Chapter 1: Part I - Chapter 1
Chapter Text
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London, December 1977
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For the first time in his life, Regulus had done something truly brave.
Today, Regulus had run.
Deep down, Regulus had always known Sirius had been right to flee their family home. It had been a subconscious awareness, buried deep beneath layers of denial and misplaced hope, because to admit his brother had been right to escape meant admitting their parents did not love them, and never would.
But the awareness had always been there, and by the time it had forced itself into his conscious mind with the ferocity of a stray cat clawing at the cage that was meant to save it, it had been too late for Regulus to run as well.
His brother had been long gone. He had a new family, a chosen family, and Regulus had become a ghost of the one he’d left behind.
A relic in the attic of his mind.
For a while, Regulus had been all right with that.
Unlike Sirius, Regulus had always been able to play the role their parents demanded of their children: to be unseen and unheard. He was the one who produced flawless reports, who never stepped so much as a toe out of line. Regulus had accepted the role, had memorised the script, and spoken every line to perfection.
Sirius, though… Sirius had always liked to improvise. He threw scripts in the bin and wrote his own story with whatever set and props he was handed. And when he had been sorted into Gryffindor, that set had finally offered him the happy ending he’d been aiming for.
Sirius had met James Potter, and he’d run.
And Regulus had stayed, rehearsing his lines into the silent darkness of his room, hoping no one would notice that he was only playing a part. That his whole life had been a performance staged for an audience he did not love.
But he had always followed under the assumption he would survive until the curtain fell. Under the assumption he would outlive his parents and be free to pen his own story then. Yet from the moment his parents had introduced him to the Dark Lord, Regulus had realised the script had changed.
He would die in the middle of the play, his role never more than a footnote. A tragic figure, never granted the space to grow and develop.
The day he accepted the Dark Mark on his arm would mark the beginning of his end.
So, Regulus knew he needed a change of set, a new prop, a spin-off that, for once, centred around him.
But he didn’t have James Potter. He belonged to Sirius
Potter, Regulus had come to realise, was the surest escape from the Black curse. James Potter was daylight to the Black brothers’ night. He brought happiness, security, family, and, above all, hope.
James Potter had saved Sirius. But no one would step forward to fill Potter’s role in Regulus’s story. He wouldn’t allow it. No, Regulus would save himself.
And today, Regulus had done just that.
Sixteen years old, and he had grabbed the essentials—and enough money to make even a king weep—and had run from that house and all the darkness it carried.
Well, not entirely alone. He was omitting the finer details. He had help. Even he had someone on his side.
Kreacher had been an extraordinary ally this past year. While Regulus had been trapped at Hogwarts, Kreacher had made monthly trips to Gringotts, exchanging Regulus’s allowance for Muggle pounds. He had then carefully stacked the money, pile after pile, into a leather messenger bag, discreetly charmed with an extension charm.
But Kreacher hadn’t stopped there. He’d gone above and beyond the original order to make Regulus ‘escape ready’. Somewhere along the line, the elf had even gone to the Ministry, of all places, and come back with proper muggle documents. Real ones. Apparently, Regulus now officially existed in the muggle world. He had a birth certificate, some mysterious National Insurance paperwork Regulus had no use for and no interest in deciphering, and a thing called a passport. A little blue booklet with his name inside, a photograph of him looking faintly annoyed, and an official-looking stamp.
He hadn’t known any of it existed. Still didn’t know how Kreacher knew either, but there was something eerie and brilliant in the way house-elf magic interpreted orders.
Kreacher had hidden those papers in the bag with the money and protected it with the strongest charms and wards he could manage. That same leather bag was now slung over Regulus’s shoulder.
If Regulus survived this, if he made it out the other side of this damned war, it would be thanks to Kreacher.
Hah. Kreacher was Regulus’s James Potter.
There was, however, one rather pressing problem: Regulus was sixteen. And being sixteen meant carrying the trace on his wand.
He had hurled himself into a world he barely knew, with no one to guide him, no one to fall back on. No Potter family. No Remus Lupin. Not even a Peter Pettigrew. And there was a trace on his wand that would lead straight to him should he so much as lift a book the wrong way.
Until he turned seventeen, magic was deadly.
So here he was: on the run, in the muggle world, and, for all intents and purposes, a muggle himself. An underage boy in possession of little more than a useless wand, a handful of barely passable muggle garments, and a bag bursting with money.
That would work. Surely.
He’d come out of this… adventure with his reputation maintained. Regulus might be a runaway, but he would remain a dignified runaway.
And that brought him here, wearing a green cashmere jumper and a pair of black slacks that were supposed to be part of his school uniform. He was also wearing dragon hide boots, the only type of shoe he owned. According to his mother, anything less would have been beneath the dignity of a Black.
Over it all, he wore a floor-length black wool coat, which was a year-old wizard fashion trend that had temporarily replaced the heavy (obviously magical) outdoor cloaks. But walking along the muggle streets, having had the chance to observe a few passersby, he’d realised his coat was still a bit much.
As he stared at the entrance of a building with a large ‘HOTEL’ sign above the door, he could feel the stares of muggles prickling at the back of his neck. They made him uncomfortable. Not because they were muggles, Regulus had already forced himself to accept that he would live among them now, but because stares had always meant something bad. Punishment. Humiliation. Correction. He didn’t know if they still did now.
Even the air here stank of muggles. Cigarette smoke and petrol. The sort of dense urban filth that clung to your skin and settled into your clothes. Regulus wrinkled his nose slightly and pulled his scarf tighter, more out of habit than actual cold.
“Oi, Eton, you going in or what?”
Regulus looked up at the sudden voice, finding a muggle boy—about eighteen or nineteen, if he had to guess—standing in front of him. The boy was dressed in a black leather jacket that seemed several sizes too large, trousers made of that thick denim fabric Sirius had taken to wearing on weekends.
Regulus raised a single eyebrow at the boy, pointing to himself in silent question.
“Yeah, you!” the boy laughed. It was an ugly sound, cackling and wild, yet somehow oddly contagious. “Who else?”
“My name is not Eton,” Regulus said. He had never actually spoken to a muggle before. Were they always this stupid, just guessing names at strangers?
“No shit,” the boy barked another laugh. “I meant your clothes, mate. You look like a bloody Eton boy.”
“What’s an Eton boy?” Regulus asked carefully. This was the first muggle who had spoken to him, and Regulus knew he wouldn’t survive long if he couldn’t navigate this unfamiliar world. Better to swallow his pride and ask the stupid questions now, rather than embarrass himself in front of someone who could actually deny him a roof over his head.
The boy raised his eyebrows. “Eton College?”
“I assume that’s a well-known school?”
“You really don’t know Eton College? With that accent?” He laughed again. “Fuck, mate. It’s only the poshest of posh schools out there. Breeding ground for rich bastards who’ll run the country into the ground and still never touch a mop.”
“So, you were insulting me?” Regulus said dryly, unable to stop the faint upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
The muggle grinned. “Guess I was. You mind?”
Regulus, who had spent the last sixteen years insulting muggles, decided that karmic retribution was overdue. He shook his head. “I’m Regulus.”
“Regulus? Your name’s Regulus? Christ, I think Eton’s actually better,” the boy said, still grinning. “But I’m Barty.”
He extended a hand.
Regulus hesitated for the briefest moment, centuries of indoctrination wound tight around his instincts, and then reached out and shook it. The contact was brief but electric, leaving a strange warmth in his palm. It felt… irreversible.
“So, Regulus—oh, fuck no, that’s not gonna work, you’re Eton now—what were you doing, staring so intently at the,” Barty turned to read the sign above the door, “‘Redford Hotel’?”
“Debating if going in is worth it.”
Barty turned as well, joining him in his silent standoff with the peeling red paint of the doors. After a minute of exaggeratedly thoughtful observation, he chuckled. “Probably not, mate. Floors’ll be sticky, chance you might get bedbugs, hairs in the sink… probably some questionable stains on the walls.”
Regulus raised his eyebrows so high they practically disappeared into his hairline. “In a hotel?” he hissed. “What’s wrong with muggle hygiene standards?!”
He should consider lying down in the gutter instead. It couldn’t possibly be much worse.
“Muggle?”
“Family specific slang,” Regulus said quickly.
“For us plebs?” Barty grinned, gesturing vaguely at himself and the run-down street around them. But there was no offence in his voice, only that constant undercurrent of mischief.
“Sort of,” Regulus said. He’d already accidentally established himself as a lost posh boy, he might as well lean into the role.
“At least you’re honest,” Barty laughed. “But I gather you need a place to stay tonight?”
“I do. I have the money for a hotel while I search for a more permanent residence, but I’m lost as to which hotel would be suitable.”
“Suitable, eh?” Barty repeated. “You look like the type suited for the Ritz.”
Regulus filed that information away. He had no other frame of reference, and any advice, even from a possibly insane muggle, was welcome. As long as it meant not freezing to death or waking up with a rare muggle disease, the Ritz sounded fine.
“Sounds good,” he shrugged. “Could you point me the way?”
Barty coughed, a choking sound like he’d inhaled his own spit. Regulus raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
“Fuck, Eton. I was joking. You’ve never heard of the Ritz, have you?”
This muggle cursed at a rate that would have earned Regulus a mouth hexed shut for a week. He wasn’t opposed to swearing himself, at least internally, but years of pureblood etiquette had drilled the habit of self-censorship deep. Every word was supposed to reflect the ‘dignity of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black’.
“I’m unfamiliar with all establishments in London,” he replied. It wasn’t technically a lie, he was just referring to this boy’s version of London.
“Where’d you even crawl out of?” Barty shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the weirdest rich boy I’ve ever met, Eton. But don’t worry. I’ll save you from a life of champagne and polo matches. Follow me!”
Without warning, Barty cackled and grabbed him firmly by the arm, pulling him along down the pavement. Regulus thought, not without irony, that he might currently be in the early stages of a muggle kidnapping. Whether that was standard behaviour here, he had no idea. It sounded like the sort of nonsense his mother would have told him during a bedtime story.
Never trust muggles, darling, they’ll kidnap you, steal your magic, and make you eat tinned food.
But honestly? Being kidnapped by a muggle couldn’t possibly be worse than a future in service of the Dark Lord. And besides, wand or no wand, trace or no trace, Regulus could cast a hundred lethal curses in the time it took this muggle to blink.
So, he let himself be dragged along, glancing down at the hand on his bicep. That’s the second time in his life being touched by a muggle. He should probably stop keeping count like that… it wasn’t exactly the mindset Sirius had tried to drill into him that summer after first year.
“Where exactly are you taking me?” Regulus asked as they crossed a busy street, weaving between the speeding death-traps muggles used for transportation. Brilliant. He was going to die today.
“My place!” Barty called cheerfully.
“You’re taking a stranger to your home?”
It was mad! This boy didn’t even have magic to protect himself.
“Oi, I have roommates. You’re the one letting a stranger drag you off the street.”
“I can protect myself.”
“You do realise I’m holding your arm, right? I can feel your muscles, or lack thereof,” Barty said, flashing him a feral grin as they jogged across another street.
Unfair. Regulus had a Seeker’s build. Lithe, sure, but he was not some delicate flower, thank you very much.
Then, from one of the approaching metal cages, a deafening screech split the air.
“What the fuck was that?!” Regulus shouted, instinctively ducking.
“Eton, you can curse!”
“No, Barty, what was that dreadful noise?”
“The wanker honked at us,” Barty said casually, flipping a two-fingered salute at the driver.
“Honked?”
“Christ, Eton, did you grow up in a bloody cave?”
“I grew up in a mansion, actually,” Regulus muttered, slightly petulant.
“In the 1820s?”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“But the highest form of intelligence,” Barty shot back without missing a beat, grin splitting his face.
That silenced Regulus.
He’d quoted Wilde dozens of times at Hogwarts, usually to blank stares or disdainful sneers. No one had ever finished the quote before. Mostly because no self-respecting pureblood Slytherin would dare read a muggle playwright.
But Regulus had cherished Wilde’s words, hidden his books under floorboards and behind tapestry panels, treating them like precious contraband. And this boy, this ridiculous muggle, had thrown the line back at him without hesitation.
“Don’t try to quote Oscar Wilde at me,” Barty continued, oblivious to his shock. “My flatmate is a theatre nerd.”
“I’d like to meet your flatmate,” Regulus said, surprising even himself with the sincerity in his voice.
“You will.”
That’s when their wild dash came to a halt, stopping in front of a paint-chipped door. Barty fished around in his pockets for a set of keys, whistling tunelessly. Meanwhile, Regulus stared at the dilapidated building, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m starting to regret my decision. Are you going to kill me?”
“Careful, Eton, your rich side’s showing again,” Barty teased, kicking the door open to reveal a dingy entryway that reeked of old cigarettes, fried onions, and something indefinably moist. “Besides,” Barty added as they stepped inside, “I couldn’t kill you even if I wanted to. You see, I’m currently in a pacifist phase. My dad complained about the hippies last month, so naturally I had to become one out of spite.”
Regulus couldn’t help it, he laughed. A real laugh, sharp and startled. It sounded like something Sirius would have done.
Barty led the way up a dimly lit staircase. Every step creaked like it might collapse, but after Regulus made the mistake of touching the sticky handrail once, he resigned himself to taking his chances unaided.
They climbed two flights, before Barty stopped in front of a battered door missing its number plate.
The lock resisted for a moment as he jammed the key in, but with a practiced shove of his hip, the door swung inward.
Inside was one long room, divided in the most makeshift way imaginable. Four mattresses, no bedframes, were scattered around the walls, each one separated from the others by a patchwork of hanging curtains, tacked-up sheets, and what looked suspiciously like an old, threadbare carpet hung sideways.
The floors were buried under layers of worn, overlapping rugs, none matching in colour or pattern. Some were so frayed they were practically threads, others clashed violently in red, orange, and mustard yellow.
The walls had probably once been a soft, buttery yellow, but it was impossible to tell anymore; every inch was plastered with posters, all sorts of muggles, bands, protests, etc. It reminded him a bit of Sirius’s room.
But then there were the countless unmoving photographs hung everywhere, stuck even over parts of the windows.
It was a bit overwhelming, actually. Regulus diverted his eyes.
In the centre of the room sagged a brown and orange sofa, slumped in the middle, stuffing leaking out from the arms like some wounded beast. A bright green coffee table was placed in front of it, littered with empty tea mugs, muggle cameras, cigarette butts, and dog-eared books.
The so-called ‘kitchen’ was just a two-burner cooker, a rusted sink the size of a basin, and a buzzing mini-fridge that whined louder than the apparition point at the Ministry.
It was a mess.
It stank like dust and old cigarettes and the unmistakable scent of an overworked radiator.
It looked so muggle that it was almost offensive.
And yet… it was colourful, thanks to the mismatched furniture, the bright sheets, the ocean of posters. It was warm. It was lived-in. It looked more like a home than Grimmauld Place ever would.
Behind them, Barty kicked the door closed, flashing Regulus a crooked smile. “I know it’s a bit shit,” he said, “but rent’s dead cheap. If you don’t mind having absolutely no privacy, you’ll fit right in.”
“I went to a boarding school where I had to share a room with four others,” Regulus said absently, still drinking in the room. “I’m used to no privacy.”
His eyes drifted back toward the walls, drawn to the photos again. They were different somehow. Wizard photographs froze moments for memory or education. These… these were trying to tell stories
Regulus wanted to study them. Wanted to learn what secrets they promised to impart.
“What d’you think?” a new voice said behind him.
Regulus turned, finding a boy leaning lazily against the back of the couch, a cigarette burning between his fingers as he pointed at the photo Regulus had been inspecting. He had blond hair, a strong, square build, and wore a black turtleneck paired with jeans tighter at the hip and flaring wider at the ankles.
“Evan!” Barty cried, bouncing over and kissing the boy full on the mouth without a hint of hesitation.
Regulus averted his gaze, giving them a moment of privacy, and wandered further along the wall, staring at a poster of a woman playing the guitar.
“Interesting response,” Barty said from behind him.
Regulus turned back, finding both boys watching him with amusement. “Huh?”
Evan stubbed out his cigarette in a battered tin tray on the table, hiding a laugh behind his hand.
“We’re used to either shock, disgust, anger, sometimes even relief or happiness,” Barty explained, “but you… you just act like it’s the weather.”
“What exactly are we talking about?” Regulus asked cautiously, glancing from Barty to Evan in the hopes one of them would be more coherent.
“Us being poufs,” Barty said cheerfully.
That didn’t help. “What?”
“Fairies,” Barty added.
Regulus frowned, genuinely confused. “What? The magical kind?”
A bark of laughter escaped Evan, and Barty wheezed like he’d just heard the funniest thing in the world.
“No, Eton. Homosexuals.”
“Oh,” Regulus said simply, raising one eyebrow. “I assume Evan is your boyfriend, based on your greeting. Is that wrong?”
“That’s it?!” Barty cried, scandalised.
Evan chuckled. “Barty, where the hell did you find this one?”
“I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re supposed to be shocked,” Barty said, throwing his arms up in theatrical despair. “Or at least mildly unsettled by two blokes snogging.”
“Why?”
“WHY?!”
“Yes. I don’t understand why it would warrant a special response. Are you recently betrothed or something?”
Barty made a sound like he was physically choking, while Evan repeated “betrothed” under his breath, half-horrified, half-amused.
That’s when, somewhere in the back of his mind, a dusty fact forced its way to the surface. In first year, Regulus had skimmed a book on muggles that had mentioned—briefly, and rather poorly in Regulus’s opinion—something about muggles being very odd regarding same-sex relationships. Illegal? Frowned upon? Something in that direction.
It had sounded like nonsense, especially when the next paragraph went on to talk about an all-powerful sky-man who apparently cared deeply about what individuals did with their genitals. Needless to say, Regulus had taken the rest of the book with a grain of salt.
“No, it’s really fucking normal,” Barty said fiercely, jabbing a finger toward him. “The masses just haven’t realised it yet.” A bright, wicked grin spread across his face as he looked Regulus over. “I like you, Eton,” he said. “You might be some sort of magical creature that just popped out of another dimension, but I really fucking like you.”
This time it was Regulus’s turn to choke. Because Barty had no idea how close to the truth he actually was.
Barty, luckily unable to read Regulus’s thoughts, turned to Evan. “Evan, dear, love of my life, this is my friend. His parents committed the atrocity of naming him Regulus, so we’re calling him Eton. Eton, meet Evan.”
Evan laughed, tipping an imaginary hat. “He does look like an Eton boy. Those trousers with the jumper. Except the coat,” he gestured to Regulus’s floor-length one. “That’s different. I dig it.”
“Right, almost forgot,” Barty said suddenly. He spun to Regulus and bowed low, adopting a scarily accurate imitation of Regulus’s accent. “May I take your coat, good sir?”
Regulus hesitated. It felt a bit odd, one of the hosts bowing to a guest, especially since Regulus was the one dependent on their charity. But muggles kept surprising him. And without house-elves, someone had to fulfil the role of servant, right?
It seemed… they did it themselves.
He slid the heavy coat off his shoulders and handed it carefully to Barty, giving a small nod of thanks.
A beat of silence followed.
Barty stared at the coat in his arms, then at Regulus, then sideways at Evan.
Regulus raised an eyebrow, expecting the coat to be hung neatly on the wonky, overloaded coatrack by the door.
Instead, Barty burst into cackling laughter. “Bloody hell, Eton! I was taking the piss! Don’t tell me you’re actually used to having servants!” He, then, ran a hand over the coat’s material, whistling low. “This thing’s soft as fuck,” he said, tossing it onto the rack with a careless flick. “You’re crazy rich, aren’t you?”
“My parents are,” Regulus said, slightly uncomfortable now. Without the long coat, he suddenly felt exposed, small. In the wizarding world, he was never without layers: robes, cloaks, etc. It was his armour, made of velvet and silk, making him look distant and unapproachable. His shield between himself and the world.
Here, in this messy, colourful muggle flat, he just felt… bare.
He clutched his bag tighter against his body.
“Generational wealth,” he explained, trying to remain indifferent.
He glanced at the two strange boys. Evan was watching him properly now, taking him in as if assessing whether he really fit here after all. He hoped that his muggle outfit passed the test.
“Hey, Regulus,” Evan said carefully. “How old are you?”
Barty looked up sharply at the question, his grin faltering, eyes narrowing as he studied Regulus anew. “Oh, shit. You look crazy young without the coat.”
Regulus straightened, lifting his chin in defiance. He was one year away from being considered an adult in the wizarding world. He would not be treated like a child.
“I’m sixteen,” he said firmly.
“Sixteen?!” Barty repeated, voice five octaves higher. He turned to Evan, wide-eyed. “Shit. I didn’t know, Ev! I found him outside a hotel!”
“And you just brought him here?” Evan asked incredulously. “Without asking any questions? His family might be looking for him!”
“I’m not some lost pet!” Regulus snapped. “And you two can’t be much older!”
“I’m eighteen,” Barty said, with a tone that suggested this somehow gave him the moral high-ground.
“That’s a mere two-year difference!”
“Yeah, but Evan here is nineteen!” Barty said triumphantly.
“That’s one more year!”
“We’re adults!”
Regulus scoffed. “Barely.”
“Will both of you shut up for a second?” Evan interrupted, voice sharp but calm. He stepped between them slightly, putting a steadying hand on Barty’s shoulder. And, remarkably, Barty actually went quiet, as if Evan had cast a non-verbal calming charm.
“Regulus,” Evan said gently. “Are you alright? Are you lost? On holiday? Why do you need a place to stay?”
Regulus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes found a black-and-white photograph on the wall. It was an image of Barty, laughing, head thrown back. He stared at it intently, noticing the love that radiated from every corner of the picture, and he knew immediately who had taken it.
“I ran away,” he said, voice flat.
Barty’s eyes widened. “Oh, bugger. Fuck. Shitty the shit.”
“Barty, breathe,” Evan said. He shot Regulus a careful look. “Why’d you run?”
Regulus hesitated, fingers twitching to grab his coat and disappear. “I can’t say,” he said, voice low, almost pleading. “But I can’t go back, okay? I won’t survive if I do. I’m not exaggerating.” He swallowed. “But if you’re uncomfortable with me here, I’ll go. I’ll find a hotel.”
He turned, already moving for the door.
“No, stop!” Barty protested. “You’re not staying in some strange hotel on your own. You’re staying here, where we can help”
“I don’t need minders.”
Evan ignored him. “Your parents, they’re abusive?”
“Oh,” Regulus laughed, a small, hollow sound. “That’s the least of their issues. I wish they were only abusive. I could have endured that a little longer.”
Barty groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Oh, this is so much worse than I thought.” He looked up at Evan. “He’s so clueless, Ev. Like, even with the most basic things. He didn’t even know what a honking car was! It was funny at first, but now it’s just so fucking concerning.”
“I’m not helpless,” Regulus hissed. He would not be seen as a scared victim; he was Regulus Black.
“Are you running from some sort of crazy cult?” Barty asked. For once, there was no teasing in his voice.
Regulus looked away, gripping his bag like a lifeline, not denying it.
It might not be the full truth, but it was the closest he would get without breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Close enough that maybe they would stop asking questions. Close enough that maybe they would keep helping him, like they had so far.
Because the truth was: Regulus was scared.
Terrified, actually.
He hadn’t thought the muggle world would feel so alien. He hadn’t thought everything would be different. But it was. So fucking different. Every sound, every gesture, every bloody thing. Living here without help, without support… it would be impossible. He didn’t even know where to start. Didn’t even know what their money was worth, how it compared to galleons and sickles. He was a walking sign screaming: Please, take advantage of me!
Evan seemed to see all of it. See him. He placed a steady hand on Regulus’s shoulder, a soft squeeze of reassurance. Regulus barely flinched. He must be truly falling apart, if strangers could read him this easily.
“Okay, Reg… can I call you that?” Evan asked. Regulus pulled a face at the nickname, but after a moment, he gave a stiff little nod. “Our roommate Sarah moved out last month to live with her boyfriend, so we’ve got a free mattress. You’d be living here with Barty and me, and our friend Pandora. It’s not much, but it’s something. Are you able to chip in for rent, or do you need a few weeks to figure it out? We could give you a little time before things get tight.”
“I can help,” Regulus said immediately. “I’ve got money. I didn’t leave my home empty-handed. I prepared for a long time.”
“Good,” Evan nodded. “That’s a relief. Just… don’t shout it from the rooftops, yeah? Not while dressing like that.”
He steered Regulus towards the couch, and it wasn’t until then that Regulus realised how utterly drained he was. The stress had been coiled inside him all day, and now his body was giving out beneath him. His knees buckled without warning, and he dropped heavily onto the cushions.
“Barty, grab us a cuppa, would you?”
“Sure, sure,” Barty grumbled, but there was a teasing smile tugging at his mouth, gentler than before. “I’m already playing servant today, accepting coats and shit. Might as well serve some tea too.”
Regulus watched through tired eyes as Barty filled a large metal pot with water. He pressed a button, and the pot came alive, rattling and rumbling furiously.
Even making tea was different here.
The thought hit him sideways. And he laughed. A breathless, incredulous sound at first. And then louder, until it tumbled out of him in great gasping waves, his hands burying themselves in his curls.
He laughed and laughed, until he could barely breathe.
He had gotten out.
He was free.
Chapter 2: Part I - Chapter 2
Notes:
Huge thanks to everyone who left excited comments on the first chapter!! You made my day, and this chapter is two days early because of you! 💛
Chapter Text
The evening arrived with a hot and greasy cardboard box in Regulus’s lap.
Pizza, Barty called it.
He recognised the food, Hogwarts had served it once, thanks to Dumbledore and his endless muggle cultural experiments. At the time, he and the entire Slytherin table had passed on it, but now he was grateful to see something even remotely familiar. After an hour of Evan and Barty trying, and failing, to explain this thing called ‘electricity,’ he’d reached his limit for new things.
He’d inevitably stumble across a million things he’d never heard of by tomorrow, sure. But today, he was done.
Now he found himself wondering if they planned on handing him cutlery at any point. Judging by how the others were eating it, the chances were slim. So, he followed the muggles’ lead, picked up a triangular slice, and taking a large bite from the tip. The taste of tomato, oily cheese and Italian herbs hit his tongue immediately. It was good, surprisingly so.
They were sitting on the sagging sofa. Well, Regulus and Evan were. Barty had claimed a spot on the worn carpet, his back pressed to Evan’s legs. Every time he spoke, he’d try to make eye contact, which he did by dramatically flopping his head into Evan’s lap, forcing the blond to keep yanking his pizza box out of the way to avoid getting hair in his food.
He’d never eaten like this before. Meals at Grimmauld Place had been formal, rigid affairs. Even when ill, he’d been expected to sit at the table, back straight, cut neatly, chew silently. No elbows on the table, no complaints, and absolutely no fingers.
And yet, here he was, tomato grease on his thumb and index finger. He licked it off.
A sharp click echoed from the front door.
“That’ll be Pandora,” Evan said, wiping his fingers on his jeans. “The flatmate I mentioned. She sleeps on the purple bed.” He nodded towards the far corner of the flat, where a mattress lay half-concealed behind bright floral curtains, draped in lavender bedsheets and strewn with scarves.
“Hi guys!” called a cheery voice. “You won’t believe what a customer said to me today!”
With the back of the sofa facing the door, Regulus had to twist round to see the girl speaking. She looked about Evan’s age, with platinum-blonde hair plaited thickly over one shoulder. A long, swirling skirt brushed her ankles, and an oversized orange jumper hung off one shoulder.
With her back to the room, she continued chatting while unlacing a pair of knee-high boots. “This bloke asked if I was a dancer! Said I have the grace of one when I walk.” She laughed, the sound filling the room. “Naturally, I said yes.”
Barty snorted. “You’re the worst dancer I know.”
“Well, he didn’t know that, did he?” She yanked off her second boot and let it thud beside the door. In thick socks, she padded across the flat towards the kitchen area, twirling as she went. “Besides, Barty dear, I’m an actress. I can be anything I like!”
She twirled again, as if to emphasise her point, only for her eyes to fall on Regulus. She beamed. “Oh! You’re new!”
Regulus couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m Regulus.”
“Regulus? How fascinating!”
“We’re calling him Eton,” Barty said through a grin. “Regulus is far too bloody pretentious, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk, Bartemius,” Pandora laughed.
Regulus choked on a bite of pizza. “Bartemius?”
“Fuck, Pan. You’re wrecking my street cred!”
Pandora ignored Barty and walked over, extending a hand to Regulus. “You’ve probably already heard, but I’m Pandora.”
Regulus nodded, taking her hand. She gripped it firmly, pulling him up from the sofa with surprising strength and wrapping him in a tight hug.
“It’s so lovely to meet you, Regulus. You’re taking Sarah’s mattress, I’m guessing?”
He didn’t respond, he was too surprised to. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had pulled him close like this. Perhaps Sirius, in the summer before first year. It felt like centuries ago.
And now, here he was, in a muggle flat, being hugged by a muggle girl who smelled like coconuts and sunshine.
A hand landed on his shoulder, and Regulus looked back at Evan. The blond just smiled calmly. “Reg here is a runaway,” he explained. “We offered him the flat to stay in. That alright with you, Pan?”
“Of course! The more, the merrier.” She smiled at Regulus, then reached into Evan’s box and helped herself to a slice of pizza. “Although it’s going to be a proper sausage fest in here now.”
“Piss off, you love being the only girl in the house,” Barty laughed, catching her wrist before she could steal a slice from his box too.
“Who’s ruining whose street cred now?” Pandora shot back with a laugh. She sat down, back against the coffee table. “So, when did you run?”
“Today.”
“Oh shit. You alright?”
“As well as I can be.”
“Shit situation?”
Regulus opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no idea how to begin answering that. Thankfully, Barty jumped in for him.
“Shitter than shit,” he said. “Eton here’s more sheltered than I even thought was possible.” He took a massive bite of pizza and then… he just kept talking through it. Regulus’s mother would’ve vanished the food straight from his mouth and sent him to bed without supper. She had done that to Sirius more than once. “I’m serious, Pan,” Barty continued. “Treat him like you would an alien who’s just landed in London for the first time. That’s how sheltered!”
Pandora’s eyebrows shot up. “What? How?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just know this: Eton here,” he patted Regulus’s knee, “knows nothing. That includes art. Like, all art. Evan and I ran through every film, band, artist, and actor we could think of, and he knew none of them. He’s a blank canvas.”
“Oh, you poor dearie!” Pandora looked genuinely devastated. “Don’t worry, you’ve ended up in the right flat. We’ll save you from your horrid existence. We’ll educate you, even if it’s the last thing we do!”
Regulus’s eyes widened. Educated by muggles? Surely he didn’t need that. Whatever muggle art they seemed to love so much couldn’t possibly compare to what the magical world had to offer. After all, his world was… well, magical.
Barty, oblivious to his scepticism, only egged her on. “He knows books though. Quoted Wilde at me this afternoon. That’s a helpful start!”
“You know Wilde?”
“I love Wilde,” he admitted. He’d never been able to say that to anyone before. It felt good. “I really, really love Wilde.”
“Me too!” Pandora said brightly, jumping up and running to her mattress. Beside it sat a tall pile of books. She pulled one from the middle, somehow managing to keep the rest from collapsing, and ran back on light feet, holding a book aloft like a prize. “My dad got me a hardback of his complete works. Want to borrow it?”
Regulus took the book carefully, fingers trailing over the gold lettering pressed into the linen cover.
He’d never had access to all of Wilde’s works before. The Black family library didn’t contain any muggle authors; it would probably self-implode if someone tried to shelve one. And the Hogwarts library only carried a small muggle selection, meant as extra texts for Muggle Studies. It included The Picture of Dorian Gray, the complete works of William Shakespeare, and a few volumes by Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, and Jane Austen. Regulus had read them all.
It had started as a morbid curiosity, hoping for something ridiculous to mock. But the tone, the wit, the aching beauty of their writing, had caught him off-guard. He remembered sitting in the corner of the Hogwarts library at thirteen years old, tracing lines with his finger just to memorise the rhythm of them.
“I’d love to,” he whispered.
“Awesome! You can keep it for now. I’ll know where to find you if I ever need it back.” She winked, smiling again. She smiled so easily, like it was no different than blinking or breathing. “Have you ever seen one of his plays onstage? I know the London theatres still do some of them. You look like your family would’ve had the money to go.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a play in the theatre. And before you ask, I’ve never seen the flim thing either.”
“Film,” Evan corrected with a laugh.
Meanwhile, Pandora was clutching her chest dramatically. “My profession, my life, my dreams, and you’ve never even seen one? I thought Barty was exaggerating. He tends to do that.” She ignored Barty’s offended ‘Oi!’. “Never seen a play or film before,” she shook her head. “That’s absolutely unacceptable. Friday evening, you’re coming to the play I’m in. I’ll get you a ticket so you can’t say no! It’s a Romeo and Juliet rewrite. It’s brilliant, if I say so myself. You’ll love it!”
Regulus had no plans Friday. Or tomorrow, or Saturday. Or, frankly, any day that followed. His social calendar had never looked so aggressively blank. So, agreeing was easy. “I’ll come.”
“Perfect!” she cheered. “Okay, so… no films, no plays, and no music?”
Regulus nodded. “We don’t have the ‘recorded’”—he said the word slowly, trying to get it right. He glanced at Evan, who nodded encouragingly—“music back home. Only live performances, and nothing like the musicians Evan and Barty mentioned.”
“That should be a crime!”
“That’s what I said!” Barty cried.
Pandora nodded gravely, sharing a look with Barty. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Barty nodded back, just as serious. “Emergency music night?”
“Emergency music night!” Pandora agreed with a mischievous grin. Then she was up, running to a row of thin cardboard sleeves arranged neatly on a shelf. Each one was the same height, about the length of Regulus’s forearm. “I get to pick first!” she shouted.
“No,” Barty cried. “Why do you get to pick first? I want to start!”
“Tough luck, loser! I’ve already got one!” She held up a sleeve in triumph and ran to a strange box atop a chest of drawers. Regulus watched as she pulled a thin, black disc from the sleeve and laid it on the open box, then moved a stick-like arm over it with precision. The moment she let go, a piano crackled into life and filled the flat. Regulus startled, his hands clenching the sofa cushions.
Once again, the muggles had done something that looked suspiciously like magic.
Beside him, Evan groaned. “Seriously, Pan? Patti Smith, again?”
“She’s brilliant! Her lyrics are out of this world! Regulus will appreciate her.”
She pressed the sleeve into Regulus’s hands, letting him inspect it. Regulus turned it over carefully. The front showed a pale figure in a white shirt, sleeves rolled, holding a jacket over one shoulder. Their hair was dark, their features sharp and ambiguous. In the corner, in plain muggle text, it read: ‘Patti Smith Horses’.
Meanwhile, the flat had filled with music. It was completely different from anything Regulus was familiar with. A low, slightly husky feminine voice began, almost like she was talking, but it followed the rhythm of the instruments too precisely for that.
Pandora tapped the cover in his hand. “She’s an American singer. This is her first album, Horses. She dropped a new one last year—absolutely brilliant—but this one works better as an introduction to her style,” she said as the tempo picked up.
Regulus found himself nodding along, involuntarily.
It was strange, but it was good, too. Which more or less summed up his entire experience with the muggle world so far.
They listened for a while, finishing the pizza as Pandora gave a running commentary on each song. When what Barty called a ‘side’ ended, he got up and put on another muggle artist: a man named David Bowie.
After his positive encounter with Patti Smith, Regulus took the vinyl cover eagerly. It was bright orange, and the man on the front looked more like a wizard than a muggle.
The first track was instrumental, and Barty immediately retrieved a guitar from his bed, playing along effortlessly. If it weren’t for the difference in sound levels, Regulus wouldn’t have been able to tell Barty’s playing apart from the recording.
That was how he learned that Barty—who, as it turned out, was also a runaway—was the guitarist in a band. He’d met Evan, who’d been friends with the drummer, when the blond had taken some photos for the flyer of their first performance.
As soon as the two had realised there was something more than friendship between them, Barty had run off with Evan and never looked back. That was how he’d ended up in this flat.
Evan was a photographer, and all the pictures on the wall were his. He and Pandora attended the same art college. He studied film and photography, and she studied theatre and acting.
They spent the evening like that, listening to the trio’s favourite artists. Listening to them explain, passionately, why they loved them. Listening to them go off on tangents about certain artistic choices, and then even further tangents about their own projects, their past and futures, and their dreams and passions.
At some point, Evan fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the floor beside the couch. “Anyone want one?”
“Obviously,” Barty said, already reaching. “Been dying for one all bloody evening.” He put the muggle cigarette between his lips, lighting it with a practiced flick. “You want one, Eton?”
Regulus hesitated. “I’ve never had one before.”
Barty frowned. “Never?”
That earned the muggle a dry look. “Let’s just say my parents didn’t approve.” Regulus doesn’t even want to think about everything his mother would have done to him had he been caught smoking a muggle cigarette. He took the offered cigarette anyways.
“Cheers,” Evan grinned, lighting both Regulus’s and his own.
Regulus examined the burning object in his hand. It was a weird muggle thing, now that he was looking at it, and he didn’t particularly enjoy the thought of putting it between his lips. He looked up. “So what do I do with it? Just… inhale it?”
Evan smiled, nodding. “Yeah, just not too aggressively. Smooth, like you’re sipping something hot. Then breathe out. Simple.”
Regulus did as told.
The smoke hit the back of his throat like sandpaper, and he doubled over in a coughing fit. Violent, wheezing, the kind of thing that made Pandora and Evan sit up in alarm and Barty double over laughing.
His eyes watered as he looked at the boys who were casually smoking their own cigarettes. “Bloody hell,” Regulus rasped. “It’s like smoking dragon breath.”
Pandora nodded sagely from her spot on the floor. “See? Disgusting. I’ve been saying that for years. Welcome to the team.”
Regulus cleared his throat, still blinking tears out of his eyes. “No, hold on, that wasn’t a proper try.”
Barty whooped. “Look at him go! Eton’s got something to prove.”
Second drag. Second coughing fit. Somehow worse than the first.
Evan was staring at him, trying to muffle his laughter into the sleeve of his jumper. Meanwhile, Barty was nearly in tears, cackling at Regulus’s suffering like it was the best thing he’d seen all week. “Christ, Eton, you sound like you’ve swallowed a cactus.”
“I think I actually did,” Regulus croaked, though a reluctant smile was starting to pull at his lips.
Knowing full well he looked a mess, he forced control back over his body, summoning the carefully cultivated poise that had been violently drilled into him as a Black. Eventually, he managed to perch on the couch with some semblance of dignity, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, cigarette smouldering between his fingers. His eyes were still a bit watery, but at least the coughing had stopped. As long as he didn’t take another drag—which he had no intention of doing, as it was like licking the inside of a cauldron someone had died in—he could more or less pretend he’d done this a thousand times.
“Ooh, you’re pulling a proper French film look, mate,” Barty quipped, eyeing him with a grin as he took another drag of his own cigarette. “All moody and smoking, like you’re about to dramatically stare out of a window at the rain or something.”
Evan stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.
Regulus noticed. “What?”
“You ever thought about modelling?”
He blinked. “Modelling what?”
“Clothes. Art. Your face. Doesn’t matter.” Evan shifted, suddenly focused. “You’ve got that look, the kind that doesn’t fade with time. Something classic. Almost severe. High cheekbones, strong jaw, that thing your mouth does when you’re trying not to smile. And those eyes. Christ, Regulus, they look like they’ve seen war and now they’re swirling with the fury of it. Like the air just before lightning strikes. You look like you were carved for the cover of something expensive.”
Regulus stared at him, speechless. Modelling wasn’t really a thing in the wizarding world. You didn’t see people’s faces plastered on every product or poster like he had during his brief stroll through muggle London.
At his silence, Evan pressed on. “All I’m saying is, you’ve got the kind of face people can’t look away from. A face that draws the camera in. I’d like to take a few pictures, if you don’t mind. Might actually manage to flog a few for some proper pounds if you’re in them.”
Regulus looked down at the cigarette, then back at Evan, meeting his gaze. He didn’t know what to say. He’d been called ‘elegant’ before, usually by his mother’s friends at the yearly balls. ‘Handsome,’ once, by a girl who clearly hadn’t realised he wasn’t interested.
He knew he was good-looking, of course. Hard not to, with everyone always saying he looked like his brother, who was considered the ultimate sex symbol by most of the girls, and even some of the boys, at Hogwarts. But to hear it out loud, like this, with such… detailed analysis? That was something else entirely.
He could model, though. Especially if it helped Evan out. He didn’t like being in anyone’s debt, and right now, he owed just about everything to these three muggles.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
He didn’t have much else to do now, anyway.
Evan smiled at that, wide and excited in a way Regulus hadn’t seen yet on the blond’s face. “That’s all I ask.”
The record clicked softly, signalling the end of a side and the end of the conversation. Evan stood up, stretching with a loud groan and stubbing out his cigarette. “Sorry, guys. Gonna have to call it a night. I’ve got to be at work at eight tomorrow.”
At those words, Barty got up as well, grabbing a few of the pizza boxes and attempting to fold them into a shape that would fit in the bin without dropping crumbs everywhere.
“Evan’s gone and sold his soul to the bloody capitalists,” he told Regulus as Evan disappeared into the bathroom.
It was a testament to the flat’s thin walls that Evan’s voice was perfectly clear when he called back: “Piss off, Barty! Gotta scrape together rent one way or another!”
Barty only laughed at that, sending a wink at Regulus.
“Evan works as a runner for a small advertising firm,” Pandora explained. “He’s working extra hours over the Christmas break.”
“Thought I could actually make money with my photos,” Evan added, sticking his head out of the bathroom door with a wry smile. “Sell them my services as a photographer for some adverts. But no… now I just fetch sandwiches, run errands, and connect calls. Like a bloody manservant.”
“You need to think about a job too, mate. Join us in our misery,” Barty said, bumping Regulus’s shoulder. “Got any sellable skills?”
“Oh, give him a week to settle in first, Barty.” Pandora shook her head before turning to Regulus, beaming. He was slowly beginning to realise that smiling was her default expression. “Do you have toiletries and night clothes in that bag of yours, Reggie?”
He nodded. “I’ve got a toothbrush and a nightshirt.” He pulled both out of his bag, which promptly sent Barty into a fit of laughter.
“Nightshirt? Eton, mate, that’s a full-on Victorian sleeping gown!” Barty wheezed. To emphasise the point, he took the shirt from Regulus and held it up against his own body. It fell to his shins, as intended.
Regulus frowned. “Everyone I know sleeps in those. What do you sleep in?”
“Oh, us muggles just crash out in our jim-jams, our knickers, or starkers.”
Ever since Regulus had accidentally dropped the word muggle outside that hotel, Barty had run with it. He’d used it correctly every time, although that wasn't hard, since anyone Barty could possibly refer to was inevitably another muggle. Still, it was fun hearing the word so often from a muggle’s mouth. Maybe Barty had sensed his amusement, and kept using it as often as possible just for that reason.
“I’m not sleeping naked,” Regulus said flatly.
Barty chuckled. “That’s fine, Eton. I want to see you in that dress. Go on, get it on, show us the goods.”
Regulus rolled his eyes and didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned to Pandora, holding up his toothbrush. “Do you have something I can borrow to brush my teeth with?”
Normally, he used a potion for that sort of thing, but muggles didn’t have access to those. Then again, if there was one thing Regulus had learned today, it was that muggles seemed to manage just fine without magic. They’d apparently invented something for every aspect of life. Regulus wondered whether, if magic suddenly became available to everyone, muggles would even need it. They didn’t seem to miss it. Nor were they weak or helpless without it, as the Dark Lord always claimed.
“I’ve got some toothpaste you can borrow,” Pandora said easily. “I’ll give it to you when Evan’s done.”
He was about to nod, when he got distracted by something in his peripheral. He turned, watching as Barty dropped to his knees and quietly slid his mattress across the floor, lining it up with Evan’s with practiced ease.
“They do that every night.”
Regulus looked up at the voice. Pandora was beside him, watching the boys with a softness that didn’t reach her eyes. “You can never be too safe, really. You never know what kind of surprise guest drops by the flat, and it’d be hard to explain why Barty and Evan are sleeping on a double bed.”
Regulus’s gaze flicked back to the two mattresses being pressed together. There was a sudden tightness in his chest.
“We could say I was sharing with one of the boys, but they’d only have to look over to my mattress and see all of my stuff there to realise the truth. It’s too dangerous.”
“Why’s it dangerous? What do people do?”
Pandora’s expression didn’t change, but something in it went still. Her voice was flat when she answered. “They become violent, Regulus.”
The word caught in his mind. Violent. For what? For love?
As if summoned by the thought, Evan stepped out of the bathroom, tugging his jumper off with one hand. He swapped it for a loose T-shirt and, with the casualness of a daily ritual, walked over and kissed Barty goodnight on the mouth. Just once.
That wasn’t fair. That wasn’t how love should be experienced. Not hidden behind mattresses pushed together in the dark.
Regulus had always believed it was only heirs who had to keep their love behind closed doors, that their wealth was supposed to be a fair exchange for never being able to love freely. He had thought that would be one of the good things he was giving up when he left home.
But once again, it seemed love had to stay in the shadows. And now, his magic was hidden there too.
Lovely.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by an arm guiding him into the bathroom. Pandora smiled softly, handing him an aluminium tube with the so-called ‘toothpaste’ and a clean towel he could use.
“I’ll sort your bed while you’re in here, ‘cause I know posh boys like you will just make a mess of it.” With that, she left him alone in the small bathroom.
He closed the door behind him, and for the first time that day, he was alone.
The hum of the overhead light grated on him, but it was soon drowned out by a louder buzz in his mind. He rolled his shoulders, resisting the urge to tug up his sleeves. His wand was still tucked into the holster beneath his jumper, untouched. He hadn’t dared to hold it tonight, afraid that the moment he did, he’d rethink everything and run straight back to his parents.
He looked up, and found himself staring into the mirror.
He didn’t know what Evan had seen in him tonight. The boy staring back at him was a mess. Stressed. Exhausted. The only thing still under control were his curls, thanks to Sleekeazy. Without his careful styling from that morning, they, too, would have been wild, frizzy, and completely unrecognizable.
There was a reason Sirius had grown his hair out the moment he escaped their mother’s clutches. Their curls had the potential to be heart-stopping, but with short hair like Regulus’s, the curls tended to spring up and out, giving him a look that could rival Potter after a day on his broomstick. He’d have to ask the others, subtly, if there was a muggle equivalent of Sleekeazy’s.
But for now, he was grateful for the last traces of magic holding him together, if only for a little while longer.
With a deep sigh, he shook his head, half to clear the stress, half to rattle loose the tension. He squeezed some of Pandora’s ‘toothpaste’ onto his toothbrush. It tasted surprisingly fresh and minty, working as a welcome distraction.
He took a look around the bathroom.
Like the rest of the flat, it looked like a strong breeze might bring the whole thing crashing down.
There was a narrow shower that, thankfully, resembled the ones at Hogwarts. He wondered whether the water would be warm without magic. Maybe that was another thing sorted out by the electricity-thingy running through the walls.
He was still pretty sure electricity was just a kind of muggle magic, or something given to them by some generous wizards a century or so ago, though Barty had laughed quite loudly when he’d carefully suggested as much.
He’d find out in the morning. He was far too tired to figure it out now.
He spat out the toothpaste—unsure whether it was safe to swallow—and watched the foamy white swirl drain away.
The taps, like the ones at Grimmauld Place, were separated into a hot and a cold one. At least that was familiar. He ran some cold water over his hands, then splashed his face. Would his skin break out now that he didn’t have access to Tolipan Blemish Blitzer or his usual hygiene charms?
A sudden sharp knock shook the rickety bathroom door in its frame, jolting him out of his thoughts.
“Oi, Eton?” Barty whispered through the door. “You nearly done? Pan and I wanna nip in before Evan starts snorin’ like a diesel engine.”
Rather than answer, Regulus simply opened the door and nodded.
“Brilliant!” Barty slipped past him into the bathroom, shutting the door.
In the time he’d been gone, Pandora had indeed set up his bed. It was neatly made with a navy-blue blanket and a clean pillow.
She grinned as he crossed the room. “I paired a spare top sheet with one of my old blankets. Hope it’s warm enough. It might be worth investing in a proper winter duvet sometime this week, though. You’ve got some money saved, right?”
Regulus nodded, and she smiled, tossing him his nightshirt.
“Get changed, lie down, get some sleep. You know where to find a glass if you wake up thirsty, yeah?”
Another nod.
She clapped her hands loudly before catching herself, her eyes darting to Evan’s sleeping form, and smiling sheepishly. “I put your bag by your mattress, near the pillow, so you can keep an eye on it. Didn’t touch anything, don’t worry. We respect each other’s privacy in here, since we’ve got so little of it. I hope you’ll be able to sleep all right. The first night can be really stressful. Barty was dead quiet his first night here, totally different person from how he is now.”
“Thank you, Pandora,” Regulus said quietly, careful not to disturb Evan. “I really appreciate everything you, Barty, and Evan have done for me today.”
Pandora just smiled, hugging him close for the second time that day. “This world needs a bit more kindness in it,” she said softly. “I’m honoured we can be part of the people spreading it. Sleep well, Regulus.”
With that, she slipped away, leaving him behind the makeshift curtain of colourful sheets.
He changed quickly into his nightshirt and lay down, slipping his wand under his pillow just in case.
From beyond the sheets, he heard Barty whisper a few words to Pandora before the lights clicked off and the rustling of blankets signalled Barty getting into bed next to Evan.
There was a slight fear at the back of his mind that sleep wouldn’t come. That his brain would start replaying all the horror stories his mother had fed him about muggles when he was younger.
Muggles kidnapping wizard children to steal their magic. Muggles killing wizards and trying to harvest their blood, or their wands, or even their flesh. Always at night, because apparently muggles were too cowardly to face a wizard awake and alert.
Honestly, Regulus thought, his mother really could’ve picked some better bedtime stories.
But the truth was, lying there in the quiet hum of the flat, with Barty, Evan, and Pandora just a few feet away, Regulus felt safer than he ever had with his parents an entire floor away.
Sleep found him quickly and peacefully.
Evan did snore really fucking loudly, though.
So did Barty, the idiot.
Chapter Text
Regulus checked the name of the theatre hall again. It matched the address Pandora had scribbled onto a café napkin that morning before running off to rehearsals.
He took a breath. A crowd of muggles lingered outside, chattering, smoking, jostling for the queue. Instinctively, his hand reached for his wand, only to brush against the lining of his coat.
Of course. He’d left it at home.
After the first night, he’d told himself it was a test. A way to build confidence, shed dependence. Muggles lived without wands every day, and managed just fine. So shouldn’t Regulus be able to as well? If wizards were supposedly superior.
But maybe that was just a tidy justification. Neat logic to cover something messier.
The truth was, he was a bit… apprehensive of his wand right now. There was a possibility that if he touched his wand, felt that familiar pull of power hum through his fingers, he’d turn back. And where would that leave him?
