Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sirius.

Regulus hadn’t seen him in months. Not since the train station, where Regulus stood beside his mother and Sirius walked past them like a stranger. No— worse . A stranger at least earns a glance. Sirius didn’t even pretend to notice him. And now, here they were again, forced into proximity by nothing more than institutional tradition. The Start-of-Term Feast. House banners overhead. Gold and green, red and silver, all of it a mockery of the silence between them.

Sirius was laughing.

There was a flush on his face, unmistakable even from across the hall. He looked taller, somehow. Healthier. His cheekbones sharper, like his bones had grown braver in his absence. His hair was longer too—too long. Maman would never have allowed it. She would’ve cursed it off in his sleep. But now he looked wild. Unbothered. Like someone who had been claimed by a world that didn’t need rules to feel like home.

He was leaning toward Potter.

Of course.

James Potter, the golden boy. His golden boy. Potter was loud, irritating, arrogant—but Sirius had loved him since first year. That much was obvious. Regulus remembered the first winter Sirius came back from Hogwarts, glowing. It wasn’t Christmas that made him smile. It was James. Always James.

James turned Malfoy’s hair pink.

James said Maman was barmy.

James said I should come stay with him sometime. Imagine that—me, with the Potters.

Regulus had imagined it, actually. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t help it. He’d been ten. Small for his age. Cold, always cold in that damn house. He used to sit on the stairs in his slippers, curled into himself like a stray, listening to Sirius fire-call Potter in the evenings. He knew the sound of Potter’s voice before he’d ever seen the boy’s face. That soft, blurred hum through the flames. Sirius’ voice shifting in response—softer, warmer, real.

Regulus hated him. Hated that he existed. Hated that Sirius smiled like that when he said his name. Hated that his brother had found another brother before Regulus even had the chance to become one.

He had sent letters.

He didn’t like to think about that part. But he had. Weeks after Sirius ran away—before it had been official, before Maman started pretending he never existed—Regulus sent letter after letter. Folded too neatly. Sealed with wax. Letters full of prideful apologies, full of nothing at all. He’d said everything except the thing he meant, which was: Please talk to me. I don’t know how to breathe without you in the house.

No reply.

Not even a Howler.

And now Sirius was here. Across the hall. Elbow brushing James Potter’s. Head tilted as they whispered something private. Sirius laughed again, and Regulus flinched.

He looked good.

That was the worst part. He looked like the version of himself he was never allowed to be—relaxed, reckless, alive. Regulus imagined reaching out, dragging him back by the collar. Holding him still until he remembered what it felt like to belong . To be a Black, not whatever feral, red-and-gold thing he’d become.

But Sirius wasn’t his anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time.

Regulus told himself it didn’t matter. Told himself that silence was a kind of death and Sirius was already dead. But his eyes kept moving. Mapping the shape of him. The line of his throat, the way he leaned when he laughed, the glint of his teeth. There was too much familiarity. Too much residue. He could still feel the absence of his brother like a weight on his chest, like phantom pain in a limb that had been cut.

Potter said something. Sirius smiled. Regulus wanted to throw his goblet at the wall.

Instead, he turned slightly and reached for a slice of bread, not because he wanted it but because he needed to keep his hands occupied. He chewed it slowly, jaw tight, and reminded himself of the rules: Do not cry. Do not speak. Do not let Potter win.

Across the hall, Sirius looked up. Just for a moment. Just for a blink.

And then looked away again.

As if Regulus wasn’t even there.

Regulus lay flat on his back, still dressed in his robes. He hadn’t moved in an hour. He hadn’t read a word either, though a book was open on his chest, spine cracked.

The door creaked open.

He didn’t turn.

He knew that sound. That softness of step. The way the air changed. Her perfume was faint—lavender pressed in old books. She slid in beside him without asking.

She didn’t speak at first. Just opened her book and curled against his back, knees pressed to the back of his thighs like a second spine. Her fingers found a loop of his hair and twisted it once, loosely, then let go.

He closed his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she said.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Pandora opened the book with two fingers. She read aloud, breath warm against his neck.

J’ai un petit chat,

petit comme ça.

Je l’appelle Orange…

Regulus said nothing. She continued, unbothered.

C’est un chat étrange, aimant le nougat et le chocolat…

He turned a page of his own book, though he wasn’t reading.

“Sounds like the sort of animal that dies young,” he said flatly.

“Maybe,” she replied, smiling into his shoulder. “Or the sort they stuff and put behind glass.”

She closed the book softly, laid it between them.

“You’re like that,” she murmured. “Strange. Sweet. Not meant to grow the way they want you to.”

He didn’t answer. He pressed his hand flat to his chest, just under his collarbone. “I don’t like chocolate.”

“Liar,” she said, brushing a bit of dust from his cuff. “You just like pretending you don’t.”

***

He hadn’t meant to stop. He was only there for the translation volume—Runes of the Eastern Archipelago, second edition, spine fraying like a half-torn sleeve. But the air shifted. Regulus knew it even before he saw them. A sound, wet and low. A girl’s giggle cut short.

Then he saw them.

At the back of the library. Potter. And a girl.

His mouth was on her, but it didn’t look like kissing. It looked like tasting. Like devouring. His hand was under her skirt, and the way his thumb moved—it was obscene. He didn’t even try to hide it. His other hand was tangled in her hair, holding her still while he pressed into her like it was the most natural thing in the world to do that in the library.  In public.

He could’ve walked away. That’s what someone normal would’ve done. But he stayed. Stuck in the spot like it had teeth.

Potter’s shirt was wrinkled at the collar. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and his forearms—those bloody forearms—caught the light when he moved. He shifted against her, hips rolling forward, and Regulus felt it. Not on his skin, but somewhere worse. Somewhere that made his breath come shorter, his fingertips colder.

Regulus told myself it was disgust. Hatred. Of course it was. But hatred doesn’t feel like this. Hatred doesn’t sit in your throat and make you imagine what his fingers would feel like pressed into the small of your back.

He groaned then—low, careless, almost bored. Regulus stomach flipped. He wanted to be the reason for that sound. Or maybe regulus wanted to smother it.

Then he looked up.

Straight at Regulus.

There was no shock. No embarrassment. Just that same, infuriating curve of his mouth, the one that made Regulus want to shove him into a wall and kiss him until it stopped moving.

“Fuck off, Black. You’re drooling.”

Potter didn’t wait for a reaction.

Regulus turned before his legs gave out.

Walking was a lie. He wasn’t walking. He was leaving his skin behind, trying to keep his breath from making a scene. His mouth tasted bitter. The fabric of his shirt was too rough against his back. Regulus couldn’t get that sound out of his head. That groan. That breath.

He hated him. He was the reason Sirius left. He was cocky. Arrogant. Loud. Everything Regulus wasn’t allowed to be. He was everything he should despise.

So why did regulus want him to touch him like that?

Regulus couldn’t stop thinking about Potter. Morning, afternoon, evening, when he walked, when he sat, when he pretended to read. Potter’s hands—how they slid under that girl’s blouse like they belonged there. Potter’s shoulders, rolling as he kissed her. Potter’s arms, lean and tensed, flexing as if he knew someone was watching. And Merlin, his voice—thick, lazy, bruised from kissing. That voice had no business in Regulus’ dreams. And yet it had unpacked itself and stayed.

He avoided looking at him. In the Great Hall, his plate remained the most interesting object in there. At Prefect meetings, he scribbled on parchment he wouldn’t read later. Dumbledore choosing Potter as Head Boy was a joke. A fucking sham. But Potter didn’t care about him. He never had. Never would. That was the only thing keeping Regulus upright.

It was good.

It was fine.

It had to be fine.

Until the Quidditch match.

Slytherin versus Gryffindor. No avoiding him there. On the pitch, Regulus had no brother, no obsession, no Potter. There was only the Snitch. Quidditch was breath, was bone, was the only time he existed on his own terms. He wasn’t going to let Potter ruin that.

The sky opened above them. Rain, hard and sharp, slicing down on his skin. The stands were screaming, roaring Potter’s name. Gryffindor chants filled the air, bleeding into Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw. Regulus shut it out. His eyes searched the field, corners, edges. The match dragged on, no sign of the Snitch, and Gryffindor was scoring. Again. Again.

Fuck.

Focus.

Breathe.

But Potter’s name echoed. Potter, Potter, Potter.

Then—

There.

A flash of gold, flickering high, dancing just above the Keeper posts. Taunting.

Regulus moved.

He flew up, faster, sharper. Every inch of his body folding into the broom, streamlined, desperate. He reached out, fingers straining, breath held. He was close. So fucking close. The Snitch zigzagged like it could hear his heart pounding.

He pushed harder. More. His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. There was no pitch, no team, no stands. Only that tiny, defiant flicker of gold.

He caught it.

The Snitch fought against his grip, wings flapping frantic, but it was his now. They had won.

He didn’t feel the fall until it was happening.

Regulus’ foot missed the stirrup. His balance snapped. Gravity yanked him down like a hand grabbing his collar. The ground rushed up, cold and solid, and it was going to hurt, but he didn’t care. The Snitch was in his fist.

But arms caught him.

Rough, strong, alive.

Potter.

“You’re lucky I was under you,” Potter said, breathless, frowning like he’d been expecting this. His voice was right against Regulus’ ear, hot and smug. “Merlin knows none of your teammates were going to bother.”

Regulus shoved against him. Or tried to. His limbs weren’t cooperating. Potter’s arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they cinched tighter, solid and infuriating. The fall had knocked the wind out of him, but not Potter. Of course not. Potter was never off balance.

Potter smirked as Regulus’ hands—traitorous, pathetic—gripped his shoulders tighter to avoid slipping.

“Merlin, you’re so much trouble,” Potter muttered, eyes gleaming, rain dripping from his lashes.

Regulus could feel Potter’s breath against his temple. Could feel the rhythm of Potter’s chest under his palms. Potter wasn’t even pretending to be noble about this. He was enjoying it. Holding him. Letting Regulus feel the consequence of being caught.

The stadium was screaming, but all Regulus could hear was the pulse in his ears, the heat of Potter’s body against his own.

Potter could’ve let him fall.

But he didn’t. 

***

Regulus should have turned back. The corridor was empty, the excuse to leave was right there. But her hair—light, golden, swaying with each step—kept him there, as though his feet had chosen treason without consulting him.

She noticed him. Of course she did.

“You’re following me, Black,” she said, casual, smiling, as if it was a compliment. “I don’t mind.”

Regulus looked past her, as though the wall behind her was fascinating. His hands were in fists. His throat refused to swallow.

“You shouldn’t assume things,” he muttered.

“I’m not assuming.” She stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “I saw you in the library.” Her breath was slow, knowing. “You didn’t look away.”

He felt it then, the first crack. The shift in his breath. He hated this. Hated how his body was betraying him, how it wanted to respond, how it was already responding. But she was still there. Still smiling, like she had the upper hand.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Regulus said, low, breath clipped.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, stepping into his space. “Or do.”

Her fingers touched his wrist. Light. Barely there. But it was enough. Enough to make his breath stutter. Enough to make him hate himself for not pulling away.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, though his body was already betraying him. His skin burned where she touched him. His pulse loud and furious.

She laughed softly. “You’re tense, Black. Would you rather watch?”

Regulus’ hand lifted. Not to touch. Not to hold. But it found her hair anyway. His fingers curled, pulling slightly. She sighed, leaning into the tension.

“What are you doing?” His voice wasn’t his anymore. It sounded foreign, breathless.

“Helping you out,” she said, and then her mouth was on his.

It was gentle at first. Too gentle. He shouldn’t have let it linger. But her lips were warm, patient, coaxing. And Regulus—Regulus had no patience left. His hands betrayed him, pulling her closer, gripping her waist, his lips opening to hers, deeper, rougher, as though it had always been inevitable.

She gasped when his teeth caught her lip. She smiled against his mouth. Her hands slid into his robes, not greedy, not demanding, but anchoring him, holding him there as if she knew he’d try to escape. His fingers slipped under her jumper, his palms finding skin—warm, soft, human.

She tasted like the things Regulus wasn’t allowed to want.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It was a dismantling. He kissed her like he wanted to forget himself. Like if he kissed hard enough, rough enough, the ache in his chest would dissolve. But it didn’t. It never did.

Her breath hitched when his hips pressed into hers, the friction sharp and unrelenting. Her hands curled in his hair, pulling, and he let her. He let her guide him, even as his own hands mapped the line of her ribs, memorizing curves that meant nothing and everything at once.

She pulled back just enough to speak, breathless, smiling. “Feel better now?”

Regulus didn’t answer. His mouth was already on hers again, swallowing whatever kindness she thought she was offering. He wasn’t here for kindness.

He kissed her until the lines blurred, until the ache sharpened, until his hands were trembling.

It was lust.

It was want.

It was this sick, hungry thing gnawing under his skin, demanding release.

Potter had opened a door, and Regulus hadn’t been able to shut it since.

He didn’t speak to her when he left. Her lipstick was still on his jaw. He didn’t wipe it off.

He walked fast. He could feel her on his skin. Her breath still inside his mouth.

The prefect bathroom was empty. It always was this time of night.

He locked the door. Stripped. His clothes were damp with sweat. He stepped into the pool without waiting for the water to fill. It was hot. The kind of hot that burned.

He wanted it to burn.

He ducked under. Let it run over his hair, his face, his chest. He scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. He wanted the taste gone. Her taste. Too sweet. Too wrong.

He pressed his palms to the tile.

Potter.

The thought hit without warning. Not gentle. Not soft. Not in the way it usually came.

This time it came with heat.

With weight.

With fury.

Potter had seen it. He imagined that. Potter standing just out of sight, arms crossed, jaw tight. Watching. Not speaking.

His eyes on Regulus’ mouth.

On her hands under his jumper.

On Regulus letting her touch him.

Potter stepping forward. Shoving him. Slamming him against the wall of the bathroom. One hand gripping his hair. The other on his throat.

Not choking. Just holding. Enough to make him still.

“You let her touch you?”

Regulus gasped—mouth open, steam in his lungs.

“She put her tongue in your mouth?”

James shoved his thigh between Regulus’ legs.

“You let her kiss you?”

He didn’t wait for answers.

He forced his mouth open. Kissed him deep. Rough. All tongue. No pause. No rhythm.

It tasted like Hell and heaven at once.

Potter’ hand was around his waist, fingers tight, bruising. He pulled Regulus back against him. Pressed hard.

Regulus gripped the edge of the tile. His whole body tense, wet, aching.

He imagined Potter dragging him out of the water. Onto the marble. Face down. Still wet. Skin slick.

“Tell me what she did.”

Regulus moaned. In real life. In the bathroom. Head still pressed to the tile.

“Did you fuck her?”

A pause.

“No. You wouldn’t. You’re mine.”

James inside him. Not slow. Not asking. Holding Regulus by the hips. Making him stay still.

He would say his name only once. Quietly. Into his neck. Regulus.

And then: Don’t ever do that again.

Regulus reached between his legs. His hand moved without finesse. Fast. Needy. His thighs trembled. His breath caught.

He came fast. Hard. A groan against the tile.

After, he didn’t move.

The water kept running.

His whole body throbbed.

And still—he could feel him.

Not the girl. Not her mouth. Not her name.

Only Potter.

Potter behind his eyes. Potter in his throat. Potter under his skin.

Potter, always Potter.

The next morning, Regulus couldn’t look at him again.

Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, laughing about something, shoulders loose, his hand curled around a piece of toast. Regulus saw it in the corner of his eye. That hand. That wrist. That mouth.

He turned away.

He kept his gaze on the table. On the empty plate. On the silver ring on his own finger, the one he turned round and round when he couldn’t breathe right.

He hadn’t eaten. He wasn’t hungry. The food looked too warm, too soft, too alive.

He felt sick.

Filthy.

The night still lived under his skin. His jaw was sore from clenching. His thighs ached. His mouth burned like it still belonged to someone else. Every time he blinked, he saw steam. Water. A wall. Potter’s voice behind his ear.

He stood. Left.

No one stopped him. No one noticed.

The corridors were cold. He didn’t put on his cloak. He needed the chill. Needed something sharp against his skin.

He pushed open the doors to the courtyard and stepped into the air like stepping into silence. It was grey. Windless. A sky that didn’t move.

He stood still.

Hands shaking. Jaw tight.

And then—fingers on his wrist.

He flinched.

Lupin’s voice came low. “Sorry.”

Regulus turned. Slowly.

Lupin’s arms were raised, not touching anymore. He looked almost amused at his own mistake, like he’d forgotten what people could be like.

“Can we talk for a second?”

Regulus stared at him. He had no fight in him. Not today. He nodded once. Barely.

Lupin pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it between his lips, lit it with a flick. Then he held the pack out.

Regulus took one.

He didn’t smoke. He didn’t like the smell. But he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

So: cigarette.

The first drag burned. It scratched his throat raw and made his eyes water.

Lupin laughed.

A soft, unbothered sound.

His face was marked—thin silver scars running along the cheek, across the bridge of his nose—but his eyes were something else. Not brown. Not gold. Something in between. Amber. Like the burning end of the cigarette he’s holding.

“Breathe slow,” Lupin said. “Don’t hold it like you’re drowning.”

Regulus exhaled, coughed again, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“What do you want?” he said. “You didn’t drag me out here to teach me how to smoke.”

“No,” Lupin said. “But you’re funny when you’re bad at things.”

Regulus didn’t answer.

Lupin looked down at the stones. Took another drag. His voice came quieter. “Sirius’ birthday’s Friday. You should come.”

Regulus raised a brow. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

“Did he send you?”

Lupin shook his head. “He doesn’t know.”

Regulus scoffed. Blew smoke out his nose like he’d been doing it for years. He picked up things fast. 

“If you’re expecting some kind of heartfelt reunion, you’re delusional, Lupin.”

“I’m not.”

He paused. Tapped ash to the side.

“He screams your name when he’s sleeping.”

Regulus didn’t move.

“It’s not a nightmare,” Lupin said. “It’s not terror. He says it like—like he’s looking for something.”

He looked straight at him now. Steady. Stern.

“In the morning he acts normal. Makes jokes. Drinks tea. No one says anything. But I see it. I see how haunted he is. I see what it costs him.”

Regulus stared at the stones. His fingers trembled. The cigarette trembled with them.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t try to give him an inch of relief,” Lupin said. “And if that means inviting you to a birthday party you probably won’t show up to, then fine. So be it.”

The silence after was heavy.

Regulus didn’t speak.

He thought about Sirius. The way he used to lie on the rug in front of the fire. How he’d say Regulus’ name three times when he was angry. How he laughed with his whole mouth. How he slammed doors. How he left.

His chest ached. His throat burned.

He looked down at the cigarette. It had burned too low. The ash fell on his fingers.

