Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Unexpected things happen in life all the time, right?

James Fleamont Potter can definitely attest to that. After spending years married to his wonderful wife, Lily Evans-Potter, their seemingly devoted relationship capsized when Lily had met her current girlfriend, and realized that she was a lesbian. She believed it would be better to stay close friends with James instead of in a romantic relationship and this ended up well for them, but of course, it still put a strain on his heart letting a woman go after loving her romantically for so long. 

Lily was lovely, and so was their relationship, but it seems like there was never really a spark. It had begun because James liked the chase in high school, but the thrill was over as soon as the chase was.

That’s what led him to accept the divorce easily, they still kept in touch and he invited her and her girlfriend over sometimes, but it was clear they’ve always been better like this even if they didn’t know it was an option. 

Initially, James had no clue what to do with himself. He lost his wife, his friends are all married and he has no one to be around, but he doesn’t want to be stuck in his own head constantly. 

His friends had suggested many things—picking up an instrument, learning a sport, volunteering at local places, journaling, yoga—everything in the books and he had no interest in any of it.

That’s when one of his friends recommended he take a trip to another country. 

At first, James wasn’t sure. He didn’t know anyone outside of his hometown, and he wasn’t very great at other languages, which is a big factor in most European countries. He suffered this inner turmoil for weeks before he realized he wasn’t getting any better while sitting in his room and staring at his ceiling unproductively. 

That’s what brought him to Paris, France. 

He knows it’s a tourist city, and he can tell who’s an American from a mile away, but it’s definitely a positive change of scenery and it’s almost a relief that he’s unable to run into anybody that he knows. Here, there’s no expectations set for him.

The first few days in Paris were awkward at best.

James had fumbled through grocery store aisles, squinting at labels and trying to decipher what exactly he was buying. He missed the familiarity of home, but there was also something oddly comforting about being a stranger in a place where no one expected him to smile if he didn’t feel like it—it seemed like Parisians were allergic to smiling anyway. 

He wandered a lot. With a tattered guidebook stuffed in his coat pocket and a pocket dictionary doing most of the work, James found himself strolling along the Seine, watching boats drift lazily past, or standing silently inside Notre-Dame, the hush of the cathedral wrapping around him like a heavy, sacred blanket. It wasn’t quite healing—but it was something.

On his fourth evening, he ducked into a small café on the Left Bank, mostly because it had started to rain and his jacket had zero respect for weather forecasts. The place was dim and warm, the kind of cozy that made you forget time existed. A chalkboard menu hung above the bar, the handwriting so ornate it looked like calligraphy, and music he didn’t recognize played softly from a corner speaker.

He ordered a drink with a name that he could barely pronounce in a comprehensible manner and sat at a corner table, drumming his fingers against the wood, letting the background noise settle into a faint buzzing while he looked out of the window.

Though he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings before, he notices a newspaper on one of the tables closest to him and decides to pick it up himself and attempt to read it since nobody else is. 

After a lot of struggling and mispronunciation that occurred in his head, he can make out the words just barely. It’s an article about a cemetery near him, only around twenty minutes away, and there’s a ticket to get a free tour. 

He’s aware that some very famous people are buried there—Wilde, Piaf, Chopin, and many more—so who is he to turn down the offer he just stumbled upon? Only an idiot would do that. 

He tears the ticket out of the newspaper and pockets it before finishing his now lukewarm drink and heading back to where he’s been staying. 

—

The next morning, Paris greeted James with a sliver of sunlight—barely any but still enough to shake the cold from his bones. He dressed warmer this time, jacket zipped high, scarf looped tight, and the torn ticket tucked safely into his pocket like a secret invitation.

The cemetery—Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, as the guidebook called it—was tucked into the 20th arrondissement like a forgotten relic, vast and quiet in the way only cemeteries can be. The iron gates loomed above him, streaked with age and vine, and as he stepped through, it felt like he’d crossed into another world. One untouched by the bustle of cafes and metro cars and people who didn’t look twice. 

Despite the fact that there were famous people buried in the cemetery, the side that James entered on was so quiet and serene with nobody in sight. Tourists most likely aren’t even awake yet. It definitely wasn’t the normal entrance so maybe he didn’t even need a ticket for a tour guide in the first place.

He had expected something grim. Somber. But there was a strange kind of beauty to the place. The mausoleums were like miniature palaces, ivy-draped and cracked with time, and angels wept silently atop mossy headstones. The air smelled like rain-drenched stone and flowers left too long in the cold.