Dead, probably.
So, for now, the wand stayed tucked beneath his pillow.
Just for a little while.
He shook the thought off and turned his focus to the present: Pandora’s performance, tonight’s distraction. The past week had been strange. Too much time to think, not enough to do.
He’d read, of course. He’d made his way through Pandora’s Oscar Wilde and Virginia Woolf collection, and was now working his way through Jane Eyre by a muggle woman called Charlotte Brontë. It was quite good.
He’d also tried cooking. This morning, he’d made toast that wasn’t entirely blackened. A small victory. Turns out, toast that didn’t taste like soot made a surprising difference.
But even Regulus got antsy being cooped up in a flat for days on end. So he’d started going on walks. No particular destination, just wandering the city. He’d lived in London all his life, but the muggle version was completely foreign to him. Louder, grittier, more chaotic.
There were moments, though, brief and fleeting, where he felt oddly charmed. Fairy lights in shop windows. Children sliding down icy pavements, shrieking with laughter. Friends in pubs getting aggressively competitive over what looked like a children’s card game. There was something unruly and very human about it all.
He also used his strolls to look for Christmas gifts. A way to thank the three muggles who, somehow, had become his closest friends in a matter of days.
It turned out to be much harder than expected. Regulus normally just bought something expensive and called it a day. Unfortunately, Evan had seen that coming, and four days ago, the blond had laid out the house rules for Christmas at the flat.
They’d celebrate it among the four of them, since no one was visiting family this year, and each person had to bring a dish for Christmas dinner.
Regulus had immediately spotted a flaw in that plan. Only four dishes? With no coordination? That could easily result in the most disjointed dinner imaginable, worse than what some first years picked during their first meal at Hogwarts! What if they all brought the same thing? Or worse, four side dishes? Four desserts?
He’d voiced these concerns to Evan, who’d simply laughed and said, “Then it’ll be one to remember, won’t it?”
Apparently, last year they’d eaten pigs in blankets, gravy, ice cream, and Barty’s emergency Chinese order.
Regulus was, to put it mildly, not optimistic about the culinary aspect of the holiday.
Then there were presents. The rule: something for everyone, but nothing extravagant. In fact, the cheaper, the better. It took the pressure off the others, which turned out to be very important when you were a group of broke students.
So began his hunt for thoughtful but cheap gifts. A bloody nightmare.
For Pandora, he found a crochet magazine for beginners. She’d once mentioned wanting to learn, and Regulus had remembered. To make it personal, he bookmarked a pattern he thought would suit her beautifully, and bought the right wool and hook to go with it. He had no idea there were different sizes of hooks, or that yarn came in ‘weights,’ but thankfully the elderly shopkeeper had taken pity on him. She probably assumed he was a sweet but dense boyfriend.
For Evan, he’d bought the latest Bob Dylan record, because he’d mentioned loving his music. Regulus also picked out a Christmas card and planned to write a sort of voucher for a two-hour photo shoot. Evan could use the pictures for school or sell them, no need to split profits.
The card, however, hadn’t been as easy as it seemed. He couldn’t find a quill anywhere, and when he asked Barty, he’d nearly collapsed laughing before shoving something called a ‘biro’ into his hand.
A biro, Regulus quickly learned, did not write like a quill.
His first attempt looked like a toddler had scribbled it out blindfolded. Horrified, he tore it to shreds and buried it deep in the bin, ashamed to have created something so offensively ugly.
He’d gone out and bought extra cards after that, and by the seventh attempt, he finally held one with handwriting he could actually recognise as his own. Two gifts down. One to go.
Barty was the hardest.
By day three, Regulus still hadn’t found anything. On day four, he passed a shop with a beautiful leather jacket in the window. However, the moment he stepped inside, he knew it would be far out of budget. The shopkeepers had swarmed around him like the ones in high-end wizard boutiques always had, as though he was a walking coin pouch.
Luckily, Regulus was very used to that.
With a politely disdainful smile, he’d explained to the muggle woman in the shop that Christmas unfortunately came with a budget. She’d made a face not unlike his own, then leaned in and pointed him towards a nearby thrift shop.
He rather wished she hadn’t. If she hadn’t, he might have stayed blissfully unaware, but instead, he ended up rifling through racks of used muggle clothing. Oh, how he’d fallen.
But in the end, he’d stumbled upon a gem: a jacket nearly identical to the one that David Bowie muggle was wearing on the cover of Low. It had the same dramatic collar, the same exaggerated wizard-like hood.
It wasn’t at all appropriate for a Christmas present. Just an old, used thing. But Regulus had a feeling Barty would love it.
Now, after his four days of wandering London, he’d only needed to ask one passer-by for directions before finding the theatre where Pandora’s play was being performed.
With a steadying breath, he adjusted the collar of his wool coat and stepped inside. One of the ushers approached him almost immediately, asking for his ticket. He recited exactly what Pandora had told him to: he was a friend of Pandora Sailstream, and she’d put him on the list under the name Regulus.
That seemed to do the trick. The boy gave him a grin and led him down to a seat in the front row.
The theatre turned out to be little more than a hall with peeling paint and chairs that looked like they’d been borrowed from a school assembly. Still, there were plenty of rows, and judging by the crowd still queuing outside, they’d all be filled soon.
Regulus sat carefully, trying not to let the hem of his coat touch the suspiciously sticky floor. Beside him, a man was casually rolling a cigarette directly onto his programme. Regulus raised a single eyebrow. Was that allowed? It looked like a fire hazard, especially considering muggles didn’t have any magic to put it out.
He glanced toward the stage… and immediate did a double take.
It looked nothing like the medieval setting he’d imagined when reading the play. Instead, it resembled the dingier end of Knockturn Alley. And that was saying something! There were milk crates, rusty bins, a broken shopping trolley, and a graffitied wall scrawled with ‘Capulets = Pigs’ in that distinct muggle spray-paint style.
Five minutes later, with the room packed full, Pandora walked in.
She was playing Juliet in a ripped pink skirt and boots that looked like they’d been dredged from the bottom of the Black Lake. Her voice, when she spoke, was loud and cracking with raw emotion, all the soft, musical vowels he’d expected completely vanished.
It didn’t take long to realise they’d hacked the play to bits. What remained was a strange, jarring retelling filled with muggle slang and modern insults that left him very, very confused. At one point, someone spray-painted ‘LOVE KILLS’ live on stage, which, to be fair, seemed accurate enough. But then the Nurse got into a fistfight with Paris, who wore a bowler hat and nothing but muggle underpants.
Regulus wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel deeply concerned about the director’s mental wellbeing.
The scales tipped toward laughter when, somewhere in Act Three, Pandora-as-Julia screamed, “Your father’s feud is just capitalism in a bloody doublet!” and someone behind him whooped like a Gryffindor at one of Dumbledore’s start-of-term speeches.
And yet, Regulus couldn’t stop watching her.
Pandora was magical. Her entire body thrummed with rage and heartbreak and some strange, chaotic conviction. Regulus felt it like a current beneath his skin, a pull, raw and unfamiliar, as if some part of him had been waiting for this his entire life.
And when she died, sprawled across the stage with a kitchen knife in her hand, the theatre went completely silent.
Then the room erupted in applause, Regulus one of the loudest among them.
Afterwards, he wasn’t sure what to do. The lights came up, people stood, the spell began to break, but he wasn’t ready. Was he supposed to leave? Or go find Pandora? If so, where did he even start? He was fairly certain he wasn’t allowed on stage.
So he stayed a little longer than necessary, eyes fixed on the spot where she’d lain, heart still pounding in his chest.
Eventually, he slipped out into the cold winter night. As he left the theatre, he realised he was smiling. Wide, ridiculous, and completely unguarded. He hadn’t understood half of it, but he knew with perfect clarity that he wanted more. He wanted to feel that rush again and again.
But not as an audience member.
He wanted to be up there, on the stage. With Pandora. Acting.
Pandora had been unrecognisable from the girl he’d met yesterday. Then, she’d been all sunshine and wide-eyed joy. Now, she’d been fierce, angry, bold. Her stance had changed. Her voice. Her presence. Even her aura.
It was familiar, in a way. Regulus had spent his whole life pretending; wearing masks, reciting the right lines, becoming whatever the moment demanded. But this was different. Pandora had done it for fun. She’d taken that skill and turned it into her power. This wasn’t hiding. This was becoming.
And now that he’d seen that possibility, he couldn’t unsee it.
He wanted that. He wanted to slip into someone else’s skin. Not to disappear, but to finally feel like himself. To become whoever he chose to be.
He wanted to live a thousand lives.
That’s how Pandora found him: outside in the cold, grinning to himself like an idiot as he imagined telling his parents that his dream was to become a muggle actor.
“There you are, Reggie,” she said gently, breath puffing in the air. “Thought you’d floated off into the night.”
He turned. She was out of costume now, the tattered dress swapped for the skirt and jumper she’d worn that morning, but there was still some glitter caught in her lashes. It looked natural on her.
“You were good,” he told her. “Best I’ve ever seen.”
“This is the only play you’ve ever seen,” she laughed, pulling her coat tighter around her.
“I loved it,” he said, sincerely.
“It was a bit of a mad one. Jack got carried away with the rewrite, but it’s such a buzz to perform, I can’t even tell you.” Her eyes sparkled. “You picked a brilliant night, though. We actually sold out! Last show before Christmas, so loads of couples and family types turned up. Packed house.”
“I didn’t think it was mad.”
She laughed lightly, her cheeks a soft pink from the cold. “You’re too sweet, honey.”
“Nobody has ever described me as too sweet before,” he said, delivering his iciest Black stare to prove it.
Pandora blinked, taken aback for a beat. But instead of backing away, she grinned. “Well, maybe it’s about time someone did.”
He held the stare, raising a single eyebrow.
Still, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she nudged his shoulder with hers, a gentle bump full of easy affection. “Alright, alright, Mr. Intense. Very dramatic. Very scary. Not sweet at all.”
“I learned it from my mother.”
“She sounds like a horrible woman.”
“She is.”
“Well then, I’m proud of you for leaving.”
That earned her a small, real smile.
She gave his arm a light squeeze, beaming. “Come on. We’re heading to Jack’s flat. The cast are having a little post-show do. Bit of cider—though I suppose I shouldn’t technically be offering you any at sixteen—bit of dancing, maybe some wild interpretive singing if people get carried away.”
“Now?” he asked, glancing at the night sky. It was already fully dark, a few stars managing to pierce the London light pollution.
“Yes, now,” Pandora laughed. “It’s not that late. You’ll survive.”
He’d never been the sort to go out in the evenings. More the type to curl up in the safety of his room with a book and a locked door.
But that was the Regulus bred by Grimmauld Place. The dutiful heir. That Regulus was gone now. And if he knew his parents even a fraction as well as he thought he did, that version of him would be declared dead before the week’s end.
It would be easier for them that way. Better to mourn a son martyred for the Dark Lord than admit they’d lost two boys to freedom. They’d spin some grim, tragic tale, all cloaked in fucked-up pride and family honour. But behind the curtains, they’d curse his name.
Regulus wondered if his name had already been scorched from the tapestry.
He glanced at Pandora now. At her flushed cheeks and wild blond hair, her whole body still buzzing with post-show adrenaline. Something inside him gave way.
“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”
“That’s the spirit!” she whooped, grabbing his hand as she dragged him down the street, her laughter ringing out beneath the twinkling Christmas lights.
Regulus didn’t know what he’d expected of a muggle party, but it wasn’t this. Purebloods always said muggles were wild animals with no sense of self-control, and as he took in the chaos behind the flat door, Regulus realised that the purebloods might actually have been onto something.
A muggle in his late twenties—who Pandora identified as Jack, the owner of the flat— opened the door, flinging his arms wide and shouting over the loud muggle music: “Pandora, my muse!”
Then, turning to Regulus: “And you brought a friend!”
He stared at Regulus for a long moment, eyes raking up and down. “Bloody hell. Are you some kind of model?”
“Isn’t he out-of-this-world beautiful?” Pandora chimed in, beaming, as if this were the most natural compliment in the world. “Barty found him.”
At that, Jack cackled. “Of course Barty found him. Probably planning to feed him to Evan’s camera. Evan would sell out a gallery if your friend here was the subject.”
Regulus, quickly tiring of being spoken about like an interesting statue, cut in: “I’m Regulus.”
“Regulus?” Jack repeated with delight. “What a name! What a face! What a voice! You’ve got the full package, Cover Boy. Watch yourself, love,” he added to Pandora, “or he’ll end up stealing your spot as my favourite muse.”
Pandora just laughed. “I wouldn’t blame you if he did. Now, are you going to let us in?”
Jack finally stepped aside, and they entered the chaos.
People were everywhere, dancing, talking, laughing. Some were even performing an impromptu play to a crowd hanging on to every word.
Regulus hovered by the doorway, frozen. At a pureblood event, he would’ve been expected to greet each guest in order of social rank, with deference to the lords and ladies from the oldest and noblest families. He would know every name, every face, and precisely how to act in their presence.
Here, he knew no one. There was no map. No etiquette.
Was he supposed to greet people? Find a drink? Sit on that awful sofa? Stand like a ghost and wait to be summoned?
A lukewarm can of muggle beer was shoved into his hand by someone who didn’t even glance at him. Before he could decide what to do with it, Pandora plucked it from his fingers and took a sip herself.
Then Pandora vanished, and Regulus panicked. (Of course, he’d deny that panic for the rest of his life, even under Cruciatus. Regulus Black was not afraid of a room full of drunk muggles.)
Luckily, she reappeared moments later, sliding a cold can into his hand with a sunny smile. “Sorry! It’s the only alcohol-free thing they had. Have you had it before?”
Regulus stared at the label: ‘Coca-Cola’. He frowned and shook his head.
“Oh, fun! Your first Coke! Go on, have a sip. You’ll love it!”
He took a tentative mouthful and was immediately assaulted by pure, weaponised sugar. Either Pandora was having him on, or she didn’t know him at all, because the drink was vile. The sweetness clung to his teeth and throat and made his jaw ache.
“No?” Pandora laughed, her eyes sparkling as his face crumpled in disgust. “Not a fan?”
“It tastes like it’ll make me melt in the rain.”
“That’s what makes it brilliant!”
Before he could respond, a girl with ink-black hair and even blacker make-up appeared and swept Pandora into a tight hug. They immediately fell into a loud conversation, leaving Regulus alone.
He took another sip, shuddered at the taste, and slipped behind his cold Black façade. It made him look unapproachable, yes, but it also made it look like he knew what he was doing.
He turned towards a nearby bookshelf, crammed with screenplays and paperbacks. He didn’t recognise a single one, which would have filled his mother with pride but only made him long to read every last one.
“Not a party person?” The voice came from beside him, warm and melodic.
Regulus turned. Grey eyes met brown, flecked with gold. It was a boy, only a little older than him. Light brown skin, a mess of curls, smile easy and confident.
His heart stuttered.
For a moment, he saw James, standing in the afternoon sun, grinning like the world had never hurt him.
All this stranger needed was a pair of glasses and that irreplicable Jamesness.
Regulus hated the way his body reacted to the resemblance. His pulse quickened. His palms turned clammy.
He’d always had a sort of impractical crush on James Potter. The kind that started quietly, born from the curiosity of watching Sirius smile in someone else’s direction. Then it grew. Evolved.
Especially once Potter started following him around.
It had begun in the library last year. Regulus, hiding away in the furthest corner with a copy of Pride and Prejudice, had looked up to find Potter standing over him, squinting at the title.
‘The Black Heir Handbook,’ he’d called it, grinning in that self-satisfied way of his.
Regulus had sent him packing by weaving a simple ‘mudblood’ into his response. That should’ve been the end of it.
But two weeks later, Potter was back. All golden confidence and chaos wrapped in charm. And this time, he didn’t leave.
Eventually, Regulus couldn’t endure the incessant chatter silently anymore, and started responding. Warily, at first. Then less so. They spoke about little things; homework, Hogsmeade plans, school gossip. But occasionally, Potter managed to climb over his carefully constructed walls and would make Regulus reveal small slivers of truth. And Potter, infuriatingly, had met them with his own. Confessions folded into laughter. Fears disguised as stories. Big dreams spoken like certainties.
Regulus remembered everything. He’d treasured it all.
That’s when it stopped being harmless. When it became the kind of crush that rearranged the future in his mind.
And Potter had wanted him too. Regulus had seen it. The glances to his mouth when they stood too close. The way he remembered every offhand detail. The way Regulus only had to smile and Potter would forget to speak.
But Regulus couldn’t let it happen.
First, Potter belonged to Sirius.
When Sirius had left, Regulus had gotten everything his brother had lost, willingly or not. The ancestral home. The Black name. The status. The inheritance. The parental approval. Sirius had walked away with nothing but the clothes on his back and his best friends. And Regulus, who already had everything else, had dared to want the last piece, too.
He’d never indulged it. Potter was his forbidden fruit, gleaming and golden, but on someone else’s tree. He prided himself on never taking a bite, no matter how often he looked.
Then there was the second reason: he was the Black heir.
His future had been fixed. If he tried to love someone under his parents’ control, he wouldn’t just destroy himself, he’d destroy them too. The Black curse would have devoured Potter.
And third: Potter had been too late. By the time it had become something real, Regulus had already begun to run.
If it had happened sooner, if he’d still been stuck, maybe he’d have allowed the relationship. He would have allowed Potter to take him away from Grimmauld Place. James would have saved him beautifully, he would’ve believed in the good he saw in Regulus. Loved him into someone new.
But Regulus didn’t want to be reshaped. He wanted to burn and find out who was left in the ashes.
He needed to belong to himself before he could belong to anyone else.
So he’d done the hard thing.
He’d changed the subject every time he knew Potter was about to confess. He took a step back for every one Potter took forward. He praised the muggleborn Evans girl, planted the seed, watched it grow. He turned himself into someone Potter could let go of.
But in the end, he hadn’t been able to leave without something.
Just one thing.
It was undisciplined. Sentimental. But the day before Christmas break, he’d said goodbye.
He hadn’t said goodbye to anyone else.
And Potter had smiled, warm and certain. “See you in the new year, Reggie.”
He wouldn’t.
By leaving, Regulus might have broken James’s heart. He’d certainly broken his own.
Now, staring into eyes so much like his, the weight of it all came crashing back. He swallowed hard, unable to look away.
“What was the question?” he asked, realising he hadn’t responded.
The boy grinned. “If you’re not a party person.”
“I was convinced to try it.” His voice was steady despite everything.
“Last minute, I’m guessing?”
Regulus frowned. “How so?”
“You’re not really dressed for a party like this.”
Regulus glanced down. He was still in his long coat, fine-knit jumper, and tailored slacks. It looked exactly as costly as it was.
Everyone else at this party, however, seemed to have raided a bin behind a charity shop or a black-clothes-only warehouse sale. Or, judging by some of the jumpers, had made their outfits from leftover wool scraps and blind optimism.
Regulus cringed as he realized just how painfully out of place he looked among the muggles.
“My friends promised to help me shop for something a bit more… suitable,” he said, nearly saying muggle before catching himself. “We haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
A delighted ooh slipped from the boy’s lips. “I’m jealous. I love a good shopping trip.”
Regulus gave the boy a long, searching look, trying to gauge whether he was being sarcastic. If there was one thing Regulus loathed, it was being dragged along on shopping excursions; standing for hours while his mother debated fabric weights and sleeve cuts, only to be ignored entirely in the final decision. He’d learnt early on that having opinions only prolonged the process.
At his sceptical expression, the boy laughed. “Not a fan, I take it? My mistake. I’m a fashion student, did the costumes for the play tonight. I saw your coat and boots and had to come over. Couldn’t resist a good-looking mystery in good tailoring.”
Now that he mentioned it, Regulus noticed the boy’s outfit stood apart from the rest. His high-waisted corduroy trousers were a deep navy, paired with a cream silk shirt that had a deep open collar and flared cuffs. It was a clothing piece Regulus would expect to see under traditional dress robes, not on a muggle. He wore more jewellery than anyone Regulus had ever met, rings stacked on his fingers, chains around his neck, all worn with effortless confidence.
Even as a muggle, his aura was undeniable. Regulus had simply been too distracted by his resemblance to Potter to notice it before.
He raised his eyebrows, giving the muggle a deliberate once-over. “I see,” he drawled.
“I’m Nico,” the boy, Nico, grinned, holding out a hand heavy with rings.
Regulus shook it. “Regulus.”
“Regulus,” Nico repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. “That’s a star, right?”
Regulus blinked, momentarily thrown by the muggle’s knowledge of astronomy. “Yes. Part of the Leo constellation.”
“And here you are, at a performance afterparty. Planning to live up to your name, Regulus? Gonna be a star?” He smiled, his gaze holding Regulus’s. “I don’t doubt it.”
Heat rushed to Regulus’s face before he could stop it. “No, I’m not an actor like friend,” he said, pausing at the end of the sentence.
“But?” Nico prompted.
Regulus didn’t know what made him speak. Maybe it was Nico’s easy charm. Or maybe it was the way, when he looked in those eyes, it felt like he was talking to Potter. A Potter who openly flirted with him even in a crowd of people. “But after seeing the play tonight, I think I want to.”
“That’s big!” Nico’s grin was easy. “So what’ll it be? Stage like the lot tonight, or films?”
He hadn’t seen a film yet, but Evan and Barty had described it in detail. As Regulus understood it, films were like a play, but pre-recorded and shown on a telly or in cinemas. They said it was more immersive than theatre: no visible audience, no stage, no shouting to reach the back row.
In films, actors didn’t just play a character. They were them.
And now that Nico had said it aloud, Regulus couldn’t imagine anything else.
“A film actor,” he said without hesitation.
“A film star,” Nico said, nodding as if it were already true. “I can see it already. You’ve got that look, you know? The kind people remember. I’d watch you.”
Regulus grinned. “Good.”
“Oh, wow, Nico! You made Reggie smile!” Pandora popped into view, resting her chin on Regulus’s shoulder. “What did you say?”
“Just the truth,” Nico replied, still smiling at Regulus. “Told him he’s gonna be a star.”
“Reggie?” Pandora stepped away so she could look at him. “You’re going to be a star?”
Regulus rubbed the back of his neck, self-conscious. “I realised it watching you tonight,” he said. “I want to do what you do. I want to act.”
“It’s a frustratingly hard profession. Most give up; some never get past hobby level,” Pandora warned immediately.
It could’ve sounded like she was discouraging him, like she thought he wouldn’t manage it. But Regulus could tell she didn’t mean it like that. She was taking him seriously. She believed he could do it, she was just making sure he knew what he was signing up for.
“I know. I want to do it.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. And can you act?”
“Oh oops. Forgot about that part,” Nico chuckled. “Can you, Regulus?”
“I’ve played my mother’s perfect son all my life. She never saw through it.”
“Fuck,” Nico raised his beer in salute. “Cheers to that.”
Pandora just nodded. “You could do it. Definitely. You could convince me you were royalty from another planet, and I’d believe it.”
“Wait,” Nico said, faux disappointment colouring his tone. “You’re not royalty?”
“Sorry, Nico,” Pandora laughed. “He’s just another struggling actor now.” Then she turned to Regulus with a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. “And you know what actors have to do?”
He didn’t know where this was going, but he was certain he wasn’t going to enjoy it.
“They audition. Reggie,” Pandora said sweetly. “You’ve read Shakespeare, right?”
Although wary, he nodded.
“Good. We theatre kids love a good Shakespeare monologue. Got any memorised?”
Curse his nearly eidetic memory! Saying no would’ve made things so much easier, but instead a speech immediately surfaced in his mind.
“You’re thinking of one, aren’t you? I can see it on your face!” Pandora clapped her hands together, practically bouncing in place. “Perfect!”
She grabbed both him and Nico by the arm and pulled them towards the centre of the flat where a round, plastic table stood.
“Help me up, would you?” she said, holding out her hands. They gave her a boost, and she clambered up onto the table with impressive grace.
“Oi!” she shouted, immediately commanding the room’s attention. “Our performance tonight was so good we’ve accidentally spread the passion.” She beamed. “Ladies and gents, we’ve got ourselves a convert!”
Cheers erupted across the room, deafeningly loud.
But Pandora wasn’t done. “Of course, an actor needs a debut,” she continued, her grin mischievous. “So, what do you say, everyone? Are we up for a performance?”
More cheers, even louder this time, and a few enthusiastic whistles.
“That’s what I hoped you’d say!” she cried. “Give it up for my friend Regulus! He’s going to perform some Shakespeare for us!”
With that, she hopped off the table and shoved her beer bottle into his hand. “Here, take a good sip,” she said, laughing at the look on his face. “You’re going to need some liquid courage.”
Regulus did as he was told, only to immediately regret it.
Muggle beer, it turned out, had nothing in common with butterbeer. It wasn’t remotely sweet or warm or comforting. It was bitter and flat and vile. Even that fizzy black drink was ambrosia in comparison.
His disgust must’ve shown on his face, because Pandora burst into laughter. A high, bubbling sound, not unlike Barty’s when he was particularly delighted by someone else’s misfortune.
“C’mon, c’mon, up you go!” she said, shoving at him until he climbed up onto the table.
It wobbled beneath his boots, and a thrill of nerves shot through his chest. Around the room, the muggles began drumming on tables, walls, the backs of chairs, creating a rising, suspenseful rumble that vibrated in his bones.
This, he thought, is what the Gryffindor common room must feel like after a Quidditch win.
He stood on the table, staring down at the crowded room, countless unfamiliar faces staring back at him. All waiting for his performance.
When Pandora had asked about Shakespeare, only one monologue had come to mind, and the moment it did, he’d known. He needed to perform it.
Not because it was clever. Not because it would impress them. But because it was his.
He didn’t even need to act.
He closed his eyes and took a breath so deep it made his ribs ache. When he opened them again, the room had vanished. The laughter, the beer, the beat of the music, it was all gone.
He stood, not in a London flat, but in the dark, cold ballroom of the Black holiday home.
The marble floor gleamed like a mirror. The chandeliers above were unlit. The only thing that filled the space was silence and the unbearable weight of his parents’ presence. Watching. Judging. Waiting for him to fail.
He could feel their stares, as suffocating as smoke. They wanted him to kneel down, to subjugate himself. He wouldn’t. Not this time.
This time, he didn’t bow his head.
This time, he didn’t fix his mask in place.
This time, he let it all fall.
And then, with a voice that felt more like his own than anything he’d ever spoken, he began:
“For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings…”
His voice cut through the silence. Low and steady.
“How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives…”
Each line landed like a curse.
He, Heir Regulus Black, was already slain in war, had tasted the poison on his tongue with every lesson his mother taught, felt the ghosts of House Black watching from the Gryffindor table at every Hogwarts meal.
“All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court…”
The ballroom trembled around him. No, he was trembling. Cold coiled at his ankles. Somewhere just beyond hearing, his mother’s voice rang out, crisp and cruel.
House Black did not make him powerful, did not make him envied. It made him doomed. A puppet drowning beneath the weight of a crown passed down like a death sentence.
And as long as he wore it, his parents would always win.
He continued the speech, finally telling his parents that he wasn’t invincible, that he, too, was only made of flesh and blood, but as the monologue neared its end… everything shifted.
The shadows of his parents dissolved. In their place stood Sirius.
Not the boy from childhood—young, loyal, hurt—but the Sirius he’d seen at his last Hogwarts dinner.
They’d locked eyes across the room.
Sirius had smiled at him. Small and careful. A quiet offering. The last of its kind.
Regulus hadn’t smiled back.
He’d already decided. Already chosen the path that led him here.
And Sirius had looked away. His face shuttered. Regulus had seen it, seen the disappointment in his brother’s eyes. You’re her now, he had seemed to say. I look at you and I see her.
Now they were there again. The Great Hall stretched around them, vast and empty. Regulus sat alone at the Slytherin table, Sirius at Gryffindor, staring back.
“With solemn reverence: throw away respect, tradition, form and ceremonious duty…”
His voice wasn’t steady anymore. He was begging Sirius to understand.
“For you have but mistook me all this while.
I live with bread, like you; feel want, taste grief, need friends…”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t stop.
“…subjected thus, how can you say to me, I am a king?”
He closed his eyes, hands trembling. When he opened them again, Sirius was gone. Only silence remained.
The music was off. The drumming had stopped. The laughter had died.
The crowd of muggles stood frozen, wide-eyed. You could’ve heard a pin drop.
Pandora was the first to speak. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Holy shit.”
And then came the noise.
A roar of applause, cheering, shouts of approval. It was thunderous, overwhelming.
Regulus blinked, and a wild grin took over his face. He felt like flying. Like soaring higher and higher on a broom, never worrying about coming back down.
He accepted Nico’s help as he was lifted off the table, only to be swept into congratulations by every muggle in the room.
“Wow,” Nico said once the crowd finally shifted their attention elsewhere. “You were brilliant. Like... goosebumps. Full body reaction. Honestly, I’m not convinced you didn’t just cast a spell on all of us.”
“Thank you,” Regulus said, trying to stay composed even as his skin thrummed with adrenaline.
Nico leaned in slightly, just enough for it to feel intentional. “Hey, promise me I get to dress you when you walk the red carpet. Think of it as me investing in a star.”
At that, Regulus laughed, wild and exhilarated. “I promise.”
“Good,” Nico said. “I’m going to hold you to that. And I take personal fashion very seriously. You wouldn’t believe what I could do with those cheekbones.”
“Damn, Reggie. You move fast,” Pandora chimed in, giving him a playful nudge. “Barely debuted and you’ve already got a personal stylist.”
Regulus shared a grin with Nico.
Then a voice interrupted from behind. “Sorry, Regulus, right?”
Regulus turned to find a guy in his late-twenties standing there. “That’s me.”
“I’m Joey. Mate of Jack’s. Filmmaker. Working on something with my friends, we’re submitting it to the Edinburgh International Film Festival next year. First draft’s done, and it’s… weird. But poetic-weird. You know? When I saw you up there…” He snapped his fingers, trying to summon the word. “Je ne sais quoi.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow.
Joey grinned, pushing on. “Look, I might be a bit drunk, so I’d still want you to audition properly, with my mates around to vote. But I think you’d be perfect for our lead.”
Regulus tried to stay grounded. This didn’t mean anything. Not yet. “What does the audition entail?”
“Bit of reading, acting, then we film it. See if you’ve got screen presence. Sometimes it just doesn’t translate, you know? But if it does, and you’ve got the vibe, we’d be lucky to have you.”
A small, cautious smile flickered on Regulus’ lips. “I can do that.”
“Brilliant,” Joey said, laughing like he’d just won a bet. “As soon as you started talking, I was sold. But don’t get too hyped, it’s indie. We’ve got no budget. If we win prize money, we’ll split it. Until then, we can’t pay you.”
Regulus shrugged. “I don’t need the money.” It was true. The money stashed away in the flat could fund the entire production five times over. “But,” he added, voice steadier now, “if I get the part, I’ll make sure you win.”
Joey let out a loud, delighted laugh. “That’s the energy we’re after. Give me your number, I’ll call you tomorrow with audition details and we’ll sort the script.”
A number? Regulus blinked. Did muggles assign each other serial codes?
He shot a panicked look at Pandora, who stepped in seamlessly. “I’m Pandora, Regulus’s flatmate. I’ll give you the number to our place.”
She scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it over. “Here you go!”
“Perfect. I’ll ring you tomorrow!”
With a wave, Joey vanished back into the party.
Regulus stared after him, slightly dazed.
“That was quick,” Nico said, chuckling.
“Was that real?” Regulus asked in return.
Pandora grinned. “The weed smoke in here’s stronger than oxygen. Could’ve been a shared hallucination.”
Nico shook his head. “Nah. I’m sober. That was real. Talent gets recognised, that’s all.”
That earned the muggle a smile.
“Hey, Regulus,” Nico said, his voice softer now. “How about I give you my number too? That way, if your mates never get you to that shopping trip they promised, you can ring me instead. I’ll help you pick something out for the audition. Or… for the red carpet.”
Regulus still wasn’t entirely sure what this number did, but he accepted the slip of paper all the same.
And later that night, as he and Pandora made their way back through the London streets, snow falling from the air, the number was tucked safely inside his coat pocket, protected from the elements.
Tomorrow, he’d ask Evan why, in Merlin’s name, muggles all seemed to have designated numbers like livestock. And maybe, just maybe, Evan would also explain how a handful of scribbled digits could help him talk to Nico again.
Notes:
The speech Regulus performs is from Shakespeare’s Richard II, titled “No matter where; of comfort no man speak,” though I have cut some parts for the sake of brevity. The final section of the performance, directed at Sirius, was inspired by Josh O'Connor’s beautiful rendition of the speech in The Crown. If you haven't seen it and you're interested, I've linked the clip from the episode here.
And if anyone’s wondering where Barty and Evan were this evening… they couldn’t pass up on the opportunity to have the flat to themselves ;)
Chapter Text
***
London, New Year’s Eve 1977
***
“Merlin, it’s cold out!” Regulus complained the moment he was shoved out of the warm, comfortable pub by an overexcited Barty.
Evan, being similarly dragged along, shot Regulus a commiserating look as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. “Can we go back in yet?”
“We’re not missing the fireworks, so stop complaining,” Barty said, already setting a brisk pace towards a destination known only to him. He stopped suddenly, spinning round to face Regulus. “Wait… did you just say Merlin instead of Christ?”
Regulus raised his chin and looked away, offering no answer.
“You’re so bloody weird sometimes!”
“I thought we were in a hurry,” Regulus said flatly. “Bloody hell, I’m freezing.” How did muggles survive without warming charms? It was mad to be outside at this time of year with no magic. At least use something like a portable radiator! “I should’ve worn my coat.”
“I don’t know… I like you in leather,” Nico said with a grin, stepping up beside Regulus and trailing an appreciative hand down the sleeve of his black leather jacket.
Regulus had to admit, it was a good jacket. Real leather, lined with real wool. The cuffs were ribbed in soft grey knit, matching the high collar that could zip up to his chin. It was far warmer than the usual folded-over style on leather jackets. And, annoyingly, it looked good on him. Maybe Sirius had been on to something with his preference for muggle fashion.
He turned to Nico, grinning. “You’re the one who picked it out.”
“And I did a marvellous job, thank you very much.”
“And that’s enough flirting out of you two,” Barty chimed in, slinging his arms around Nico and Regulus’s shoulders and steering them forward. “Evan! Make sure Pan follows and doesn’t snog another drunk student!” he shouted back at the two tipsy blondes.
“Where are we going, exactly?” Nico asked bravely, not having learned yet not to ask questions when it came to Barty’s plans. Regulus had learned that one by day four in the flat.
“Eton! Teach your man not to ask questions!” was the only reply, as Barty shoved them around another corner.
Eventually they stopped in front of what looked like either an old, abandoned Victorian warehouse or maybe a boarding house. It was hard to tell in the dark.
Barty, already ducking through what must once have been the doorway, called out, “You lot coming, or what?”
They lingered on the pavement, staring up at the building that loomed over them. The windows were long gone, leaving only gaping, black holes. Somehow, in the darkness of night, it managed to look more haunted than the Shrieking Shack.
“Love, are we getting arrested for this?” Evan called after his boyfriend. “‘Cause I really don’t want to do that again tonight.”
“Again?” Nico and Regulus exclaimed in unison.
“’Course not,” came Barty’s muffled reply. “Squatters cleared out weeks ago. Got chucked. It’s all ours for the night.”
Pandora gave the empty street one brief glance, shrugged, and followed Barty in, her boots crunching glass. Evan, with the loyalty of someone too used to this, went after her.
Nico turned to Regulus, raising his eyebrows in a look that clearly said, These are your friends.
Regulus sighed and took Nico’s hand. “Come on,” he said, pulling him forward.
Inside, it stank of damp plaster and dust, with something sharp and decaying beneath. Regulus was fairly certain that if he breathed too deeply, he’d inhale pure dead rat.
“Anyone got a bloody light?” Nico called out after nearly stepping in a puddle that might have been water but could just as easily have been piss.
“Just follow my voice!” Barty’s voice echoed from somewhere above. “We’re going to the roof!”
They stumbled across the stairs by sheer luck. It creaked alarmingly underfoot.
“He’s going to get us killed,” Regulus said coolly, though his voice might have been slightly higher pitched than usual.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Barty shouted back. “You just escaped a cult!”
Regulus could feel Nico’s stare burning into the side of his head.
“Long story,” he said tersely.
“I don’t doubt it,” Nico replied, with a laugh that was definitely edging into hysterical.
Three flights up, they reached a hatch where the ceiling had partially collapsed, moonlight streaming in through the broken roof timbers like pale ribs. Barty climbed a crumbling bookcase and hoisted himself through a missing panel onto the roof.
“Use the drainpipe if you’re too posh to climb furniture!” he called back, already laughing.
Regulus scowled but followed, climbing with the help of a warped window frame and Nico’s steadying hand. The rest scrambled up behind them, boots scraping across the exposed tar paper, until they were all standing on the flat rooftop, breath misting in the frigid air.
The wind hit harder up there, making the cold even less forgiving. Regulus really, really missed his magic coat.
“Tada,” Barty said, smugly gesturing at the view. From this height, Camden stretched out below them like a patchwork of rooftops, lit by the glow of sodium-orange streetlamps. “Best seat in the city.”
Evan came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Barty’s waist, hugging him tight. “It’s perfect. Wish I had my camera.”
Pandora joined them, settling cross-legged on the wet, filthy roof without hesitation. She checked her watch. “Five more minutes ‘til the new year, boys.”
“Ah, shite, we’re early. Eton, amuse us with your weird ways!”
Regulus rolled his eyes at Barty and sat down next to Pandora. He was wearing a pair of black muggle jeans that Nico had picked them out, like most of what he wore these days. He didn’t particularly care if they got dirty. They were just muggle clothes, and somehow, Nico had convinced him to buy loads of them.
Nico, who looked bloody incredible tonight, chose to remain standing. He looked like he’d stepped off the cover of one of those Muggle fashion magazines Evan sometimes leafed through. More composed, striking, and put together than most purebloods Regulus knew.
A long, navy wool coat flared around him like a cape in the wind, double-breasted with oversized lapels and cinched neatly at the waist. Beneath it, he wore charcoal high-neck jumper and wide-legged tweed trousers that brushed the tops of sleek leather boots. His dark curls had been slicked back with a deliberate carelessness, though a few strands had escaped to catch in the wind.
Regulus was glad he hadn’t sat down. He didn’t want that look ruined by pigeon shit and half-frozen mud puddles.
The boy in question was staring out at the night sky. “Is the Regulus star visible tonight?” he asked.
Regulus leaned back, neck craned to the east, scanning the horizon above the rooftops. “No, it would have just risen this time of year, so it’s too low on the horizon. The street lights and houses are making it too hard to see.”
“Oh, are we stargazing?” Barty piped up. “Any other cool stars out tonight, Eton?”
“The Sirius star,” Regulus said without hesitation. He only had to tilt his head and see it, already there, brilliant and unmissable. “It’s the brightest star in the sky.” He stood again, moving to stand beside them and pointing southeast, where the star broke through the city haze like it owned the night. “It’s my brother’s star.”
“Your brother’s star?” Barty repeated.
“He doesn’t own it,” Regulus chuckled. “But it’s his name. Sirius Orion Black.”
“Sirius and Regulus,” Pandora said, smiling as she joined them, brushing dirt from her coat. “That’s pretty.”
“He’d love to hear you call him that,” Regulus said, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“Where is he now,” Evan asked. “Still with your parents?”
“No,” Regulus shook his head immediately. “He’s older than me. Ran when he was fifteen. I was fourteen, thought things would get better when the rebellious one was gone. That was naïve.”
“Have you seen him since?”
The question made Regulus frown. Then he realised Evan probably assumed Sirius had vanished into the muggle world too. “Oh, yes, I have. His best friend’s family took him in. Still went to the same boarding school. I saw him two weeks ago. Now though… I’ve no idea when I’ll see him again. If I ever will.”
The thought hit hard. It was Saturday. On Monday, the Hogwarts Express would leave, carrying everyone back to school. Everyone except Regulus.
He would officially be a Hogwarts drop-out then. Unless the war ended in the next few months, he’d likely never sit his NEWTs, never earn a degree beyond his OWLs. He’d never become a master in Ancient Runes, or Arithmancy, or become a spell-crafter; the kind of future he used to imagine for himself, back when he still believed there might be a life after the war.
When would Sirius notice he was gone? Would James find out first, when Regulus failed to turn up for prefect duty on the train? Would someone clock the empty seat at the Slytherin table after his fourth missed meal?
Would they think he was dead?
It had been all over Slytherin, and likely the rest of Hogwarts too, that the Dark Lord was taking new followers over Christmas break. The name Black had been whispered like a foregone conclusion.
His disappearance could be explained a dozen different ways: an initiation gone wrong, a last-minute act of defiance, a deadly mission in service to the Dark Lord.
If Sirius believed he was dead, Regulus hoped he’d think it was for the right reason: that he’d fought back. That he’d turned away. Not that he’d given in. Not that he’d become everything they’d feared he would.
He only wished that were easier to believe.
“Were you two close?” Evan asked softly.
“Once,” was all Regulus replied, tone detached. It was enough to end the line of questioning.
“How many minutes left?” Barty asked the group instead. Everyone turned to Evan and Pandora, the only ones wearing watches.
“Two ‘til midnight,” Pandora said.
“One-hundred and twenty, one-hundred and nineteen, one-hundred and eighteen...”
“Barty, no,” Pandora laughed. “We’ll start at ten.”
“Quick,” Evan said, suddenly urgent. “Everyone say your biggest wish for 1978. Pan, go first.”
“Get cast in a West-End show,” she said immediately. Then she smiled, sheepish. “Doesn’t have to be a main role, of course. I’d be over the moon even if it’s just a side character.”
All eyes turned to Barty.
“Get a bloody record deal, obviously,” he grinned. “I’ll make the band play in every club in London if I have to—every open mic, every gig available—until someone signs us.”
Then came Regulus. He didn’t need to think. “The first audition’s next week,” he said simply. “I’ll get the role. Then we’ll win that festival.”
Everyone nodded, like the future was set now.
“Nico, your turn,” Evan instructed.
Like the others, Nico didn’t hesitate. “I know I’m only a first-year student, but I want an internship. A real one. Hands-on sewing with one of the greats, even if I’m just stitching on buttons. I just want to get in the door. I’ll do the rest myself.”
Once again, a round of nods went through the group.
Finally, everyone looked at Evan. He’d need to hurry now, time was running out.
The blond smiled. “I’m going to enter every photography contest I can find. And I’m going to win. As many as I can.”
They shared a look, every face lit with the same quiet determination. The goals were spoken. Now they had to make them real.
“Ten! Nine!” The call came from the pavement below, scattered voices echoing across the city. People were stepping out onto balconies and doorsteps, lifting their faces to the sky as the countdown began.
“Eight! Seven! Six!”
The five of them joined in, voices merging with the great chorus of London outside.
Evan and Barty shared a look, soft-eyed, smiling, and stepped closer, chest to chest, their breath visible in the cold air between them.
“Five! Four!”
Regulus felt it before he saw it, the weight of eyes on him.
He turned. Nico was watching him.
The boy’s cheeks were flushed, eyes focussed. A hand, ice-cold, slipped beneath Regulus’s jacket and pulled him in, he shivered as their bodies met in a quiet press of fabric and skin.
“Three!”
Regulus’s heart quickened.
“Two!”
Brown eyes met grey.
“One,” Nico mouthed, lips barely moving. His gaze flicked downward, just for a moment.
Warm lips brushed Regulus’s, soft and tentative. There was no urgency in it, no possession. Just a kiss. Gentle. Respectful. The sort you could pass off as a New Year’s tradition, if you needed to.
Regulus should have left it at that.
But his hand was already reaching up, threading through the locks at the nape of Nico’s neck. He didn’t let go. He pulled him closer.
The second kiss was slower. A question, half-whispered against parting lips. Nico answered without words, shifting in, his breath warm against Regulus’s cheek, fingers brushing the edge of his jacket.
It was fine, Regulus told himself. It was New Year’s. Everyone kissed someone.
But it wasn’t that.
Nico’s mouth was warm in the cold, and it tilted into a smile. Regulus could feel it, the curve of it, as he deepened the kiss. Nico’s hair was wild under his fingers, curling where he touched it. For a moment—a stupid, selfish moment—Regulus let himself pretend it was someone else.
James.
The thought hit like a crack through ice. And instead of stopping, Regulus kissed harder. Mouth to mouth, again, again. Too much now, too desperate, too greedy. Teeth scraped. His hand fisted in Nico’s hair, pulling.
The fireworks blurred into a roar behind his eyelids. Blood thundered in his ears.
Merlin, he was like a potion addict reaching for paracetamol, starving for something that would never be enough, but reaching anyway.
It wasn’t fair to Nico.
But Regulus had never claimed to be fair. Or kind. Or anything other than the cold Black he was.
And this? This might be the closest he’d ever get. To him. And standing here, on the edge of a new year, where everything was foreign and uncertain, he was going to take it.
The sky split open in colour. The bangs were deafening, the ground vibrating beneath them.
Regulus gasped and pulled back.
Nico was grinning, flushed and wide-eyed, utterly radiant in the dark.
“Happy New Year,” he said, like it meant something. Looking at him with those beautiful eyes.
Regulus gave him the best smile he could manage. “Happy New Year.”
Nico kept looking at him, so happy and hopeful.
Regulus looked away.
A burst of laughter broke the air. Barty’s, loud and sudden.
Pandora stood in the middle of the roof, arms crossed over her chest, watching them all with an amused smile. “Excuse me, boys,” she called out. “I thought spending New Year’s with four lads guaranteed a kiss! But here I am, cold and abandoned.”
Barty peeled himself from Evan’s possessive arms, stumbling toward her with a grin, and kissed her full on the lips. “Here you go, darling.”
“Thanks, Barty dear. Now back to your boyfriend. You taste like cigarettes.”
Regulus barely registered them. Nico was still beside him, quiet now, fingers brushing his sleeve like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. But Regulus was already somewhere else. His eyes were fixed on the sky, frowning. “Are those fireworks?”
Explosions bloomed above them. Harsh and brutal bursts of red, green, gold, blue. They didn’t twist into dragons, roaring high through the night sky. Nor were there spinning constellations or singing phoenixes. Just raw noise and blinding lights. But how was even something as simple as that possible without magic?
“It’s midnight,” Nico said, laughing. His face was flushed still, his lips kissed-red. “Of course, there are fireworks.”
“But how?” Regulus whispered. “How do they work?”
“Something sciency,” Barty offered with a shrug. “Don’t ask us, mate.”
Pandora clapped her hands. “I’ve got sparklers!” she declared, pulling a crumpled box from her coat pocket. Soon, she was passing them around like party favours.
Evan flicked open his lighter, the flame sharp against the dark. He lit Barty’s first. It flared to life with a furious hiss, spitting wild silver sparks. Barty whooped, waving it like a wand gone mad.
Evan paused for a moment, blue eyes on Barty and Barty only, then he moved on, lighting the rest.
Regulus held his awkwardly, unsure of the weight. But then… like a tiny, explosive Lumos, a rush of sparks erupted from the tip, casting flickering light over his hands, his jacket, his face.
He stared, transfixed.
There he was, standing on the roof of an abandoned muggle building, cold wind scraping his cheeks, fireworks exploding overhead, and muggle magic burning between his fingers.
Pandora was spinning in slow circles, laughing, tracing glowing loops in the air.
Regulus looked over.
Nico was watching him. His sparkler burned low in his hand, almost forgotten. His lips were still slightly parted, his face flushed from the cold and something more. The reflected light caught the gold flecks in his eyes, making them shimmer like stars.
Regulus didn’t look away.
The first minute of 1978, and he’d kissed a muggle boy.
He didn’t regret it.
Not yet.
The sparkler hissed down to its last breath, a curl of smoke drifting into the dark.
Barely three weeks into 1978, one of their wishes had already come true.
It was a snowy Thursday evening, and the flat was still quiet when Regulus returned home with a bag of newspaper bundles hot in his arms.
He’d told Nico the good news over the phone, then spent the rest of the afternoon alone, listening for footsteps on the stairwell, for keys turning in the lock. In the end, he’d gone out, wandering the streets until he wound up at the chippy on the corner. He came back with enough food to feed a small army, or at least three very hungry friends.
They didn’t usually eat together like that, but today called for something different.
The timing was perfect. Just as the grease began to soak through the newsprint, the door clattered open.
“Is that fish ‘n chips I smell?” Barty called out, kicking the door shut behind him and Evan. His voice was already halfway to the kitchen.
He was at the counter within seconds, tugging off his coat but ignoring his shoes, eyes fixed on the pile of paper parcels like a pirate spotting treasure. He tore one open, pulled out a handful of vinegar-soaked chips, and shoved them into his mouth with a groan of obscene pleasure.
“Oh, Eton, mate, I bloody love you,” he declared through a mouthful, salt flaking onto the floor with no shame whatsoever.
Evan followed more slowly, rolling his eyes at Barty. His eyebrows lifted at the sheer volume of food. “Well, this is unexpected. What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll tell you when Pandora gets in.”
Barty dropped onto the couch with his bundle. “Keeping us in suspense, are you?”
Evan, too, picked up a parcel of food without bothering with a plate, unfolding it on the table and starting in on the chips.
Regulus sat across from them, having dumped his own fish and chips on a plate that he’d have to clean himself later, listening as they launched into tales of the day. They spoke about Evan’s coursework, Barty’s latest band drama, the people that tripped on the icy pavement.
The mundanity of it still startled Regulus sometimes, how much the muggle world resembled the wizarding one when stripped of wands and wards. Jobs, egos, missed alarms, burnt toast.
He hadn’t realised, not truly, how steeped he’d been in pureblood ideology until he saw the world outside it. Until he lived in it.
Then the door creaked open again, and in swept Pandora, dragging the late January wind in with her.
“Honeys, I’m home,” she sang, dropping her bag by the door and kicking off her shoes. She skipped into the room, pressing kisses to each of their cheeks in turn, and stole a chip from Barty’s fingers. “Who brought the feast?”
“Eton decided to treat us muggles,” Barty said smugly, licking vinegar off his knuckles.
Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Pandora rewarded him with another kiss on the cheek and a “Thanks, Reggie.”
When they were all seated, Pandora curled against Regulus with her portion, Evan looked up from his chips.
“So, Reg. What’s the story? Did the call finally come?”
Barty paused mid-chew, his eyes wide. “Wait a sec, are these celebratory chips?”
Unlike at Grimmauld Place or in Slytherin, Regulus wasn’t afraid to show his full emotions here. So he let the cheek-splitting grin that had been trying to force its way onto his face since the moment his friends walked through the door finally appear.
That was all the answer they needed.
Pandora shrieked and launched herself at him, scattering chips across the carpet as she wrapped him in a tight hug. “You got the role?!”