Lupin dropped his own, pressed it out with the toe of his boot.

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at him one last time and nodded.

“Think about it.”

Then he turned. Walked back toward the castle.

He got through the rest of the day with half a mind.

The other half was with Sirius.

Not Sirius now — Sirius then. Sirius running across the garden with a branch in his hand, calling to him like they were still brothers. Sirius pulling his hair in the bath and laughing when Regulus got mad at him. Sirius leaving.

The present was dim beside it.

The corridors were too bright. The students too loud. Every word spoken felt like it was bouncing off the inside of Regulus’ skull, not going in. He sat through class with a quill between his fingers and his chin in his palm. Didn’t take notes. Didn’t speak. The professor didn’t call on him.

When the last bell rang, he walked slowly, his bag heavy against his shoulder, eyes down, steps dragging.

And then he saw them.

Evan standing against the wall, his arms crossed. Barty in front of him. Moving his mouth too much. Smiling. That smile that wasn’t a smile. The kind you wear when you’re daring someone to hit you.

It was getting old.

And pathetic.

Barty had been circling Evan for months. Maybe longer. Always with the same sharp grin, the same offhand cruelty, the same jokes too loud for the space between them. Everyone knew what it was. Everyone knew he was obsessed.

Regulus watched from a distance.

He knew Evan well. Better than anyone.

He knew how Evan could endure. How patient he was. How quiet.

But he also knew what happened when the patience ran out.

He thought of the peacock.

They were ten. A gala at Malfoy Manor. White linen everywhere. Gold plates. Crystal glasses. Pandora in a long green dress. Her hair too neat.

She had gone to the garden to pet the peacock. It had bitten her hand. Not a nip — a full bite, tearing into her skin. The sound she made was high and short, then long.

Regulus had turned just in time to see Evan raise his hand.

No words. No wand.

Just magic.

The bird’s neck snapped like a branch. Its body crumpled. Blood on the stones. Pandora crying into Regulus’ shirt.

Abraxas Malfoy had come out screaming. Evan’s father struck him across the face. Hard. Right in front of everyone.

“Apologize,” he said.

Evan had bowed his head. Said he was sorry.

Regulus remembered the blood still fresh on his shoes.

Later that evening, he heard Evan’s father boasting about it in the study.

He said, my son used a killing curse at ten years old.

Pride.

Regulus looked back at Barty now — still speaking, still leaning close to Evan, still poking something sharp.

And Evan — still, jaw tight, unreadable.

And Regulus thought — would Barty drop like the peacock one day?

Would Evan’s father slap him, make him apologize to the Minister for killing his son?

Would the Minister nod grimly, then sign the papers to send Evan to Azkaban?

No.

Not if Regulus could stop it.

He stepped forward. Called Evan’s name.

Evan turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward him. A silent question.

“Do the third floor rounds with me tonight,” Regulus said. “I don’t want to walk alone.”

A pause.

Evan nodded.

Barty rolled his eyes.

“Oh, piss off, Black,” he muttered. “You get off on interrupting or what?”

His voice was sharp, cracking with something he couldn’t control. Jealousy maybe. Hunger. The kind that humiliated itself every time it opened its mouth.

Regulus didn’t answer.

He didn’t even look at him.

He just waited until Evan reached him, and then they walked off together. No words. No sound. Just their footsteps echoing down the stone hall.

Evan didn’t ask why.

He wouldn’t.

Regulus didn’t say it.

That he wasn’t doing this because he was afraid for Barty.

He was doing it because he wasn’t going to let them take Evan away.

Not to prison. Not to punishment. Not to some courtroom with cold benches and high windows. Not to chains. Not to guilt.

If anyone was going to keep Evan’s hands clean, it was Regulus.

Even if it meant dragging him down the corridor every day for the rest of the year. Even if it meant stepping in front of his temper, his silence, his death magic.

He looked over once. Evan’s face was calm. Pale in the torchlight. Untouched.

Regulus looked forward again.

They walked on.

***

The week passed.

Regulus moved through it like through water. Everything slow. Everything muffled. His body felt heavy with what he wasn’t saying. His head throbbed with what he wasn’t thinking.

He tried not to think of James.

Not his mouth. Not the shape of his hands. Not the fantasy of being pressed down, kissed hard, touched like he was something to be used.

He tried not to think of James in the shower, James at practice, James walking past him without a glance. Tried not to think of him in bed at night. But the dreams came anyway. Wet. Vivid. Shameful. He woke damp, aching, breathless, his hand between his thighs, the name thick in his throat.

He tried not to think of Sirius.

That was harder.

Thinking of Sirius made something split open inside him. He went from quiet to furious in seconds. From fury to grief. Then back again. Sirius was a weak spot. The worst one. The one he couldn’t protect.

He had loved Sirius more than anyone.

Still did.

Which made it worse.

He tried not to think of Evan.

He tried not to imagine him standing trial, hands bound. His face unreadable, as always, but pale. He tried not to imagine Evan being led down to Azkaban. Cold. Shackled. Gone.

He sat outside in the grass behind the Herbology greenhouses. The sun was pale. Not warm. The wind soft.

Pandora sat beside him, legs folded, back straight. She had a Bible in her hands. A muggle book. The cover worn. A ribbon tucked inside.

She was whispering. Her lips moved without sound. Then she began to read aloud, voice slow, light, deliberate. She recited with care, as if it mattered to someone.

Regulus watched her fingers turn the page. Slim. Clean. Her nail beds pale pink.

Evan sat a little farther off. His legs stretched out. His arms crossed over his chest. His eyes half-closed.

He hadn’t said anything about the book. Regulus knew Evan hated muggles. Thought their rituals were low, their beliefs ridiculous. But he said nothing to Pandora.

Regulus thought maybe she was his weak spot too.

The one person Evan loved more than anyone.

He sighed.

Pandora turned her head, slowly, as if waking from a dream. She looked at him. Really looked. Then she reached for his hand.

He let her take it.

“I’ll pray for you,” she said, voice quiet. “I’ll ask Him to take the worry from you. The one they believe in.”

Regulus blinked.

She looked so certain.

Such a sweet notion. To believe in something like that. To think worry could be removed like a splinter. Carried away by a god with no name and no wand.

He smiled. Just a little.

He nodded.

Pandora leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips were soft. Dry. She didn’t smell like perfume, only wind.

Then she bowed her head and began to pray.

Her voice moved slowly, word by word, like a chant.

Regulus sat still.

Her hand still held his.

He didn’t believe in gods. He didn’t believe in prayer.

But her voice was steady. The air was quiet. Evan hadn’t moved.

For a moment — just a moment — he let the noise inside his head go silent. The ache at his temples eased.

Pandora whispered for him.

And he listened.

 ***

It was Friday.

His brother’s birthday.

Early November. The air had a wet cold to it. Not sharp yet. But heavy. The kind that clung to his sleeves and sat in his throat.

At dinner, Regulus couldn’t eat. He pushed food around his plate. His fingers clenched on the fork.

He hadn’t said happy birthday.

But it was Sirius’ birthday. He always remembered.

He thought about the old birthdays. The ones from before.

Before Hogwarts. Before Sirius started frowning at him all the time. Before he ran away.

At Grimmauld Place, birthdays belonged to their mother. Polished silverware. Lace napkins. A long table full of people they didn’t love. Aunts with strong perfume. Uncles with loud voices. Cousins they weren’t allowed to speak to alone.

Regulus remembered when he was five.

He remembered the table that year. The clink of cutlery. The forced laughter. Sirius’ face—tight, eyebrows pulled in, mouth flat.

He had already learned how to hate things.

Regulus hadn’t known why yet. He was still too small. His feet didn’t touch the floor when he sat. He wore his best shoes. The ones that made his toes hurt.

When the guests left, and the candles were snuffed, and Walburga kissed Sirius on the forehead like she hadn’t ignored him all day, the house went quiet.

Their mother said it was bedtime.

Sirius waited.

An hour passed. Maybe more.

Regulus was curled under the covers, breathing into his own hands to stay warm.

Then the door creaked open.

It was Sirius. He closed the door behind him gently. Held something in his arms.

A cake.

It was small. Lopsided. The frosting smudged.

“I asked Kreacher to make it,” Sirius whispered.

His voice was a secret.

Regulus sat up.

The cake smelled like chocolate. His favorite.

There was no candle. So Sirius had taken one of the brass candlesticks from the hallway. Too big. He jammed it into the center of the cake. The wax crumbled around it.

He lit it with a match. The flame wobbled.

For the first time that night, Sirius smiled.

He held Regulus’ hand.

“Sing with me.”

So they sang. Just the two of them. Softly. Regulus’ voice thin, unsure. Sirius more certain. Louder.

When they finished, Sirius blew out the flame.

Regulus blinked. The smoke curled between them.

Sirius looked at him and said, “I made a wish.”

“What is it?” Regulus asked.

“I can’t say,” Sirius said. “If I say it, it won’t come true.”

He squeezed Regulus’ hand.

“Birthday wishes always come. Even if they’re impossible.”

Regulus believed him.

He always believed Sirius.

They ate the cake in bed. With their hands. It was too rich. Regulus got frosting on his fingers. Sirius licked some from his own wrist.

Neither of them said anything else.

They just sat there, shoulders touching. The sheets pushed down. The room dark except for the flame.

It was the only birthday Regulus ever remembered fully.

The others were always too loud. Too forced.

That one was quiet. Soft. Real.

Now, years later, Regulus sat alone on the Astronomy Tower, the cold biting through his cloak, and thought about it.

That night.

That flame.

That wish.

That’s why he went.

Because of the memory.

The candle. The chocolate. The warmth of Sirius’ hand around his. That secret, stolen night — it had stayed with him all these years. Not as a memory. As something real. A warmth in the chest. A shape behind the ribs.

That’s why he stood now in front of the Gryffindor Tower. The portrait in front of him shifting restlessly. Regulus wrapped his fingers tighter around the gift in his hand.

He had never had friends here. Never been inside.

There was only one person he ever loved in this tower. And that person hadn’t looked at him in over a year.

But it wasn’t about him.

Not tonight.

Tonight is for Sirius.

That’s what he told himself.

He would bite it all back — the pride, the old wounds, the things that had curled up in him like rot. He would push through it, walk in, and wish his brother a happy birthday. He would hand him the gift he bought — the one he almost didn’t wrap — and that would be enough.

Because Sirius deserved something good, even if it came from him.

He looked at the portrait.

“Can you ask for Remus Lupin?”

The Fat Lady raised a brow but vanished without complaint.

He waited.

His heart beat high in his chest. He didn’t know what he was expecting. A shove. A laugh. A slammed door. But he waited anyway.

A few minutes passed.

Then footsteps. Then the portrait cracked open and there was Lupin.

He looked down at him, and for a second his expression softened.

Amber eyes. A small, real smile.

It caught Regulus off guard. None of Sirius’ friends ever looked pleased to see him.

Lupin stepped out into the corridor. “You came.”

Regulus nodded.

“Did you tell him?” he asked.

“No,” Lupin said. “Didn’t want to raise his hopes.”

Regulus looked down at the gift in his hand. The ribbon was slightly crooked.

He smiled, faintly. “Let’s go in.”

Inside was warm. Golden. There were paper garlands on the walls. Laughter coming from the couch. A record playing something upbeat and awful. Someone was already eating cake.

It was all wrong.

But he didn’t care.

His eyes moved across the room, searching. He passed over faces he didn’t know, or knew only by name. He wasn’t looking for anyone else.

He was looking for his brother.

A face that looked like his but wasn’t. Sharper. Brighter. Sirius had always looked better in motion, alive in a way Regulus could never be. His back straighter. His presence louder. His defiance like perfume — it lingered.

There. On the rug. A cup in hand. Laughing. His head tilted back, black hair falling over his face.

Sirius.

Older now. Taller. Shoulders wider. Posture straighter. Still impossible. Still magnetic.

Regulus’ throat tightened.

He remembered that back — Sirius standing in front of him in the garden, yelling at the Dolohov boys to fuck off. He remembered chasing after him barefoot, both of them breathless, the summer air hot on their skin.

He remembered thinking no one would ever love him like Sirius.

And Regulus — Regulus felt something rise inside him. Like breath. Like joy. Like pain. He wanted to run to him. Wrap his arms around his older brother’s shoulders. Press his face into his chest. He wanted Sirius to look at him like he used to. Like he mattered.

He stepped forward.

Lupin was just ahead of him, guiding. But Regulus could barely walk. His knees felt full of water. His grip on the gift was too hard. The wrapping paper was creased now, sweat-damp at the corners.

And then—

Sirius turned.

Their eyes met.

His smile died.

“What are you doing here,” Sirius said.

The room stilled.

Regulus opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked once at Lupin, then back.

“I came for your birthday,” he said softly. “I brought you something.”

Sirius didn’t move. His face was unreadable. But his hands — his hands were shaking.

Lupin cleared his throat. “I told him we were having your birthday tonight. I thought he should come.”

Sirius’ voice broke through like a crack. “What the fuck, Remus. What the actual fuck.”

Regulus stood still. He didn’t understand. He had thought— He’d thought Sirius would smile.

He thought Sirius would be glad.

“I thought you missed your brother,” Lupin said gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He reached out, fingers brushing Sirius’ arm.

Sirius shoved him off.

There were tears running down his face now.

“Why would I miss him,” Sirius whispered. He turned to Regulus.

His eyes—cold. His lips twisted like he was about to spit.

“Why would I miss the bastard who crucioed me? The one who fucking tortured me?”

Regulus blinked.

Everything went white for a second. Then soundless.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I didn’t—”

He stepped forward. The gift slipped from his hand and hit the carpet.

Sirius didn’t move.

“You did.” Sirius said.

Then he turned. Walked away.

He left.

The door slammed.

Regulus didn’t breathe.

People were staring.

He couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t see Lupin anymore.

He backed up. His fingers were shaking.

Then he turned.

He walked.

Through the portrait hole. Down the stairs. Into the corridor.

He didn’t feel his body anymore. Just movement. Just the sound of his own heart in his ears.

By the time he reached the lake, his lungs were burning.

He sank into the grass.

His mouth opened. No sound came out.

He pressed his hand to his chest. It hurt.

It wasn’t shame.

It was grief.

Because he had loved Sirius. Still did.

Because he had believed, like a child believes, that somewhere inside that boy was the brother who used to sneak him cake in the dark. Who used to hold his hand.

And now that boy was gone.

Or worse — he was still there.

And he wanted nothing to do with him.

***

The sickness didn’t leave.

Not that night. Not the next day.

Not for the rest of the week.

It lived in his chest. In his stomach. In the hollow at the base of his throat.

He didn’t speak to anyone.

He didn’t leave the dorm.

He couldn’t.

He lay in bed, curled toward the wall. The gift was gone. He didn’t ask Lupin what happened to it. He didn’t want to know if Sirius had thrown it out. Or left it on the floor. Or laughed.

He didn’t want to know anything.

He kept seeing it — Sirius’ face. The words. You crucioed me. The way he said it. Low. Final.

He said it like it was real.

Regulus repeated it in his head, over and over. Like a fever prayer. I didn’t. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I didn’t.

It didn’t make sense.

He would have remembered.

He would have felt it.

He would rather die than raise his wand at Sirius.

But Sirius hadn’t been lying. He saw it in his face. In the way his voice cracked. In the way his hands shook.

Regulus pressed his fingers against his temples. Hard. As if he could crush the thought out.

He tried to sleep. Couldn’t.

Tried to eat. Couldn’t.

The water outside the dungeon window pressed against the glass like skin. Heavy. Cold. Slow-moving.

He hated that window. He hated the way the light bent through it. The way everything looked green and sick.

There was no sky. No air. Only water.

He felt like he was underwater. Like he’d been dropped in it and no one noticed.

Sometimes Evan lay next to him.

He didn’t say much.

He would shift the blankets, slide in next to him fully clothed, their bodies not touching but not far.

He asked once, What’s wrong.

Regulus didn’t answer.

Just blinked at the window.

Evan didn’t ask again.

He just stayed.

Sometimes, Regulus wanted to speak. He wanted to whisper, Tell me I didn’t do it. Tell me I wouldn’t. But he couldn’t.

He thought of writing to their mother. The idea made his stomach turn. What would she say? That Sirius deserved it? That Regulus was finally becoming a man?

He imagined her handwriting. The heavy ink. The cold sentences.

He didn’t write.

He thought of going to see Sirius. Walking into Gryffindor Tower again. Saying tell me the truth. Saying look at me when you say it.

But he couldn’t move.

Every time he thought of Sirius’ face, of the way he looked at him — like filth, like a stranger — something in him stopped working.

So he lay still.

He stared at the green-lit water through the window, hours passing without sound.

The light never changed.

Just ripples.

Just shadows.

He wanted to sleep for a year. Until he forgot the words. Until he forgot the way hope felt in his hands right before it dropped.

He didn’t cry.

He just let the silence grow. Let it fill the room. Let it press into his ribs and stay there.

It was safer than trying to remember.

Safer than trying to forget.

***

The grief didn’t let go. Not even in sleep. It sat in him. In the blood. In the base of his spine. It held his breath. It bent his ribs.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

It was past curfew. Closer to dawn than night.

The castle was silent. The kind of silence that made whispering feel loud .

Regulus slipped out of bed.

He didn’t take his wand. Didn’t take shoes. Didn’t take his cloak. He didn’t need anything.

He just walked.

Down the stairs. Past the Great Hall. Past the tapestries and the suits of armor. Past every rule and every thought.

He walked until he was outside. Until the wind hit his face. Until his feet hit wet grass. Until he wasn’t inside anything anymore.

The sky was pale blue. That hour before the sun, when everything looks dead.

He walked until the lake appeared in front of him.

He stopped.

The water didn’t move. It looked like it was waiting. Like it already knew.

He clenched his fists.

“Fuck this,” he said. Quiet.

It wasn’t enough.

“ Fuck this ,” he said again, louder.

It still wasn’t enough.

He screamed it.

He screamed it over and over, until the words broke apart in his throat. Until he wasn’t saying anything. Just noise. Just a raw, cracked wail torn out of him like skin.

The sound echoed off the trees, off the rocks, off the dead morning.

He couldn’t stop.

He bent forward, shaking. Hands on his knees. His hair clung to his cheeks. He didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything but rage .

Rage so deep it didn’t belong to him. It was ancestral. It lived in his bones.

He wanted to break everything.

He wanted to disappear.

He whispered, “I wish I was dead.”

It wasn’t a cry. Just a sentence. Just a plain truth, spoken into no one.

There was no point.

He took a step toward the lake.

Another.

His breath came out shallow.

The grief clung to his chest like hands.

Another step.

And then—arms.

Arms around his waist. Pulling him back.