Each step took him deeper into the cemetery’s labyrinth, down winding paths where the names on the stones had faded into a script only the dead could read. The stillness was comforting, in an eerie sort of way, like the city had finally stopped talking long enough for him to catch his breath.

That’s when it happened.

He turned a corner, following a path shaded by towering trees, and found himself at a quiet dead-end. There, half-hidden behind a weathered marble angel, was a grave with a lit lantern next to it and a design he didn’t recognize. Usually people chose angels, or something to symbolize the life that person had lived. This grave had a statue, yes, but it looked like an actual boy. 

It wasn’t just the headstone that had caught his attention, though it was beautiful in a strange, old-fashioned sort of way. The name underneath it etched into black marble was intriguing aswell. 

Regulus Arcturus Black

1956 – 1979

“Morior invictus” 

James blinked. The name sparked something in him, but he couldn’t place it. A flicker of familiarity, like a word on the tip of his tongue. He recognizes the name from his own constellation in astronomy. 

He stepped closer, fingers brushing the cold and polished stone. “Regulus,” he murmured aloud. “That’s a hell of a name.”

“You’re not the first to say that.”

James froze.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t his imagination. He turned, heart thudding in his chest, and there—leaning casually against the tree beside the grave—was a man. Not just any man, one that looks exactly the same as the statue.

Young, maybe early twenties, with dark hair falling in elegant waves, sharp cheekbones, and eyes like polished glass. He was dressed like he belonged in a different time with a well-fitted black coat, high-collared shirt, silver pin gleaming faintly at his throat, and beautiful silver rings adorning his fingers. He looked solid, real, human. 

But James knew better. No one just appeared like that, especially not in the middle of a cemetery right next to a statue that they share a physical appearance with. 

The man raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

James opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I think I have?” James responds, but he doesn’t panic. What does one do in a situation like this? Run off screaming and have people think you’re insane? Question your sanity?

The stranger’s lips curved slowly. “Technically, yes. But don’t worry. I’m very polite.”

James blinked at him, soaked in a long silence before finally managing: “Regulus?”

The ghost gave a slight bow, all mock-aristocratic elegance. “In the flesh.” He looks up and tilts his head slightly, “Well. Formerly.”

James swallowed, still trying to catch up with reality (or what felt like a departure from it).

"You're real?" he asked, immediately feeling stupid. Of course he wasn't real . And yet, there he was.

Regulus gave a dry smile. "Real enough to hold a conversation. Which is more than I can say for most people who stop by."

James looked back at the gravestone, then at the ghost, then rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay. This is happening. I'm talking to a ghost."

"You're handling it better than most," Regulus said mildly. "No screaming. No running. That's moderately promising."

"Give it a minute," James muttered.

Regulus laughed. It was quiet, but genuine, like the soft flicker of a candle in the dark. "You asked about my name. Would you like the rest of the story that goes with it?"

James glanced around. The air was still, the path empty. "Sure. I’ve got time."

"Good." Regulus stepped off from the tree and gestured down a nearby path. "Walk with me. It’s been ages since I had company worth speaking to."

They walked in silence for a moment, the gravel crunching faintly beneath James’s shoes. Regulus made no sound at all.

"You were French?" James finally said. "I mean, you have an accent and are quite literally buried in Paris."

"Very astute," Regulus said dryly. "Yes. Born and raised. Though you could say my life was tragically short and very complicated."

James looked over at him curiously, it’s not every day that one gets to question or speak to a ghost. "What happened?"

Regulus didn’t answer right away. His expression turned inward, distant. "I made a choice. A brave one, if you believe my brother. A stupid one, if you believe my mother."

"And you?"

Regulus looked at him. "I think it was necessary."

They reached a bench nestled between two crumbling statues. Regulus sat—floated might have been more accurate—and James, not knowing what else to do, sat beside him.

"You came here for a reason, too," Regulus said, glancing sideways at him. "Not just to read names off tombstones."

James hesitated. "Divorce. A fresh start, I guess. Trying to figure out who I am now."

Regulus nodded slowly. "There’s something about the dead that makes the living confess things, isn’t there?"

James gave a half-smile. "Maybe it’s because you can’t tell anyone."

"Or maybe," Regulus said, his gaze softening just a little, "it’s because you know we’ll actually listen."

And for the first time in what felt like months, James believed that something he’s doing may be worth his time.

—

James wasn’t sure how long they sat there. Minutes, maybe more. Time seemed to fold in on itself around Regulus, like his presence warped the edges of reality, thinning the veil between life and death all while coaxing James into joining him.