“I got the role!”
At that, the whole flat filled with cheers.
Pandora scrambled to her feet in a flurry of limbs, running to the kitchen with a cry of, “This calls for a bubbly!”
Moments later she returned, wielding a bottle of corner shop prosecco left over from New Year’s. She set to work pouring it into the nearest available vessels: a mug, two teacups, and a chipped pint glass. Regulus ended up with a small floral cup that still smelled faintly of peppermint tea.
The glasses clinked together.
“To Eton,” Barty announced grandly, raising his glass with a dramatic flourish, “our very own star in the making.”
“To the next James Dean!” Pandora cried.
Wild, excited laughter rang through the flat.
Then came the questions, in a flurry of overlapping voices. When had Joey called? How’d he picked up the phone? What did he say? Had he sworn in excitement? Had he dropped the phone in shock? According to Barty, the phone looked ‘rougher’ than it had that morning.
Regulus answered them gladly. He told them about the call in vivid detail. How Joey had described discovering him as ‘like winning the bloody lottery,’ how he’d said Regulus might be ‘raw and new,’ but that he’d seen ‘real, undeniable talent.’
His hands had shaken as he listened to those words. He told them that, too. Told them how he’d hung up and waited a bit, called Nico, and ran into the city, unable to sit still with the fizzing energy in his chest. He’d walked for hours, through streets he barely knew, letting the cold sting his cheeks as if to prove it was real.
And somehow, even though it was mostly mundane, just a phone call, just a walk, his friends listened like it was the plot of a novel. They hung on to every word, laughed at his dry retelling of how he’d pretended to be cool and relaxed, and demanded more.
The newspapers were forgotten, grease stains and all. The crumbs littered the carpet. And all at once, they were dreaming futures for him.
Regulus sat with his head resting against Pandora’s shoulder, snorting with laughter as Barty mimed swatting away flocks of screaming fans with the hoover.
For a moment, something tugged in his chest. He wondered if this was how Sirius had felt with the so-called Marauders. Like he belonged somewhere. Like he was safe enough to be ridiculous.
If that had been true, Regulus thought, Sirius should’ve run the second he met James Potter. Because once you’d felt this—this real, ridiculous love—you couldn’t go back to Grimmauld Place. Not even for a summer. Not to its silence, its dust, its rot. That kind of cold seeps into your bones. You don’t survive it twice.
“Oi,” Barty said suddenly, pointing at him with a chip. “Eton. What’s gonna be your stage name?”
“My what?”
“A stage name, you pillock. All the famous ones have ‘em. Something that screams ‘I was made to be famous’. It’s part of your brand,” Barty explained. “You gotta pick one too. Although Regulus Black already sounds proper mysterious.”
“Can’t I just go by Regulus Black then?” Regulus asked. A stage name sounded inconvenient.
“You could,” Evan said easily. “But is it safe? You’re hiding from your family, right? They might find you if your name gets mentioned in a paper or magazine. It’s not exactly a common name.”
It was a good point. Most of the pureblood families wouldn’t be caught dead reading a muggle paper, but someone else might. A muggleborn or half-blood could. Every side in war, be it light or dark, had crazy types. It only took one muggleborn set on revenge to see his name in the papers and mistake him for a death eater that got away. All it would take was one name, in one column, to shatter everything. It was just too big a risk to take.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Stage name sounds safer.”
“So,” Barty prompted, excited. “What’s it gonna be?”
“I don’t know. You come up with something.”
“No, no.” Barty wagged a finger at him. “It’s got to come from you. Has to feel right. Personal. You’ll be stuck with it forever, and strangers’ll be yelling it at you on the street.”
This was ridiculous. He’d been cast in a hobby film project, not some world-changing cinematic masterpiece. “Where do I even start?”
“Middle name?” Pandora offered. “You said your brother’s is Orion. What’s yours?”
“Arcturus.”
Barty let out a choking snort so violent it tipped his head back. He coughed until Evan thumped him on the back. “Your full name is Regulus Arcturus Black? Bloody hell, Eton. Can you be any posher?”
Regulus ignored the jab. A thought had occurred to him, and it settled in his chest like something real. Permanent. “Eton,” he said. “I could use Eton.”
The room went quiet, just for a beat.
It was the first name he’d been given on the outside. The name a muggle stranger had thrown at him with a wink and a grin, before taking him in, becoming family, and changing his life entirely, out of nothing but the kindness of his heart.
It wasn’t heavy with history, or bloodlines, or war. It wasn’t his father’s, or his grandfather’s. It was just a tease. A joke. A start.
“Eton,” he repeated, then added, softly, “I like that.”
Barty was quiet now, too, watching him with a kind of wonder.
“Eton Arcturus,” Evan offered, as if the name had been waiting in the air for someone to say it aloud.
“Eton Arcturus,” Regulus echoed, testing it on his tongue. It rolled easily. “I could get used to that.”
Pandora hugged him. “I love it.”
Barty, finally getting over his shock, started grinning, wide and shameless. “Eton Arcturus. Fuck yeah. I love it.” Then his eyes lit up. “Reg, mate, you’re gonna be really fucking famous. I can feel it in my bones.”
They’d laughed then, taking it no more seriously than you would any other imagined future.
None of them knew just how right Barty would be.
Notes:
Ahh, that's it... the end of part I!
Chapter 5: Part II - Chapter 1
Notes:
Welcome to Part II!
Just a few quick notes before we begin:
- Mind the time skip, we’ve jumped ahead six years.
- This is an AU. Regulus and James’s relationship at Hogwarts, along with Regulus’s early disappearance, changed the timeline. It changed James and Lily’s relationship and sped up the Black family’s downfall, so Walburga died in ’82 rather than ’85.
- As for what happened with the war and Voldemort… all will be revealed in future chapters :)Lastly, a note on my characterisation of James: I’ve tried to keep his sunny personality intact, but this is a version of James who survived the war, and with that survival comes trauma. His character will reflect that.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
***
London, April 1983
***
April showers bring May flowers.
The saying popped into James’s head the moment the sky cracked open and dumped a freezing sheet of rain over their heads. It was his mum’s voice: warm, sing-song, and perpetually chipper. The sudden memory made him smile, even as he and Remus scrambled to tear off their jackets and throw them over their heads like makeshift hoods.
Lily, of course, had planned ahead. With an elegant flick, she pulled a muggle umbrella from her far-too-small handbag in a move that would’ve had any passing muggle blinking in disbelief.
And then there was Sirius.
He stood a few feet away, soaked through and entirely unbothered. Rain streamed down his leather jacket, plastered his hair to his face, and still he looked like he belonged on the cover of a record sleeve. One elbow rested lazily on the ticket booth counter, where he was charming the girl inside with a crooked grin.
“Oops,” he said, low and lazy, like he’d just woken up in someone else’s bed and didn’t particularly mind. He held a hand out to the rain, catching a few droplets. “Can’t expect the weather to be as lovely as the view.”
The girl laughed, leaning forward just enough to be suggestive.
Remus groaned. “Every single time.”
“Don’t act surprised,” James said cheerfully, nudging Moony with his elbow. “You’ve had a decade of warning.”
Before Sirius could escalate from mildly flirtatious to outright scandalous, James stepped in, cranking up his own brand of charm.
Clapping a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, he beamed at the girl behind the glass. “Sorry to interrupt, but we were hoping you could recommend a good film,” he said. “Something popular, something with explosions? Or romance? Or both? We’re very open-minded.”
The girl’s eyes flicked from him to Sirius, to Lily and Remus behind them, then back to Sirius. Her eyebrows arched in amusement. “What kind of film are you lot in the mood for, exactly?”
“All of them,” Sirius said, grinning. “Anything you think’ll leave us breathless. I trust your judgement entirely.”
“Dangerous thing to say to a stranger.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” Sirius replied, smooth as ever.
James rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. He was dropped on his head repeatedly as a child.”
“By you,” Sirius added helpfully.
James nodded solemnly. “And I have no regrets. Anyway, we’re new to this whole cinema thing. Just moved here from... erm, Scotland.” He only remembered to fake McGonagall’s accent on the last word, slipping into a ridiculously exaggerated Highland brogue.
“Sure...” the girl laughed, clearly assuming he was joking. “You’ve never been to a cinema before.”
James hesitated. “Is that… not normal?”
The way she blinked at him gave him the answer.
Lily sighed, stepping forward and gently moving both boys away from the booth. “Sorry. Ignore the idiots. They were raised under rocks. Just four tickets to something decent that starts soon, please.”
The girl studied Lily for a moment, then, with another amused glance at James and Sirius, said, “Icarus starts in twenty minutes. Bit heavy, but really good. Eton’s in it, he’s absolutely brilliant. And you,” she added, pointing at Sirius with a smirk, “look exactly like him. Just as fit, too.”
At that, Remus stepped up beside Lily, shifting the attention away from Sirius. “Icarus? Like the Greek myth?”
“Exactly. It’s a film adaptation of the myth. Very tragic, but powerful stuff. I’ve seen it three times now. I cried every time. It’s that good.”
“Tragedy?” James whispered to Sirius, shooting a grin at his friend. “How sad can a bunch of muggles pretending be?”
Remus rolled his eyes. “I’d like to see this one, if you don’t mind. You know I love Greek mythology. I’m curious what they’ve done with it.”
Sirius, at hearing Remus’s wish, nodded immediately. “Icarus it is.”
“Fine by me," Lily chuckled. "Four tickets, please.” She handed over some muggle money.
As they passed through the double doors, Sirius let out an excited whoop that echoed off the lobby walls.
James turned. “Pads?”
Sirius held up his ticket, grinning like he’d just won a bet. Scrawled across it in blue biro was ‘Call me’, followed by a phone number.
“Oh, for—” Remus sighed, already reaching for it. “Give me that.” He plucked the ticket from Sirius’s fingers with the ease of long practice. “You flirt like a dog off the lead.”
Sirius clutched at his chest, feigning heartbreak. “What? Moony, you wound me! I didn’t even ask for it.”
“You smiled.”
“I always smile!”
“You winked.”
“Only a little!”
James snorted. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight, mate.”
Sirius shot Remus a hopeful look. “You wouldn’t.”
Remus’s smirk was all teeth. “Try me.”
“Moony!”
James ignored them, slinging an arm round Lily’s shoulder. She immediately shoved him off.
“You’re soaked, James!”
That was the wrong thing to say. James tipped his head back and shook out his hair like a wet dog, right there in the warm, dry lobby. Lily shrieked and dodged the spray, but James was already chasing after her, laughing loudly.
Then his eyes snagged on the concession stand.
“Oi, Padfoot. Look!”
Sirius was beside him in an instant. They both stared at the rows of muggle sweets and, most importantly, the popcorn machine churning like mad. It was manned by two teenagers in wrinkled uniforms who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.
James bounced on the balls of his feet, grinning wildly. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Lily didn’t even look up. “James, no.”
“James, yes!” Sirius cackled. “Oi, Moony.” He seized Remus’s arm. “That thing. The muggle popcorn beast. How does it work?”
Remus eyed the machine warily. “What are you two plotting?”
“Oh, you know,” James shrugged innocently. “Harmless cheer. Laughter. Team morale. You in?”
“I’m not helping you blow it up,” Remus muttered. “We’re in muggle London, remember? Do I need to tattoo that on your foreheads?”
“No one said anything about blowing it up,” Sirius grinned, nudging Remus with his shoulder. “We just want to gently surprise the popcorn. Preferably upwards.”
“You’re both idiots,” Remus sighed.
“But we’re your idiots,” James beamed. “Please, Moony, have pity on us less intelligent wizards. We need your knowledge! How does the mystical popcorn beast work?”
Remus hesitated, watching the machine churn. Inside, golden kernels tumbled and puffed into fluffy white clouds. He sighed, long and theatrical, the kind that came just before making a terrible decision.
Lily, already knowing the outcome, warned, “Remus, no.”
But it was too late. A wicked little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Overload the kettle. Duplicate the kernels. Nudge the heating cycle into a loop. That’ll build enough pressure to pop the lid.”
Sirius whooped. “You beautiful, brilliant bastard!”
“Knew you hadn’t gone soft,” James said proudly, clapping him on the back.
Remus muttered, “If we get kicked out, I’m hexing the both of you. I actually want to see this film.” With that, he stalked off with Lily, shaking his head.
A few flicks of wands under jackets later, the popcorn machine gave a low groan. Then a rattle. Then...
Boom!
The lid blasted into the air with a hiss of steam, and a geyser of popcorn erupted from the chamber. Kernels pelted the ceiling and rained down across the counter, spilling over onto the floor in glorious, buttery chaos.
Gasps echoed through the lobby. A child near the front yelled, “It’s snowing!” and tried to catch popcorn in his mouth.
The teenage staff stared, slack-jawed. They were undoubtedly paid far too little for this level of Marauder madness.
James brushed popcorn off his jacket and deadpanned, “Bit generous with the portions tonight.”
Sirius, mouth twitching, popped a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “Bloody love the cinema already.”
In perfect sync, they turned to Remus and Lily. Remus had popcorn tangled in his hair and was biting his lip to stop laughing. Lily was trying to glare, but the corner of her mouth was twitching in spite of herself.
James tipped his head toward the theatre. “Shall we?”
Five minutes later, they were inside with three buckets of popcorn and a chocolate bar for Moony, courtesy of Sirius. The cinema itself was enormous, the rows of red seats stretching as far as the eye could see. It smelled like cigarettes and damp coats, and the carpeted floor was decorated with a chaotic pattern that still barely managed to hide the countless stains.
It was very muggle and James loved it.
They flopped into their assigned seats in the front row. James and Sirius squeezed into the middle, Lily on James’s left, Remus on Sirius’s right.
“I told you the front row was a mistake,” Lily muttered, looking up at the big white screen. “Our necks’ll be wrecked by the end.”
Sirius squinted up at the looming screen. “Why wouldn’t we want to be closest? What if we can’t hear the actors properly? Muggles don’t have the Sonorus charm.”
“The sound comes through muggle speakers,” Remus said, amused. “It’s not a bloke on stage yelling lines.”
James and Sirius exchanged a dubious look. This film thing was beginning to sound too good to be true.
“So who’s Eton?” James asked around a mouthful of popcorn.
“Who?”
“The bloke the ticket girl mentioned.”
“Oh, him. He’s an upcoming actor,” Lily explained. “Eton Arc-something, I forgot his full name. Petunia mentioned him once at Christmas this year. He’s all over muggle screens right now. Very handsome, from what I’ve heard. I’ve never actually seen him myself, haven’t kept up with muggle celebrities for years.”
“And he’s playing Icarus?” Sirius asked. “Like a play?”
“Sort of,” Lily nodded. “More like a recorded play, but really lifelike. You don’t see a stage, they recreate the setting with cameras and effects and things. I think they’ll probably show the ancient Greek world in full.”
Recreate an ancient world? Without magic? That sounded incredible! James leaned forward in his seat, brows raised in wonder.
He was about to ask Lily more when suddenly the lights snapped off.
The effect was instant. Conversation dropped like a silencing charm had passed through the room, and an excited hush rippled through the room.
Then came a strange rattling sound. Mechanical and unfamiliar. With it came a bright beam of light shooting out from the boxy room behind them, slicing the darkness and hitting the massive white screen at the front.
A swell of colour followed. Red, then gold. Spreading like ink in water.
It was like magic.
James’s mouth fell open. He didn’t even realise how far he’d leaned forward until Sirius did the same beside him, their shoulders knocking.
Music burst from the speakers, a ridiculous jingle. “Pa-pa-pa PA!” someone behind them hummed along, perfectly in time with the final notes of the apparently well-known tune. At the same time the golden flecks on the screen gathered into golden letters. ‘Pearl & Dean presents…’
James laughed aloud, twisting in his seat to glance at Lily. “That’s the film?”
She shook her head, brilliant green eyes crinkling with amusement. “That’s just the adverts. Then there’s a trailer; that’s a preview for another film. The main one comes after.”
“Blimey,” James muttered, but his attention was already tugged back to the screen.
A slow, sweeping shot of roast dinners filled the frame. An overly cheerful narrator chirped about gravy and meat pies while the camera zoomed in on more plates of food.
“Is it just me,” Sirius whispered, “or does that voice sound vaguely threatening?”
Remus snorted loudly, the sound echoing through the room. Luckily for him, the trailer started before anyone could tease him about it.
Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. Whatever that meant. The story made very little sense to James. Something about a battle for freedom, aliens, and a dark father, but James didn’t care.
The visuals hit him like spells. Beams of glowing swords slashing through the dark. Sudden apparitions. Creatures unlike anything in the Magical Creatures textbooks. Ships, actual metal ships, spinning through stars like someone had turned astronomy into Quidditch.
The whole thing felt impossible. Like magic.
No, not like. It was magic.
He turned to look at Sirius, who looked like he’d been stupefied. Wide-eyed, transfixed, mouth slightly open. They shared a look that said ‘what the hell was that?’ before James leaned round to Lily.
“Muggles made this?” he asked.
Lily’s grin was smug now. “Told you it was brilliant.”
Remus, beside Sirius, laughed at their stunned faces. “Didn’t I say it makes the wizarding wireless look like a joke?”
That’s when the screen turned a golden yellow, like sunlight spilling directly onto them from beyond the screen. Letters appeared slowly, until suddenly it read ‘Icarus’.
The film opened in Athens, with a city of marble columns and sunlit courtyards. Even the air seemed to shimmer with heat. A man was introduced: Daedalus. A Greek craftsman with calloused hands. His accent was wrong, his hair too dark, his skin too pale, but the illusion held. The details—the copper tools and ochre walls—made it feel like peering through a pensieve into the past.
Time passed. Daedalus’s renown grew, and with it, his ego. He took on his nephew as an apprentice, only to find the boy surpassing him.
James shifted in his seat, uneasy, as the apprentice’s skill bloomed on screen. He was precise and inspired in a way even Daedalus wasn’t. Daedalus watched too, eyes narrowing, affection turning slowly into envy.
It ended on the Acropolis.
With a flash of rage and a shove.
The boy fell.
James flinched.
Time passed again. Now Daedalus lived in Crete, a celebrated prisoner in a gilded palace. A child was born, a mother died in childbirth.
James was just starting to wonder when Icarus would appear—the film was named after him, after all—when words flickered across the screen:
Sixteen Years Later.
The screen showed a candlelit hallway. A lithe figure walked away from the camera, graceful and self-assured, the way a Seeker moved. Something in James tensed. He didn’t know why.
The boy knocked on a door. “Father, are you busy?”
That voice.
The door creaked open. Daedalus appeared, barely any older. “Icarus,” he greeted, surprise in his voice. He stepped fully into view, closing the door behind him while holding something behind his back.
Then the camera turned.
And... James forgot to breathe.
Icarus was beautiful. Painfully so. Pale skin, somehow luminous even in the film’s grainy flicker. A mouth that hid a world of secrets. Dark curls haloed his head in soft, deliberate disorder. His nose, straight and aristocratic. Eyes that seemed to pierce right through the screen.
James knew that face.
Knew it better than his own.
Nausea surged in his chest as his entire body reacted. Trembling hands, cold flashes under his skin, heart hammering painfully against his ribs.
He had to be hallucinating. The losses of the war had finally driven him mad.
Because he knew Icarus.
He would always know Regulus.
He shoved his hands over his eyes, breath hitching as he forced air in, out, in again. Slowly, he peeled them away. The image hadn’t changed.
Impossible.
Regulus Black was gone. Dead.
James had grieved him. Was still grieving him.
To his right, Sirius gasped. “Regulus.”
The name crashed through the cinema, echoing in the deafening silence of his mind. And James? James wasn’t in the muggle cinema anymore.
He was sixteen again, sitting in the Hogwarts library next to Regulus, knees brushing under the table and pretending not to notice. He was seventeen, standing on platform 9¾, eyes searching the crowd for Regulus only to find nothing. Seventeen, sitting beside Sirius at the Gryffindor table, listening to Dumbledore say Regulus Black had gone missing.
He was twenty-two, staring down at a casualty list, the ink smudging where his shaking hands had pressed too hard against the name.
And now, Regulus Black stood on a muggle cinema screen. Alive. Breathing. Speaking lines in that low, musical voice James still heard in his dreams.
His voice filled the theatre. Sharp with frustration as he shouted at Daedalus for tampering with his racing sandals. The emotion in it was staggering. Regulus never spoke like that. Not in public. Emotions from Regulus were something earned. A guarded thing, handed over in pieces. Never loud. Never this open.
And yet, here he was, given them freely to the entire muggle world. To strangers.
James’s throat closed. His skin crawled. He gripped the armrests, too tight, nails biting the fabric. His stomach twisted, vomit rising up.
He needed out. Out of this fucking chair, this fucking cinema, and this fucking hallucination.
He was about to just run, but Sirius beat him to it. He jumped up suddenly, storming out of the theatre hall, scattering popcorn all over the carpet.
James barely registered Remus and Lily rising to follow. His own legs moved on instinct. Somewhere in his mind, he almost laughed, Lily had complained about the front row, but it sure made fleeing easier.
As he stormed out, a voice chased after him.
“Please,” Regulus begged, the words choked and desperate. “Please, just come see me race tonight.”
James froze.
The door swung ahead of him as Remus and Lily disappeared into the lobby. But he stood still, rooted. He couldn’t not respond to that call.
Please, just come see me.
He used to say things like that. In jokes. Dramatic, theatrical nonsense. He’d drop to his knees in their little corner of the library like a lovesick actor, hands clasped beneath Regulus’s unimpressed stare. Please, just come see the Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw match. I’ll win just for you.
Regulus would roll his eyes. Laugh. Pull him up by the collar. And he’d come. He always came, sitting high in the stands, half-hidden under a hood, smirking when James scored.
He’d always come.
Until he hadn’t.
And James had been left behind, still begging that empty corner.
James stepped out of the theatre last, the door closing behind him with a soft thud, Regulus’s voice cut off mid-plea.
Outside, Sirius was already shouting.
“What the fuck was that?” he barked, gesturing wildly at the theatre doors. His eyes found James’s, wide and glassy with something close to panic. “Tell me I haven’t gone mad. Tell me I’m not fucking imagining things!”
Remus flicked his wand and cast a quick privacy ward around them. The sudden hush only made Sirius’s breathing sound ragged, sharp inhales that caught in his chest.
“Tell me you saw that too,” he demanded, his voice cracking slightly at the end.
No one spoke.
Ten long seconds passed.
Then, Remus said, “That looked like Regulus.”
“It has to be a coincidence,” Lily said quickly. Her eyes were fixed on Sirius’s shaking hands. “Just someone who looks like him, right? A scarily similar actor?” She glanced at each of them, looking for agreement, willing it, but none of them moved. “It’s a muggle film! Your brother hated muggles, didn’t he?”
“No,” Sirius laughed, a hollow sound. “No. My parents hated Muggles. I don’t know what Regulus thought. Nobody does. Regulus Black is a mask. A box inside a box inside a fucking box. And every time you open one, there’s just another. And another. And another. It never fucking ends.”
Remus stepped forward and pulled Sirius into a tight hug, leaving no space between them. Sirius didn’t even hesitate, he just folded into it like it was instinct, burying his face into Remus’s shoulder, shaking.
James looked away.
He’d seen them like this before. After the war, when grief blindsided them. When Sirius shattered without warning, and Remus caught him, every time. Or when Remus would suddenly reach for Sirius, holding on like he feared it would all disappear. And Sirius would hold still, let himself be held, quiet in a way reserved only for Remus.
Sometimes, in the dark corners of James’s mind, he envied them. Envied that comfort, that connection. It wasn’t just about wanting to be held. It was the idea of surrender. The permission to fall apart. To stop being strong. To stop performing joy.
To be the one caught instead of the one catching.
Don’t get him wrong, he liked being the cheerful one. The strong one. The glue.
He did.
He chose it every day.
But Merlin, just once, he wanted to unravel in someone’s arms and know the world wouldn’t end if he did.
And in the middle of the night, when sleep refused to come and fantasies ran wild, it was always Regulus holding him. Regulus with his soft hands and quiet eyes, his voice like silk in the dark, pulling him close and refusing to let go.
James jerked himself from the thought, breath catching, just as Sirius shoved himself back from Remus’s arms.
“No,” he growled, jabbing a finger at Remus’s chest. “No. I told you. I told you he was alive.”
“Sirius—”
“You told me I was imagining things!” Sirius shouted. “You told me to grieve him.” His voice cracked, livid. “You made me grieve him. You said my baby brother was dead.”
Remus flinched like he’d been hit, “Sirius—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” James cut in, voice tight as he stared between them. “Why don’t I know about this?”
Sirius didn’t answer. He ran both hands through his hair, fists catching in the curls. His chest heaved. For a moment, James thought he might actually hit something.
James turned to Remus. “Well?”
Remus let out a long breath. “After Walburga died last year… Sirius wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place.”
James blinked. “What?”
“We didn’t tell anyone,” Remus added quickly. “It wasn’t meant to be a thing. Just something private. Something Sirius needed to do on his own terms. It wasn’t for anyone else.” His tone was the one James had come to recognise: the apologetic kind he used whenever he feared James might feel like a third wheel, now that the Marauders were three instead of four. “It was horrible,” he went on. “Exactly like Sirius always said. Elf heads on the walls. The whole place drenched in dark magic. But… it helped. Sort of. Sirius showed me his old room. We took a few things. He showed me some pictures, him and Regulus when they were kids.”
“I took those,” Sirius said suddenly. “The pictures. Me and Reggie. Couldn’t leave him there. Not again.”
Remus turned. “You never told me that.”
“Didn’t want you to know. Don’t know why.”
They stared at each other in silence. James wanted to let them have this moment. Really, he did. But he wanted answers more. “What happened then,” he pushed. “How did you know he was alive?”
Sirius’s gaze snapped to him. “I went to see the family tapestry. Wanted to see if Mother really burned me off.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Turns out she had. But not just me. Two scorch marks, James. One for me. One for Regulus.”
The nausea came back hard and fast. He’d expected something else. A letter, maybe. A clue half-hidden in an old bedroom drawer.
Sirius pressed on, desperate. “My mother would have never burned Regulus off. Not her perfect little heir. Not unless he’d... unless he’d defied them. Unless he’d walked away. Unless—”
“He’d left,” James finished, the words tasting like blood on his tongue.
“Exactly!” Sirius cried. “You get it, don’t you? You know what that means!”
And James did.
He understood now why Remus had told Sirius Regulus was gone.
James had always known Regulus didn’t belong with the Death Eaters. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t have that rot behind his eyes like the others. At school, James had told him that. Whispering the words when no one else could hear. Again and again, he’d urged him to choose something else. To push back against his parents.
But he’d never offered a way out. Never said, Come with me. Never said, I’ll keep you safe.
He’d never forgiven himself for thinking it didn’t need to be said, that it was somehow implied.
Because Regulus had disappeared during the exact holiday he was rumoured to be initiated. At the time, it had all felt horribly logical. A boy not built for that kind of darkness vanishes during his initiation week. The Black family spins some vague story about honour and sacrifice.
Regulus had been killed. Either for refusing, or for trying to run.
James had known it, even if no one else had. It was his moment when war stopped being abstract and became something else. Something brutal. Personal.
And who else was there to blame, if not the boy who’d planted the doubts in Regulus’s mind?
James had thought he’d killed him.
He’d carried that weight ever since. Regulus Black: his first love, his first casualty.
The scorch mark would have only confirmed it. Just like it had for Remus.
Remus had done the right thing. He’d protected Sirius in the only way he knew how: by crushing any misplaced hope before it could take root.
“I’m sorry,” Remus said, taking Sirius’s hand and refusing to be pushed away. “I thought he was gone. It was the logical conclusion.”
Sirius stared at him. “But he’s not, is he? He’s not gone.”
Remus turned to James like he would be able to help. Like he might have a rational explanation tucked somewhere behind his glasses. He didn’t.
At the silence, Sirius growled. “I know my own brother. I can recognise him when he’s in right front of me. His face was six fucking feet tall, for Merlin’s sake! I know it’s him!”
James nodded. He knew it too. The image was burned behind his eyes. It was Regulus. He had no doubt. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “It’s him.”
Remus turned to Lily. “What was the name of the actor?”
“Eton Arthur? No, it was longer. Eton Arcturum? Something like that?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Arcturus,” Sirius said, laughing that deranged laugh again. James wished he’d stop. “It’s Regulus’s middle name. My grandfather’s.”
It was all the confirmation they needed
“Fuck!” Sirius roared. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. FUCK!” His fists clenched, white-knuckled and shaking. If he’d had his wand, James wasn’t sure the building would still be standing. Honestly, he was half-surprised it hadn’t caught fire from sheer rage alone. “I grieved him for two years. Missed him for six. And he was in the fucking muggle world?!”
And just like that, it hit James.
Regulus had run.
He’d run.
James hadn’t truly realised it until now. But as Sirius raged, the truth hit him like a curse straight to the chest. First came the disbelief, then the grief cracked open, burning up and leaving only a scorching fury behind.
It burst out of him. Ugly and unnatural.
His hands were trembling again. The feeling clawed at his throat, too big for words.
What was happening to him? Why was he feeling this way?
James wasn’t meant for this kind of anger. He was supposed to be the hopeful one, the one who smiled first, who pulled people from the wreckage with stupid jokes and reckless charm.
But now the anger was swallowing him whole.
Because all of it—all the guilt, the mourning, the fucking pain—it had been for nothing. Regulus had run. Disappeared. Faked his death. And never told anyone. Not even James.
No letter. No warning. No explanation.
What kind of person did that?
What kind of person let someone grieve them like that?
James had spent years choking under the weight of it. Had lived with that guilt so long it felt like part of his spine. He used to think it was the war that ruined the man he might’ve become. But maybe it had started earlier. Maybe it had started with Regulus.
The regrets from that time still echoed in his mind, looping like a cursed refrain. He wished he’d said something sooner. Done something. Told him. Kissed him. Anything. At least then he’d have something real to explain the grief. Proof that it hadn’t all been in his head.
But Regulus had always slipped away when things got too real. And James, idiot that he was, had let him. Too scared to push. Too scared to ruin it. Too in love to take.
He’d lost him anyway.
Had James meant nothing to him? Was he ever part of Regulus’s plans, or was he just a boy with a crush and a big mouth? A distraction? Just the first admirer? Something to collect before disappearing into legend?
It made James sick, how quickly his love was turning to fury. How much he wanted to hate him, and how much he still couldn’t.
Over the years, James had learned something about grief, especially the kind that came from losing a first love.
You see, the thing about young love, the real kind, is that it’s meant to end. Either you grow out of it, or you grow with it. You fight. You fade. Or you transform. Most first loves end messily, slammed doors or laughter at how dramatic you’d been. Some mellow into something gentler, a story to tell the grandkids.
But James’s first love had never ended.
One day, Regulus had smiled at him across the library table, said goodbye for the Christmas holidays, and never come back.
James was left in the middle of the story. Pages torn out. The rest of the book burned.
The intensity of young love, trapped in motion. Like a stasis charm on something that needed to shatter or bloom. Instead, it just… stayed locked inside him.
It built up like snow. Quiet, cold, heavy, and eventually unbearable.
And now, six years later, Regulus was alive. Smiling. Unbothered.
And James?
James was choking on the bitter taste of it all.
A hand landed gently on his shoulder. He looked up to find Remus watching him. “Are you alright, James? You’ve gone pale.”
James could only nod, afraid that if he spoke, he’d cry.
Remus’s hazel eyes lingered on his face, reading him too well. But he didn’t press. He just turned toward Sirius, who had rounded on Lily now.
“How? How is he on that screen?” Sirius was asking. “Can we find him? Is he nearby?”
They all turned to Lily.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s a film, Sirius. They’re pre-recorded. The actors are famous, they don’t give out their locations, not publicly. It’s for their privacy. I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know what to do now.”
James had never heard Lily say I don’t know so many times in a single evening.
Sirius stared at her, face pale. “I need to go back in,” he said suddenly, pushing away from Remus. “I want to see him again.”
And before anyone could stop him, Sirius was gone, disappearing back through the double doors like a man possessed.
They followed.
Back into the darkened theatre, where the world had narrowed to a single point of light. They slipped into their seats, wordless. The only thing illuminating their way was him.
Regulus. On the screen.
And thus, they watched.
They watched Icarus betray his father, whispering secrets to King Minos. Watched him realise, too late, that the king was no ally. Watched him beg his father for forgiveness.
They watched them be imprisoned above the labyrinth, father and son, while the Minotaur circled below, bloodthirsty and relentless. They watched the wings take shape, feather by feather. One was crafted by a the most talented craftsman of the age, the other by a young, inexperienced boy.
They watched Icarus rise before dawn and slip into his own set of hastily constructed wings.
They watched him leap.
Watched him fly.
It was breathtaking. His joy. His hunger for the sky. The sun crowned his curls with gold. He soared higher and higher, faster and faster, laughing.
Then, the wax began to run. Feathers, one by one, started to fall like snow. His wings began to fail him, one shuddering, the other collapsing. They let him go.
A scream tore through the silence as Daedalus watched his son fall.
And Icarus—Regulus—looked up at the sun and smiled.
Soft. Sure. Unafraid.
He closed his eyes.
The screen went dark.
Notes:
The version of Icarus in this chapter is inspired by the Mythology podcast (Spotify), specifically the two-part 'Daedalus and Icarus' episodes. It’s a dramatized retelling, but perfect for a film adaptation. If you’re curious, I highly recommend giving it a listen!
Chapter 6: Part II - Chapter 2
Chapter Text
The girl who’d sold them their tickets was gone by the time the credits rolled. In her place stood a teenage boy who radiated the energy of a wet communal sock in a shoe shop.
This was, unfortunately, a problem.
Mostly because Sirius was currently on a mission with all the delicacy and patience of a sledgehammer, and the girl had been their only lead.
When she sold them their tickets, she’d said Eton Arcturus’s name like it meant something to her, which meant she was probably a fan. And fans knew things. Obsessive things. James knew this first-hand, having once memorised the entire romantic history of the Holyhead Harpies’ chasers by accident. It had been a weird month.
The plan was simple: find the girl, preferably before Sirius lost what remained of his patience and started interrogating theatre ushers at wandpoint.
And the main obstacle was the muggle boy.
Which was how James ended up as their diplomatic representative. The logic had been airtight: Sirius would accidentally frighten the poor kid into tears, Remus and Lily, when stressed, had all the persuasive charm of an auror interrogating a murder suspect, and James… James had dimples. Tragic, really.
So here he was, already on the edge of an emotional breakdown, trying to convince a suspicious teenage muggle that no, they weren’t perverts, and yes, they desperately needed to talk to the girl from earlier.
“Please,” James said again, doing his best impression of a charming and emotionally stable human being. “If she’d gone home, you’d have said so already. But she hasn’t. So come on, just do us a favour and call her over?”
The boy sighed like James had personally ruined his entire life. And honestly, if it was the same kid from the confectionery stand earlier, that was probably fair.
“If you’ve got a complaint,” he said, “I can get my manager.”
“We don’t have a complaint!” They’d been over this before, trapped in the kind of back-and-forth that made James want to bash his head against the glass. “We just need to talk to her about something she said when she sold us the tickets.”
“Sounds like a complaint.”
James stared at him. Was this bloke being serious? Smiling like a man about to snap his quill in half, he said, calmly, “It’s not a complaint.”
“It sounds like one.”
“It’s not.”
“Are you sure?”
“You know what?” He grinned, cheerful in that way that spelled disaster. “You’re right! I think I have a complaint.”
That’s when Remus’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing in a firm and very much ‘you’re not helping’ way. Merlin, James was really off his game if he couldn’t even get some simple information out of a muggle teenager.
“Prongs,” Remus said softly. “Don’t get worked up over him. This clearly isn’t getting us anywhere. We’ve got her number. We’ll call her tomorrow.”
James glanced back at Sirius and Lily, who were huddled over a crumpled Icarus leaflet like they were trying to perform legilimency on the writer through the page. Sirius’s knee was bouncing like a jackhammer. Lily was muttering under her breath and looked like she might hex the paper if it didn’t reveal all of Regulus’s secrets right that second.
“This is faster,” James muttered. “And this little wanker’s just—”
“Oi!” came the indignant shout from behind the glass.
“—being incredibly helpful,” James finished with a sarcastic smile that would have made his grandma proud.
Remus shook his head, pulling him away from the ticket window. “Wanker was generous.”
And then, mercifully, a side door creaked open.
The girl stepped out in her own clothes, a denim jacket slung over one shoulder, neckline entering dangerous territory, brown hair in a high ponytail. She clocked them immediately and grinned widely.
“Hey, boys,” she said, walking over. “How did you enjoy your first trip to the pictures? Better than Scotland?” She giggled at her own joke.
“Leah!” the teen behind the window brightened up immediately, staring at her with lovestruck eyes. “Ignore them. They want to see you for some reason, but I was handling it.”
James nearly laughed. A crush. Of course! If he’d known, he would’ve pretended they were all in a polyamorous marriage or part of a vow-of-celibacy cult. Anything to speed things up.
The girl, Leah, also seemed aware of the teen’s crush, rolling her eyes. “Relax, Simon. They’re cool.” She turned to James. “So, what’s up, Bambi?”
“Bambi?” James choked, his hand flying to his head in case he’d changed into his antlers without noticing. Moony had teased him with the drawings by a Mr. Disney before.
“Bambi,” she repeated. “You’ve got the eyes for it, and you looked completely enchanted by the world earlier. That, plus the dimples…”
James opened his mouth. Closed it. Smiled, because he had nothing clever to say, and when in doubt, apparently, he now smiled like an idiot. “We wanted to ask you something. You mentioned Eton Arcturus earlier, are you a fan?”
At the name, her whole face lit up. “Massive! Been following him since his indie days, and look at him now! He’s brilliant. And hot. Unfair, honestly.”
She looked over at Sirius and Lily, then back to Sirius, eyes lingering. “Like I said, your friend is a bit of a lookalike. Got that whole dark fairytale knight thing going on,” she raised her voice just enough to make sure Sirius heard it.
Sirius didn’t smile smugly. Didn’t flirt back. Didn’t even acknowledge the compliment.
Leah straightened slightly at the non-response. A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not offence, exactly, just… curiosity. She turned back to James, head tilted.
“Everything all right with your lot?”
James shrugged. “We’re just trying to find out more about him. And you’re our best shot.”
She considered that for a second, then nodded. “Well, you’re in luck. My shift’s over. I’ve got nowhere to be and a tragic weakness for boys on mysterious quests. Buy me a pint and I’ll spill everything I know. It’s priceless information, but I’ll settle for lager.”
“Yes,” James said, a bit too fast. “Perfect!”
He glanced at Remus, who seemed just as surprised by the sudden stroke of luck. See? The universe could hand them a win every now and then.
After some introductions, the five of them followed Leah into a narrow muggle pub tucked beside a Boots that had already closed for the night, the store front eerie in the dark. Inside the pub, it smelled strongly of spilled beer and fried chips.
“Bit of a dive,” James noted cheerfully, eyes on the cracked leather booths and flickering overhead lights.
“Authentic,” Leah shot back. “Don’t get fussy now, Bambi.”
James shared a look with Remus, who seemed just as dubious, but Sirius clapped him on the back and shoved him forward before he could hesitate any longer. “Get moving, Bambi,” he said with a teasing grin.
Leah was already weaving between tightly packed tables, somehow dodging elbows, handbags, and pint glasses with practiced ease. “Back corner,” she called, gesturing to an empty, round table that wobbled visibly every time someone nearby moved.
Shrugging, they followed, elbowing their way through the cramped space and apologising more than they probably needed to. Eventually, they collapsed around the table.
James stayed standing. “First round’s on me. What’s everyone having?”
“Whatever’s cold,” Sirius said, sprawling into the corner seat like he owned the place. “And alcoholic.”
“That narrows it down to everything behind the bar,” Remus muttered, already sliding into the seat beside him. James caught him discreetly squeeze Sirius’s thigh, then just as quickly let go, before any muggles could notice.
“I’ll supervise,” Lily said, already rising again. “He’ll just come back with five sparkly pink cocktails and a packet of crisps otherwise.”
James put on a wounded expression. “Excuse you, I was going to get five packets. Making us all share one? Barbaric!”
Leah laughed, leaning back with her arms folded. “You lot are fun. I’ll take a bitter, please. No crisps.”
At the bar, James reached for his stash of muggle cash, grabbing a note with a number that seemed appropriate for five drinks, only for Lily to intercept and pluck the note from his hand like a disappointed mother. She exchanged it for a much smaller one, clearly saving him from handing over what must’ve been the muggle equivalent of a month’s rent.
“I would’ve got change,” James muttered.
Lily raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
Back at the table, drinks in hand, the group settled. Glasses were passed, wet coats shrugged off and dumped in a pile. James sat last, his chair wobbling even worse than the table.
“Who the hell designed a chair with three and a half legs?” he joked, trying to break the awkward tension.
A laugh went around the table, but quickly it turned into uncertain silence again.
Leah, luckily, seemed to take pity on them. “Right,” she said, as she leant over the table. “You lot want the dirt on Eton Arcturus.”
“Not dirt,” said Sirius immediately, looking offended on Regulus’s behalf. “Just… information. Helpful stuff.”
Leah tilted her head, studying Sirius with such focus it made James feel like, if she weren’t a muggle, she might’ve been reading his mind. “Helpful how?”
Sirius hesitated. “Just… information about the last six years. What he’s doing now. Anything you’ve heard.”
“Six years, huh?” She drew a spiral in the condensation on her glass. “Oddly specific. Does this have anything to do with your uncanny similarities to him?”
James felt the air around the table shift. Nothing obvious, just the faintest tension. Eyebrows raised. Shoulders stilled. No one answered. No one moved.
It’s not like James, or any of the others, didn’t trust her. It’s just that they didn’t know what they could say. What had Regulus shared with the world? What had he kept to himself? What might happen if they let the wrong thing slip to a fan?
Leah grinned, and James had the sudden sense she enjoyed puzzles. Especially ones that didn’t want solving. “I knew you lot were interesting,” she said, satisfied. “The moment you all walked in. Who has never been to a cinema before?”
She turned to Sirius.
“You know,” there was a knowing smirk on her face, “Eton mentions his past sometimes. He was sheltered, like you. Had never seen a film before ’78. He’s also mentioned a brother once. I don’t think he meant to. It slipped out.”
James’s head turned before he could stop it. Sirius had gone utterly still. His grip on his glass had tightened, fingers white at the knuckles. “What?”
“It was in this telly interview, about six months back,” Leah explained. “He’s famously private, especially about his past and family. It’s like a challenge now, fans trying to piece it together.”
James nodded like he knew exactly what she meant. He did not.
“Anyway,” she went on, “the interviewer asked him if anyone in his life had inspired the way he played Daniel in Peripheral Love, which is an excellent film, by the way. He plays this flirty, confident bad boy driving around on a motorcycle. So sexy—”
Sirius cleared his throat loudly. Leah grinned but continued.
“Right, well, he was talking about Barty Crouch Jr. for a bit—that’s one of his best friends by the way—and then he just… paused. Smiled, the way you do when you suddenly remember a happy memory, you know? Then he said, ‘You know, my brother always used to dream about’ and just… cut himself off. Bang. Like a wall went up. You could practically hear him and the interviewer breathing, the silence was that loud. Switched straight back to media mode then, started rambling about his friends instead. The interviewer tried again, but nope. Eton shut it down every time. That’s the only time he’s ever mentioned family—”
James shifted in his seat. He could feel everyone’s eyes on Sirius, who was suddenly too still.
Leah continued, unaware. “—so obviously, my friends and I lost it. We talked about it for weeks. And now,” she gestured dramatically at Sirius “I’ve wandered into a bloody goldmine.”
James stared at his friends, they all seemed lost as what to say. Leah was onto something, and they all knew it, she included. He gulped down his beer, accidently slamming the empty glass down hard on the table.
When Sirius was about to open his mouth, probably to say something stupid and not at all thought through, James was quicker. “This interview? It’s on the telly, you said?” The words felt strange on his tongue, but Lily had showed him a telly before. He knew what it was. He couldn’t imagine Regulus in that box though, it was like imagining a bird flying among the fish in the Black lake. “Is there any way we could, erm, watch it?”
“I didn’t tape it. Neither did my friends. It was a one-time thing, not a big feature or anything. You might find someone who recorded it, but it’d be a hell of a dig. I’d call it lost if I were you.” She took a sip of her beer, then shrugged. “It was mostly promo anyway. He talked about Peripheral Love, then his next project, Icarus. That one’s out now, so it’s all a bit old news.”
“Oh.” James couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice.
Leah noticed. “But he’s more open in print, I think.” She shot him a cheery grin. “You can get way more out of the magazine spreads. The really good one was in Observer Magazine, about a month ago. Proper feature. Talks about how he got into acting, what his early days were like, his favourite books, his friends. It’s very revealing for Eton Arcturus standards. There are lots of photos of him and his friends, too. He never does that.”
Lily turned to Sirius, excited. “Petunia probably has that issue. She reads the Observer sometimes. And if Reg—” she caught herself, eyes flicking to Leah, “—if Eton was in it, she’d absolutely have bought it. I’ll go round in the morning and bring it over.”
Sirius turned to her with gratitude shining in his eyes. It was the first real optimistic expression on his face since they’d seen Regulus on screen. “Thanks, Lils.”
James wasn’t done, though. And he knew Sirius wouldn’t be either, not after a few glossy magazine pages. He needed more. He turned to Leah. “Is there anything in the article that might help us contact him?”
She laughed. “Absolutely not. Are you mad? If it were that easy, he’d have been hounded out of London by now. No phone number. No fan mail address. No secret code hidden in the margins. He’s slippery. I mean, fair enough, he’s brilliant, but if people could just find him, he’d be done for.”
James felt his body tense up. His jaw clenched. Any trace of a smile disappearing. “Right,” he said, slowly, each word edged with sarcasm. “Of course. That’d be too easy.”
Because obviously, it had all been a breeze until now. Thinking he was dead for six years. Mourning him. Reading his name on a bloody casualty list. Stumbling on him in a cinema, against all odds. But now, hoping for something as simple as a bloody fan mail address? No, that was too easy.
The silence that followed was immediate. He could feel his friends’ eyes on him, quiet and wide. His tone had shaken them. Bitterness wasn’t like him. Especially not towards a girl who’d gone out of her way to help.
Leah, for her part, had also fallen silent. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, all amusement gone. She’d was studying him now, instead of Sirius. James wondered what she saw, what puzzle she was solving in her mind. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
James sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s just... this matters. To us all.” Those last words were added as an afterthought. “Is there really nothing? Nothing at all?” He leaned forward slightly, pleading. “We’d be grateful for anything. Even the smallest lead.”
Leah looked at him for a long moment. And then, with a huff, she slumped back in her seat. “Bloody Bambi eyes,” she muttered. She turned her stare to Sirius, pointing at him with mock severity. “Right. If this actually works, and you are his long-lost brother, swear to me you’ll get me a meet-and-greet with Eton.”
Sirius lit up, locking eyes with Remus who smiled at him, before happily nodding at Leah. “Promise!”
She gave him one last evaluating look before nodding. Then, without warning, she spun around in her chair and pulled a crumpled flyer from her satchel. She smoothed it out on the sticky tabletop, ignoring their stares.
It was a handbill for some concert, a date and time circled in blue biro.
“Barty Crouch Jr.—the friend I mentioned—is the guitarist in the band Bloodrot.” She tapped the name on the flyer. “They have a gig every few weeks in a random underground club in London. This is the next one, in two weeks. My friends and I were gonna go. Partly to support Eton’s friend, partly because they’re actually really fucking good.” She handed the flyer to Sirius, meeting his eyes. “Eton won’t be there. Or if he is, he won’t show his face. But maybe, maybe, if you’re the real deal, Barty might talk to you.”
Sirius accepted the crumbled piece of paper like it was the most valuable thing on earth. James stared at the handover, jealousy prickling beneath his skin.
“Tickets are at the door,” Leah added. “One twenty a piece. Get there early and you should be fine. I do need that flyer back though. So, y’know, copy it or something.”
James saw Sirius immediately reach for his wand, clearly about to duplicate it like the pureblood he denied being.
Thankfully, the idiot had a smart boyfriend. Remus stopped him with one raised eyebrow. “Anyone got a biro?”
Sirius froze, then offered a horribly fake casual smile, as if he hadn’t just been about to commit a minor magical disaster in a muggle pub that would have ended in a poor obliviated Leah.
Lily, the saint, stepped in, taking the flyer from Sirius’s hands and digging through her bag for a notebook and pen.
She lay the flyer down, flattening it, so she could start copying it down. Right in James’s line of sight.
The details were printed in bold, red capitals across the top of wrinkled paper:
SUNDAY MAY 1ST – THE CESSPIT, DALSTON
DOORS 9PM / £1.20 ON THE DOOR
Even with the bold lettering, James’s eyes went straight to the image below.
It wasn’t flashy. Just four boys in a grimy green room, sprawled in various states of exhaustion.
In the foreground was a black-haired boy slumped in a torn armchair, shirt clinging to his skin, fingers stained with ink and resting over a chest littered with scribbled lyrics. Another boy leaned over his shoulder, mouth caught testing a verse. A third dumped water over his head, shirt soaked, mouth open, not giving a shit that they were in a carpeted room.
At the back, a boy tuned an electric guitar. He was the only one who’d noticed the camera, finding it through a cracked mirror. His eyes were crinkled as he smiled at something, or someone, behind the lens. Based on the guitar, that must be Barty.
It was a weird picture, clearly not part of a shoot. The harsh light exposed everything, making it weirdly intimate. But they’d picked this photo for the flyer, which said something.
‘BLOODROT’ it read beneath the picture. ‘FUCKED UP BY THE BLOODLINE’
It was angry and crude. So aggressively muggle it would have made purebloods like the Malfoys or Blacks tear it up and spit on it.
But clearly… this was part of Regulus’s world now.
Regulus. The boy who had always been immaculate. Sirius’s perfect brother, all straight posture and bottled-up emotions. But he’d chosen this life. Chosen this Barty.
James stared, trying to make sense of it.
Then the flyer was pulled from view.
He blinked and looked up to see Leah folding it away carefully, just as Lily finished copying the details and passed the page to Sirius.
“I’m gonna go,” Leah said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She grinned at Sirius. “You’ve got my number. If you really are Eton’s brother and manage to find him, I expect a call. You’ll owe me.”
And just like that, she disappeared into the rainy swell of muggle London.
It was late, really late. Sirius and Remus had left hours ago to process the evening at their own flat, leaving James and Lily to return to Godric’s Hollow and their separate rooms like it was just any other day. Regulus wasn’t their problem after all, so they should be able to sleep just fine.
James couldn’t.
He’d tried. Spent the better part of an hour staring blankly at his bedroom ceiling before the restlessness forced him outside. The rain had stopped, leaving a perfectly clear sky in its wake. So, here he was, barefoot in the drenched grass, lying on his back beneath the stars.