He thrashed.

“ Let me go! ” he shouted. “ Let me go, I’ll kill you, I swear to God, I’ll kill you! ”

The arms didn’t let go.

They tightened.

A voice said, “No. Not happening.”

Regulus kept fighting. Elbows, fists, feet. But his legs gave out.

He collapsed.

The arms caught him. Held him up.

He sagged against the body behind him, his bare feet slipping in the mud.

He let his head drop forward.

His heart hurt. His throat was raw. His fists still clenched nothing.

He waited to feel shame. It didn’t come.

After a while, he said, “I’m fine. Let me go.”

The voice said, “You’re not fine.”

Regulus turned.

Of course.

Of course it was Potter .

It’s always fucking Potter.

His glasses were askew. His cheeks pink from the cold. His chest rising fast.

He looked at Regulus like he’d been there the whole time. Like this was normal. Like this was where they ended up.

James lifted his wand and whispered a warming charm.

Then—he did something strange.

He wrapped his arms around him again. Fully.

Not just to stop him. Not just to hold him up.

He held him like he meant it.

He said, “I got you.”

Regulus didn’t say anything.

He wanted to shove him off.

He didn’t.

He wanted to tell him to fuck off.

He didn’t.

His body leaned back.

Leaned into James.

Like it remembered something.

Like it knew him.

His fingers curled into the fabric of James’ sleeve.

His breath came out rough. Broken.

He wanted to say you don’t get to hold me like this .

He wanted to say I wish it were you he hated, not me .

But the words didn’t come.

Just the silence.

Just the breath.

Just the chest behind him, rising and falling.

And James’ voice, saying nothing now.

Just holding him.

As if that were enough.

Regulus let Potter hold him. He hated that he did. Hated that his body betrayed him like this—how it slumped back against someone he despised, someone who had everything, someone who would never understand what it felt like to lose a brother before he even got the chance to grow up beside him. He hated him, and he hated the way his arms felt around him—solid, warm, unbearable.

After a long time—minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell—Regulus pulled away. His shoulder twisted against the hold and he stood up with sudden energy, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand as if to erase everything.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly. He wasn’t.

Potter reached out and caught his wrist.

“Sit down.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it hit like a command. Like it wasn’t up for debate.

Regulus rolled his eyes and tugged his arm back. “Fuck off.”

The hand didn’t move. Potter’s fingers remained at his wrist, not tight enough to hurt, not gentle enough to ignore.

“I said sit down.”

His voice was rougher this time.

Regulus let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and sat again with an exaggerated drop of his body to the ground.

“You’re infuriating.”

Potter didn’t answer. He was watching him. Staring. The silence stretched between them like a tight wire.

Regulus hated the way it made him feel—exposed, like someone had pulled his skin back to study what was underneath. So he broke it.

“If you’re waiting for some sort of confession, don’t hold your breath. I’m not suicidal or anything.” He looked away, jaw sharp with defiance. “I just… needed to take a breath, okay? Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Potter didn’t say anything at first. Then:

“You would’ve drowned yourself if I wasn’t here.”

Regulus jerked toward him, incredulous.

“For Merlin’s sake,” he spat, “you do love playing the hero, don’t you?”

Potter didn’t flinch. He just stared harder.

“I saw the way you were standing there,” he said. “Don’t lie to me, Black.”

“I wasn’t going to drown myself!” Regulus exploded. His voice echoed over the lake, cracked and furious. “I wasn’t.”

Potter didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Okay,” he said finally. “You weren’t trying to drown yourself.”

His voice was quieter now. “But you’re not okay.”

Regulus scoffed. “Obviously.”

Silence again. But different now.

Something had broken open.

The wind touched Regulus’ skin like cold fingers. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron.

His wrist still tingled where James had touched it.

His throat hurt. Not from the scream—something else. Something deeper.

He didn’t know what to say.

And Potter didn’t move.

He just sat there. Watching him. Breathing near him.

And Regulus didn’t leave.

Regulus lowered his head, his hands searching for something to do. His fingers found the grass—wet, slick, tangled with dirt—and started pulling. Not fast. Not with purpose. Just small movements, tearing at it as if it might bleed, as if it could distract him.

He didn’t know he was speaking until he heard his own voice.

“I’m not like her.” His voice cracked. “I don’t think I am…”

His hand paused in the grass. Potter didn’t interrupt him.

“I remember Sirius telling me I was the best one of them. Of us. He said that.” Regulus blinked hard. His fingers moved again. “I didn’t believe him. I always thought he was the best. He still is.”

He gave a soft, breathless laugh, one that had nothing of humor in it. “My father wasn’t there most of the time. Either out or too drunk on potions and firewhisky to stand upright. And Mother… she was always angry. Always. Even when she was proud of us, it came out cruel.”

He tore out another handful of grass. It clung to his palm like guilt.

“Sirius was everything to me.”

He said it like a confession. Like he was ashamed of how soft his voice had gone.

“I wouldn’t hurt him,” Regulus whispered. Then a beat. “Except… maybe I could’ve.”

Potter didn’t say a word.

Regulus kept going, as if the words weren’t his anymore.

“I remember one time… Sirius locked himself in his room. Wouldn’t come out. No matter how hard I tried. He wasn’t crying. He was just… silent. Maman wasn’t there, only my father. So I went to his office.”

His breathing hitched. His chest felt too tight. He spoke through it.

“I asked if I should owl her. Maybe she could get him out. But he said no. He told me not to. Told me I should learn how to protect Sirius. That I should be the one to get him out.”

His voice cracked. He pressed a hand to his face. His breath came too fast.

“He was drunk. He was drunk, and he could tell… he could tell I wasn’t going to be able to protect him. And now I—”

His sentence broke.

“Fuck. I must’ve done it.”

His chest seized. Air wouldn’t come. He was suffocating on the grass, on the memory, on the thick night air pressing down on his throat.

He couldn’t breathe.

And then—

A hand, firm, warm, pressed over his mouth.

“Breathe through your nose,” Potter said softly. His voice was calm, steady, maddening. “Come on. Slow. Breathe.”

Regulus couldn’t see him clearly. Only skin and sky and pressure.

But he listened.

Through his nose, slow and trembling, like a child recovering from a nightmare.

When he could breathe again, properly, he noticed his spit on Potter’s palm.

Potter didn’t wipe it off. Didn’t flinch. Just let it sit there like it belonged to him now. Like he’s not bothered by it.

Regulus stared at him.

Something inside him wanted to curl up and die. Something else wanted to kiss him.

“I’m tired, James.”

He said it too softly. Too brokenly.

James looked at him, face unreadable in the dark.

“Go to your room,” James said. “I’ll find you tomorrow.”

Regulus stared at him for one last moment. Trying to read something. Anything.

But James just looked back. Steady. Brutal in his calm.

So Regulus stood up.

He walked away barefoot, cold again.

And James stayed behind.

 ***

The toast was warm when he bit into it, soft in the middle and crisp at the crusts. Butter melted into the fig jam, thick and sweet, and it stuck to the roof of his mouth. Regulus blinked. He didn’t realize he was hungry until that moment—until the first bite sank deep and filled something, something far beyond his stomach.

He swallowed slowly. Took another. Then another.

He didn’t stop until half the plate was gone, and even then, his hands were still twitching with the need to bring something to his mouth, to chew and keep chewing like it might dull the ache clawing at his chest.

Evan didn’t say a word. He never did. He only lifted the teapot and poured it exactly the way Regulus liked—strong, dark, with a hint of lemon, no sugar. He pushed the cup forward like it was nothing, like this was any other day. That was how Evan showed affection.

Regulus turned his head slightly, saw the steam curling upward. He murmured, “Thank you,” and Evan didn’t reply. He only tilted his head, one pale brow arching in that way he did—like he could see through Regulus and it amused him.

“You have jam on your mouth,” Evan said after a moment, and Regulus reached up, wiped it off with his thumb. He didn’t meet Evan’s eyes. He couldn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t look. Knew that if he turned his head—just slightly, just there, across the hall, to the left—he’d feel it again. That pit. That ugly black knot in his gut that had been growing since the tower. That kept him curled under his blankets, sick and shaking. That made him press his palm against his chest sometimes because it hurt. Physically. Like something inside him was cut.

He told himself he wouldn’t look. Not today.

But he was weak. Always weak.

He glanced up.

The Gryffindor table looked wrong. Empty. Potter wasn’t there. Neither was Lupin. Neither was Sirius.

His eyes lingered, searching. For a flash of dark hair. For shoulders hunched in that angry, careless way. For a glimpse of something familiar, even if it was twisted and broken.

Nothing.

Had Sirius not eaten either? Had he been avoiding the hall just like Regulus? Had he spent the last week locked away too, refusing to be seen?

The thought made Regulus sick. The pit bloomed, dark and deep. It throbbed in his throat. His stomach turned. He took another bite anyway, chewing mechanically, because he couldn’t afford to unravel here, in front of all these people. Not again.

He sipped the tea Evan made him. It burned the roof of his mouth. He didn’t care.

He kept chewing. He kept breathing.

He kept pretending he was fine.

Regulus climbed the steps to the owlery without thinking.

He didn’t bring a letter.

He wasn’t going to send one.

Who would he send it to?

His mother? Who only asked how his grades were holding and whether Sirius had stopped making a disgrace of himself?

His father? Who, if still breathing, was probably too drunk to spell out a sentence, let alone read one.

He climbed because he needed the air. The wind. The distance.

He sat on the ledge. The stone was cool. Damp. He didn’t care. It soaked into his thighs.

Laxor hooted at him, heavy and soft and loud. Regulus blinked at him.

He’d forgotten how big he’d gotten.

“Too many biscuits,” he said aloud. His voice didn’t sound like his.

He fed Laxor one anyway. Stroking his feathers like it mattered. Like Laxor wasn’t just another thing he forgot to love properly. The owl leaned into him, hooting again, eyes big and yellow.

Laxor.

It was Sirius who named him that. Years ago. Back when Regulus still smiled with teeth.

“Free of chains,” Sirius had said. “Laxor. Sounds dramatic. You’ll like that.”

And Regulus did. Because Sirius said it. And back then Sirius could’ve named him after Dumbledore and he would’ve grinned like it was a great name.

He blinked again. Stroked the soft brown feathers near Laxor’s beak.

He hadn’t meant to stay long.

He just wanted the cold air and a place where people wouldn’t stare. Where the stone was silent and the wind didn’t care about curses or brothers or shame.

Then—

“Hey.”

His body tensed. Not his mind—his body . A pull like a string in his gut yanked tight.

James Potter.

Regulus didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only said, “Yes.” Because saying more than that felt like peeling open something too raw. Too soft. Too close to the part of him that still hurt.

Potter walked closer. His footsteps sounded familiar now.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was just James’ voice, rough and solid and maddening.

Regulus smiled without smiling. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He heard Potter sigh. The rustle of his sleeve. The way his fingers raked through his hair—the thick, black hair that Regulus hated and wanted.

He could almost feel it against his palm. He imagined clutching it. Pulling. Pushing James’ face to his neck. Just to feel the heat of him. The weight.

And then the arms.

And then the hips.

And then—fuck.

He swallowed.

His stomach curled.

He hated himself.

“I’ve heard the whispers,” James said. “I know what they’re saying.”

“Of course you do,” Regulus muttered. “Everyone does.”

James kept talking. “Sirius didn’t mean for it to get out—”

And that was it.

The switch.

Regulus’ spine straightened, sharp. He turned his head, just slightly, not enough to look at him. “Potter,” he said, calm. “Spare me the loyalty act.”

“What?”

“You people—” He bit the inside of his cheek. “You think you get to speak for him.”

Potter didn’t reply.

First Lupin, so sure of Sirius’ thoughts. Now Potter, sure of his intentions. They all guarded him like he was a saint, like Regulus should thank them for offering interpretation on Sirius Black, their holy martyr.

Regulus looked at Laxor again. Fed him another biscuit. His fingers were trembling.

“It’s fine,” he said. “What they say. What they don’t. Doesn’t change anything.”

He stood. Smoothed his robe. He didn’t look at Potter again. Couldn’t.

“I don’t care,” he said.

Liar.

He fed Laxor the final biscuit. His eyes were burning. His lips were dry.

And then he walked away.

James didn’t follow.

He went down the steps slowly.

The owl shit stuck to the edges of his soles, smeared across stone.

He didn’t bother cleaning it.

He heard voices in the corridor, low and bent with something that wasn’t curiosity. The kind of tone people used to speak of illness, accidents, things that dirtied the mouth. One glance over a shoulder, and he saw the pause—the turn—their heads tilted.

They were whispering again.

Regulus didn’t look at them. But he heard it.

“…Cruciatus…”

“…his own brother…”

“…Sirius, can you believe—?”

He walked faster. The words were like touch. They scraped his skin. His arms. His throat. They felt like fingers gripping the back of his neck, invisible, dirty, lingering too long.

He wanted to scream. To claw them off.

But he kept walking. Past the hall. Down the slope. Through the grass that hadn’t been cut since the storm. It brushed his ankles like it remembered.

“Sirius didn’t mean for it to get out,” James had said.

He kept hearing it.

Didn’t mean to.

Didn’t.

The words stuck in his teeth like the jam from this morning.

He reached the tree without knowing how. The one near the edge, bent sideways from wind. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him and let his head fall back.

The lake was quiet. Stupidly quiet. Like it hadn’t seen.

Like it hadn’t held him that night.

He closed his eyes and remembered it. The way his body gave out. How his mouth opened, and he couldn’t make sound. How the lake felt around his ankles, his knees, his thighs. How the wind slapped him. How it felt like punishment. Like love.

And then the hands. Not the lake’s. Not his own.

Potter’s.

Regulus had collapsed into him like he was fragile glass.

He opened his eyes. The lake glared back.

He shouldn’t think of it.

But he did.

He thought of James’ arms. How they wrapped around him and didn’t let go. How they pressed hard into his chest. Like he wanted to bruise him. Like he wanted to mark him.

He thought of James’ thighs. The way they looked during quidditch. Thick. Hard. Careless.

He thought of James pressing him down. One hand in his hair. The other on his hip. Saying nothing. Just panting. Just fucking him like he hated him. Or worse, like he didn’t care at all.

Regulus twisted his fingers in the grass.

He imagined James spitting in his mouth. Then kissing him after. Slow. Like they were in love.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

The pain helped. A little.

He hated this.

This ache. This heat. This lie his body told him over and over.

That Potter wanted him.

That Potter thought of him.

That Potter would ever, even once, fuck him like that.

He pushed his hand under his jumper. His ribs stuck out like fence posts. His skin was cold and damp.

He thought about how James had touched his face. How he hadn’t flinched when Regulus spit was all over his palm. How he just told him to breathe. Like it was nothing. Like Regulus was nothing. Like he belonged to him already.

He pressed his thighs together. It didn’t help.

He hated him.

He hated him so much he wanted him inside.

He didn’t move for a long time. He watched the lake.

It didn’t remember him. It didn’t care.

But he did.

He remembered everything.

Chapter Text

Regulus didn’t open his eyes when he felt the shadow press over his face. He knew that scent. Sandalwood, sharp and woodsy, then the quiet under-note of lavender—soft, familiar. Pandora must’ve tucked a few blooms in Evan’s pocket again. She did that sometimes, before breakfast, before conversations. It was her way. Regulus didn’t move. He let the scent wash over him, let the grass itch at the bare skin where his sleeves had ridden up, let the soil bite into his spine. The world could spin without him for now.

Evan said, “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself?”

Regulus moved one finger, then another. “Piss off,” he muttered.

He didn’t feel like talking. Or sitting up. Or thinking. He wanted to lie there, useless, unfeeling. He wanted the roots beneath his back to climb inside him, burrow in, make him quiet. He wanted to melt into the earth and sleep.

Evan stepped closer, the warmth of him blocking more of the light. Still, Regulus didn’t open his eyes. If he did, he might cry. If he cried, he wouldn’t stop. He let his legs stretch further, toes brushing cool moss. He liked the discomfort. The ache in his lower back. The way the world dug into him. It made him feel real. Present. Temporary.

Evan said, “Slughorn assigned us to watch over one of his detentions. Says he has business with Dumbledore.”

“Lazy bastard,” Regulus murmured.

Evan didn’t answer.

Regulus exhaled, then added, “He’s probably drinking in his quarters. Ce gros porc .”

That made Evan smile, he heard it in the shift of his breath, the soft scoff at the back of his throat. It made Regulus want to laugh. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Evan said, “What’s got you railed up?”

“Nothing,” Regulus said, too quickly. He felt the heat crawl up the side of his neck. His thoughts had been full of James again, always James—on the pitch, wet from the shower, that look in his eyes by the lake. Railed up. Fuck.

Evan crouched, letting his hand rest in the grass near Regulus’ arm. The movement was graceful, unaffected. He existed like stone—quiet, cold, rooted. But Regulus knew better. Evan noticed everything. His silences were sharp. He never asked questions he didn’t already know the answer to.

Regulus whispered, “I just hate when he makes us do his stuff. That’s all.”

“Mmh.” Evan didn’t press. He never did. Not with him.

They stayed like that for a minute. The wind slid between the trees, brushing Regulus’ cheeks. The lake glinted, just past the reeds. He didn’t look at it. Couldn’t.

Then Evan said, low, steady, “Come on.”

He extended a hand.

Regulus stared at it. The fingers long, pale, knuckles faintly bruised. Evan never wore rings. He didn’t need to. His stillness was its own ornament. The scent of lavender grew stronger in the breeze.

Regulus lifted his arm slowly, let his fingertips skim over Evan’s palm before letting their hands lock. His grip was weak. Evan didn’t comment. He just pulled. Firm. Like he wasn’t going to let him fall again.

When Regulus was standing, he didn’t let go fast.

The classroom was dim and smelled of metal and boiled herbs. Regulus stepped inside, behind Evan, and the moment he did, he heard it, that sweet, poisonous voice that could only belong to one person.

“Fucking hell,” came the drawl. “ They sent you?” He grinned. “I must be very bad.”

Regulus didn’t need to look to see Barty Crouch Jr.’s face. He could already feel it in the air—how it must’ve lit up like a gaslight catching flame, how that mouth pulled wide over teeth too straight for someone so wild, how his eyes those feral green eyes, always dancing between brilliance and illness must have already fastened themselves to Evan like a leech. And, of course, he hadn’t noticed Regulus was there. Not at first.

“Ah,” Barty added, finally glancing his way. “And Black.”

His tone shifted, dropped in temperature, laced with distaste but not enough to sound honest. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Evan with calculated ease, like Regulus didn’t matter, like he wasn’t worth acknowledging, like the sight of him was merely a delay in what Barty truly wanted.