But it didn’t feel threatening—if anything, it was peaceful. Calming, in a way James hadn’t felt since he would lounge under willow trees in the sunlight as a teenager.

Regulus didn’t press for more details. He didn’t ask about Lily, the divorce, or the ache that remains after being left behind in your own life. He just sat beside James like a quiet, knowing thing. The kind of presence that didn’t demand, only offered.

Eventually, James broke the silence. “So what keeps you here? Why stay?”

Regulus glanced upward at the slanting sky. A few crows circled overhead, their cries sharp against the morning quiet. “Tethering,” he said simply. “Some ghosts are bound to pain. To regret. Some don’t even realize they’ve died. But me? I chose this.”

James blinked. “You chose to stay a ghost?”

A nod. “I couldn’t leave. Not yet. There were too many things I didn’t get to do. Too many truths I never got to speak aloud. So I asked—begged, really—for one more chance to linger. Just long enough to be remembered properly. Not as the boy who disappeared, but as someone who mattered. I still haven’t gotten that.” 

They sat in silence again for a few moments. 

“You did matter,” James said finally. “You still do.”

A ghost of a smile curled Regulus’s lips. “Thank you,” he said, and James could tell it was the kind of thank you that reached deeper than words usually did. 

A breeze moved through the cemetery then, stirring leaves and lifting the edges of Regulus’s coat. The ghost didn’t shiver, most likely because he’s unable to feel cold, but James did, pulling his scarf tighter.

“Will I see you again?” James asked, and instantly felt ridiculous for asking.

But Regulus only looked amused. “That depends,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “Are you planning on making this a habit? Visiting a dead boy in a famous cemetery?” 

James considered. “Maybe. You’re the most interesting conversation I’ve had in months.”

Regulus nodded curtly. “Then yes. I think I’d like that.”

He turned to go, fading step by step into the soft light filtering through the trees, but paused before he disappeared completely.

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s more waiting for you than you think. Just remember you don't have to spend your life being buried in someone else’s fate. Choose your own.”

And then he was gone. Just like that.

James sat there, blinking at the empty bench beside him, heart hammering in the strange silence that followed. He didn’t know what any of this meant. But something inside him had shifted both subtly and gently.

Maybe this trip wasn't about getting lost after all. Maybe it was about finding something—or someone—unexpected.

He stood up slowly, brushing off his coat. The path before him looked the same, but felt entirely different.

James Fleamont Potter walked out of the cemetery with the torn ticket still in his pocket and a ghost’s voice echoing softly in his head.

—

The next few days passed in a sort of quiet haze.

James tried to go back to doing normal tourist things—wandering through Montmartre, getting hopelessly lost near the Latin Quarter, buying overpriced postcards he never sent. But his thoughts always circled back to the cemetery. To Regulus.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not even his friends when they spoke briefly over the phone.

James didn’t return to Père-Lachaise immediately. Part of him was scared that it had all been in his head, that if he went back, Regulus would be gone—just another cracked name on a beautiful stone.

But on the seventh day, just as the grey clouds broke open with a hint of pale gold, he found himself standing before the gates again. 

This time, he didn’t wander. He walked the same twisting path, heart thudding with each step, past crooked angels and weather-worn urns, until the familiar corner came into view.

Regulus was already there.

Perched atop his own grave like it was the most natural thing in the world, legs swinging lazily, one hand pressed to the cool marble as if anchoring himself. He looked up as James approached, expression unreadable.

“You came back,” he said.

James shrugged, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. “I owed you a conversation.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Do you always visit cemeteries to keep your promises?”

“Only when the person I’m talking to is dead,” James said dryly.

Regulus smiled, just barely. “Fair.”

They stood in a companionable silence for a while, the only sound the wind moving through the cypress trees and the distant hush of the city. Here, the noise of Paris never quite reached.

“You said you wanted to be remembered properly,” James said eventually. “What did people forget?”

Regulus glanced sideways at him. “Everything,” he said simply. “They remembered the way I looked. How quiet I was. My family name. But not me . Not what I wanted. Not the things I was afraid of. Or the people I loved.”

James sat down on the grass, letting the chill soak into his bones. “Tell me.”

Regulus blinked in a puzzled manner. “What?”

James looked up at him. “Tell me what you want someone to remember.”

For a long moment, Regulus said nothing. Then he sat cross-legged beside James, his presence colder than the earth but somehow grounding.