He’d looked for Sirius’s star first, out of habit. He’d found it quickly, and now he was looking for another. One he wasn’t sure he’d be able to find.
A flicker of gold cut across the sky.
Without thinking, James snatched it from the air. The golden Snitch fluttered helplessly in his fist before he closed his fingers around it, wings crumpling in his palm. He sat up on his elbows, squinting back toward the house.
Lily stood in the doorway, lit up by the soft glow of the kitchen light.
“I don’t know how,” she said, arms folded across her chest, “but that bloody thing always gets your attention.”
James huffed a laugh and let himself fall back into the grass again. His shirt was already soaked through, what did it matter now?
Footsteps, muffled by the wet grass, approached him. She sank down beside him. “Can’t sleep either?”
“Nah.” He didn’t look at her. “Mind won’t shut up.”
“No nightmares?” she checked anyway.
“Not tonight.” His voice softened. “You?”
“They woke me up. That night again. You know.”
He did. They still tore him out of sleep more nights than not. The pain. Their screams. The helplessness. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” A beat passed between them. Then, she curled up beside him, laying her head on his shoulder. He curled an arm around her automatically, pulling her close. She looked at him. “How about you distract me? I keep thinking about Sirius. You must be worried sick.”
“Oh,” James breathed. “Yeah, that.”
He hadn’t been thinking about Sirius at all. He’d barely thought about anyone but Regulus. Was that selfish?
He sighed, staring back at the stars.
“Looking for Regulus?”
James laughed. “I think we all are.”
That made her laugh too. “Guess we are. I meant the star, though.”
“I know. I was, but I can’t find it. I was never good at astronomy. Not like Sirius.”
“Sirius was only good at it because he was forced to be,” Lily said quietly. “That’s not something you need to measure yourself against.”
He nodded. He knew that. Knew it better than Lily ever would. Still, he wished he’d paid more attention.
“Sirius taught me to find most of the constellations,” James told her. “It’s how I scraped through Astronomy until I could drop it. But he never showed me how to find Regulus. I think that one was just… for them. Something private between brothers.” He swallowed. “I let him keep it. And now I’m out here, trying to find it, and all I can think is: he can keep the bloody star.”
Lily was quiet for a moment.
“I know how to find it,” she said eventually. “And I’ll show you. Whether you like it or not.”
James said nothing. There was no point to arguing, when Lily made up her mind, nothing shifted it. He turned his head and nodded.
She nodded back, lying back fully in the grass, hands resting on her stomach, breath misting faintly in the cold. “You know what constellation it’s part of?”
“Leo,” James said, eyes still on the sky. “The lion. Always thought that was a bit ironic. Regulus: the brightest star in the lion.”
Lily turned toward him, those sharp green eyes cutting through him like a scalpel. “Ironic,” she said, “or prophetic.”
James’s breath hitched. He looked away quickly. “So,” he asked, “how do I find it?”
A pause.
“Right, you see that backwards question mark? Curving up, then hooking over?”
James shifted until his head was beside hers, following the line of her finger. “There’s a sort of… wobbly coat hanger thing?”
“Yes!” Lily said, excited. “That’s Leo’s head and mane. Regulus is the bright one at the bottom. It’s actually a quadruple star system, but to us it just looks like one. Mad, right?”
James squinted, then found it: a sharp blueish-white dot high in the southern sky.
“That’s him?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“We found him,” James said, cracking a smile.
Lily turned her head toward him, mirroring the grin. “If only the human version was that simple. Bit of astronomy, and voila.”
“We’ll get there,” James said firmly. He had to believe that. Sirius needed Regulus. And James had a few things to say.
Lily nodded too. “Yeah, we will.” She stared up at the Regulus star. “It’s a bit poetic, isn’t it? Finding him now. Regulus is most visible in April here. And guess when he decides to show up, staring back at us from a cinema screen?”
“Merlin,” James breathed.
They lay there for a while, quiet, watching the same bright point in the sky. The wet grass beneath them was ice cold, the spring air biting through their clothes, but neither moved. Neither complained. If his mum were here to see this, she’d levitate him inside and scold him about catching cold.
After a while, James realized something. “It’s moving.”
“It rises in the east and sets in the west, like everything else,” Lily murmured. “But it’s just the Earth spinning. You know, it’s about seventy-nine light years off. Spins so fast it’s almost flat. If it spun just ten percent faster, it would tear itself apart.”
James didn’t know if it was meant to be ominous, but it felt like a warning. Maybe for Regulus. Maybe for him.
He glanced sideways at her, shooting her a dimpled grin. “How the hell do you even remember that?”
She laughed, shoving him away affectionately. “I paid attention at Hogwarts. You and Sirius might’ve tried it sometime. Wild concept, I know.”
He laughed too, propping himself up on one elbow and pointing at her dramatically. “Your brain? It scares me. You and Remus both. There’s no bloody way that was part of the Astronomy curriculum.”
A sheepish smile tugged at her lips. “No, it wasn’t. I read it on my own. Being muggleborn, I was always curious about pureblood traditions. When I found out Sirius and Regulus were named after stars, I looked them up. Thought it might help me fit in more or something.”
James snorted. “By studying constellations? Lils, I hate to break it to you, but the Blacks are weird, even for purebloods. Bloody star names…”
“I figured that out eventually,” she chuckled. “But I liked astronomy anyway. That’s why I remember it. I was genuinely interested.” She shifted, turning toward him and jabbing a finger into his chest. “But don’t pretend I was the only one with an interest in Regulus at Hogwarts. Yours just wasn’t the star-shaped kind.”
James flopped back into the grass again, arms spread, eyes squeezed shut. “Lily,” he whined, dragging her name out like she denied him his treacle tart.
“James,” she replied in the same slow tone she used while babysitting. Specifically, when Neville tried to feed chocolate to the fanged geranium. “You’re my best friend. You know that, yeah? You used to call us soulmates in seventh year.”
He groaned and faceplanted into the grass. “I was seventeen! My brain was mostly hormones and pudding.”
Merlin, he’d thought it would sound romantic. Girls liked that sort of thing, didn’t they? But even then, he hadn’t really meant it. Not in the way he should have. They weren’t soulmates. Not like that.
“Well, I think your hormonal mind was onto something,” Lily said softly.
“Lily—” he started, preparing to gently steer the conversation elsewhere. Anything but their failed relationship.
She cut him off with a laugh. “Oh, don’t. I meant platonic soulmates, you prat. I’m not trying to resurrect a long-dead romance. I love you, James. Beyond words. But not like that. What I’m saying, with a lot of sentimental build-up, is that you can talk to me. Really. I won’t judge.” She paused, then added, tone light but eyes sharp, “And unlike Sirius, I don’t see Regulus as a little brother in need of rescuing. I can fully recognise him as the insanely attractive man he is.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
“Oh, bugger,” he groaned, rolling onto his side to stare at his best friend (girl edition). “I liked him, Lils. I really, really liked him.” The words fell out like a breath of fresh air. He’d never said that aloud to anyone before. He met her eyes, chuckling sheepishly. “Like, remember how embarrassingly intense I was about you before you agreed to go out with me?”
“How could I forget,” she muttered.
“Well, imagine that, but ten times worse. And I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even Sirius. Especially not Sirius. It drove me absolutely mental. I felt so guilty, and it just... if suppressed emotions could kill someone, I would have died a tragic repressed death.”
She patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. “I’m so sorry, James. That must’ve been terribly difficult.”
“Don’t mock me,” he whined.
Lily burst out laughing. “I’m trying! But, honestly, the only thing I feel right now is relief. Your behaviour with me was already borderline unhinged. Ten times that? Hogwarts wouldn’t have survived. You keeping it quiet was a public service.”
“Lily!”
“I said sorry!”
“Not good enough,” he muttered, flopping onto his back and glaring up at the star again.
A pause followed, her voice softer now. “When I brought it up, I thought you’d say you found him fit when we were teens. Not… this. Did you even speak to him back then? I never saw you two together.”
“I—yeah, we spoke.”
“How? When?” Lily asked curiously, before following it with one more question. “Why?”
James hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I knew something I shouldn’t’ve. Once I saw it… he made sense in a way that only made him more confusing. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
Lily sat up properly now, eyebrows raised. “What? What did you know?”
James smiled softly, bringing them both back to his sixth year.
His potions assignment had been due soon, and Slughorn had assigned him the most obscure book possible. The copy was in the dustiest, most miserable corner of the library, the one even Snivellus avoided because it was too grim.
Sirius, Remus, and Peter had gone ahead, promising to meet him in the common room.
That’s where he saw him. Regulus, alone, sitting at a desk no one ever used. He was bent over a book, completely absorbed, so he didn’t even hear James approach. It wasn’t until James flopped down across from him, grinning like a nuisance, that Regulus looked up.
And jumped.
He snapped the book shut with a loud thud that echoed through the shelves, eyes wide like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
That alone had been interesting. James’s eyes had flicked to the book before Regulus could hide it under a mess of Transfiguration notes. It wasn’t like any magical book. Too slim, too ordinary. It had a dark green linen cover, and cursive golden letters. James managed to catch the title before it disappeared: Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.
He hadn’t recognised it then. Just raised his brows and said, “What’s that, little Black? The Black Heir Handbook?”
He’d been quite proud of the line, actually.
Regulus didn’t even blink. “Yes, Potter. I need a refresher sometimes. Who is it we hate again? Mudbloods? That sounds about right.”
And just like that, the fun had been over. “Don’t say that word,” he’d snapped, grabbing the book he needed and leaving Regulus in his miserable little corner.
But the curiosity stuck. A week later he found himself back in the library, asking Madam Pince about a book called Pride and Prejudice. She looked disturbingly pleased, and he’d feared she’d misheard when she led him to the Muggle Studies section. But there it was, that same unassuming green book.
He checked it out without thinking. Read it cover to cover.
It wasn’t exactly his taste, too polite and not enough action, but he kept going. The romance hooked him. James was a hopeless romantic at heart after all, and Mr. Darcy was just like him. Experiencing love fully, unconditionally.
But one thing was undeniable. It was muggle literature.
He’d casually asked Sirius if the Blacks had any odd exceptions to their pureblood mania (like maybe claiming Shakespeare was secretly a wizard or some nonsense), Sirius had snorted and said their parents would probably vomit at the idea of touching anything muggle.
So then, why had Regulus been reading it?
That’s when James had known. The polished heir act was just that: an act. A defence against his cruel parents, maybe. But there was someone else beneath it, someone clever and careful and full of contradictions.
After that, he started finding excuses to sit with him in the library. He’d drop in with his own books, talk at Regulus until he cracked and said something dry and cutting, which usually led to a grudging sort of conversation. James only ever caught a glimpse of another muggle book once more, hidden away beneath Regulus’s Arithmancy notes, but that was enough.
Eventually, those library trips became the highlight of his week. So, not one to deny himself pleasure, James started going more often. And when Regulus wasn’t there, it left a stupid hollow feeling in his chest.
That should have been the first hint.
But instead it had taken one particularly vivid dream—very vivid—for James to realise he wasn’t just intrigued anymore.
He’d fallen. Hard.
“When did you stop loving him?” Lily’s voice pulled him back.
“Today, maybe?” James gave a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t know, Lils. Don’t know if I can stop.”
“But this was all the way back in sixth and seventh year. You started chasing after me then. Had you really made room for me that quickly?”
James winced. “No. I just… I needed a distraction. Anything to keep me moving. You became the target. I’m sorry.”
She watched him. “I always thought you were acting a bit off. You were always dramatic, but suddenly it turned obsessive. I think that’s what made me say yes in the end. Not love, just concern. But… I’m glad I did. I would have never experienced a friendship like this without you pushing me.”
She was being too generous. He’d just admitted to using her, to misleading her, and she was letting him off too easily.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it tightly.
She gently brought back the subject. “What happened today, when you saw him again?”
“Anger,” he said, the word rough in his mouth. “He let me believe he was dead. He left us alone. I grieved him, Lils. Sirius grieved him! Who does that?”
Lily didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was firm. “I don’t think that’s fair.”
James turned to her, startled.
“He was sixteen, James. Sixteen. Trapped in that house, in that horrible family. But he got out.” She met his eyes. “I know what it’s like to be thrown into a completely different world. It’s hard, unbelievably hard. But I had people to catch me if I fell. He didn’t. And still, he survived. That alone is something to be proud of. Most couldn’t have done it.”
“He had me,” James snapped, the words out before he could stop them.
“No, James. He didn’t.” Her tone stayed gentle, but the words hit like stone. “What you had—whatever it was—it wasn’t even enough to step out of the shadows at school. If you didn’t show him it could survive daylight, how was he supposed to believe it could survive a war?”
James squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. But he knew she was right.
She wasn’t done. “And you were, are, Sirius’s first.”
“That’s not true!”
“It looked true. To everyone else, even to me, that’s how it looked. I can’t imagine Regulus saw it any differently.”
“You didn’t know us,” he hissed. “What we had.”
“I know I didn’t,” she said calmly. “And I’m not trying to pretend I did. I just think… if he found the courage to run, to defy You-Know-Who, to live, then maybe that counts for something. Maybe it explains more than it doesn’t. I can’t help but admire that, James. And I can see why you loved him. Just… don’t let the hurt rewrite what you remember. That love you felt, you felt it for a reason. Don’t tear it apart just because it ended badly.”
James let out a breath, suddenly feeling the exhaustion in his entire body. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.
“I just don’t get why he never came back. Why he never said anything. What does that mean?”
Lily sighed. “I don’t know. Only he can tell you that.” She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest and looking up at the stars. “But... for what’s it worth, I think he loved you too. I used to notice, back in seventh year. The way he looked at you. His eyes always found you first, whenever he came into the Great Hall. Like he couldn’t help it. I never knew what to make of it, not at the time. Not until I realised you did the same.”
“What?” He hadn’t known that. Not once had Regulus ever hinted at… that.
Lily smiled softly. “We’ll find him, James. For Sirius, and for you. And maybe you’ll get the chance to talk about all this, finally. Might not lead anywhere. But at least you’ll know you tried. I think… I think we’re all owed a happy ending.”
She stood, brushing the grass off her pink pyjama bottoms. “I’m going to bed. You staying out?”
James nodded.
He watched her retreat into the house, feeling Regulus stare down at him.
Chapter 7: Part II - Chapter 3
Chapter Text
James was dragged out of a pitifully short sleep by a knock on his bedroom door followed by the unmistakable twinge of familiar magic brushing against his privacy wards.
Lily.
“James, hey, you up?” came her voice through the wood. “I’m heading over to Petunia’s to see if she’s got a copy of the Observer. Thought you could drop it off at Sirius and Remus’s place after. You wanna come?”
He groaned and rolled over, fumbling blindly for his wand on the bedside table. After swatting the lamp, his glasses, and what felt like an empty mug, his fingers finally closed around familiar wood. He cast a tempus charm and squinted at the floating numbers.
Seven in the bleeding morning.
“James?” Lily called again, knocking once more, polite but increasingly impatient.
“I’m up!” he called back, though it sounded more like a croak. He put on his glasses, blinking at his messy room. “I’ll come, give me a second!”
He heaved himself upright, limbs reluctant to cooperate, and summoned a jumper and a pair of trousers from the floor, crossing his fingers that they were clean. Bunging them up in his arms, he ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it.
He opened the door to find Lily already dressed for work, hair swept up into one of those terrifyingly efficient updos she always managed. She looked both amused and exasperated.
“Slept well?”
James made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sneeze, pushed past her in just his boxers, and staggered into the bathroom.
“Be quick!” she called after him.
“Five minutes!” he shouted back.
Miraculously, five minutes later, he was showered, dressed, and reasonably upright. Presentable, though, was another matter entirely; his hair looked like it had been electrocuted and his jumper might’ve been on backwards. But Lily didn’t comment, she just grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door.
“I’m going to apparate us into Petunia’s back garden,” she said. “She gets cross when I show up in the living room without warning.”
James grinned. “Brilliant. Can’t wait to be scowled at by the female version of You-Know-Who.”
She swatted him. “Behave, or I’ll leave you in the compost bin.”
He rubbed his arm, sheepish grin on his face, but the joke was worth it. The only person more frightening than Voldemort might well be a morning Petunia Dursley.
Lily gripped his arm tightly, and with a crack and the stomach-lurching sensation of being shoved through a straw and reassembled by someone who wasn’t quite sure where things went, they landed in the back garden of the most aggressively beige house James had ever seen.
“Wow,” he drawled. “Charming. So much personality.”
“Shhh!” Lily hissed, swatting his arm again. “If she hears you, she’ll make us leave. She’s already going to hate that I brought you.”
James muttered something under his breath about being a delightful house guest, but Lily was already knocking on the window.
“Tuney? You home?”
A pale, angular face appeared at the glass, lips already curled in suspicion. “Lily?” Petunia said sharply, opening the door just wide enough to glare out at them with beady eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry,” Lily said brightly, smiling at her sister. “Just popping by to borrow something. We’ll be out of your hair in two ticks.”
Petunia’s eyes landed on James and narrowed further, if that was even possible. “Oh. You.”
“Morning, Petunia,” James said with a winning smile. “Lovely weather. Thought I’d bless your home with my radiant presence.”
“Leave.”
“James!” Lily snapped. “Tuney, please. We just need one thing, then we’ll go.”
Petunia sniffed. “Fine. But come in. I don’t want the neighbours seeing.” She stepped aside and ushered them in with all the warmth of a traffic warden.
They entered what James could only describe as the most terrifying kitchen in Britain. Every surface gleamed. The countertops looked unused. There was a bowl of plastic fruit on the table, and not a speck of dust in sight. It felt like walking into a museum exhibit titled Middle-Class Despair: 1983.
“You’re lucky Vernon’s already left for work,” Petunia said, pursing her lips. “If he were here, I’d have sent you both right back where you came from.”
The feeling was mutual. James had no desire whatsoever to encounter Vernon Dursley at seven in the morning. Or ever, really. That man was the exact kind of muggle the wizarding world used as a punchline in anti-muggle rhetoric. He practically proved every stereotype correct, making life harder for everyone trying to fight against that kind of prejudice.
“Where’s Dudley?” Lily asked suddenly.
She had this stubborn idea that she could bond with her baby nephew, despite all available evidence suggesting it was a lost cause. James admired the optimism, but frankly, he’d never seen a child cry so violently simply because someone dared to offer him a different flavour yoghurt. Dudley was a loud, red-faced, sugar-coated disaster. And that was coming from James, who generally loved children. He thought they were brilliant—chaotic, creative, and honest in all the best ways. They were also always inexplicably sticky, which he considered a Marauder-level prank in itself.
“Upstairs in his room,” Petunia said, flicking on the electric kettle. “I was about to go up and get him, but you can do it if you want.”
There was a sneer in her voice, the kind that said she didn’t think Lily was up to the task. Which, of course, was the exact wrong thing to imply to Lily Evans.
As expected, Lily straightened her spine, shot James a look that said don’t start, and marched off up the stairs, presumably to wrestle a screaming toddler out of bed and convince him to come down without bloodshed.
They were going to be here for a while, weren’t they?
Petunia, to James’s surprise, seemed to be following the same train of thought. “Sit down,” she snapped. “Your hovering is giving me a headache. She’s going to be a while.”
James took the offered seat at the table, watching her move about the spotless kitchen. She grabbed three mugs, plonked a tea bag in each, and filled them with water from the whistling kettle.
When she placed a steaming cup in front of him, James stared at it. A chipped brown mug with no handle. None. Just the raw porcelain stub where it had snapped off. How was he supposed to hold that without burning his palm? He looked up. Petunia was smiling in a way that made it clear the mug had been chosen deliberately, and she was pleased he’d noticed.
“Thanks,” he said, voice dry.
Petunia took a sip from her pristine china. “So, have you asked Lily to marry you yet?”
James choked, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “No,” he spluttered. “We haven’t been together in years. Didn’t Lily tell you?”
He couldn’t imagine she hadn’t. They’d ended things when they were nineteen. Moving in together had just made practical sense once Sirius and Remus found their own place. And yes, when things got bleak during the war, they’d sometimes sought comfort in each other. Sometimes comfort looked like a long hug. Sometimes it looked like sex. But they’d been clear-eyed about it. No illusions. No confusion. Just survival.
It had stopped after Voldemort fell. What remained was a strange but unshakable friendship. Two people who’d seen the worst of the world together and come out the other side still laughing. Well, mostly laughing.
Petunia waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Lily says all sorts. She tends to prattle on about nonsense. I tune most of it out.”
James stared. It usually took a lot for him to properly dislike someone, since he tended to assume people had some redeeming quality. But Petunia Dursley seemed determined to prove herself the exception.
She wasn’t done. “I just assumed, because you two still live in that tiny house together. It’s not appropriate anymore, you know. Now that you’re adults. A man and a woman sharing a home like that... people will talk.”
Oh, bugger.
“Lily!” James called suddenly, shifting forward and straining his neck towards the hallway. “Get down here!”
He could’ve sworn he heard Petunia smirk behind her teacup.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs, and Lily reappeared looking flushed and deeply annoyed. Her hair had half-fallen out of its bun and her mouth was set in a tight, strained smile. “Sorry, Tuney,” she said through gritted teeth. “Dudley didn’t want to come down with his auntie.”
Petunia smiled smugly. “That’s quite alright, Lily. Children can be difficult. You can’t be perfect at everything.”
James watched Lily’s hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles white.
“Of course, Tuney,” she said politely. James, for his part, wanted to applaud her self-restraint. He wouldn’t have managed it himself, and then they’d have walked out of here empty-handed.
She sat down and wrapped her fingers around the chipped teacup, drawing warmth from it like it might stop her from lobbing the thing at her sister’s head. “What were you two talking about?”
“I was just saying—” Petunia began, but James jumped in before she could finish.
“Let’s just get to the point, Lil. No need to faff about and ruin Petunia’s precious morning ritual.”
She gave a small nod. “Tuney, we were wondering if you happen to have the Observer issue with the Eton Arcturus interview.”
Petunia’s beady eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I do. Why?”
“Ah, perfect,” Lily said brightly, ignoring the question. “Would you mind terribly if we borrowed it? Just for a second.”
Petunia stood, walked over to the magazine rack by the sofa, and pulled a copy from the top. She handed it to Lily with a frown. “If this is some weird magic thing, I don’t want to know. Just don’t go roping Eton into it. He’s a treasure among us normal people.”
James barely suppressed a laugh, coughing violently instead, eyes streaming from the effort.
Lily smirked. “Are you alright, James?”
“Yep,” he managed between coughs. “Tea just went down the wrong pipe.”
Still chuckling, Lily drew her wand and cast a duplication charm on the magazine.
“Lily!” Petunia shrieked.
“What?”
“Not in my house! What if my Dudleykins had walked in?”
“He’s a toddler!”
“He might have been infected!”
“It’s not a bloody disease!”
“Lily!” James cut in quickly, before it escalated into full-blown war. “Did you get the copy?”
She turned to him, eyes still sparking with anger. “Yes,” she snapped.
James only smiled. He knew that tone wasn’t meant for him. “Shall we go, then?”
Her expression softened at that. “Gladly. Goodbye, Petunia.”
And with a sharp crack, she disapparated them both right out of the Dursley living room.
Back home in Godric’s Hollow, she pressed a bundle of paper to his chest. “I’ve got to go to work—I’m already late. Can you give the magazine to Sirius today?”
James nodded. “Of course. I’ll drop by straightaway.”
“Good. And James, before you go, check first.” She nodded at the magazine in his hands. “I made a gift for you too.”
And with that, she stepped into the Floo and vanished, calling out ‘Ministry of Magic’ as she disappeared in a burst of green flame.
James stood there for a moment, staring after her, then glanced down at the magazine bundle in his hands.
Two copies.
One for Sirius. One for him.
His grin spread slowly, helplessly. Of course she had.
“Bloody brilliant,” he murmured, and silently thanked Lily Evans for being the most incredible witch of their generation.
The next three days, James spent reading the same five-page spread over and over and over again.
He was fairly certain Sirius was doing the exact same thing in his own flat. James hadn’t seen or heard from him since dropping off the second copy of the magazine, and that kind of silence from Padfoot could only mean one of two things: either he was on his own obsessive streak or halfway to Majorca. Probably the former, he’d have invited James along on any spontaneous holiday.
The first day was a blur. He hadn’t analysed, hadn’t even thought much. He’d just… sat with it. Letting himself adjust to the dizzying fact that the boy he’d last seen at sixteen was, impossibly, twenty-two now. And somehow… still him. Grown up, yes, but unmistakably Regulus. There were all these little signs of time passing: the way his jaw had sharpened, the baby fat gone from his cheeks, the way he held himself with so much more confidence.
And yet, his expressions were still so recognizable. His brows still furrowed when he wasn’t smiling. His eyes still drifted into the middle distance when he was thinking. And his mouth still had that faint, haughty downturn, as if unimpressed with the world. James had once been desperately fond of that mouth. He still was.
In two rare group photos, Regulus actually smiled. Wide and joyful. James had thought that smile was lost to the world forever, but here it was, captured in full colour in a muggle magazine.
James caught himself tracing the contours of Regulus’s smile with his thumb, smiling along with him. He hadn’t expected comfort. He’d expected to ache. But instead, it brought a warm, strange peace to trace Regulus’s older face in the photos, to read his words printed in sharp black ink.
On day two, obsession overtook awe. James flipped through the pages with a tactical eye, memorising names, cross-referencing faces. The ones who knew Regulus now. The ones who’d stood where James hadn’t.
There was Barty. Chaotic and wild, by the sound of him. But a loyal friend, and according to Regulus, the reason he was still here at all.
Then Pandora. Blonde. Dreamy-looking. Regulus’s co-star in some upcoming muggle film. Apparently, the dating rumours between them had been going strong for years, rumours neither of them had made any effort to deny. James squinted at her photo too long, analysing her expression, her posture, the space between them, trying to decide if she looked like Regulus’s type. Then immediately hated himself for it.
There was a stylist and designer, Nico, credited with most of Regulus’s looks. He tended to dress Regulus in dramatic coats, jewellery, and dark colours, creating the kind of aesthetic that turned Regulus into a dark prince or modern myth.
In one picture, Nico had an arm slung casually around Regulus’s waist. James didn’t know why that bothered him so much. Maybe it was because Nico looked so familiar, yet James couldn’t quite place him.
And then there was Evan: a blond muggle. Most of the photos—especially the earliest ones of Regulus—were credited to him, some dating as far back as January 1978. The date hit like a punch. Barely a month after Regulus had disappeared. Which meant Evan, like Barty and Pandora, had been there at the start.
According to the caption, Evan had auctioned off the rights to the original photo series for an absurd amount, then donated all the money to a homeless youth charity. James had stared at that line for hours.
Evan only appeared in one photo. A small one, barely the size of a matchbox, buried in the corner of the final page. Just a group photo of them crowded on a sofa: Regulus, Barty, Pandora, and Evan. The blond was rushing into frame, likely trying to make it in before the camera snapped the picture.
They looked happy in that photo. Loud. Real. Like a proper group of friends.
James stared until the page blurred. He hadn’t realised how much he still thought of Regulus as a ghost even now.
By day three, the article was less a magazine feature and more scripture. James had whole passages memorised. He could probably recite it backwards if someone dared him.
That morning, he finally left the house, still clutching the magazine to his chest like it might vanish if he blinked. And it very well might; even for the strongest Charms master, a duplication lasting more than three days was pushing it.
His destination was Bristol, the nearest big muggle city to Godric’s Hollow. His mission: find the largest muggle video rental shop he could.
He spent nearly an hour browsing the shelves, half-hoping no one would ask him questions. (He’d lied on the form and put his name down as ‘Jim Potter.’ Very subtle, right?)
When he found it—Peripheral Love—he stared at the plastic clamshell case for a long time, unsure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or kiss it. There was Regulus, clad in dark leather, caught mid-kiss with a blonde actress in an alleyway. The lighting was moody, the tagline cheesy. James bought it on the spot.
It wasn’t until he got home that he was reminded of an inconvenient truth. Lily didn’t even try to hide her laughter when he held up the tape like a prize. “James, dear, that’s a VHS,” she managed through giggles. “We don’t have a VCR. Or a television.”
Right. Of course. Bloody wizards. Bloody him.
So instead of watching the film, he spent the afternoon looking at it. Turning the case over in his hands. Running his fingers over the bold title and, more often than not, tracing the stylised lettering of Eton Arcturus in the credits. Again. And again.
Now it was day four, and unless he fancied a trip out to buy both a telly and a VCR, there was absolutely nothing left to do.
Just as James was dragging himself out of the armchair to do exactly that—because apparently obsession with Regulus now required muggle electronics instead of secret library corners—the Floo roared to life in a burst of green flame.
He jumped like he’d been caught nicking from Honeydukes, shoving the VHS tape under a cushion as if it were contraband.
There was only one person who dropped in without warning, and that was...
“Prongs!” Sirius yelled, emerging from the Floo like he owned the place, brushing soot off his sleeves. “You’re a Transfiguration expert!”
It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.
James blinked. “Alright… good morning to you too, mate. What’ve you broken? Not Moony’s record player again, right?”
“No,” Sirius said breezily, waving him off. “Nothing’s broken. Just need your expertise.”
James snorted and stood, pulling Sirius into a hug. He hadn’t seen him in days, and for them, that counted as a minor estrangement!
“It’s been years since Hogwarts. I probably remember sod-all.”
“You were the best of the Marauders. None of us’ve gotten any better with time, but I trust you not to be the worst.”
“Not the worst!” James grinned. “Brilliant! I’ll toast to that!”
“That’s the spirit!”
Without asking, Sirius brushed past James and sauntered into the kitchen, opening the cupboards like he lived there. He cracked open a random Tupperware, broke the stasis charm with a tap of his wand, sniffed the contents, and let out a victorious whoop.
“Score! Did you make your mum’s recipe?”
“If I say yes, are you gonna nick it?”
“Can’t say yet,” Sirius replied absentmindedly, already halfway through finding a spoon.
“Sure, Pads,” James laughed, grabbing a spoon for himself. “Now, tell me, what do you need my supposedly ‘not-the-worst’ Transfiguration talents for?”
“I need you to transfigure the Point-Me charm into something that works on finding people. I can’t wait another ten days, mate. The wait is killing me.”
“Sirius, that’s not Transfiguration. That’s bloody spell crafting.”
“That’s what Moony said,” Sirius groaned, flopping dramatically against the counter. “I’d hoped he was just being a wet blanket.”
“Remus would steal the sun for you,” James said, crossing his arms. “So if he says he can’t do it, he can’t do it.”
“I know,” Sirius muttered, poking at the container with his spoon. “I’ve been a right misery these past few days, too. I don’t deserve him.”
“Oi, none of that.” James nudged him with his elbow. “We made a deal after the war: no more of that self-punishing shite. We survived. That means we’re allowed to be happy. You and Remus make each other unbelievably happy, and that means he’s exactly what you deserve.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, because feelings made him itchy. “Thanks, mate. Any chance you’re also a secret spell crafter in addition to being a bloody life coach?”
“Figure it out yourself!” James grinned. “You’re just as permanently unemployed as I am. You’ve got the time.”
“I’ve got the time,” Sirius groaned, tipping his head back theatrically. “Just not the patience.”
James knew that feeling. The restlessness.
During the war, they’d never had a chance to even think about careers. Straight out of Hogwarts, they’d gone directly into the Order of the Phoenix, recklessly convinced they could help end it all. And as things worsened at terrifying speed, the war had swallowed up everything else. Jobs. Futures. Peace.
Luckily, James, like many pureblood heirs, had the privilege of generational wealth to fall back on. More than enough, even, to help support his friends.
But then, just like that, the war had ended. Not through some grand strategy by the Order, nor a Ministry coup, but because a one-year-old Neville Longbottom defeated Voldemort in his cot. A miracle wrapped in tragedy; Neville’s parents, James's friends, destroyed by the same curse that killed Voldemort.
They were calling Neville The Boy Who Lived now.
James often wondered whether Neville would grow up thinking it had been worth it. He wouldn’t blame the boy if he didn’t. James had lost both his parents at nineteen, and most mornings, he still couldn’t bear the weight of their absence. He would give anything—too much, probably—for even one more minute with them.
But the war was over, and somehow the world expected the survivors to dust themselves off and carry on. Get a nice job. Be good adults. Forget all about the trauma and death.
Easy-peasy, right?
Lily had managed. Of course she had. She’d joined the Potion Standards Office in the Department of Magical Health and Welfare and was already rising through the ranks faster than anyone expected.
Remus had found work in a small bookshop on Horizont Alley. The pay was awful, but they didn’t know he was a werewolf, so they treated him like a normal person. Remus called that a fair trade. The rest of them did not.
As for Sirius and James… Well, they’d gone into the accelerated Auror programme. Got fast-tracked, thanks to their work with the Order and Moody’s backing. They even finished it. But then came the jobs, the fieldwork, the so-called “return to normalcy.” And both of them had realised very quickly:
They were done.
Done with fighting. Done with chasing shadows. Done with fear.
But what the hell do you do when you’ve built your whole life around being something, only to become it and realise you bloody hate it?
James hadn’t figured that bit out yet.
So he’d quit. Chosen to live off the Potter inheritance until something meaningful came along. Sirius had done the same, after the war declared both his parents and Regulus dead and left him the Black fortune.
That had been six months ago.
And they were still waiting. Still searching.
They had time now. Too much bloody time.
Sirius, clearly aware of the spiral James had wandered into, gave him a firm nudge. They did that, the Marauders. A physical reminder to come back to the present. Their minds weren’t always the safest places to linger.
“Any chance you’re crafting a spell in that head of yours?”
James blinked. Then, without thinking, said, “You know who was good at spell craft? Regulus.”
Sirius frowned, head tilting. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “He was. He is. You’re right.” He nodded once, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait... how’d you even know that?”
Because Regulus used to ramble. That's how. Hours spent pacing around their desk, talking to himself, mapping the arc of a new spell aloud as if James would understand any of it. He never had, but the end results had been brilliant. Magical theory bent into new shapes, elegant and terrifying. Regulus had been… well, bloody gifted. Probably one of the most powerful wizards of their generation. And now he was off doing muggle modelling and kissing strangers in films. An absolute waste.
James didn’t say any of that. Instead, he shrugged and said, “You must’ve mentioned it. Back in school or something.”
Sirius didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Must have.”
This was the perfect time to bring something else up, something James had remembered after they’d found out Regulus was still alive. “You know what else you mentioned once?” James began, casually. “That Regulus was close with the Black house-elf... Kreacher, was it? Have you asked him yet? About the day Regulus ran?”
Sirius gave him a look that could only be described as pure suspicion. “Pretty sure I never mentioned Kreacher. I try to forget about that insufferable, miserable elf.”
He was right. Sirius had never said Kreacher’s name aloud. At best, he’d called him that cursed elf, always with a grimace. But Regulus had spoken about him.
The younger Black brother had returned to Hogwarts after the summer of ‘77 with precious few good stories to tell. But when there were stories, they always included Kreacher. Little details, like Kreacher sneaking extra pudding up to his room after dinner. Quiet acts of care like the elf mending favourite jumpers. Regulus had even recounted, in excited detail, how Kreacher had accompanied him to Diagon Alley for his school shopping, a tradition they'd built together ever since Sirius left.
Regulus had loved that elf more than anyone else in Grimmauld Place. Definitely more than anyone in Slytherin House.
If he’d run, Kreacher would’ve known.
“How else would I remember the name?” James felt guilty the moment he said it. He wasn’t the kind of person who manipulated his friends, but as this past week had proved, desperation turned him into the worst version of himself. Still, a part of him believed Sirius would understand. Maybe even agree, if he knew the reason.
Sirius squinted at him, still frowning, but finally shrugged. “I didn’t ask the cursed elf last time Moony and I were at Grimmauld Place. Avoided him like the plague, actually. You want to go check it out?”
Bingo.
“If you don’t mind going back?”
“Last time wasn’t too bad,” Sirius muttered. “Helps when the people I refuse to call parents are rotting in the ground. Just don’t make me stay too long.”
“We’ll check Reg’s room for any clues, have a word with Kreacher, and that’s it. Won’t take more than two hours. Better than inventing a whole bloody spell from scratch!”
Sirius took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself. The guilt in James’s chest twisted even tighter. Grimmauld Place wasn’t just a location, it was a scar Sirius still carried. And James was making him reopen it.
“I’ll apparate us to the doorstep,” Sirius said, standing up. “Tried that with Remus, side-along was enough to get him through the family wards.”
“Sounds good,” James said, getting up too, and taking the offered arm. He grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lead the way, kind sir!”
“This is it?” James asked, eyeing the simple London townhouse squeezed uncomfortably between its neighbours.
“Wait till you’ve seen the inside, mate,” Sirius muttered, pale as he reached for his wand.
The front door swung open to reveal a long, dimly lit hallway. Even a year of abandonment hadn’t stripped the place of its pureblood grandeur. Black marble floors, high ceiling, an ornate chandelier that glittered in the half-light. The air was cold, though, thick with dust.
Then one of the portraits stirred.
Walburga Black’s shrieking voice burst through the silence. “BLOOD TRAITOR! FILTH! STAIN UPON THE HOUSE OF BLACK!”
“Oh, bloody hell,” James shouted over the racket. “Can’t you shut her up?!”
“I wish!” Sirius bellowed. “Don’t even know who commissioned the bloody thing! Just get upstairs, we won’t hear her up there!” He shoved James towards the sweeping staircase that spiralled gloomily into the shadows above.
As they hurried upward, James caught sight of the row of shrunken house-elf heads mounted like grotesque trophies along the wall. “You and Regulus grew up here?”
“Why d’you think I always wanted to spend summers at your place?!”
“I think you under-exaggerated this place!”
“There aren’t words in the English language exaggerated enough to cover this hellhole,” Sirius said with a grim grin.
“You’re never coming back here,” James told his friend, voice resolute.
By the time they reached the fourth floor, Walburga’s shrieks were barely audible. Only two doors lined the corridor. Sirius led him to the one bearing a small engraved plaque:
DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK
“Dramatic,” James said, raising his eyebrows at the sign.
“He got it when he was thirteen,” Sirius said with a fond huff of laughter. “Prime puberty move. He even warded the room so our parents couldn’t enter. First time he ever properly rebelled against Mother.”
James glanced at the door. “Can we enter?”
“Only one way to find out.” Sirius placed his hand on the knob and gave it a twist. The door opened with a quiet click.
Inside was a small, meticulously kept bedroom, draped in emerald and silver. The Slytherin crest hung above the bed. A green quilt was tucked in with military precision. The walls were lined with dark wood panelling, the furniture heavy and traditional.
James looked around slowly. At first glance, it felt like a pureblood cliché. Nothing like the Regulus he’d come to know. This room had been created to meet expectation, not comfort.
Then his eyes landed on the wall to the left, covered in clipped-out newspaper articles.
He stepped closer.
Every article was about Voldemort. His rise. His attacks. The Dark Mark in the sky. James had to force himself to look at the face of that psychopath and at the burning skull he’d seen too often hovering above the ruins of his friends’ lives.
At first, the clippings looked like they belonged to a fanatic. The obsession made his stomach churn.
Then he noticed the thin pencil marks. Certain words were underlined. Dates, names, locations.
“He was tracking him,” James murmured, fingers tracing a line drawn under the word Hogsmeade.
“What?” Sirius stepped beside him. “Are those articles on You-Know-Who?”
“Yeah. But look, he was keeping track of movements. Death Eater sightings. Attacks. Numbers. Like he was… counting down.”
It was chilling. The work of a boy trying to map the patterns of a monster. James pictured Regulus, just sixteen, sitting cross-legged on his bed, trying to decipher the trajectory of a madman’s war from scattered reports and half-truths.
How terrified must he have been?
Alone in this house, in that suffocating family. Trapped under the weight of a name and expectations he didn’t want. James could almost feel it now, the dread closing in, night after night, all summer long, as Regulus scribbled down every fresh horror with shaking hands.
He turned to the nightstand. A folded Daily Prophet lay atop it. He snatched it up. Saturday issue. Dated: 17 December, 1977.
“This must be it.” He held the paper out to Sirius. “This must be the reason he ran.”
One sentence was underlined: ‘Rumours about plans by You-Know-Who to recruit large numbers of new Death Eaters among pureblood families before Christmas.’
“Do you think it was a last-minute decision?” Sirius asked, staring at the page. “What if he needed more time, and this forced him to run before he was ready?”
“Sirius,” James said gently, squeezing his friend’s arm. “He’s all right. Remember? He’s fine.”
Sirius raked a hand through his curls. A nervous habit. “I’m going to find that cursed elf. See if he knows anything.” Without waiting for a response, he disappeared through the door.
James listened to the fading echo of his footsteps down the stairs. The moment he was gone, James turned on his heel and darted to the bookshelf. If he knew anything about Regulus Black, it was that when the world closed in, he retreated into stories.
The dark wood shelves were filled with Hogwarts textbooks and neatly lined leather-bound notebooks, the spines all engraved in Regulus’s beautiful script. Each label was precise and orderly: four volumes for Ancient Runes, four for Arithmancy, six for Astronomy, and so on.
“Bloody hell,” James muttered, scanning the titles. “I’ve got a thing for nerds.”
It was the last book on the shelf that made his breath catch. A standard-issue Flourish and Blotts notebook, but it was the title engraved in silver that drew him in.
The Black Heir Handbook
His fingers trembled as he reached for it. The leather binding was warm, unnaturally so for something left in a freezing house for six years. The front was blank.
He opened it slowly. The first sentence read:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
James exhaled a stunned laugh, his face splitting into a smile before he could stop it.
It wasn’t just that Regulus had made a copy of Pride and Prejudice. It was the inscription. This was their book. The one that had started everything. The one James would smugly quote in their library corner just to make Regulus blush.
He flipped through the pages, careful but eager. The book hummed faintly in his hands. There was something off about the magic, like it didn’t quite belong to the text he was reading. A subtle layering. He was probably overthinking it. It might just be a charm to keep Walburga from finding muggle literature hidden in the room.
That’s when a loose square of parchment slid out and floated gently to the floor. “Shite,” James muttered, kneeling to retrieve it, afraid he’d torn something.
But it wasn’t a torn page, it was a photo.
A moving one.
It was him. Younger—fourteen, maybe fifteen—sitting in the grass, head thrown back, laughing wholeheartedly at something off-camera. The sunlight caught his face just right, like a spotlight made just for him. Then suddenly, the version of him turned, looked straight into the lens, and winked with a cheeky grin.
James remembered the photo vaguely. Sirius had printed it for a prank, or maybe as a birthday gag.
But how had Regulus got hold of it?
He turned it over again, almost afraid of what he’d find.
James
Just his name. Written in that crisp, elegant handwriting James knew too well. The way Regulus ended his vowels with that rushed flick that carried it over to the next letter.
It was simple. Factual. Not suspicious to anyone who didn’t know better.
But James knew better.
Regulus had never called him by his first name. Not once. It had always been Potter. Cold, dismissive, infuriating. James could’ve pressed him against a bookshelf, breathless, and still he’d call him Potter and start ranting about Arithmancy homework.
So why was it written here, in the privacy of his room? Hidden in this book. Their book.
Was Lily right all along?
James’s throat tightened. What if there had been a reason Regulus had never crossed the line from surnames to something more? What if this book, this stolen photograph, was a confession the boy could never say out loud?
Was this proof James hadn’t imagined it all? That he had meant as much to Regulus as Regulus had to him?
Hope bloomed in James’s chest, sharp-edged and terrifying. Because if he was wrong, if he found Regulus only to be met with cool indifference, he didn’t know if he could stand it.
He stared at the photo again. At his younger self, so different, laughing in the sunlight. At his name written like it had meant something.
Then the footsteps started up the stairs.
Panic surged through him. He quickly slipped the photo back into the notebook, then stuffed the whole thing down the waistband of his trousers and tugged his jumper over it, heart pounding.
Chapter 8: Part II - Chapter 4
Notes:
Hi everyone! Just a quick note: I’ve changed the rating from T to M, just to be safe. This is mostly for some future chapters (like 8-ish down the line) that touch on war-related topics. There won’t be any graphic war scenes, just conversations. Content warnings will be there when needed, so if you came in expecting a T-rating and still want to read on, you can skip the heavier stuff.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the end, Kreacher had been no help whatsoever.
At first, he’d merely puffed up his chest and said, “The blood traitors do not deserve to know about good Master Regulus.” Acting like he knew exactly where Regulus had vanished to but simply refused to tell them.
That, infuriatingly, had actually given James and Sirius hope.
They’d kept their tempers in check, trying kindness over harsh orders, hoping that politely asking might coax the difficult elf into cooperation. Regulus had always spoken about treating Kreacher with patience and respect, so James had hoped they could replicate that and find the elf Regulus used to speak so highly of beneath the miserable old sod standing before them.
But Kreacher had simply turned his long nose up at them, refusing to give away even a whisper of useful information. He’d muttered all sorts of pureblood slurs under his breath, shot nasty glares at Sirius, and stalked dramatically through Regulus’s bedroom to dust every shelf aggressively.
Eventually, Sirius’s patience snapped. James didn’t even blame him. He understood now why Sirius only referred to him as That Cursed Elf.
“He’s a blood traitor too now, you know,” Sirius had barked. “Your precious master Regulus.”
Kreacher had not liked that.
He’d erupted with fury, face turning an alarming shade of greyish purple, before falling into a sullen silence and refusing to speak at all.
In the end, Sirius had been forced to invoke his right as a member of the house of Black to command the elf to talk. It had been a risky move, since Arcturus Black was still alive and capable of enforcing Sirius’s disownment. But after Regulus’s disappearance, disowning the last young male Black had apparently become too dangerous a gamble. So the house magic had obliged. Kreacher had been forced to talk.
And still, it hadn’t helped.
According to Kreacher, Regulus had left early one morning in December, carrying a bag stuffed full with muggle money that the elf had helped him collect. He hadn’t said where he was going, only that the time had come and that he wouldn’t be back for a long time. He’d made Kreacher swear not to tell a soul, and Kreacher had not appreciated being made to break that promise, tears brimming in his eyes as Sirius forced the truth out of him.
James had almost felt bad for the elf. Almost.
When Sirius demanded to know why Kreacher had helped Regulus, given how muggle money and running away weren’t exactly the pillars of Black family tradition, the elf had straightened up, pride gleaming behind his bulbous eyes.
“Because Master Regulus will save House of Black,” he’d said. “Mistress Walburga and Master Orion wanted Black heir to bow to false lord. But House of Black does not bow. We does not kneel. Master Regulus is good Black. He will return us to glory. Kreacher knows it.”
James hadn’t known what to make of that. It sounded like the sort of nonsense Regulus might’ve spouted at sixteen—he'd always been a proud Black, to the point it had driven James mad sometimes—but it was hard to argue with the outcome. The boy had vanished into thin air and re-emerged as a cinematic legend. Arguably, he was more famous and more revered than any Black before him. He certainly held more power now, especially if you considered the way muggles outnumbered wizards by about 4,000 to 1. Maybe the elf had been onto something after all.
It hadn’t helped them find him, though.
And so, they’d had no choice but to wait the full, agonising week and a half until the concert.
But the night arrived eventually, as time always does, and now James and Sirius were standing in line outside a muggle venue in the heart of London.
Just the two of them.
Remus had bowed out. It had been a full moon the night before, and a rough one at that. It hadn’t just been the moon; Moony had picked up on Padfoot and Prongs’ nerves, and it had made the transformation much worse. Seeing Remus’s exhausted state and Sirius’s guilt over leaving him, Lily had passed as well, promising to stay behind to keep Remus company.
He missed them, but if he was honest, he was glad to have this moment alone with Sirius.
They didn’t speak much, but the air between them was buzzing with nervous energy, both of them so jittery and restless they couldn’t stand still for long in the seemingly endless queue.
This was it.
Their only lead. Their one shot at finding Regulus again. If this didn’t work, they had nowhere left to turn.
He tried to distract himself by surveying the crowd. His eyes flitted from muggle to muggle, taking in the demographic. Then he glanced at Sirius, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
Sirius had dressed like he always did: somewhere between eccentric muggle and eccentric wizard, with no interest in choosing a side. He wore black leather trousers and a black waistcoat with absolutely nothing underneath. It left his chestbone bare, showing off his tattoos. For warmth—or at least what Sirius considered warmth—he’d thrown on an oversized maroon blazer. His hair was loose, falling in wild curls to his shoulders, and his eyes were rimmed in thick black kohl, which somehow made the hint of blue in them pop even more violently than usual.
He looked bloody fantastic, of course. Sirius always did. But James had raised his eyebrows when he’d first seen him that evening, fully expecting him to stand out like a sore thumb among the muggles.
Oh, how wrong he’d been.
If anyone looked out of place, it was James, in his perfectly normal red jumper and blue jeans, standing among a sea of black and metal. He might as well have been a neon green giraffe in a penguin exhibit. The bloke in front of him had safety pins stuck through his collarbone, and his mohawk was so tall and stiff it had to be magical. Had to be. And apparently, coats were illegal, because no one else was wearing one, despite the biting April chill.
Honestly, how were they not all freezing to death?
Ah, Merlin. He sounded like his mum.
James pushed up his sleeves and fiddled with his glasses, trying to adjust them so they sat straight. That only earned him a cackle from Sirius.
“You look like a Divination student in a room full of Curse Breakers,” Sirius snorted, then laughed harder at his own joke, bumping into James with his shoulder.
James groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Don’t, Pad. Please,” he moaned. “I feel like a complete idiot.”
Sirius grinned. “Could be worse. You could’ve dressed like Moony. He’d have shown up looking like an Arithmancy professor two days from retirement.”
“A rough Arithmancy professor two days from retirement,” James corrected, laughing despite himself.
“Ah, right. Because of the scars,” Sirius said, nodding gravely.
“Exactly.”
Sirius grinned even wider. “I dig the scars.”
“I know you do. We shared room for seven years, remember?”
“Yeah. Good times.”
“For you maybe.” That earned James a shove.
As they bickered, the line inched forward, a slow, shuffling mass of people that smelled like cheap alcohol. Eventually, they reached the front, where a massive doorman stood like a troll working his side hustle.
James, following the lead of the muggles before them, handed over a fiver with a nod. “Two,” he said, jerking his thumb at Sirius in a way he hoped looked confident.
The doorman grunted, stamped something on their wrists that looked suspiciously like PISS in red ink, and waved them through.
“Piss?” Sirius mouthed at him, holding up his wrist with barely suppressed laughter.
James shushed him. “I think it’s supposed to say Pass. Like, for having paid the entry fee. Now shut up, we’ve got to be cool like the muggles!”
“By saying that, you’re, by definition, not cool.”
“You’re mean, Padfoot. This—” he gestured broadly at the crowd and the hundreds of people dressed exactly like Sirius, “—is going to your head.”