Evan’s voice was smooth and unbothered, as always. “Scrub the cauldrons,” he said. “Hand over your wand.”

Crouch didn’t argue. He stepped forward and held the wand out, slowly, like it pleased him to let it go, like the loss of power was somehow erotic. He let his fingers graze Evan’s palm intentional, lingering and barely there but unmistakable. Regulus saw it. Evan didn’t react.

He never did. That was his advantage.

Regulus took the seat beside him, their shoulders brushing once before settling into that quiet intimacy they shared. The kind that had nothing to do with words. Regulus hadn’t brought his bag. He hadn’t even thought to. He reached across and took one of Evan’s books without asking and opened it to the middle, trying to read. Evan was already reading his own, eyes still and heavy-lidded, as though Barty’s presence were no more irritating than a draft of cold air.

Crouch made noise like it would get Evan to leave his book and kiss him. Every movement was too much his footsteps were sharp, his breathing too quick, the clatter of metal on stone exaggerated like a performance. He scrubbed the cauldrons with the furious energy of someone trying to prove something no one had asked for. He knocked over a stool. He whispered something to himself. He kept glancing at Evan, always Evan, like a dog testing how close it could get to the hand that beat it.

And Evan didn’t look up. Not once.

To Evan, Barty Crouch Jr. was nothing. Less than nothing. A ripple in the floor.

It must be driving him mad.

At one point, Crouch paused, turned, and looked directly at Regulus. His grin was faint but full of teeth, the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. The kind you see on portraits of executioners.

“I heard,” he said. “That you cast an Unforgivable on your brother.”

Regulus didn’t breathe.

Crouch kept going.

“Brutal,” he said, almost admiringly. “But well—if Sirius Black was my brother, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”

The sentence struck low, like a belt across the back. There was no laughter in the room. Only the faint sound of bubbles in one of the unwashed cauldrons and the buzzing in Regulus’ ears. He should have expected it, of course Crouch would go there. Of course he would.

“I suggest you stop talking,” Evan said, calm and cold, not looking up from his book. “If you don’t want to be next.”

And Barty, with his sickness and hunger and need for pain, smiled like someone handed him a knife and turned their back.

“Please,” he whispered. “I’d look good screaming.”

Regulus felt his spine stiffen. Evan said nothing. He never needed to. His silence was more dangerous than most men’s threats. Silence allowed others to invent meanings, to fill in the blanks with their own delusions, to hang themselves with the rope of their fantasies.

And Barty had so many.

Regulus reached out and held Evan’s hand. Just for a second. No pressure. No declaration. Just contact. Evan didn’t flinch. He turned a page and handed Regulus another book with his free hand, like nothing happened, like they were alone in a different world. Regulus took it and nodded his thanks.

When he turned, Crouch was watching him. Not Evan this time. Jaw tight. Mouth twisted. That feral green glare burning holes into Regulus’ neck like it was his fault Evan looked at him with softness, as if Evan ever looked at anyone that way at all.

Regulus looked back at him. Unbothered. Bored.

Jealous freak.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

Some things were louder in silence.

Regulus left before the detention ended. The book was dull. The air in the classroom had grown stale. Crouch fell asleep thankfully and Evan hadn’t looked up in half an hour, eyes dragging line after line as if nothing else existed. That was the thing about Evan—he could vanish without moving, disappear into ink and parchment. Regulus could have been naked, bleeding, on fire, and Evan would still be on chapter twelve.

He wandered back toward the dungeons. His robes felt dry, his skin clean by spell, but there was something wrong underneath. The memory of lake water clung to him—wet earth under fingernails, the smell of it behind his ears, the press of Potter’s voice against his throat. It lived on his skin like a film he couldn’t shake. He peeled off his clothes the moment he entered the dorm and stood under the hot stream of the shower until his vision blurred. He soaped himself slowly, again and again, as if the dirt had sunk into the bone. Even after, towel wrapped around his waist, he still felt unclean.

The library was quiet. People looked away when he entered, or maybe they were pretending not to. He didn’t care. He had nowhere else to go. The silence was better than the stares. He walked through the aisles, running a finger along the spines like he used to do when he was younger and believed books were portals to better lives. He was halfway to the potions section when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Regulus.”

Of course.

He didn’t turn. “I suggest you fuck off before I hex you.”

“I just need one minute.”

He sighed, tired of everyone needing minutes from him. But Lupin didn’t look smug or self-righteous. He looked like a kicked dog. A large, scruffy, kicked dog. The kind that wouldn’t bark, just lie there in the rain and wait to be forgiven.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Fine. Five minutes. I’ve had a long day.”

They walked toward the restricted section. No one was there. The books hummed faintly behind chains.

Lupin didn’t speak at first. Regulus didn’t fill the silence. He crossed his arms and leaned against a shelf, staring at nothing. The dim light made Lupin’s face look even more drawn.

“I messed up,” Lupin said finally.

“Clearly,” Regulus replied.

Lupin looked down. “I didn’t know better.”

Regulus let the words settle before answering. “I didn’t know better either. That’s it. We should leave it at that.”

But Lupin wasn’t done. “He won’t talk to me.”

That made Regulus laugh. “He hasn’t talked to me in over a year, Lupin. I’m not going to cry for you.”

Lupin smiled a little, like he couldn’t help it. “We didn’t talk for ten months in fifth year,” he said, voice quieter now. “He did something—I was so angry, I couldn’t even look at him without wanting to rip my hair out. But even then, he was there. I could see him in the common room, hear him breathing in the bed next to mine. He was close. I could have reached out, touched him. I knew I could have him back if I could just… get over myself.”

Regulus listened. The tone was familiar. It was when you knew you could have something and still refuse to take it because you hate needing it.

“But now,” Lupin continued, “I can’t. He’s not speaking to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reach him again. It’s the first time… he’s cut me off. Really cut me off. And now it’s like—he’s not just angry. He’s gone.”

Lupin stopped. Something about him seemed younger then. Not in age, but in the way grief made everyone feel twelve again.

Regulus didn’t know what to say to that. So he said the easiest thing: “So you and my brother?”

Lupin nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s not exactly a secret. We’ve been caught in broom closets more times than I’d like to admit.”

“Gross,” Regulus said flatly.

But he didn’t mean it. Not really. Two queer sons. His mother must be so proud.

***

Regulus left Double Potions with his bag slung low, head still somewhere else. He liked Potions. Usually. But for weeks now it was like every part of him was scattered—focus, patience, appetite—gone. He kept walking, nowhere in particular, and was halfway past an empty stretch of corridor when someone shoved him hard from behind.

The door clicked shut. Dark. A broom closet.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust before he saw him. Potter.

It had always been a fantasy, ridiculous, embarrassing, the kind you don’t admit to anyone. But still just that. A fantasy.

“What the fuck, Potter,” Regulus sneered.

Potter grinned like this was all perfectly reasonable. “Apologies, I just couldn’t catch you without your blonde twin with you lately, and this closet doesn’t fit three.”

Regulus’ jaw tensed. “What do you want.”

Potter shrugged. “Wanted to check on you.”

“How kind of you,” Regulus said, mocking, sharp. “But I’m fine. I told you I’m fine.”

“Quit with the sarcasm.” The glare that followed was almost worse than the words. It was steady, deep, and cold enough to send something sharp down Regulus’ spine.

Potter stepped closer. “You were going to fucking off yourself.”

Patience gone, Regulus bit back. “For the millionth time, you fucking bespectacled imbecile, if I wanted to kill myself, if I was brave enough and not a bloody coward, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” His breath was coming shorter now, tight and uneven. “So leave me be, Potter.”

He moved to push past, but Potter’s hands caught both his wrists, pressing them back against the wall. Firm, unyielding.

Potter didn’t speak. Just looked.

Regulus stared back because he couldn’t not. At Potter Stupidly handsome face. Those large, warm-brown eyes that didn’t seem to blink. The curve of his full mouth— soft, infuriatingly soft. His lips looked almost unreal up close, like they’d feel too good if he ever—

Regulus looked up again. Potter’s eyes were already on his and then on his lips.

Potter leaned in slightly, close enough that Regulus could feel the warmth of his breath, and whispered, low  “Regulus.”

The sound of it scraped through him like a match strike. Regulus’ gaze flicked up to Potter’s eyes deep, steady, and fixed entirely on him and he knew instantly that Potter had caught him staring at his lips.

The realization made heat crawl down his neck. Regulus tore his wrists free from Potter’s grip and shoved past him, out into the corridor. His breath was still short, his heart hammering, and there was a tightness in his trousers he couldn’t quite will away.

Chapter Text

Regulus lay down by the lake, his book covering his face to keep the sun out. He could hear the water moving, small waves hitting the shore, the wind pushing against the grass. He didn’t want to think, but he couldn’t stop. Potter had a way of getting under his skin without even looking at him properly.

He breathed in. The sun was too warm on his uniform. He closed his eyes. Maybe he would sleep a little.

Something touched his leg. He froze, tilting the book just enough to look.

A huge, black wolf—no, a dog stood beside him. Its eyes caught the light, fixed on him.

His hand went to his wand, fingers tightening.

The dog whimpered. Bowed its head.

Regulus hesitated. Lowered his wand. He reached out slowly until his fingers pressed into the thick fur of its head. The dog leaned into his touch.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

The dog barked once, short and sharp, like an answer.

He smiled. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

Another bark.

“Well,” Regulus murmured, “that makes two of us.” His voice was quiet, almost a confession. “If you’re wondering how I’m strange… there’s a lot. I’m a mess. Maybe you are too.”

The dog stared, ears twitching, like it understood more than it should.

“I must be mad,” Regulus said, rubbing between its ears, “talking to a dog.” His hand lingered. “But I’ve no one else today. Evan’s in one of his moods. Pandora… she’d rather look at the oracles than tell the truth about anything.”

The dog’s nose brushed against his wrist, warm and insistent.

“And,” Regulus added, as if it were nothing, “I want my brother’s best mate to kiss me. He almost did yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The bark this time was loud, angry.

Regulus pulled back, wand in hand again. “What—”

“Oi! There you are!” Pettigrew’s voice broke through the quiet. He came running over, face flushed. He caught hold of the dog’s neck, tugging. “Sorry about him.”

Regulus blinked. “Is he yours?”

“Yeah,” Pettigrew said quickly.

“I thought dogs weren’t allowed in Hogwarts.”

“They’re not,” Pettigrew said, a little too fast. “This one was… a toad. An ugly one. Transfiguration project.”

Regulus looked at him, then at the dog. The animal’s gaze was still on him, almost human in its intensity. There was something… angry there.

He brushed off his robes and stood, his hands still tingling faintly where they’d touched fur. “Strange project,” he said.

“Yeah. He’s trouble,” Pettigrew replied, holding the dog tighter.

Regulus lingered a moment, glancing at the dog once more. Then he turned back toward the castle. Behind him, the dog didn’t bark again. But he could feel the stare on his back all the way up the hill.

***

Quidditch training had dragged longer than usual. Regulus kept flying laps after the rest of his team drifted down. He told himself it was because his turns were off today, but really, he didn’t want to head back yet. Gryffindors would be here soon. Regulus slowed, glided down, landed, boots hitting the ground with the muted thud of tired legs. He stripped off gloves, flexed stiff fingers.

Steam still rolled out of the showers when he walked in, his teammates laughing, slamming lockers shut, disappearing in twos and threes. By the time he stripped off his robes, the place was empty.

He stood under the spray until it bit at his shoulders, until his skin was flushed and pink. It was easier to think in the quiet. Easier not to remember Sirius’s looks across the Great Hall these past days, eyes fixed on him with that unreadable, simmering anger. Sometimes a glare, sometimes something worse. Sirius never looked at him before. Not like that. He usually ignored him.

He turned off the tap, wrapped the towel around himself. Shirt over head, trousers tugged up, belt sliding through loops. That was when the heat began. It started at his collarbone. A quick sting, almost nothing. Then it spread, fast, a wildfire racing down his chest and up his neck. His breath hitched. He froze.

Another wave, sharper.

Fuck.

He yanked at his shirt, but it clung to him like a second skin, the fabric searing hot. Buttons tore free and skittered across the tile. It didn’t help the burning was already everywhere, licking over stomach, spine, arms. His hands shook. His heart beating was too loud.

He went for his trousers, but the belt buckle bit into his fingers like it was molten. The room tilted. His knees hit tile, hard.

No one was here. No voices. Just the sound of his own ragged breathing, getting shorter, faster. The thought flickered—someone did this. This wasn’t an accident. And if it was Sirius…

His vision wavered. The air felt too thick to pull into his lungs. He could still feel the fire crawling over him, under his skin.

The floor came up to meet him. His shoulder smacked tile. The light above blurred into white, then into nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Regulus drifted in and out of darkness. It was like being pulled under water again and again, each time resurfacing with his lungs burning. He couldn’t tell if the fire on his skin was real or part of the dream.

Sometimes the hospital wing came into focus: the high ceilings, the pale light, the smell of herbs and burn salves clinging to the air. Sometimes it wasn’t the wing at all, but a garden, their garden, the one from Grimmauld Place where the roses grew too wild and Sirius dared him to touch the thorns. He was five, maybe six, and Sirius was laughing, pushing him toward the bush, daring, daring. Then the roses melted into flame, red petals curling into ash, and Regulus screamed but no sound left his throat.

The scream carried him back to the white sheets. His skin burned so badly he thought it was peeling away. He wanted to cry for someone—his mother, Sirius, Evan—but only a hoarse sound slipped out. Madam Pomfrey appeared, her hand cool on his forehead, forcing a bitter potion between his lips. He gagged, coughed, swallowed. Sleep took him down again.

Another dream. He was flying. Small legs dangling from a broom too big for him. Sirius was in front of him, steering, laughing so loud Regulus thought it would wake the dead. He wanted to laugh too, but his fingers slipped, and he was falling. The air tore through him. And then, the fire. Always the fire.

When he woke again, Evan was there. Just barely. His pale hair glinted in the light, like moonlight poured into a human. Regulus tried to move, but pain tore through his body so violently that his vision whited out. His skin felt like it was melting. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight. Just a sigh, broken and shaky, escaped him. And then Evan’s hand, cool and steady found his.

That hand was the last thing he felt before Madam Pomfrey pressed another potion to his lips and the darkness took him again.

Night came. The wing was silent, empty, shadows stretching long across the floor. Regulus woke only to fade again, his body heavy, too heavy, like stone tied to his chest.

The next time, though, there was someone else. He thought it was another dream, another fever hallucination. Sirius. Sitting there. Watching him.

He blinked, tried to focus. Tried to speak, but only air came out. Madam Pomfrey appeared, too quickly, and held another vial to his mouth. The taste made him heave, the nausea sharp, but when it was gone, so was the fog. His body still burned, but it was dulled now. Bearable.

Sirius stayed silent. He just stared. The kind of stare that cut. Then he stood, like he was going to leave.

And Regulus—Regulus couldn’t let him.

“Was it you?” he asked, voice low, cracked.

Sirius froze. His shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“Did you do this?” The words shook, but he forced them out.

Sirius turned then. His face—Merlin, his face was furious. His mouth twisted. His eyes glinted too bright in the lamplight.

“Fuck you,” Sirius said. And he turned again, like that was it.

Regulus panicked. “Sirius, wait” He tried to get up, to reach, but agony seared him down to the bone. His body betrayed him, collapsing back into the mattress. A sharp gasp escaped.

Sirius spun back. His hand dragged through his hair, and for a moment, just a moment, Regulus thought he’d cross the room and vanish all over again. But instead he came closer, sat back down. His knee brushed the edge of the bed.

“Don’t move,” Sirius muttered. His voice was low, soft. “You’ll tear yourself apart.”

Regulus’ throat closed. He wanted to say so much, explain, apologize, beg. But all that came out was, “I’m sorry.”

The words hung there, heavy and naked.

Regulus’ hand twitched against the sheets. His chest tightened, but he pushed through it, forcing his arm up. Slow, trembling. He found Sirius’ hand where it rested on the bed and brushed against it, then closed his fingers around it. Weak, desperate.

Sirius froze. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t move either.

Regulus held on. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

And Sirius just looked at him, eyes burning with something Regulus couldn’t name. Anger, grief, love, hate—all of it, none of it. He didn’t say anything. He just stayed.

And for once, that was enough.

***

Regulus woke with his hand still curled against something warm. For a split second, he thought Sirius was there, that maybe the hand he’d held through the night hadn’t been a dream. But when his eyes opened to the pale morning light, the chair was empty. Only the creak of the hospital wing and the faint smell of potions greeted him.

His chest hollowed. Sirius was gone.

Instead, Evan sat slouched in a chair near his bed, arms crossed. Beside him, Pandora leaned forward, her curls a soft halo in the morning glow, her eyes bright with worry.

Regulus swallowed. His throat was dry, scraped raw. “What happened?” His voice was more breath than sound.

Evan’s gaze flicked to him. Cold. Burning. “Someone cursed your clothes.” His words came out sharp, brittle, like they cut his own tongue saying it. “A dark curse. Old. It was meant to slowly burn you alive.”

Regulus shivered, though the room was warm. He could still feel phantom heat crawling over his skin, gnawing at him from the inside. “Oh,” was all he managed. He hated the way it sounded. Small. Weak.

Evan’s jaw worked, and for a second Regulus thought he might stand, storm out, set fire to whoever did this. Regulus knew that look, he’d seen it before. Regulus’ chest tightened. He didn’t want Evan doing something stupid. Something reckless. Not for him.

Pandora reached for him, her hand featherlight as it brushed his. It stung—like pressing raw skin—but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t want to. “Dumbledore’s found a way to reverse it,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hope Regulus couldn’t share. “He says you’ll be back to normal soon.”

At the name, Evan scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. He muttered something under his breath, too low for Regulus to catch, but the disdain in it was clear. Evan had never liked Dumbledore. Said he was too much of hypocrite, and Regulus never asked why he thought that.

“Did they…” Regulus licked his lips, hesitated. The words were heavy, sharp, lodged in his throat. “Did they figure out who did this?”

For a long moment, Evan didn’t answer. He just stared at him, blue eyes carved from ice, and Regulus felt pinned under them. Finally, Evan leaned forward, voice low, almost tender despite the fury thrumming in him.

“You’ll know soon.”

Chapter Text

The hospital wing breathed around him. Regulus lay still, half-dreaming, half-awake, when something shifted in the corner of his eye. A shimmer, then a figure peeling itself out of the dark.

The cloak slid off James’s shoulders, falling into his hands. Regulus’s throat tightened at the sight. Sirius had told him about it once, gloating in that careless way of his, how they snuck into kitchens, out onto the grounds. Regulus had wanted it, that kind of freedom. He’d been jealous in a way he’d never admit. And now James Potter stood at the foot of his bed, impossibly real, impossibly close.

