the house as well as anyone. But then again, she supposes it probably has something to do with his last name.

The Blacks are part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—one of the oldest, most powerful pure-blood families in the wizarding world, and definitely one of the most traditional. Eva knew what that meant, even before she stepped foot in the castle. Peter had made sure of it. The summer before her first year, he had sat her down at the edge of her bed and warned her about certain families—families who still believed blood mattered more than anything else.

The Blacks had been on that list.

And yet, that had confused Eva a little, because Peter had also spent the past six years being best friends with Sirius Black. Loud, dramatic, trouble-magnet Sirius, who—whenever around at their dad’s house in the summer—had brought her a Honeydukes chocolate. He’d always been kind to her in the loud way boys are kind to younger sisters. And, ever since she had first met him, he had called her little Pettigrew like it was a title of honour.

So when Peter told her to keep her distance from these names, she’d been puzzled. “Even the Blacks?” she’d asked. “But you’re friends with one.”

Peter had only sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he didn’t quite know how to explain. “Sirius isn’t like the rest of them,” he’d said eventually. “That’s why he’s not with the rest of them.”

Still, the warning stuck.

Peter told her not to pick fights with anyone in green and silver robes—not unless she wanted trouble she wouldn’t see coming. Because even though there hadn’t been any reports in the papers yet, everyone knew something was brewing in the wizarding world.

Then, like it made the warning easier to swallow, he’d ruffled her hair and handed her a Chocolate Frog. Classic Peter move.

So when she’d told Regulus she’s a half-blood and he hadn’t even flinched. That had surprised her.

Honestly, she’d been expecting an insult or a hex—if Peter’s warning had been anything to go off of. But all she’d gotten was a nod and a continued conversation.

And maybe that’s what throws her the most. Because Regulus is a Black, and he’s a Slytherin. But—he’s different. He doesn’t waste spells to show off or shout slurs in the corridors. He’s cold, definitely. Emotionally suppressed, definitely. But strangely—he’s also kind, at least—to her.

She thinks back to the first day they had met. She’d been crying, scared, and lost in the dungeons and he helped her, gotten her to the Great Hall and when she had thanked him all he’d said was ‘don’t get used to it’.

Clearly. She’s gotten used to it.

Regulus is nothing like what Peter had warned.

And that makes things complicated. Because maybe Peter was right. But maybe he only had half the story.

When Professor Merrow finally dismisses the class, Eva exhales in relief. The greenhouse’s heat had left her feeling sticky and tired. But more than that, she’s just glad the day is over.

It’s the last class, and tonight is the first full moon of the year.

She’s been looking forward to it all week—not because of the full moon itself, but because of the view. The Ravenclaw common room has one of the highest vantage points in the castle, and Eva has every intention of sneaking out of bed to watch the moon rise from the windows.

There’s something about seeing the world from that high up, with nothing but sky and stars above her, that makes everything else feel smaller. Quieter.

As they step out of the greenhouse and into the cooler late-afternoon air, Eva immediately pulls her hair out of its ponytail, shaking it out as they start toward the castle.

“I swear,” she mutters, fanning herself with the edge of her sleeve, “that plant was hissing at me on purpose.”

Alcoa snorts. “That thing hated me. I looked at it once and it curled in like I’d insulted its mother.”

Talia grins. “You did call it creepy three times.”

“Because it was creepy,” Alcoa insists. “Any plant that needs to be kept at lava temperature and spits is not my friend.”

“I still don’t understand why we have to write essays about plants,” Eva says as they pass through the courtyard. “Just let me repot something and be done with it.”

“It’s Hogwarts,” Talia says with a shrug. “If they could assign essays in flying, they would.”

“I wish they would,” Alcoa adds. “I’d write five essays if it meant I didn’t have to get on a broom ever again.”

They laugh again but before Eva can say anything else a sharp pain jolts through her scalp.

She stumbles back a step with a hiss, nearly bumping into Alcoa. Someone’s yanked her ponytail. Hard.

“What the—?”

She whirls around, heart already racing. And of course—it’s Rowen.

He’s smirking like it’s the funniest thing he’s done all day, his hand already dropping casually back to his side as if nothing happened.

“Didn’t see you there, Pettigrew,” he says, voice dripping with mock innocence.

Eva’s eyes flash but before she can retort Alcoa steps closer, her stance sharp and protective. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

Rowen shrugs, like he’s bored. “Nothing. Just can’t wrap my head around how a half-blood pulls better marks than people who actually belong here. Not to mention that you’re also a girl. Guess Ravenclaw’s standards have dropped. Or maybe they’re just trying to be inclusive.”

He looks down at Eva like she’s something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and the tone in his voice sets her teeth on edge.

She doesn’t really understand what his problem is. Ever since the first week of term, Rowen has made it his personal mission to be the most obnoxious boy in the year. Every time she’s answered a question faster than him, brewed a potion more precisely, or even so much as earned a compliment from a professor, he’s reacted like she’s physically assaulted his ego.

She’s fairly certain it comes down to one core issue: he hates being outdone by a half-blood girl.

The sexist little worm.

Eva doesn’t flinch at his words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re right, it is weird,” she says sweetly. “I mean, with all your advantages, you’d think you’d be better at literally anything.”

Rowen sneers at her. “Careful Pettigrew, top marks won’t save you when pure-bloods decide you don’t belong here.”

Eva’s breath catches. The threat is subtle. But she knows exactly what he means—the war, the blood purists, the growing violence against half-bloods like her. It’s the kind of fear that makes her skin crawl.

But she doesn’t step back. She squares her shoulders and meets his gaze, voice steady but laced with quiet fire.

“Funny,” she says, “I thought Hogwarts was for talent. Not inbreeding.”

Apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say.

Before she can react, Rowen steps forward and shoves her—hard—right to the ground. Her back hits the stone with a dull thud, and for a split second, the air leaves her lungs.

“Oi!” Alcoa snaps, immediately stepping between them with clenched fists as Talia grabs Eva’s arm and helps her to her feet. “Get away from her!”

But Rowen’s friends are already moving in—two taller boys with matching sneers and wands raised. They flank him on either side, blocking the girls in with smug ease.

Except… not all of them.

One boy hangs back.

Eva doesn’t really know him, she’s pretty sure his name is Owen, but to her, he’s just another one of Rowen’s minions. He hasn’t stepped forward, hasn’t drawn his wand. He stands just behind Rowen, hovering with an uneasy look on his face. His eyes flick back and forth between Rowen and Eva, like he’s weighing something—like he’s not sure which side he’s meant to be on. Or which one he wants to be on.

Eva’s eyes are still locked on Owen, trying to read the flicker of uncertainty in his expression—so much so that she doesn’t see the first curse fly.

It’s Alcoa who notices.

With a sharp movement and quicker reflexes than most adults give her credit for, Alcoa jerks her wand up and blocks the spell mid-air. The boy’s curse wasn’t strong—none of them are, really, not this young—but Alcoa’s shield is solid. She’s good for her age. Impressive, even.

Eva snaps her head around, heart hammering.

Rowen already has his wand pointed straight at her, a vicious smile curling on his face. He’s not wasting time.

And that’s when Eva feels it—anger, hot and crackling.

Regulus’s voice echoes in her head like a second heartbeat: Don’t ever be the first to throw a curse. But once someone else does—
You don’t hold back.

She doesn’t.

Eva plants her feet, just like he taught her, and raises her wand with deliberate control. Her grip is steady. Her stance is exact. The words she’s practiced roll off her tongue with precision.

The spell rips out of her like lightning—sharp, clean, practiced. Just like in the empty classroom where she’d blasted that old training dummy across the room. The one she’d named Rowen.

Only this time, it’s not a dummy.

The spell hits the real Rowen square in the chest. His wand goes flying just before the stunning blast slams into him, sending him airborne. He crashes back onto the grass with a thud, skidding a few feet before landing flat on his back, breath knocked out of him.

Everyone freezes.

Eva’s hand is still outstretched, wand aimed, chest heaving. Her hand only trembles slightly.

Rowen’s friends rush to him, shouting if he’s alright. But honestly, Eva can’t bring herself to care, let him have broken an arm. Or a rib. Or his pride. She doesn’t care.

Talia tugs on her sleeve with urgency. “We should go. Before any teachers show up.”

Eva nods, legs buzzing with leftover adrenaline. But before she can move, Owen steps forward.

She’d nearly forgotten he was there. He hadn’t lifted his wand. He hadn’t helped Rowen. But he hadn’t helped her either..

He stares at her, eyes wide, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

Eva flinches back. “Don’t.”

His hands come up, palms open, as if to prove something. “I’m not—I wasn’t going to do anything. I didn’t want them to—”

“Then maybe don’t hang around people who do,” she snaps, voice sharper than she means it to be. “You don’t get to act like some hero just because you didn’t join in.”

He flinches. Visibly. Like she’d hit a nerve. And it only makes her angrier.

Behind her, Alcoa steps closer, her wand still out, fierce and protective. Talia tugs at Eva’s sleeve again, gentler this time, more worried.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Eva doesn’t look back.

Not at Owen. Not at Rowen, who’s groaning on the grass with his friends hovering like flies. Not at the two shocked students who are already whispering, probably planning how they’ll retell the scene over dinner.

She just walks. Toward the Great Hall. Toward anywhere else.

Her steps are too quick, heart pounding like a drum in her chest. Her wand is still clenched tightly in her hand, the spell’s energy thrumming at her fingertips like a second heartbeat.

The other girls catch up quickly, talking in low, shocked voices.

“What even was that spell?”

“It was like Expelliarmus and Stupefy got smashed together—”

“I’ve never even heard of that.”

Eva barely hears them. She can’t stop thinking about the sound of her spell hitting. The way it knocked Rowen off his feet. The pained look on his face when he’d hit the ground.

No one should’ve known that spell. No first year should’ve been able to cast it. But she had. She had.

And for one terrifying, wonderful moment—she’d seen Rowen’s face twist in shock.

He hadn’t expected her to fight back.