“I loved astronomy,” he said, voice soft. “Not just the stars—the mythology. The idea that someone looked up at the sky and gave every bright thing a name so they wouldn’t feel alone. There’s a quote that reminds me of that, how mythology came to be. ‘If you leave God alone, he’ll create man. If you leave man alone, he’ll create God.’ It reminds me that everything is only what we make it.”

James nodded while listening with intent.

“I hated tea,” Regulus added. “Everyone in my family drank it constantly thinking it made them more sophisticated or something. I used to sneak coffee into the house like it was contraband.”

That made James laugh. “Scandalous.”

Regulus smiled faintly. “I was good at piano. Never told anyone. Played when the house was empty, or at night. I liked Chopin.”

James swallowed. “He’s here too. Buried a few rows over.”

“I know,” Regulus said. “I visit sometimes.”

He was quiet for a moment, brushing phantom fingers across the head of a flower that had bent in the wind.

“I had a crush once,” he said. “He didn’t know.”

James looked at him carefully, but didn’t ask who. The way Regulus’s voice softened, the way he guarded that part of the story—James knew it wasn’t something to pry into. Not yet.

“What happened?” he asked instead.

“I died,” Regulus said, like it was the punchline of a joke. “And he didn’t come to the funeral. Probably never knew I was here.”

James’s chest ached. “I’m sorry.”

Regulus shook his head. “It’s not your fault. None of this is. That’s the thing about ghosts—we carry everything we never got to say. And hope, foolishly, that someone comes along who wants to listen.”

James didn’t know what possessed him to reach out—but he did. His hand hovered near Regulus’s, just close enough to feel the chill.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Regulus looked at him—really looked at him—for a long time. There was something like relief in his expression, some easing of a century-old tension.

“You shouldn’t be able to see me,” he said suddenly. “Not really.”

James blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Most people can’t. Not unless they’re…” Regulus trailed off, brows furrowing. “Not unless they’re fractured. Broken open by something. It doesn’t exactly have to be something devastating or traumatic, but just something that allows their point of view to be expanded. Reality knows what you can handle better than you do, that’s why weird things happen sometimes.”

James felt the words like a pulse in his ribs. “Maybe I am a bit fractured then.”

Regulus studied him, then nodded slowly. “That makes two of us.”

A sudden breeze whipped past them, scattering petals from a nearby grave. Regulus stood, the motion fluid and impossibly silent. He looked down at James, his voice low.

“Do you want to see something?”

James raised a brow. “Is this the part where you lure me into a haunted crypt?”

Regulus gave him a small look, as if debating it, before speaking once again. “Tempting. But no.”

He extended a hand, pale and shimmering like moonlight through glass. James hesitated only a moment before standing, the tips of his fingers brushing against Regulus’s.

It wasn’t solid—but it wasn’t nothing. It felt like static, a tingling feeling that spread from his fingertips to his wrist and all around his arm. 

“Come on,” Regulus said, already turning down a path James hadn’t noticed before. “Paris has more ghosts than you think.”

James followed without hesitation as Regulus weaved through the graves with no issue, it’s only realistic to assume that he knows the cemetery like the back of his hand, there’s not much else to do there than wander. 

They stop at a few graves, the more impressionable ones, not just determined by fame, but by the beauty of the stone, the life of the person, the ages. 

Regulus stopped him at one that was seemingly normal, just a small little angel carved into a granite headstone. 

“This is my bestfriend’s stone, her name’s Pandora. We knew eachother when we were alive, she had gotten into an accident when her daughter, Luna, was only nine. We talk whenever she comes around, it might be horrible to say because the living mourned her loss, but it was a relief for me to finally have someone I know here.” Regulus explains, and James doesn’t interrupt or ask questions. “Her and Luna used to stop by and sit at my grave. To Luna, I’m Uncle Reg. It was sweet.” 

They wander a bit longer, Regulus shows him to the famous graves, but they stay at Oscar Wilde’s for a good moment because Regulus found out that James had never read an Oscar Wilde book. 

“This is blasphemous.” Regulus had muttered, “Promise me that the second you step out of those gates, you’re going to head to a bookstore and read his books.” 

And James in fact kept that promise.

—

The bookstore was quiet in the way only old ones are—hushed by time and dust, not silence. James stood in the cramped aisle, fingers grazing worn spines until he found the one Regulus had insisted on. The Picture of Dorian Gray. The cover was weathered, almost regal in its tattered black binding.

He bought it without reading the back, he trusts Regulus’s taste.