James didn’t speak at first. He pulled a chair close, scraping it across the floor, not bothering to be careful. He sat, legs spread, elbows resting on his knees, watching Regulus with his big brown eyes like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

“How are you?” he whispered finally. The words fell heavy between them.

Regulus swallowed, his throat raw. “Better.”

James’s gaze flicked over him, taking in the bandages, the pale skin. “You don’t look better.”

“I’ve looked worse.”

James shook his head, a small smile curling at his mouth. “No. You haven’t.”

Regulus let out something like a laugh, but it came out thin. “That’s comforting.”

“Don’t.” James’s voice was soft but it had an edge to it, like a warning. He leaned forward, hand reaching up to brush the damp hair from Regulus’s forehead. The touch stung, faintly electric against healing skin, but Regulus didn’t move away. He let himself be touched. He wanted to be touched so bad.

For a long while, James didn’t speak. He just sat there, eyes fixed on him, like he was memorizing the details: the way Regulus’s mouth pressed thin against the pain, the flutter of his lashes as he fought sleep. Regulus didn’t know if he was being delusional or if this was real. The silence filled the room until Regulus couldn’t bear it.

“What is it?” he asked.

James’s jaw tightened. “I found you.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“In the locker room.” James’s voice cracked on the word. “Merlin, Regulus the smell of your flesh burning it’s not leaving my fucking head. I can’t close my eyes without—” He stopped, dropped his head into his hands. When he lifted it again, his eyes were glassy. “I can still smell it. It won’t leave me. It’s everywhere.”

Shame tore through Regulus, sharp and suffocating. “I’m sorry.”

James shook his head. “No. Don’t. It’s not your fault.” He paused, voice dropping low. “At first I thought… I thought you did it to yourself. And I was so fucking angry. I was ready to—” He stopped, then exhaled. “that was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Regulus’s chest tightened. “Did I scare you?”

James didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A breath escaped Regulus, shaky, half a laugh. “I seem to be very good at that.”

“That’s not funny.” James’s eyes cut sharp, his tone firmer now. He wasn’t smiling. He looked like he was holding himself together by threads.

Regulus let the silence fall again. It stretched, heavy but not unbearable. He didn’t understand why James was so upset, and he didn’t care to find out tonight. He felt James’s eyes on him, tracing him, grounding him. He thought he could sleep like that, just with James watching. His eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion.

“Sirius came,” Regulus murmured. “Once.”

James’s mouth softened, the tension in his jaw easing. “I know. More than once.”

Confusion flickered through the haze. “What do you mean?”

James nodded toward the cloak draped over the chair. “We share.”

The words lingered, heavier than Regulus wanted them to be. He turned them over, felt them in his chest. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Go back to sleep,” James said gently. His hand moved again, fingers threading through Regulus’s hair, smoothing it back, as though he had every right to. The touch was steady, assured. Not asking permission.

Regulus’s eyes fell shut, but he forced them open once more. His voice was barely a whisper. “Stay.”

James didn’t answer right away. His hand kept moving, brushing through the strands of hair at Regulus’s temple. And then leaned down. Close enough Regulus could count the gold flecks in his eyes even in the dark. Close enough Regulus could feel the heat of his breath against his skin. His lips pressed to Regulus’s forehead warm and fleeting.

And finally Regulus let himself sleep again, he dreamed. For once it wasn’t fire or pain or darkness. It was quiet. It was soft. And in that dream, he felt held.

Regulus had a good dream that night.

Chapter Text

The rest of the term bled together like he was watching ink dry on a parchment. Regulus stayed in the infirmary bed, the white sheets pulled tight as though they could hold him together when the potions couldn’t. Most of the burns on his chest and arms were gone now, Madam Pomfrey called it a miracle, though he knew better. Miracles didn’t leave your body aching like a hollowed-out house. His legs were slower to heal, they still burned when he shifted too quickly, as if the curse had sewn little threads of fire into the muscle.

Visitors came. Evan, mostly. Each time, his face looked tighter. Fury in the set of his jaw when he said that he hasn’t found anything yet. Each time Regulus told him It’s fine, and each time he was grateful. Because if Evan knew, he would do something rash, and Regulus didn’t want that blood on Evan.

Pandora came too. She’d sit on the edge of his bed, tell him she prayed for him every day now, ever since she read about some saint or martyr whose name Regulus could never remember. He didn’t have the heart to tell her it all sounded like nonsense to him, because she said it like she wanted him to believe she was tying him to heaven with her words alone.

Even Lupin came a couple of times. Awkward, with a little bunch of chocolate frogs like they were old friends. Regulus didn’t hate it, though. He didn’t hate Lupin the way he was supposed to.

But Sirius never came again. Neither did James.

So Regulus made up stories for himself. At night, just before sleep, when the pain dulled to a simmer under the potions, he’d let himself think he could smell Sirius’s scent—the leather and smoke of it—like maybe Sirius was here after all, hidden under that damned cloak James said they shared. Watching over him.

Regulus would scoff at himself in the dark. Starved hounds feasting on scraps know less desperation than I do, he thought, turning his face into the pillow so no one could see the heat crawling up his neck.

But he kept imagining it anyway. That someone was there. That he wasn’t just healing alone in this too-quiet room, aching for things he could never say out loud.

***

By the final day of term, Regulus was almost healed. Most of the burns had faded to pale scars on his arms and chest, only angry patches left behind on his legs, tender to the touch. Madam Pomfrey said he could go home now. Home. The word already felt like a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

His mother had sent letters. Telling him how worried she was. How she thought of him often. How she expected him home for Yule. She hadn’t visited once.

Pandora helped him onto the train, her arm slipping under his like he was something fragile. They found an empty compartment. Regulus sat stiffly next to Pandora, his body already heavy with the potion Pomfrey had given him. Pandora smoothed her skirt and gave him a small smile the kind she used when she didn’t know what to say. Evan slipped in a moment later, carrying a thick book under his arm sliding the door shut with a soft click like even sound annoyed him these days.

“You going to be okay?” Evan asked, his pale eyebrows drawn tight.

“Yeah,” Regulus said. “Pomfrey’s given me enough potion to knock me out for the entire holiday. Won’t feel a thing.”

Pandora tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, soft and slow. “I’ve always loved Yule at Grimmauld,” she said, almost to herself.

Regulus gave her a thin smile. “You must be the only one.”

The train rattled beneath them. Evan opened his book, Pandora stared out the window, Regulus let his eyelids fall shut, half-dozing, when the compartment door slid open.

James Potter stood there.

Evan’s shoulders went hard as stone.

“Black,” James said, eyes sweeping the compartment before they found Regulus. “I’ve been looking for you. Got a minute?”

Regulus nodded. One small look at Evan—a silent it’s fine—and pushed himself to his feet, following James down the narrow corridor.

James closed the door behind them. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, arms crossed, that reckless Gryffindor confidence wrapped around him like a second skin.

“Well?” Regulus said, lowering himself carefully onto the bench. “Evan’s already suspicious of the entire castle. This better be worth it.”

A smirk tugged at James’s mouth. “He’s… what’s the word? Overprotective. Your blond other half.”

“He’s just worried,” Regulus said, rolling his eyes.

James tilted his head, studying him. “So… are you two…?”

Regulus stared “No. What the hell, Potter? We’re cousins.”

James’s grin sharpened. “Your parents are cousins.”

“Fuck off,” Regulus said flatly. “You’re disgusting.”

James laughed under his breath, sliding into the seat across from him at last, leaning back and stretching his legs out. It was infuriating how good he looked like that. Relaxed, sprawled, his hair a mess like he hadn’t even tried.

And for a half second he thought: maybe if he were my cousin… Regulus tore his gaze away fast, heat crawling up his neck.

“Come stay with us,” James said suddenly.

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“For the holidays,” James said. “You need time to heal, and you’re not going to get it at Grimmauld Place.”

Regulus scoffed. “I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t.” James’s eyes darkened. “They’ll expect you to keep perfect posture even with your injuries.”

“I can keep a perfect posture, Potter,” Regulus said lightly, even though they both knew it wasn’t the point.

“Not the point,” James said, voice dipping low.

Regulus looked away. “I’m expected there. My mother’s been worried sick.”

James let out a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “Yeah. Sure she has.”

Regulus bristled but said nothing.

“Suit yourself.” James stood, pulling something from his pocket. He tossed it gently into Regulus’s lap.

It was a small mirror.

Regulus turned it over in his hands.

“A two-way mirror,” James said. “If something happens, call my name.”

Regulus looked up at him, caught by the glint of seriousness in those warm brown eyes.

For a second, James didn’t move. Just looked at him. At the fading bruises on his neck, at the burn scars still peeking from under his collar. His gaze softened in a way that made Regulus’s chest ache.

Then James turned and left, the door sliding shut behind him.

Regulus sat there a long time, staring at the mirror, his pulse loud in his ears. Then, despite himself, despite everything he smiled.

Chapter Text

When Regulus stepped off the platform, Kreacher was waiting, as always. The elf took his trunk without a word. Regulus followed him home.

The house was empty when they arrived. That didn’t surprise him. Even if his mother had been worried, she was never worried enough to stay.

He climbed the stairs slowly, the house quiet in that heavy way it always was since Sirius left, like it had swallowed all sound whole. In his room, he lay down on the bed and stared at the mirror James had left on his desk.

He thought about calling James’ name. Just to see what would happen. Just to tell him he wasn’t fine. Maybe James would come, reckless enough to cross the house and drag him out the way he always did.

What a stupid thought, Regulus told himself.

He slid the mirror under his pillow, drank one of Madam Pomfrey’s potions, and closed his eyes.

***

The drawing room was cold despite the fire.

Regulus sat with one leg crossed over the other, a teacup resting lightly in his hand. He hadn’t taken a sip. The tea had long since gone cold.

Across from him, Walburga Black sat poised on the edge of the sofa, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hair was swept up immaculately. Her gown was grey, almost silver, the brooch at her throat sharp as a blade. She had not spoken in several minutes.

“You’re thinner,” she said at last, without looking at him.

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. He let his thumb circle the rim of the teacup, eyes fixed on the flicker of firelight across the hearth.

“You should take better care,” she added. “There’s nothing admirable about looking unwell.”

Regulus let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I’ve been eating.”

“Eating poorly, I assume,” she replied. “At school, no one watches closely. That much is obvious.”

He glanced at her, just for a moment. Her expression was serene. There was something in her voice that could almost be called concern if one didn’t listen too closely.

“I’m not wasting away,” he said.

Walburga smoothed the front of her skirt with one elegant motion. “You’re the heir now,” she said softly. “You understand that, don’t you?”

The air pulled tighter. Regulus sat straighter, but his eyes dropped back to the fire. The room seemed too quiet again. Or maybe it was just the way she said it, like a lullaby and a warning at once.

“I understand,” he said.

Walburga nodded once. “Then you’ll behave accordingly. No recklessness. No dramatics. No distractions. You know what’s expected of you.”

A pause.

“I do.”

She reached for her tea but didn’t drink. Just held it delicately in her hands, eyes on the far wall.

“Do you hear from him?” she asked, too casually.

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“Sirius,” she said, without inflection. “Do you speak to him at school?”

The sound of his brother’s name in that room always made something in him shrink.

“No,” Regulus said after a beat. “We don’t talk.”

Walburga nodded again, as though that satisfied her. “Good,” she said. “That’s good.”

He stared at the fire. His knuckles had gone white around the teacup.

“He’s not your concern anymore,” she added. “He made his choices. You’re not to follow.”

The last words were sharper, more pointed than the rest. Regulus said nothing. He felt the familiar weight on his shoulders, the familiar twist of something slow and hollow winding through his chest.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“I Crucioed him,” he said.

Walburga didn’t flinch.

Regulus turned his head toward her. His face was unreadable. His voice stayed steady, but the edge in it was thin. Small.

“In the drawing room. I was there, wasn’t I?”

Walburga lifted her eyes to his. Her expression remained smooth. Unbothered.

“You’re remembering it all wrong,” she said simply. “It wasn’t like that.”

Regulus repeated. “I was there.”

She didn’t look away.

“You are a child,” she said. “You don’t understand the things people do when they’re… frightened.”

A flash of Sirius jerking like a marionette pulled too hard, a noise leaving his mouth that didn’t sound like him at all. Regulus had covered his ears but it hadn’t helped.

“Were you frightened of him?”

Her eyes sharpened.

“No,” she said. “I was frightened for him.”

The silence held. The fire cracked once in the grate.

“You don’t seem frightened now,” Regulus said. “Not when you talk about him.”

Walburga gave a tight smile. “He’s gone. What’s the use in dwelling?”

Regulus stared at her. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say he still dreamt of Sirius standing in the doorway, telling him he was leaving. He wanted to say he remembered the way Sirius looked at her that night, like he was already halfway gone. He wanted to know exactly what happened after.

He didn’t say any of it.

Instead, he set the teacup down on the low table beside him, the soft click of porcelain against wood louder than it should have been.

Walburga’s eyes followed the movement. Then she said, “You were always more delicate than him.”

Regulus turned toward her, slowly.

Her voice stayed calm. “You think more. Feel more. You’re thoughtful, like your father. That’s a strength, Regulus. You mustn’t let it turn into weakness.”

He didn’t know what she meant by that. Not really. He didn’t ask.

She shifted slightly forward, her hands still resting in her lap. “I worry about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’m your mother,” she said softly. “It’s my role to worry.”

He stared at her. His throat felt dry again.

“Then why does it feel like you’re the one I need to be afraid of?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She smiled. Very faintly.

“That’s what love is,” she said. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

***

Regulus went upstairs without making a single sound. In his room, he shut the door softly behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. The mirror James had given him lay on the nightstand.

He picked it up slowly. Ran his thumb along the silver edge, again and again, feeling the cold bite of it. The glass showed only a ceiling above him—not his.

He thought about calling James. He thought about the way James had looked at him on the train, the easy tilt of his smile. He thought about how stupid this was, how he should put the mirror away and not feel like this.

Still, he said softly, barely above a whisper, “Potter.”

Nothing.

He waited a beat, then pushed the mirror under his pillow, suddenly feeling too shy.

And then, after a long moment.

“Reg? Are you there?” James’s voice, deep and quiet, like it had traveled across the whole night to reach him.

Regulus pulled the mirror out. James’s reflection appeared, dark hair rumpled, eyes too warm for someone looking at him .

“I’m here,” Regulus said. It came out low, cautious.

“Did something happen?” James asked.

Regulus shook his head. “No. I just wanted to know if this thing worked.”

“It works just fine.” A small smirk tugged at James’s mouth, like he knew exactly what Regulus was doing.

Regulus didn’t realize how much he missed hearing him until now. Missed seeing the curve of his jaw, the little lines at the corners of his eyes. He wanted, absurdly, to push straight through the glass. To feel the warmth of James’s shoulder under his cheek, to be held in a way he couldn’t explain without sounding pathetic.

“How are your burns?” James asked after a moment.

“They’re healing,” Regulus said. “Just fine.” Then, quieter, because his chest felt tight, “And stop calling me Reg .”

“I don’t think I will.” James’s grin widened, soft but with something sharp underneath. “I like calling you Reg. Regulus is just too big a name for you.”

“Fuck off, Jamie,” Regulus said before he could think better of it. He meant for it to sound like an insult, but it slipped out smaller, like a word falling instead of being thrown.

James laughed. Not his loud laugh—the one that carried through the Quidditch stands or the great hall—but low, close, like they were the only ones awake. “ Jamie ,” he repeated. “No one’s called me that since before Hogwarts.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, heat creeping across his face.

“I’m going to sleep,” he muttered, before he could make this worse. He shoved the mirror back under his pillow.

But he could still hear him. The laugh. The faint, muffled goodnight, Regulus through the pillow like it had been said right against his ear.

Regulus closed his eyes and lay very still.

Chapter Text

The drawing room at Grimmauld Place gleamed like a wound polished for display.

Light caught on gold filigree, glass, lacquered wood. Chandeliers floated like frozen tears above the crowd, casting shimmers across velvet shoulders and polished boots. Every detail gleamed. Every face pretended not to be watching everyone else.The Minister himself in deep blue velvet. That was the thing with these parties everything sparkled even when it reeked of rot.

Regulus stood near the arched threshold, stiff in a robe he hadn’t picked, drinking champagne he didn’t like, feeling like a half living thing in a house full of ghosts. A sea of names blurred around him—Wizengamot, Ministry, old families dressed like oil painting—and all of them smiling with teeth too white.

He didn’t smile.

His mother watched him from across the room. Her glance was cold, and sharp enough to pin him to the wall. Straighten up. Don’t sulk. You’re a Black, not a boy.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to ignore her. The bubbles in his champagne glass looked like they were trying to escape too.

A string quartet whispered something soft and ridiculous from the other side of the ballroom. Someone nearby laughed like they were being paid for it and they probably were . Regulus wanted to slip into the wallpaper. Or out the window.

He used to like Yule, once. Before it all started to mean something. When he was just a boy. He used to run after Sirius and Andromeda and Bellatrix when they snuck away to throw firecrackers into the snow. He used to follow Evan and Pandora through secret staircases, holding his breath not from fear, but from laughter.  They’d press close together in the dark, trying not to laugh, while Sirius whispered wild plans like the rebel he grew up to be. That had been years ago.

Now Pandora stood in a corner with her head tilted toward a boy Regulus didn’t recognize. And Evan—Evan wasn’t here.

That realization came slowly, then all at once.

He looked for him over one shoulder. Then the other. Then again. Evan didn’t disappear from events like this. He endured them, always at Regulus’ side, glass in hand, perfectly cordial, perfectly cold.

Tonight: nothing.

Regulus set his flute down and slipped into the nearest hallway without drawing attention.

The noise dimmed the moment he passed through the arch. The air was cooler here. Lighter. The music dissolved into something ghostly behind him, the way light fades underwater.

He followed the corridor, unsure what he was looking for. Just that Evan wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and that left a space inside Regulus that itched.

And then he heard it. A voice.

“You know he hates me,” someone was saying. Low, amused . “I think that’s why he keeps trying.”

Regulus turned the corner and froze.

Evan stood against the wall, composed as ever. Not tense, not relaxed. Just… there. His face carved in stillness, his collar white and sharp, his hair neat except for one errant strand that had fallen forward almost like someone had run a hand through it.

And someone had.

Barty Crouch Jr. leaned in, not touching him, but close enough to mess something up. His head tilted, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing the wall beside Evan’s shoulder. He was smiling like he always did.

He looked wrong here.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. There was a shimmer to his mouth, and Regulus didn’t want to know if it was from a drink or something else.

He should’ve left.

He didn’t.