 

~~~~

 

Eva stands in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her jaw is so tight that her teeth have started to hurt. But she doesn’t ease up. Her wand gripped so hard her knuckles ache.

She’s facing the row of battered practice dummies, though her focus is narrowed to just one—the one she’d named Rowen.

Its sleeve is burned at the shoulder from when she lost control earlier, the fabric blackened and curled.

She hadn’t gone to the tower window to watch the full moon rise. Not like she’d planned. She’d told her friends she was tired, waved off their concern with a shrug and a mumbled goodnight. But the truth is, the idea of sitting still—of doing nothing—makes her feel like she’s suffocating.

The moon was supposed to be something calming. But not tonight. Not with her thoughts still burning and her blood still hot from what happened in the courtyard.

So she came here instead.

Her chest rises and falls in short, shallow bursts. Her hair is half fallen from its plait, strands plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her palm is slightly damp around the handle of her wand, but she doesn't loosen her grip.

She stares down the dummy like it's breathing.

The spell shoots across the room in a flash of blue-white light, sharp and clean. It slams into the dummy’s center with a satisfying thud. The force sends it staggering back, teetering on its base before it rights itself again. Not quite down.

Her stance stays firm—feet shoulder-width apart, knees soft, weight balanced evenly. She readjusts the angle of her wrist, just like Regulus taught her. Wand tip high. Shoulders square. Chin lifted.

A single breath escapes her nose, low and steady.

“Again,” she mutters.

“Bit aggressive for half-past ten.”

Eva whirls around.

Regulus stands in the doorway, leaning against the wooden arch. He’s not in uniform anymore—just black slacks and a crisp white button up, his tie loosened and hanging like he’d forgotten it’s still there. His expression is unreadable, as always. Calm and poised. But there’s a faint flicker of surprise in his eyes as he pushes himself off the wall and steps into the room.

“Why are you here?” she asks, breath still heavy from the spellwork. “You don’t normally come this late.”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “My night cleared up.”

She doesn’t ask. She never does.

Regulus is private about a lot of things—his time, his thoughts, where he goes late at night. Still, that doesn’t stop her from wondering.

She’s not stupid, he’s never here past ten and she’s fairly certain it’s not because he needs his beauty sleep. So, she’s come to the conclusion that he’s meeting someone. Maybe a girlfriend. Or someone who’s about to be. Which—fine. That’s his business.

But it still irritates her. Not because she’s jealous or anything ridiculous like that. She just hates the feeling that he doesn’t trust her enough to say. They’ve spent hours together in this classroom, weeks even, training and talking and studying things neither of them would ever admit to knowing.

So what’s the big secret?

It’s not about wanting to know everything. It’s about him choosing not to tell her anything.

And yeah, maybe that stings more than she wants it to.

She turns back toward the dummy, trying to hide her frown.

“You’re not usually here this late either,” he says.

Eva glances over her shoulder. “Didn’t feel like going to bed.”

His gaze sharpens slightly. “Something happen?”

She hesitates. Then nods once.

He doesn’t push. He just walks across the room and leans back against the far wall, arms folded across his chest like he’s settling in. He always does that—lets her talk first.

She doesn’t, not right away. Instead, she raises her wand and casts again. The dummy jerks backward. Not as clean this time. She bites the inside of her cheek.

Regulus watches.

Finally, she speaks. “I hexed a Slytherin.”

He tilts his head. “Which one?”

“Rowen.”

Regulus’s mouth tightens in recognition of the name. “Of course.”

She gives a humorless laugh. “He pulled my hair. Cornered me with his friends. Said some more sexist and bigoted stuff.“

She doesn’t mention Owen.

Regulus is silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering candlelight. Then he lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug, his mouth curling into something that isn’t quite a smirk, but close. A 'what can you do' kind of expression.

“He’s an idiot,” he says simply.

Eva lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” she says after a moment. “But he cursed Alcoa first. She blocked it, but… I didn’t even think. I just—did what you taught me.”

His expression shifts slightly at that. “Good.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You defended yourself. And your friends. That’s not weakness. That’s preparation.”

She frowns. “Even if I get detention for it?”

“If you don’t get caught, there’s no punishment.”

She smiles faintly. That’s such a Regulus thing to say.

Then, curiously, because she can’t help herself and she’s refrained from asking for so long, she says. “What do you do at night, when you’re not here?”

Regulus hesitates, and for a second Eva thinks he won’t say anything. He’ll probably side step the question or ignore it completely.

“Meeting someone,” he says eventually.

Her fully lowers her wand now, interested. She’d been right then, he does meet someone else. “A friend?” She asks.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s assessing the word. “Sort of.”

She doesn’t press, but he must see the question still forming in her head because he adds, “Potter.”

Eva blinks. “James Potter?”

She knows him—has known him for years, ever since he and Peter became friends before Hogwarts even started. He’s been around their house, sat at their kitchen table, tossed Exploding Snap cards across her bedroom floor.

Loud, yes, and completely full of himself sometimes—but not in a way that ever felt mean. He’s always been kind to her. Always made sure she was included when Peter brought him over, never treated her like the annoying little sister.

Which is exactly why she doesn’t understand what Regulus is doing talking to him.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re friends with him?”

Because that doesn’t track. Regulus doesn’t do nice. He does calculated silences and perfectly neutral expressions and occasional, reluctant advice. And James Potter? James Potter is the opposite of all of that.

Regulus’s expression doesn’t change. “Unfortunately.”

Eva blinks at him, nose scrunching. “You don’t like him?” So are they not friends? Why would Regulus constantly meet up with him if not?

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to his hand, his thumb moves slowly, almost absently, across the center of his palm—right over the jagged scar she knows rests there.

“I don’t hate him,” he says finally, voice low and flat—so carefully neutral it almost sounds rehearsed. It’s like he’s trying not to have feelings about it. Which only makes Eva more curious.

“But you’re still meeting him?”

“Mm.”

“That’s not suspicious at all.”

Regulus doesn’t smile, not fully, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement, maybe. Or deflection. “You’re getting nosy, Pettigrew.”

Eva shrugs, unfazed. “I’m just saying—it’s weird. He’s loud and messy and you’re—well. You.”

Regulus snorts softly, gaze flicking toward her. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one,” Eva says cheerfully. “Nothing against you. I just think you suck at being normal.”

That actually earns a laugh. A real one. Regulus tilts forward slightly, a quick, quiet laugh that shakes his shoulders more than it escapes his mouth. It startles her—not because it’s loud, but because it’s real.

She blinks at him, but he’s already recovering, posture slipping back into that composed stillness he wears like armor.

“Anyway,” he says. “He said he couldn’t meet tonight.”

Eva frowns slightly, her curiosity bubbling again, but before she can ask anything more, Regulus pushes off the wall and strolls toward the center of the room. “You were too tense on that last spell,” he says, tone shifting. “Footwork was off.“

Eva rolls her eyes but steps up to the dummy again.

After an hour of curses and spells flying through the room, Eva is exhausted, she takes it as a good thing though, it’s a nice way to release her anger.

They each have their respective dummies, Rowen and Regulus’s unnamed one.

The dummy Regulus animated is twitching slightly in the corner, half its straw guts spilling from where one of his spells hit it too hard and cracked the chest seam. Regulus, however, doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy now, his wand moving in clean, elegant arcs through the air—circles and slashes that burn with brief flashes of color before vanishing completely.

Eva’s long since given up trying to figure out what he’s casting. The incantations are literally silent, so there’s no help there, and the wandwork is too fluid to follow.

She’s seated on the edge of the table now, legs dangling, nursing the slight ache in her wrist from too many rapid-fire spells.

She watches Regulus—how controlled he is. His brow furrows just slightly as he moves, completely focused on the task at hand. She thinks there’s something almost meditative about the way he practices—like the spells are the only place he lets himself exist fully.

Eva thinks most first-years would be scared of him and honestly—fair. He’s a bit intimidating in some ways. But, for some reason, when they had first met, even though Regulus had been cold and a little snarky, she’d never been scared, not even for a second.

Then, the second time they’d met—literally in the same corridor—he’d helped her. Again. And then once they’d found the diadem that she had found in—

“The room.”

Regulus stops mid-motion. The spell fizzles out soundlessly at the tip of his wand. He turns to glance at her, one brow raised.

Eva hops off the table, wincing a little as she stretches her back. “The one I told you about. Ages ago. Where I found the diadem. The one you didn’t know existed.”

Regulus tilts his head, mildly intrigued now. “Forgot about that.”

Eva’s lips tug up. “Yes, well, now I’ve remembered. Let’s go!”

He doesn’t respond, just waits.

Eva grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Come on. You’ll want to see it.”

The halls are mostly empty at this hour. Considering it’s a while past curfew. A few portraits snore softly as they pass, and the torches crackle lazily on the walls. Regulus keeps a half-step behind her the whole way, silent but alert, like he’s trying to memorize the path even though she hasn’t said where they’re going.

They reach the seventh floor, and Eva slows in front of a blank stretch of wall across from a tapestry of trolls in ballet tutus. She stops. And frowns.

Regulus stops beside her, arms folded. His gaze flicks between her and the wall. “This is nothing.”

“Um… yeah, seems to be,” she mutters, eyebrows knitting together. “It was right here.”

She takes a cautious step forward, pressing her fingers to the wall as if a door might suddenly ripple into existence beneath her touch. Nothing happens.

Regulus raises an unimpressed brow. “You dragged me across the castle to stare at a blank wall?”

Eva turns to glare at him. “Well it wasn’t blank last time I was here!”

“Okay,” Regulus says gently, raising his hands in a show of peace. “Try retracing your steps. Are you sure we’re at the right wall?”

“Yes,” she says, though it comes out a bit more defensive than she means. She looks back at the stretch of stone and chews the inside of her cheek.

Regulus stays quiet, which is honestly worse than if he’d made a sarcastic comment. She can feel his eyes on her as she steps forward again, glancing at the tapestry for confirmation. The trolls are still mid–pirouette, frozen in an awkward, tutu-framed loop.

She crosses her arms and huffs, staring at the blank wall like it’s personally offended her. “I’m certain it’s this wall,” she mutters. “That tapestry was there—” she points to the trolls frozen mid-twirl “—I remember because it’s hard to forget a bunch of trolls in tutus.”

Regulus raises a skeptical brow but says nothing.

“I was so lost,” Eva continues, more to herself than to Regulus. “I walked this corridor three times, kept losing my way. I remember feeling scared and confused, I’d wished someone would’ve seen me and helped me find my way back, but instead, all there had been was a door…”

She falls quiet, eyes fixed on the blank wall. It feels ridiculous now—talking about a door that isn’t there, one that might’ve only appeared because she’d been panicking.

Beside her, Regulus narrows his eyes in thought. Then, without saying anything, he steps forward and starts walking. Slowly, deliberately—pacing back and forth in front of the stone wall.

Eva blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a theory,” he says absently, not looking at her.

Eva frowns, confused, but doesn’t interrupt.

The silence stretches.

Then, suddenly, something shifts.

The wall ripples. Stone that had been perfectly smooth a second ago seems to shimmer, reform, and split down the center—revealing the outline of a door. It’s the exact same one Eva remembers: tall, arched, and ancient.

Eva’s eyes widen. “What—how did you—?”

Regulus turns to her, something darkly satisfied in his expression. “It’s not random,” he says quietly, gaze flicking to the newly-formed door. “It responded to you. Or, more likely, what you needed.”

He steps closer, studying the curve of the arch, the way the stone has rearranged itself like it had been waiting all along. “You didn’t cast anything to open it, right? So it’s not triggered by magic in the usual way—no incantation, no wand movement. Which means it’s likely tied to intention.”

Eva blinks at him, still breathless. “Intention?”

Regulus nods once. “You said you were lost. Scared. You kept walking by this wall, wanting to be found. Wanting a way back.” He tilts his head, voice lower now. “Magic like this—ancient, castle magic—it listens. Not to words. To need.”

He glances back at her, something unreadable crossing his face. “Looks like it gave you what you needed.” Then, he steps forward and reaches for the handle. The door swings open without a sound.

The room is exactly as she remembers.
Stacks of forgotten furniture stretch to the ceiling, lit by shafts of moonlight cutting in through some window that shouldn’t exist. There are broken cauldrons, dust-covered books, entire desks piled one on top of the other. It’s chaotic, sure—but also beautiful in a strange, haunted way. It feels like walking into a memory that doesn’t belong to you.

Regulus follows her in, his eyes scanning everything. He doesn’t say anything, but she can tell he’s rattled—just a little. Eva wonders if it’s because he didn’t know this place existed.

Eva turns to Regulus and grins widely, rocking back on her feet. “You gonna admit I was right?”

“No.”

She laughs. “Figures.”

They wander deeper into the maze of forgotten things. Regulus runs a hand along the side of an old cabinet, it’s layered in what has to be years of dust.

Eva walks a little ahead, weaving carefully between toppled desks and stacks of trunks. The room feels bigger the deeper they go, like it’s stretching to make space for their questions. Every corner they turn reveals something new—an overturned suit of armor, a shattered mirror wrapped in sheets, piles of parchment browned with age.

“This place is massive,” Eva says, glancing back at him. “It’s like the castle’s attic.”

Regulus hums. “An attic that hid Ravenclaw’s diadem for centuries.”

Eva frowns, trying to piece it together. She thinks back to the story Regulus had told her, the tale of Helga Ravenclaw’s daughter, Helena, fleeing with the diadem. And the Bloody Baron, sent after her, killing her in the forest when she hadn’t loved him back.

If Helena died with the diadem, she couldn’t have brought it here. She couldn’t have known she was going to die, couldn’t have had time to stash it in some secret castle room that even Regulus—who knows every corridor and crawlspace—didn’t know existed.

Which means someone else moved it. That means the ‘collector’ they read about was probably telling the truth about being in possession of it. But then the real question would be how it got from him to here.

She turns toward Regulus. “It would have had to have been a student. Nobody else would’ve had access to the castle, let alone know about this room.”

Regulus nods, clearly following the same line of thought. There’s something quietly impressed in the way his gaze lingers on her. “I think you’re right.” He says, then chews his lip in concentration. “So, we’re looking for a student. Someone who somehow found the diadem, but that part is irrelevant. And then—“ he cuts himself off, confusion settling across his face. “They tampered with it? Cursed it? Someone who was strong enough to enchant it.”

“Dark magic.” Eva whispers.

“Exactly,” Regulus nods.

Notes:

Okay, let’s start from the top, shall we? James being entirely comfortable in his sexuality is honestly the most refreshing thing in this war-torn, hex-happy book. But—well—he’s kinda the only one, wait till Reg finds out he’s not so interested in the female species 😬😬. Although, he is kinda getting there—that blush! Ugh! And James instantly noticing because he was already looking, chefs kiss.

Also—James feeling guilty about not telling Sirius? So sad. Let’s see how long that secret stays hidden (I’ll give you a hint—not long at all).

Also let’s have a moment for Remus motherfucking Lupin, my dude was literally one day away from becoming a werewolf and still sat there patiently while James ranted about how sparkly Regulus’s eyes are. King behavior. MVP. 10/10.

🎉 OUR FIRST EVA POV 🎉

God, I love this girl. I know I say it every time but I just love her so much.

We got more insight on her life outside of Regulus, her friends (I love them, their friendship is so cute) and her brother, I love Peter and I will take that to my grave. I said what I said. Him telling her not to shrink herself down? I cried a little.

Also shoutout to Peter for warning her about the terrifying Black family—only for her to end up being besties with Regulus. Iconic, honestly.

But also—unfortunately—Rowen. My god he’s literally the OG Draco Malfoy but somehow meaner. Eva clocked him on the ‘I thought Hogwarts was for talent. Not inbreeding.’ She’s so funny.

And Owen is... a question mark. Eva is not a fan. But maybe he’s got a conscience somewhere deep, deep, deep down. We’ll see 👀.

And last but not least, our favorite unconventional friendship—the dynamic duo—Eva and Regulus. Regulus mildly terrifying but still ready to go full Voldemort Jr. when Eva says she got shoved? Love that. I wonder what he’ll do about that little situation :))

Okay, also the fact that everyone thinks he has a girlfriend?? Please. That man is gayer than Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson.

Also, big news! We finally got to the Room of Requirement (even if they don’t know that’s what it is yet). Diadem plotline: unlocked. Things are brewing and Regulus is absolutely about to go full academic sleuth.

Anyway, see you next chapter—where everything gets worse (probably).✨

Chapter 12: Every Scar

Notes:

Hello, hello!

TW’s for this chapter:
Swearing
Discussion of chronic pain (Remus post-transformation)
Mild gore/injury (scars, scratches, blood)
Verbal confrontation
Past slur usage (referenced, not repeated)
Unwanted physical contact (this is very minor, just a hand gripping an arm.)

Pretty sure that’s it.

Enjoy :)))

Interlude- Sirius POV

It’s still dark when the three of them head for the hospital wing.

They’re supposed to wait until morning, but Sirius doesn’t care, and by now, Pomfrey’s stopped trying to argue with him.

He doesn’t mean to be a prick to Pomfrey, it’s just the fact of knowing Remus is alone and in pain makes Sirius antsy—so—the earlier they go, the easier he breaths. Even though, logically, he knows Remus is fine. He knows it. But knowing and believing are two very different things, and Sirius can never quite settle until he sees him.

Last night had been one of the better moons. No major breaks, no outbursts, just a couple of new, shallow scars. Moony had curled up beside Padfoot, wrestled playfully with Prongs, and even let Wormtail ride on his back like a ridiculous little cowboy.

It had been good.

But the pain still comes, it always does.

Their Animagus forms help. Sirius knows that. They give Moony something to focus on—something other than agony and isolation. They let him move, play, be. They keep him company. They anchor him.

But they don’t stop the pain. They never have. They never will.

Sirius would do anything to stop it, he hates that he can’t. Hates that after the moon, when Remus finally transforms back, they have to leave him behind. Disappear before Pomfrey shows up because she can’t know. No one can.

And yes, yes, Sirius knows it’s for a reason. They’re not supposed to be Animagi. It’s unregistered, illegal, dangerous.

Whatever.

He just hates that everyone still thinks Remus spends the night alone in the shack, locked away like some monster.

And Sirius hates, that every month, he has to pretend that’s true.

When they finally get to the hospital wing, Sirius throws open the door, it makes a loud banging noise when it hits the wall and Sirius winces, immediately feeling sorry. He shoots a quick apologetic look to Pomfrey who’s stuck her head out of her office at the noise, and practically runs to the bed Remus is lying in.

The curtains around the bed are closed, so Sirius quietly draws them back, not wanting to wake him if he’s sleeping.

But he’s not.

Remus blinks up at them, his eyes slow to adjust, squinting a little at the soft morning light filtering through the windows. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, bandages wrapping parts of his arms and ribs, and he looks like absolute hell.

Sirius thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmurs, sinking carefully onto the bed, careful not to bump Remus and hurt him even more.

Remus groans. “What time is it?”

“Too early,” Peter says with a yawn, and rubbing his eyes as he flops down unceremoniously onto the chair beside Remus’s bed. James stands on the other side of the bed.

“Not early enough,” Sirius counters. “We waited a whole hour before coming in. That’s practically restraint.”

James snorts and leans against one of the bedposts. “He means he waited an hour. We were still brushing our teeth when he took off down the corridor like a lunatic.”

“Couldn’t help it,” Sirius shrugs, reaching out to run his finger along a new cut on Remus’s cheek. He doesn’t even think about it first but when he catches Remus starring at him he quickly retracts his hands and puts on a cheesy smile. “Anyway. Your alive. That’s the important part.”

“Barely,” Remus mutters, wincing slightly as he tries to shift. Sirius can see some of the pain behind Remus’s eyes, even masked with tired smiles and dry humor.

“Pain potions help at all?” Sirius asks, fidgeting slightly on the bed.

“Eh,” Remus closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening. “It’s better than nothing.”

Peter brightens. “That’s why we brought this!” He pulls a slightly squashed chocolate bar from his coat pocket and sets it down triumphantly on the blanket.

Remus opens his eyes at that, probably smelling the chocolate’s aroma. “Is that—”

“Dark chocolate,” Peter says. “Stolen from the kitchens, obviously.”

Remus manages a real smile. “You’re a saint.”

Peter half-bows dramatically. “I know.”

“Alright,” James says, tugging on Peter’s arm. “Great hall’s ought to be open by now, we’ll go grab breakfast. What do you want, Moons?”

Remus shakes his head, voice a little rough. “Not hungry. Don’t have much of an appetite right now.”

Sirius immediately frowns. “Tough luck. You’ve got to eat something.”

“I’m fine, Pads.” Remus says.

Sirius glares at him, undeterred. “I will feed you myself if I must.”

That earns a soft laugh from Remus, his eyes flicking up to meet Sirius’s. “Oh, really?”

Sirius shrugs, trying to play it cool even though his face feels hot. “Wouldn’t be the first time. And I’m a very attentive server.”

James groans from the foot of the bed.

“Toast,” Sirius says, ignoring him, eyes still on Remus. “With that blackberry jam you like. Yeah?”

Remus blinks slowly. “Yeah.”

“Okay. We’ll be back in fifteen,” James says, already dragging Peter toward the door.

Sirius barely hears him. He’s still watching Remus’s hands shake as leans over and grabs another potion from the bedside table. He takes the thing like a shot, wincing as he swallows.

The room is quiet now and completely empty, except for them. Sirius hadn’t taken the time before to check if anyone else is here, but a quick glance around tells him that they’re alone.

“Do you really feel okay?” he asks, softer now, the teasing gone from his voice.

Remus exhales slowly and rests his head back against the pillow. “Better than usual.”

Sirius nods, but he doesn’t quite believe it.

“Still hurts, though.”

“Yeah,” Remus says, voice low. “Still hurts.”

Sirius hates that. He hates it more than anything.

They sit in silence for a moment before Sirius shifts down on the bed, settling beside Remus. He turns onto his side to fit in the narrow space and gently taps on the chocolate bar resting on Remus’s chest. “Have some more of that. Always makes you feel better.”

At first, Remus doesn’t respond, and Sirius is just about to make good on his threat to feed him the chocolate himself when he notices Remus looking not at the chocolate, but Sirius’s hand instead. Sirius follows his eyes, confused.

“Sirius, where did you get that?” Remus’s voice is low but sharp, tinged with concern and guilt. His hands reach out to Sirius’s arm, where a jagged claw mark peeks from beneath the sleeve. Dried blood stains the pale skin, making a stark contrast. His brow furrows. Sirius hadn’t even noticed it before.

Sirius shrugs, forcing a small, stubborn grin. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch. You didn’t cause it.”

But Remus isn’t convinced, he presses his lips into a thin line. “Don’t—don’t lie, Sirius.” Remus says roughly, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the cut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Remus,” Sirius interrupts gently, placing his other hand over Remus’s. “It’s fine. Really. I’m fine.”

Remus’s fingers still against Sirius’s arm, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes flicker up to meet Sirius’s, full of guilt that Sirius thinks is completely unwarranted.

“It’s not fine,” Remus murmurs. “You shouldn’t have to get hurt just to help me.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Sirius says, softer now. “This—this is nothing. I’ve had worse falling off my broom.”

“That’s not the point.”

Sirius sighs and shifts closer, the thin mattress creaking beneath him as he leans in until he’s half draped over Remus’s chest, their legs tangled and their faces inches apart. “Maybe not. But I made a choice a long time ago, Moons. I’m with you. Every full moon. Every scar. Every bit of it.”

Remus finally looks at him—really looks. His brow furrows, lips pressed together like he’s fighting the urge to say something more. But Sirius doesn’t need him to speak.

He reaches up and tucks a strand of Remus’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger just slightly too long. “You worry too much,” he murmurs.

“And you don’t worry enough.”

“That’s why we work.”

Remus huffs a breath—half scoff, half laugh—and lets his eyes close for a moment. Sirius can feel Remus relax from underneath him. The tension easing ever so slightly from his limbs.

Sirius studies the lines of his face, he knows every freckle. Every mark. Every scar. Most of them, he’s seen form in real time. Some of them he caused—by accident. Once, early on, Moony had snapped toward Wormtail unexpectedly and Sirius had jumped between them, not thinking. Moony had turned on him instead. He’d gotten a gash down the side of his thigh for his trouble, but it was better than what would’ve happened to Peter.

Remus closes his eyes again and lets out a breath. Sirius stays right where he is, their foreheads nearly touching, the faint scent of chocolate still lingering in the air between them.

He doesn’t move, not even when the door to the wing creaks open in the distance. Let the others come. Let the world wait.

For now, it’s just them.

 