Meanwhile, they were being herded down a narrow stone staircase, the steps already sticky with Merlin-knew-what. The deeper they went, the warmer it got, and suddenly the lack of coats made sense. He could already feel his jumper clinging awkwardly to his back.
The basement was one long, unfurnished room, already packed with muggles. At the back was a stage made of a wooden platform no taller than a milk crate. The walls must have been once painted black, but were now an explosion of colour from muggle spray paint.
Around them, muggles were lighting up cigarettes, and the smoke rose steadily to gather in clouds near the ceiling. James winced, that couldn’t be good for anyone.
James tried to catch Sirius’s eye, silently asking if they were about to die here tonight. But Sirius was craning his neck, scanning the crowd. Right, that’s why they were here. Not for the thrilling muggle experience, but to find Regulus’s friends. Friends they’d never actually seen in person, only in muggle photographs. Photographs that didn’t even move.
He started searching too, squinting at faces, looking for anyone vaguely familiar. Even Leah would do; she might be able to point them in the right direction or give them tips.
But nothing.
And then the lights dropped.
A high, ear-splitting screech cut through the chatter like a teapot from hell. The crowd surged forward, cheering impossibly loud. Within seconds, James was jostled, elbowed, and soaked in someone’s beer.
Sirius threw an arm around his shoulder and shouted in his ear, “Eyes on the guitarist!”
“I know!” James bellowed back, eyes glued to the stage just as the band took the stage.
One by one, they jumped onto the platform. First up was a skinny, shirtless bloke with oily black hair who sat down behind the drum set and saluted the crowd. The cheers that erupted were so loud and energetic, James couldn’t help grinning, whether he wanted to or not.
Next came a taller boy with platinum blonde hair, wearing a neon pink T-shirt and impossibly tight black trousers. He strolled up to the mic and just smirked. Not the guitarist, then. And definitely not Barty.
The third band member was just as tall, with straight dark hair tied back in a ponytail. As he walked, each step was punctuated by a dramatic beat of the drum. It was a good joke, and James couldn’t help laughing as the drummer quickened the beat when the boy's pace did. As payback, the muggle flipped the drummer off before taking his spot behind the keyboard.
And then, finally, came the fourth.
Slightly shorter than the rest, about James’s age, with brown hair kept short. He wore a black tank top and black jeans strung with silver chains, and—thank Merlin—slung over his shoulder was a gorgeous, expensive-looking electric guitar.
He looked exactly like the Barty in the pictures.
Sirius jabbed him in the side with his elbow, pointing at the guitarist before trying to push them closer through the already dense crowd.
Barty just waved at the audience, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he let his guitar wail. That was apparently the cue, because the drummer jumped in immediately.
The blonde singer stepped up to the mic. “Right,” he said, voice like gravel soaked in firewhiskey, “thank fuck people showed up again.” He grinned, and Barty slammed out another chord. “This is ‘Scratchcard Hope’.”
The music was loud. Really loud. James could feel every drumbeat in his chest like someone was punching him from the inside. He could actually feel his heart beat in his throat, keeping time with the rhythm of the music.
Around them, people immediately started dancing, singing along at the top of their lungs.
Beside him, Sirius was grinning like mad, seeming just as excited as James was. And when the singer launched into the refrain for the second time, James sang along loudly with the rest of the muggles.
It wasn’t really singing, not like the bands in the magical world. No, this was snarling along to a beat. The singer was even jerking his mic stand toward the crowd like he was in a fencing match.
By the third song, James had fully embraced the chaos. He’d found a random muggle girl in a ripped tutu with a cigarette clamped between her teeth to dance with, and now he was spinning her around, both of them laughing as Sirius cheered them on, smoking his own muggle cigarette that he’d bummed off the girl.
Above them, lights pulsed in all the colours of the rainbow, and the thick fog of weed had overtaken the cigarette smoke clouding at the ceiling.
In the corner, a pair of boys were snogging hard against a wall, until a girl grabbed them both, stepped between them, and started snogging them both. Quite explicitly.
Muggles were wild!
A few steps behind them, a girl with brown hair had climbed onto a muggle boy’s shoulders, arms stretched out like wings as she shouted along to the lyrics. James did a double. Was that—?
He barked out a laugh. Yep. That was Leah.
He waved up at her, and she caught his eye, grinning as she waved back. Then she threw her head back and sang along, eyes closed, lost in the music.
It felt like he’d stepped into another dimension entirely.
He wondered if Regulus had felt the same the first time he came here.
The set rolled on, introducing a slower song called ‘Why’. It was the first time the singer traded his gravelly growl for something that almost sounded traditional. The atmosphere calmed a little at that, the energy pulling back like a tide. Lights went off and people raised their lighters, tiny flames bobbing in the dark, and for a long moment, it was like the entire crowd was just listening.
And it was only then, in the quiet, that James remembered why they were here.
They had a goal.
And they were nowhere bloody near it.
He looked up at the stage. Barty was right there, almost close enough to touch. Just three or four muggles stood between them and the stage now. But it might as well have been a canyon. They were separated not just by height, but by noise, by light, by the sheer fact that Barty was on that side of things, and they weren’t.
There was no way to call out to him. The music was getting louder again now, with drums crashing back in. No voice could reach through that wall of sound. And even if they waited, even if they stood here until the final note rang out, what then? If the band left the way they’d come, disappearing through some backstage door to wild applause, they’d vanish before James and Sirius even got a chance to move.
It hit James all at once, cold and final: they weren’t going to reach him.
They were just… watching.
Just like in the cinema. Just like when he’d sat there in the dark, staring up at Regulus on the muggle screen. He could see him, sure, but not touch. Not speak. Not reach him.
This was the same. So close, and still impossibly far.
Barty would leave tonight without ever knowing they’d been here. And James and Sirius would go home with nothing. No plan. No progress. No Regulus.
His heart dropped like a stone. The music blurred. The lights swam. He grabbed onto Sirius like he was the only thing holding him upright as he felt the realisation sink in.
And then...
Flash.
A sudden burst of white light cut across his vision.
A camera. That was all. Just someone taking a photo of the band. But something about it snagged in James’s brain, shifting his focus. Like a crack of light had pierced the dark.
He turned instinctively toward the flash, eyes searching... and froze.
A blond muggle boy stood just off to the side, camera raised, snapping away. He was taller than James, dressed in a black turtle neck, hair tousled from the heat of the room.
James stared.
He knew that face.
He’d seen it before, stared at it, actually. In the magazine. The only image of the photographer. Evan.
James’s heart thundered. “Sirius!”
Sirius looked over, damp with sweat, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Look over there!” His voice barely reached over all the noise.
“WHAT?”
“OVER THERE!”
“WHAT?”
James groaned. This wasn’t going to work. He grabbed Sirius by the forearm and, like an Erumpant, began charging forward through the crowd. Muggles grumbled, elbowed him, glared. One bloke actually growled. James didn’t care. He shoved, ducked, pulled Sirius along like a man possessed.
And there he was.
Up close, the muggle looked even more familiar. Same sharp nose, same light eyes, same shade of blond hair. Evan. Definitely Evan.
He had the expensive camera to his eye again when James reached him. “Hey!” he shouted, dragging Sirius up beside him and tapping the boy firmly on the shoulder.
“If you’re an Eton fan, piss off,” the muggle said without looking. “I’m here for the band, understood?”
“Please, we need your help,” James tried, undeterred. He was not about to be dismissed this easily. Not now. If James Potter was known for anything, it was his sheer bloody-minded determination.
“Not now.”
“One second of your time!”
“Piss off!”
“Please!” James begged.
Finally, the muggle lowered his camera in irritation. “What?!” His eyes landed on James first, clearly annoyed. And then they flicked to Sirius. The blood drained from his face. “Bloody hell.”
That was all the confirmation they needed.
Evan looked at Sirius. Sirius looked right back. “We need your help,” he said, voice cutting clearly through the noise.
Evan didn’t move at first, frozen in place. Then, like waking from a spell, he shook himself, let the camera drop around his neck, and grabbed them both by the forearms. “Follow me!” he shouted, pulling them toward a door to the right of the stage.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind them, James’s ears started to ring in the sudden silence.
“You.” The muggle jabbed a finger straight into Sirius’s chest, voice sharp. “What’s your name?”
“Sirius Black,” Sirius said, enunciating every syllable as he looked Evan in the eyes.
“Middle name?”
“Orion.”
“Shit.”
Evan staggered back a step, hand flying to his mouth. For a second, he looked completely lost. Then both hands went to his hair, tugging at the straight blond strands as he turned away, pacing. “Oh, shit. Nobody bloody prepared me for this possibility.”
James—forever the social buffer between the Marauders and the rest of the world—stepped in with a calming smile and offered his hand. “I’m James, by the way.”
The blond turned on reflex, automatically shaking the offered hand. “Evan,” he said, voice still slightly dazed.
James smiled, friendly and open. That seemed to ground Evan a little. His blue eyes flicked over James’s face, scanning every feature, and went wide. His eyebrows flew up so fast they nearly disappeared into his fringe. “Shit,” he muttered again, his tone turning to something almost hysterical.
Then he laughed.
The sort of laugh someone lets out when the universe has done something too weird to process.
“Barty’s gonna have a bloody field day with this,” he wheezed. “James, you said?”
“That’s me,” James replied, unable to keep the confusion from his voice. “We were hoping to speak with you or Barty. You can probably guess why.” He gave Sirius a meaningful nudge forward.
“I need to speak with Regulus,” Sirius said.
James nearly groaned. That was his opening line?
But somehow, it worked.
Evan stopped laughing. “Yeah,” he said, still staring at Sirius. “You do.” He raked a hand through his sweaty hair. “But I promised the band I’d photograph this gig, and I need to get back. Stay here, alright? Don’t move. I’ll come back when the show’s over, and I’ll bring Barty.”
And just like that, he disappeared back through the door, vanishing into the noise.
The moment it shut, Sirius let out a wild, giddy laugh. He grabbed James by the shoulders, shaking him as he grinned. “Thank Merlin. I thought we’d lost it. I thought... bloody hell.”
“We did it!” James laughed. “We bloody did it! What are the chances?”
Sirius beamed at him, still jittery with relief. “Bloody hell, Prongs. You did it! You and your bloody memory for faces! We never would’ve reached Barty in that crowd. No chance. But you spotted Evan like it was nothing.”
James’s heart was beating wildly, adrenaline still surging. He laughed. “Told you it’s important to remember names and faces!”
Let’s leave it at that. No need to mention how obsessively he’d studied that magazine spread, how he’d memorised every feature of the faces in it.
“I know, I know. I just never expected your extreme social skills to be this crucial one day.” Sirius laughed again, it seemed that was all they were doing now, and pulled James into a tight hug.
James responded without thinking, arms wrapping around him, holding close.
It was only after a long moment that they separated, breathless and giddy. They flopped onto a nearby couch, one with far too many questionable stains, but it didn’t try to eat them like a magical couch might have, so it was good enough.
Now they had to wait.
James hated waiting.
Time slowed. The gig dragged on, the minutes stretched thin by anticipation, every second feeling like a minute.
But eventually, the music ended.
The door opened to reveal the rest of the band first. They were sweaty but chatting among themselves, clearly riding the high of the set. They spared Sirius and James a few polite nods, then disappeared deeper into the backstage area without a second glance.
A few minutes later, the door opened again. This time to the sound of bickering.
“Christ, Ev, what’s the rush?” came a rough voice as a lean boy was dragged inside by the arm. “Can I have a sip of water before we go solving the world’s problems?”
“You’ve had three sips and a fag,” Evan snapped, yanking him along. “That’s the rush.” He pointed directly at Sirius.
Barty looked up, frowned, and then froze mid-step. He blinked at Sirius. “He looks like Reg. Like… a lot.”
Evan folded his arms. “Yeah. You know, the Regulus with the estranged older brother. The one whose full name this bloke here,” he gestured at Sirius again, “conveniently knew without me ever saying it.”
Barty’s eyes widened. “Oh shit. Bugger. Shit.” His gaze flicked James. “Bloody hell. Who’s this one then?”
James stepped forward and offered a hand again. “I’m James. Sirius’s best friend.” He clapped Sirius on the back for emphasis.
Barty didn’t take the hand. Just stared. “He looks a bit like—”
“I know,” Evan cut in, exasperated. “That was my thought too.”
Barty let out a wild bark of laughter. “Explains the bloody break-up, doesn’t it? ‘In it for the wrong reasons’ was putting it lightly.”
Sirius and James exchanged a confused glance. “Who do I look like?” James asked curiously.
Barty turned, grinning like a fox in a henhouse. “None of your business, pretty boy.” He stepped closer to Sirius then, eyes gleaming. “I’m more interested in you, anyway. So. You’re Reg’s brother? The one who left him?”
Sirius stiffened. “It’s more complicated than that,” he said, jaw clenched.
“Is it, though?” Barty tilted his head mockingly. And that wasn’t good, you didn’t mock Sirius. He was just as proud as Regulus. An unavoidable Black trait. And this boy, this sharp-eyed little bastard, was pushing all the wrong buttons. “You either left or you didn’t. Doesn’t sound complicated to me.”
“That’s rich coming from someone who wasn’t even there,” Sirius snarled.
“I didn’t have to be,” Barty said. “I can see what it did to him. And I’ve got a vivid imagination.”
Sirius’s nostrils flared. "You don't know what it was like." He paused, fists clenched. “And it’s none of your fucking business anyway.”
Barty’s grin sharpened. “That’s where you’re wrong. You made it my business the moment you crashed my gig, cornered my boyfriend, and came here with the intention of begging for my help.”
That shut Sirius up for a moment. His mouth worked like he might speak, but nothing came out.
James, sensing the rising heat, stepped forward, hands raised. “Look, let's all take a breath, yeah? We’re not trying to drag up old shit. We just want to see him. That’s all.”
Barty ignored him, not even looking James's way. “You know, I asked him once why he never tried to find you. Now that he got out."
Sirius's breath hitched. “What did he say?”
Barty shrugged. “He didn’t. Just looked away. Said some people leave and don’t come back.”
"They told me he was dead," Sirius spat, voice low and vicious. James had to grab his arm to stop him from lunging. The effect was immediate, Barty went still, eyes wide, colour draining from his face.
James didn’t even think Regulus had meant Sirius with those words, not really, even if Barty seemed to think so. He was pretty sure Regulus meant himself. That he’d left, and that was it. No coming back, no dwelling on the past. Regulus always thought in absolutes like that.
He stepped more forcefully between the two. “All right. All right. Stop it. Both of you. Yes, Sirius left home when he was fifteen. And yes, that hurt Regulus. But Regulus has also hurt Sirius. It was an impossible time and impossible choices were made. But that’s why we’re here. Because Sirius found out he's still alive, and now he needs to see him. Because he cares. Deeply. He wants to apologise for everything that went wrong back then. Doesn’t Regulus deserve to hear that?”
Evan just looked a them, a hand on Barty's shoulder to keep him similarly away from Sirius. Then he exhaled and nodded, his eyes flicking to Barty.
Barty didn’t look away from Sirius.
Eventually, Evan gave him a nudge with his elbow. “Come on, love,” he said gently. “This isn’t about you.”
Barty let out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I still don’t like you.”
Sirius crossed his arms. “Yeah? I don’t like you either.”
“Perfect,” Barty laughed. “Mutual loathing. Can’t wait for family dinner.” He turned to James then, eyeing both of them warily. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m only doing this because Reggie’s been acting off lately. Distant. Shutting us out. Maybe you two will push him right back to us.”
“Wait, Regulus is acting weird?” The words tumbled out of James’s mouth before he could stop them, panic creeping into his voice.
Evan and Barty exchanged knowing looks. James wondered what that was about.
Sirius turned sharply toward them as well, concern all over his face. “What d’you mean, ‘weird’? Is he—?”
“He’s fine,” Evan cut in smoothly, casting Barty a look. “Don’t let this one dramatise it. But… he’s been pulling away lately. Skipping out on pub nights, not calling. Hiding away in that massive flat of his, all alone. I don’t know. Maybe you two showing up will pull him out of whatever slump he’s in.”
James had always known Regulus to lock himself away, but, and it pained him to admit this, these muggles probably knew him better now. If they thought something was off, then James was definitely panicking. “Where is he?” he asked, looking at Evan. “Can we see him?”
Evan shook his head firmly. “We’re not about to give out his address so you can just turn up and ambush him in his own flat.”
Barty nodded. “But… we can give you the location of the set he’s filming on. You two got a piece of paper?”
James and Sirius looked at each other, wide-eyed. Then both shook their heads. Spare parchment hadn’t seemed important, especially when you could duplicate whatever you needed to remember.
Barty rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “Jesus. Bloody hopeless. What was your plan tonight? Rock up to a gig and hope for divine intervention?”
James winced. That had, more or less, been the plan. Moony would’ve had a proper strategy, three backups, and an emergency protocol in case of fire or tears. But he wasn’t here, unfortunately.
A glance at Sirius confirmed he looked equally sheepish.
Barty sighed dramatically. “Right. I’ll write it on your bloody arm.” He accepted a black felt-tip from Evan, then eyed the pair of them with exaggerated scrutiny. “You seem like the more responsible one,” he said at last, pointing at James. “Give me your arm.”
James let out a surprised laugh, he couldn’t help it. Responsible? Sirius snorted beside him, clearly just as amused.
“Bloody hell,” Barty muttered, throwing Evan a look. “They’re gonna get hit by a fucking lorry before they even make it to Reggie.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Just write the address. They’ve survived this long somehow.”
James knew he ought to feel insulted, but instead, he grinned. These two would’ve been good for Regulus.
He held out his arm, sleeve pushed up. A pale hand wrapped around his wrist, flipping it over so the inside of his forearm faced up. James held still, expecting the pen straight away, only for Barty to pause again.
“Wait.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not part of that cult Reggie ran from, are you? He said his brother got out before he did, but you better not have joined it after, or I swear to God—”
James blinked. Cult?
Sirius's mind worked faster than James's did. “No,” he said quickly. “The cult’s gone. Dead or locked up. Been two years now.”
The Death Eaters, James realised. Of course. It was obvious now, and a bloody good cover story too.
“They’re gone?” Evan asked, eyes wide.
“Regulus doesn’t know?” James asked, incredulous.
Evan shook his head. “I don’t think he’s had contact with anyone from his past since the day he ran.”
James had figured as much. If everyone thought Regulus was dead, then he must’ve cut off everyone. But still, he’d assumed Reg might be secretly keeping tabs. A subscription to The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, something.
But nothing? That meant…
That meant he thought the war was still going on.
Merlin. James couldn’t imagine living in a world where he thought the war was still happening. Was that why Regulus had never sought them out?
“He knows nothing?” Sirius frowned
“Likely,” Barty said, finally uncapping the pen. “So lead with that shit tomorrow, yeah?”
He started scrawling across James’s arm in large, blocky letters that took up far more space than necessary. Beneath the address, he scribbled a time and underlined it twice for good measure. By the time he was done, James’s forearm looked like a toddler had taken a marker to it.
Sirius was muffling laughter behind a clearly fake cough.
Barty ignored him. He jabbed James’s arm for emphasis. “You show up at that time. Not a minute earlier, or you’ll interrupt a take and make Reg do it all over again.”
“Thank you!” James and Sirius chorused, beaming in unison.
Barty’s mouth pulled into a small grin. “Just don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t,” Sirius said, looking the happiest he had in years.
The next morning, they rang the bell at the warehouse address scrawled on James’s arm at the exact time Barty had instructed.
A girl in her twenties, clipboard in hand, opened the heavy door. She looked them up and down with raised brows. “Can I help you?”
Every word mattered. One wrong move and they’d be back to square one, left with nothing but the vague hope of catching Barty at another gig.
“We’re here for Regulus Black,” Sirius said. “Also goes by Eton Arcturus. Is he still on set?”
They’d agreed Sirius should do the talking since his face was their best proof. And sure enough, the girl’s eyes caught on his features. Her expression shifted, a flicker of recognition softening her guard.
She frowned slightly. “And you are?”
“Sirius Black. His brother.”
Her eyes widened. She stared, caught somewhere between surprise and uncertainty. “Is he…” She coughed, trying to recover. “Is he expecting you?”
“No,” Sirius said. “But if you tell him I’m here—tell him it’s me—he’ll come down. I promise.”
A dangerous promise, made from nothing but memory and hope.
She hesitated. Long enough to make James’s heart hammer. But then she gave a slow nod. “All right. I’ll let him know. I can’t promise anything else.”
And with that, the door closed in their faces.
The wait was five minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. James stood still, barely breathing, watching Sirius pace with a clenched jaw and wild eyes. This could still fall apart. Regulus might refuse. Might not come down at all.
But then the door creaked open again.
It was the same girl.
James and Sirius turned to her in unison, eyes wide, hearts in their throats.
“He’ll see you,” she said. “Follow me.”
Notes:
That’s a wrap on Part II! From here on out, we’ll be hopping between Regulus and James’s POV :)
As always, thank you so much for reading!
Chapter 9: Part III - Chapter 1
Notes:
Welcome to Part III, the one everyone’s been waiting for!
This chapter is massive, nearly double my preferred chapter length 😅 I’ve edited it more than any chapter I’ve ever written, cutting, rewriting, obsessively fine-tuning, and then just cutting it all again, lol. At one point this week, it was over 10k words…
But I’ve hit my limit, so this is the final version of this nerve-wrackingly crucial chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus could taste the make-up on Pandora’s skin as his lips traced a slow path from her jaw to the curve of her shoulder. The taste was synthetic and unmistakably muggle.
Still, the flavour sparked a memory: his mother spelling his mouth full with soap for repeating something he’d overheard in Diagon Alley. He’d been only six. He remembered Sirius storming in halfway through, yelling himself hoarse at their mother while Regulus spat suds into the scullery sink with teary eyes.
Would his mother change her soaps if she knew they tasted like muggle cosmetics?
He almost laughed at the thought, but Pandora’s shoulder rose under his mouth before he could, distracting him. He felt her breath hitch. His hand slid beneath her blouse, fingertips dragging over skin that was warm and soft. The buttons were already undone, and the wet fabric slid from her shoulder easily.
Pandora gasped, the sound sharp, almost startled.
He didn’t stop. His lips found hers again, urgent now, hands anchoring her as they fell back onto the bed, letting their bodies meet, their limbs tangle as if neither could bear to be apart.
His breath caught. The sheets rustled.
“And cut!”
The scene shattered.
Regulus rolled off her in an instant, pushing upright as Pandora reached for her blouse.
A hand clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the one!” the producer crowed, grinning like he’d just struck gold. “Bloody perfect. Just one more for the wide, then we’re wrapped.” He turned on his heel, already barking orders at someone else.
Regulus turned to Pandora. “You good?”
“I’m good. You good?”
He nodded, sending her a smile.
The costume assistant swooped in, tugging at the collar of his shirt, redoing the top buttons to match the continuity stills. She misted his hair again with a spritz of water and gel until the curls clung damply to his forehead, like he’d just stepped out of the storm their characters had barely escaped.
Someone was changing the sheets behind them to erase the wet handprints. His fingers were still damp, though, had been the whole day. He looked down. Wrinkled like a house elf’s, lovely.
Then it was back behind the set door. Just him and Pandora, soaked to the bone. The signal came: lights flared, the clapperboard snapped.
They burst through the fake door as if nothing existed beyond the love they shared. Hands fumbling, mouths locked, desperation behind their eyes. Regulus kissed her like it was the only truth he had, the only truth he’d accept. And the world, sitting in a dark theatre months from now, would believe every second.
“That’s it!” the director called. “Final take! Thank you, everyone!”
Two towels were thrown their way by one of the runners. Regulus caught them mid-air and passed one to Pandora, who was already shaking water from her hair like a golden retriever.
“You look like a drowned cat,” she laughed, ruffling his gel-slick curls with both hands.
Regulus chuckled. “I think the brief was prince of Atlantis.”
“Please.” She snorted. “You’re the tragic lead in a soaked white Tee so half the country can ogle you through the telly screen and forget the storyline entirely.”
He glanced down at himself, soaked shirt plastered to his torso, abs visible through the clinging cotton. “Reckon it’s working?”
Pandora tossed his clothes at his face. “Cover up, siren.”
He exchanged his shirt for his dry jumper with a shiver and a chuckle, then pulled on his coat for good measure. After a full day of being theatrically drenched, he was frozen to the bone.
Working with Pandora had been the best decision he’d ever made. She was maddening on set, she improvised lines (improving them, in his opinion), missed cues (stupid cues), and send the director into hourly migraines because of it. But she made him laugh. She grounded him.
He hoped this wouldn’t be their only project together, though convincing her to trade the stage for the screen long-term was likely a lost cause. Pandora was the kind of actress who needed the adrenaline of a live audience. But still, he could hope. He had, after all, convinced her to do this one.
When the director had insisted on a fresh face for the female lead, someone unknown enough to counterbalance his now-too-familiar one. Regulus hadn’t even let him finish the sentence before suggesting Pandora Sailstream.
Five chemistry tests with other actresses had already gone nowhere; none of them right. But then Pandora had floated into the audition in a sunflower-yellow skirt and a crochet jumper she’d made herself, smiling warmly at everyone in the room. “Let’s have fun, shall we?” she’d said brightly, taking her mark opposite Regulus like she belonged there. By the end of the read-through, the part was hers.
A cough drew Regulus’s attention. He turned to see Olivia, one of the location assistants, standing at the edge of the set with her clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Mr Black?” she said, hesitantly. He’d told her to call him Regulus a million times already, but it never stuck. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are two men asking for you at the front door. One of them says he’s your brother. Sirius Black?”
Regulus froze.
He barely registered the way Pandora stiffened beside him, her towel pausing mid-air. His mind had already gone white with static.
“What?” he breathed.
“I can send them away if you’d rather—” Olivia began quickly, clearly alarmed by the look on his face. Before he knew it, she was already walking away again.
“No, wait!” Regulus cried. “Olivia, please, let them in. Take them to my dressing room.”
The decision was made before he could truly consider it.
She blinked, then nodded. “Of course. Right away.” She disappeared back through the door.
Pandora grabbed his hand as soon as she was gone. “Your brother?” she hissed. “You knew he was coming?”
“I didn’t even know he was looking for me, never mind about to visit me on our bloody set!”
“How the hell—? Wait, how did he even—?” she sputtered.
Regulus put his head in his hands. “I don’t know! I don’t know. Shit! I’m stressing, Dora.”
She gently tugged his hand away from where it was yanking at his curls, squeezing it in hers. “You’re alright. Just breathe.” She laughed a little, tight and nervous. “What’s it with madness following you around?”
Regulus let out a shaky laugh. “Should’ve stayed in the States.”
“Nope. If we’re here, you’re here. You’re stuck with us.” She bumped her shoulder against his, grinning despite herself. “She said he brought someone with him. Any idea who?”
“Remus Lupin, most likely. They were together back in school. Wouldn’t be surprised if they still are.”
If not Lupin, then possibly Pettigrew or Potter. But Pettigrew was unlikely, and James... James would be the last person to want to see him now. Not after what Regulus had done.
Even James wouldn’t be that forgiving.
Running had felt right at the time. At sixteen, it had been the only thing that made sense. He’d chosen to survive, had clawed back some control in a life dictated by everyone else. He didn’t regret that. Never. He’d needed it.
But it had still been selfish, Regulus saw that now.
If he’d told James he was leaving, if he’d just explained, the boy would’ve let him go. If he’d given him anything at all. A reason, a warning, something. James never would’ve turned him in, not even under torture.
But Regulus had left with a rushed, cowardly goodbye, abandoning the one person who’d actually cared. Left him to wonder if he was alive, if he was suffering, if he was ever coming back.
James had deserved more than that. Regulus should’ve respected him more than that.
If someone had treated him like that, he wouldn’t be eager for a reunion. He’d be wishing them dead.
So yes, his money was on Lupin.
Sirius and Lupin.
Brilliant.
Fuck.
“Well, go on then!” Pandora flapped her hands at him, shooing him toward the stairwell. “They’re probably halfway through your shortbread tin already!”
Regulus moved automatically, mind spinning, until Pandora caught him by the sleeve and tugged him back.
“Wait, wait, no, Reggie, for God’s sake, look at you!” She reached up, laughing, and wiped at his cheek with her sleeve. “I think my lipstick’s still all over your face. And your poor curls! Your fringe’s stuck to your forehead like a sad Victorian ghost.”
He blinked. Why was his mind not working?
She sighed and turned him towards the corridor. “Go pop into the loo and sort yourself out first. Bit of cold water. Deep breaths. Pretend you’re not having a full-blown existential crisis. Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” he shook his head. “No, I can do this.”
With that, he let go of her hand and made a sharp right into the nearest single loo marked Talent Only. The door clicked shut behind him but he made sure to lock it. He gripped the sink, turned the tap to cold, and shoved his hands beneath the stream. They were shaking.
Sirius is here.
Here. On set. In the muggle world.
Why?
How?
He hadn’t seen his brother in six years, hadn’t spoken to him in eight. And now he just showed up, at his place of work, with no warning?
He splashed his face with water, scrubbing Pandora’s lipstick from his jaw with a kind of frantic precision. His hair was a lost cause. Fixing it now would require a shower and an entire bottle of shampoo.
He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were wide. Unsteady.
What the hell was Sirius thinking?
Didn’t he understand that just by being here he could endanger everything Regulus loved?
The threat of the war had never felt so real before. He had muggles he cared for now. People Voldemort could target with ease. They’d be defenseless. Perfect victims for a madman’s crusade. They'd be tortured, killed, or paraded as warnings to all blood traitors.
The magical world wasn’t just deadly anymore. It now had the power to ruin Regulus completely, to twist him into something so hollow and broken, he’d wish for death.
Three years ago, the Death Eater attacks had been relentless, even in the muggle world. Regulus remembered the creeping paranoia. Every odd death in the papers sent him spiralling, tracking and tracing again like a fanatic. It got bad enough for him to realise even muggle England wasn’t safe anymore.
So he ran. Again.
Only this time, he didn’t run alone. He pulled his friends with him.
They’d seen the fear in his eyes, heard the frantic edge in his voice when he told them about a secret war, a death cult no one else believed existed. It had been hard to convince them. They believed he was in danger, yes, but not themselves. And how could they, when he couldn’t even prove it without breaking the Statute of Secrecy and bringing unwanted attention to them?
Still, the headlines piling up in the papers were persuasive, and they’d all hoped that running together might help Regulus breathe again.
So, Barty and the band followed the promise of an American tour. Evan was drawn to new cities, new faces to photograph. Pandora dreamed of Broadway. Even Nico had followed, enchanted by the idea of the New York fashion district.
But the US was big. So much bigger than the UK. And Regulus ended up in California for filming, while the others were drawn to the East Coast.
It hadn’t worked. They’d missed each other too much.
And that wasn’t even counting the disaster that was documentation. Regulus was fairly sure it would’ve been easier to rob Gringotts blind than it was to sort out all the bloody muggle paperwork.
He had the luxury of a work visa, his film contracts meaning the production companies handled everything.
His friends weren’t so lucky.
Barty was technically self-employed. Evan juggled freelance photography and artist residencies that didn’t always exist on paper. Pandora was supposed to be auditioning, but the acting world in New York was brutal, and most theatres weren’t hiring foreigners.
There were constant visa troubles. Endless renewals. Arguing with consulate staff who didn’t understand what they did or how they lived. Sometimes they had to fly back to the UK just to reset their stay. Other times, they overstayed and hoped for the best.
Barty once stayed too long and nearly got barred from re-entry. That was the final straw.
One by one, they went back home.
Regulus stayed. He had contracts he’d already signed, which meant filming, promotion, media circuits, etc. Even Icarus, a British production with an all-British cast that he’d hoped would take him back home, had ended up filming in California, thanks to a deal with an American company that already had Greek-style sets.
But he didn’t want to stay anymore. Even when the idea of going back made him nauseous with fear, he still wanted it. He started flying home to his friends whenever he could. Short visits. Long weekends.
And he realised: they weren’t just friends. They were his family.
He couldn’t lose his family twice.
Safety wasn’t worth that.
So, four months ago, when he stepped off a flight at Heathrow with two enormous suitcases, his family had welcomed him back at arrivals.
Since then, things had been weirdly quiet. No murders the papers couldn’t explain. No suspicious incidents that couldn’t be chalked up to ordinary crime.
But that only made him more uneasy. Voldemort hadn’t stopped being dangerous, so he must just be planning something bigger. Something smarter. Something final.
And now Sirius was here. Sirius, who had to know Regulus being found would put him, and everyone around him, at risk. What was he thinking? Was Dumbledore’s Order so desperate they were recruiting Hogwarts dropouts now? Was Sirius here to pull Regulus back into the fight?
It would be a death sentence.
Fuck.
He should have had Olivia turn them away. He was mad for even considering going through with this.
His hands trembled under the water. He exhaled, slow and tight, trying to steady his breathing. There was no going back now.
He wasn’t sixteen anymore. He wasn’t the frightened boy who ran. He wasn’t the brother left behind. If Sirius opened his mouth, Regulus could shut it. And thanks to the Statute of Secrecy, he could have him escorted off set by security and Sirius wouldn’t be able to fight it.
He did everything without magic, and yet he was powerful.
He would not forget that.
He straightened his spine, rolled his shoulders back, and adjusted the fall of his collar. Then he lifted his chin and became the man the world expected to see.
Eton Arcturus.
He’d known respect once as a Black. But this was different. Cleaner. He had earned this.
The wizarding world with its obsession with power—blood, name, inheritance—it was pathetic, really. Muggles didn’t need to bow to history. They made stars from scratch.
Being a Black had meant expectation. Being Eton Arcturus meant control.
As he walked through the corridors, the effect of his persona was immediate. Assistants paused mid-step to let him pass. All of the sudden, their normally upbeat greetings were shy and soft.
If Barty saw him now, he’d call him a pretentious twat and tell him to knock it off. Evan would roll his eyes. Pandora would laugh and kiss his forehead. They all saw through the act.
But Sirius wouldn’t. He never had.
Olivia was waiting outside his dressing room, trying very hard not to wring her hands. “They’re inside,” she said, voice pitched an octave higher than usual. “I—I told them not to touch anything.”
Regulus nodded once. “Thank you, Olivia.”
She smiled in that nervous way people did when they weren’t sure if they were about to be fired. “My pleasure!”
With that she disappeared around the corner, her heels echoing through the hall. He watched her go, procrastinating turning to face the door. When he finally looked, it was just his door. Just the white painted wood, the brass knob, the dressing room placard proclaiming Eton Arcturus.
He inhaled deeply. He could do this. He could see Sirius.
His hand touched the handle.
A jolt shot through his hand towards his wrist and up, up, up, up, through his entire body. He hissed, pulling back his hand, cradling his fingers like he’d been burned.
But there was nothing, of course, no mark or wound. It was just his body overreacting. Again.
The air around the door seemed to shimmer for half a second. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. He wasn’t sure what spell had been cast—he couldn’t identify spells by feel anymore, maybe he never could—but he could feel it stronger than ever before, every part of his body reaching for the feeling, wanting more.
He gritted his teeth, brushing his hand against the leg of his trousers as if that would somehow erase the touch of magic.
Sirius. It had to be Sirius. Eavesdropping.
Of course he’d cast something on Regulus’s space without asking.
Regulus stared at the handle again. His fingers still tingled. His magic stirred like a muscle long asleep.
And just like that, the fragile calm he’d wrapped himself in began to unravel. His pulse was racing. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to see him. He wanted to turn around and run, find a plane and fly to Sydney. But he couldn’t now, because the bloody magic had betrayed him.
Get it together.
He clenched his jaw.
Fine.
Let them sit in his room like ghosts. Let them try to bring him back. They didn’t know who they were dealing with anymore.
He inhaled through his nose, deep and controlled, then squared his shoulders. He reached for the handle again, ignoring the prickling heat of the magic, and opened the door.
His eyes fell on Sirius.
His brother stood in the middle of the room like he’d always belonged there. His hair was longer now, tied back haphazardly with wild strands escaping a low bun. Tattoos curled over his collarbones and down the backs of his hands. Muggle ones, by the look of them. Or perhaps charmed to look like it. Either way, they fit him, somehow made Sirius even more Sirius.
He looked older, though. Older than the 24-year-old he was supposed to be. But his grin was the same. Crooked and careless. The only warm thing that ever came out of Grimmauld.
Regulus wanted to fold toward him, to run into his arm and bury his face in that worn leather jacket. He wanted to say his name. But not the sharp, formal one, but the one from when they were just little boys. Siri.
But as he looked at him, Regulus didn’t see the brother who once held his hand as he tottered through mansion gardens, who plucked flowers from the soil to tuck behind their cousins’ ears. No. He saw only the brother who had walked away without looking back.
It was an unfair thought, petty even, but it helped ground him.
His brother was not welcome here, not if he was going to bring his world with him and with it put Regulus’s entire world in danger.
Speaking of that world, Regulus’s eyes shifted to Sirius’s companion, fully expecting to see Lupin. Only, it was not.
James.
Everything inside him lurched. He nearly stepped back. He didn’t, but he wanted to. James looked… real. Too real. All bronze skin and messy hair and that soft smile that still made Regulus’s ribs ache. He was here. He was really here.
Regulus hadn’t prepared for this.
His composure flickered and he hated himself for it.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in.
Regulus turned back to Sirius, as if pretending James didn’t exist might make the emotions disappear. He forced his features into a blank mask. “Sirius.”
“Regulus,” Sirius whispered, stepping forward.
Regulus raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t.” The word was barely more than a whisper.
Sirius froze, one foot half-lifted like a scolded dog. His eyes widened, hurt flashing too quickly to be buried.
Regulus didn’t let himself feel it. He couldn’t afford to. He had to get them out, get them back to their own world before it spilled into his. This wasn’t just about him anymore, it wasn’t about Sirius’s feelings, it was about protecting Barty, Pandora, Evan.
“This isn’t a good time,” he said flatly. “Why are you here?”
Sirius’s face twisted. “Why am I here?” he echoed. “I wanted to see you, you prick.”
Regulus winced at the insult. That didn’t take long.
He’d always known how a potential reunion with Sirius would go. It was predictable, unfortunately. They carried too much shared history in the spaces between them. History that needed to be forgotten, not dragged up. But just standing in the same room pulled them both backwards, like gravity, straight into the trauma of Grimmauld Place.
They didn’t even need to speak to trigger it. The emotion behind Sirius’s eyes, the tilt of Regulus’s head, those were enough. They couldn’t help it. They had been forged in the same fire, and it left behind matching scars in different places. Put them together, and everything lit up again.
So, of course, the moment they collided, their defences did exactly what they were trained to do: Sirius flared with anger, and Regulus iced over.
Rage and indifference: two different languages. They’d never been able to communicate.
Regulus knew that. He’d always known that.
And, in a way, he welcomed it. Because it was easier, so much easier, to argue with the memory of who Sirius had been than to face the version standing in front of him now. It was easier to provoke, to push, to fall into the roles they’d rehearsed a hundred times before.
“You can’t,” he said, voice crisp, controlled. “You need to go. I can’t have you here.”
Sirius blinked, like he hadn’t understood. “What?”
“I mean it. You have to leave.”
“What the fuck, Regulus.” Sirius’s voice cracked in the middle of his name. “Six years. Six fucking years. And now you’re just telling me to leave? No hello? No apology? Can’t even give me a fucking hug? I thought you were dead!”
Regulus forced himself not to flinch. Protect them, he reminded himself, fixing Sirius with a cool stare. “As you can see, I’m fine. You can leave.”
“You’re joking.” Sirius took a step closer. Regulus didn’t stop him this time. “You’re seriously throwing me out? Like I’m some stranger off the street?”
“You are a stranger,” Regulus snapped before he could stop himself. “You don’t belong in this world. You can’t be here.”
“I don’t belong—?” Sirius’s laugh was loud and ugly. “What the fuck? Are you hearing yourself? Have you changed nothing? I thought you running away meant you weren’t as heartless as you always pretended to be.”
That stung. Too much. Regulus’s control slipped.
“Remind me why you came again?” he said, eyes narrowed. “Because it doesn’t sound like you missed me at all.”
“I missed you every day,” Sirius hissed. “I fucking mourned you!”
Regulus looked away. He’d known that, he’d known that and still ran. But his guilt was for leaving James, he honestly hadn’t thought Sirius would care much. What did that say about them?
But now his brother was here, and it was too late.
“You’re unbelievable,” Sirius muttered. “You disappear. Let me think you were dead. And now you stand there like none of it matters. Don’t you owe me something? A single emotion? Merlin, it’s like talking to Father.”
He flinched. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You owe me an explanation!” Sirius was all up in his face now. Regulus could smell him. That warm scent of someone who ran too hot, lived too fast, and still somehow smelled like home. “You think you can just disappear and that’s the end of it? That we’d all just... move on?”
“You were supposed to,” Regulus snapped. “It would’ve been safer if you had.”
“For who?”
“For everyone!” he shouted, louder than intended. His voice echoed off the dressing room walls. “You don’t know what you’re doing by being here. You don’t understand—”
Sirius moved even closer, forcing Regulus to step back. “What don’t I understand, exactly? That you’ve got a cushy little life now and don’t want your past ruining it?”
Regulus laughed bitterly. “Oh, yes. That must be it. Sure Sirius, act like it was me abandoning you and not the other way around.”
“You know why I ran!”
“Yes, I know. I know that better than ever now. So go, Sirius. Run.”
“I missed you, you heartless bastard!”
“Well I missed you first!” Regulus shoved him, needing space, needing Sirius to drop the imitation act. “I cried for three days after you left. Waited by the door like a dog! Thought you were coming back. Thought you could never really leave me. But you did. So I did too. How’s it feel?”
That landed like a punch. Sirius’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Regulus didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He’d drag it all out if he had to, rip every hidden truth into the open, flay himself bare in front of Sirius, in front of James, if it meant they’d finally leave him alone. If it meant his family’s safety.
“I spent months trying to be what they wanted after you were gone. Like if I was perfect enough, they wouldn’t miss you. Or maybe they’d stop blaming me for your leaving. Maybe they’d be satisfied and leave you alone. But it never worked. And all you ever did to thank me was sneer at me in the Hogwarts corridors, like it was my fault! But I was there too, Sirius, I had the same parents.” His voice hitched. “I suffered too.”
James stepped forward, voice careful. “Look, Reg—”
Of course. The first time he spoke, and it was to defend Sirius. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would.
“No,” Sirius cut in, eyes fixed on Regulus. “Let him talk. Go on, Regulus. Justify it. Justify making me mourn you, making the whole world think you were dead like a coward.”
A coward? A coward? Sirius had the gall, after all this time?
“I nearly died!” Regulus roared. “I nearly died trying to be good enough in your fucking absence. What would’ve satisfied you, huh? That I’d actually died for you? Would that finally have made me brave enough?
Silence.
Heavier than Regulus had ever experienced.
Fuck, he regretted the words already. Sirius had been back in his life for less than fifteen minutes, and already Regulus had turned into something monstrous.
He should stop. He should. But the room was spinning now, and James was watching, and his hands still hadn’t stopped shaking.
“I did everything I could to survive,” Regulus said, almost to himself. “Everything. So don’t you come here and make me feel guilty for living.”
“Regulus—” Sirius said, voice cracking. There were tears in his eyes.
Oh.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Sirius was meant to yell. Slam doors. Storm out. He was meant to burn, not break.
Sirius didn’t cry. Sirius took hexes to the face and came back swinging. Sirius was the boy who never flinched when their mother screamed, the one who laughed as he was dragged by the collar out of rooms. He wasn’t supposed to look like this.
Regulus opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Failed.
He had no idea what to do with this version of his brother.
And then James spoke.
“He’s gone.”
Regulus turned, startled. That voice. How was it still so ingrained in him? How could it still cut through the noise, make his focus snap like it was all he wanted to hear?
James was watching him closely. His hand twitched by his side. Was he reaching for him? Restraining himself?
Regulus blinked, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.
“What?” he asked, voice hollow. Sirius echoed the word beside him.
James’s expression didn’t shift. “You-Know-Who. He’s gone.”
Regulus’s mind buzzed with static. “Gone,” he repeated, numbly, like the syllables might mean something if he said them enough times. “He’s… gone?”
James nodded. “It’s over.”
Regulus shook his head. “No. How? He was winning.”
James let out a laugh that chilled him to the core. It was nothing like the warm sound he remembered, this one was empty and awful. It didn’t belong in James’s mouth. James, who used to laugh with his whole body. James, who could make the densest textbook sound like a flirtation. James, who used to tilt the world toward joy without even trying.
This wasn’t him.
Regulus let his gaze wander down James’s body. Messy hair, crooked glasses, a red jumper pulled over broad shoulders. Still James-shaped. Still James-coloured. But something was off. Like someone was playing James. A talented actor, but not talented enough to fool Regulus.
Suddenly he had the urge to reach out. Just for a second. To hold him, feel that warmth, and if it wasn’t there, hug him until it all came back.
He didn’t. Of course not.
Not after all these years. They were done. Regulus had ruined whatever they might have had.
James probably went home to Evans now, to a house with bright windows and a bed someone else had warmed for him.
He hoped so, anyway. He hoped James had found happiness.
“Nobody knows,” James said finally, bringing Regulus back to the topic of war. “He tried to kill a child. Neville Longbottom. The Killing Curse rebounded and hit him instead.”
Regulus stared. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
He scoffed. “The Dark Lord doesn’t miss a Killing Curse.”
“He didn’t miss.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying a child survived it?”
James didn’t blink. “Neville did.”
What the fuck?
“They’re actually pushing this story?” Regulus laughed. It was absurd. Who were they trying to fool? “I’ve never even heard of this Neville Longbottom.”
James didn’t react to his laugh. Just kept staring with those changed brown eyes. “He was only one year old at the time. The son of Frank Longbottom and Alice Fortescue.”
That gave him pause.
He remembered those names vaguely. Two people laughing at the Gryffindor table. Fortescue had been kind, warm, and protective, always stepping in when older Slytherins crossed the line, protecting younger years with her body and magic.
Longbottom, had been quieter. Steady and polite. But when it came down to it he was just as firm, just as kind.
He remembered Longbottom’s mother too. A mainstay at Wizengamot hearings. Sharp as dragonbone. The kind of woman who made Walburga Black go quiet.
“Oh,” he breathed. “They were a year above you, right? Gryffindors?”
James nodded. “My friends.”
“How are they?” It was an automatic question. The sort of thing you asked to be polite, even if you didn’t care.
“They’re dead.”
Regulus flinched.
There was no drama in the way James said it. Just a void. A repetition. Something he’d had to say too many times, to too many people, until the grief had fossilised into something else entirely.
Oh.
It hit him then, in a way it hadn’t before. People were dead. People his age. People he knew. People who’d stayed to fight for what they believed in and had paid the price for it.
They’d died while he was chasing roles and recognition, skipping continents to outrun a war he’d decided wasn’t his to fight. And here he was, hands clean, clothes expensive, muscles tense because he’d seen a brother and a boy he used to love, not because he’d lost anyone.
He recoiled a little, instinctively. His body turned away before his mind could catch up. He suddenly felt exactly like the coward Sirius had accused him of being.
What must they think of me?
How many of James and Sirius’s friends were gone? What horrors had they suffered?
What could he even say now? I’m sorry? How would words ever be enough?
Sirius cleared his throat. “Let’s not talk about this here.” His voice was softer now, eyes shifting between Regulus and James.
It was only then that Regulus realised how many emotions he must have shown on his face just then. He’d always been terrible at hiding anything from James. Apparently, even six years and an acting career hadn’t managed to change that.
Sirius stepped back, giving Regulus some space. “We need to talk, Reg. Properly. You pick: my place or yours?”
Regulus stiffened. He wouldn’t let them drag him back to the magical world until he was absolutely sure the war was over. He couldn’t let go of years and years of fear just like that. He needed proof. Actual proof. He needed newspapers, headlines, funerals, something concrete. Because otherwise, all of this could be a trick.
“We’re going to mine.”
Sirius nodded, quick to agree. “Alright. Sounds good.” He smiled then, soft and easy, as if afraid Regulus might bolt. “Can you apparate all three of us?”
“No.”
Sirius smile fell. Regulus rolled his eyes.
“We can’t just vanish, Sirius. I’m the most recognisable person in this building. I have to sign out, I have to be seen leaving.”
Sirius looked vaguely sheepish. James thumped him on the back with a snort of laughter.
“Lead the way, then,” James said, gesturing grandly to the door, obviously trying to lighten the mood like he always had. “Show us your hiding spot.”
It was the wrong thing to say. “It’s not a bloody hiding spot,” Regulus snapped. “I haven’t been hiding for six years, Potter. It’s my home.”
With that, he yanked open the door and stalked through it, dramatic exit and all. He could hear their footsteps behind him, following.
Soon, they were outside, waiting for the cab the receptionist had called for them. James, of course, chose that moment to speak again.
“Why a cab? Can’t we apparate now?”
Regulus didn’t look at him. “Pandora and I drove here together. She’ll need the car when she leaves.”
It wasn’t really an answer. That was on purpose.
“You have a car?” Sirius asked, sounding faintly incredulous. “Is that even legal?”
“I have a license,” Regulus said with a sniff. “Do try to keep up.”
Sirius laughed, and Regulus turned to glare at him, only to pause at his brother’s expression. It had softened, it looked… curious.
“She’s the girl from the magazine,” Sirius said. “Pandora.”
“You read a magazine about me?”
“What did you think I’d do after seeing you in a bloody film? Just move on?”
“You watched a muggle film?” Regulus asked, genuinely baffled. “When?”
James cleared his throat. “We agreed. We’re saving the rest for private conversation.” His voice was tight, tighter than it had been before. Regulus didn’t dare look at him for fear of the anger he might find in those eyes. He shouldn't have snapped at him.
A black cab pulled up to the curb, and Regulus all but lunged at it. He yanked open the passenger door and slid in quickly, forcing Sirius and James to sit behind him in the back.
Small victory.
Except the cabbie was staring at him. Mouth open. Eyes wide.
“You’re... bloody hell, you’re Eton Arcturus!”
Regulus smiled instinctively. Just muscle memory now. “I am.”
The cabbie’s face lit up. “My wife and daughter are bloody obsessed with you!”
Regulus resisted the urge to bang his head against the window. He cared deeply for his fans, he knew he owed everything to them, but… Why now?
“Would you like an autograph?” he offered quickly, reaching into his coat and pulling out a notebook and pen, hoping that after the man had gotten what he wanted, he’d pick up on the tension and suffer quietly like the rest of them.
“Seriously? Bloody yes! Won’t have to do the dishes for a week if I bring that home.”
“Names?”
“To Liz. Or Elizabeth. No, better write Liz,” the cabbie rambled. “That’s my wife. And Stacy, my daughter.”
He scribbled a line for each of them, neat and flourish-heavy, like muscle memory had taken over. ‘Eton Arcturus’ signed in loops and curves that didn’t feel like his name at all. He handed the pages over.
“Tell them they have excellent taste.”