“I told him I’d be civil tonight,” Crouch went on, dragging a fingertip along the wall as he leaned in. “And I am. Mostly. But you’re not making it easy.”

“You’re talking to a wall,” Evan said, voice flat.

Crouch smiled. “A very beautiful one.”

Evan looked at him like one might regard a candle too small to be threatening, too dangerous to touch. He said nothing.

Regulus watched from the corner. He didn’t understand what he was seeing.

“You know your father’s frightening,” crouch said, low, amused, almost affectionate . “I mean… mine doesn’t flinch easily. But yours?”

“You’re not scared of him, are you?” Crouch asked.

Evan’s mouth twitched.

“Like you’re scared of yours?” he said.

Crouch’s eyes flicked up sharply. The smile wavered just for a moment. Then it returned, thin and crooked.

“He doesn’t scare me,” he said too fast.

Evan said nothing.

“You always pretend you don’t want me here,” crouch whispered. “But you always let me stay.”

“Do I?” Evan asked, so soft it barely counted as a question.

Barty’s lips twitched. He leaned a breath closer. “You let me do a lot of things.”

Regulus’ stomach twisted.

Crouch was too close now. The space between them had collapsed entirely, but Evan still didn’t move. His eyes didn’t waver, didn’t blink. He looked like marble.

But marble could crack.

Regulus saw it then. A flicker. A tension at the edge of Evan’s jaw. The slightest give.

Crouch saw it too.

He smiled, wide and filthy.

“There you are,” he breathed.

Evan’s fingers twitched.

“Do you think he knows?” Crouch asked, tilting his head. “Your little heir. The one you follow around like a dog.”

Evan’s expression didn’t change.

“Regulus,” Crouch clarified. “Do you think he knows what you do to me?”

“You won’t be this quiet,” Crouch added, lazy now, too casual, “when I tell you what really happened to little Black that day.”

Regulus felt the words like a slap. He backed a step into the shadow.

Evan moved.

Fast.

He gripped crouch by the front of his shirt and shoved him back against the wall with enough force to shake the lanterns.

Crouch didn’t flinch.

“Ah, look at you,” he rasped, voice rough, amused, not even shrinking under the pressure. “Watching over your kind.”

Evan didn’t speak, but something in his eyes flickered quick and dangerous.

“You know your kind,” Crouch went on, lips curling. “Inbred, spotless little purists. Kill the Mudbloods, marry the cousins. Carry on the family name and legacy, et cetera.”

“You’ll make a perfect husband, Rosier.”

He smiled with his whole face. His teeth were too white. His lips were red.

He looked obscene.

“Spit it out, Bartemius,” Evan said, cold enough to burn.

“I don’t think I will,” Crouch said. “I like having your attention on me.”

Evan leaned down, voice low enough to cut. “If you want to be fucked like a bitch in heat, find someone else.”

“But it’s you who I think about,” he said, voice light, intimate. “When I come.”

Evan didn’t answer.

“I picture your hands,” crouch went on. “How cold they are. How careful. Like you hate touching anything, but you touch me anyway.”

His breath hitched. “I like when you hate it.”

Regulus couldn’t move. His pulse quickened.

Crouch reached up slowly, eyes still locked on Evan’s. He touched his own neck. Dragged two fingers down the side of it like a mark was already there.

“Want to add another?” he whispered.

Evan didn’t move.

But he didn’t walk away either.

Regulus didn’t understand what he was feeling. Embarrassment? Horror? Envy?

James’ face flashed through his head without warning.

James, furious. James, inches away. James, so alive it hurt.

And then Crouch kissed Evan.

It happened in an instant. Like falling.

He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Evan’s like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wasn’t even forbidden at all.

Evan didn’t respond. Not at first.

Then..

He kissed him back.

Regulus nearly dropped something but he wasn’t holding anything.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was all teeth and heat and fury. It was wrong. Filthy.

Evan’s hand found Crouch’s jaw. His other gripped the back of his neck. He kissed like he wanted to silence him, to destroy whatever words might come next. To devour him whole.

Crouch gasped into it, moaned, tilted his head.

It was the most alive Regulus had ever seen either of them.

He wanted to run.

He wanted James.

He wanted James to kiss him like that.

He turned around and walked away without sound. But the image followed him.

Chapter Text

The house was still half-asleep when Regulus climbed into bed after the Malfoy party. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion, his ears still ringing faintly from music and laughter, the sort that seemed endless but empty at its center. He tried to act normal around Evan earlier, but he’d noticed Evan looking at Crouch more than anyone else. More than he used to. It made the air in the Malfoy ballroom feel strange.

Now it was nearly dawn, a brand new year.

Regulus wasn’t the kind to believe in beginnings. He didn’t care for resolutions or the idea that the turning of a calendar meant anything more than hours stacking on hours. He was, by nature, a pessimist. But tonight… he hoped. Just a little. Hoped for something — something good.

His thoughts went where they always went these days. To James.

It was ridiculous, really, the way James kept coming back to him in flashes and jolts. Sometimes sharp, sometimes warm, but always there, like the echo of a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Regulus hated it. He craved it. Thinking of him was the one thing that made the walls of Grimmauld feel less suffocating. Even the pain of it — the stupid, unrequited ache — felt alive in a way nothing else did.

The fantasies were worse.

He was in the middle of one when James’ voice came through the mirror.

“Reg. Are you awake?”

Regulus jolted, heart kicking hard. He grabbed the mirror, holding it close.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” he muttered, James shifted so the ceiling in the mirror disappeared, and all he saw was James’ face. Beautiful. Too beautiful.

James smiled, faint and teasing. “Sorry. Old habits.”

His voice was low, rough from sleep or laughter Regulus couldn’t tell which. It didn’t matter. He felt it in his chest either way.

“How was the party?” James asked.

“Dreadful,” Regulus said at once.

James grinned. “How’d I know you’d say that?”

Regulus frowned slightly. “How did you know I was at a party?”

“I know all about the Blacks and their winter traditions,” James said, mouth curling. “Legendary for the wrong reasons.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but it felt thinner than usual. Too aware of the curve of James’ smile on the other side.

“So.” James tilted his head. “Which was worse Yule at yours or New Year’s at the Malfoys?”

“Yule,” Regulus said.

“Yeah?” That smile again. “Why’s that?”

He thought of Yule, of Evan and Barty in that dark hallway, of things he didn’t want to remember. Instead, he said, “Aunt Druella opted out of velvet that night.”

James blinked. “And?”

“She chose wool,” Regulus said evenly. “My mother almost threw her out.”

There was a beat. Then James laughed.

It was ridiculous, how much Regulus wanted to see it, the real thing, not the half-hidden version through the mirror. The kind of laugh that bent James in two. Loud, warm, spilling over like it couldn’t be contained. Regulus imagined it and his chest ached.

When the sound finally ebbed, James asked, “Do you think you could meet me outside?”

Regulus paused. “When?”

“Right now,” James said.

Regulus frowned faintly. “What do you mean, right now?”

“Well,” James said softly, leaning a little closer to the glass, “come outside and find out.”

Regulus stared at the ceiling. The house was asleep. His legs ached if he moved too fast. He should tell James to leave it, to stop messing around.

Instead, he was already reaching for his shoes.

“What are you on about?” Regulus said after finding James leaning casually against a lamppost on the empty street across from Grimmauld Place.

James grinned like he’d been waiting there for hours. “What, no hug?” he teased, arms open.

“Fuck off,” Regulus said automatically, but there was heat rising on his cheeks he couldn’t hide.

James sighed like Regulus was the most difficult person alive. Then said, “Come on. We’re going somewhere.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes but didn’t move. “Have you gone mental, Potter?”

James rolled his eyes. “Absolutely,” he said, before grabbing Regulus by the arm and tugging him forward, all warmth and laughter and that boyish reassurance of his.

Regulus stumbled straight into his chest. The sudden heat, the smell of winter and woodsmoke and something sharper — James — it all closed in before Regulus had time to breathe it properly.

Then the world yanked sideways.

The cold of the London street disappeared. The air bent. Apparition cracked around them.

When Regulus opened his eyes again, James was close. Too close. Smiling that maddening smile, his breath warm on Regulus’ face.

“Got my Apparition license last week,” James said, dimples flashing. “Still not smooth with it, though.”

Regulus took a sharp step back before he could think too hard about the space they’d just shared. “Where the hell are we?”

James spread his arms like this should be obvious. “New York.”

Regulus blinked. “You apparated from London to New York in one jump?”

James smirked. “I’m an overachiever.”

“It’s illegal”

“That never stopped me before”

The air here felt different. sharper, colder, alive. Around them, lights spilled gold across the pavement, car horns blared in the distance, and the streets glittered like someone had scattered a thousand stars too close to the ground.

Regulus turned in a slow circle, coat pulled tight against the wind. “Why New York?” he asked finally.

James was looking at him, not the skyline. That grin softened just slightly.

“Because,” James said, “it’s not New Year’s here yet.”

Regulus frowned. “So?”

“So we get another one,” James said simply. “Another countdown. Another midnight.”

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like Regulus should have thought of it himself.

Regulus looked at him for a long moment, the cold biting through his sleeves, the neon lights pooling against James’ jaw.

James smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Come on,” James said, softer now. “Let’s have some fun before the clock catches up.”

James took his hand. Just like that, simple, thoughtless, his fingers slipping between Regulus’s, warm and sure. Regulus should have pulled away, but he didn’t. He let him.

The whole thing felt unreal, like he had slipped too far into one of his fantasies and forgotten how to wake himself out of it. James’s palm was big, rough from broom handles, impossibly warm, and when Regulus squeezed back, James’s thumb brushed once against his knuckle— casual, devastating.

“Ever been to New York before?” James asked, voice low, almost swallowed by the noise of the city.

“No. First time,” Regulus said, his voice steadier than he felt. “You?”

“A couple times,” James said, smiling sideways at him.

Regulus wished it wasn’t true. Wished this was James’s first time too, so they could share it clean, the way first times were supposed to be remembered.

James pulled him down a side street, stopped at the back door of some nondescript building. He bent close, whispered Alohomora , and the lock clicked softly. He looked back, grin reckless, irresistible.

“Get in,” he whispered.

Inside was nothing like Malfoy’s marble-cold parties. Here the air pulsed with heat and color. The lights were dim, shot through with blue and purple and pink. The floor was crowded with bodies pressed too close, moving with a kind of freedom Regulus didn’t understand, hips and shoulders swaying, hands everywhere, strangers touching without shame.

Regulus froze. He felt outside of it, too tightly wound in his pressed shirt, too trained in manners and posture. But James’s hand was still in his.

James tugged him toward the bar. Two glasses appeared, fizzing green, glowing faintly in the dark. “Bottoms up, Reg,” James said, raising his glass.

Regulus hesitated only a moment before tipping it back. The drink was sharp, bright, something electric burning down his throat. He set the glass down too fast. James’s laugh followed immediately, wild and warm, the kind of sound that wrapped around him like a spell. Regulus wanted to hear it again, wanted to keep it in his pocket and play it back whenever he missed it.

“Come on,” James said, setting his own glass aside. “Dance with me.”

“What?”

“Dance.”

“I don’t—”

“Just feel it,” James said, pulling him forward, his arm slipping easily around Regulus’s waist.

The music was strange, loud and pounding, unlike anything Regulus had learned in lessons. Not a waltz, not anything neat or measured. But James’s hand was steady at his back, guiding him, holding him. Regulus let himself move, stiff at first, then looser as James pressed closer.

The world blurred with color, sweat, rhythm. James’s body was right there, chest brushing his, hips moving with the beat. Regulus’s hand slid up into James’s hair before he realized he’d done it. James laughed again, quieter this time, close to his ear, and it felt like another drink poured straight into his veins.

He could feel James’s hand sliding lower on his back, not quite indecent, but enough to keep him burning under his skin. Regulus closed his eyes, just for a second, and let himself imagine this was what it would always be like: music and James’s hand steady on him, James’s hair between his fingers, nothing else to haunt him.

And they danced.

***

The music still clung to Regulus’s body when someone on the floor tried to pull him away, a hand at his waist, fingers grasping. He startled, half-turning, but before he could react James’s hand was already there, firm, dragging him back. The sudden grip at his hip, the flash of anger on James’s face, it sent heat rushing to Regulus’s cheeks, to his throat, to every place James touched him.

He wanted to kiss him. Merlin, he wanted to kiss him.

“Hungry?” James asked instead, pulling them off the floor, his voice tight but already softening.

Regulus wasn’t, not at all. But he nodded.

“I know a place,” James said, his arm slipping comfortably around Regulus’s shoulders. “I’ll introduce you to the wonder that is pizza.”

“You talk like a proper Muggle,” Regulus said, trying for dry, though his lips curved despite himself.

“Is that bad?” James’s tone lost its playfulness for a moment, his eyes searching Regulus’s face.

“No,” Regulus said, quieter. “I don’t think so.”

They walked out into the New York night. The city was still alive, restless, with lights flickering and the hum of cars somewhere far below. James’s arm stayed where it was, heavy and warm, and Regulus didn’t mind. He leaned into it just enough that their shoulders brushed with every step.

“You think about what you want to do after Hogwarts?” James asked, almost casually, though his voice was low.

“Why should I?” Regulus said. “Everything’s already decided.”

James rolled his eyes so hard Regulus could almost hear it. “What an answer.”

Then, gentler: “But if you could do whatever you want?”

“Quidditch,” Regulus said immediately. No pause, no thought.

James turned his head, smirking. “No hesitation.”

“It’s everything,” Regulus said, certain.

“It’s everything,” James repeated, his smirk fading into something quieter.

“And you?” Regulus asked.

“Quidditch,” James said.

“No hesitation,” Regulus murmured back, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Not one,” James said, and his grin spread wider, softer, like it had been waiting there all along.

For a while, they walked in silence, the city wrapping around them. Regulus thought that might be the end of it, but James glanced sideways at him again.

“You’re brilliant on a broom, you know. The only reason Slytherin stands a chance most years is you. Everyone knows it.”

Regulus’s chest tightened. His face felt hot. “Meadows isn’t bad,” he managed.

“She’s not bad,” James agreed easily. “But she’s no Regulus Black.”

His voice was steady, but the look on his face was something else entirely. Unwavering. Intense. Regulus couldn’t breathe for a second under it. He wanted to laugh it off, wanted to look away but he didn’t.

For one dizzy moment, it felt like the whole city had collapsed into the space between them. James’s arm heavy across his shoulders, his hand still at Regulus’s arm, his eyes too soft, too sure.

And Regulus thought: if this is a dream, let me never wake up.

***

They found a corner table in the tiny restaurant, the kind of place that looked like it had never been cleaned properly since it opened. The chairs creaked when they sat down, the plastic plates barely balanced on the wobbling surface of the table. Two enormous slices of pizza slid onto their plates, cheese still bubbling, grease pooling at the edges.

Regulus stared at it like it might bite him first.

James noticed. He was already laughing, leaning back in his chair, his curls falling into his face with the ease of someone entirely at home in the world. “Merlin, Reg, stop being a priss and eat.”

Regulus wrinkled his nose. “I just saw a rat, Potter. You can’t expect me to eat in a place that allows vermin to parade around like guests.”

Before he could go on, James reached across the table and pressed his palm over Regulus’s mouth, smirking at the muffled protest. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but didn’t move away. James’s hand was warm against his face. When James pulled back, Regulus felt the absence of it too sharply.

“Eat, Reg,” James said again, quieter this time, almost coaxing.

Regulus sighed, lifted the slice with exaggerated reluctance, and took his first bite. The cheese stretched, the grease slicked his lips. He wanted to hate it. He expected to. But the flavour — salty, rich, messy — surprised him. He swallowed, cheeks warm.

James was watching him with far too much satisfaction. “So?”

Regulus shrugged, as if that could disguise the fact that he was already lifting the slice for another bite. “It’s tolerable.”

“I knew it,” James said, grinning like he’d won something.

Regulus ignored him, focused on finishing the slice. Bite after bite until the plate was empty, his fingers greasy, his lips shining faintly with oil. He reached for the napkin, but James beat him to it, sliding one across the table. Their fingers brushed, quick, but enough to make Regulus look up.

James was still smiling, but softer now, something in his eyes gentler than the teasing. For a long second, Regulus couldn’t look away.

He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin, trying to pretend his heartbeat hadn’t stuttered. James leaned back, folding his own slice in half before taking a bite like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And Regulus thought maybe he could live here — in this mess, in this noise, in this too-bright city — if it meant being across from James Potter, grease-stained and laughing, in a place no one else would have thought to bring him.

***

The night pressed cool and soft around them when James tugged him down the dock. Regulus thought for a fleeting, crushing moment that they were going back, that this dream would end with the crack of Apparition but when he opened his eyes, the city was still there. The glow of it, the noise, the strange electricity in the air.

“Come on,” James said, grinning like he knew some secret Regulus didn’t. “Let’s catch the ferry.”

He held out his hand again, and Regulus let him take it. His palm was warm, steady, impossible to resist. It felt surreal. He squeezed back.

The ferry pulled away from the dock, the hum of the engine carrying them out into the dark water. The wind lifted Regulus’s hair, the salt of the ocean sharp on his tongue. He stood at the rail with James close beside him, the city stretched out in lights across the horizon, glass towers rising like constellations. 

And then the fireworks began.

They exploded above the skyline, red and silver and gold, scattering across the black sky like burning stars. Reflections danced on the water. The sound thundered through his chest, but Regulus didn’t hear it. Not really. All he felt was James beside him, the brush of his sleeve, the heat of him in the cold night.

“It’s beautiful,” Regulus said, his voice smaller than he meant it to be.

“I know.” James was looking at him, not the sky. His expression was softer than Regulus had ever seen, almost reverent.

Regulus turned, startled, caught by the weight of it. His chest ached. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For everything. For tonight. It was…” He trailed off. There weren’t words big enough.

“It was,” James said, like that was enough.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Regulus’s forehead, fingertips lingering just barely. Regulus’s skin burned under the touch.

“The fireworks mean it’s the new year now,” James murmured.

“Already?” Regulus blinked. “The hours passed too fast. I didn’t feel it.”

James smiled faintly. “Yeah.” His eyes didn’t leave Regulus’s. “Happy new year, Reg.”

“Happy new year, James,” Regulus whispered.

James leaned in. Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. Regulus could smell him, the addicting scent that made his head spin. His breath caught, and then James kissed him.

Regulus stilled for one shocked heartbeat, and then everything in him broke open. His hands flew to James’s shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer, kissing back like he’d been waiting all his life. James’s arm curled tight around his waist, drawing him in until there was no space left between them, only heat and want and the dizzying slip of James’s tongue against his own.

The world narrowed to this: the taste of him, the sound of the water, the sky burning above them. Regulus thought if the ferry sank now, if the world ended, he would still go under smiling.