~~~~

 

James doesn’t mean to stare.

Really, he doesn’t.

It’s not his fault that Regulus Black happens to be across the room looking like he walked straight out of a very specific and deeply inconvenient daydream and it’s driving James absolutely mental. He has never. Ever. Had to go through the absolute horrors of liking someone and not even being able to tell them. Let alone tell his friends about them—well—James supposes that Remus now knows.

And James really needs to tell Sirius. Before things spiral too far. Before he does something truly idiotic—like actually tell Regulus he likes him.

The thought of it makes him wince. Not because Sirius would hex him into next week—though, he probably would—but because James knows what Regulus means to Sirius, even if Sirius doesn’t ever say it, Regulus is his baby brother, and for James to like him—it feels like crossing some invisible, sacred line.

“James,” Peter hisses, jabbing him in the side with the blunt end of a stirrer. “You're burning the valerian root.”

James snaps out of it with a muttered curse and scrambles to lower the flame beneath their cauldron. Thick grey smoke is already curling upward, and Slughorn—who’s been slinking around the classroom observing potions—glances sharply in their direction.

“Brilliant,” James mutters under his breath, fanning the smoke with his textbook. “Sorry Pete.”

Peter pauses mid-chop on a flobberworm and tilts his head. “You okay?”

James nods quickly. “Yeah. Fine. All good. Really I was just distracted, sorry.”

Peter nods, his eyes flicking across the room.

James stiffens.

It’s instinctual at this point—like his spine is physically incapable of relaxing when Regulus Black is within his line of sight, let alone when someone else notices he’s within it.

If Peter notices anything, he doesn’t say it. Just blinks a few times, then returns to slicing the flobberworm.

James exhales through his nose and goes back to stirring their potion, which is now more sludge than anything else. He tries to redirect at least some of his attention toward not failing the assignment, but it’s a losing battle.

Because Regulus is still right there.

He’s across the room, hunched slightly over his parchment. There’s a delicate frown between his brows as he scribbles something into his textbook. Dorcas leans closer to him and says something but James can’t make out what she’s saying, nor what Regulus replies with.

James hates that they’re partners. Not because he doesn’t like Dorcas—in fact, he actually quite likes her. Dorcas has started hanging around in the Gryffindor common room more often than not. She’s quickly become a part of their group, integrated in originally by Peter—and then kept coming back for Marlene. James is pretty sure Dorcas is as smitten with Marlene as James is with Regulus. The only difference is—well, Marlene might actually like Dorcas back.

There’s a sort of electricity between them whenever they’re together. When Dorcas rests her head in Marlene’s lap, when Marlene goes quiet and pink-cheeked if Dorcas so much as compliments her hair.

It’s the kind of mutual pining that makes James simultaneously want to root for them and scream into a pillow.

So no—he doesn’t hate that they’re partners because of Dorcas.

He hates it because it's not him.

Hates it in the pettiest, most childish, most completely understandable way possible.

But—hey, if he fails his potion terribly enough, maybe Regulus will come over and help him again. That’s a far-fetched hope. A tragic, foolish, absolutely doomed hope.

When class ends, Remus and Sirius come over just as Peter bottles the only slightly murky potion with a proud grin. “Bit murky, but still brilliant,” Peter says, holding up the vial like it’s a trophy.

Sirius grins. “If it doesn’t kill Slughorn, I call it a win.”

Peter laughs as he goes to place the vial on Slughorn’s desk.

“How did yours turn out?” James asks.

Remus shrugs, “eh you know how Sirius and potions work together.” He nudges Sirius fondly with an easy grin on his mouth.

Sirius scoffs, bumping Remus back with his shoulder. “I’ll have you I haven’t blown up a potion since the first week.”

“Almost ruined that streak today,” Remus mutters, teasing, but there’s a softness behind it—his voice lower, just for Sirius.

Sirius grins, unbothered. “Yeah—well, only because I have ‘Mr pay attention’ as a partner.“

Remus huffs a laugh. “Sorry for trying to keep you from melting your eyebrows off.”

Sirius leans in, close enough that their arms brush. “You like my eyebrows.”

Remus tilts his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Not when they’re on fire.”

“Fair point,” Sirius concedes, but his eyes stay on Remus for a second too long.

James pretends to cough into his hand.

Both of them glance at him like they just realized he was there.

“Don’t mind me,” James says, voice dry. “Just playing the third wheel here.“

Peter snorts, returning from the front of the room. “Fourth wheel.”

Sirius tosses an arm around both their shoulders as they head into the corridor. “Don’t be jealous, boys. There’s enough of me to go around.”

James is about to reply when he spots Snape and Lily just outside the classroom. He has her arm locked in a tight grip.

“We’re not friends anymore, Severus,” Lily says, voice sharp and controlled, though there’s heat under the surface. “So if you could just leave me alone—”
She tries to pull away, but Snape’s grip tightens.

James doesn’t hesitate before rushing up to them. “Piss off, why don’t you, Snivellus?”

Snape’s head whips around, his lip already curled. “This is none of your business, Potter.”

“Oh no?” James says, “I think it bloody well is.”

Sirius appears beside him in a blink, hand clamping onto Snape’s shoulder with the kind of ease that says he could break it if he wanted to. “See, Lily here? She’s our friend. Unlike you. And I don’t think she wants you touching her.”

Snape jerks away from Sirius’s grip, scowling, but he releases Lily’s arm. He turns back to her, ignoring the rest of them entirely.

“Lily, please,” he says, and James is startled by how broken he sounds. “I didn’t—I don’t care about your blood status. You know that. I—I miss you.”

Lily’s arms cross tightly over her chest. “Do you?”

“I know I messed up. I said things—awful things. But that’s not who I am.”

“No?” Her voice is calm, icy. “Because it sounded a lot like who you are, Sev. You didn’t just say it once. You’ve been saying things like that for years—in the common room, in class, to your friends.”

“They’re not all my friends—”

“But you still sit with them. You laugh when they hex first-years. You stay quiet when they say slurs in the corridor. Don’t act like you’re some innocent bystander.”

James glances at his friends and sees the same expression mirrored on their own faces—pride. Lily Evans doesn’t need them to speak for her. She’s doing just fine.

Snape’s mouth opens, then shuts again. Lily isn’t done.

“You called me a Mudblood,” she says flatly. “In front of everyone. And the worst part? That wasn’t even the first time you thought it. Just the first time you said it out loud.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Snape whispers, and it sounds pathetic.

“You did,” Lily says. “You did mean it. And even if you didn’t—you didn’t do anything to prove otherwise.”

Snape flinches.

“I’ve seen who you spend time with. Mulciber. Avery. Practicing Dark Magic when you think no one’s watching. You tell yourself it’s just spells, just power—but we both know what it really is.”

“You don’t understand,” Snape blurts. “They have plans. I’m trying to stay close so I can—”

“So you can what?” Lily cuts in. “So you can join them?”

“No!” He looks frantic now. “No, Lily. I would never hurt you. I just—”

“Wouldn’t hurt me,” she repeats coldly. “But you’re fine with hurting people like me. That’s the difference. You want to keep me in some little box labeled ‘exception’ while the rest of us burn.”

Snape can’t find anything to say to that.
Lily steps back, not out of fear, but out of finality. Her voice softens, but somehow that makes it hit harder. “I don’t hate you, Severus. But we’re not friends. Not anymore. I don’t trust you.”

Snape steps forward, reaching out, but before he can grab Lily again, James steps in then, casting his arm protectively around her shoulders. “You heard her. She’s done. So why don’t you take your greasy hair and your twisted morals and piss off?”

Snape’s face contorts, looking at James with pure loathing but he doesn’t argue. He turns and stalks away, robes billowing dramatically behind him.

Lily lets out a slow breath.

“You alright?” Remus asks gently.

She nods. “Yeah. Thank you guys.”

James shrugs. “Didn’t really do anything. You kind of tore him apart.”

Peter grins. “He looked like he might cry.”

Sirius smirks. “Wish he had. I’ve got tissues and a camera.”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly. “You’re all idiots.”

“Only the charming kind,” James says, flashing her a smile.

They fall into step beside her, and as they round the corner, James lets his arm fall back from her shoulders.

Notes:

Okay, first of all—give it up for Sirius Black who, not only was about to spontaneously combust if he didn’t see Remus immediately, but also knows every. Single. Scar on his body. They are in love. It’s soft, it’s sad—borderline depressing—and it is dangerously close to being a confession.

And James and Peter? Absolute bros of the year for pretending they weren’t standing three feet away while Sirius practically climbed into Remus’s lap. And then later, them both being third and fourth wheel. 😭 And that little fake cough from James? Oscar-worthy performance. Give him a medal. Or at least a snack.

Also—Remus being horrified that he may have accidentally scratched Sirius and Sirius being like “No no this is fine I’ve had worse falling off my broom” while still bleeding??? Gaslighting in its finest.

And now: James “I’ll just burn this potion and my dignity” Potter is deep in his hopelessly in love with Regulus era, and it is glorious. The staring. The yearning. The completely irrational hope that maybe failing Potions will force Regulus to come help him (spoiler: he does not). He’s dying. We love it, no notes. Except maybe: tell Sirius before you combust, babe. 🫠

But yes—James is definitely going to have to tell Sirius about this crush at some point. But not today. Today, he suffers in silence. (And by silence, I mean a constant internal monologue about how hot Regulus looks.)

Also, I need to shout out the most important character of this chapter, the true MVP: Lily Evans. She politely told Severus Snape to get wrecked in the most articulate, morally devastating way possible. “I’m not your exception”? I felt that. I saw stars. I aged 10 years. Iconic behavior from our red-haired queen. 👑

And look… next chapter is a big one. Can’t say too much (spoilers, sweetie 👀) but let’s just say that some things will be said, some things will be felt, and some things might just finally happen.

p.s. Someone take Sirius and James aside and force them to communicate about their respective crushes before they both faint from gay pining.

p.p.s. Did anyone else get so sad that there was no Eva in this chapter? I did. I actually debated writing another scene just so she could make an appearance. Don’t fret though, she’ll be back next chapter.

Chapter 13: Falling for You

Notes:

Hello, hello!