That night, he read for hours. Not because he felt obligated, but because something in Wilde's words echoed the voice of the ghost who'd demanded he understand them. It felt strangely like a conversation. Like Regulus was somewhere nearby, watching him read with a smug little smile.

It became a ritual after that.

James would wake before the sun, wander the city, buy cheap coffee, then find himself drifting—always—back to the cemetery by dawn. Regulus was always waiting. Sometimes perched on his own grave like a gargoyle with impeccable taste. Sometimes walking among the stones and memorizing names and stories. 

They talked about absolutely everything.

Life. Death. Why Parisians refused to smile at strangers. How Regulus thought fashion had peaked in 1967. How James wasn’t sure what his life was supposed to be now that everything he’d planned for had fallen apart.

Regulus never mocked his uncertainty. If anything, he seemed to understand it in a way no living person had.

“You know,” James said one day, sitting on the grass beside Regulus's grave, “this is the strangest friendship I’ve ever had.”

Regulus sat nearby, legs tucked beneath him, half-translucent in the late afternoon light. “That’s because it isn’t really a friendship.”

James turned his head. “No?”

Regulus hesitated. “It’s more like... two people who don’t quite belong in the world, finding a way to belong to each other.”

James stared at him, unsure how to respond. But he didn’t have to.

Because just then, Regulus reached out, fingertips ghosting over James’s shoulder. That same static-pulse of contact. Not warmth, exactly. But connection.

And James didn’t pull away.

He closed his eyes, letting the strange sensation settle over him like fog. He didn’t know where any of this was going. Or what it meant. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t need all the answers.

All he needed was that spark of light in the dark.

And Regulus.

Always Regulus.

—

Some days later, James brought a camera.

“You know I won’t show up in those,” Regulus said, amused, as James fiddled with the old Polaroid.

“Doesn’t matter,” James replied. “It’s not about what shows up. It’s about remembering what doesn’t.”

Regulus didn’t have a witty response to go with that, if anything he felt slightly touched. He let James take photos even though he didn’t show up well in them, they were able to get a few in which Regulus’s shadow was slightly visible, or you could see the slight glinting of something unexplainable—they’re the only people in the world who know it’s actually Regulus’s rings. 

James of course took photos of Regulus’s headstone, the statue that depicted Regulus in all his beautiful glory. Regulus sat back and watched. 

A while later, James gets a call while they’re in the middle of talking. His friends want to know when he’s coming home. That’s something that James hasn’t considered—after all, he just met Regulus not long ago, and they still have so much potential. He can’t leave Regulus alone, can he? It’s already taken so long for him to find someone to talk to, it’s rare it would happen again.

The conversation continued, and yet James got more frustrated each moment before he finally said he doesn’t know, and that he’ll figure it out before hanging up.

Does James figure it out? No. Not in the slightest. If anything, his mind has been flooding with possibilities and alternate choices. He’s finally found someone to listen to him and give him time—even if it’s a dead boy that nobody else can see. 

There’s something that feels different about Regulus, no matter how hard James tries to believe it’s just the whole being dead thing. James is likely never going to get the opportunity to meet anyone like Regulus ever again, but nobody can change that because James isn’t a citizen in France, and Regulus can’t leave that cemetery. 

The next interactions that James and Regulus have are slightly charged, with unspoken words being louder than anything else. It seems like Regulus isn’t having fun anymore now that James has been asked to come home soon. 

—

Regulus Arcturus Black has never been one to get attached to people, or even things. He grew up with the mindset that having no attachments was the safest idea because once you hand someone else the ability to hurt you, they always take the opportunity whether it’s intentional or not. 

He thought that would have changed after death, but if anything, the feeling of being hurt only multiplied and brought a strong pang of shame into his thinking. If he didn’t speak to James in the first place, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t be upset that James will eventually leave. 

But also, if he didn’t speak to James then he wouldn’t have ever heard his voice, or the way that he breathlessly chuckles after running out of oxygen from laughing too hard. He never would have seen the way his eyes light up when they actually have something in common, especially because they were born in very different decades. He would’ve never gotten the opportunity to trace every curve and shadow of James’s face and add it to his memory in a box titled, ‘The sun and those adjacent.’ 

Regulus doesn’t know whether to be grateful or disdainful. It’s still not confirmed when James is returning to his home, but Regulus knows it’ll happen eventually and he can’t stop that thought from entering his head in the dead of night. 

After dusk, he settles on top of the grass where he’s buried and he does nothing but ponder. There’s not exactly anything else that he can do. 