The cabbie stared at the pages like they were made of gold.
Behind him, Regulus could feel it. Two pairs of eyes, following his every movement with a quiet curiosity that set his nerves on edge. He smiled through it, as if this wasn’t an awkward hell. No one could say he wasn’t a good actor now.
“Just off Regent’s Park Road, please.”
“Course! Wait. What end? Gloucester or—?”
Just drive, please, Regulus begged internally, but all he said aloud was: “Anywhere near the park is fine.”
The car lurched forward.
Silence fell. Briefly.
Then, cheerfully oblivious: “Peripheral Love, yeah? Think I’ve seen that one a hundred times. My wife made me. That Bonneville, you actually got to ride it?”
Regulus nodded once. “I did.”
“Lucky sod! My mate had one back in the day. Used to wake the whole street. Bet they didn’t let you keep it, though?”
“No.” His knuckles whitened on the door handle as the cab veered dangerously close to a lorry. The driver was looking at him, not the road. Behind him, James and Sirius’s eyes were also drilling into his spine.
He felt like a like a specimen in a glass tank; every twitch examined, every silence dissected.
The cab drove too close to the curb. A horn blared. Regulus gripped the door handle. Sirius muttered something suspiciously like a last prayer.
If this man killed Sirius and James in a car accident after surviving Voldemort, he swore to Merlin—
The cabbie just kept going. “And that Savannah Turner, she’s something else, eh? Fit as hell in real life too? All legs and lipstick, that one. Did you actually get to snog her?”
Regulus shut his eyes, breathing in through his nose. At least he didn’t ask about the ‘feel of her tits’ like many other men.
Still, the question lingered, too loud in the small space. Unbearably awkward.
He opened his mouth, then looked up. He shouldn’t have.
The mirror caught James’s eyes.
Brown eyes met his. Not glaring now. Just… looking. His eyes were so different. Like he was waiting for something he knew Regulus would never be able to give. He’d never used to look at him like that.
He looked away. Fast.
“We’ll get out here,” he said, recognising the pub outside.
“You sure?”
“Very.”
He shoved a note at him, more than enough to cover the fare, and climbed out before anyone could say anything else. “Keep the change.”
“Cheers, mate! Tell Savannah she’s lucky!”
Regulus managed one last smile. “Give Liz and Stacy my regards.”
Three doors slammed shut behind him.
James had never been so grateful to have both feet on solid ground, not even after that one time the Knight Bus fishtailed through Piccadilly during rush hour and nearly turned upside-down. And that was saying something.
Because that? That had been the maddest car ride of his life. No exaggeration. It was a wonder they’d survived it.
Three blokes squashed in a small taxi, tension thick enough to choke on, while the driver acted like Regulus was the second coming of Merlin. And Regulus—sorry, Eton bloody Arcturus—just sat there cool as you please, scribbling autographs like he hadn’t vanished off the face of the Earth six years ago. He even smiled, answering questions about riding bloody motorcycles and snogging girls.
As the cab turned the corner and vanished into traffic, James let out a laugh. It just slipped out. One of those incredulous, what-the-hell-is-happening, how-did-we-survive laughs.
Sirius huffed out something equally unhinged beside him.
Then James laughed again, harsher this time. Just something loud to let it all out before it ate him alive.
He ran a hand through his hair. He’d thought he’d worked through the worst of the anger over the last two weeks. Thought he was ready to see Regulus again. Eager, even.
But no. Seeing Regulus again had unravelled the whole thing like badly-knotted shoelaces.
The fury. The betrayal. The sheer fucking hurt.
And Regulus, with that blank face, those cool glances, that carefully indifferent line of his mouth, wasn’t helping. It made it worse. It made James want to storm over and shout in his face until something cracked. Until he showed anything. A hint of regret. That he’d missed James. That he still cared.
But then...
Then Regulus would glance over. Their eyes would meet. And for a second, the mask would slip. Just long enough for James to see something flicker behind his eyes.
And that was the problem.
Because the moment it happened, all the anger vanished.
Because that was him. That was Regulus. The one with those weirdly grey eyes. Pure grey, not like Sirius’s with its hints of blue. James had forgotten that difference, which felt oddly tragic, that you could forget something like that without meaning to. Without wanting to.
And in that moment, he’d feel like forgiving everything. Like saying fine, forget it, come back, just let it be like before. Please. Because Regulus was real. These last two weeks hadn’t been a dream. He was walking and breathing and signing autographs like nothing happened, and James couldn’t stop thinking: doesn’t that mean something?
Regulus was the only person James had lost in the war who had come back.
That had to mean something.
It had to mean Regulus was his. That he was meant to have him back. That James wasn’t mad for still loving him.
The war had taken everything, it had taken his friends, his happiness, his youth, his innocence, even his hope. But not Regulus.
Regulus had done the impossible: he’d returned. And he’d brought back a piece of James’s youth and hope with him.
Surely that was proof that Regulus was, and always would be, worth fighting for.
Right?
But then the next second, Regulus would say or do something that reminded James how different he was now. How gone he really was.
He was a stranger in muggle clothes. Jeans, jumper, sensible coat. Nothing showy. Nothing magical. No more high collars or cursed cufflinks or polished dragonhide boots that cost as much as a broomstick.
And the hair. What the hell was going on with his hair?
It looked like he’d dunked his head in a cauldron of Sleekeazy’s and left it to dry like that, making the curls seem sopping wet. The illusion ruined his curls—his soft, stupid curls—and James had the ridiculous urge to run his hand through it and mess it up. Not in a nice way. In a bring back your normal hair, you traitorous arsehole kind of way.
Which really said everything about where James was at emotionally.
And then there was the voice.
Regulus didn’t sound like Regulus anymore. The words were normal. Too normal. None of that elegant, faintly ridiculous vocabulary James used to tease him for. No clipped diction, no phrasing like he’d stepped out of a 19th-century novel. Now he sounded like someone who talked to people. Who knew about muggle electronics and slang and all those ordinary things that had nothing to do with wands or war.
He didn’t sound like a wizard who had left their world behind.
He sounded like someone who had forgotten it ever existed.
And didn’t that just shove James right back to square one.
All of it—anger, longing, disbelief, hope, bitterness—knotted up inside him like one massive emotional traffic jam. It was driving him mad. He didn’t know whether he wanted to cry, laugh, yell, or kiss him.
So instead, he laughed at the cab ride, the absurdity of it, letting it become the victim of the emotional battle field still raging within his body.
And now Sirius was now shooting him sideways glances like he was two seconds away from forcing a calming potion down his throat.
Well, Sirius shouldn’t judge. He’d already got to shout. James hadn’t had his turn. He was still holding it all in, waiting for a moment alone with Regulus so he could finally ask him what the bloody fuck? without any listening ears.
James glanced up, frowning at the street around them. Shops. A few pubs. No houses in sight.
Regulus, of course, was already ten steps ahead of them, striding off like he knew exactly where he was going. The twat couldn’t even wait up for them.
“We’re not in a residential area,” he called out, picking up his pace.
Sirius caught up beside him, sounding fed up too. “Can we please apparate now?”
“It’s not far,” Regulus snapped, not even looking back. “Magic’s made you lazy.”
James exchanged a look with Sirius before jogging to catch up again. Regulus’s pace was brutal, like he thought he could outrun the conversation. He couldn’t.
“Then why the cab?” James called, dodging a confused-looking pedestrian. “If you’re so above magical transport, why didn’t you just let the bloke drop us off at your doorstep?”
Regulus stopped so suddenly James nearly crashed into him.
“Obviously, I don’t want him to know where I live, Potter.”
And that was it. That was the last thread of patience gone.
“Don’t call me that,” James snapped.
Regulus turned, raising an eyebrow like James was being ridiculous. “It’s your name.”
“My name is James. You know that. You had no problem writing it down.”
That made Regulus falter, just for a second. His brow furrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what James meant. Let him figure it out, James’s thought angrily, let him grieve the past for once.
But then Regulus just shook it off.
“That was then.”
James let out a disbelieving laugh. “Wow, that’s rich. Really mature, Regulus. And I thought I was the childish one.”
Behind them, Sirius cleared his throat loudly. Both of them turned, startled, remembering he was still there. “What the fuck is going on?” he demanded, arms folded, eyes flicking between them.
“Nothing,” they said in unison. The only thing they still did in sync apparently.
Sirius didn’t look impressed. “Yeah, sure. Definitely sounds like nothing. You know what? I’m done walking in circles. Just apparate us there, Regulus. We need to talk. Now.”
“No.”
“Regulus.”
“Bloody hell, Sirius!” Regulus turned on him, eyes blazing. “Are you stupid? I don’t have my apparition license!”
Silence followed.
Then Regulus turned again and took off down the pavement, faster than before, like he could outrun that admission too.
James didn’t move.
Sirius was staring after his brother, jaw slack.
Of course.
Regulus had run just before Christmas in sixth year. Apparition lessons didn’t begin until the second semester.
He didn’t just lack a license. He couldn’t apparate at all.
James stood frozen on the pavement, staring after the fast-moving figure of one of the most brilliant, promising wizards James had ever met.
He can’t apparate.
It should’ve been obvious. It shouldn’t have hit so hard. But it did. Because apparition wasn’t just a spell. It was freedom. Independence. A wizard’s way of saying, I’m not stuck. I can leave whenever I want. I’m free.
And Regulus couldn’t.
Notes:
Two notes on this chapter...
First, on Regulus’s identification papers:
If you’re reading this story all at once, the ID situation will hopefully make sense. I’ve now added an explanation to Part I - Chapter 1. But if you’ve been following along chapter by chapter as it’s published, you might be wondering how Regulus owns a muggle ID.The ID logistics were a major headache when I first started writing, but some family members who lived through the ’70s and ’80s told me ID wasn’t really needed for things like renting, working, or banking back then. Our constant identification is more of a modern requirement. However... their advice assumed Regulus would be staying in the UK, but while editing this chapter, I realised he’d definitely have needed a passport to travel to the US. So… whoops! Let’s say the Ministry has a way of securing muggle documents for wizards, and Kreacher, being very thorough with his “get-Regulus-escape-ready” order, sorted it all out. Again, the fix is now written into the first chapter, feel free to go back and spot it, though it’s not essential. 💛
Second, on Regulus’s fame:
I’ve taken a few creative liberties here. From what I’ve been told, movie stars in the ’70s and ’80s weren’t followed quite as obsessively as they are today. Musicians tended to be the bigger cultural icons. Actors were known for their roles, but their personal lives weren’t as heavily idolised (unless they were huge names, which probably took way more than six years). That said, I only spoke to my own family, so it’s entirely possible they just weren’t movie people, lol.In any case, Regulus’s fame might be a bit exaggerated for the time, but hopefully you’ll forgive me for the artistic licence :)
Chapter 10: Part III - Chapter 2
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus brought them to a Victorian townhouse in what looked like a rather affluent part of London.
They were led up a long, expensive-looking staircase, stopping at the top floor where, instead of the usual two or three doors, there was only one. Regulus pulled a key from his coat pocket, turned the lock, and nodded them inside.
“Please take your shoes off in the hallway. I don’t want to be hoovering dirt all evening.”
Hoovering? James wondered if that was some obscure spell he’d never heard of, maybe even one invented by Regulus himself. It would be a very ineffective spell, though, because no other vanishing or cleaning charm took an entire evening.
Regulus was already slipping off his shoes and hanging up his coat in a closet. “Coats can go in there,” he said, leaving the door open.
The instructions were simple enough, yet James found himself frozen in place, and Sirius wasn’t much better.
It wasn’t the flat itself. From what James could see, it was a nice place, with its high ceilings and dark hardwood floors stretching into an open-plan living room, and enormous sash windows that looked out over the treetops of Primrose Hill Park. Sunlight poured through the glass, filling the space with soft warmth.
No, it wasn’t the flat. It was what wasn’t there.
Magic, specifically.
The house, though decorated with a sort of restrained wizarding elegance, felt more like Lily’s parents’ place, or worse, Petunia’s. It was lived in, yes, but ultimately empty to someone like James, who’d been steeped in magic since birth.
He needed to feel the family wards humming quietly at the edges of his senses, catch the faint buzz of enchantments working in the kitchen or laundry, hear the portraits mutter to themselves, chat with the mirror when he got in. Sirius was the same, as were most purebloods he knew.
He wondered how Regulus could stand it. How he could feel safe in a home without wards protecting it. How he didn’t get overwhelmed without magic working in the background to ease his chores.
“Sirius, James,” Regulus said, sounding irritated. “Shoes.”
“Right, yes!” Sirius scrambled to kick off his boots, and James hurried after him.
Soon they stood in the living room, socks on the Persian carpet, taking in the space fully.
Three dark green couches formed a semi-circle around a coffee table and a fireplace stuffed to the brim with books. Nearby stood a long entertainment console stacked with records, with a square muggle television perched on top.
Plants crowded the windowsills, some still clinging to green leaves tinged with yellow at the edges, others looking like they were a day away from dying. Regulus never did have a green thumb, James thought with a flicker of fondness.
The kitchen was open and neat, black cabinets with open shelves stacked with glasses and plates. A wooden dining table stood nearby, topped with a glass ashtray. James hoped that was for guests, not Regulus himself.
James was about to judge it as nice but impersonal, when his eyes landed on the fridge.
Photos were plastered across the white surface haphazardly. They overlapped, curled at the corners, some half-slipping free from the magnets holding them up. And every single one of them showed Regulus and his friends in different settings.
Without thinking, he walked into the kitchen, wanting to have a closer look. His eyes fell on a sunny beach scene first, palm trees under an impossibly bright sun, everyone laughing and carefree in swimsuits.
They weren’t wizarding photos. No movement. No waving hands or blinking faces. But they didn’t need it to feel alive.
A lot showed the same messy flat, sheets hanging unevenly from the ceiling. In one Pandora was spinning and laughing as Regulus twirled her, another showed Regulus lounging on a couch with Barty’s legs across his lap while Barty rested his head on Evan’s shoulder.
Then there were festival shots, galleries, concerts, theatres, fashion shows, red carpets. The muggle world captured in every frame.
Sirius stepped up beside him, also staring at the photos. Behind them, they heard Regulus shift.
“Do you two want some tea before we start fighting again?”
Sirius turned, giving Regulus a soft smile. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, Reggie. I’m here because ever since I found out you were alive, I’ve wanted nothing more than to see you again. To hug you.”
Regulus blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Oh,” he said, looking at his brother with wide, uncertain eyes. Barty had been right, they should’ve opened with the news that Voldemort was gone. Regulus seemed different now that the threat had lifted and he was in his own space. Softer. “I’m happy you’re alive too,” he added awkwardly, his grey eyes darting away like they didn’t know where to land.
It was enough.
Sirius beamed, and in a burst of rare emotional competence, no doubt earned from years of being loved properly by Remus and James, he surged forward and wrapped Regulus into one of the tightest hugs James had ever seen. “I missed you, Reggie. I missed you so much.”
There was a beat of tension, Regulus frozen on the spot. James held his breath; afraid Regulus would shove Sirius away and shut them out. But then, slowly, carefully, Regulus relaxed. Inch by inch, his body melted against his brother’s. His eyes closed, and his face tucked into Sirius’s shoulder.
“I missed you too,” he muttered, voice muffled into his brother’s shirt.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Sirius asked, clinging tighter. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed out?”
James looked away, suddenly feeling like a voyeur.
“I couldn’t,” Regulus whispered. “I couldn’t, Sirius. I always made the wrong decisions. I always cowered. You always had to save me. And then you left, and I… I couldn’t just come crawling to you when it suited me and push you away when it didn’t. That’s not fair to you. I wanted to do it myself for once.”
Sirius shook his head fiercely. “You’re my little brother,” he said, voice firm. “That’s all. That’s everything. No matter how angry I was at the time, if you needed to get out, I’d have helped you. Always.”
Regulus pulled back then, eyes flashing. “But I can’t ask that of you. It’s not fair to make you carry that just because you were born first.”
“You’re family, Reggie,” Sirius said. “And being family means asking heavy things sometimes. Even when it feels unfair. Even when it is.”
Ten years ago, maybe even five, James would have thought those words too mature to come from Sirius’s lips. But now he’d heard similar ones before, whispered in private to an exhausted Remus after a particularly awful full moon, when Moony had left visible wounds across Sirius’s chest and arms. Remus had begged him not to stay once he’d seen the damage, and Sirius had told Remus the same thing.
Regulus didn’t want to accept it now any more than Remus had then.
“Blood means nothing to you,” he said sharply, turning and jabbing a finger in James’s direction. “He’s your family. Not me.”
“Family’s more than one person,” James said gently, stepping into the conversation. “We would’ve helped you. Always.”
Regulus turned to him, stared for a long moment. He bit his bottom lip like he was holding something back. James wished he could see inside his head, just for a second, to know what those unsaid words were. He’d never been able to read Regulus the way Regulus could always read him.
Eventually, Regulus looked back at Sirius. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was—I was afraid.”
That must have been hard to admit for someone like Regulus Black.
Sirius knew it too.
“I know, Reggie. I was too, when I ran.”
Regulus gave a small nod.
James, sensing it was time to break the moment before it tipped too far into melancholy, cleared his throat. He could fake some cheer for a little while longer if it helped Sirius reconnect with his brother. “So, you mentioned tea. I could drink a cuppa! Anything I can do?”
Regulus raised an eyebrow at the obvious attempt to change the subject but nodded. “You can boil the water. Kettle’s over there.” He pointing toward a muggle electric kettle on the kitchen counter.
James stared at the device, then shot Sirius a look.
His friend pressed his lips together, hiding a laugh as he nudged him forward.
James approached the device with great suspicion. He lifted it off its base and flipped open the top, inspecting the inside like something might jump out of it. The metal inside was caked with limescale, and James held it at arm’s length with raised eyebrows.
“Err, Regulus,” he called, glancing at him where he was reaching for mugs. Regulus looked up, shooting a questioning glance his way. “I’ve got absolutely no idea how to use this,” James admitted with a sheepish grin, holding the kettle out to him. “Can I just use magic to boil the water?”
He wondered why Regulus hadn’t done that himself. James understood why he’d need the kettle around muggles, to keep up appearances, but among three wizards?
“Oh,” Regulus breathed, sounding oddly taken aback. James frowned, maybe he’d misread the tone. “Right… Could you do it? I’ll grab the teabags and the mugs.”
James nodded, glad to help. As Regulus filled three mugs with tap water, James heated each one with a quick charm, bringing them to a rolling boil. Steam curled from the rims as Regulus dropped a teabag into each and gave them a perfunctory stir.
He picked one up for himself, eyed it with faint mistrust, then blew across the surface and took a tentative sip. His face twisted immediately.
“It tastes different.”
“What do you mean?” James asked, voice leaping up half an octave in offended surprise. He took a sip himself, forgetting to blow on it, and hissed. “Shit!” he yelped, sticking out his tongue and fanning his face with both hands.
Sirius watched him with undisguised glee. He somehow managed not to laugh out loud—good friend that he was—but James could see the effort it took. He tried again, more cautiously this time. Blew on it. Sipped. “Tastes like tea,” he said, defensively. “Perfectly normal.”
“I prefer it boiled the normal way,” Regulus said, chin raised petulantly.
“Boiled water is boiled water!”
“Is not.”
That did it. Sirius burst out laughing, loud and wild and happy.
James grinned, the sound filling him with warmth. Even Regulus, ever so slowly, allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth.
James couldn’t help but stare then, and for a short moment, all his anger was gone, his reasons for being here completely forgotten.
But of course, that wasn’t going to last.
“Let’s sit down,” Regulus said, handing Sirius the last mug of tea.
It was clinical, the way they settled. Sirius and James on one couch, Regulus on the opposite one. They stared at each other for a moment, neither brother willing to speak first after the emotional scene just minutes earlier.
James glanced around again. Muggle devices filled the flat: a television, record player, radio, telephone, electric lights, kitchen appliances, and likely more hidden behind cupboard doors. Regulus clearly took blending in with the muggles very seriously.
“How do you manage with all the electronics?” he asked into the silence, still eyeing the room. “Remus’s mum always complains everything stops working after we’ve been over. The magic messes with it.”
“Right!” Sirius chimed in, also looking around. “Remus has put his record player in a spell-free room, no wands allowed in there at all.”
The only explanation was that Regulus replaced everything monthly, which seemed a bit wasteful, but the actor seemed to have the money for it.
Weirdly, though, all Regulus said was, “It’s not a problem for me.”
James frowned at that, but Sirius didn’t seem interested, setting his mug down as he leaned forward. “You didn’t know the war was over? That’s why you didn’t reach out?”
“Yes. How was I supposed to know?”
“It was all over the papers!” Sirius said, voice rising. “It was a massive deal! How could you not?”
“I don’t subscribe to the Daily Prophet, Sirius. What about ‘no contact with the magical world’ don’t you understand?”
“No contact at all?”
“At all.”
“It was in the muggle papers too,” James cut in. “Wizards forgot all about the Statute of Secrecy for a day. They were out in the streets celebrating in full robes. Whole thing got reported as some kind of weird coordinated stunt.”
Regulus frowned. “When was this?”
“Halloween, ‘81.”
“I wasn’t in the country,” he said simply, like the date meant nothing to him.
It probably didn’t. He hadn’t been lying in bed that day with pain still crawling through every limb. He hadn’t lost two of his closest friends. Hadn’t stood by, helpless, as a child marked by war was handed over to a grandmother who’d just lost her son.
“Where were you?” Sirius asked.
“America. The story must not have made it far enough in the muggle press to reach me.”
“Oh,” Sirius breathed beside him.
“I’d like proof,” Regulus said quietly, like he wasn’t sure they’d let him ask. “Just so I can see for myself. It’s hard to believe, you know?”
James felt Sirius’s eyes flick towards him, likely panicked. But James was already reaching into his pocket.
He’d prepared for this. Regulus had always been this way. He never believed anything without seeing it himself: documents, statistics, hard evidence. Drove the Hogwarts professors absolutely mad. If it wasn’t printed or proven, he didn’t care who said it. It was probably why he was such a good spellcrafter. He didn’t believe in impossibilities, even when professors insisted on them, as long as he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
So, before they’d left this afternoon, James had frantically combed through the house for every paper or article he could find. Ones about Voldemort’s fall, Neville’s survival, the arrests, the trials, the celebrations. Now, with a tap of his wand, he restored the shrunken collection to full size and handed them over the coffee table.
Regulus gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”
He began sifting through the pile, long pale fingers moving precisely. He paused on certain headlines. Looked longer at certain names. Stared at photographs that didn’t move, and longer at others that did. The flat went quiet. James and Sirius just watched, seeing him pause on a memorial photo of the Order, fingers motionless for a beat too long.
James couldn’t imagine what was going on in Regulus’s head right now. Seeing the end of the war, years after the fact. There wouldn’t be that first wave of shock, no breathless relief, no tears that came before you even understood why. He was too late for shared celebrations, now there was just silence.
This morning, Regulus had thought the war was still going, and now he was being told it had been over for two years. It was no surprise he needed proof. Even James had spent weeks after it ended half-expecting to wake up and hear it was all starting again, that it had all been a dream.
“It’s really over?”
“It’s really over,” Sirius said.
Regulus let out a slow breath and looked up, meeting his brother’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I really did think it was still going on. You understand why I didn’t get in touch, don’t you? The Death Eaters would’ve had me killed. I humiliated them, slipped out days before I’d promised I’d take the Mark. I thought the only way to stay alive was to disappear.”
“Would you have contacted me,” Sirius asked, “if you’d known it was over?”
“Would you have wanted me to?”
“What? Of course. What kind of question is that?”
“I let you believe I was dead,” Regulus said. “How was I supposed to know you’d want to see me after that?”
It was becoming increasingly obvious that Regulus hadn’t lived through the worst of it, had never experienced true war. He still thought the past worked the same way it did at school, that grudges held and people stayed angry. But he hadn’t watched people disappear, one by one, until the idea of staying angry with someone you truly cared for felt absurd. They’d lost too many people to cut anyone else off.
That was why James was here at all, willing to give Regulus the chance to explain himself. The Hogwarts version of himself would have never wanted to see Regulus again if he’d known what James knew now.
Sirius was thinking along the same line, whispering softly, “All that matters to me now is that you’re alive.”
Regulus nodded, before giving a small shrug. “I don’t know how I would’ve responded if I’d found out on my own. Maybe I would’ve come back, maybe not. It’s hard to imagine. But you’re here now. Doesn’t that tell you something?
“I’m the one who tracked you down,” Sirius pointed out.
“I’m the one who let you in. Could’ve let Olivia turn you away.”
“Are you going to let me in again? Will you come over for dinner sometime? Remus will want to see you.”
“You’re still together?”
“Course we are,” Sirius said, like the idea of them not being together was ridiculous. James couldn’t picture it either. A Moony without Padfoot or vice versa was impossible.
Regulus nodded, like he hadn’t really expected any other answer either. “I’ll come to dinner, then.”
“Perfect. Friday? That gives you a few days to prepare, I know you prefer that. I’m sorry we sprung today’s visit on you, but it was the time Barty gave us.”
At those words, James grimaced, and as expected, Regulus caught it too.
“Barty?” Regulus’s voice was sharp now. “Barty told you where I was?”
“Yes,” James cut in, voice hard. “And you should thank him. We’d never have found you without him.”
Regulus looked like he had more to say on the matter, but kept it in. James already felt bad for Barty, who’d probably be getting an earful tonight.
After a tense moment, Regulus turned to Sirius, his tone more cautious now. “What about our parents? Are you in contact with them? Because if they know where you are, and you know where I am…”
Oh fuck. James grimaced, dropping a hand on Sirius’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze.
Sirius paused, jaw tense, then, in an unreadable tone, said: “They’re dead.”
Regulus froze. “What? When?”
“Father in ’79. Mother in ’82.”
The colour drained from Regulus’s face. James couldn’t tell what he was feeling. He could guess, but it was complicated. He knew what it was to lose both your parents, the slow, unbearable finality of it, the way it left you untethered, like gravity had let go. But Walburga and Orion hadn’t been his parents. They’d been Regulus and Sirius’s, and they’d been something far colder than what James had lost.
“How?” Regulus asked, voice barely audible.
“Father got sick not long after you disappeared. They never really figured out what it was. The mediwitches thought it might’ve been something mental, but nothing concrete. Still, he hung on like a Black, took two years for him to go. Mother followed a few years later.” Sirius’s voice was quieter too now. “I think it was Grimmauld Place. All those dark curses, generations of them, it eats people. You stay there too long, it gets in your blood. You rot from the inside.”
Regulus stared into his empty tea mug, his mind somewhere else entirely.
“You okay?” Sirius asked, gently.
Regulus gave a short, bitter laugh. “No. No, I’m really fucking not. Today’s been—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “First Olivia tells me my estranged brother is here to see me, and I assume it’s you and your boyfriend. Then I walk in and it’s you and James.”
James winced, just as Sirius frowned. “What’s wrong with James?”
Regulus ignored him. “Then you drop the bomb that the war I’ve been hiding from, tearing my life apart over, has been over for years. And then, because apparently that wasn’t enough, you follow me home and tell me our parents are dead. They might have been horrible people, but he was still my father, and she my mother. How do you think I’m doing, Sirius?”
“Okay. Dumb question. I’m sorry.”
Regulus dragged a hand through his gel-stiff curls, wincing when his fingers caught. “Fuck,” he muttered, yanking them free. “It’s not your fault. I just… I wasn’t prepared for any of this. I need time. To think. To process all this.”
Sirius nodded, sighing. “That’s fair. I dropped a lot on you today. James and I will go. Give you some space.”
James could tell the offer cost him, there was no way Sirius wanted to leave his brother again, not so soon after finding him. Yet, he offered it anyway. Regulus had better appreciate that.
Regulus nodded immediately, relief obvious on his face. “Yes, that might be better. Thank you.”
Sirius stood, brushing off his jeans. “Only if you promise you’ll come to dinner Friday. I’m not losing you again.”
“I promise,” Regulus said softly. “Just write down the address.”
“I’ll pick you up,” Sirius grinned. “Can’t have my baby brother traveling for hours just because he can’t apparate.” He paused, grin widening. “Yet.”
“And this generous offer of picking me up has nothing to do with making sure I actually show up?”
“Hey,” Sirius winked. “If we both get something out of it, all the better. Then you won’t feel like you owe me.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m practical.”
Sirius tugged James off the couch with a grin. “You ready to go, Prongs?”
James was absolutely not ready, he was still counting down until it was his time to shout, but nodded anyway. He followed Sirius into the hallway and pulled his coat from the closet.
Regulus trailed after them, stopping just at the doorway. “Hey, Sirius?”
Sirius turned, halfway into his jacket. “Yeah?”
“What happened to Kreacher?”
“What?” Sirius blinked. “The elf?”
Regulus’s careful expression hardened into a frown. “That elf was the only family I had left after you fucked off, you arse.”
Sirius’s winced, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth. “He’s still at Grimmauld Place.”
“Still there? Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t get him out?”
“Last I saw him, he called me a filthy blood traitor five times in one conversation,” Sirius said, voice dry. “Didn’t really feel like bringing that energy into my life full-time.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Regulus snapped. “You grew up with him!”
“What are you having a go at me for? He never liked me, and I never liked him. We would’ve made each other miserable if I’d taken him with me!”
“Bloody hell, Sirius! I’ll handle it. Like always!”
“Okay, okay,” James cut in, stepping between them before another row kicked off. Merlin, would they ever get through a full conversation without a mediator? “How about you save this one for Friday? Sirius, let’s go. Regulus, don’t you dare run again.”
The words got Sirius out of the door, though not without him rushing back to Regulus one last time and throwing his arms around his tense, unwilling brother.
Then they were in the hallway. Alone for the first time since ringing that bell to the warehouse.
“How’re you feeling?” James asked quietly, eyes fixed on his friend.
Sirius let out a short, incredulous huff. “Good. I think?”
“You think?” James gave him a soft smile, gently coaxing him to talk.
“I—” Sirius sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m just so happy I got to see him. He’s alive. He’s there. He’s still a stubborn prat. And isn’t that fucked up? Regulus and I didn’t even get on before he left, yet I’m over the moon that he’s the one I got back. Out of everyone.”
“Oh,” James breathed. “It’s okay to be happy, Pads.”
“Isn’t it fucked up, though? If I could pick anyone to survive, it’d always be my baby brother. Over anyone. That’s twisted, right? We had so many good people on our side, people who gave everything they had and died for it. Fuck, I think about Dorcas, about Marlene, and I miss them so fucking much. Then I think about poor little Neville. Frank and Alice deserved better. They were good people. But me? I’ve been flying ever since we got that bloody concert info, because my brother just… he just quit the fight.”
James placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder and squeezed. “That’s okay. No one would blame you.”
He certainly didn’t. He was just as glad as Sirius and hadn’t even considered feeling guilty about it.
“And hey, Pads?” Sirius looked up. “It’s not either-or. Everyone knows you’d have done anything for your friends. If there’d been a way to save them, you’d have found it. They knew that.”
“I guess.” Sirius exhaled heavily. “Fuck. I’m knackered. Today’s been too much. I need to go home. I need Moony.”
James nodded. With one last, weary smile, Sirius disapparated, off across the long distance back to Wales. James waited for the tell-tale pop before tucking his wand away.
He wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
He spun on his heel and stormed back to the door like a madman, fists hammering against it.
“Regulus!”
No answer. He knocked even harder.
“Open the door! I know you’re in there, don’t fucking pretend otherwise!”
The door flew open so abruptly James nearly stumbled forward. Regulus stood in the frame, jaw tight, mouth drawn into a flat line.
“Potter,” he said. “Did you forget something?”
“No,” James laughed bitterly, pushing past Regulus and marching straight into the living room, fuck taking off his shoes. His pulse was thrumming, hot, fast, and furious. “We’re not doing that Potter shit again. We’re going to talk.”
“James, please, not now,” Regulus muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m tired, I’m emotionally drained. I’ve had enough serious conversations today to last me the year.”
“No,” James snapped. “We’re doing this now. You got to run away from me for six years. But I’ve found you now, and you don’t get a second more. I’m not going anywhere until you give me an apology.”
Regulus didn’t answer. Didn’t even argue. Just stood there, staring silently. And that only made James burn hotter.
He yanked the book from the inside pocket of his jacket and flung it onto the coffee table. It landed with a heavy thud, skidding across the wood, pages rustling until it settled, dead centre before Regulus. A perfect hit.
Regulus frowned. “What’s this?”
“Go on. Pick it up.”
Regulus did. The moment his fingers brushed the leather cover, he froze. His grip tightened, knuckles white. “This is mine,” he said lowly. “Where did you—how did you get this?”
James let out a short laugh. “I took it from your bedroom. Grimmauld Place. Imagine my feelings when I paged through it. Actually—don’t imagine, do it. Go on. Flip through it.”
Regulus didn’t move. He held the book like it might burn him. “This is private. You had no right.”
“You left it behind!” James’s voice cracked, half-shout, half-desperate. “You left me behind! Don’t you fucking talk to me about rights.”
No answer. Just those eyes again, pale, unreadable and infuriatingly blank. James wanted to shake him.
“You want to know how I felt when I saw it?” James went on. “Relieved. Like I hadn’t made the whole thing up. Like maybe I meant something to you too. Like I wasn’t completely mad for waking up every single day for six fucking years with your name in my head.”
He stepped closer, pulse pounding in his ears. Regulus hadn’t moved. But the air between them was taut now.
“Because you did too, didn’t you? You felt it too.”
“James.”
There it was.
That tone. That stupid, regretful whisper that Regulus used like a shield. Like it could undo damage without ever having to name it.
It was pure manipulation. Not just of his voice, but of the person he was speaking to. Regulus had always had too much control over his body, his tone, the weight of a pause. Of course he’d become a successful actor.
“No,” he growled. “Don’t you dare ‘James’ me in that tone. I remember that tone. That’s the one you used every time I got too close. Every time you didn’t want to answer. You used it back then, and you’re doing it again. You think I don’t see it?”
Regulus opened his mouth, only to close it again.
James took another step forward. Close enough now to see the line of Regulus’s throat move when he swallowed.
“Did you love me?” he asked, voice rough. “Or was I just another thing you threw away on your way out? I just need an apology, an explanation, anything… please, Regulus. For once, treat me like a person instead of something disposable.”
“I never treated you like that,” Regulus hissed, suddenly sharp.
Finally, some emotion.
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t. I cared.”
“Is that it? You cared? Nothing more?”
“I—” Regulus stared at him. “This was years ago.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t have one right now. I’m tired.” He threw the book back onto the table. The bang of it hitting wood made James flinch.
Then Regulus turned and walked into the kitchen.
James followed, of course. He wasn’t done. Not even close.
“No,” he called after him. “No, that’s not good enough. I need something. Just a single scrap of recognition for what we had. I’ve been bloody obsessing over it for the past two weeks!”
Regulus spun round, a glare in those cold eyes. “I didn’t get those two weeks, James! You’re ambushing me out of nowhere! I’ve had no preparation, no time to think!”
“I don’t care!” James stalked closer. “Tell me. Did you ever love me?”
He needed to know. Now. He had to hear it from the living, older Regulus. It was the only way to let go of the grief that had curdled into something poisonous, twisting inside him, turning him into someone unrecognisable. He just wanted to feel like himself again. The boy he’d been when Regulus was still a certainty, not a scar.
Realisation flickered in those grey eyes. Regulus must’ve seen something in him then, something that he probably wasn’t meant to see. But it made him answer, made him sigh and say, “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit!” James shouted.
Regulus flinched at the tone. Just slightly, but James saw it. Noticed the smallest tremble in his hands, the tiny hitch in his breath. He still knew where to look. At least that hadn’t changed.
“I loved you,” James said, more quietly now.
He stepped forward without thinking. Close enough to see the flutter of Regulus’s lashes, the faint pulse at his neck. Close enough to smell him, still so familiar under all the muggle products.
“And I know you knew. I was seventeen. I didn’t know how to hide it. Didn’t want to. Just tell me you felt it too.”
Regulus looked away, jaw tight. His throat worked silently. “Stop.”
“Please,” James breathed.
Regulus’s eyes flicked back to his. “What if I did?” he hissed softly. “What does that change? It doesn’t undo anything.”
They were very close now, Regulus backed up against the kitchen counter, James nearly pressed to his front. Their breath mingled, uneven and hot. James’s fingers twitched at his side, aching to grab hold of something, to ground himself. Regulus’s jumper. His wrist. His waist.
“I’m not trying to undo it,” he murmured. “I’m trying to make sense of it. Of you. Us. Anything.”
Regulus let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “There is no sense to make. You’re trying to map logic onto something that was doomed from the start.”
“It wasn’t doomed.”
“Oh, come on.” Regulus lifted his chin, defiant and bitter, and James’s gaze dropped, just for a second, to his mouth. Pink, soft, oh so close. He looked away quickly, but Regulus had seen it. His eyes narrowed.
Still, James didn’t move back. Not until Regulus shoved him away.
“You were a Gryffindor golden boy. Quidditch captain. My brother’s best friend. I was a Black. A Slytherin. A future Death Eater. You always looked at me like I was some twisted fairytale, like I could be better if I just tried, if you just tried. But you were blinded by optimism. There was never a version of this where we ended up all right.”
James leaned back, dragging a hand through his hair. The words stung because they were true. They’d both known it. That’s why they’d never crossed the line. Why they’d always balanced on the edge of something, never tipping one way or the other.
“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” he whispered. “Why leave without a word?”
“I was trying to survive.”
“So was I! And it would’ve been easier with you!”
“Christ, James,” Regulus laughed, using a stupid muggle word. “You haven’t changed a bit. You’re romanticising everything, like always. It wouldn’t have easier. You just think it would’ve, because the alternative hurt.”
“It did hurt!” James shouted. “It still hurts! You were everything to me, Regulus. I loved you. And then you were just… gone. And I had to find out you chose to leave me. Like none of it mattered. Like I didn’t matter.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke, the words echoing through the flat.
“And I still love you. It can’t stop. I need you.”
Regulus stilled. His hands dropped to the edge of the counter, gripping it tight.
Then:
“That’s not love. That’s desperation.”
James froze for half a second, blinking. Then he recoiled like he’d been hit. “Fuck you,” he said, hoarse. “That’s not fair.”
“No. What’s not fair is showing up here, ten minutes after I found out my parents are dead, and demanding I pour out everything I’ve spent six years trying to get over, just so you can feel better immediately instead of waiting a few days.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out. What the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry your parents are dead, but I had to grieve you without warning too?
“You think this is making me feel better?” he managed eventually
“I sure hope so! Because you started it,” Regulus snapped. “You barged in here like—like I’m still yours to interrogate. Like I owe you something.”
“You do!”
Regulus reeled. “I owe you nothing!”
“You owe me the truth! Just some fucking honesty, for once!”
Regulus barked a laugh. “You want honesty? Fine. I’ll give you some fucking honesty.”
He was breathing fast now, his gaze locked on James, furious. And James knew instantly: he was going to regret this.
Then Regulus stepped in. Ruthless.
“I know you, James. You think you came here to find me, but you didn’t. You came to find yourself.”
He took a step closer, and James instinctively backed up. That glare could’ve frozen fire.
“I could always read you, easier than any book. You wear everything on your sleeve. And you know what I’m reading now?” Regulus kept coming. “I’m everything you lost. I don’t know what the war did to you, but I know it must’ve been hell. Worse than I could ever imagine. And I know you. You’re not a violent person. You told me once, remember? In the library. You said you weren’t cut out for real battles. You even doubted becoming an Auror, your dream job. Because you already knew. Blood, death? It makes you sick.”
He circled James now, like they’d reversed roles. James could only stand still, frozen like prey.
“I’m sure you’ve fought. For Dumbledore, probably. You might have even killed. And it’s changed you. You hate what it’s made you into. Am I right?”
James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His hands were shaking.
Regulus stepped closer. “But me?” His voice dropped, softer now, almost intimate. Almost kind. “I represent the version of you that still whispered sweet nothings in the library. Who left sugar quills in my books. When the hardest part of your week was figuring out how to tell Sirius you fancied me.”
Regulus had taken back all control. He was too close, the air between their bodies thick and humming. James could feel the heat of him, taste his cologne in the back of his throat. One step closer, one breath too deep, and he’d be on him.
Regulus laughed then, stepping away. “I bet that ever since you found out I’m alive, you’ve been thinking about me, thinking about what we had. Bet you’ve been obsessing over me. Because that’s what you do, James. You obsess to distract. Like when you caught me in the library the first time. Remember that?” He gestured between them dismissively. “Remember how this all started?”
James opened his mouth, eyes flicking to the Pride and Prejudice copy carelessly tossed aside, but Regulus cut him off before he could speak.
“No. Don’t recall a romantic love story. The truth, James. Tell me the context of when we met.”
James frowned. “What?”
“You think I didn’t know?” Regulus spat. “It was obvious to half of Hogwarts, even if no one knew the details. Sirius did something to Snape, something awful, and it tore the Marauders apart for a while. Your perfect little world started to crack. Your friends were fighting. You were lost. So what did you do?”
It was rhetorical. Regulus didn’t wait for an answer.
“You fixated on me. You needed a focus, and conveniently, you found one. Suddenly, you were always there. In the library. In empty corridors. You used me to replace what you’d lost.”
That’s not true, James thought wildly. He’d been drawn to Regulus because of the muggle book. Because of the unexpected spark, the softness, the surprise of it all.
Sure, things with the Marauders had been rough—Remus and Sirius were barely speaking, and James had spent more nights than he could count trying to hold things together—but when he’d started noticing Regulus, things had already begun to improve. They’d started healing. The worst had passed. And even after the Marauders had made up, he’d never stopped wanting Regulus.
Regulus didn’t seem to agree. “I was your distraction then,” he finished, voice flat. “And I’m your distraction now. That’s why you need me. Not because you still love me. You don’t even know me anymore.”
The silence that followed was awful. James swallowed hard. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
What a hypocrite, he thought numbly.
Regulus had accused him of ambush and cruelty, and then turned around and carved open his mind like a master Legilimens. Picked apart his grief like it was a bloody academic theory.
He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part. Regulus wasn’t wrong. Not really.
But he also wasn’t right.
James’s grief wasn’t a fiction. His obsession hadn’t come from nowhere. His world hadn’t broken when the battles began, it had started crumbling the day Regulus disappeared.
He didn’t want to be saved by memory.
He didn’t want the boy he remembered.
He wanted Regulus, in whatever form he came. He wanted to explore everything he’d become. He wanted to know how the boy he’d loved, hidden beneath layers of pureblood etiquette, had changed into the man standing before him, mysterious and sharp-edged and devastating. He wanted to crack that mystery. See what made him tick now. What had stayed. What had changed.
Because he trusted that what he’d fallen in love with, that light that even a childhood of propaganda hadn’t killed, was still there. It must have only grown. Flourished into someone beautiful, someone shaped by love, by care, by muggle friends who had treated him like a person instead of a replacement or family legacy.
He took a step forward. Just one.
Regulus didn’t move.
“You weren’t a distraction then, and you aren’t one now. Sure, maybe you’re right, maybe we started because I was lonely. But that doesn’t make what we had less real.” James said softly. “I did love you. Not what you could do for me. I loved what you are. Your core. And I’m willing to forgive you, to get to know you again, and surely fall in love with you all over again.”
Regulus’s face twisted. “Don’t say that.”
“I mean it.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re acting like an impulsive teenager! Have you truly changed nothing?”
“Oh, believe me. I changed,” James said. “I’ve never been angry with you before. Not even when you still spouted your prejudiced nonsense every day. But I’m furious now. And I still want you anyway.”
“You can’t want me. I’m not the one you lost.” Regulus hissed. “I’m not the desperate boy in the library anymore, hoping for scraps of your attention however I could get them. The world’s begging for my attention now, and you’re just another one of them.”
That was harsh. Cruel. He was lashing out, but that meant James was getting somewhere. Breaking past the armour.
“Reggie, please,” he pushed.
“Stop!” Regulus shouted. “You always do this. You jump the gun. You’re never patient, you can never just wait. Why would you do this now? Can’t you see that it’s too soon?”
“Because I missed you! I need you!”
“Didn’t you listen to a word I said?!” Regulus roared. “You don’t need me!” He flung his arms out, frustration raging through his body. And as he did, the world exploded.
Not a metaphor. James wasn’t being dramatic.
Everything just… cracked.
The sound came first, a snap loud enough to split the air, and then a thousand echoes of shattering. A blinding burst of glittering white as very dish, every glass, every bloody surface in the kitchen detonated outward at once.
Shards screamed through the air.
James didn’t think, his wand was in his hand before he even registered moving.
“Protego!”
The shield bloomed outward just in time, a golden dome sparking around them both, glass bouncing off it with horrifying speed. A high ringing filled the room as the shards clattered and bounced off the barrier, raining down like ice.
Then, silence.
A few pieces of porcelain spun on the floor, slowing to a stop.
James stood frozen, lungs heaving. His ears rang.
What the fuck had just happened?
“What was that?” he croaked, voice weak in the wake of the chaos.
Regulus didn’t answer. He was staring around the room, his mouth open slightly, hands suspended in the air like he could still feel the magic sparking off them. His eyes were wide.
“Shit,” he whispered, almost inaudible. His hands went to his hair. “Shit, not again. Shit, shit, shit—”
James lowered the shield slowly. “Regulus?”
No response.
“Regulus, what the hell was that?”
“Piss off, James.”
“No.” James stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could move away. “What was that?”
“I said piss off!”
James didn’t let go. His grip tightened. And then it clicked. The erratic energy, the timing, the way Regulus wasn’t controlling it…
“Was that accidental magic?”
Regulus said nothing, didn’t even look at him. Just yanked his arm loose, sank to his knees, and began to pick up shards. With his bare hands. As if the explosion hadn’t happened, as if it were normal.
“What—Reg—stop!” James dropped down beside him, grabbing his arms and hauling him back up. “Are you mental? You’ll shred your hands! What are you doing? Use your wand!”
“You do it,” Regulus said. Barked it, really, though his tone was fooling no one.
James stared at him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
James hesitated, then slowly raised his wand. With a quick and efficient reparo, fragments started lifting into the air, reforming, settling gently back where they belonged. The kitchen rebuilt itself piece by piece, until it looked like nothing had happened at all.
Regulus watched it with an expression James didn’t have a name for.
It reminded him of the muggleborns on their first day at Hogwarts. That strange, tentative awe. Like magic wasn’t theirs yet.
“Regulus…” he said slowly, “where’s your wand?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. A box under my bed, I guess.”
“You guess?” James blinked. “You don’t know?” His voice rose. “You don’t know where your wand is? That’s—” he let the sentence linger, speechless. No wizard lost track of their wand. That just didn’t happen.
Regulus glared at him. “I haven’t needed it in a while.”
“Your glassware begs to differ!”
“That was an accident. You irritated me.”
James dragged a hand through his hair, staring at Regulus with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Accidents like that don’t happen past puberty. Not if you’re using magic regularly. That kind of outburst… it only happens when—” He stopped, horror dawning. “When’s the last time you used magic?”
Regulus didn’t answer.
“When?”
“Get. Out.”
The words, although simple, landed like thunder.
And with them came another burst, this one forceful, not sharp, a wave of invisible energy that hurled James backwards as though the flat itself had spat him out.
He hit the hallway floor hard, shoulder cracking against the doorframe.
The flat door slammed shut between them.
Notes:
Just to clear up any potential confusion: Regulus is not an Obscurus. His accidental magic is my take on what might happen when a wizard who once used magic regularly suddenly stops. It’s a resurgence of the accidental magic from childhood, only stronger now that his body can handle more.
Also, you might have noticed that Hope Lupin is alive in this AU. I couldn’t bring myself to take away all of the Marauders’ parents. They’re only 23-24, and that just felt too tragic (they've already been through a war for fuck's sake!). So Remus gets to keep his mum, and she’s warm and caring, because he and Sirius deserve that.
Lastly, I promise this is the final Big Emotional Confrontation™ for a while. The tone will even out again after this, and in a few chapters the fluff tag will finally pull its weight (it's getting lazy up there). We’ve been on the angst train for a bit too long, and that was never even the plan... apparently I just can’t write anything else :)
Chapter 11: Part III - Chapter 3
Notes:
Hi everyone! I finished the edits for this chapter and, like James, couldn’t be trusted to wait. So here it is, a day early. Hope you love it! ✨💛
Chapter Text
Steam curled from the bathroom as Regulus stepped out, a towel draped around his neck, hair clean and curling at the ends again. He ran his fingers through the damp strands, letting them spring back into their usual shape. At least one thing felt normal again.
He pulled on a loose T-shirt and the trackies Barty had bought him to make him look ‘less stiff’. They were hideous, in Regulus’s opinion, but undeniably comfortable.
He padded barefoot into the living room. The flat was eerily quiet now that Sirius and James were gone, a suspicious sort of calm hanging in the air like it was waiting to be disturbed by another ambush.
He sank onto the sofa, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, trying to still his thoughts. A long sigh escaped him, and something crinkled beneath the sound. Frowning, he shifted and felt it again, a rustle under his leg. He looked down and spotted the pile of papers James had brought.
Gently, he pulled them into his lap. He hadn’t had the nerve to properly look through them earlier, too distracted by Sirius’s relentless attention and James’s knowing gaze to focus on anything more than pictures and headlines.
He flipped back to the memorial photo of the Order of the Phoenix, a list of the dead beside it.
So many of Sirius and James’s friends. So many names. Most of them barely older than him.
His fingers paused over one: Dorcas Meadowes.
It stopped him cold.
In the photograph, she was grinning, wand half-raised like someone had caught her mid-duel. She looked just like he remembered her: her hair wild, her expression fierce.
He blinked once. Then again. His throat tightened.
He hadn’t thought about her in years.
Yet, she might have been the only real friend he’d had at Hogwarts. James had always been something else—something uncategorisable—but Dorcas… he’d liked Dorcas. She said whatever came into her head, sharp and ruthless but never unkind. She was the first person who hadn’t tried to change him, nor had she ever expected anything from him, just made space beside her and let him fill it, or not.
He never said goodbye.
Now she was gone, and he hadn’t even noticed.
He shut the paper with a snap, heart pounding. Standing quickly, he grabbed the newspapers with trembling hands and marched to the kitchen. He needed them gone.
He yanked open a cupboard and shoved the whole stack inside before slamming the door.
Out of sight, out of mind. Right?
He stood there, breathing hard.
He wasn’t okay. He hadn’t felt like himself since the moment he saw Sirius and James again, and James had only made it worse. Now the grief and confusion were clawing at his insides and he had no idea what to do with any of it.
The buzzer rang, sharp and far too loud.
Regulus flinched, muttered a prayer that it wasn’t anyone else from his past, and made his way to the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Reggie? I’ve got your car keys,” came Pandora’s voice, crackly through the tinny speaker.
He exhaled. “Come up,” he said, opening the front door and kicking one of his shoes into the frame to stop it closing before she arrived.