This chapter is very long—like, nearly 20k words long. So, you know, prepare yourself accordingly. A lot happens in this one. Have fun ;)

TW’s for this chapter:
Swearing
Graphic injury and violence during a Quidditch match (including a fall from height, visible blood, and dislocated/broken limbs)
Unconsciousness
Temporary cessation of breathing
Panic and fear responses (including a character emotionally breaking down)
Medical trauma/magical healing (potions, broken bones, bodily pain)
Mentions of past torture (brief, not detailed)
Blood and physical injury
Psychological distress
Emotional manipulation
Mention of substance use (using potions to sleep better
Brief mention of intent to kill (not acted on)
Themes of emotional repression, self-worth issues, and manipulation

 

Enjoy :))

James is tired.

Which is strange, considering he’s normally a morning person—annoyingly so, if you ask Sirius. He’s always been an early riser, always the first one up and talking, full of energy and motion before breakfast is even served. But two hours of sleep isn’t enough for even James Potter.

His head is slumped against the long wooden table of the Great Hall, cheek squished against the cool surface, eyes barely open as sunlight spills through the enchanted ceiling. There’s a piece of toast in front of him, cold and untouched. He can’t bring himself to eat it—can’t even lift his head.

Around him, the Great Hall is buzzing. The usual Saturday morning chaos. Students laughing, silverware clattering, owls swooping in overhead.

James groans softly.

Peter nudges him with the handle of a spoon. “You alive?”

James grunts.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Peter says cheerfully, clearly far too entertained by James’s misery. “You sleep at all?”

“Four,” James mumbles into the table.

Peter blinks. “You got four hours of sleep?”

“No,” James groans louder. “I went to bed at four.”

Peter squints at him. “Why?”

James stiffens for half a second—then forces himself to shrug. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

A lie.

The truth is: a certain black-haired Slytherin had been in an uncharacteristically talkative mood last night.

And who is James to object?

Regulus had actually been talking. Really talking. Not about anything particularly profound—mostly Quidditch, the upcoming match, strategy, broom models—but still. He’d been speaking, voice soft and steady in the dark, and James had listened like it was sacred.

He’d tried—really tried—to stay awake. He hadn’t wanted to miss a second of it. But at some point, Regulus had gone quiet. Just for a moment. And in the hush that followed, with only the breeze moving gently around them…

James had fallen asleep.

Right there.

Like an idiot.

He’s not sure how long Regulus let him sleep—whether he’d noticed or cared—but eventually, James had woken to a firm poke in the side and Regulus’s face startlingly close to his.

In his half-dreaming state, James had been convinced it was a dream. Because really, what other explanation was there for waking up to that face? All soft lines and pale light and dark eyes framed by wind-mussed hair. So, naturally, James had reached out to touch him—to check if he was real.

His fingers had brushed Regulus’s cheek, warm and solid under his touch, and James had smiled, delighted by the proof of it.

Regulus had blinked, briefly confused, letting James cradle his jaw for a generous two seconds before swatting his hand away and telling him to go to bed.

Regulus, of course, had looked entirely unaffected by the late hour. Probably didn’t sleep at all. He’s the type—James is sure of it. Lives on black coffee and sheer spite.

James’s stomach grumbles, and he groans softly into the table. He should probably eat something. The match is in an hour.

With great reluctance, he lifts his head and grabs the buttered piece of toast next to him.

He takes a bite, then flops sideways and drops his head onto Sirius’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Sirius—of course—doesn’t even flinch. Just glances down at him with a lazy grin, ruffles James’s already-messy hair, and turns back to his conversation.

Across the table, Mary is mid-rant about Slughorn’s blatant favoritism again, her voice sharp with irritation. Marlene and Lily chime in between bites, equally riled up.

“He literally gave Travers ten points just for handing in an essay,” Mary says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“To be fair,” Lily adds, buttering her scone with practiced ease, “that’s probably the first time he’s ever handed in an essay at all.”

Dorcas, seated next to Marlene despite technically belonging at the Slytherin table, snorts into her tea. “Don’t forget he only passed his last exam because Mulciber let him cheat.”

Sirius laughs under his breath, which jostles James’s head where it rests against his shoulder.

James smacks him lightly on the thigh and mutters, “No laughing. You’re shaking my brain.”

Sirius only laughs harder. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t realize I’d been promoted to pillow.”

James grumbles something unintelligible in response but sits up, reluctantly, and takes another bite of toast while tuning back into the conversation around him.

“Five sickles,” Mary says, dropping the coins onto the table with a metallic clink. “I’m putting it on Hufflepuff. Gotta root for the underdog.”

James frowns. “What’s this for?”

Dorcas answers without looking up. “They’re betting on the match. Which is, frankly, idiotic. Slytherin’s obviously going to win.”

Marlene scoffs. “Oh yeah? If you’re so sure, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

Despite the teasing edge to her voice, there’s unmistakable fondness in the way she looks at Dorcas. James watches the exchange, chewing thoughtfully, and decides the only real wager worth making is how long it’ll take for the two of them to finally admit they’re into each other.

“And why are you so certain of that, Dorcas?” Lily asks, one brow arched.

Dorcas scoffs. “Because Regulus is their Seeker.”

It’s only because James is so close to Sirius that he can feel the slight stiffen. The shift in posture that only happens when Regulus’s name is brought up.

James watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying not to make it obvious. It’s like instinct now—tracking Sirius’s reaction whenever Regulus’s name comes up. But it hits a little differently now. Because Regulus isn’t just Sirius’s little brother anymore. Not to James.

Mary snorts. “Yeah, but he’s just one player.”

“He’s the player,” Dorcas replies, popping a grape into her mouth with the kind of smugness that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Slytherin’s entire strategy is built around him catching the Snitch early. He’s fast. Precise. Kind of amazing, actually.”

“Kind of insufferable,” Marlene mutters, though she’s grinning. “You fancy him or something?”

Dorcas rolls her eyes. “Please. I have taste.”

“Excuse me?” Marlene gasps, clutching her chest in mock offense.

“I said I have taste,” Dorcas repeats, smirking now. Marlene tries and fails to stifle a grin, and James glances down at his plate to hide the one pulling at his own mouth.

Naomi—fellow Chaser and, apparently, stealthy gambler—cuts in. James hadn’t even noticed she was part of the betting pool. Honestly, he’s going to have to have a word with his team about wagering against other houses.

Or at least doing it this openly.

“You lot realize Hufflepuff has a solid Beater team this year,” Naomi says, leaning in. “I saw them going absolutely mental on the training dummies during practice.”

“Yeah,” says Oliver, the other Chaser. “I’ll say it’s gonna be close.” He glances at Dorcas. “Even with Regulus.”

“Well, that’s a bet I’ll take,” Dorcas challenges, eyes lighting up. She leans across the table like she’s already won. “Ten sickles says Regulus catches the Snitch in under thirty minutes.”

“Oh, you’re on,” Naomi says immediately, slapping her hand next to Mary’s. “I hope he doesn’t—just so I can watch you suffer.”

“I don’t suffer,” Dorcas says breezily through a grin.

Peter hums thoughtfully, eyes flicking between the girls and then down the table. “Should we be worried about this turning violent?”

“Only if Dorcas loses,” Remus says dryly.

Dorcas flicks a crumb at him. “I’ve never lost a bet in my life.”

James laughs, ducking his head as he focuses pointedly on his plate. He doesn’t let his eyes drift—doesn’t let himself look toward the Slytherin table. There’s no point, anyway. Regulus isn’t there.

He told James last night that he always gets to the pitch an hour early before a match. Said he likes the sky to himself. That he just flies during that time. No drills. No noise. Just air and altitude.

“Coming, Potter?” Lily asks, already on her feet.

James blinks. “Huh?”

“The match,” she says, amused. “Or are you planning to daydream about breakfast for the next hour?”

“Right. Yeah.” James stands quickly, grabbing his jacket as the rest of the group begins heading toward the doors.

Outside, the air is cool and clear. The castle grounds are bright with late morning sun, and the walk to the pitch is filled with easy chatter.

Mary and Peter are arguing over which team has a stronger Beater lineup, while Remus and Sirius trail slightly behind, heads bent toward each other in quiet conversation.

James walks in step with Lily, Naomi, and Oliver, a few paces behind Marlene and Dorcas. The girls have their arms linked, laughing about something James can’t hear. Every so often, Dorcas bumps her shoulder into Marlene’s, and Marlene dips her head with a grin. They orbit each other like it’s natural—like they don’t even realize they’re doing it.

James watches them for a second and thinks, Yeah. That bet I made with myself? Not even going to last week.

“You even listening?” Lily asks, elbowing him lightly.

James blinks and drags his gaze back to her. “What? Yeah—sorry. What were you saying?”

Lily raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been spacing out all morning.”

James offers a sheepish grin. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Oliver yawns dramatically. “Welcome to the club.”

“Yeah, I feel you,” Naomi says, sighing. “I spent like three hours last night on my Transfiguration essay and it’s still garbage.”

Oliver frowns. “Wait—that essay was due last week.”

Naomi shrugs, completely unfazed. “Yeah. I sweet-talked McGonagall.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “And that worked?”

“No,” Naomi deadpans. “So I cried. That worked.”

James snorts. Fair enough. Honestly, the number of times he’s left McGonagall’s office with a biscuit instead of detention should be studied.

They round the final corner before the stadium, and the volume surges—chants and cheers already spilling across the open field like smoke. Green and yellow flags ripple overhead, snapping in the breeze. Off to the left, a group of Hufflepuffs is waving hand-painted signs and attempting to start a chant that no one can seem to agree on.

They make their way to the middle section of the stands. The Gryffindor crowd is already buzzing with anticipation. A few younger students pass around licorice wands and a pair of enchanted binoculars that squawk loudly whenever someone tries to zoom.

They file into their seats, taking up two rows just as the players begin to stream onto the pitch. Cheers erupt from both sides of the stadium.

James sits forward, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the field for a flash of green.

Regulus steps out onto the grass, broom in hand, shoulders squared and face carefully blank. Despite him only having two hours of sleep he looks as good as he always does. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something about the way he holds himself—fluid, confident, restrained—that makes James’s pulse thrum.

The captains meet at the center of the pitch and shake hands. Madam Hooch lifts her whistle to her lips.

A sharp tweet, and the game begins.

“Thirty minutes,” Dorcas murmurs from behind him as the players lift into the air. Thirty minutes for her to win her bet.

Within the first two minutes, Regulus arcs above the stands, body tucked into a sharp curve that sends his broom slicing through the air like a blade. The way he flies is clean, with none of the theatrical flourishes some Seekers show off for the crowd. He flies like someone who doesn’t need to be seen.

Slytherin gains possession early—one of their Chasers streaks past midfield—but the Hufflepuffs are ferocious. Their Beaters, both stocky seventh-years, are clearly operating under a single strategy: take out Regulus Black.

And it’s not even subtle.

The first Bludger screams past Regulus’s left shoulder, close enough to ruffle his robes. He doesn’t flinch—just drops into a steep dive, vanishing beneath the stands for half a heartbeat before looping up again, higher and faster.

“Merlin,” Sirius mutters beside James. His arms are crossed tightly, jaw clenched, but his eyes haven’t left Regulus once.

James doesn’t say anything. He can’t, really. There’s a tightness in his chest he hadn’t noticed until now, something coiled and tense that makes him lean forward instinctively as Regulus curves through the air. There’s a moment—barely a second—where Regulus glances toward the stands. Towards James.

Just once.

And then he’s gone again, a blur of green and silver disappearing into the sunlight.

James exhales slowly, unsure when he’d started holding his breath.

The score climbs steadily—thirty to twenty in Slytherin’s favour. James’s eyes track the flash of green and silver as Regulus hovers high above the chaos, scanning the pitch with single-minded intensity. It’s such a stark contrast to the way James flies—he thrives on speed, on chaos, on gut instinct. Regulus, by comparison, flies like a blade: deliberate, cold, clean.

Below, the Quaffle zips between players as Hufflepuff claws at the scoreline. Their Chasers move in tight triangles, quick passes slicing through Slytherin’s midfield—but their Keeper is a wall. Twice, they block impossible shots that have the crowd roaring.

High above it all, Regulus circles like a hawk. The Hufflepuff Seeker clings just beneath him, clearly hoping to ride his coattails. She’s already fallen for three of his fake dives.

Regulus ignores her now. He hovers above the goalposts, squinting into the wind.

“Come on, Reg,” Dorcas mutters under her breath. “I didn’t put ten sickles on you for nothing.”

“Should I be concerned about your new gambling addiction?” Marlene says, bumping her shoulder.

“No need—oh, wait. Oh. He sees something.” Dorcas sits up straighter. “He sees it.”

“Or he’s bluffing again,” Naomi mutters behind them.

But Regulus is still diving.

The Hufflepuff Seeker reacts a heartbeat too late. She jerks into motion, angling down fast—but Regulus already has the lead. He’s lower and faster.

His broom slices through the air as the Snitch flashes low, gold wings glinting in the sunlight. He stretches flat along the handle, fingers outstretched. Sharply, the Snitch zips up and the two seekers follow, gaining height and speed. Regulus is so close to it, arm straining to reach it—

CRACK.

The Bludger slams into his side with a sound so sharp it silences the stands. It’s the kind of impact you feel in your own ribs—a sick, echoing noise—wood and bone colliding.

Regulus’s body jolts midair, and for one horrifying second, he’s weightless—a limp, crumpled silhouette tossed off his broom like a rag doll. He slams into the edge of the lower stands, there’s another loud, horrible sound of bone-on-wood, before he tumbles hard onto the grass below.

His broom clatters down a beat later, splintering as it hits.

Gasps ripple through the stands. The Hufflepuff Seeker pulls up just in time.

Madam Hooch is already blowing her whistle—loud, urgent, cutting through the chaos—and players are descending, shouting over each other.

Regulus isn’t moving.

James’s throat closes. For one terrible moment, he can’t breathe. The world tilts—sound drops out, vision tunnels. Everything feels muffled, like he’s underwater, light-headed and spinning.

He’s snapped out of his haze when someone rams past him. James turns and sees Sirius bolting through the stands.

James stands there uselessly for a moment before stumbling after him, legs moving before his brain catches up.

Sirius makes it to the stairs first, barreling past startled students, practically shoving anyone who gets in his way. James yells weak apologies behind him, though he barely cares.

Didn’t everyone feel the shift in the air when Regulus fell? Doesn’t everyone know how serious this is?

They rush down the steps, shoes pounding on the wooden stairs before hitting the grass in a run. They charge full-tilt across the field, only slowing when they reach the small crowd of players gathered around Regulus.

“Move!” Sirius shouts, shouldering past the players crowding Regulus’s fallen form. “That’s my brother!”

There’s something ragged in his voice—raw and broken—that sends a chill straight down James’s spine. It’s devastation unlike any James has heard before.

Sirius Black, who can fake cry on command, who screams for laughs and thrives on drama, is shattered. This is devastation. Real. Quietly earth-shattering.