He used to reminisce about his time alive quite frequently, but eventually it stopped mattering too much because everything that he used to have has already slipped through his fingers. Even if he could go back to his old life, there would be no sense of belonging for him anymore. 

There’s something new that he’s been thinking about, but it brings just as much comfort as the thought of his dead loved ones and the fact that they never got to say goodbye to him. Most didn’t even know he died. 

He can only think of one living person that he knows for sure will always remember him. 

James Fleamont Potter. 

—

The night crept in slowly, the way it always did in Paris. Blue deepening to indigo while the rest of the world goes quiet. Regulus lay still against the soft grass, the marble of his own grave cool against his arm, the stars beginning to blink through the light pollution overhead.

He didn’t need to sleep, of course. But he often stayed like this—motionless, contemplative. Listening to the world spin without him. Tonight, it was worse than usual. He kept hearing James’s voice echo through his mind like a song half-remembered. The warmth of it, the softness. The hint of loss he never quite managed to hide.

Regulus had felt loss before, but James wore it like a second skin. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. Regulus had spent so many years alone—decades without a single soul who saw him, who heard him—and he’d survived. He’d learned how to exist in the cracks between the living. But now? Now, he had James . And James wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met, which made everything harder.

The next morning, James returned like he always did during the routine that they’ve created so comfortably—coffee in hand, book tucked under his arm, scarf just slightly crooked like he’d rushed out the door. Regulus was waiting at his usual perch, though he didn’t move to greet him like he normally would.

“Morning,” James said, slightly out of breath.

Regulus inclined his head. “Salut.” 

James raised a brow at the shift in vocabulary. “Uh-oh. French. That’s never a good sign.”

Regulus said nothing at first, simply studied James with a gaze that made him feel far more exposed than anything else ever could.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” he said finally, and though his tone was something akin to light, the words fell heavy between them.

James shifted. “I almost did. I just—” He sighed. “Things are getting complicated. My friends want me back. And my landlord’s probably wondering if I’ve died in the bath or something.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched. “You could join me here. Eternity has better rent control.” And though it was said jokingly, Regulus found that he didn’t actually feel weird saying or suggesting it.

James chuckled, but it was thin around the edges. “Tempting.”

Silence stretched between them like fog. Regulus finally stood, moving with a grace that made the leaves barely stir. He walked a few steps, arms folded behind his back.

“I know you have to leave eventually,” he said, voice too even. “I know this—whatever this is—was never meant to last.”

James’s breath caught in his throat. “I don’t want to leave.” Is the first thing he says.

He doesn’t bother to deny that there’s something between them that can’t be explained, he doesn’t bother lying to Regulus and acting strong, he just makes the simple and truthful confession.

Regulus turned to him. “But you will, will you not?” 

James hesitated. He didn’t have an answer, not one that didn’t sound like a lie or a desperate, childish wish.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” James said instead, which felt more like the truth. “Living or dead.”

Regulus gave him a long, unreadable look. “You shouldn’t have developed an interest in a dead person, James.”

“I didn’t say I have,” James replied, but the denial was too fast. Too sharp.

Regulus raised an eyebrow.

“I have not,” James added, softer this time. 

But Regulus just smiled faintly, that same wistful curve of the lips that never quite reached his eyes. “You say that now.”

—

That night, James didn’t sleep. Not properly. He just stayed in bed staring at the ceiling, the copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray half-finished beside him. He kept imagining what it would be like to leave without saying goodbye. To walk away from Paris, from the cemetery, from Regulus, as if none of it had happened. As if the ghost hadn’t changed something in him that he wasn’t able to name.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Lily.

Lils: “You’re worrying Remus. Come home soon, okay? Even Panda asked if you were alright.”

James stared at it. Then set the phone down without replying and soon drifted off to sleep. He never remembers his dreams when he wakes up, but he’ll never truly be rid of Regulus, especially at night when his subconscious can only conjure images of beautiful stormy eyes. 

—

The next day, he brought flowers.

They were simple—white hyacinths and pale yellow tulips. Hope and sorrow and new beginnings, if the guidebook on flower meanings and floriography was to be believed.

Regulus stared at them for a long moment. “I’m allergic to tulips.” He says, instead of accepting them simply. Allergies don’t do anything to spirits, Regulus has told James this before, but it seems to not be relevant at the moment.

James blinked. “You’re a ghost.”

Regulus gave a very solemn nod. “Yes. And now I’m a ghost with a grudge.”