It was the perfect ending to the perfect night.

Chapter Text

Regulus sat in the carriage with Evan and Pandora, the hum of the train pressing around them like a pulse. Outside, snow blurred the glass, soft and endless. Inside, the lamplight was warm, golden, Regulus felt warmer still. He was still floating, still on that impossible cloud after New York.

James had spoken to him through the mirror a handful of times since, his voice breaking through like sunlight in a locked room. It wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Evan was watching him, one brow arched, lips curved in a faint smile.

“You seem in an awfully good mood,” he said, voice flat but edged with curiosity.

“I’m not in any pain anymore,” Regulus answered, leaning back against the seat. He meant the bruises, the burns. He also meant something else entirely.

Evan’s smile softened—just slightly—and he gave a small nod. “Good.”

Regulus’ chest pinched. He’d never hidden much from Evan, not really, and tonight—later—he would have to tell him. About Yule. About what he’d seen. About what he still didn’t understand.

“Reggie,” Pandora’s voice broke through, delicate and sly. She had her chin propped on her palm, her light eyes bright. “Would you get me chocolates from the trolley?”

“She’ll come here,” Evan muttered.

“No,” Pandora countered, “I want Regulus to get it for me.”

Evan rolled his eyes, long-suffering. Regulus sighed, pushing himself to his feet without protest.

The corridor was narrow, the rumble of wheels beneath his boots. He straightened his cuffs out of habit, calming the nervous flutter in his stomach. He wasn’t expecting James to be standing there by the trolley, back to him, broad shoulders wrapped in casual slouch.

When James turned, Regulus’ breath caught. His knees weakened in a way that infuriated him. Still, he walked forward, steady, slow.

James’ lips curved. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Regulus managed.

James gestured toward the trolley with a tilt of his head. “What are you after?”

“Chocolate,” Regulus said. His voice was clipped, but softer than he wanted. “They’re for Pandora.”

James laughed, warm, careless. “It’s allowed, you know. No pureblood law against you having some yourself.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I know.”

Before he could stop him, James was already paying, handing over galleons with a grin that made the witch behind the trolley blush. He bought not only Pandora’s chocolates but half the trolley’s stock, piling it into Regulus’ arms despite his refusals.

“Potter—” Regulus began, sharp, but James only leaned closer, hair falling over his forehead, eyes bright.

“Enjoy it”

And before Regulus could protest again, James reached up, ruffled his hair—warm fingers brushing his scalp in a way that made his chest tighten—and said, “See you in school, yeah?”

Regulus nodded, gripping the weight of the chocolates too tightly, willing the heat in his cheeks to fade before he returned to the carriage.

James was already walking back down the corridor, whistling, leaving the scent of him hanging in the air.

***

The dorm was quiet Evan stood by his trunk, unbuttoning his shirt with the same careful detachment he applied to everything. Regulus sat on his bed, elbows to his knees, watching without really meaning to.

The words left him before he could stop them.

“I saw you.”

Evan paused mid-button, looked up slowly. One blond brow rose. “What a vague little accusation.”

Regulus’ throat tightened. “With him.”

Evan’s hands stilled on the shirt, then he shrugged it off entirely, letting it fall carelessly across the chair. Bare-chested now, he sat down on his own bed, posture lazy but eyes sharp.

“And what,” he said, voice cool as steel, “did you see exactly?”

Regulus swallowed. “I saw enough.”

The silence hung like a noose. Evan leaned back against the headboard, utterly unbothered. His tone turned cold, stripped of softness.

“And what do you make of it, then?”

Regulus’ voice cracked. “I don’t get it.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I think I do.” Regulus straightened, his pulse thrumming. “Because you’re not careless, Evan. You know what he’s like. He’s obsessed—it drips from his mouth like drool.”

For a moment, Evan was perfectly still. Then he laughed—low, humorless. “I know.”

Regulus blinked. “You know?”

Evan reached for his cigarettes, lighting one with calm precision. He rarely does it so it sends a shiver of fear down regulus’s spine.He drew in the smoke, exhaled slowly. His eyes found Regulus’, flat and unwavering.

“Most nights,” he said, almost conversational, “I fantasize about snapping his neck.”

Regulus stared, words caught in his throat.

“I don’t think a spell would be satisfying enough,” Evan went on, voice soft, deliberate. “I want to feel the bones give. You know.”

Regulus forced himself to nod. “That’s not really new, is it?”

“No.” Evan’s mouth curved, faint and cruel. “But I also want him.”

The words landed like a blow. Regulus’ head jerked back.

“I want him,” Evan repeated, quieter now, smoke curling from his lips. “And I hate him for making me want him.”

Regulus’ voice faltered. “He’s..” He stopped. He didn’t know what to call Crouch.

Evan waited.

“He’s a mess,” Regulus finally said.

“I know.”

“He talks too loud. He never shuts up. He’s… half-mad most days.”

“I know.” Evan’s tone was unchanged, unshaken.

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “And he’s a half-blood.”

Evan’s mouth twitched. “I’m aware.”

The silence after that was heavy, suffocating.

“I don’t like it,” Evan said at last, his voice lower, harder. “Wanting someone like that. Someone beneath us.”

“Beneath you,” Regulus corrected. But it didn’t come out like a joke.

Evan’s eyes flickered. The cigarette glowed, dimmed. The smoke made the air thick, close.

Regulus swallowed. “You trust me with this?”

Evan tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, sharp at the edges. “No. But you’re my blood. My father’s blood runs through you, too. Don’t forget that.”

The words scraped like glass.

“You know what kind of man he is,” Evan said, softer now but infinitely more dangerous. “What kind of son that makes me.”

A shiver ran through Regulus. He thought of Mr. Rosier—of the cruelty in his eyes, the precision in every word, the coldness of his touch. He looked back at Evan, bare-chested, smoke curling around him, beautiful and merciless.

“I wouldn’t use it against you,” Regulus said hoarsely. “What you told me.”

Evan’s gaze sharpened. “Then tell me why you’re so desperate to drag it out of me. Why does it matter?”

Regulus’ chest rose and fell too quickly. His hands shook where they pressed into his knees. “Because I’m no better.”

Evan said nothing. The silence pressed harder.

Regulus’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I’m in no place to judge. I’m in love with James Potter.”

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then Evan laughed. Not his usual low chuckle, not his rare, soft laugh. This was sharp, startled, loud. A laugh Regulus had never heard before, tearing the air apart.

Regulus flushed, furious and humiliated, but Evan only laughed harder, cigarette shaking between his fingers.

“Oh, Reggie,” he said finally, breathless. His eyes glittered. “You might actually outdo me.”

***

The bathroom was almost silent except for the faint lap of water against the marble lip of the tub. Steam curled into the high air, clinging to Regulus’ lashes. He had sunk deep into the foam trying to quiet his mind after the conversation with Evan that still rang like static in his skull. The prefect’s key lay on the tile beside his wand. He thought he was alone.

The door creaked.

His head snapped up.

James Potter leaned lazily against the doorway, hand still on the handle, eyes on him. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. He only smiled like he’d been expecting to find him here.

Regulus’ mouth went dry. He sat straighter, water rolling down his pale shoulders. “It’s occupied, Potter.” His voice cracked halfway through.

James ignored him. He stepped inside, closing the door with a low click.

“I’m already here,” James said, voice smooth, warm with amusement. “You’ll survive.”

Regulus’ heartbeat rattled against his chest. He wanted to sink beneath the water, hide his burning face. But his eyes—traitorous, hungry—stayed fixed on James’ hands. The slow way he undid his tie. The casual flick as he tossed it onto the bench.

“Potter”

James started unbuttoning his shirt. Steam clung to his skin as he peeled the fabric from his body. His chest was broad, tanned, scarred in faint, brutal lines from Quidditch. Regulus’ breath caught.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Regulus said, but his voice was barely a whisper.

James smirked. “And yet.” He dropped the shirt, toeing off his shoes, unbuckling his belt. “Funny how I keep finding you, isn’t it?”

“How did you?” Regulus asked, throat tight.

“Lucky coincidence.” James slid his trousers down, standing in nothing but black briefs. He didn’t look embarrassed. He didn’t look hesitant. He looked like he owned the room, the steam, the water, Regulus himself.

Regulus couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. His entire body pulsed with shame and hunger.

James stepped into the water, slow, foam clinging to his thighs. He stopped directly in front of Regulus, towering over him, water rippling outward.

“Fucking hell,” James murmured, almost to himself. Then he looked down at Regulus, smirk curling wider.

Regulus flinched, every nerve alight.

James crouched, dragging a wet hand across Regulus’ chest. His palm lingered on the faint marks, the scars where the curse had burned deep. His thumb brushed over the ridge of one.

“They’ve faded,” James said softly.

“Yeah,” Regulus managed. His voice cracked again.

James’ hand slid lower, down the line of his sternum.

Regulus whimpered. Couldn’t stop it.

James’ eyes darkened. “You like that.” Not a question.

Regulus nodded before he realized he had moved. Shame flared hot. His lips parted. Breathless.

James dragged his thumb over Regulus’ mouth, pressing the bottom lip down.

“Fuck,” James whispered, leaning closer, breath ghosting against him. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

James’ thumb pressed harder against Regulus’ lip, parting it. Regulus’ breath came shallow, heat crawling down his spine.

“You shouldn’t…” Regulus whispered, though it sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

“I know,” James cut him off, eyes burning into his. His smirk curled into something darker. “That’s half the reason I can’t stop.”

He leaned closer, his chest brushing against Regulus’ knees under the water. “You’re Sirius’ little brother,” James said, voice low, almost cruel with honesty. “I should hate myself for even looking at you like this.”

“Then leave,” Regulus whispered, but his thighs shifted open under the water.

James noticed. His grin sharpened. “Too late.”

He grabbed Regulus by the chin, forcing his gaze upward. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to tell myself to stay away from you? And then I find you here—alone, wet, waiting.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were,” James snapped, but the smile lingered. “You want me here. Say it.”

Regulus’ breath stuttered. “I want—”

James’ hand slipped lower, under the water, ghosting down Regulus’ stomach. “Say it properly.”

Regulus swallowed hard. His voice cracked. “I want you here.”

James’ smirk softened into something hungrier. “Good boy.”

He pushed him back against the marble edge of the tub, foam sliding up over Regulus’ chest. James loomed, dripping, every line of his body golden and wet in the steam. His briefs clung obscenely, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Regulus stared. His entire body ached. He hated himself for wanting it, for needing it, but he couldn’t look away.

James leaned down, mouth grazing Regulus’ ear. “Do you know what you are to me? A risk. A sin.” he whispered, breath hot, rough. “A pleasure I can’t fucking refuse.”

Regulus whimpered. His head tipped back, baring his throat like a confession.

James’ teeth grazed the skin just below his ear. A bite. A warning.

“You like that too?” James murmured.

“Yes,” Regulus gasped.

James’ laugh was low, satisfied.

His hand pressed flat against Regulus’ chest, sliding down, slow, indecent, mapping every inch of pale skin. His touch was rough, claiming. Each stroke meant to break him open.

Regulus trembled, his mouth parting, body arching into the contact like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Fuck, look at you,” James said, pulling back just enough to watch him. “All wet, shivering for me. Sirius would kill us both.”

“Stop saying his name,” Regulus hissed, voice sharp with desperation.

James’ grin was wicked. “Make me.”

And then his mouth crashed down on James’. Hard, punishing, hungry. Foam clung to their faces, to their shoulders, water splashing around them as James kissed him like he’d been holding it back for years.

Regulus whimpered again, soft and broken, and James swallowed the sound like it was his.

James pulled away and Regulus couldn’t look at him. He was lost every nerve in his body pulled tight, his chest heaving as though the air itself had turned against him. James tilted his chin up with two fingers, forcing his gaze. “Look at me. Tell me the truth: did you imagine me?”

Regulus’ voice cracked. “James…”

“Say it properly.” James’ hand slipped beneath the water, gripping his hip, pulling him closer, their skin slick, chest to chest. “Say what I am to you.”

Regulus shook his head, lips parting, but James pressed harder, demanding. “Tell me, Reg. Don’t make me beg”

The words tumbled before he could stop them. “I thought about you. Before. For months. Years.” His breath shuddered out of him. “I used to imagine it was you when it couldn’t be. When it was girls. When it was no one. Always you.”

James froze, something sharp and hungry sparking in his eyes. He bit out a laugh, low and disbelieving. “Fuck. You were thinking about me all that time?” His mouth pressed hard against Regulus’, teeth catching his lower lip, drawing a hiss.

Regulus let the shame carry him. “I thought about your hands. The way you laugh. The way you look when you come off your broom, hair in your face. I wanted—” his voice broke, “—I wanted you to grab me like this, push me somewhere dark where no one could see. Wanted you to ruin me.”

James groaned, forehead pressing against his, as if the confession itself was pulling him under. His hand slid up Regulus’ throat, thumb pressing lightly just below his jaw. “You know how wrong this is?” he whispered, rough, biting. “You know I can’t stop now, yeah?”

Regulus nodded, eyes glazed, lips trembling. “Je te veux, James.” he whispered, soft, desperate.

The sound hit James like a spark to oil. He gripped Regulus tighter, grinding their bodies together under the water. “Say that again.”

“Je te veux,” Regulus breathed, the French thick on his tongue, broken, aching. “Je… t’ai toujours voulu Jamie…”

James’ eyes darkened. He kissed him then, brutal and sweet, dragging him under, making him gasp water and air and want. “Fuck, You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Regulus whispered, words slipping out like prayers “Je rêve de toi… chaque nuit…”

James growled against his lips, hands everywhere now—hair, chest, waist—possessive, insatiable. “Mine,” he muttered between kisses, rough and certain. “You hear me? I don’t give a fuck how wrong it is. You’re mine.”

“Tu me brûles… je veux mourir dans tes bras…”

Chapter Text

Regulus woke with his cheek pressed against James’ chest, the steady rise and fall under his skin like a lullaby he’d never known. He stayed still, the warmth of James’ body mingling with the faint smell of soap, the trace of sweat, something uniquely him. Regulus breathed him in.

Loving James from across a hall, from stolen glances in the library, from a distance—that had been unbearable enough. But this? Loving James from his bed, feeling the weight of his arm heavy across his back, touching him without hesitation, pressing light kisses along his chest, it wasn’t even the same universe.

Regulus lifted his head slowly, careful not to break the spell. He kissed his chest, once, twice, then trailed higher, brushing his lips against the curve of James’ jaw. He pressed his mouth to James’ ear and whispered, hoarse, “Wake up, Potter.”

When he pulled back, James’ eyes were already open, dark and amused, lips curved. “I’m up,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “But please—continue.”

Regulus smiled despite himself. He leaned down and bit gently at the side of his neck, just above the collarbone. James hissed and then laughed, one hand flying up to catch Regulus’ hair.

“Fuck, that’s going to leave a mark,” James muttered, but his grin was wolfish, like he wanted it, like he dared Regulus to do worse.

“Why?” Regulus teased softly, brushing his lips over the reddening skin. “Scared people will find out?”

“Yeah, I’m bloody terrified,” James shot back, feigning horror, though his hand was sliding lower down Regulus’ bare back, pressing him closer. The smirk in his voice gave him away.

Regulus couldn’t stop staring at his face. He didn’t realize he was smiling until the ache in his cheeks reminded him—an ache he didn’t resent at all.

James tilted his head, studying him like he was some dangerous, precious thing. “Merlin,” he said, almost under his breath, “the way you look at me…”

And then he pulled Regulus down, kissing him with that same mix of softness and hunger, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour him or cradle him.

The curtains around the bed glowed faintly with morning light. The world outside could have been burning, and still it wouldn’t matter. It was just the two of them, holding onto each other like there was nowhere else to go.

***

The weeks blurred. Not in the way classes did, not in the drag of lessons and essays, but in a haze of mouths and hands and James. Regulus stopped pretending to keep track of time. The days were punctuated by the slam of a broom closet door, the press of a body into him in an empty corridor, the smirk that preceded another stolen hours in the Head Boy’s quarters.

Nights belonged to James. The bed smelled of him now, warm and sharp, and Regulus would bury his face into his neck and forget how to breathe. He was falling—too fast, too recklessly—and some nights, it seemed like James was falling too.

James liked to talk afterwards. Lazy, sprawling, one hand always tracing idle patterns over Regulus’ back, his stomach, the line of his jaw. Regulus liked it more than he admitted.

“Slughorn’s a prat,” Regulus muttered once, curled on his side with James’ arm heavy across him.

James snorted. “Only just realizing that now, Ice Prince?”

Regulus turned his head sharply. “Ice prince?”

James grinned, brushing a kiss against his shoulder. “Yup. Everyone fucking fawns when you pass by. You’re beautiful, smart, and you catch a Snitch like it’s nothing. You’re too good. The scouts will probably snatch you before they even looks at me.”

Regulus’ ears burned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true,” James insisted, with mock sincerity. “Do you know how disgusting it is, watching them watch you? All those eyes.”

“Does it bother you?” Regulus whispered.

“I don’t want to share you?”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling into the pillow, unable to stop. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Potter.”

“Oh, won’t it?” James shifted closer, his lips brushing Regulus’ cheek before catching his mouth. One kiss. Then another. Then another, until Regulus was dizzy with it.

James pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips: “Will this take me somewhere, then?”

Regulus whispered, breathless, “Yes.” He threw his arms around James’ neck and pulled him down again, kissing him until the air seemed to thicken around them.

They didn’t talk about Sirius. Never once. That silence sat between them like a forbidden door. But they filled it with other things.

Quidditch. Professors. James running his fingers through Regulus’ hair, asking what he thought of some of his “pranks” ideas, laughing when Regulus muttered about idiotic Gryffindors who blew their eyebrows off for no reason.

One night, with Regulus sprawled against his chest, James said quietly, “I’m trying for the Magpies, you know.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Ambitious.”

James smirked. “Don’t forget—I’m an overachiever.”

Regulus huffed a soft laugh. “That you are.”

James’ hand moved down his spine, pressing lightly, possessive. “And I want you there when it happens. Don’t disappear into their shadows, Reg. You belong on the pitch, in the lights. Even a blind man could see it.”

Regulus felt his face flush hot, his throat tight. “You’re insufferable.”

James grinned and kissed him, slow and sweet, until Regulus melted back into him, the world reduced to heat, breath, and the maddening haze of wanting more.

***

He told himself that he was only doing more rounds. That he was just bored.

But the truth curled hot under his collar.

He missed James.

James, who had leaned in close earlier, voice warm, and said, “I’ve got something tonight. Don’t wait up.”

Ominous, cryptic, and irritatingly vague. And still… Regulus found his feet carrying him there anyway. Just to sleep in his bed. Breathe him in. Let the scent of something sharp and boyish lull him into whatever passed for peace these days.

