Chapter 1: Cracks in the Foundation
Chapter Text
The front door slammed shut with a sharp thud that carried through the quiet of the house. James Potter winced at the sound, pressing his back against the wood for just a moment, letting his eyes fall closed. His shoulders ached, his wand arm trembled with exhaustion, and every bone in his body begged for bed.
But there was no bed waiting for him. Not really.
The clock in the sitting room ticked accusingly, the hands pointing well past midnight. James shoved a hand through his tangled hair, guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He had told Regulus—promised Regulus—he would be home for dinner this time. They’d planned it for days: a quiet evening, nothing extravagant, just the two of them. But when his superior at the Auror Office had clapped him on the shoulder and asked him to stay late to finish a report on the Lestrange case, James had caved. He always caved.
The house smelled faintly of rosemary and smoke—Regulus’s cooking. James’s stomach gave a pang of hunger, but the heaviness of regret drowned it out.
“Reggie?” His voice cracked in the hallway. He cleared his throat and tried again, louder. “Reggie, I’m home.”
Silence.
James pushed off the door and trudged into the sitting room. A single plate sat on the table, covered with a charm to keep the food warm. The meal had clearly been set out hours ago. Steam still rose faintly, though it carried with it the stale scent of food reheated too many times. A bottle of wine sat half-empty on the counter, only one glass used.
James sighed, a sharp ache blooming in his chest. He hated this. He hated that he was doing this. But he couldn’t stop. The work was important. The work was saving lives. Surely Regulus knew that. Surely he understood.
He found his husband upstairs, sitting at the edge of their bed with a book open in his lap. Regulus didn’t look up when James entered. He turned a page with slow, deliberate grace, his dark hair falling over one sharp cheekbone.
James lingered in the doorway. “You waited up.”
Regulus’s voice was cool, clipped. “I tried. You didn’t come.”
James stepped inside, reaching up to tug at his collar. “I got caught at work. There was—”
“There’s always something at work.” Regulus shut the book with a snap, the sound echoing in the still room. His gray eyes lifted to James at last, hard and glittering. “There will always be something at work, James. It seems there is never anything here.”
The words cut sharper than any curse. James opened his mouth, then shut it again, frustration prickling hot against his skin. “That’s not fair. You know I’m doing this for us. For everyone. The Death Eaters—”
Regulus stood, quick and cold as a blade sliding free from its sheath. “Don’t you dare bring them into this. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend that abandoning your marriage every night is some noble sacrifice. You’re not at war anymore, James. You’re just… choosing.” His voice cracked on the last word, but he straightened his spine and glared as if daring James to acknowledge it.
James’s chest burned. “I’m not choosing! Do you think I want this? Do you think I like working until my eyes bleed, coming home to find you furious with me? I’m trying, Regulus—”
“No, you’re not.”
The words were soft, but final.
James froze.
Regulus’s gaze dropped, his hand flexing against the closed book he still held. “Trying means coming home when you said you would. Trying means keeping your promises. Trying means remembering that there is someone here who…” His throat bobbed, words faltering. “Someone here who loves you, James. But you don’t see me anymore. You don’t see anything but the next mission.”
The ache in James’s chest cracked into something rawer, uglier. He wanted to reach out, to bridge the space between them, but his arms hung heavy at his sides.
“I see you,” he whispered.
Regulus laughed, a brittle sound. “You see me when it’s convenient. That’s not enough.”
The silence that followed pressed down on them, thick and suffocating. James wanted to argue, wanted to beg, wanted to promise—but the words tangled in his throat. He had made promises before, and broken them. What good would more promises do?
Finally, Regulus turned away, placing the book carefully on the nightstand. “I’m going to bed.”
James swallowed hard. “Reggie…”
“Don’t.”
The finality in that single word left James rooted to the floor. He watched Regulus climb beneath the covers, his back stiff, his shoulders tight. The lamplight caught the pale curve of his neck, the shimmer of the ring on his finger, and James thought he might actually break apart.
But when he reached for the bed, Regulus shifted pointedly away.
The message was clear.
James stood there for a long time, staring at the shape of the man he loved more than anything in the world—and realizing just how far away that man had drifted.
When the silence became unbearable, he backed out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. His footsteps echoed down the hall like confessions.
The couch was lumpy and smelled faintly of the dog Sirius had once smuggled in despite Regulus’s protests. James collapsed onto it, staring at the ceiling, his eyes burning with something he refused to name.