James snorted, placing the flowers carefully on the grave anyway. Regulus hasn’t received flowers since before Pandora died and joined him. “Fine. Next time I’ll bring lilies.”

Regulus grimaced. “Please don’t, I’d prefer your ex-wife to remain far from me, I’m sure she’s lovely though.”

They both laughed—really laughed—and for a second, the weight between them lifted, like a curtain drawn back to let the sun in. But then it settled again, quiet and unspoken.

James sat on the grass, knees tucked up to his chest, arms slung loosely around them. Regulus hovered nearby, eventually sinking to sit beside him, careful not to touch James and startle him randomly with the feeling of static.

“I keep thinking,” James said quietly, “that maybe I came here to fall apart. And instead, I’m…” He looked over at Regulus. “Rebuilding.”

Regulus looked away. “You shouldn’t need a dead man to do that.”

“But I do,” James said, and his voice was steady now. “I don’t care if it’s irrational or strange or sad. I don’t care that you can’t leave the cemetery or that I’m just a blip in your eternity. You’re the first person in a long time who saw me. Really saw me. And I don’t want to let that go just because the world thinks I should.”

Regulus didn’t answer. His fingers ghosted across the grass like a whisper as he listened to James speak.

“I’ll stay,” James said, so quietly it could’ve been the wind. “For a while longer.”

And for the first time, Regulus looked at him—not as a visitor. Not as a temporary comfort.

But as something real. Someone real. 

And in the still hush of the cemetery, between the graves and the ivy and the ghosts that wandered unseen, something bloomed.

Not quite love.

But maybe something close.

—

It began slowly.

At first, James thought it was just in his head—the way the air in Père-Lachaise seemed thicker each time he stepped through the gates, how the world outside the cemetery felt a little more distant the longer he stayed. But then the changes started to show.

Regulus was different.

He no longer flickered at the edges like candlelight. His outline was sharper. His coat caught the wind. When he laughed, it wasn’t that soft, half-echoed sound James had grown used to—it was real. Crisp. Alive. James was even able to take photos of Regulus that caught a bit more of his appearance, instead of the half-hearted attempts that took a million tries just to catch a tiny orb.

James didn’t question it at first. He wanted to believe. But belief has consequences.

One morning, James reached out instinctively to brush a leaf from Regulus’s shoulder. He’d done it a hundred times before, fingers ghosting through cold nothing. This time, he felt it.

Fabric. Skin.

Regulus’s breath hitched. So did James’s.

“You’re… solid,” James murmured.

Regulus looked down at where they had touched. His brow furrowed. “I shouldn’t be.”

James pulled back slightly, unsure if he should apologize or marvel. “How is this happening?”

Regulus didn’t answer. He only looked at James—really looked at him—with an expression that made James’s chest ache. Fear. Wonder. Longing.

After that, it happened more often. Regulus would brush past and James would feel the pressure of fingers at his wrist. When James sat down, Regulus’s weight would dip the bench beside him, no longer just an impression of presence. A shadow followed him now—not always, but enough to be noticed. Reflected light caught faintly on Regulus’s rings. He left prints in the dew.

And James? James was changing too.

Mirrors took a moment longer to show his reflection. Sometimes his voice echoed faintly when he spoke, even in open air. Streetlamps sparked when he walked beneath them. Clocks ticked too slowly when he was near.

He started sleeping less. Dreaming more.

In dreams, Regulus was always alive. Not glowing, not translucent, not tethered to marble and silence—but laughing under sunlight, running down cobblestone streets, leaning in just close enough for his breath to touch James’s neck. Every time James woke, it took longer to remember which world was the dream, and honestly, which one James wanted to be the dream.

James had tried to take this as something that was a privilege instead of something to be afraid over. For example, a moment they had the other day:

They were sitting next to eachother and Regulus was reading aloud to James, stopping every now and then to make a reference to another piece of literature that he wanted James to read next. A small leaf had fallen on top of Regulus’s raven hair, James didn’t even say a word but he brushed the leaf off gently and fixed Regulus’s hair. Regulus didn’t even make a comment on it, he just turned his head slightly to look at James. 

That’s when they found themselves only separated by about three inches of air and empty space, their breaths mingling, but when James looked down to Regulus’s lips and back up again, Regulus simply smiled and returned to reading the book. 

The aspect of physical touch became more welcome as time went on. James would fix Regulus’s coat or hair, or his hand would brush over Regulus’s lower back slightly when he moved near him or walked past. It seemed natural to them when really it was anything but.