He turned a corner, passing under the great clock tower, where the gears clicked.

And stopped.

A figure stood in the middle of the corridor, unmoving.

Severus Snape.

Black hair hanging in messed up ropes around his pallid face, wand already in hand like he’d been waiting. He wasn’t meant to be here. No one was. The curfew had started nearly two hour ago.

Regulus stiffened but didn’t pause. He kept walking. Eyes forward. He wouldn’t have spared him a glance.

But as he passed, Snape’s hand shot out and caught his arm.

Regulus jerked back so fast the fabric nearly tore.

He pulled his Wand out. Tip to Severus’s face.

“Don’t touch me,” Regulus said, voice low and seething. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Snape didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Just stood there, mouth curled into something like mockery — but emptier. Like he’d run out of ways to pretend he had power.

“I just thought you should know,” he said, voice like wet stone scraping tile, “your boyfriend won’t be in the castle tonight.”

Regulus didn’t move. His pulse spiked.

Snape leaned in slightly, the torchlight catching on the sick gleam in his eyes.

“You’re not very different from him, you know,” he said softly. “Your blood-traitor brother. All that arrogance. All that filth.”

Regulus stared. Cold. Waiting.

Snape’s mouth twisted.

“I thought you were the smarter Black. But you’re just another whore.”

Time snapped.

Regulus didn’t even speak before he moved. The spell tore out of him.

“STUPEFY!”

The red light slammed Snape into the wall, where he slumped down, dazed — not unconscious. But trembling. Mouth bleeding.

Regulus advanced, wand aimed, fury tight behind his teeth. He crouched slightly, voice a whisper full of murder.

“You filthy little fucking rat.”

Snape spat blood to the side. Still tried to smile.

“You don’t get to talk about blood,” Regulus said, voice like frost. “Not to me. Not to anyone.”

He raised his wand again. His hand shook. The Cruciatus on the tip of his tongue.

One word. That’s all it would take.

But then…

He saw Sirius.

Not in front of him — but in his mind. Sirius, broken. Sirius, screaming. Sirius, begging their mother to stop. Begging him to stop.

And then the memory twisted — Regulus himself standing over her. Wand out. Rage bubbling.

Crucio.

He’d cast it. That night. Twice. And it lived in him like a poison.

His breath heaved.

He lowered his wand. Not all the way. Just enough to stop the curse from leaving him.

“You think I won’t do it?” Regulus whispered.

Snape wiped his mouth. “I think you already did.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened.

“If I see you again,” he said, “if I so much as hear you breathing near me—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

He didn’t go to the Head Boy quarters.

Chapter Text

Regulus remembered everything.

Every time he closed his eyes, it played again—the sound, the smell, the weight of it pressing on his chest like a body that wouldn’t stop breathing even when he begged it to.

He’d been sick that night. A fever humming through him, dinner untouched on the tray by his bed. He’d drifted in and out until the shouting began. His mother’s voice first, then Sirius’, their words crashing together like thunder, the same argument that had lived in their house for years. The kind of fight that always ended with slamming doors, broken glass, and long silences.

He thought it would end like always. But then came Sirius’ scream.

Regulus sat up, dizzy, cold. Another scream. The kind that empties the lungs, that sounds like the end of something.

He ran.

The halls were half-lit, portraits whispering as he passed. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw them: his mother, wand raised, hair wild, eyes shining with fury and fear; Sirius pressed against the wall, shaking, defiant even then.

She was shouting about shame, about disgrace, about how he’d ruined everything they’ve built. But her voice cracked on the last word. For a moment, she looked almost human—hurt, not angry. Then she raised her wand again, and that look disappeared.

Regulus shouted for her to stop, but she didn’t hear him—or didn’t care. The air between them snapped with heat.

Something inside him broke.

He moved before he thought.

He wanted to disarm her, maybe just push her back. But what came out was older, darker. It felt like the house itself breathed it into him.

The word tore his throat raw.

Crucio.

She screamed. The sound ripped through the walls, through him. He felt it vibrate in his bones. For one heartbeat, he almost felt relieved.

Then Sirius lunged for him, shouting his name, trying to grab his arm. And in that blind rage, Regulus turned—

And the curse hit Sirius too.

For a second, everything froze. Sirius arched, a strangled cry caught in his throat. Their eyes met, and Regulus saw it there—fear, confusion, betrayal. His brother. His Sirius.

He stopped the curse, shaking, his wand still wanting more. Sirius fell to the floor, gasping. Walburga was crumpled against the wall, clutching her chest, whispering nonsense through her tears.

Regulus couldn’t move. His hands were shaking too hard to hold the wand. He wanted to say it wasn’t meant for him, that he hadn’t meant to—

But Sirius was already on his knees, crawling away from him like he was something monstrous.

“What did you do?” he rasped. “What did you just—?”

Regulus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat felt torn open. He wanted to reach for him, to fix it somehow, but he saw the look on Sirius’ face—like he’d just watched his brother die in front of him—and stopped.

Then Sirius was gone, running, the front door slamming behind him. The silence that followed was worse than the screams.

His mother’s sobs echoed off the walls. The air smelled like flesh and salt. Regulus was still standing where he’d cast the curse, wand limp at his side, his own breath shaking.

He had wanted her to feel pain. But when it came, it had swallowed everyone—her, Sirius, and himself.

That was the night something inside him changed. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He didn’t cry. He hid it in the back of his mind and forgot all about it until it came back to haunt him.

***

Regulus lay still, his back pressed against James’s chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath brushing over the nape of his neck. The room was dim, lit only by the shimmer of the dying fire. The sheets had tangled around their legs sometime during the night; Regulus could feel James’s skin against his, warm and heavy.

“Snape knows about us,” he said, his voice barely more than a breath.

James stirred, the weight of his arm tightening over Regulus’s waist. “Did he say something to you?” His tone was too calm, too unbothered.

Regulus turned to look at him. Their faces were close. Close enough that he could see the faint shadow of stubble along James’s jaw, the curl of his lashes, the lazy light in his eyes. “Does it matter?” Regulus whispered. “I told you—he knows about this.”

“This?” James asked, the corner of his mouth lifting into a slow, teasing smirk. “You make it sound like a crime.”

Regulus wanted to tell him it was—at least for him. That every look, every kiss felt like something unspeakable. Instead he just stared, his heart tightening with a kind of pain that almost felt holy. The need to pull James closer was unbearable—to trace every freckle, to learn him like a map, to memorize the shape of his shoulders and the roughness of his hands. He wanted to know every callus, every tiny scar, every place that hurt.

He wanted to know him until nothing else existed. Until knowing him was the only truth left in the world.

James must have seen the shadow cross his face, because he reached up and cupped Regulus’s cheeks with both hands. His palms were rough and warm; Regulus leaned into them instinctively, eyes half-closed, nuzzling into the touch as if it might quiet the chaos inside him.

“Hey,” James murmured. “Did he say something else? Don’t waste your thoughts on him. He’s nothing—don’t worry about it.”

Regulus tried to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. His chest felt tight, his breath short. He wanted to tell James he remembered everything—about the night with Sirius, about the rage that had lived inside him, about how close he’d come to hurting Snape just for speaking. He wanted to ask how could you still touch me, knowing what I’ve done?

But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing.

All that came instead was this trembling need—to crush James to him, to bury his face in his skin, to press his teeth against the curve of his neck and leave something there, a mark, a truth. He wanted to kiss him until the world disappeared, until the noise in his head went quiet.

James was watching him—concern and something softer flickering in his eyes. His thumbs brushed along Regulus’s cheekbones, tracing the faint flush rising there. “You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

Regulus only shook his head, forcing a small, strained smile. His throat burned. He didn’t trust his voice.

James shifted closer, his breath falling warm against Regulus’s lips. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, almost to himself. He kissed him and Regulus felt like he was drowning in James, in his sinfully sweet mouth. Regulus felt fevered, kissing the boy harder and deeper, wanting to swallow him whole. The kiss tasted like relief, like a gift he didn’t deserve.

For a long moment, they just breathed together. No words, no explanations. Just the sound of the fire softening to ash, the heartbeat against his, the quiet promise in the dark.

And in that fragile quiet, Regulus thought that maybe, for a moment, he could believe it that James really did have him.

***

Regulus had thought about it for weeks.

Every morning, he woke with the same thought, find him. Every night, he told himself he’d do it tomorrow. He’d imagine Sirius sitting somewhere in the castle, laughing too loud, pretending not to notice him. Regulus rehearsed a dozen versions of what he might say. I’m sorry. I remember. I didn’t mean to. Please, just listen. But courage was not something he had ever carried easily.

Finding Sirius alone was nearly impossible. He only saw him in the Great Hall, always surrounded—James beside him, Lupin on his other side, their laughter threading through the noise. Regulus could never bring himself to cross that room. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of James.

So the weeks passed. The snow around the lake thinned. He grew more restless, more sleepless. Guilt had its own gravity, dragging him down until all he could do was drift.

When he saw Lupin by the Black Lake that afternoon, he didn’t plan to stop. But Lupin looked up from where he sat in the grass, a cigarette between his fingers, and it felt as though the moment had been waiting for him.

Regulus went to him.

Lupin didn’t move when he sat down beside him. He only offered the cigarette without a word. Regulus shook his head. The air was sharp, filled with the scent of water and smoke. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I need to talk to him,” Regulus said at last. His voice sounded wrong, like it belonged to someone else.

Lupin turned his head slightly, studying him through the thin curl of smoke. His expression was unreadable, calm in that quiet way of his that made Regulus uneasy.

“The last time we tried, it blew up in our faces.” Lupin said.

Regulus looked at the ground, at the grass bending between his fingers. He didn’t know how to say it—please help me, I don’t know what to do, I can’t keep living like this. I’m scared. I carry him with me everywhere.The words felt childish in his mouth.

He tore another piece of grass, another, until his hands were full of green strands. He didn’t look up.

Lupin spoke again, his tone soft, steady. “Your absence from Sirius’s life has done real damage to him. You broke him, Regulus.”

A pause.

“But I can see he broke you too.”

Regulus stopped moving. The air seemed to go thin.

“Maybe,” Lupin went on, “if he loved you less, forgiving you would be easier. But he loves you more than anything. That’s why he can’t let it go.”

Regulus felt something twist inside him, sharp and unbearable. He pressed his palms into the earth to steady himself, nails digging into the dirt. His eyes burned. The grass gave under his fingers, breaking apart like the tension in his chest. He could taste salt in the air but refused to let it rise.

Lupin stood then, brushing the dirt from his trousers. He threw the last of his cigarette into the lake, watched the ember hiss out, then leaned down and brushed a hand through Regulus’s hair—gentle, almost brotherly.

“I miss my brother.”

“You’ll have to figure this one out yourself, Reggie,” he said quietly.

And then he was gone, walking back toward the castle.

***

The corridors were nearly empty. Regulus walked slowly, his wand casting a faint glow against the stone. He’d seen James earlier that day — in a broom closet, a hand running through his messy hair, eyes softening when he said. Don’t wait for me tonight. I’ve got something to do.

Regulus had nodded, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending he hadn’t built his nights around James’s laughter, the warmth of his voice breaking through the cold rhythm after patrols.

Now, the echo of his own footsteps was unbearable.

When James appeared from the end of the corridor, Regulus almost didn’t believe it was him. The light caught in his glasses first, then the outline of his shoulders. Regulus couldn’t help the small smile that rose unbidden to his lips.

James stopped in front of him. His face was unreadable.

“I want you to come to the Shrieking Shack,” he said. “In an hour.”

Regulus frowned. “The Shrieking Shack? What for?”

“Just be there.”

The tone was harsh. It sliced through the quiet.

Regulus blinked, confusion flaring into something smaller, meaner. “What’s going on?”

“An hour,” James repeated, his voice low, harsh in a way Regulus had never heard before.

Something in Regulus broke then a flicker of panic disguised as anger.

Was this it? The end? Was James finally sick of him.

“You sound like you’re done with me.” 

James didn’t answer.

And that was worse than a lie.

He didn’t think. He moved.

His hand shot out and caught James’s wrist. Fast, desperate.

“Blac—”

But Regulus pulled him closer, the movement sharp, his breath quick. “No.” The word came out like a plea. He could feel the pulse beneath his fingers, fast and scared. His heart beat in answer.

James tried to pull back, but Regulus held on, their bodies colliding. Regulus kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. His lips pressed hard against James’s, desperate, trembling, filled with every fear he couldn’t say aloud. He needed James to kiss him back, needed proof that this wasn’t the end.

James pulled away, fast. Disgusted.

“Fuck, James,” Regulus said, voice shaking. “Tell me what it is. Tell me.”

James’s eyes were dark, something unreadable flickering there. He didn’t soften. “Use a twig,” he said. “Press the knot by the Willow.” His voice was low, controlled, different.

“An hour,” he said again. “Don’t be late, Black.”

And then he left.

Regulus stood there, hand still hanging in the air where James had been. His lips burned. The silence rushed back in. He wanted to call out, to demand an answer, to make James look at him  but the words stayed locked in his throat.

Chapter Text

The wind off the grounds was wild that night, rushing through the trees like it carried voices. The air was cold, but his skin burned. Every step felt like a dare, like he was testing how far his body could go before it split in half.

He wished the Willow would kill him.

Hit him once, twice, enough to make him forget.

Enough to make the pain in his chest stop screaming James’s name.

He tipped his head back; the moon was so full it hurt to look at. “Please,” he whispered to no one. “Just let it not hurt too much.”

But he already knew it would.

He did what James told him, found the knot, pressed it with a branch, and slipped into the tunnel. The air grew heavy, the sound of his own breath too loud in his ears. Every heartbeat sounded like a countdown. Then the sound. A howl. Not human.

He froze.

Another cry followed, raw and torn, and his body moved before his mind caught up. He ran, wand up, boots scraping on stone, until he burst through the trapdoor at the end of the passage.

And everything stopped.

James was there, eyes wide, frozen mid-step.

Lupin was on the floor, shaking, curling into himself as though the air were on fire. Pettigrew huddled in the corner, his face pale and terrified.

And Sirius—

Sirius stood between them, his wand raised, his face white with fear.

“Regulus,” James said, voice sharp with panic. “You have to leave. Now.”

Regulus stared at him. “Why would you tell me to come here, then?”

Pettigrew shouted, “Guys— it’s time, it’s now—” and his voice broke.

Lupin screamed. A sound like bones breaking, skin tearing. The kind of sound that stays under your skin forever.

“Fuck,” Sirius shouted, his voice shaking. “Prongs, take him out of here! I’ll stall Moony!”

And then Sirius wasn’t Sirius anymore. He became the dog — the same black dog that had found Regulus by the lake months ago.

“Oh,” Regulus breathed.

Regulus couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He didn’t understand what he was seeing, but he knew it was wrong,  knew he wasn’t supposed to be here.

James’s hand found his wrist. “Come on,” he said. “Run.”

They ran. The tunnel walls scraped his shoulders as they flew through it, James’s hand gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise. Regulus stumbled, nearly fell, but James pulled him along.

Then came the howl.

Not human.

Not anything human.

It tore through the air, through Regulus’s chest, through every memory he’d ever had.

He stopped running.

“Regulus, no—”

He wrenched free of James’s hold, turned. His lungs hurt. His vision blurred. “We have to go back,” he said. “Sirius is still there!”

“He’s fine,” James said, grabbing his arm again. “He can handle it—”

But Regulus twisted out of his grip, his voice breaking. “He’s my brother!”

He turned just in time to see them — the black dog and a wolf, circling each other in the moonlight that leaked through the cracks.

James had gone still beside him.

Regulus could hear his own heart pounding. He whispered, “James. Fuck. Fuck—”

James caught his face in both hands, his voice rough. “Run. Now.”

Then antlers appeared beside him—James’s stag—towering, impossible, beautiful.

Regulus didn’t move. Couldn’t. The sight in front of him — the beast, his brother, the boy he loved— all of it blurred together into something terrifying.

Then came the flash. A light so bright it tore the world open.

The last thing Regulus saw was his brother’s body crashing against the floor and James shouting something he couldn’t hear, his voice distant and breaking.

And then nothing.

***

Sirius opened his eyes half a month later.

Regulus wasn’t there. He wasn’t there when they discharged him either. He avoided the Great Hall; he avoided James. Evan watched him with that patient, calm gaze—the kind that knew everything and asked for nothing. “Maybe it’s for the best,” Evan said once. Regulus resented him for it.

The door opened hard the evening James came. Evan’s wand was at his throat in an instant. James didn’t even blink.

“Put that down,” James said, voice calm, infuriatingly calm. “I’m not here for you.”

Evan didn’t move.

“Evan,” Regulus said quietly. “It’s fine.”

Reluctant, Evan lowered the wand and left. The door sealed them in together and for once the air felt crowded and suffocating.

James crossed the room and sat down beside him. . “It was Snape.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“He told you to go to the Shack. He set you up.” James’s voice was even. Controlled because if it wasn’t, it would break. “And the locker room—the curse on your clothes. It was him too.”

Regulus didn’t answer. His hands were shaking.

Then James reached for him, pulled him in without asking.

Regulus didn’t resist.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until he felt it—the way James’s shirt clung wetly against his cheek.

“I’m not letting him anywhere near you,” James whispered into his hair. “Do you hear me? I’m so—Merlin, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

The words struck like a blow. Glad you’re okay. Regulus felt terror bloom in his chest, worse than anything from the Shack. Worse than the sight of his brother’s blood.

He wanted to believe it. He wanted to drown in it. But he couldn’t.

He pulled away, eyes still wet.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, he thought. I am going to do whatever heinous thing I need to save what’s left.

“I can never repay you,” he said. “For what you did for me.”

James frowned. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Regulus shook his head. “I’ll always be in your debt.”

He reached under his pillow, fingers closing around the small mirror. Cold glass, fragile like everything else between them. He pressed it into James’s hand.

James stared at it. “What are you doing?”

Regulus swallowed hard. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“This,” Regulus said, his voice suddenly harsh, foreign to his own ears. “You. Me. Whatever this is. It was a mistake from the beginning.”

James’s jaw tightened. “A mistake.”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t how I want my life to be,” Regulus said. The words came out fast, too loud, as if he could outrun them. “Let’s stop before it goes too far.”

“Too far?” James repeated, half-laughing, half-furious. “How much further do you think it can go, Regulus?”

Regulus’s throat burned. “Just go.”

“Tell me you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

For a long moment, James just looked at him. His expression was unreadable—anger, heartbreak, disbelief, all carved into one face. Then he stood.

“You don’t get to decide when it’s too far,” James said quietly. “You already took me there.”

And he left.

The door closed behind him.