For the first time in their marriage, James Potter slept outside their bedroom.
And the house felt colder for it.
Chapter 2: Silence in the Shadows
Chapter Text
The next morning was eerily quiet.
James woke stiff and sore, his neck bent at an awkward angle from the couch. Sunlight streamed through the curtains in golden bands, but it didn’t warm him. His first groggy thought was how much he hated waking up without Regulus beside him, and the second was that maybe—just maybe—if he got up quickly enough, he could slip into their room and mend what had broken in the night.
But when he reached the bedroom door, he hesitated. The silence inside was too sharp, too absolute. He opened the door just a crack and saw the bed neatly made, Regulus already gone.
Downstairs, a fresh pot of tea steamed faintly on the table. Two cups sat beside it, though only one had been used. A folded copy of the Daily Prophet rested on the counter, the pages sharp and untouched, as if it had been left deliberately for him. Beside it, in Regulus’s tidy script, a note:
Breakfast is in the icebox. I’ve gone out.
No signature.
James rubbed his hand over his jaw, the paper crinkling in his fist. The last time Regulus had left a note without signing it was years ago—back when they’d barely been living together, back when Regulus still wore his walls like armor and James had to chip away at them inch by inch. The absence of his name was louder than any slammed door.
He told himself not to panic. It was just one night. One fight. They would talk when Regulus came home.
But Regulus didn’t come home until long after dinner, moving through the house like a ghost. His shoes made no sound on the floorboards, his voice—when he finally spoke—was a polite murmur of good evening, as if James were nothing more than a housemate.
James stood there in the kitchen, spatula still in hand, watching Regulus walk past without a glance. The ache in his chest deepened.
“Reggie,” he tried, desperate, “I made dinner.”
“I already ate.”
The words were mild. Indifferent. They gutted James all the same.
The days stretched. The silence thickened.
James kept working late, though now he wasn’t sure if he was doing it for the job or because he couldn’t bear the way Regulus looked straight through him at home. Coming back to the empty rooms was easier than standing across from his husband and feeling like a stranger.
They moved around each other like shadows—never colliding, never touching. Regulus started spending hours shut in their bedroom, the door closed, the faint scratch of quill against parchment the only sign of life. James forced himself to knock once or twice, but the clipped responses—I’m busy. Later. Don’t wait up.—drove him back into the hollow quiet of the sitting room.
Sirius noticed first, of course. He always did.
“You look like hell,” he announced when James finally agreed to a drink after work. The pub was noisy, warm, filled with laughter, but James felt like he was underwater.
“Thanks, Pads,” James muttered, nursing his firewhisky.
Sirius leaned across the table, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on with you and my brother? He owled me yesterday. Which is bloody miraculous, considering he barely acknowledges I exist half the time. He sounded—” Sirius hesitated, a flicker of worry breaking through the bravado. “He sounded bad, mate.”
James’s stomach twisted. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?” Sirius’s gaze was sharp, cutting right through him. “When’s the last time you two had an actual conversation? And don’t say last week. I mean a proper talk. The kind where you look him in the eye and remember why the hell you married him in the first place.”
James winced, knocking back the rest of his drink. The firewhisky burned, but not enough to numb the truth of it.
He wanted to say he didn’t have time. That the Auror Office was relentless, that the world didn’t pause for the sake of his marriage. But the excuses shriveled on his tongue. Because Sirius was right. James hadn’t looked Regulus in the eye in weeks—not really.
And the distance between them was growing wider every day.
That night, James came home earlier than usual. He told himself it was a start, a gesture. He’d find Regulus, sit him down, and finally talk. No interruptions. No excuses.
But when he climbed the stairs, he found the bedroom door closed. Light glowed faintly beneath the crack. James lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated.
He could hear the faint rustle of pages turning, the occasional soft exhale. The sound of someone deliberately not sleeping.
His knuckles hovered over the wood, heart thudding, until his courage faltered. He let his hand drop.
Downstairs, the couch waited.
And James wondered, with a sharp pang, how long it would be before the bed upstairs stopped waiting for him at all.
. (Guest) on Chapter 2 Tue 26 Aug 2025 02:25AM UTC
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SkyeWriter318 on Chapter 2 Tue 26 Aug 2025 03:06AM UTC
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