The players part instinctively, stunned by the panic radiating off him.

Sirius drops to his knees beside Regulus, gravel and grass grinding into his palms as he scrambles forward. His hands shake violently as he reaches out, then pulls back, as if afraid to touch without causing more harm.

“Reg—Reg, come on, wake up—” His voice cracks, high and desperate. “You’re alright. You’re fine. You’re okay.”

He repeats it like a prayer, like maybe if he says it enough, it will be true.

Regulus still doesn’t move.

James can’t help. He can’t save him. Seven years of magical training, and what does he have? A few half-remembered healing spells and a head full of theory. Trying might make things worse.

Regulus’s chest rises—barely. Shallow, weak breaths that don’t look nearly strong enough. His eyes stay closed, lashes stark against skin gone far too pale. One arm lies twisted beneath him, blood already seeping into the grass where his shoulder struck the stands.

It’s wreckage James doesn’t know how to mend.

A flicker of gold glints in Regulus’s hand—the Snitch, small wings trembling between his fingers.

James barely notices before it slips free, fluttering once, then zipping away into the sky.

He doesn’t watch it go.

“Sirius,” James says, trying to keep his voice level, trying not to shake. “You’ve got to let Madam Hooch help him.”

“I don’t—he’s not—he’s not waking up—” Sirius’s voice breaks and he grips tighter, like he can hold his brother’s body together with his bare hands.

Giving up on coaxing Sirius to move, Madam Hooch begins casting diagnostic spells in sharp, practiced succession. “Cracked ribs. Concussion. Possibly internal bleeding,” she mutters, more to herself than anyone else. Another incantation leaves her lips, and a soft blue glow spreads over Regulus’s chest and ribs.

Regulus flinches—just barely—enough to catch James’s breath. He’s breathing. Still breathing.

But the glow flickers, then fades.

Hooch’s lips press into a hard line. “It’s not enough,” she says tightly. “This will stabilize him—for now. McGonagall is on her way.”

James’s eyes lock on Regulus’s pale, slack face. His mouth is parted, blood at the corner—a smear just enough to make James’s stomach twist.

His heart hammers wildly, drowning out the crowd, the wind, the shouts. It feels like it will burst through his chest, like he might shatter under the weight of it all.

Sirius remains kneeling beside him, panicked and half-wild. “You stupid git,” Sirius chokes out, brushing hair back from Regulus’s face with trembling fingers. “Why weren’t you watching for the Bludger? You always see them coming. You always—” His voice breaks.

“Out of my way, out of my way!” McGonagall’s voice cuts through, sharp and brittle with fear. She sweeps across the pitch, wand raised. Her tartan robes flutter as she kneels beside Regulus. “Step back, Sirius.”

“No,” Sirius breathes, voice catching. “I’m not leaving him.”

McGonagall’s tone softens, just enough. Her hand lands gently on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him. “I need space to lift him, Sirius. You don’t have to leave—just step back.”

Sirius hesitates, jaw tight, then nods, rising and stumbling back. James reaches out, squeezing his shoulder—a silent, steadying presence. Sirius doesn’t meet his gaze, but James can feel the tremor beneath his palm.

“Can we move him?” Hooch asks, hovering behind McGonagall.

“With care,” McGonagall answers, voice low and grim. “Float him gently. Support his head. Sudden movement could cause more injuries.”

Together, they raise their wands over Regulus’s limp form. A soft golden glow surrounds him, lifting him from the bloodstained grass.

James’s stomach tightens.

“Clear the way!” McGonagall barks. “Everyone move!”

The crowd parts as Regulus floats forward, robes billowing in the breeze. His head lolls slightly.

James swallows hard. Sirius moves like he’s tethered, pulled after his brother by an invisible string. He doesn’t speak or blink—just follows Regulus, eyes locked, afraid to look away.

James follows.

 

~~~~

 

Sirius POV

 

The moment Regulus fell out of the sky was the moment Sirius was six again.

Six, and Regulus five—tiny legs racing barefoot through the Black family kitchen, squealing with laughter as Sirius gave chase, wielding a wooden spoon like a sword.

Sirius had been furious. Regulus had stolen his piece of toast, and obviously that was grounds for fratricide.

But then Regulus laughed—bright and breathless—and all of Sirius’s rage vanished in an instant. That laugh tumbled from deep in his belly, wild and delighted. It rang through the tiled kitchen like wind chimes in a summer breeze—pure, unfiltered joy slicing through Sirius’s stormclouds of fury.

He couldn’t help but grin, even as Regulus darted just out of reach. That laugh had always disarmed him.

It still does.

He just doesn’t hear it anymore.

The moment Regulus fell out of the sky was the moment Sirius was six again.

Then eleven. And Regulus was ten.

Sirius’s Hogwarts letter had arrived and he couldn’t have been more excited, while Regulus had looked devastated.

“You’ll be there soon,” Sirius whispered that night, sneaking into Regulus’s room after their parents had gone to bed. “We’ll rule the place.”

Regulus had nodded, voice trembling. “You’ll write to me?”

“Every week.”

And he had.

He wrote about Gryffindor Tower, about Peeves pelting dungbombs into the prefects’ bath, about how they’d search for the kitchens when Regulus came next year. He drew a crooked map on the last page and marked an X. We’ll find it together.

The letters all came back unopened.

Sirius kept writing. Desperately. Like maybe if he could just find the right words, Regulus would forgive him. Or at least remember how they used to be—barefoot in cold marble halls, laughing like they didn’t know the world was sharpening its teeth behind closed doors.

Even now—years later, even with Regulus too close to send letters—Sirius still writes him.

He tucks them into the bottom of his trunk, where a whole stack already waits.

He writes everything. How he’s feeling. How Regulus is a prick for ignoring him. How Peter—in rat form—crawled into his bed in the middle of the night and Sirius screamed so loud the whole floor woke up.

Things he could never say out loud.

He writes about their Animagus transformations. About Remus being a werewolf. The Marauders Map. James’s Invisibility Cloak.

Because no one will ever read them. Not even him.

Once the ink dries, he seals them and stores them away. He never reopens them.

But he keeps them.

Because some stupid, aching part of him still hopes.

The moment Regulus fell out of the sky was the moment Sirius was six again.

Then sixteen.

And Regulus was fifteen.

And he had said no. His voice hadn’t even wavered.

But now he’s seventeen, and Regulus is sixteen.

Sixteen, but lying crumpled in the grass.

Sixteen, but Sirius hadn’t known if he was breathing.

Sixteen, but covered in blood.

And suddenly, Sirius is six again.

And Regulus is five, small and scared and standing in the corner of their drawing room, eyes blank and limbs jerking beneath the weight of his first Imperius Curse.

Sirius had screamed for their mother to stop. He’d tried to grab her wand, to throw himself in front of Regulus like some kind of shield. He’d been desperate. Helpless.

Just like he is now.

Because Sirius hadn’t saved him then.

And he hadn’t saved him today.

Sirius doesn’t remember walking up from the pitch. One moment, Regulus was unconscious in the grass, blood soaking into his quidditch uniform, and the next—Sirius was sitting in a stiff-backed chair in the Hospital Wing, hands clenched into fists and legs bouncing restlessly beneath him.

Regulus is lying on the bed in front of him, far too still. His face is pale, lips parted like he’s caught mid-breath. His dark curls are matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. One arm is bound tightly in a sling, the other resting limply by his side. His chest rises and falls—but only barely.

Remus and Peter left a while ago—after Sirius had told them it was okay, that he didn’t need them to stay. He’d said the same to James but he’d been insistent on staying. He said, “You’d do the same for me. Don’t argue.” And Sirius hadn’t because James was right—he would’ve stayed, no question, not even a heartbeat’s hesitation. But it still means something, having James here. It always does.

The same had gone for Marlene who’d hovered by the door until Dorcas nudged her and whispered, “Go. I’ll be fine.” And so she had gone too.

Now it’s just the four of them—Sirius, James, Dorcas, and Pandora. Pandora had come in only shortly after them—she’d been watching the game from the Ravenclaw stands. Sirius knows she and Dorcas are close with Regulus. So it makes sense that they’d be here.

What doesn’t make sense is who isn’t.

Barty and Evan—Regulus’s supposed best mates—nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t linger on it much—not really caring about it, to be honest. Instead, he focuses on the soft ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall. It’s the only sound in the room besides from when Madam Pomfrey has come and gone. She’s administered potions, repaired the shattered bones, closed the wounds. Her wand has moved with a kind of urgency Sirius has only ever seen during full moons, and even then—he doesn’t remember her ever looking this grim.

The extent of Regulus’s injuries had been extreme. Cracked ribs. Fractured skull. Broken arm. Internal bleeding. Severe blunt-force trauma.

He shouldn’t have survived.

You don’t just survive that—a sixty-foot fall, straight off a broomstick, after being slammed sideways into the stands by a rogue Bludger with the force of a charging Hippogriff.

Miracles, even in a magical world, are rare.

And yet—Regulus is still here. Still breathing, chest rising shallowly beneath crisp hospital wing sheets. Still unconscious, but alive.

Barely.

The kind of barely that feels like it could slip through Sirius’s fingers at any second. And Sirius can’t stop watching. Can’t stop sitting, perched on the chair beside his bed, elbows on his knees, white-knuckled grip tight around the corner of the mattress.

There’s nothing he can do but wait. And he’s never felt so impossibly, unbearably useless.

He can’t save his baby brother.
Just like he couldn’t save him from their mother when he was six.
Just like he couldn’t save him from that house when he was fifteen.

Sirius has already lost his brother once. He can’t afford to lose him again.

“Sirius.” James’s voice is soft, from somewhere to his left.

Sirius blinks, like surfacing from underwater, and turns his head toward him slowly.

James gestures toward the bedside table, where the potions sit in waiting. “Hours up.”

Sirius glances over, completely forgetting they were there. For a second, he doesn’t move—just stares at the vials, frozen. Then he swallows hard, nods, and stands.

A few hours ago—Sirius has no idea how long they’ve actually been here—Madam Pomfrey had asked them to administer potions to Regulus every hour. She couldn’t stay; she’d needed to go brew more. Said Regulus is usually the one who brews her entire stock, but he’s… well, occupied at the moment.

Sirius’s hands tremble as he picks up the first bottle in the line of vials—the one Pomfrey had said is a bone stabilizer. He exhales shakily before uncorking it. The vial smells faintly metallic and sharp, something like iron and mint.

He steps forward, knees brushing the edge of the bed, and reaches out with his free hand. Carefully—so carefully—he cradles Regulus’s jaw, his thumb brushing against skin that’s still too cold, and too pale.

He tilts Regulus’s head back, just enough to create a clear path. Then, slowly, Sirius tips the vial, the liquid slipping in drop by drop.

He watches closely, waits for the faint reflexive swallow. There—Regulus’s throat twitches, and Sirius lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He adjusts his grip, steadying Regulus’s head until the potion is gone.

When it’s done, Sirius lingers. If James, Pandora or Dorcas notice, they don’t comment on it. His hand hovers just slightly at Regulus’s temple, and without even thinking, he gently runs his thumb over a cut on his brother’s forehead. It’s not bleeding anymore—it was a much larger gash when he first fell—but still— the skin is raw and red and so painfully human. So alive.

This is the first time Sirius has touched Regulus in Merlin knows how long. And if Regulus were conscious, there’s no way he’d allow it. He’d pull away without a second thought.

It’s also the closest they’ve been—physically—in over a year. The only conversation they’ve managed in all that time was in this very hospital wing, when Regulus had been the one healing Sirius. They’d been close then too, but Regulus had worn that same cold scowl he always does now.

This is different. Now, Sirius is close enough to see the faint freckles scattered across Regulus’s nose. Close enough to remember what it was like before—before everything cracked and splintered between them.

Sirius misses his brother in the way you miss a phantom limb—aching for something that’s still technically there, but never coming back.

Sirius had tried, time and time again, desperate to close the space between them. He’d tried to talk, to apologize, to explain—to do anything that would bring back even a piece of the boy who used to chase him through the Black family kitchen barefoot and laughing.

But Regulus had always shut him down. Had met his efforts with indifference or disdain. So eventually Sirius met Regulus’s indifference with his own.

But it’s not so easy to pretend now.

Sirius startles when he hears the door open behind him, pulling his hand away so fast it’s like Regulus burned him. He stiffens, shoulders straightening as if he can mask the vulnerability in time.

Barty Crouch Junior steps inside the hospital wing, followed closely by Evan Rosier. Both of them look windblown and out of place, cloaks half-buttoned and eyes scanning the room until they land on Regulus.

Dorcas stands immediately. “What took you gits so long?”

“We weren’t watching the match,” Evan says quickly as they make their way to the occupied bed. “Didn’t even know anything happened until we overheard some of the third-years talking in the common room.”

Barty nods. “Came straight here after that.”

Pandora twists in her seat to look at them, puzzled. “But you always watch?”

Barty shrugs, a bit too stiffly. “We were busy. Homework.”

Dorcas raises an unimpressed brow, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she gestures toward the bed. “Well, he’s not dead.”

“Is he alright though?” Barty asks, fidgeting slightly on the spot. Evan is just beside him, his face uncharacteristically tight. He looks guilty—good—Sirius thinks. They both ought to, their best friend nearly died and it took them hours just to come see if he’s okay.

Dorcas opens her mouth to reply but Sirius beats her to it. “He fell,” he says flatly. “Sixty feet. So no, he’s not okay.”

Evan winces but Barty just blinks—clearly not expecting an answer from him—and his eyes narrow slightly as he fully registers who’s standing at Regulus’s bedside. “The fuck are you doing here?” Barty asks. His voice isn’t raised, but there’s venom under the surface. “Last I checked, Regulus doesn’t even like you.”

James shifts uncomfortably in the chair beside the bed but doesn’t say anything. Sirius stays standing, arms crossed tightly across his chest like if he lets them fall, they’ll start swinging.

“Yeah, well,” Sirius seethes, “I’m his fucking brother so—“

Barty scoffs, short and bitter. “Yeah. You were. Until you left.”

Sirius stiffens, his jaw locking tight. His fingers dig into the crooks of his elbows like he’s holding himself together by force.

Crouch opens his mouth again, ready to snarl another comment, but Evan beats him to it. “Barty.” He says, voice quiet but firm. He places a hand on Barty’s arm, fingers curling just enough to hold him there. “Don’t.”

Barty doesn’t look at him at first. His jaw is tight, lips pressed into a flat line. But Evan’s grip is steady, grounding. After a long pause, Barty exhales through his nose and lets his arms drop to his sides.

“He left,” Barty mutters, not to Sirius this time. More to Evan. “He doesn’t just get to come in here now and pretend—”

“He’s not pretending,” Evan interrupts. That makes Barty finally look at him. “Just—he obviously still cares. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

Barty doesn’t argue, but his gaze drifts to James, still sitting silently at Regulus’s bedside. “Still don’t get why the fuck Potter’s here,” Barty mutters under his breath.

“Barty?” Dorcas asks.

He looks over. “Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Sirius snorts, James also lets out a short laugh. Barty just rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, half under his breath, and crosses the room without another word. He grabs two spare chairs from another bed—one for himself, one for Evan—and drags them over with a dramatic scrape of wood on tile.

Evan gives him a look, amused but appreciative. “Thanks,” he says, taking the seat next to the bed, near James.

Barty nods in acknowledgment, sitting down next to Evan.

 