By the time she let herself in, he was slumped back on the sofa, towel discarded on the floor, hair drying into frizzy curls. Pandora’s footsteps echoed across the wooden floor. She tossed the keys onto the coffee table with a clatter.
“I really hate your car.”
Regulus cracked one eye open. She was smiling at him.
“It’s a good car.”
“That’s what you think,” she teased, flopping down beside him. “But you never drive it, do you?”
“You keep volunteering.”
“I’ve never volunteered. You just hand me the keys and look smug about it.”
He didn’t argue, because it was true. Instead, he let out a long sigh and dropped his head onto her shoulder.
She let him rest there, silent for a minute as Regulus closed his eyes and tried to pull himself together after what felt like the longest day in history.
“Hair’s back to normal,” she said after a while, softer now.
He gave a small laugh, reached up, and twirled a long strand of her soft hair around his finger. “You took a shower too, I see.”
“Guilty,” she grinned. “Figured you might need a moment before I dropped the keys off, so I snuck one in. Finally got all that gunk out. It felt like I was wearing a helmet.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I needed the alone time.”
“How was he? Your brother.”
“My brother was… good, I think. We fought, as expected, but I think we found some kind of fragile peace in the end. I’m going over for dinner with him and his boyfriend on Friday.”
Pandora twisted round so she was looking at him. “But?”
She always read him too easily.
“But it wasn’t Lupin with him, like I’d predicted. It was his best friend. James Potter.”
She stilled beside him. She was one of the few who’d heard the name before. Just her and Nico, really, and only because Nico had deserved an honest explanation for why Regulus had to end their year-long relationship.
Even then, all Pandora knew was that James had been the hardest to leave behind.
“Fuck, Reg,” she breathed. “I’m guessing that didn’t go well.”
Regulus laughed, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “You could definitely say that.”
Pandora kept her eyes on him, one leg tucked beneath her on the sofa, fingers absently playing with the fringe on the throw. She didn’t press. That was one of the reasons he loved her.
Still, the silence stretched.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands. “I wasn’t expecting him. I’d braced myself for Lupin. That would’ve been fine. Could’ve even been civil.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“I was a dick to him, Pan,” he said, voice low. “Crueller than he deserved. He had every right to be angry, and instead of apologising, I just made it worse. But it was James. He was still so—and I just—fuck.” He let out a breath, trying to collect himself. “It felt like I was sixteen again, like everything was falling apart. And he kept asking for something I couldn’t give.”
Bloody hell, could James’s timing have been any worse?
The war was over. His parents weren’t a threat anymore. He should’ve felt relieved. Maybe even happy. But then James had barged back in, still James, with that same maddening softness in his eyes. That unshakable loyalty and love that clung to him, even now.
And he’d been hurting. So much that Regulus couldn’t stand to look at him.
The conversation, chaotic and accusing as it had been, had made something else clear too: James was still single. Not in the happy relationship with Evans like he should’ve been. But that wasn’t right, James was meant to love someone, have a family, a home.
He was never meant to wait. James was supposed to move on, to love someone brighter. Someone whole. But he hadn’t. Apparently, Regulus wasn’t the only one who couldn’t let go.
The realisation had shaken him.
He’d planned to stay composed. Distant. Polite, at best. To make it clear they lived in different worlds now. But instead, James’s desperation had cut straight through him.
And knowing he’d been the one to leave James lost like that had sent every old insecurity clawing back to the surface.
He wasn’t Sirius. He’d never been brave or loud or mischievous. He’d never matched James’s brightness, not even close. All he’d ever been was quieter. Colder. A shadow behind a louder name. And now he was something else entirely. Something even further from James’s world.
He was not the Regulus Black James knew, and he didn’t want to be him either.
So he’d lashed out. Said things he didn’t mean. Meant things he never should’ve said aloud. It had been messy. Cruel on both sides. A total disaster of a conversation.
Regulus rubbed a hand over his face. “It was… hard,” he said at last. “He was angry. So was I.”
Pandora was quiet for a moment. Then, “Did he hurt you?”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Never. Not like that.”
“Still seems like he wasn’t very kind.”
Regulus gave a bitter laugh. “No, he wasn’t. He was selfish and thoughtless. But I still should’ve apologised. He had every right to expect one. I should’ve just got it over with.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said simply. “That wouldn’t have been a real apology. It would’ve been damage control, and he’d have seen through it. Might’ve made things worse.”
Regulus swallowed. “Believe me, it really couldn’t have gone worse. Fuck, I can’t believe some of the things I said to him.”
Pandora sighed, shifting to face him properly. “He knew you, right? Knew you well?”
His brow creased at the shift in topic. “Yeah. He did.”
“Then he knows you lash out when cornered. You shut down. Push people away before they can do it first.”
“I don’t—” Regulus frowned. “I’m not that bad.”
“Please, Reggie,” she said, grinning now. “You can be the iciest bitch I know. Glacial, sometimes.”
That drew a reluctant huff of laughter from him.
She softened again. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Everyone close to you knows that’s just a shield. It means you’re feeling too much, not too little. If he really knew you, he’ll understand that too. He won’t take it personally.”
Regulus looked away, jaw tight. He’d said things James didn’t deserve. Chosen words that cut deep, in precisely the places he knew would wound. He hated that he had that power. Hated even more that he’d used it.
“I don’t know if I can face him again,” he said quietly. “Or if I even want to. Or if he wants to.”
Pandora reached over and touched his arm, just the lightest brush of fingers. “You’ll have to eventually. He’s your brother’s best mate. That’s why normal people don’t start complicated relationships like that.”
He gave her a sidelong glare. “Since when have I ever done anything the normal way?”
“You haven’t. Which is why I’m calling in reinforcements before you spiral into full martyrdom.”
She stood, already reaching for the phone on the wall.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late,” she said, dialling the number with practised ease.
Regulus groaned and buried his face in a cushion. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” she replied sweetly. “Hey, Barty? Yeah, it’s me. You and Ev are needed at Reg’s. Yes, really. No, he doesn’t get a say, I’m inviting you. Yes, exactly, bring the good stuff. Something strong.”
He groaned louder into the pillow. She was enjoying this far too much.
“Don’t get distracted, get Evan here as soon as possible,” she added, ignoring him. “Reggie needs some moral support. Yes, you count too. Barely. Just get here.”
By the time she hung up, Regulus had sat up again, looking resigned.
“You are dangerously meddlesome,” he muttered.
“And you are dangerously close to wallowing,” she shot back, flopping back down beside him. “We need the whole gang. Like old times.”
Fifteen minutes later, the buzzer rang, followed by the familiar sound of someone jogging up the stairs and tripping over the last step.
Barty burst through the door. “Where’s our tragic heroine?” he called, lifting a Tesco bag like a trophy. “I come bearing vodka!”
Evan followed behind him, grinning. “You told us to bring something strong. We brought something better. Cheap and strong.”
Regulus reached for the bag immediately, grabbed one of the vodka bottles and poured it into a mug over what was left of some old tea.
“Err—Reg,” Barty began, watching as he downed it in one go. He gently took the bottle back and handed it to Evan. “Think we’ll let Evan handle the booze.”
“Piss off,” Regulus snapped at him, turning to Evan with a glare and outstretched hand. “Give it here.”
“No,” Evan said calmly. “Barty’s right.” He carried the bottle into the kitchen and called back over his shoulder, “We’re going to talk first. Then we’ll drink ourselves into oblivion. Not the other way round.”
“You want to talk?” Regulus turned sharply to Barty, voice sharp with venom. “You gave them the address to the set.”
Barty blinked, caught off guard. “Alright, hang on a second—”
“You didn’t even warn me!” Regulus snapped, standing now, fists clenched. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Oi, slow down,” Barty protested, hands raised in surrender. “Evan was in on it too, yeah? He let them backstage. They never would’ve found you without him.”
“Thanks for that, love,” Evan muttered.
“Why didn’t either of you warn me?” Regulus demanded, stepping closer. “It’s one thing giving out my location, because I know you’d only do that if you trusted someone completely. But not only did you trust Sirius and James enough to do that, you didn’t even call me first? Not even a bloody heads-up?”
“We tried calling,” Barty said quickly. “You didn’t answer!”
“When?”
Barty glanced at Evan. “Er… eleven?”
Regulus gave a bitter laugh. “I was on set. You knew I’d be on set.”
“Yeah, alright, but we figured—”
“No, you didn’t,” Regulus cut in. “You didn’t think at all. You made a decision for me. I can’t believe you’d do that.”
“Bloody hell, Reg. Calm down,” Evan hissed, brushing past him and dropping onto one of the sofas. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “We didn’t warn you because you’d have legged it. They had good news you needed to hear, so we made sure you heard it.”
Regulus hesitated, no comeback ready. Evan was right. He hadn’t been ready to see either of them. He’d have said he needed time first, time to brace himself, time to prepare. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe a few years.
He turned to Evan, his voice quieter now. “You don’t get to decide when I’m ready.”
The blond sighed, taking another drag. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Sometimes Regulus admired how calm and level-headed Evan was, how it wasn’t a front. Right now, it made him want to scream.
Barty distracted him by resting a hand on Regulus’s shoulder in apology. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I really thought you’d be happy. Your brother looked desperate to see you, and you always thought he didn’t want anything to do with you. And then there’s the news about the cult being gone… I thought Pan was calling us over to celebrate. Not this.” He gestured vaguely to the way Regulus held himself, the tightness in his frame, the pale stillness.
“The cult’s gone?” Pandora gasped. “Holy shit. Reg, why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just tired. Got a lot on my mind.”
“The talk didn’t go well,” Pandora explained to Barty and Evan.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, mate,” Barty sighed, lighting his own cigarette before sinking onto the sofa beside Evan.
“You two really shouldn’t smoke in here,” Regulus pointed out, intentionally changing the topic. “The smell sticks for days.”
Evan laughed and stubbed out the ciggy in the ashtray he’d moved from the kitchen table to the coffee table—the ashtray Regulus had left there just for them. “You don’t mind, really. It reminds you of us.”
“It reminds me of ninety percent of London,” Regulus shot back. Then, turning to Pandora: “Clean air reminds me of you, though.”
She laughed, tugging him onto the sofa beside her. “Same goes for you, honey.”
Barty, now stubbing out his cigarette too, suddenly locked eyes on the leather journal still on the table, forgotten by both James and Regulus. Ever the curious and boundary-disregarding friend, he reached for it automatically.
“The Black Heir Handbook,” he read from the spine, flashing a crooked grin. “What’s this?”
“Ignore that,” Regulus said coolly, mustering as much indifference as he could. If he acted bored enough, Barty might just let it go.
Unfortunately, after six years, Barty knew him far too well. He eyed Regulus with growing delight. “Oh, hello, Eton Arcturus. What are we acting for?”
Pale hands immediately began flipping through pages, and Regulus launched into plan B: brute force. He leapt off the couch and hurled himself onto Barty—and Evan, who had the misfortune of being in the blast radius—tearing the book from Barty’s hands.
“Reggie!” Barty protested. “I want to see!”
“Sod off!” Regulus growled, wresting back the book and springing to his feet. In the process, as if in slow motion, a single sheet of paper slipped from between the pages and drifted to the floor.
All four of them watched it fall, eyes locked on the face staring up at them from the ground.
“Isn’t that your brother’s mate?” Evan asked, eyebrows raised.
Oh, bloody hell. He’d completely forgotten that was in there.
The photo had slipped his mind when James threw the book at him, distracted by the far more humiliating contents. The sort of things only a dramatic sixteen-year-old could write, confessions that had absolutely no business ever seeing the light of day.
Merlin, he could die if James had broken through the old concealment charms and read it.
With a grimace, Regulus snatched up the photo, shoved it back between the pages, and crammed the whole thing onto the bottom shelf of his biggest bookcase. Hopefully it’d stay unnoticed there.
“No,” he said flatly.
“Pretty sure that was the bloke from yesterday,” Barty said, still smirking. “I remember him ‘cause there’s this funny little thing about his face.”
Regulus closed his eyes, already dreading the words that would follow.
“He looks an awful lot like our mate. You know. Nico. Your ex.”
“What?” Regulus said innocently. “I don’t see it.”
But it was too late.
Pandora gasped. “I thought the photo looked familiar!” Then her voice dropped, eyes going soft with sympathy. “Oh, Reggie. You didn’t tell me half of it when you told me about your James, did you?”
That sobered the room.
“Oh, fuck,” Barty said quietly. “It was serious like that?”
Regulus sighed, dragging a hand through his curls. “It could’ve been. I think. If circumstances were different.”
“Fuck, Reg,” Evan said gently. “I’m sorry. I would’ve warned you if I’d known.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
Evan nodded, pushing himself off the sofa. “I think you deserve that vodka now.” With that, he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of supermarket vodka and Regulus’s orange juice.
Soon they were all holding a vodka and orange, and for the first time in his life, Regulus could talk to his friends about James Potter. About his stupid smile, his stupid dimples, his stupid optimism, his stupid stubbornness, his stupid impulsiveness, his stupid romantic streak, not fooling anyone as his drunken brain grew more and more detailed about everything he claimed to hate.
Three drinks in, Regulus was sprawled across the sofa, a half-empty mug of vodka-orange balanced on his stomach. “And the worst part,” he said, pointing at no one in particular, “is he looked like James. Under all that… that. And he aged bloody perfectly.”
Pandora, cross-legged on the floor, nodded solemnly. “The absolute nerve of him.”
“Unforgivable,” Evan agreed, topping up Regulus’s drink with mock ceremony.
“He had this bloody jumper on,” Regulus went on, slurring just a little. “Too small, I think. Hugged his shoulders. And he did that thing. That James thing. You know, where his eyes shine like the sun, warming every part of your body.”
There was a pause. Pandora bit her lip, but couldn’t keep in her drunken giggles. “God, what a tosser.”
“Absolute knob,” Evan added.
“Twat,” Pandora said, raising her glass.
Barty, who had been oddly quiet, lay sprawled on the sofa like a starfish. Finally, he sat up. “Alright, nah. I can’t keep this up. This bloke sounds bloody perfect. You should just shag him, mate. Maybe he’s a horrible lay, that will get him out of your system.”
Regulus let out a strangled groan and rolled over to bury his face in a cushion. “I doubt it.”
“Speaking of shagging,” Pandora said cheerfully, expertly redirecting the attention away from Regulus’s misery. “I’ve got some news. If you don’t mind, of course,” she added to him.
“No, please, go ahead,” Regulus muttered. “I need a distraction. What kind of news?”
“It’s good news,” she said, smiling hesitantly. “I met someone.”
“What?” All three boys sat up sharply, expressions turning comically alert. Pandora never said she’d met someone. She was perfectly content with casual flings, but she never smiled like that when talking about them. That warm, shy, quietly glowing smile was entirely new.
“Spill it, Pan,” Barty cried immediately, his eyes wide with excitement. “Come on, we need to know!”
Pandora glanced around at the three of them, her smile tugging wider by the second. “I think it might be love…” she said, sing-song, in that tone that made them all straighten up like schoolboys.
Regulus grinned. “That serious?”
She nodded, a bit breathless. “I think so.”
“Oh my God,” Barty gasped, flinging his arms in the air, and his glass with them. Sticky vodka-orange rained down onto Regulus’s expensive rug. “She’s got butterflies!”
“I do!” Pandora giggled, raising her own glass like a toast. Another splash joined the mess.
“Right, start from the beginning,” Evan said. “What’s his name? How’d you meet? What’s he like? Is he fit?”
“Is he big?” Barty added, far too enthusiastically.
Regulus choked on his drink, coughing as the citrus-vodka mix went down the wrong pipe. “Maybe keep it above the belt, Barty.”
“Prude.”
“Pervert.”
Barty stuck out his tongue. Regulus, already drunk enough to forget himself, stuck his out too.
Pandora rolled her eyes fondly. “Anyway,” she said, drawing all attention back to herself with a sweep of her hand. “So you know that theatre thing I mentioned? The Vinegar Tom one? I said I’d understudy—it’s for some friends from uni—since, well, I miss the stage, and I can’t really do anything full-time with filming going on.”
They all nodded.
“Well, Brianna got food poisoning. Called me last minute to step in. Just one night, no time to rehearse, barely had time to do hair and make-up. But I was on stage again, so it was worth it.”
She laughed, eyes wide and shining.
“And after the curtain call, I’m trying to sneak off to the loo before the crowd hits backstage, and this bloke just appears. I swear to God, he was just there all of a sudden.”
“Creepy,” Barty offered. “Continue.”
“He looked a bit stunned, honestly. Like he hadn’t meant to get past security, or like he’d confused himself into ending up there.” She laughed. “Said he was writing an article. For his magazine.”
“What? He has his own magazine?” Regulus asked.
She bit her lip. “I think so… He hasn’t shown me anything yet. Probably is a bit amateurish. But he said he was writing about ‘theatre as enchantment’, and claimed he’d never seen anyone perform the way I did.”
Regulus made a sceptical noise.
“I know,” she said, grinning. “Such a cliché line. But he meant it. You could hear it in the way he said it, like he wasn’t just being flirty. I think he genuinely believed it.”
“Alright, alright,” Barty cut in, flapping his hand. “This is all very adorable, but what’s he actually like?”
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Pandora said, already going a bit dreamy. “White-blond hair, down to his shoulders, always a bit windswept like he just wandered in off a cliffside. Looks like a bloody elf from a fantasy novel. Ridiculously nice hands.”
“Nice hands?” Barty snorted.
“They look like they belong on a marble statue,” she said with all the conviction of someone very drunk and very smitten. “And his jaw could cut glass. Honestly, I think most girls would fall over just watching him breathe.”
Barty raised his glass again. “If he’s that fit, I’m free next Thursday. Got a thing for blonds,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows at Evan.
Pandora waved him off, cheeks going pink. Yeah, she had it bad.
“He’s a bit odd, though. Not in a bad way. Just… offbeat. Says strange things sometimes. Like he sees a different world to everyone else. Doesn’t care what people think of him, and it shows. He’s just genuinely kind. Curious. Completely himself.” She turned to Regulus. “He reminds me of you.”
Regulus blinked. “Me?”
“Well, you when you first turned up at the flat. When everything seemed new and exciting. I could make you do anything, and your stubborn need to learn would make you go through with it.”
Regulus groaned. “I still haven’t forgiven you for making me watch Coronation Street.”
“Exactly,” she said, poking him. “He’s the same. Had never seen a play before. Didn’t understand the concept of interval drinks. Still gets confused by parking metres. Says words I’ve never heard. Like you did.”
Regulus froze. A cold feeling crept through his chest. “What’s his name?”
“Oh, it’s ridiculous,” she said with a grin. “Xenophilius.”
Evan burst out laughing. “His parents really did him in there. Course he’s gonna grow up a bit odd if they name him that.”
“I know, right?” Pandora said, giggling now too.
Regulus turned the name over in his head. It didn’t sound muggle, but it didn’t sound familiar either, but then he never remembered first names. Still, what were the chances of her meeting a wizard at one of her plays? And one who showed that much interest in muggle life? Those odds were practically non-existent.
They had to be.
“We should celebrate this,” he told the group, already reaching for the cupboard. “With wine. Good wine.”
Barty cheered. “Our Eton is cracking out the expensive shit!”
“For Pan, I will,” Regulus laughed, pulling out one of the many bottles he’d been given at premieres and press launches. Most of them cost a fortune, but at least the taste was worth it.
The wine was poured. Vodka-orange was still doing the rounds. He needed his friends to distract him properly, something they were always unnervingly good at. Within minutes, the flat dissolved into pure chaos.
At some point, Evan unearthed a stack of rejected film scripts from under a side table and immediately decided they were fair game.
“Alright,” he declared, holding one aloft like it was Hamlet, “this one’s set in a 24-hour café. The main character’s just had his heart broken and delivers an emotional monologue… to his sausage roll.”
“I hope that’s supposed to be symbolic,” Regulus muttered from the sofa, face half-buried in a cushion.
“It’s deranged,” Evan laughed. “Show us how it’s done, Pan.”
He handed her the script, but she barely glanced at it before chucking it onto the coffee table and yanking the throw cushion from Regulus’s face.
She slammed it down onto a plate like it had betrayed her personally.
“You don’t understand me, pastry!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “You never did! You were warm once, but now you’re cold and flaky. Just like him!”
Barty let out an approving howl, raising his glass. “That’s acting, baby!”
From there, as always, impressions took over.
Pandora’s Regulus involved deep sighs, rigid posture, and an exaggerated, posh accent. “Evan, my dear fellow,” she drawled, nose in the air, “do hand me the silk cravat—no, not the linen one—silk, I’m begging you.”
Regulus lifted his head, blinking at her in faint horror. “I do not sound like that.”
“You sound exactly like that,” Evan said, launching into his own impression, which somehow veered Welsh. He overcorrected wildly, ending up unintelligible and vaguely wheezy.
Then it was Barty’s turn.
“I shall now become Pandora,” he announced, clearing his throat. He started strong, his imitation of her Brighton accent surprisingly accurate, until it derailed into a ludicrous faux-French accent.
“You think I’m French?!” Pandora shrieked.
“You eat cheese for dinner and talk about your aura,” Barty shot back. “You are one baguette away from a beret.”
“Reggie actually speaks French!” Pandora pointed out, still affronted.
“I do,” Regulus said, sitting up now with far too much dignity for someone with wine and orange juice stains on his trackies. “And that accent was an act of violence.”
Barty shrugged. “Ze French, zey do not mind.”
“They absolutely would,” Regulus said, scandalised.
“Ahhh,” Barty waved him off, launching into a string of vaguely European sounds that included “hon hon,” “zut alors,” and something that might have been a goose honk.
Pandora doubled over laughing. Evan choked on his drink.
Regulus muttered, “Philistines,” and flopped back onto the sofa.
The laughter hadn’t even fully died down when Barty’s mentions of cheese and baguettes reminded them none of them had eaten. Within ten minutes, the kitchen was under siege.
They managed to unearth half a loaf of dry sourdough, some questionable cheese, and a lone stale breadstick.
Barty, drunk out of his mind by now, picked it up solemnly. “Do you think we’re like breadsticks?”
“No,” Evan said flatly, not looking up from the toaster, which he was attempting to resurrect. Regulus was fairly sure he’d fried it earlier with his burst of magic.
“Hollow inside. Crunchy on the outside. Destined to break under pressure.” Barty said wistfully, waving the breadstick like a cigarette. “I should write that down. For a song.”
“That should not be in a song,” they said in unison.
But Barty was already off, launching into a rambling story about one of his band’s house parties. He was midway through describing how he’d set off a firework in the drummer’s living room when Regulus, watching him with amusement, suddenly burst into giggles.
“Your posh voice is coming out again,” he said, pointing.
Everyone turned.
“You sound like the Eton boy you always accuse me of being,” Regulus insisted, still giggling. “Listen to you. Where’s your East End charm gone?”
“I do not sound posh,” Barty said sharply, which only made it worse.
Pandora gasped, eyes wide. “Oh my God. You’re doing it again! Reg’s right!”
“It slips out when he’s knackered or halfway to plastered,” Evan said, grinning.
Barty gave him a betrayed look. Evan held up his hands, innocent. “Come on. Reg and Pan aren’t deaf. You’ve been drifting back into it for ages. You’ve got a bloody Tory MP for a dad, love, you were practically raised in Latin.” He turned back to Regulus, shooting him an amused smile. “You know, he switched his accent the minute he ran off with me, wasn’t even subtle about it.”
“It’s a rebellion,” Barty muttered, folding his arms.
“Rebellion?” Pandora grinned. “You iron your socks!”
“Comfort and protest can coexist,” Barty sniffed, adjusting his shirt with entirely too much haughtiness for someone sitting on the kitchen floor next to a stale breadstick.
A few drinks, a lot of teasing, and a shuffle back to the living room later, the ongoing talk of rebelling against shit parents nudged Regulus towards familiar ground.
“Sirius has tattoos,” he told the group. “Muggle tattoos,” he added, like it was proof of some great transgression.
Barty immediately burst out laughing. “Muggle,” he gasped. “Haven’t heard that in ages! What’s a non-muggle tattoo then? One of a horse in a blazer?”
He laughed so hard he rolled off the sofa and hit the floor with a thud.
“Fuckin’ hell,” came his voice from the floor, followed by another round of hysterical giggles.
Pandora was gone, properly wheezing. Evan had his head in his hands, trying not to snort.
“Oi, Reg,” Barty called from the floor, his face half-squished against the rug. “You’ve got half a fuckin’ skip’s worth of broken mugs under here.”
Regulus froze.
“Don’t touch that,” Evan muttered, not even looking up.
“I’m being helpful,” Barty said, already reaching.
“You’ll cut your hand open,” Evan warned.
“I won’t.” A pause. “Ow.”
Pandora dropped to the floor beside him, squinting under the sofa. “Reggie. Did you leave the window open again?”
“What?” Regulus blinked at her, his mind struggling to make sense of the words.
“The wind,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Like last time, remember? When it blew all those glasses off your kitchen counter in the night. I showed up and there were shards everywhere.”
“Right,” Regulus said quickly. “Yeah. Must’ve been that.”
The alcohol had made him temporarily forget out that incident. She’d arrived early before filming that day, just after one of his accidents. He’d had a rough morning, magic sparking out of him like a live wire, his temper a hair’s breadth from disaster. All it took was his telly short-circuiting from a misfire and suddenly the flat was a graveyard of shattered glass.
If she’d walked in just a few minutes earlier, she might’ve caught the blast full-force.
Fuck. Accidents like that were why he’d started seeing them less. Why he made excuses. He was a liability. And apparently, even James’s reparo couldn’t undo the kind of damage he did.
And here he was, drinking instead of keeping his distance. Letting his control slip.
As if mocked by the thought, his body sent out a wave of accidental magic and a vodka bottle launched itself off the counter and straight into his hand. He was like a little kid again, magic responding uncontrollably to his will.
“I must be really drunk,” Barty said suddenly, staring, “because I swear I just saw that bottle fly into Reg’s hand.”
Everyone looked at him.
He laughed, loud and unbothered, flopping onto his back. Pandora followed, breathless. Evan started laughing too, rubbing at his face.
Regulus took a long, deep gulp of his drink, and then he couldn’t help but laugh too.
He’d take control back tomorrow. That’s what he kept telling himself.
Chapter 12: Part III - Chapter 4
Chapter Text
Sirius apparated straight into Regulus’s flat at six on Friday evening, making him immediately regret his lack of wards. It wasn’t as if he shared the hallway with anyone, Sirius could’ve just apparated outside the door and knocked.
But big brothers were rarely built to respect privacy. Unfortunately.
It had always infuriated Regulus: Sirius would barge into his room whenever it pleased him, but if Regulus dared return the favour, the entire house would be woken by his brother’s outrage. Hypocrisy at its finest.
“You ready to go?” Sirius said the moment he spotted him, grinning as though they were twelve and thirteen again, buttoned into stiff formalwear for yet another interminable ball Walburga forced them to attend.
Back then, Sirius would appear in his doorway without so much as a knock, his own door left open just enough to grant Regulus a forbidden glimpse into his brother’s room. His tie would be crooked, his robes dusted with tiny flecks of Gryffindor red lint to irritate Mother.
And at twelve, Regulus would march up, wordless, and start straightening his brother out. He’d fix the tie with careful fingers, pick every speck of lint from the fabric, not stopping until Sirius looked as immaculate as he did himself.
Sirius would always grin that crooked grin. “Quit it, you bloody perfectionist. You act like Mother,” he’d say, ruffling Regulus’s hair and ruining the carefully controlled curls.
Regulus hated that. Hated the comparison. He hadn’t wanted to be like her, not then, not now. He just wanted Sirius to behave. If he could manage it, why couldn’t Sirius? Why did he always make it harder than it had to be?
“Reggie?”
His name cut through the memory, and Regulus blinked, nodding briskly. “I’m ready. Will you apparate us?”
“Well, I doubt that fireplace is hooked up to the Floo network,” Sirius said, nodding towards the fireplace that Regulus tended to use as an additional bookshelf.
“It’s not,” was all Regulus said, and Sirius’s smile faltered for a beat at the flatness of his tone.
Then, just as quickly, he pasted it back on, too bright now. “I wanted to pick you up on my motorbike, but Remus told me to save it for another time. When you’re a bit more comfortable with us.”
“You live close enough to pick me up by bike?”
Sirius barked a laugh. “No, we live in Wales.”
“You wanted me to get on a motorcycle with you all the way to Wales?”
“It’s a flying motorbike,” Sirius said, looking stupidly proud. “I altered it myself.”
A flying motorbike, that’s such a typical Sirius idea. Completely impractical. Completely absurd. He didn’t want to think about how Sirius had done it. He really didn’t. But just the suggestion was enough to set his mind whirring.
To get a motorbike in the air—properly in the air, with controllable long-distance flight—you’d need more than a simple levitation charm. His mind went to broom runes first, but those wouldn’t stabilise something that heavy. Maybe wingardium leviosa or the volatus spell, though neither was designed for sustained lift or directional control. But if he could just combine the principles of both, create something new, it might work.
His fingers twitched. It had been years since he’d let himself really think in spells, but now the thoughts came unwarranted. His mouth nearly shaped a spell under his breath. Levilatus? Wingardium levilatus? No. Too clunky. And what kind of wand movement would that bastardisation of Latin even need?
But he could take it further. What if you could keep the internal engine, preserve all that beautiful muggle craftmanship, and layer the spellwork around it? Rune-assisted energy conversion, what a thought! If you anchored it into the engine itself, made the combustion fuel the spell… could magic and petrol even cooperate? Probably not. Probably yes. Gods.
A sigil etched into the engine casing to absorb kinetic output and convert it, fuelling the enchantments that kept the thing in the sky.
He could see the runes already.
He didn’t notice the smile pulling at his mouth until Sirius laughed. “You’re thinking about the magic, aren’t you?”
Of course he was, and of course Sirius could tell. That had always been their common ground, hadn’t it? The thrill of spell crafting, the satisfaction of breaking existing systems and building new ones. The temptation of pushing the boundaries until they warped or broke.
“I’ve still got my notes, if you wanna take a look,” his brother added.
Regulus shook his head. He hadn’t meant to fall back into it. He was fine without magic. Perfectly functional. He didn’t need it. He didn’t miss it. He certainly didn’t need to be sketching out enchantment structures like some overeager schoolboy. What would be the point? Muggles had their own ways. If he wanted to fly, he could rent a helicopter, or book a plane ticket. Even a bloody hot air balloon, if he felt so inclined.
“No, I was thinking about the motorcycle. What kind do you drive?”
As expected, that worked to distract Sirius. “Right! That cabdriver mentioned you riding a Bonneville in one of your muggle films. Mine’s a Bonneville too. A 1959 Triumph. Bloody amazing vehicle.”
“I know,” Regulus said, his smile returning. “I got to ride it on a deserted American highway for a scene. It felt like flying.”
“Oh no,” Sirius laughed. “You haven’t felt it in the air yet, then. Ground riding doesn’t even come close to flying. In the air, there’s no traffic, no road, no rules. Wind in your hair, any direction you want. You know what it’s like. You loved your broom more than anyone I knew. You or James, maybe. Both as bad as each other when it came to Quidditch.”
Regulus’s smile slipped, his tone becoming sharper. “I like riding it in the streets just fine. You don’t need the air to enjoy it.” He shook his head, cutting the topic off. “You mentioned Wales. That where we’re going now?”
“Yeah. Remus and I have a flat in Abergavenny.”
“Why there?”
Sirius smiled. “We moved there after the war. Lived here in London first, but once it was all over, Remus wanted to be near his mum, since she can’t exactly apparate to visit. We’ve stayed there ever since. It’s a good flat. Affordable. Nicely located. Comfortable apparating distance from James, too. He lives in Godric’s Hollow with Lily. In the Potter cottage.”
“James lives with Evans?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Sirius didn’t seem to think anything of it. Just nodded. “Yeah. When Moony and I moved in together after Hogwarts, James invited Lily to move in with him. Didn’t want to be alone during the war, you see?”
Regulus nodded as though he understood. He didn’t. What did that even mean? Moved in together? Like, sharing a bed, or separate rooms?
He’d concluded James was single after Monday’s fight, but now he was starting to doubt himself.
It had to be separate. James had always been loyal to the bone. There was no way he’d come to Regulus and say the things he had if he’d been in a relationship with Evans.
Right?
How much could war change a person?
“Ready?” Sirius asked again, offering his arm like some gentleman from a fifties film.
Regulus stepped forward and took it, wrapping his hand around the thick leather of Sirius’s jacket. The warmth was immediate. Sirius had always run hot, Regulus’s was perpetually cold.
He expected to be whisked away immediately, but nothing happened. Ten seconds passed. He looked up. Sirius was staring at him with a weird look in his eyes.
“I’m waiting,” Regulus said, eyebrow raised.
“Right, sorry. Got distracted.”
And then it happened.
He hadn’t side-along apparated in years. Probably not since he was small, travelling with Father to some pureblood manor.
He’d forgotten how wretched it was.
The sensation was horrible, like his body had been pulled apart into threads and flung across space, only to be shoved back together by uncaring, raging magic. The moment his feet touched solid ground again, he dropped to his knees and dry-heaved onto a colourful rug.
Bloody hell, apparition on an adult body not used to it was not pleasant. He might actually prefer a three-hour cab ride to Wales. At least you kept your dignity that way.
A hand landed on his shoulder. Regulus slapped it away. “Give me a minute. I’m fine.”
He got slowly to his feet, brushing off invisible lint like he hadn’t just keeled over onto someone’s floor. “See? Fine.”
His eyes flicked from Sirius’s worried expression to the man beside him. Remus Lupin. His brother’s partner.
He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Lupin. Hello. It’s good to see you again.”
Lupin shook his hand with surprising firmness. His skin was warm, the scars along his knuckles and fingers raised and uneven beneath his touch. The scarring seemed to have worsened over the last six years. Regulus had always wondered what kind of condition left someone marked like that, his only theory too outlandish to even entertain.
“Call me Remus,” he said easily. “Since I’m not about to call you ‘Black.’ That would feel wrong.”
Regulus gave a small nod, withdrawing his hand and glancing around the flat, needing something to look at that wasn’t either of their faces. It was small, but not cramped. Lived-in. A round table with four mismatched chairs. A compact kitchen with just enough counter space for the necessities. On the hob, a large pot was gently simmering, steam puffing out from under the lid.
The sitting room had one battered sofa and a threadbare armchair turned slightly toward the fireplace, where a modest tin of Floo powder sat on the mantle. There were no plants, which was unsurprising. Sirius had always murdered houseplants with spectacular speed. But the flat was warm, all russet tones and soft lighting. It was the polar opposite of Grimmauld Place.
And Regulus could see how Sirius might be happy here. There was something quiet about it. A place where someone like his brother might come in, shrug off all that charisma and restless energy, and simply be.
His gaze landed on the collection of moving photographs spread across the shelves and low cabinets. There were snapshots of Sirius, Lupin, James, and Evans, even Dorcas in a few, and a handful of other Gryffindor faces he vaguely recognised. Strangely, there were none of the fourth Marauder, Pettigrew.
“Your home is lovely,” Regulus said, aiming for a sincere smile.
Lupin nodded. “We love it here. It’s small, but it’s ours. Not quite like the place Sirius described you living in, though.”
“Mine’s too big for one person. It’s… excessive.” He supposed that was true, though he liked his flat all the same. Still, trained politeness compelled him to add, “This is quaint. Homey.”
“Quaint,” Sirius repeated, laughing. “Merlin, Reg, you sound like Mother politely insulting someone’s sitting room.”
“It wasn’t meant as an insult,” Regulus protested immediately.
Sirius only laughed harder, slinging a hand across his back and steering him toward the table. A glass of red wine was handed to him.
“Moony made beef stew with mash,” Sirius said. “Still needs a bit more time on the stove, so we figured we’d have a glass while we wait.”
They all sat down. Regulus took a sip of the wine, letting it sit on his tongue a moment. Fruity. A touch of oak. Balanced enough, though the finish was a bit short.
“Rioja?” he asked, peering at the glass out of habit.
Lupin gave a modest smile. “Not a particularly fine one, I’m afraid. But I thought you might prefer wine over beer.”
Regulus nodded, swirling the wine lightly. He glanced at the label. “It’s good. Solid bottle.”
Sirius raised his glass in salute. “Remus called it. Said you’d probably be more of a wine type. Have to say, I’ve grown fond of the stuff too.”
Regulus allowed a smile. “You were never one for subtlety, so I’m surprised it suits you.”
“Shows how much you know,” Sirius said, grinning over the rim of his glass. “I’m extremely subtle these days.”
That earned a snort from Lupin, but after that, silence fell and they were left staring at each other, sipping wine.
Because Sirius was right, Regulus didn’t know Sirius anymore, and Sirius didn’t know him either. How were they meant to talk about anything real when they didn’t even know what the other cared about?
And that knowledge left the three of them sitting here, careful and deliberately light, like colleagues at an obligatory work dinner. Or, if he was feeling generous, like distant cousins awkwardly reconnecting years after spending one family holiday together.
“So,” Lupin began, carefully casual. “You’re a muggle actor now.”
“I am, yes.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I love it,” Regulus said simply. “Can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“You always wanted to go into experimental magic,” Sirius said suddenly, tilting his head at Regulus.
Regulus shot him a glare. “Well, things changed.”
There was a beat of silence. Lupin was the one to break it again. “Must be hard work.”
“Lot of early mornings,” Regulus conceded. “But not any harder than most jobs, I think. And the benefits are better than I’d ever dreamed of. Though I didn’t expect to have to give up my privacy and anonymity. Fame wasn’t really something I planned for. I don’t think anyone can really prepare for it.”
“You’re certainly famous now,” Sirius said with forced brightness. “You were on almost every poster in that cinema. And you’ve got actual fans. Wild, really. My baby brother, a proper star.”
Regulus allowed a flicker of a smile. “We’re both stars.”
That seemed to please Sirius more than it should. “Yeah, we are. Just two stars in a big black sky,” he grinned, like they were children on their backs in the grass again. Then the smile fell. “But you’re a muggle star now too. I don’t know if that made it easier to find you, or harder. We might not have known you were alive if not for that, but you also seemed… unreachable. It was pure luck we found out about that concert.”
“How’d you even find Barty?” Regulus wondered. He couldn’t picture any of them stumbling into a Bloodrot concert without getting thrown out or mugged.
“One of your fans told us about the show.”
Regulus choked. “What?”
Sirius looked ready to elaborate, probably with something infuriating. But Lupin, mercifully, cut in. “We were in London for the day with James and Lily. In the evening, Lily and I proposed we’d go to the cinema. The girl at the ticket counter recommended Icarus, said she was an Eton fan. After we watched it, we spoke to her. She gave us the concert date.”
“Just like that?”
Sirius scratched the back of his neck, sheepish now. “Well… she was suspicious. So I may have promised her a meet and greet.”
“A what?”
“She insisted. ‘Meet and greet,’ her words. I’m assuming it’s literal.”
Regulus groaned. “I know what a bloody meet and greet is. I don’t do them.”
“Well, you do now. For Leah, our saviour. Remus saved her number. Give it to your manager or something.”
Regulus stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or curse him. It was a well-known fact: Eton Arcturus didn’t do meet and greets. His manager would laugh at the idea. And yet… he had to admit, this Leah girl had played it perfectly. She’d seen her chance and bartered it for the impossible. He almost admired her nerve.
But then something else hit him. Sirius—and James, by extension—had watched Icarus. He’d heard them mention a film, but he stupidly hadn’t connected it to the only film of his currently in cinemas.
His stomach turned. Icarus had been a very personal project, something he’d poured his heart and soul and deepest feelings into.
Especially, the end, that smile. He hadn’t planned the expression. The final scene was meant to show Icarus realising his fate, desperate, then cut to his broken body on the rocks, Daedalus grieving.
The film had always been more about Daedalus than Icarus after all.
But in that moment, under the artificial sunlight, Regulus had lost himself. He’d looked up, and thought of him. His sun. If he’d had to die, he’d have chosen that, dying for his light. The film became a symbol of the other path he might have taken then. So, he’d smiled.
The director had loved it and kept it in. Made it the final shot even.
And now Sirius had seen it. James had seen it.
He grabbed his glass and drained the rest of the wine in a single swallow.
Lupin’s eyebrows lifted. Sirius blinked.
Regulus’s hand hovered over the wine bottle before deciding not to refill his glass, then changed his mind anyway and poured a little too much. “How long until dinner?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
Any traces of a smile vanished from their faces. Lupin stood, crossed to the stove, and lifted the lid of the stew. “I guess we could serve it now.” He glanced at Sirius. “Help me set the table?”
Sirius nodded, pulling a folded tablecloth from a cupboard. It looked homemade, thick cotton with slightly uneven embroidery. It must have come from Lupin’s mother, none of the Blacks would ever deign to make anything by hand.
“Can I do anything?” Regulus asked.
“Plates are in the left cupboard, cutlery in the drawer,” Sirius said, smiling again. At this rate, he’d have an ache in his cheek from acting so cheerful all night.
Regulus set each plate by hand, laying the cutlery carefully beside it. Two pairs of eyebrows rose, but thankfully, neither of them commented on his choice not to use magic for the simple task.
Soon they were seated, three bowls of beef and mushroom stew in front of them, mash pressed to one side, steam curling into the space between. On the surface, they almost looked like a family reunited, sharing a quiet meal. Two loving brothers, no heavy history between them. It was so farcical that Regulus had the sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh.
After all taking a bite in silence, Regulus asked about the war. Nothing pointed or painful, he hoped. He only wanted a working map of the current magical world.
Sirius launched straight into the story of the Death Eater trials. A Lestrange had been caught first, fanatical to the end. The Carrows followed soon after, then Dolohov, Macnair, Mulciber, and Rookwood, all of them handed life sentences. Even Jugson, Rowle, and Travers had ended up in Azkaban.
“Crabbe and Goyle, both in,” Sirius added. “Thick as bricks, the pair of them, but nasty. Left their sons with their poor wives.”
Regulus felt the names tick by like old ghosts. Every familiar face from the Slytherin common room, from detentions and Quidditch practice and quiet conversations in the dormitory. Most of his roommates were gone now. Dead or imprisoned. The three years above him, too.
“Lucius Malfoy got off,” Sirius scoffed. “Imperius defence. Can you believe it?”
“Of course I can,” Regulus muttered. “He always had a tongue made for grovelling.”
He’d never liked Lucius. Everything about him was performance, all smoothed edges and calculation. Only, unlike Regulus, Lucius didn’t seem to have an actual person tucked away underneath. Still, he was glad Narcissa wasn’t left alone, especially after Sirius mentioned she had a son now.
“Nott got off as well,” Lupin added. “And Parkinson. Slippery bastards. Enough gold and the right name can still buy freedom, apparently.”
That was when another face rose in Regulus’s mind. A half-blood a year above him. Evans’ friend. Regulus could’ve sworn Sirius had hated him with a passion, so he couldn’t imagine him keeping quiet if he was rotting in a cell now.
“What about Snape?” he asked.
The reaction was immediate. Silence. Sirius looked like he’d just bitten into something sour.
“He’s… complicated,” Lupin said carefully. “He was imprisoned at first. But Dumbledore intervened. Claimed he was working for the Order undercover.”
Regulus blinked. “Snape? A spy?”
Even saying it felt absurd. But then again… even at Hogwarts, he’d always been different. An impoverished half-blood in Slytherin, tolerated more than liked. He’d always been called a mudblood-lover for his closeness with Evans. But Regulus thought that, in the end, the Marauders and other Slytherins had beaten that friendship out of him.
“I’m quite sure he was about to be initiated when I left,” Regulus said slowly. “Are you certain?”
“We’re sure. The coward switched last minute,” Sirius cut in flatly, all warmth gone from his voice. “But he killed Bellatrix.”
That shut him up.
Bellatrix. Dead.
He stared at the edge of his plate, the smear of stew thick against the rim. It should have struck him harder. They were talking about their cousin. But all he felt was a hollow kind of stillness.
She’d always been touched, even before the war. The family madness had taken root in her too early and bloomed too wildly, a warning and a fear for every Black. Someone would have had to take her down, sooner or later. It only surprised him that it had been Snape, of all people. It must have been kept secret during the war, there was no way he’d have survived otherwise, not as a half-blood killing a Black.
Although there was clearly a story left unspoken, Sirius didn’t seem inclined to continue it. He leaned back in his chair and fixed Regulus with a look that was just a little too casual. “So,” he drawled, “what happened when you ran? You weren’t homeless or anything, right?”
Regulus blinked at the bluntness. “No,” he said, shaking his head quickly. “I had a lot of muggle money. Thanks to Kreacher, actually.”
The name made guilt twist in his chest. He completely forgotten about Kreacher after James, and wasn’t that just horrible? He made a quiet mental note to fix that as soon as he got home. Every day he delayed meant another day the elf was trapped in that house.
“I planned on getting a room at some muggle hotel,” he went on, eyes fixed on his wine glass. “But—I don’t know. Maybe mother magic was looking out for me. Because Barty found me that first day and offered me a place to stay.”
“Just like that?” Lupin asked, his brow lifting slightly.
Regulus nodded. “Just like that. He expected nothing in return. I think—honestly—I think he saved me.”
Sirius made a sound like he wasn’t sure what to say to that.
Regulus didn’t wait for him to figure it out. “He introduced me to his boyfriend, Evan, and their friend Pandora. They became my best friends within a week. We were living in this tiny flat, no separate rooms, barely enough space for the four of us, but we loved it. More than I’ve ever loved anywhere else, really.”
He smiled at the memory. Could feel it again: the hum of records on Sundays, Evan’s laughter in the kitchen, Barty throwing popcorn at the telly, Pandora teaching them her horrible interpretive dances.
“I lived with them until 1980. Then I moved to the US for work, and they came with me, at least for a while. But we were apart more there, it was harder. Barty and Evan left first, found a proper place just for the two of them back in London. But Pandora and I shared a flat for a few months in L.A. before she moved back too.”
He’d never grown closer to anyone than he had to Pandora in those months. Just the two of them, sharing a kitchen and a sofa and a city that wasn’t their own. They’d become Regulus and Pandora there, not two separate people, but their little team, and he’d loved it.
“And now that you’re back,” Lupin asked, “are you still as close?”
“Always,” Regulus said. “Though it’s harder now, of course. We’re not teenagers anymore. There’s careers now, responsibilities. It’s different.”
Lupin nodded, slowly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “We feel it too. Among the Marauders. It used to be everything. Each other. And now we’re supposed to be adults, and it’s all pulled a little thinner. Life gets in the way, and suddenly you’re scheduling your friendship like it’s an appointment.”
Sirius frowned, he didn’t seem ready to talk about that. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand, not so subtly changing the subject. “James and I met Barty and Evan at that concert. They were… intense. Protective. If Barty were a wizard he’d have hexed a bloke for sneezing in your direction.”
Regulus chuckled. “He’d definitely misuse magic.”
“They seem like good people,” Sirius said. “And they matched each other well.”
“They’re the best,” Regulus replied immediately, a proud smile on his face before he could stop it. “They’ve been together for seven years now. I honestly think they’ll stay together for life. Can’t imagine anything else. I think they showed me what love’s supposed to look like.”
Sirius and Lupin shared a look, something silent passing between them. Then Sirius reached across the table and took Lupin’s hand, fingers curling easily into his.
“I know the feeling,” Sirius said, quieter now. “We just celebrated our six-year anniversary.”
Regulus blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, smiling properly now. “Would have been longer if I hadn’t been such an idiot at Hogwarts.” He shot Lupin an apologetic smile, but Lupin only shook his head fondly.
Regulus studied them for a moment. His brother—reckless, brash, always burning too bright—and the man beside him, all quiet steadiness and worn-in kindness. There was something real in the way they looked at each other. That same rare timelessness he saw with Barty and Evan.
The rest of the dinner went surprisingly well. The food helped; it was the sort of homemade meal that warmed you from the inside out and made everything seem happier. Lupin had probably cooked it for that exact reason.
After the mention of Snape, they steered clear of anything to do with the war. It seemed to be an unspoken rule everyone in the flat understood, though no one had said it aloud. Conversation stayed light, superficial really, because that felt safer.
Lupin—or Remus, since he felt more like a brother-in-law than anything—helped. He kept the conversation flowing, talking about his job at a small academic bookshop, which somehow led to the latest developments in magical theory and defensive wards. Apparently, slow weekday shifts left him ample time to read.
Regulus hadn’t meant to be so interested, but he found himself leaning in, asking question after question. He only realised how long they’d been talking when Sirius groaned and flopped across the table.
“Bloody hell, are you two going to shag over books or what?”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Remus replied, not even looking up.
That was the cue for Sirius to hijack the conversation, and soon he was recounting all of the Marauders’ misadventures at Hogwarts, most of them outrageously exaggerated. Still, Regulus laughed in spite of himself. He countered with stories from nights out with Barty and Evan, and the time Pandora got them kicked out of a jazz club in New York for sneaking in a baby rat she’d ‘adopted’.
But it was all going a little too well. And as if the universe had decided they’d had enough of it, the Floo roared behind him, green flame crackling through the fireplace.
A second later, James Potter stepped out.
Both Sirius and Remus spun around, twin frowns creasing their faces.
“Prongs?” Sirius said. “What are you doing here?”
James, smiling sheepishly, held up a pie tin. “I brought dessert. Treacle tart.”
Regulus didn’t miss the sharp glance exchanged between his hosts. James hadn’t been expected. And he definitely hadn’t been invited. But neither of them called him on it, because of course not. James was James.
Remus moved first, getting up to pull him into a hug, the tart taken gently from his hands. “Your mum’s recipe?”
“Of course. It’s not as good as hers though.”
Remus gave him a sad look, his hand resting on James’s shoulder. “I don’t know. She taught you well. I’m sure it’s delicious.”
Regulus frowned at that. Something about the phrasing and the glances concerned him. He hoped Euphemia Potter was alright, she must be getting older now.
But James had already moved on. “Sorry to crash the party,” he said, glancing around the table, then letting his eyes settle on Regulus for just a moment too long. “It was killing me not knowing how things were going. Figured someone would’ve been hexed by now. Wanted to see who.”
“Charming,” Regulus muttered.
James ignored him. “Besides, this way I can drop Regulus back home. Save Sirius the trouble of double apparition from Wales to London and back.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “I could’ve taken him.”
“You’ve worked all day,” James said, waving a hand. “Then you had to cook dinner too. Bet you’re knackered.”
“I’m not—”
“Besides,” James cut in, smiling far too much now, “Regulus doesn’t mind, right?”
Regulus met his gaze, grey to brown.
He glared.
James grinned.
It would be suspicious to object now. More suspicious than going along with it. So Regulus forced a tight smile and nodded. “I don’t mind.”
“See?” James grinned, far too smug, and without waiting for so much as a nod, dropped into the last empty chair. “How was Moony’s stew? Brilliant, right?”