~~~~

 

Another four hours pass. Another four hours and Regulus still hasn’t woken.

Pomfrey came back to check on him and deliver the new potion she’d just brewed, but Sirius had told her to rest and that he could continue delivering the hourly vials of potions.

Conversations have come and gone, and Sirius finds himself surprised that James and Evan seem to be hitting it off, talking about stuff Sirius has no interest in.

Over time, though, everyone’s energy starts to drain—the words slow, the voices lower. Dorcas’s head keeps drooping, only to jerk up awake again, fighting the exhaustion that threatens to overtake them all.

Sirius can’t bring himself to talk, eat, sleep—do anything but watch his brother. And it’s because he’s watching so carefully that he sees it first: a small jerk of Regulus’s hand.

He sits up straighter, heart suddenly pounding.
“Did he just move?”

“What?” Dorcas mumbles, eyes half-lidded, still half-asleep.

“No, yeah—I saw it too. His hand twitched,” James says, voice low but alert.

Dorcas jolts upright, no longer tired in the slightest. With a frustrated sigh, she reaches across and shakes Barty and Evan awake. Sirius hadn’t even noticed them fall asleep—but now he sees Barty’s head resting on Evan’s shoulder, and Evan’s cheek tilted gently against Barty’s hair.

Evan blinks first, bleary-eyed and confused, just as Barty lifts his head with a soft grunt.

“What—what’s going on?” Barty mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

Sirius looks back to Regulus. “He moved.”

Across the room, Pandora straightens from the counter where she’d been brewing tea for them. “He did?” She asks, already halfway across the room. Completely abandoning the task at hand.

For the first time in hours, all of them lean forward in their seats. It’s the first real sign of life, the first twitch, the first anything—and hope sparks instantly, bright and fragile.

They wait patiently for several minutes, none of them speak and they hardly move until there’s another flutter of motion—Regulus’s twitches back slightly. Sirius jerks upright. Dorcas lurches forward at the same time.

“Reg?” she whispers.

Nothing.

Then, slowly, his eyelids twitch. A crease forms between his brows. His mouth parts just a bit wider. Regulus blinks once—slow and heavy, like even that costs him effort. His gaze is unfocused, brow drawn tight.

“It’s alright,” Pandora says softly, her voice more stable than Sirius feels. “You’re in the Hospital Wing. You’re safe.”

Regulus groans again and tries to shift. He hisses in pain.

“Stay still,” Sirius says quickly, standing now. “You’ve got to stay still, alright?”

Regulus turns his head, gaze drifting, sluggish and unfocused—until it lands on Sirius. For a moment, he just stares. Confusion flickers across his face, then something else—harder to place. Wariness. Distance. Like waking up into a dream he doesn’t trust.

Sirius freezes under the weight of that look. It’s not anger, exactly, and it’s not surprise. It’s colder than either of those. Familiar. A look that says: you’re not supposed to be here.

Sirius clears his throat, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands. “You’ve been out for a while. I’ve been giving you potions every hour. That’s why you feel like shi—er—groggy.”

Regulus doesn’t answer, doesn’t even blink. He just closes his eyes again like Sirius’s voice is something he doesn’t want to deal with. Like it hurts. Like it’s one more thing pressing against already bruised skin.

Sirius stiffens but doesn’t say anything else. He just watches, hands curled into fists at his sides, because if he doesn’t hold something, he might shatter.

Regulus is ignoring him. That much is obvious. But he’s not arguing with him. Not lashing out. Not meeting Sirius’s words with a sharp tongue and colder stare, the way he always does.

And honestly, Sirius was terrified that the second Regulus opened his eyes, he’d look at him with the full weight of that old fury and tell him to piss off and get out

He expected it. Braced for it. Could hear it in his head like an echo already waiting to be real. But it didn’t come. Regulus just shut his eyes like Sirius was background noise. Like he wasn’t worth the energy. And somehow, that stings worse. Because Sirius would’ve taken the fight. He wanted the fight, if it meant Regulus still cared enough to throw the first punch. Still cared enough to yell. To spit venom the way only Regulus Black can.

But he doesn’t blame him. Not really.
Regulus is clearly in pain. The kind of pain that makes the world fuzzy and far away, that makes voices sound like static. It would be cruel to expect conversation from someone who just got half his ribs cracked open by a Bludger and then plummeted like a bloody comet.

So Sirius lets it go. At least—for now. If Sirius has learned anything from this—from watching his baby brother nearly die—is that he can’t lose him again. The first time was bad enough, he can’t do it again.

There’s a long pause where no one speaks, then hesitantly Dorcas asks. “Reg, Do you want water? Or—?”

Regulus doesn’t open his eyes, he just shakes his head slowly.

They all stand there a little awkwardly, once again unsure of what to do.

“Should we give him some more of the pain potions? Pomfrey left some.” Evan says.

James shifts beside him. “Maybe we should just get Pomfrey?”

Sirius opens his mouth to speak, to tell James that yes, they should go get the highly trained medical professional. But—surprisingly—Regulus beats him to it.

“No.” He opens his eyes now, staring directly at James with a look that Sirius can’t place. “Stop—stop fussing over me, I’m fine.”

Sirius huffs out a breath, exasperated. “No, Reg, you’re not fine. Do you even know what bloody happened?” His voice rises, incredulous. “You got hit by a Bludger and then fell sixty fucking feet.”

Regulus’s eyes drift lazily from James back to Sirius, like the words take a moment to land. Then, with a voice so hoarse it barely carries, he rasps, “Who won?”

It’s the first thing he’s said directly to Sirius—and he’s asking about the fucking game. Sirius stares at him, stunned into silence. Unbelievable—he nearly died and the only thing he cares about is the bloody score.

Barty just laughs maniacally, like Regulus has just said the funniest thing ever.

Dorcas huffs a laugh. “You, Regulus. You Caught the snitch mid-fall you bloody idiot.”

Barty—who’s still laughing like an absolute fucking maniac adds, “just didn’t quite stick the landing.”

Regulus—the little bastard that he is—smiles a little. It’s barely there. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it’s real. Sirius sees it and blinks like he’s not sure it actually happened.

Dorcas snorts. “Look at that, a sense of humor and a spine fracture.”

Regulus immediately winces. “It’s not fractured.”

“Could’ve been,” Evan mutters. “You bounced like a stone.”

Before anyone can make another joke at his expense, the door swings open and Madam Pomfrey strides in, bustling with purpose and potion bottles clinking in her arms.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she says when she sees Regulus’s eyes open. “I heard voices and prayed it wasn’t just Black talking to himself again.”

Sirius frowns. “Hey—”

“I’m joking,” she says crisply, setting her things down on the side table. “Mostly.” She pauses, looking down at Regulus worriedly. “How are you feeling, Mr. Black.”

“Fine,” Regulus says immediately, voice steady.

Too steady.

Sirius watches him closely. Anyone else might believe it—the way his tone doesn’t waver, the way his expression stays so blank and calm it’s almost convincing. But Sirius grew up with that face. He knows exactly what it looks like when Regulus is in pain and trying to hide it. He knows the way his jaw clenches, just a little too long, when it hurts to breathe. When you grow up in a house where punishment meant pain—meant wands and hexes and curses—you learn how to read it. Learn how to see past the performance. Even when Regulus is doing everything he can not to show it.

He’s lying. Of course he is. Regulus is an excellent liar—always has been. Gifted, even. Sirius used to think it was impressive, in a horrible sort of way.

Now it just makes him feel sick.

Pomfrey doesn't seem convinced either. But she doesn’t push either. She waves her wand in tight, practiced motions over Regulus’s chest, his ribs, his skull. He flinches under the glow but doesn’t complain. Just stares up at the ceiling like this is something happening to someone else. Pomfrey hums, eyebrows rising as results float above her wand in little gold lettering. “Well. That’s… remarkable.”

“What?” Sirius asks, sitting up straighter.

“These readings,” she mutters, then looks at Regulus. “Your ribs are nearly mended. The bruising around your lungs is already receding. You had a concussion—severe, from the fall—and yet your nervous system is reading stable. Still some swelling, but honestly…” She straightens up, blinking at him like he’s grown a second head. “You shouldn’t be this well. Not this soon. It’s… well, it’s miraculous—bordering on unnatural. You Black boys are either charmed or cursed, I swear.”

“I vote cursed,” Sirius mutters.

Barty lets out a cackle. “Guess Reg’s just built different.”

Pandora shakes her head, then clears her throat and looks to Pomfrey with worry in her eyes. “Madam Pomfrey, is that normal? For someone who fell off a broom like that?”

Pomfrey frowns, eyes narrowing slightly. “No. It isn’t. I’ve seen Quidditch injuries for thirty years—this is unheard of.”

Dorcas tilts her head, arms crossed as she watches Regulus with narrowed eyes. “Maybe it’s the sheer force of spite keeping him alive.”

Barty snorts. “Sounds about right.”

Even Regulus almost smiles at that—almost. It’s more of a twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone before it can really settle.

Pomfrey finishes her check with a final flick of her wand. “He still needs rest, and potions every few hours—but yes, I’d say he’s officially out of the woods.”

She turns to Sirius. “You’ve done well. I told you to keep him breathing, not accelerate his recovery, but I won’t complain.”

Sirius blinks. “Right.”

Pomfrey’s eyes flick to the others. “That being said—he still needs rest—so all of you out. It’s late anyway and you lot need sleep just as much as he does.”

“But—” Barty starts, eyes flashing.

“No buts,” Pomfrey snaps. “He’s stable, but barely. He won’t stay that way if he’s overstimulated or kept awake. You’ve got ten seconds before I start hexing ankles.”

Sirius stiffens, instinctively bristling. But James puts a hand on his arm, gently guiding him up. Even Barty doesn’t push it, just rises with a clenched jaw and eyes that won’t leave Regulus’s face.

Pomfrey turns to Regulus, her tone softening just slightly. “You’re lucky, Mr. Black. Very lucky. Most don’t get second chances with falls like that. But you’re not going anywhere for at least a day, miraculous recovery or not. Understood?”

Regulus gives a slow, stiff nod. His expression is unreadable—blank in a way that doesn’t look peaceful so much as resigned.

She nods firmly, then turns back to the others. “Go on. He’ll still be here in the morning.”

Pandora steps forward and leans over, hand hovering over Regulus’s arm, then she seems to think better of it. Knowing his aversion to touch, so instead, she rests it on the bed. “We’ll come see you tomorrow,” she murmurs to him, almost too quiet for Sirius to hear.

Sirius doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just looks. Takes in the too-pale face, the barely-there frown in Regulus’s brow, the hollows carved beneath his cheekbones like someone’s taken a chisel to him in sleep. His brother is alive—barely, but alive—and Sirius knows that should be enough.

He’s glad Regulus woke. He’s glad he’s recovering well, or at least on the path to it. But there’s something knotted inside Sirius’s chest that hasn’t loosened since the moment he saw his brother lying still and unresponsive on the grass. It’s worse now, in some ways, now that the danger has passed and all the emotion has space to catch up to him.

They’d hardly talked. Not really. Sure, it was more of a conversation than they’ve had in a month but it wasn’t enough.

Because Sirius realizes now, with complete and painful clarity, that he can’t bear to lose Regulus again.

He’d already accepted it once, like tearing off a limb and forcing himself to believe he could still walk straight. Accepted the loss of his brother, accepted that some things don’t get to be salvaged. Yes, it still stung—of course it did—but Sirius had spent so long convincing himself that it was over, that Regulus had made his choice. That whatever they'd once shared as boys had been buried beneath family name and expectation and silence.

He’d moved on. Or at least, he told himself he had.

It hadn’t been his choice, not really. Regulus himself had pushed him to it—cold words, closed doors, a thousand chances turned to ash before they ever had a chance to burn. Sirius had let go the only way he knew how: by running, by surrounding himself with people who chose him. With James and Remus and Peter, with a life that felt louder and freer, even when it ached.

Brothers, he’d told himself, don’t always mean blood. And he’d learned to live with that. Learned to find family in the people who stayed.

But now—now this.

Seeing Regulus unconscious, broken, nearly gone—it’s torn something open inside him, something Sirius didn’t even know was still alive. It's woken up an old, aching instinct, one he hasn’t felt this sharply in years.

The fierce, unrelenting urge to save him.

To pull him out of the dark. To shield him from the wreckage of the world. From the family that twisted him. From the path Sirius is afraid he's still walking.

Looking back on it now, Sirius doesn’t actually think he ever truly gave up. Not really. He doesn’t think he could. No matter how many walls Regulus built, no matter how quiet their brotherhood became, Sirius never stopped hoping—however faintly—that he might still get his brother back one day.

And standing here, watching Regulus breathe, that hope rises in his throat like a wave. Choking. Demanding.

He wants to say something—Do you know how much I’ve missed you? Do you know I never stopped caring?—but the words stay trapped behind clenched teeth.

So instead, he swallows them down and walks away.

Now’s not the time, Regulus isn’t ready and honestly—Sirius isn’t either. But he knows now: he’s not letting go again. He’ll talk to Regulus. They’ll be brothers again—however shaky it is at the start—they’ll be proper brothers again.

Sirius will save him.

Behind him, the others follow one by one.

The door closes with a soft click, and for the first time in hours, Regulus is alone.

 

~~~~

 

Regulus falls asleep almost as soon as they leave. Staying asleep, though—that’s an entirely different issue.

Sleep has never come easy for him. It’s always been a mess of restless tossing, sharp-edged thoughts, and nightmares that plague him with thoughts he won’t allow in the day. But this is different.

This time, he wakes up often—sometimes to Pomfrey hovering, tipping another potion to his lips, sometimes for no reason at all. Just startles awake like his body doesn't trust itself to rest.

But the potions help. They drag him under each time, heavy and warm and dreamless. For once, sleep isn’t clawing at his insides or leaving him breathless in the dark. It’s peaceful—not waking up to nightmares every hour.

Regulus wonders—only half-conscious—if he should start brewing something like this for himself. Something to make it feel like this again. To make rest feel possible.

Maybe he could get used to sleep not being a battlefield.

 

~~~~

 

Regulus doesn’t remember falling asleep again.

All he knows is that it’s dark when he opens his eyes again—dim torchlight flickering against the ceiling. His body feels like it’s made of lead. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or if the dream he had about Sirius sitting by his bedside had actually happened.

For a moment, he wonders if he imagined it. If his subconscious had stitched something comforting together out of scraps and old memories. Maybe Sirius hadn’t been here at all.

No—no, he had. Regulus knows it now with a strange sort of certainty. Because he remembers the tone. That same stupid brotherly tone Sirius used to use when they were younger, whenever Regulus scraped a knee or got sick or cried too hard to breathe.

“No, Regulus. Don’t move. You have to stay resting.”

Merlin, it was like he’d never stopped. Like no time had passed at all. Like Sirius could walk right back into his life and go right back into the role of a perfect brother.

Sirius had looked worried the whole time—that’s why Regulus couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at him and see the evident fear in his eyes.

Fear because of him. Because he fell. He remembers it—not much after it—but he remembers the fall in vivid detail. The way the air had rushed past his ears, silent in that final moment before impact. The way everything had gone completely still. And how it had almost felt peaceful.

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut.

Then he hears it: muffled voices from the other side of the infirmary curtain.

“I said visiting hours are over. You lot can come back in the morning. He needs rest.” It’s Madam Pomfrey, voice stern and unmistakable

There’s a pause. Then, softer: “Oh. Sorry dear, you’re not who I thought you were.”

A beat.

“Well—alright, but only for a few minutes. He’s still recovering.”

Footsteps pad across the stone floor, careful and light. Approaching. Then a quiet sound of the curtains parting. Regulus doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows who it is even before she speaks.

“Hey,” Eva says quietly.

He lets out a breath, turning his head and opening his eyes. “Hey,”

She’s in her uniform still, a cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders, hair braided back neatly, eyes sharp and tired all at once. There's something in her expression he can’t quite place. Concern, yes, but something else too. A carefulness, maybe. Though he doesn’t know why.

Eva settles into the chair, legs swinging. “How are you feeling?”

Regulus breathes out slowly. “Fine.”

She raises a brow, the same way Dorcas does when she doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. Regulus rolls his eyes. “Alright—honestly, I feel fine. Bit stiff, maybe. But that’s only because I’ve been lying in this stupid bed all day like a bloody Victorian child.”

Eva snorts. “Reg—you literally got thrown out of the sky by a Bludger.”

He lets out a soft laugh, careful not to move too much. “Yeah. Still want to play Quidditch?”

She grins, unbothered. “Honestly? Yeah. If not for the game, then for the fame.”

Regulus gives her a look, amused but confused. “Fame?”

“You’re literally all anyone’s talking about right now,” Eva says, a spark of pride lighting her eyes. “You still caught the Snitch, did you know that? After all that? That’s bloody amazing.”

“Yeah.” He says distantly, he’s never been one to accept compliments so he redirects the conversation. “What time is it?”

“Late. Almost curfew.” Her eyes flicker over him—his warped arm, the mess of blankets he’s tangled in—and then she looks away quickly. “I saw the match,” she says, suddenly quieter. “With Alcoa and Talia. We were sitting in the top corner of the Ravenclaw stands. You were flying so fast.”

“I usually am,” Regulus murmurs, trying for a smirk, but it lands crooked.

Eva grimaces. “When you got hit, I—I was really scared.”

Regulus swallows. “You shouldn’t have been.”

“You looked dead,” she blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That was—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s alright.”

She fiddles with the edge of her skirt. “I wanted to come see you right after. But I ran into Peter on the way in. He was leaving with Remus and Marlene and he was like, ‘Eva? What are you doing here?’ and I panicked and said something dumb like, ‘Oh nothing! Saw you coming this way and thought I’d say hi!’”

Regulus quirks an eyebrow. “Convincing.”

“I know,” she groans. “But he bought it! Sort of. Then he was like, ‘Wanna hang out then?’ and I couldn’t say no because he was giving me the squinty-suspicious-face he does when he thinks I’m hiding something, so I went with him back to the Gryffindor dorms.”

“You’re not allowed in the Gryffindor dorms.”

“Oh please—everyone there loves me, no one ever stops me. It’s like I’ve been adopted by the House. James even calls me ‘little Pettigrew.’”

Regulus rolls his eyes but he has to fight back a smile. “He used to call me ‘baby Black.’”

Eva gasps. “Really?”

He nods, “up until third-year when I hexed him for it.”

Eva snorts, “Merlin, you’re a menace, Reg. It’s kinda adorable though, we should start a club. Baby Black and Little Pettigrew. We could get badges.”

“Please never suggest that again.”

Eva giggles, bright and unbothered, and Regulus finds that he doesn’t mind the sound. He actually quite likes it.

“Anyway, back to my story” Eva says, perking up, “I was so anxious the whole time and Peter noticed. He kept asking what was wrong and I didn’t want to tell him because then he’d freak out and go into overprotective big-brother mode, so I just said I was nervous about my Potions essay and he was like, ‘Let’s play chess. That always helps.’”

“Does it?”

“It does,” she admits. “I always lose—Peter’s practically a god at chess—but it helps.”

She leans her chin onto her hands, resting her elbows on the edge of his bed. “Then Sirius and James came back to the dorms and were talking to Peter and Remus. I was just sort of there—eavesdropping, obviously—and they were saying Pomfrey said you were doing better—amazing recovery—which made me feel better.”

Regulus doesn’t say anything. He can imagine Sirius saying it, saying it like he’s still in shock. He’d been hovering over Regulus the whole time, he could hardly stand it.

Eva continues, “Then Remus asked Sirius if you two actually talked. And it got kind of awkward. Sirius didn’t answer right away and James was like, ‘Give him time, Moons. It’s complicated.’ Which—by the way—what the heck are their names for each other? And why did my brother get the worst one? Like Wormtail? Really?”

“Wormtail is awful,” he agrees, smiling. “I don’t even want to know the story behind that one.”

Eva grins. “Apparently it involves a rat and a lot of poor judgment. I don’t know, Peter won’t really tell me much.” She pauses then shakes her head. “But anyway—I was curious because you never talk about your brother. To be honest, I’ve kinda separated you two, Sirius is Peter’s friend, and you’re mine. I forgot that you guys are actually related.”

Regulus lets out a breath, quiet and controlled. “That’s probably for the best.”

Eva tilts her head. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his palm, running a finger over the jagged line before replying. “We haven’t spoken properly in years. Not since he left.”

“Left home?” Eva asks gently.

He nods once. He doesn’t say that Sirius didn’t just leave home.
He left him.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Eva says. Her tone is calm—not pushing, just offering.

Regulus stays silent for a long beat.

Then, without quite meaning to, he says, “He used to tell me things. About running away. About how he hated our family, the house, everything. And I listened. I listened every time. But I guess I thought…” He trails off. Swallows. “I never actually thought he’d do it.”

Eva’s smile fades. “Reg…”

“I’m not angry,” he lies. “Little hypocritical of me if I was.”

Eva furrows her brows. “How come?”

“Because I said no.”

Her frown deepens.

“He asked me—he asked me to leave with him—and I said no.”

“Oh,”

Regulus leans his head back against the pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He’s never said this out loud before—not like this. His friends know the facts, sure. What happened. The bare bones of it. But not the details. He doesn’t know why he’s telling her now.

“When he asked me to come, he said it like a secret—like we could vanish before they noticed. Like we’d be okay, as long as we were together.” Regulus’s throat works around the words. “And I wanted to believe him. Merlin, I did.”

“So why didn’t you go?”

He gives her a sideways look. “Both of us couldn’t have left,” he says eventually, voice even.

Eva frowns. “Why not?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Our mother wouldn’t have let it happen.”

Walburga had already written Sirius off by then—black sheep, lost cause, whatever fit that day. But Regulus? Regulus was still salvageable. Still worth molding, shaping, keeping. Sirius had a head start in rebellion. Regulus had shackles hidden beneath clean robes and perfect manners.

If he’d said yes, if he’d tried to leave too… Walburga would’ve come for him. Would’ve dragged him back by the throat if she had to.

And maybe he would’ve let her.

“Reg?” Eva’s voice is cautious. “Are you saying… you wanted to go?”

He doesn’t look at her. “Doesn’t matter now.”

She opens her mouth, like she wants to argue, then seems to think better of it.

Regulus breathes in slowly. He remembers Sirius’s face that night—angry, desperate, pleading. And maybe—maybe some awful, buried part of him had wanted Sirius to suffer for leaving him behind. Because Regulus had been naive enough to think that he’d be enough to make Sirius stay.

Guess not.

A silence settles, but it’s not a heavy one. She’s just watching him again, her expression unreadable for someone so young.

“You’re really okay, though?” she asks finally, then when she seems to realize the vagueness. “I mean your injuries—not your messed up family—you really feel fine?”

Regulus nods. “Hurts a bit. Not nearly as much as the first time I woke. It gets better every minute. So… yeah. I’m going to be alright.” He says it more for her sake than anything else.

She nods, satisfied, and after a moment of hesitation, she reaches forward and gently nudges his hand. “Good. Because if you died, I’d have to haunt you.”

He snorts. “You can’t haunt someone who’s already dead.”

“Oh, I’d find a way,” she says cheerfully. “I’d follow you into the afterlife and be like, ‘Why’d you go and do something so stupid, Regulus Black?’”

He looks at her, at her small hand still resting near his, her eyes too sharp for eleven. “Oh, you’re so scary.” He deadpans.

“I know,” she says proudly, completely ignoring his sarcasm.

There’s a pause. Regulus exhales, then murmurs, “Thank you. For coming.”

Eva shrugs, suddenly bashful. “I wanted to. I—I’m glad you’re still here.”

Regulus shifts his hand just enough to tap her knuckles in return. “Me too.”

Pomfrey’s voice cuts in gently from across the room. “Alright, Miss Pettigrew. Mr Black needs to rest.”

Eva sighs and gets up, brushing down her skirt. “I’ll come back tomorrow. With chocolate frogs.“ She says with a grin, and then—quieter—“Goodnight, Reggie.”

Regulus’s throat tightens suddenly, so fast and sharp it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

Reggie. No one has called him that, ever. No one except Sirius.

It hurts hearing it come from a voice he doesn’t hate.

He manages a small nod. “Goodnight Eva,” he says, but it’s barely more than a breath. He watches her go, watches the curtain swish closed behind her, and only then does he let his head sink back into the pillow.

 

~~~~

 

The next time Regulus wakes, it isn’t to Pomfrey pressing potions to his lips, and it isn’t just a slow drift into consciousness. No—it’s a soft thump, followed by a quiet, “Shit.”

It’s not Pomfrey. And it isn’t Eva. The voice is distinctly male.

Regulus doesn’t move. He isn’t sure why—instinct, maybe—but he keeps his eyes closed, body still and breath steady. Normally, being this exposed would make his skin crawl. Eyes shut, defenceless, someone else in the room—too many unknowns.

But he doesn’t feel vulnerable. Not this time.

Because he knows that voice.

And it’s been a long time since he’s felt unsafe around it.

Regulus keeps breathing evenly, pretending to sleep. He’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the potions, maybe it’s the dark, but everything feels suspended—quiet and impossible, like a dream he's not quite inside of.

He listens. Hears the shuffle of footsteps, the scrape of a chair pulling closer. Then nothing. Just the quiet sound of breathing.

A few minutes pass, Regulus stays lying there. Completely awake now but refusing to open his eyes.

Then—

A touch.

Regulus nearly moves, but he refrains at the last moment from flinching.

Fingers, warm and unsure, graze the side of his right hand. Then pause. As though they’re debating whether to continue. Regulus keeps his breathing steady. Controlled.

The fingertips shift—featherlight—and turn Regulus’s palm upward.

Regulus feels the air kiss the exposed skin before the touch is back, more deliberately this time. They trace inward, along the exposed skin of his palm until they find the scar.

The jagged, pale line etched into the center of his palm. His breath stills.

The touch falters—just for a second—but then returns, more careful now. Reverent, almost. One finger traces the uneven length, up the length of the scar. Pausing at the center. Pressing a thumb into the spot where the skin rises just slightly, reading it like a secret in a language only they can see.

Regulus feels it like a static pulse beneath the skin. Every inch of him alert, even as he forces his body to remain loose, still. Normally, being touched would put every defence in him on edge. But this doesn’t feel threatening.

It feels known.

The thumb presses gently to the raised center of the scar. Not hard. Just enough to map it. To learn the shape of it. To try and understand it through touch alone.

Regulus feels something tighten low in his chest.

The touch lingers. Palm to palm now, not gripping—just resting. An offer. A presence. A weightless kind of steadiness.

And Regulus keeps his eyes shut and his breathing controlled. He really—really shouldn’t. He should open his eyes. He should pull back. He should do anything other than pretend.

But that’s what he does anyway.

 

~~~~

 

The next time he wakes, it’s harder to tell how much time has passed.

The pain is almost completely gone now—which, should it be? Is he in shock? Is Pomfrey just that good of a healer? Even she said it—no one she’s seen has recovered this well before. She said he shouldn’t have even survived, and yet—not even a day later and he feels fine, so painfully fine.

This train of thought distracts him for only so long before he registers the pressure on his thigh. Not heavy. Just the faint weight of something resting there. Fingers maybe.

Regulus shifts just enough to blink open his eyes.

There’s a mess of brown hair slumped over at the edge of the bed, head tucked down into the blanket. One arm is crooked awkwardly off the mattress, and his hand—James’s hand—is resting loosely across Regulus’s thigh.

The chair he’s in has been pulled in too close. There’s no way it’s comfortable—James is half-draped over the side of the bed, neck craned, back twisted. But despite that—he’s fast asleep.

Regulus blinks, adjusting to the dim light. The rhythm of breathing across from him is steady. It’s infuriating peaceful.

He shifts. Purposely moving his leg so it jostles James in his sleep, not enough to hurt, just enough to wake him.

There’s a quiet groan, he stirs with a slow, disoriented breath and lifts his head, blinking through sleep. His hand slips slightly down the blanket before catching himself.

Regulus watches in silence as James squints at him, his glasses askew and smooshed awkwardly into his face. He reaches up and pushes them into place. A big, cheesy grin spreads slowly across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re awake.”

“Yes—well, hard to stay asleep when someone’s lying on me.”

“Sorry about that,” he says sheepishly, dragging a hand through his hair. There are faint creases pressed into his cheek from the blankets, and his voice is still thick with sleep. He shouldn’t look so gentle.

James shifts back in his chair, stretching his neck with a wince. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep—I just—I was only going to stay a bit. Thought I’d leave before you even woke up. Just…” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “You couldn’t come to the tower, so I figured I’d come to you.”

Regulus doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at James—longer than necessary. Something tightens in his chest, small and stupid and unbearably soft, and he hates how familiar it feels.

He drops his gaze to the scar on his palm and flexes his fingers, remembering the shape of James’s hand closing around it.

“Merlin,” he mutters at last, shaking his head. “You’re so bloody stupid.”

James grins, completely unbothered. “Yeah. I figured you might say that.” He shifts again in the hospital wing chair. “Reg?”

“Hmm,” Regulus says, already hating how much he wants James to keep talking.

“Are you okay—really—are you actually okay?”

Regulus exhales through his nose. Not sharply, but with a tired edge. “I’m fine.”

James raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound fine.”

Regulus turns his head just enough to look at him. “I feel fine,” he says again, more firmly this time. “I feel fine and I don’t understand why I have to stay in this stupid hospital wing.”

He feels ridiculous—like a child sulking over something as trivial as spilled milk. But really—he’s tired of lying in this bed and drifting in and out of consciousness every hour. Its boring.

James looks at him incredulously “Because got hit by a Bludger, fell sixty feet, broke several bones, got a major concussion, internal bleeding, other medical stuff that I didn’t understand. Then you were unconscious for half a day and Pomfrey said you shouldn’t even be sitting upright yet? I think that’s enough reasons for you to slow down and rest for a day.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, turning his gaze to the ceiling, staring at it, unimpressed. He lets the silence hang for a beat, then exhales slowly.

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m bored.”

“Oh, well—so sorry my presence isn’t fun enough for you,” James replies, all mock offense, gesturing vaguely at himself.

“No—” Regulus stops himself and exhales through his nose. “That’s not what I meant. I’m tired of lying in this bloody bed and sleeping all day. It’s boring.”

James softens slightly. “Yeah. I know. But you’ll be released tomorrow, right? Just one more night.”

Regulus turns his head to look at him, determination sharpening behind his eyes. “I want to leave.”

James immediately straightens, alert. “Reg—no. You’re injured.”

“I feel fine.”

“You’re not fine. You nearly died, remember that?”

Regulus shifts in the bed and goes to stand up.

James bolts upright. “No—no, no—Regulus.” He rushes forward and pushes him back gently by the shoulder.

Regulus glares up at him. “Touch me again and I’ll bite you.”

James snorts. “Bite me?”

“I don’t have my wand,” he grumbles.

James grins and pats his own pocket.“Well, I’ve got mine. And I will hex you if you try to stand again.”

Regulus narrows his eyes and exhales sharply, clearly his approach isn’t working—and he’s running out of patience.

“Please,” Regulus says, biting off the word like it burns. “I can’t lie here one more second.”

James looks at him like he’s debating every life choice that led him to this moment. Then, with a dramatic groan, he runs a hand down his face. “Merlin, Reg. Fine—just move slowly, okay?”

Regulus smirks, victorious. He bats James’s hand away when he reaches to help. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, Mr. Bitey,” James mutters.

Regulus rolls his eyes but swings his legs over the side of the bed anyway. The floor is cold under his feet, jarring after the warmth of the blankets, but he pushes up to stand without hesitation.

It’s a mistake.

The moment his weight shifts, his foot gives out. His ankle twists—or maybe it just forgets how to hold him—and the floor tilts. There’s a brief jolt of panic in his chest before strong hands catch him around the waist.

James.

His grip is steady and warm. Regulus finds himself pressed against him. He glares at the middle of James’s chest.

“Fine, huh?” He says smugly.

Regulus clenches his jaw. “Shut up.”

He tries to straighten, to shove off the support, but James is already moving to steer him back toward the bed. “Alright, lying down again—”

“No.”

“Regulus,” James says, the name weighted with warning.

“I said no. My foot’s asleep. I haven’t moved it all day. That’s all.”

James doesn’t move but he huffs out an exasperated breath, and Regulus doesn’t look up. He can feel James watching him, and he hates the way his skin warms under the attention.

Within a minute Regulus finds his footing again, he shrugs James off and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” James asks, quick on his heels.

Regulus doesn’t stop. “You’ll see.”

Behind him, he hears James’s exhale, sharp and disbelieving. “This feels like a bad idea.”

Regulus smirks to himself. “So don’t come.”

“Are you kidding—you can’t even walk in a straight line.”

Regulus slows just enough to look back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Then guide me.”

James falters. It’s only for a second but he quite literally stumbles over his own two feet. He recovers quickly enough, his expression shifting into startled them unguarded.

Regulus turns back around, suppressing the smirk tugging at his mouth. He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. The sound of footsteps behind him is answer enough.

They walk in silence, slipping past portraits and torchlight. Regulus doesn’t look back again, but he can feel James’s presence close behind, hovering like he might step in at any second—like he’s waiting for Regulus to collapse again.

As they reach a staircase, James finally speaks. “This isn’t the way to the Astronomy Tower.”

Regulus doesn’t pause. “Yes, James. I didn’t hit my head that hard. I never said we were going to the Astronomy Tower.”

James huffs. “So where are we going? Are we on a midnight walk now? Because you’re not exactly dressed for it.”

Regulus glances down at the loose hospital-issued button-up hanging off his frame. It’s wrinkled, a little oversized, with sleeves rolled up sloppily past his forearms.

“Good thing we’re wizards,” he deadpans.

They push through the front doors, the night air bites at his skin, cool and sharp and far more invigorating than the stifling hospital wing. The moon hangs heavy over the grounds, spilling silver light across the grass. James makes a sound like he wants to argue again, but falls quiet as Regulus keeps walking—past the greenhouses, past the lake, until the Quidditch pitch rises in the distance.

James stops walking.

Regulus keeps going.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

James catches up and tugs on his wrist, turning Regulus to face him. His grip is firm but not rough. His fingers wrap around his wrist, calloused and warm.

All Regulus can think about is them tracing over his scar.

“You nearly died yesterday. Which—let me remind you—was by falling off a broom. You’re not getting on one again right now. You’re still healing. You can’t even walk without—Merlin, Reg—”

“Then fly with me.”

James’s brows shoot up. “What?”

“If I fall,” Regulus says, voice even, tilting his head slightly. “You can catch me.”

For a second, James just stares at him. His hand is still wrapped around Regulus’s wrist, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point like he's checking if he’s dying again.

Eventually he sighs, releasing Regulus’s wrist to run his hand through his hair. “Godric help me, I’m actually going to let you do this.”

Regulus’s grin twists smug, sharp with satisfaction as James moves to grab his broom.

Regulus is starting to realize that James would give him the sun—if only he asked nice enough.

 

~~~~

 

Ten minutes later, they’re circling high above the castle.

Regulus is in front—obviously. He doesn’t like giving up control. Not in class, not in life, and certainly not in the sky. James didn’t argue. He just climbed on behind him, close but not too close, hands finding a careful hold around Regulus.

The cool air bites at Regulus’s cheeks as they rise above the castle grounds, a stark but familiar contrast to the cloying warmth of the hospital wing.

Below them, the towers of Hogwarts shrink into dark stone silhouettes. They keep rising till they’re in the clouds—misty and sparse.

“We should go lower,” James says, voice slightly raised over the wind, but still calm. His breath ghosts across the back of Regulus’s neck. “Stick a little closer to the grounds, yeah?”

Regulus smiles to himself. Then—since James asked so nicely—he obliges.

The tilts the broom straight down, letting it slice through the air like a blade. James lets out a strangled noise behind him—half laugh, half protest. His arms tighten instinctively around his waist. Regulus pretends not to notice the way his pulse skips at the pressure. Pretends not to feel the rush of heat where James’s fingers press through his shirt.

He dives, sharp and sudden. The ground rushes up toward them, and for one suspended moment it’s just wind and stars and gravity.

The earth waits.

Regulus pulls up just before impact. The broom arcs, grazing the tips of the grass before soaring upward again, the momentum lifting them back into the open sky.

Behind him, James exhales sharply, his breath catching. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Regulus doesn’t look back. His mouth twitches into something halfway between a smirk and a threat. “If I was, you wouldn’t be able to ask.”

James lets out a laugh—loud and incredulous—but there’s a nervous edge to it. “Charming. Truly.”

Regulus shakes his head, heart still hammering slightly. But it’s not from fear. Falling isn’t something he’s ever been afraid of, not when he fell from trees as a kid, and not when he fell from his broom yesterday.

He veers toward the lake, the reflection of the stars shimmering beneath them like a second sky. The water below is still, glassy. Moonlight stains it silver.

He levels out above the surface and coasts there for a while, letting the silence stretch between them. James hasn’t let go of his waist but Regulus doesn’t comment. He can feel the rise and fall of James’s chest against his back. The warmth of him.

Regulus exhales, soft and long. He tilts the broom upward again, rising in slow spirals until they’re suspended above the lake. He lets the broom hover, steady and unmoving.

Above them, the sky is vast and endless. The constellations blaze bright tonight. Regulus tilts his head back, scanning until he finds what he’s looking for.

He’s always known where his brother shines in the sky. It doesn’t matter the season, the hour, the hemisphere—he can find him blindfolded. Sirius is loud even in the silence of space.

He lingers on the shape of the constellation. A dog, eternally chasing something just out of reach.

“He was really worried about you, you know.”

Regulus stiffens but he doesn’t look away from the sky. “If he wants to play the concerned brother,” he says coolly, “maybe he shouldn’t have left.”

He can feel James tense from behind him. “Thats not—that’s not fair, Regulus, and you know it. Just because he left doesn’t mean he ever stopped being your brother.”

Regulus finally turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. “No. The second he left, he stopped being my brother.”

James frowns, lips pressing into a thin line. “He tried—he asked you to go with him. He got my mum to try and get you out. He got the Ministry to go to your house. He tried everything and you—you said no. Don’t go trying to place the full blame on Sirius, you could’ve gotten out—you could’ve gone with him.”

“No,” Regulus snaps, and it's the first time his voice cracks. “I couldn’t.”

James’s eyebrows knit together in confusion and concern. “What—he—he asked—”

“Don’t. Just don’t, James.” Regulus’s voice is sudden, harsher than intended, brittle as ice breaking. “Not tonight.”

Regulus starts to turn away again, jaw clenched and shoulders high, trying to fold the conversation back into silence—but James doesn’t let him. His hands fall away from Regulus’s waist and then one comes up firmly to his shoulder, stopping him.

“Come to mine,” James blurts out. “You didn’t miss your chance—there’s still time.” Over Christmas break, leave—come home with me.”

Home. Regulus feels the word echo through him like a bruise. His hands clench at his sides before he forces them to relax.

“You know I can’t do that, James,” he says, and he makes his voice steady, makes it cold.

“Why not?” James’s voice is incredulous, already edging toward something desperate. “What’s stopping you?”

Regulus shakes his head, shoulders tightening. He shifts just enough that James’s hand falls from his side. James lets it, but doesn’t back off.

“Come with me. We’ll figure it out. My parents—I’ll figure it out. You don’t have to go back to that place.”

That place. Grimmauld Place. His mother’s voice in his head. The carved Black family crest on the wall. The door that locks from the outside.

“—make me understand why—“

“James,” he whispers, a thread of steel in his voice, abruptly shutting him up.

And because he is a cruel, selfish man, he lifts a hand to James’s jaw.

James freezes.

His breath catches audibly, shoulders tensing like he’s been struck—not with pain, but with something worse: hope.

Regulus doesn’t tell him to stop again, Doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg him to let it go. Those didn’t work.

Instead, he lets his fingers trace the sharp line of James’s jaw, featherlight and unhurried. He can feel the tension under the skin, the tremble James tries to hide.

“Let it go, James.” Regulus murmurs, his voice a breath away from gentle.

He watches the way James’s eyes flutter slightly, the way his mouth parts like he wants to say something, but forgets how. How he leans—just barely—into the touch.

Regulus has always known the effect he has on people. When Dorcas was in her straight phase, she had a crush on him. She never told him, not until years later, but he’d known. Barty in third year—wide-eyed and clumsy with it—Regulus had used it to his advantage. Not cruelly. Not then.

But this? This is different.

This is James Potter. This is fire, frustration, stubborn loyalty wound into one stupidly good-hearted boy. And Regulus sees it all—laid bare on James’s face. He sees the want. The care. The disaster of it.

And because he is a cruel, selfish man, he uses it.

His fingers graze the corner of James’s mouth before dropping. “Let it go, James,” he repeats.

James doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stares at him like Regulus has cracked open the world.

James doesn’t ask him to leave again.

Not tonight.

Notes:

Okay whoa. That was a long one. Let’s unpack, shall we?

First off, James Potter: normally an early riser, responsible golden retriever man. But not today! Why? Because Regulus actually kept him up all night talking—yes, talking. Character development? We’re witnessing it in real time. And James waking up, seeing Reg’s face, and immediately thinking he’s dreaming. Because, why else would he wake up to such a beautiful face? Sir. You are in love. So in love. It's embarrassing. Keep going.

Also, Dorcas. Queen of everything. She said, “Why are we betting? Slytherin is obviously going to win,” with the confidence of someone who knows her best friend is carrying the entire team on his broomstick. And she was right, even if Regulus got absolutely yeeted sixty feet out of the sky. Fall damage? 10/10. Would not recommend.

And let’s talk about Dorene for a second because…adorable. James betting on how long it'll take them to confess? He's a menace and we love that for him.

Naomi and Oliver! They're cute. They will be relevant. That is a threat and a promise.

Anyway, Regulus falls. Whoops. Shattered bones, pool of blood, momentary death—it happens! But on the bright side, Sirius did scream “that’s my brother” in front of everyone and push through the crowd like a man possessed, so. Silver lining?

And Sirius with all those letters he wrote but never sent?? Yeah, hope you brought tissues.

Also Regulus literally closing his eyes as soon as Sirius starts talking and honestly? King behavior. Let the man rest. He just fell from the sky. He does make a miraculous recovery though! Totally normal. Not suspicious at all.

Brief but important moment: Reg thinking about using potions to help him sleep. Rough but necessary.

EVA EVA EVA

She’s back, everyone’s favorite. Icon. Legend. An absolute queen. Can you tell she’s my favorite? I actually just love writing her, her youthfulness is so adorable and refreshing compared to the gloomy, miserable life of Regulus Black. And their little “we both have James-given nicknames” moment? Sobbing. Also Regulus telling her his family secrets—the ones he’s never told anyone else?? I’m on the floor.

And Eva calling him “Reggie,” and Regulus thinking it only hurts because it’s coming from a voice he doesn’t hate. Please. Stop. I’m unwell.

Now: Jegulus.

Regulus recognizing James by voice alone? AHHHH. And then he lets James trace his scar and hold his hand while pretending to be asleep??? Be so sirius right now.

And then my fav part where Regulus is bored and is like “James do something” and James is like “ok 🫡” because that man has no spine where Regulus is concerned.

(“Regulus is starting to realize James would give him the sun—if only he asked nice enough.” Screaming.)

And then James is like “NO FLYING. YOU JUST FELL OFF A BROOM AND ALMOST DIED.” And Regulus is like 🧍. But James folds again because he can’t say no to him. Spineless little man. Adore him.

Also… that Sirius convo. James literally throwing everything to the wind and asking Regulus to go home with him 😭😭😭 but of course Regulus shuts that down by being a manipulative little shit. He knows James has a crush on him. He knows it, and instead of confronting that reality like a normal person, he weaponizes it to shut James up. Is that foul? Yes. Do I respect it a little? Also yes. Let’s remember he’s high on potions, deeply repressed, and emotionally allergic to vulnerability. He did not want to have that conversation. And honestly? Fair.