It was silent for a minute, as everyone in the flat stared at James and his weird behaviour. The tension was rising fast, and Regulus knew that if he didn’t cut through it, Sirius would start asking questions. So he did the thing he was globally praised for: he acted.
“It was delicious,” he said, voice light and a happy smile on his face. “It’s been a good night.” He turned to Sirius, “Thank you for making this so easy.”
Sirius beamed at that, as though James’s strange behaviour had vanished from his memory. “No, Reggie, thank you. For showing up. For being here.”
The sincerity in his brother’s voice caught him off guard, and suddenly there was a lump in his throat, all acting forgotten.
He didn’t want this to get emotional, not in front of James, who was probably watching for cracks in his control. Like Regulus was some kind of time bomb they’d all politely gathered to watch.
He swallowed hard and pivoted. “So that’s three out of four Marauders. Should I expect Pettigrew to show up any minute now, too?”
Somehow, that was the worst thing he could have said. The whole room went deathly quiet, all three faces as pale as parchment. Nobody said a word. Sirius looked like he might be sick.
Regulus blinked. “What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
The silence was deafening. And that only made him want to know more. He needed to know. The tension was crawling across his skin now, his magic prickling at the edges, responding to the shift in atmosphere.
It was Remus who spoke at last, voice tight, eyes sparking with an anger Regulus had never thought him capable of. “Peter Pettigrew is in Azkaban.”
Regulus felt the blood leave his face as he stared at the young men around the table. “Why?”
More silence, irritating now. Magic built under his skin, like lightning gathering before the strike.
James must have sensed it, because he finally spoke. “Igor Karkaroff named him at his trial, trying to shave a few years off. Ministry followed up. Found the Mark on Pettigrew’s arm.”
He wasn’t looking at Regulus, just twisting a napkin in his hands as he delivered each word like a court sentence. “Turns out, he switched sides during the war. Was scared we were losing and wanted to be on the right side of history. He started feeding information to the Death Eaters. Because of him, most of our last missions went sideways. More casualties. Way more dead than needed.”
Sirius gripped his dessert spoon so tightly his knuckles had gone white. “The fucker nearly got James and Lily killed,” he said hoarsely. “And we didn’t even know.”
Let him rot in hell.
The thought came so fast it felt like a strike. Regulus froze. The viciousness of it stunned him. He hadn’t meant to think it, hadn’t known he could feel that kind of fury. But the image of someone hurting James lit something brutal inside him. And it hadn’t been a stranger. It had been someone James had trusted, someone he’d shared his brilliant light with.
His magic surged.
There was a crack like gunfire. His plate split clean in two, treacle tart slumping onto the table.
Silence fell. Everyone stared.
Regulus eyes shot to James, wide and urgent. Help, he begged silently.
He didn’t want Sirius to know it had been him. Didn’t want him looking too closely at his magic. Didn’t want him to notice the lack of a wand, the way Regulus just sat there like he didn’t know what to do.
He could feel it already. That old weight of Sirius’s disappointed stares. It would all happen so fast, one evening of feeling like equals gone just like that, and Sirius would see him the way he used to: a dangerous mess who needs saving.
Sirius had always looked down on him.
James understood instantly. Without missing a beat, he said, “That was me.” He smiled apologetically at everyone. “Sorry, lads. Bad memories.” He pulled out his wand, mended the plate with a flick, and placed it gently back down.
Sirius and Remus were both staring at him now.
“You alright, Prongs?” Remus asked carefully.
“Bad night,” James admitted, shrugging. “And Lily’s out with Mary, so I needed a distraction. I’m sorry for coming over and crashing your dinner.”
“You’re always welcome,” Sirius said at once, no hesitation. Then, “Let’s talk about something else. Reg, you said you were working on a film with Pandora. What’s it about?”
Chapter 13: Part III - Chapter 5
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was nearly ten when Regulus stood, brushed invisible crumbs from his jumper, and quietly asked James to take him home. Thankfully, no one pressed him to stay, they all knew better than to push it tonight.
But the goodbyes came with hugs. So many hugs.
First, Remus pulled James into a firm hug, murmuring something low and private against his ear. Sirius followed, slinging his arms around James with typical flair, leaning in to whisper his own parting words. James rolled his eyes at them both, though a smile tugged at his mouth.
Off to the side, Regulus folded his arms, pretending he wasn’t watching. Then Sirius turned to him, head cocked like a hopeful dog.
“Can I give you a hug too, Reggie?”
Regulus sighed but nodded. “If you must.”
Sirius beamed and wrapped him up in a warm, slightly too-tight embrace. It lasted longer than it should have, but Sirius had always been greedy with affection. One more reason he’d clashed so violently with Grimmauld Place. Regulus stood still, let it happen, and, eventually, allowed himself to lean in just a fraction. Just enough to bury his nose in the thick mess of curls at Sirius’s shoulder.
He still smelled the same. Like sun-warmed cotton and wind and something faintly scorched, like a fire had just been put out.
It was stupidly comforting, but Regulus would never admit that out loud.
When he pulled away, Sirius gave him a wistful little smile. Regulus looked away, raising his eyebrows in James’s direction instead.
“Ready?” James asked, already reaching for Regulus’s upper arm.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the extremely uncomfortable feeling of once again being yanked halfway across the country in mere seconds, and nodded.
Crack.
But this time… huh.
It wasn’t as awful. Still horrible, but not painful the way it had been before. Less like being shredded by furious magic and more like being squeezed through a tube of toothpaste by irritated magic.
Why wasn’t it as bad this time? Did James’s magic just… work better with his than Sirius’s did? Was their magic just unusually compatible? The thought flitted in and out before he could stop it, leaving behind the need to physically cringe. Oh no. That was exactly the kind of thing someone would say in a terrible romance novel. The kind that cost one knut and had titles like Spellbound Hearts. He should be fined for even thinking it.
And as he opened his eyes, the actual answer to the difference in comfort levels was obvious.
This was not his London flat.
It was a garden. A proper one. Damp grass, tall trees swaying in the breeze, a winding stone path that led to a small, slate-roofed cottage nestled in ivy, surrounded by a village of similar cottages.
Regulus turned to James, eyes hard as he growled. “Where the fuck are we, Potter?”
“Potter again?” James raised his eyebrows, grinning that stupid grin of his.
“Where. Are. We.”
“My back garden,” James said casually, already striding off towards a shed at the edge of the lawn. “One tick.”
Regulus followed, livid, catching James by the arm and spinning him back round. “I’m not in the mood for your bloody games. Get me home. Now.”
James yanked his arm free, matching Regulus’s glare. “For Merlin’s sake, Reg, relax. I am getting you home. I just need my broom and cloak first. I stashed them here earlier.”
“You bloody planned this?”
James didn’t answer. He ducked into the shed instead, rummaging about with an unnecessary amount of noise. “Aha!” he shouted a moment later, emerging with a broom in one hand and something shimmering and half-invisible in the other. “Found them! Wind must’ve blown the cloak right over the broom. Brilliant camouflage, if I say so myself.”
He looked proud enough to be knighted. Regulus did not share the sentiment.
“That’s an Invisibility Cloak,” he said flatly.
James winked. “Good eye.”
“You don’t need a broom and an invisibility cloak for apparition.”
“Nope!” James stepped past him, out into the garden again, swinging a leg over the broom. “But we’re not apparating. We’re flying.”
Regulus stared. “We’re not flying to London.”
James grinned, cloak now half-draped round him, making bits of his body flicker in and out of sight. “We are!”
“Are you mad? Apparate me home, right now.”
But James was already pushing off the ground, rising just enough to hover and spin lazily in midair. The wind caught his hair and the visible side of the cloak shimmered in the dark.
Regulus had never missed his wand more. He didn’t just want to hex James; he wanted to invent a new spell to launch him straight into the moon. Let him fly all he liked, in zero-gravity, for the rest of eternity.
“Come on, get on.”
“No.”
James exhaled hard through his nose. “Please?”
“I’m not getting on that thing.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” Regulus snapped. “You can’t seriously expect me to fly halfway across the country on a broom, James. We’re not teenagers.”
“You’re twenty-two,” James said, stepping off the broom again. “Don’t act like you’re some ancient, brittle-boned muggle man who’s never seen a broomstick.”
“I haven’t touched a broom in years,” Regulus hissed. “I haven’t even—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched. “I’m not doing this.”
James stared at him. “You’d rather hike six miles to the nearest train station in the dark?”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“With what phone, exactly? We’re in Godric’s Hollow.”
“I’ll walk to a nearby village, find a telephone booth.”
“Then walk, Regulus,” James said, voice sharp now. “But don’t stand there pretending you’re being reasonable. You’re scared? Fine. Say that. But don’t pretend this thing you’re doing to your magic is normal.”
Regulus flinched, only slightly. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, and it came out too raw. Too revealing. His voice didn’t snarl, it pleaded. “Why won’t you just take me home? I can’t apparate, James. You’ve cornered me, and I’ve got no way out. That’s not fair.”
“I—” James faltered. “Don’t you miss it?” he asked quietly. “The wind in your hair? The magic at your fingertips? You were a brilliant Seeker. The sky misses you.”
“The sky can’t miss. It’s not sentient.”
James gave a small huff of laughter. “That’s dumb. The world’s magic, Reg. There’s magic in the air, in the trees, in the stars. In you. It can miss you.”
“That’s some pureblood nonsense.”
“Oh, come off it,” James groaned, striding towards him, broom in one hand, cloak trailing from his shoulder. Regulus took a step back instinctively. “You can deny your magic all you want. Your history. Me. Pretend like none of it exists until it suits you. But the facts remain the facts.”
“You’re confusing fact with sentiment, Potter.”
“Don’t Potter me,” James snapped, his voice echoing across the garden. Regulus glanced briefly at the cottages around them. If the place wasn’t warded, some curious neighbour might already be edging toward the window with a cuppa. “Are you even gonna tell Sirius? That you’re struggling with your magic? That you don’t even carry your wand anymore?”
Regulus scoffed. “Of course I’m not going to tell him. And neither will you.”
James ran both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. He muttered something under his breath, sharp and low.
“I won’t tell him your secrets,” he said, more calmly now. “But… this is your world too, Reg. Whether you want it or not. You can pretend you’ve outgrown it—the magic, the environment, the people—but it still knows you. It still wants you back. And one day, you’re going to want it too. You can’t outrun that forever.”
Regulus stared at James, wide-eyed and silent.
Had he been running?
Of course he had. But running sounds frantic, running sounds unplanned. His running was nothing like that. He’d vanished. Strategically and gracefully. Like pulling a sheet over a corpse.
He hadn’t lost anything he wasn’t prepared to lose. He had chosen this.
And he’d chosen well. He’d built a life with four crisp, non-magical walls around him. Polished floors. Sharp suits. Cameras flashing like electric lights instead of spells. A world where his name gleamed in gold and his face stared back from cinema screens six feet tall. Untouchable, that’s what he’d become.
He didn’t need magic. That was the point. That was the freedom. He had cut the cord and burned the rope behind him.
And yet.
And yet…
He wasn’t trying to outrun magic, he was desperately anchoring himself to his non-magical walls to stop himself from turning around and running back.
Because what if—what if—he let it in, even a little, and couldn’t stop? What if one lumos lit up a hole inside him? What if one levitated teacup undid six years of control? Because the terror wasn’t in the magic, it was in the knowledge that even after everything, James was right: he still wanted it. He still dreamed in Latin and fire.
But what kind of fool walks back into a fire and expects not to get burned?
He’d survived by refusing to find out.
So maybe the constant weight in his chest wasn’t longing, maybe it was pride. Pride in not needing it. Not being weak for it like all other wizards. Not aching for something that only caused problems.
Maybe his fear was rational. Because the war might’ve ended but the threat hadn’t. What if they recognised him in that other world, recognised that he’d lived while others hadn’t. What if he reached for magic, and it reached back with bloodied hands to ask him where he’d been?
Magic was a loaded gun, and Regulus Black didn’t trust himself not to pull the trigger. So he made it simple: he stayed away.
It didn’t matter that the war was over and that the trace had long since faded. Just don’t use it. Don’t touch it. Don’t trust it. Don’t open the door, because you might find yourself still standing inside it.
It had become a skin-deep command: don’t.
Don’t go back.
Don’t go near it.
Don’t even think about it.
You’re not a wizard anymore.
But you’re a damn good muggle.
The best muggle in the room, in the building, in the country. And you don’t need spells when you can silence a crowd with your face. You don’t need power when people beg to breathe the same air as you. When they mythologise you, not for your bloodline, not for your wand, but for you.
Eton Arcturus didn’t need to survive on magic. He transcended it.
He made muggles fall to pieces without lifting a finger. Not even the Dark Lord had managed that.
So it didn’t matter what he felt about the world he’d left. About the wand in that cardboard box. About the magic in the air that still smelled like home.
Regulus’s expression twisted, his smile all teeth. “I have outrun it.”
“I’m sorry, Reg.” James let out a brittle laugh. “You’ll never even make it past the gate.”
The wind cut between them again. The silence that followed was louder than the shouting. Regulus stood there stiffly, arms folded tight across his chest like he could hold himself together with nothing but posture and pride.
A gust of wind slid through his jumper, straight to the skin. He shivered.
James noticed. Of course he did. He stepped forward again, softer this time, reaching out. “You’re freezing. Come under the cloak. I’ve put warming charms on it.”
Regulus didn’t move. Just stared down at the hand that had taken his. Warm, brown, solid. It was a stupid hand. Too big, too reassuring. It wasn’t fair.
James’s eyes scanned his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, you’re right. I shouldn’t’ve cornered you like this.” He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I can apparate you back, Reg. If you really don’t want to do this.”
Regulus stared at him, tempted. He could just say yes. Let James take him home. But wouldn’t that prove him right?
He could survive one broom ride. He was certain of that. Probably.
He exhaled through his nose, squaring his shoulders. “Fine, I’ll fly,” he muttered. “But this means nothing. Don’t get ideas.”
James’s mouth curled like it always did when he was pretending to behave. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, far too pleased with himself.
The moment Regulus stepped forward, James moved quickly, straddling the broom like it was second nature. Which, for him, it probably still was.
Regulus hovered, staring at the thing like it might bite. “Where do you want me? Front or back?”
“You can take the front. I’m taller. I’ll look over your shoulder.”
Regulus resisted the urge to snort. James was taller by maybe half an inch, most of which was hair. Still, he didn’t argue. Banter was dangerous territory right now. Too many places to fall.
He swung one leg over the broom and sat down in front. It felt foreign but familiar, like reading a language he used to speak. His whole body resisted, muscles wound tight, but his balance found itself like it had never left.
And then James was behind him, unbothered as ever, and pulling him close. One of his arms wrapped around Regulus’s waist, tugging the heavy cloak over their shoulders. The world disappeared in a shimmer of silver thread.
Regulus stilled.
The cloak was strange. Perfect. Unlike anything he’d used before. The air around them rippled with light like water in the sun. It was beautiful.
It managed to distract him briefly from his situation… until it didn’t. His spine locked. His fingers went white-knuckled on the handle. Panic rose up like a tidal wave. What are you doing, what are you doing, this is how it starts again, it pulls you in with pretty magic and then you’ll fall, you’ll fall, you’ll die, you’ll die, you’ll die—
But then James pulled him closer against him.
Stupid, stubborn James, warm and solid and not letting go.
“I swear to Merlin,” Regulus said through gritted teeth, “don’t speak to me. Just get us there.”
James didn’t say a word. He just kicked them off.
The broom lifted, light and smooth and terrifying.
Regulus clutched the handle like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. His other hand latched onto James’s arm, fingers digging sharply into wool and skin. His legs locked like stone against the sides of the broom.
They rose.
The ground dropped away, houses shrinking, trees becoming shadows, the village turning into a smudge of gold and black. The wind howled, it filled his ears like a piercing cry. He’d forgotten how loud the sky could be, like the world was screaming at them for betraying the laws of gravity.
He braced himself for something to go wrong, heart hammering, breath short, every inch of him tense.
But James didn’t let go. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke. Didn’t even gloat. He just held Regulus firmly, flying steadily.
Minutes passed.
The wind shifted. It softened into a low rush, like waves brushing the shore.
Regulus’s grip began to ease.
He didn’t notice it at first. Just that his breathing had begun to match James’s, and his nails had stopped digging into the arm around his waist. That the crushing fear had ebbed into something quieter. That he was watching the moonlight play across the clouds like he used to. That he was breathing in the night air as if it might actually remember him after all.
James shifted slightly behind him. “You alright?”
Regulus didn’t hesitate. “No.” But his voice didn’t have the bite it did earlier.
James dipped his head, voice close, breath brushing his cheek. “Want to take over?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re a bloody show-off. Like me. And you miss it.”
Regulus paused.
Then, with quiet reluctance, he reached forward, fingers sliding over James’s on the broom. James let go.
The broom wobbled. Regulus corrected it instinctively, body moving before his mind could catch up. The sky evened out around them.
He hated how good it felt.
“Is this a new model?” he asked before he could stop himself.
He could practically feel James beam behind him. “Yeah! Sirius gave it to me for Christmas. Fastest one on the market.”
Regulus nodded, already feeling the truth of it in the broom’s responsiveness. It was stronger and smoother than anything he’d flown before, less resistance and more control. Six years ago, this would’ve made headlines.
The muscles in his shoulders began to unclench. He leaned forward just a touch.
Below them, the country spread out like a million-pound painting: gold-lit villages scattered across sleeping fields, stone walls carving neat lines into the land, a thread of river glinting like silver wire. A single train blinked past, headlights illuminating a path through the dark. A motorway curved away, beside it the orange halo of a lone petrol station hummed like an ember in the night.
He’d never seen the world like this. Not properly. Not in this quiet.
Back when he flew, the sky had been smaller. His freedom had been boxed in by stadium walls, packed with crowds and pressure and noise. The broom had just been another performance. Speed, strategy, stress. Win or don’t bother coming back to the common room.
It had been his favourite performance nonetheless.
But now…
A flock of birds passed beneath them, their motion effortless. For a second, Regulus wondered if the birds could see them. If they looked up and saw nothing, or if they thought this strange shape in the sky was just another bird, out late like them. Maybe the cloak made them invisible to everything but each other.
Maybe this moment was just for them.
He let out a breath, looking down again. There was something about the perspective that made things feel… false. Or fragile. The world too delicate to survive this view.
Up here, magic felt quieter. Not like power and violence, not the way he’d known it, not the way it had roared through his childhood, crashing through corridors or carving into his mind.
This was older, slower. The kind of magic that held the stars in place. That watched over rivers and birds and cold, stupid boys who didn’t know how to come home.
The kind of magic that didn’t ask for anything in return.
Regulus blinked hard, throat tight.
“Sorry,” he murmured. He didn’t know why he said it.
James made a sound—just a breath, a not-quite-word—and the arms around his waist tightened.
Regulus didn’t pull away. He leaned back into the warmth.
And he flew.
Regulus hadn’t handed back control of the broom, so James stayed where he was, Regulus pulled flush against his chest, arms wrapped round his middle. Entirely for the cloak’s sake, of course. Nothing to do with how warm Regulus was, or how well-built, or how easy it was to slot himself against that wiry, muscled frame. Nothing to do with the scent of him either, that ridiculous cologne James couldn’t name if he tried, crisp and sharp and stupidly posh. Like silk sheets and freshly fallen snow. Not that James was noticing. If he happened to breathe a little deeper whenever the wind changed, well... that was between him and the stars.
Eventually, the outline of Primrose Park came into view, followed by Regulus’s building. A few seconds later, they were angling down towards a wrought-iron balcony, complete with elegant French doors. Regulus’s bedroom, apparently. Because of course he had a bloody balcony.
Regulus brought them down in a smooth arc, the cloak still wrapped tight around them both, and landed on the balcony with the kind of elegance that made him a brilliant seeker. He passed James the broom without a word, and James tucked it under one arm, fumbling with his cloak as Regulus stepped up to the doors and tried the handle.
“It’s locked,” he muttered. “Should’ve known.”
“No worries,” James said, drawing his wand. “Allow me. Alohomora.”
The lock gave a neat little click. Regulus opened the door, paused, and turned back to flash James a self-satisfied grin. It looked thoroughly punchable. Or kissable, depending on James’s mood.
Then the bastard stepped inside and shut the door right in his face. A second click echoed through the glass.
James stood there a moment, blinking. “Right,” he muttered. “Still a little wanker. Noted.”
To be fair, he probably deserved that. He had dragged Regulus onto a broom against his will and, yes, maybe pushed things a bit far. But it had helped. You didn’t need a genius to see the way Reg’s shoulders had loosened halfway through the flight, the way he’d leaned into the turns, flying faster, sharper, like muscle memory was waking up inside him. If James had to play the villain to make that happen, so be it. He could make that sacrifice.
Besides, he wasn’t done yet.
He banged on the glass. “Oi, Reg! Don’t be a knob. Let me in!”
Regulus appeared at the window, curls wild from the wind, expression thunderous. “No,” he said flatly, then disappeared again.
James stared at the spot where he’d been, hands on his hips. “And they call me immature,” he muttered.
Of course Regulus knew better than to think a locked door would stop him. He’d literally just unlocked it a moment ago. But rather than be predictable, James squinted through the window, spotted a clear patch of floor just past the bed, and apparated with a sharp crack.
He reappeared inside the bedroom, smirking. “Evening.”
Regulus whipped round, looking scandalised. “James. Are you mental? Get out.”
“I will, I will,” James said, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just need a minute.”
“You dropped me off,” Regulus snapped. “That was the deal. We’re done.”
“Yeah, and I’m leaving. But first—”
“What now?” The tone alone said James should really consider disappearing if he wanted to keep his balls. But he wasn’t backing off. Not yet. Not when James needed to apologize and declare his intentions.
You see, ever since he’d been thrown out of Regulus’s flat, he’d been thinking about both of their situations.
He’d been livid at first, properly done with Regulus and the careless way he treated the people who cared about him. But the fury hadn’t lasted. It never did, not with Regulus. Once it drained away, all he’d been left with was a pit in his stomach.
He didn’t even remember half of what he’d said. Just the cold look in Regulus’s eyes, the accusations and the silences after. A week of rehearsing had gone straight out the window the moment they were in a room together again. What came out instead had been… chaos.
He should’ve left with Sirius. Come back another day. Given Regulus a proper breath before pushing again.
He’d told Lily everything, which had gone about as well as expected. She’d called him a bloody idiot, loudly and at length, and then told him to apologise, even if Regulus wouldn’t. Even if Regulus had been cold, cruel, and unfair. That wasn’t the point, Lily had said. You don’t treat people how they treat you. You treat them how you’d want to be treated.
Be the bigger person. Rubbish, really. But she wasn’t wrong.
Still, talking about it had helped. It’d made him realise that Regulus had been right. They didn’t know each other anymore. James had stupidly expected to find his Regulus there on that film set, as if time hadn’t passed. The realisation that he would never find that person again hit harder than he’d expected.
But if he wasn’t the James Regulus had once known, how could he possibly expect Regulus to still be his Regulus?
The accidental magic had only driven the point home even more. The way it had slipped out of him, wild and uncontained, was so far from the Regulus he’d known that it scared him. It wasn’t just about time passing. Something fundamental had changed, something Regulus wasn’t dealing with. And even now, James knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t ask for help. Wouldn’t say anything until it was too late and someone got hurt.
And if it was one of his muggle friends who got hurt, Regulus would never forgive himself.
So Regulus needed help immediately. And fine, maybe James needed this too.
It wasn’t like he had much else going on. Most mornings he woke up with nothing to do and too many memories scratching at the inside of his skull. The things that used to light him up just made him feel tired now. Only his mates—or the kids he babysat too often these days—managed to stir up anything close to joy.
But Regulus could give him a purpose again.
So maybe it was selfish. But he was here. Trying.
“I’ve been thinking about our conversation—”
Regulus sighed, cutting him off. “Not this again, James. Not now. Just go home. We’ll talk in a week or something.”
James didn’t budge. “I’m not here to profess my love again. I realise I might’ve been a bit… overzealous last time.”
“A bit?”
“Reg, please.” His voice cracked with the effort to stay calm and stick to the script this time. “I’m sorry. I was angry. Out of line. You were right, I’m not who I was. Just like you. I lose control. I say things I regret. That doesn’t make it okay, but that’s why I’m here. I’m trying.”
Regulus gave him a flat, unimpressed look, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in challenge. But he didn’t interrupt again.
So James pressed on. “I’ve been thinking about what happened after we fought. That wasn’t normal, Reg. You lost control of your magic. You could’ve hurt someone. Yourself or your mates. They’re muggles. They don’t stand a chance if something goes wrong.”
“They’re not fragile, James.”
“No, but they’re unarmed.” He stepped closer. “Look, I know you don’t want help, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it. Our broom ride tonight proved there’s a block there. You were shaking in my arms when you first got on. You’re not fine. But I can help. Quietly. On your terms. Get you using magic again, regularly. Get your control back.”
Regulus scoffed. “Please. This is just some elaborate excuse to force your presence on me. A convoluted plot to dredge up the past.”
James winced. Ouch. “No. You can keep me at arm’s length. I won’t bring up Hogwarts again. I promise.”
The words felt like swallowing glass. But he meant them. He just wanted Regulus near again, in whatever shape he could get. And if something familiar flickered between them, then Regulus could be the one to act. For once, James wanted to be fought for.
Regulus narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need this,” he said. “My magic’s only been off this past year. It might just be temporary.”
A year?! James was pretty sure he didn’t manage to hide the alarm on his face, because Regulus stiffened and started talking again.
“It only happens under pressure. High-stress situations. It’s manageable. I’ll just take up yoga or something.”
James gave a short laugh. “Muggle yoga? To fix magical instability? Brilliant plan.”
“I’m not your bloody project, Potter.”
“I know that. But someone’s got to do something, and you’re clearly not. You think ignoring it’ll make it go away?”
“I’m handling it.”
“You’re not.”
That earned him a sharp glare. “Don’t pretend this is altruism,” Regulus hissed. “You’re bored. You want to fix me so you don’t have to fix yourself.”
“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Regulus shook his head, breathing shallowly.
James softened, took a step back. “Look, all I’m trying to say is: it doesn’t have to be either-or. You can have both. Your muggle life, your career, this flat, and magic. The freedom, the benefits, the safety. Wizards marry muggles all the time, and they make it work. Hell, Remus’s mum and dad did.”
“I don’t need both,” Regulus snapped. “I’m happy, James. I have a good life.”
James smiled sadly. “You know what they say. The enemy of a great life is a good one.”
That one landed. He saw it in the set of Regulus’s jaw, the flicker behind his eyes. But still, no reply. He didn’t expect one.
So he nodded, stepped away. He reached for Regulus’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze as he walked out. It wasn’t returned.
“That’s all I had to say. Just… think about it, yeah?”
Notes:
Ahh, and that’s already the end of Part III! It’s going so fast! I hope you’re still enjoying the story :)
A quick thing: Regulus’s explanation for why he stopped using magic might feel chaotic or contradictory, and that’s very much on purpose. Trauma isn’t rational, and neither is Regulus right now. He’s clinging to whatever logic lets him believe he’s in control and that not using magic was a choice, not a loss. I hope that came through in the text.
Chapter 14: Part IV - Chapter 1
Notes:
Hi! Thank you so much for still being here. I’m so sorry this chapter is extremely late, there’s a bit of an explanation, plus an update on the upload schedule, in the end notes if you’re curious.
For now, I just want to say: during the break between chapters, Conan Gray dropped his new album and the first track, Actor, is literally perfect for James’s POV at this point of the story. I’ve had it on repeat ever since, and when I realised how well it fit, it actually got me excited to start working on this chapter again. Any other Conan fans here? I feel like his songs have kind of become the unofficial soundtrack for Jegulus fics hahah.
Hope you enjoy the chapter! 💛✨
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Regulus was avoiding him. James didn’t know how, exactly, but he could feel it in his bones, and his bones wouldn’t lie to him.
According to Sirius, Regulus had come over for tea thrice more in the last three weeks. Always on a Tuesday, which (by complete coincidence, of course) happened to be the day James spent from eight in the morning to six at night babysitting Neville, while Augusta Longbottom shouted at politicians in a big hat.
James didn’t know how Regulus had worked out the one fixed day in his otherwise chaotic schedule, but he’d bet a handful of Galleons it involved a guileless-looking Sirius and some light manipulation.
Naturally, James had tried catching him at home too. Though not by apparating straight inside again, even he knew that was a drastic breach of privacy. Instead, he’d landed in the hallway and knocked (very loudly) on the front door.
Regulus never opened. And whenever James checked with magic, the flat always came up conveniently empty.
But desperate times and all that. Three weeks without seeing him had left James no choice: he was officially camping outside Regulus’s door on a Friday evening. He’d arrived at two, just waiting, sitting by the stairs like an abandoned dog.
He’d heard footsteps on the stairs several times. Each time, he’d scrambled up, fixed his hair, tugged his jumper into shape. Each time, the steps stopped on one of the floors below. Never Regulus.
James was starting to think Regulus had lied about struggling with magic. What if he’d secretly passed his apparition test and was just popping into the flat directly now, skipping the stairs entirely?
That should be a good thing, but where would it leave James?
Useless.
More footsteps echoed. James sighed. They’d stop below again, obviously. Maybe he should give up and knock on that door instead, ask if Regulus’s neighbour had a kettle on. He’d quite like to be invited in for tea by a nice muggle lady. One of those older women who always had biscuits in a tin and knew how to knit jumpers.
He was just daydreaming about that cup of tea when his brain did a double take. The footsteps weren’t stopping.
James scrambled upright, smoothing out his clothes and trying to brush his hair back with his hands. The footsteps kept coming, and James put on a wide smile as he mentally prepared himself for a Regulus who'd be very irritated upon finding him here. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he could figure that out once he saw Regulus’s face.
Regulus, who was now emerging at the top of the stairs, too distracted by rummaging through his pockets to notice him.
James took the opportunity to look. Still stupidly fit, annoyingly so, although painfully muggle. Blue wool coat, dark jeans, neutral colours all round… apart from the scarf. The scarf was a vibrant blue, covered in wonky yellow stars that looked like they were made by someone drunk on fire whisky.
The jangle of keys filled the hall. Regulus reached for the door, then finally looked up.
“Christ! Bloody hell, James! You scared me half to death, you idiot!”
James gave him a sheepish grin. “Oops. Sorry.”
Regulus let out a breathy little laugh; the sort that came when your heart was still thudding from a fright, more relief than amusement. Then his brain caught up with his eyes. And there it was: the irritated glare.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are! You’re never home, and you only visit Sirius on Tuesdays!”
Regulus started fumbling with the keys, avoiding James’s eyes. “What’s wrong with Tuesdays?”
“I’m busy then! You know that!”
Regulus scoffed. “I do not. How was I supposed to know that?”
James scoffed right back. “Oh, come off it. We both know you can be a manipulative little shit. I bet you made Sirius tell you without him even realising he’d done it.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Regulus rolled his eyes, turning the keys. “Now, will you leave if I ask nicely?”
“No.”
“I thought not.” He sighed like a man facing an execution, pushing open the door. “Well, fine. Move. I need to get changed.”
James stepped inside immediately. No way was he letting Regulus close a door in his face again.
Inside, it was… clean. Weirdly clean.
Every surface gleamed. He could practically see his own reflection in the hardwood floor. The whole flat smelled intensely of lemons, mint, and several other aggressive muggle chemicals trying to kill his sinuses at once. Had Regulus developed a germ phobia in the last two weeks?
James opened his mouth to ask, but then the answer materialized before his eyes with a pop.
Of course.
Kreacher.
James barely kept from groaning aloud.
There he stood, that cursed elf, now wearing what looked like a very expensive black pillowcase. Gold embroidery curled down the sides like it was stitched by a bloody couturier.
“Master Regulus has brought magical guest,” Kreacher announced, giving Regulus a doting little smile. Then his eyes landed on James, and the smile vanished faster than a Galleon at Honeydukes. His mouth twisted like he’d bitten into a bad onion. “Master Regulus has brought blood traitor Potter.”
“Blood traitor Potter brought himself,” Regulus muttered, handing his coat and scarf to the elf.
The elf took them, then turned to glare at James as if he were a particularly offensive lump of dung tracked in from the street.
James shot Regulus a look that clearly said ‘please help me!’, but Regulus only rolled his eyes.
“Your coat, James.”
Ah, right! James plastered on a grin, shook off his suede jacket, and handed it to Kreacher, who pushed past him towards the coat cupboard while muttering insults about muggle fabrics and shoddy craftsmanship under his breath.
“Why is he here?” James hissed, eyeing the elf’s retreating figure.
“I couldn’t leave him at Grimmauld on his own,” Regulus replied furiously, like James had personally abandoned the creature there. “So I summoned him and asked if he wished to serve me here. He said yes.”
James stared at him, gobsmacked. Kreacher was living with Regulus? Permanently? In a muggle flat? With only two rooms and absolutely nowhere to hide from the creeping presence of a malevolent, muttering house-elf?
“How are you ever going to invite muggles over again with Kreacher living here?”
“Kreacher has agreed to hide if I have non-magical guests,” Regulus said, taking off his shoes like this was a perfectly normal conversation. “He’ll go to Grandfather Arcturus and won’t mention me.”
A voice rasped suddenly, far too close. James jumped, turning to see Kreacher grinning up at him with yellow teeth and wild eyes. “Kreacher will gladly hide from filthy muggles.”
“You’re putting up with that?” James cried, pointing an accusing finger at the elf. “Voluntarily?”
Regulus wandered into the living room, not bothering with a response. James followed, then froze in the doorway, coughing. The lemon and mint smell was somehow ten times worse in here, like he was being sterilised from the inside out.
“What the bloody hell is going on with the cursed lemons in here?”
“Oh, that,” Regulus said casually, pouring a glass of water in the kitchen. He took a calm sip, completely unbothered by the eye-watering smell “Kreacher’s still figuring out muggle cleaning products. He’s using them by the bottle at the moment. But we’re working on it.”
Working on it? For how long? The entire flat smelled like a potions’ cupboard after a Marauders prank. James was genuinely worried the scent might have bonded to Regulus’s clothes permanently.
“Why is he even using muggle stuff?” James spluttered. “Can’t he just use magic like a normal house-elf?”
Even Kreacher looked disgruntled at that. He puffed up like a wet cat.
“Master Regulus says no magic in the living room,” he said bitterly. “Kreacher is only allowed to use magic in the bedroom and bathroom. Kreacher must scrub with stinking muggle potions to serve his master properly. Kreacher suffers, but Kreacher obeys.”
James whipped his head around. “Why can’t he use magic in the living room?”
“You’re not allowed to either,” Regulus said without missing a beat.
“What? Why?”
“Because it damages my electronics.”
James blinked at him. “You’re a wizard.”
“Yes. And I also have expensive muggle electronics in my home, which I cherish and would prefer not to fry.” He set his glass down with a thump. Loud enough to show the questions were getting on his nerves. “And now that you’ve seen Kreacher’s here, you can understand why I no longer require your misplaced attempts to reacquaint me with magic. Kreacher can perform any necessary repair or protective charm. If necessary.”
James laughed, loud and disbelieving. “You cannot seriously think that’s a long-term solution. You’re just slapping a sticking charm on a broken wand.”
“I am not,” Regulus snapped. “You were worried about my safety. I solved it. Now kindly leave. I have plans tonight.”
“I’m not leaving. You’ll just avoid me again.”
“I have a life, James. You can’t just barge in whenever it suits you.”
“Well, sucks to be you, then.” James had to suppress the urge to stick his tongue out. “Because I’m not leaving you. I promised you I’d make you fall in love with magic again, and I’m starting tonight.”
“I have an event tonight,” Regulus growled.
“Great. Then tonight’s your lucky night,” James said brightly. “Because now you’ve got a date.”
The event turned out to be a gallery opening for Regulus’s friend Evan. And after it became clear James wasn’t going anywhere, Regulus had shoved a button-up shirt into his hands and told him to change.
Yves Saint Laurent, the label read, and James had half a mind to check the seams for enchantments, the fabric was that soft. The kind of soft that made him keep brushing the cuffs with his fingertips without even realising.
The tag was still attached, and it was obviously a size too big for Regulus. James raised his voice through the closed bedroom door, where Regulus had vanished to get dressed. “Oi, Reg, why do you even have this shirt?”
“They send it to me.”
“For free?” James gasped, staring at the sleeve again. It was indecently soft.
He was still caught up in it when the bedroom door opened, and suddenly Regulus was in front of him.
And... bloody hell.
James looked up only to be unable to look away again.
Regulus was wearing a navy silk shirt, tailored within an inch of its life, the fabric clinging in all the right places—biceps, chest, waist. The top buttons were undone, revealing pale collarbones and a glimpse of a silver chain. The trousers, of course, were cut perfectly. And James knew for certain that if Regulus turned around, his eyes would not stay level.
Even his hair was slicked back slightly, curls tamed into something glossy and precise. Suddenly, James had to swallow against the dryness in his throat.
"James?”
His eyes shot to Regulus’s face. He gulped, ears feeling flushed. Coughing lightly, he tried for a nonchalant grin. He was here to help Regulus reconnect with magic. That was all.
“Ready?” he asked, and Regulus nodded. Together, they left the flat and descended into—
A muggle car collection?
“Where are we?”
“A parking garage, James.” Regulus replied, rolling his eyes as if James was meant to just know that.
He followed Regulus to a big and shiny Slytherin green car, parked so aggressively off-centre it almost took up four of the white squares painted on the ground.
“That’s yours?”
Regulus nodded, looking pleased. “It’s a Jaguar.”
James looked at him blankly.
“A car,” Regulus added, as if that would explain him owning this death contraption.
“I gathered that bit, cheers.”
They both stared at the car. He was supposed to get in there? Why had he ever agreed to let Regulus veto magical transport? The whole point of this was to get Regulus used to magic again, not to break James into his ludicrous muggle routines. Was this revenge for the broom ride?
“I still can’t believe you’re legally allowed to drive,” James muttered. And he didn’t mean it in the starry-eyed, look at you! sort of way, he meant it literally. There was no version of reality in which Regulus Black should be trusted behind the wheel of a muggle vehicle.
Regulus was far more like Sirius than he’d ever admit. Addicted to speed and thrills, just like his brother. He expressed it differently, sure, but the impulse was the same. James had seen it in the way Regulus used to fly, like he’d accepted death as a possibility and decided to flirt with it anyway. Against Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, James had watched through splayed fingers, wincing from the stands every time Regulus hurled himself after the Snitch.
And now he was supposed to let that same boy drive him through London?
“I learned in the States,” Regulus said happily, pulling open the car door and sliding into the low seat.
James remained outside a moment longer, gripping the door handle like it might save him. “Don’t the muggles in America drive on the right side of the road?”
“Yeah. It’s not that different, though.”
James very much doubted that. “Did you drive this thing over there?”
“No, a smaller one. Got this one two months ago.”
“This is your first car in Britain?” James asked, voice rising slightly.
Regulus lifted his chin, visibly pleased with himself. “It had a very good write-up in one of the magazines. It’s a classic. Stylish. British.”
James stared at him. The look on his face was probably not even trying to hide the panic. “… Right.”
“Don’t worry. It’s automatic.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t have to shift gears. It drives itself… More or less.”
“Merlin,” James sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. What had possessed him to come here today? He could’ve been home, safe, sane. Instead he was climbing into a two-ton metal death trap with a Black at the wheel.
But then the door clicked shut next to him, and Regulus’s hands—long-fingered, elegant, absurdly steady—slipped onto the wheel.
And James stayed put.
They made it out of Primrose Hill mostly intact, if you didn’t count the bin Regulus clipped reversing out of the garage. The Jaguar was longer than it had any right to be, and Regulus drove it like the pure-blood wizard he pretended he wasn’t.
At the roundabout, he forgot to give way and earned a chorus of horns from three directions. James swore and grabbed the handle above the window. This was only the second time he’d ever been in a muggle vehicle, and he hated it just as much as the first.
“You said it drives itself!”
“It’s a figure of speech!”
The car jolted into the next lane with all the grace of a waddling toddler. James’s stomach hit the floor.
“Bloody hell, Regulus! Have you ever actually driven this thing before?”
“I’ve driven it exactly four times,” Regulus muttered. “Pandora usually drives. She learned on the left side of the road, so she’s more confident.”
“Oh good,” James said. “Fantastic. Brilliant.”
They crossed into Camden. Regulus clipped the kerb turning off Chalk Farm Road, and a woman on the zebra crossing gave them a look usually reserved for drunk tourists or actual criminals.
James stared at Regulus, wondering if this whole ride was some kind of joke to get back at him for all the pranks the Marauders played on Slytherin House.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Regulus snapped, hunched over the wheel. “It’s the car. It’s far too long. I can’t see where it ends.”
And that did it. James burst out laughing.
It escaped him before he could stop it, wild and ecstatic, and full of the kind of energy that had been pent up for weeks. Months, maybe. The absurdity of it all.
Regulus threw him a glare. “It’s not funny.”
But it was. The grim concentration on Regulus’s face, the occasional muttered “no, no, not that one” as he flicked the wrong lever and the windscreen wipers turned on again for absolutely no reason.
James was laughing properly now, hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. “I—I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“Stop! Stop it! You’re going to make me crash,” Regulus barked.
A horn blared behind them as Regulus hesitated at a green light. He flinched and swore, stared at the road with wide eyes for a full ten seconds, then, to James’s surprise, started laughing too. Their eyes met, brown and grey, and that only made James laugh louder. Until tears were streaming down his eyes and the light had turned red again, the cars honking like an orchestra behind them.
It took them a full minute to recover.
By the time they reached Soho, they were both still chuckling under their breath, careful not to look directly at each other in case it started again.
Regulus circled the same block three times before finally spotting a space. The Jaguar loomed far too large for the narrow gap.
“I hate this city,” he complained, attempting to reverse into the spot. “Why are the spaces so small? Who designs a street like this? What am I meant to do, fold it up and tuck it in my pocket?”
“If you’d use your magic instead of acting like a stubborn prat, you could,” James pointed out with a grin.
“Piss off,” Regulus muttered, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he straightened the wheel and tried again. “I should’ve bought something smaller. One of those little ones, you know. What are they called... Fiesta?”
James looked at him blankly.
“It’s a car,” Regulus offered.
James grinned. “Is that the kind that actually fits in London?”
“Yes. Probably. Whatever. Shut up.”
After much shuffling and muttered curses, Regulus finally managed to wedge the Jaguar into the space. The engine ticked quietly as he turned the key and slumped back in his seat, exhaling like he’d just fought off a Hungarian Horntail.
“Honestly,” he admitted softly, looking at James properly now that the motor was shut off, “this car was a terrible decision. I just liked the colour.”
James laughed loudly. “You’re a menace.”
When they got out of the car, Regulus walked a few steps ahead, sunglasses on despite the darkness that had already fallen over London.
James had called him a pretentious idiot when he’d first pulled them from his coat pocket, but Regulus had just rolled his eyes. James couldn’t see the eye-roll, of course, but he was fairly sure it had happened. According to the actor, the sunglasses were a disguise. That had only made James laugh harder. It was the most pitiful attempt at disguise he’d ever seen, and this was coming from someone who once thought sneaking into a Death Eater meeting with a hooded cloak and a different name would do the trick.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t the sunglasses. Maybe it was everything.
Everyone they passed looked twice. Not out of recognition, but the way people look when they know they’re near someone important. It was the way Regulus carried himself, that aristocratic Black posture and the way the coat swung around his legs. He had that same strange, haunted glamour as a famous portrait, and not even five hundred pairs of sunglasses would convince anyone that this wasn’t someone of note.
Even in a place like this—even in muggle London—he still looked like he belonged to some other world.
Inside, the gallery was warm and bright. A hum of low conversation drifted over the clink of glasses, people standing in small groups, murmuring, dressed in black or grey or gold, looking at the photographs on the many walls as though they were examining potion ingredients.
Regulus didn’t talk to anyone. He plucked a glass of red wine from a table near the entrance, glanced back once to check James was still there, then vanished towards the back of the room, where they could already hear Evan and Barty’s voice.
James stayed where he was.
The photographs were… not what he’d expected.
He’d assumed muggle pictures would be dull. Stiff. Not like wizarding ones that moved and blinked and tugged on your sleeve to be noticed. But these… these were strange.
They were sharp and vivid. The colours were too bright in places, like someone had cast a charm wrong and now the light didn’t fall the way it was supposed to. Blue light sliced across an old woman’s cheekbone, yellow light flooded a kitchen floor like a stain. A man curled on a stairwell with red light crawling up the banister like blood. A girl in a laundrette, mid-smile, her hair tied back beneath killing curse green that made her look indestructible.
They didn’t tell stories. Or if they did, it was the kind of story you didn’t quite remember. Like a dream you half forgot on waking.
James moved slowly from one frame to the next, trying to work out which were posed and which were real. Whether the people knew they were being watched. Whether they wanted to be.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Regulus, one hand in his coat pocket, the other still curled around his wine glass. He leaned in to say something to Evan, who grinned and pulled him into a brief, familiar hug. Regulus didn’t push him off.
Barty stood beside them, cigarette in hand despite the very clear no smoking sign behind him, pointing at something on the wall and talking far too loudly.
Regulus said something, then tipped his head back to laugh.
James watched him for a beat too long.
He looked like he fit there. Like he was content. But that couldn’t be right. Because if Regulus belonged here—if this was who he was now—then where did that leave James?
He grabbed a glass of white wine off a tray and downed it in one go.
A woman brushed past him, murmuring an apology. He stepped sideways, closer to one of the photos. It was a boy on a rooftop at night, red neon from a pub sign casting a harsh line across his jaw. He held a beer bottle in one hand. His expression was… unreadable. It made James uneasy.
He stared at it a moment longer, then turned, grabbed another glass of wine, and made his way toward the back.
Regulus looked over as he approached. So did Barty and Evan.
“My my,” Barty drawled. “Look who Regulus brought.”
“He brought himself,” Regulus said for the second time that day.
James rolled his eyes and turned to Barty and Evan with a slightly forced smile. “Good to see you both again. This is your event, right? Evan, you did these?”
“I did. Yeah.”
“They’re brilliant,” James said honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
Barty’s grin went sharp. “Bet I know one you’ll like even more.”
“Barty. No,” Regulus said, instantly.
James looked at the brown-haired muggle curiously. Without the pressure of chasing Regulus across London, he found he quite liked Barty. The boy had the same sort of wild energy as Sirius, if you dropped it into the muggle world and fed it too much tobacco. He raised an eyebrow. “Go on, then.”
Barty laughed. “He’s interested, Reg. And it’s an open gallery. You’ve got your wine. You’ll live.” With that, he grabbed James by the wrist and pulled him off into the crowd.
“Managed to get the pen of your arm, did you?” Barty asked as James was brought into a silent side room.
“What?” James looked down, confused, at the arm Barty was gripping. It was the one Regulus’s set address had been scrawled across almost a month ago. It had taken two separate spells to remove it, which hadn’t bothered James at the time. But now, with Barty bringing it up, that did seem odd for a muggle pen.
“I was hoping the permanent marker would last a few weeks, at least.”
Permanent what?
James couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a real prick, aren’t you?”
“Like calls to like,” Barty smirked. They’d stopped in front of a frame near the far wall and before James could respond, he flung his arm out. “Anyway… tadaa!”
James looked.
The photo in front of him was wildly different from the rest of the collection.
It was Regulus. Not Eton Arcturus. Not the heir of the House of Black. His Regulus.
He was sitting on a windowsill, spine curved, one leg drawn up with his arms loosely clasped around it. His chin rested on the sharp line of his wrist, gaze turned somewhere off-frame as he laughed at something. Golden light poured in from the left and softened the hollows of his cheeks, caught on the fine ends of his hair.
There was a softness in the photo that James hadn’t known anyone else had ever seen. But here it was. Captured by a bloody muggle.
James stared. It felt like his heart had gone off in his chest.
Barty was saying something about lighting, how Evan had angled a mirror to catch the sunset just so, how Regulus had been in the middle of an argument about soup flavours, of all things, but James barely registered any of it.
“Why are you showing me this?” he interrupted.
“Knew you would want to see it. You’re kinda obvious, mate. Worse than his fans.”
“He let you show this? To anyone?”
“Eh,” Barty waved him off. “Reg’s used to it. He’s a public figure now. It was Evan who hesitated, actually. Said it didn’t fit with the colour story of the rest of the exhibition. But Pan and I insisted. Managed to sneak it into the back room.”
James couldn’t look away. It somehow captured the warmth and happiness of his childhood that he’d lost all those years ago.
“I want it,” he said. No hesitation.
Barty blinked. “Sorry?”
“I want it. To buy. Would that be okay? Is that allowed?” James rambled. “Like, would Regulus mind?”
“Supporting Evan by buying his art?” Barty drawled. “No. I don’t think Reg would mind at all.”
“Is it weird though?” James asked sheepishly.
“Probably.”
That was fair.
But then, James had long since left ‘weird’ behind in his romantic endeavours. First there’d been his unspoken obsession with Regulus. Then the absurd, relentless campaign to date Lily, half to prove he was over Reg, half to believe it himself. And now here he was again. Right back where he’d started, staring at Regulus like he held the bloody moon in his hands.
“I want it.”
Barty’s smile turned sly. “Sure. It’s not cheap, though. Evan’s a known name these days.”
James nodded quickly. “That’s fine. Just say the number.”
Barty did. James blinked. Once. Hard. It was at least double what he’d seen listed on the pieces in the main hall. But he didn’t question it. He reached for his wallet like he’d been imperiused.
Barty accepted the cheque with a manic grin. “I’ll get this to the gallery director, tell her it’s sold. Nice doing business with you, James.”
James nodded, turning back to the photo one last time.
It was beautiful.
He’d never wanted anything more than to step inside that moment. To sit in that golden spill of light. To be close enough to touch, to reach across the quiet and feel Regulus’s laughter tremble against his collarbone.
Notes:
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tried to bring in a bit more fun and fluff after all the intensity of the previous ones :)
As for the long gap between updates… I love holidays, but I’ve noticed that any break from my usual routine makes it ridiculously hard for me to get back into it. Especially with fic writing, I tend to work in obsessive bursts where I’m fully immersed in one story for months at a time, and then suddenly, it just stops. My holiday kicked off one of those sudden stops, and afterwards, I completely lost my motivation. For everything, really. I was struggling just to get through my day job. That kind of paralysing procrastination is the worst, and if anyone else knows that feeling, you have my full sympathy.
Now I’m starting my literature master’s next week (very excited!) but it does mean I’ll be balancing studies and work again, and free time will be limited. I still want to keep updating this fic, but it might slow down to around one chapter a month. I know long waits can pull you out of a story, and I’m really sorry about that, but I have to prioritise my degree right now.
Thank you so much for sticking with me! And even if replies to comments start coming a bit slower, just know I read and appreciate every single one. They genuinely make my day. 💛