One day, as they sat together near Wilde’s grave, Regulus spoke quietly.

“You have to stop coming here.”

James frowned, the topic seemingly very random and out of character, but the way Regulus said it made James’s heart feel a bit heavy. “Why?”

Regulus hesitated. “Because I don’t think you’re leaving when you walk out of those gates anymore.”

James blinked. “I’m still here.” He said in a confused manner. 

“But not all of you,” Regulus said. “And if you keep giving pieces of yourself away…” He trailed off. “You might not get them back. That’s just how interfering with reality works. You gain some, but you lose more than you think in the process.” 

James swallowed. “Is that what’s happening to you? You interfere with life and get more of that?” 

“No,” Regulus said while shaking his head. “No, I think I am how I’ve always been, only the way you’re able to perceive me is changing. Closer to death, the better that I seem, I guess.”

There was silence after that. The kind that settled deep in the bones and left a lingering feeling of anxiety and impending anguish.

James didn’t leave that evening. Not really. He wandered the city long past midnight, half-expecting to see Regulus in reflections, in windowpanes, in the corners of rooms. And sometimes, he did.

—

The issue that they wanted to avoid came the next night.

He was back at the cemetery, walking the gravel path between familiar graves, when a sound broke the stillness.

A bell.

Not from a church. It was older. Deeper. A note that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath his feet, through his spine, through something older than his own memory.

Regulus froze. His eyes went distant.

“You heard that?” James asked.

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He was staring at the horizon, as though something waited just beyond the trees and lines of headstones. 

“They know,” he said softly.

“Who does?”

Regulus turned to him, expression tight with something like dread. “The people who deal with the souls—I don’t know, I’ve never met them face to face. They know that we’re doing something that shouldn’t be possible. And they’re pushing back.”

James felt the chill settle into his chest. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Regulus said, taking a step away from James, “you’ve gotten too close to the dead.”

James held his ground. “Then let me stay.”

“No,” Regulus said immediately. “You can’t. You’re alive. You still belong to the world.”

“And you don’t?”

Regulus’s eyes flicked away. “I haven’t in a long time.”

James stepped closer. “But we found each other.”

Regulus shook his head. “This—whatever we are—is beautiful. But it isn’t life. And if you keep walking this road with me, one day you won’t be able to go back. And I don’t want to be the reason you lose your future.”

James hesitated.

And then, very quietly, he asked, “What if you’re the only future I want?”

Regulus didn’t answer, because the bell tolled again. And this time, the world shifted. 

The trees bent slightly toward them. The sky darkened at the edges. The air trembled.

And James felt it—felt something invisible brush against his spine. A presence neither warm nor cold. Watching.

Calling.

Regulus stepped forward, placing both of his hands on James’s face. He was so real now. So painfully, impossibly there. James could feel the cold silver against his cheeks, the feeling of Regulus’s fingertips moving gently across his skin. 

He looked achingly beautiful, and all the more devastating for James to take in.

“You have to choose,” he whispered, his voice achingly beautiful and heartbroken, as if he knew that one way or another, James would leave him. 

James blinked. “Between what?”

Regulus swallowed. “Between going home or staying here in the cemetery with me. That’s life or death. Be smart about it James, but you have to leave.” He whispers hurredly but his gentle and guiding tone never falters. There are tears gathering in his eyes that he tries to blink away, James wants to hold him.

He’s decided this now. He wants to learn absolutely everything Regulus has to say, whether it’s about when he grew up, or the literature he loves, or the mythology behind astronomy that he has an interest in. James wants to learn everything that Regulus has endured in life, wants to speak every word that Regulus has ever spoken, he wants to love everything that Regulus has ever been and ever will be. He wants to cherish him and every moment he gets, but James blinks.

And then he was gone. The feeling of static seems to return to his face, right where Regulus is—was—touching him gently. 

The world snapped back. The light returned. The trees straightened. The only thing that didn’t change was the swirling thoughts and aching heart of a man who only learned how to hold on the second that he was being forced to let go.

James stood alone beside a grave shaped like a boy, a single silver ring remained on the ground in front of it, which James picked up and put in his pocket without hesitation.

The wind whistled through the headstones, and somewhere far away, the bell stopped ringing.

Chapter Text

James stayed in Paris, but not in the way he had before. He moved through it like someone underwater. Everything was dimmed. Muted. The city had dulled around the edges. Music from café windows sounded tinny, bread lost its warmth too fast, people passed him by without really seeing him. It was like he was fading—slowly, steadily—just enough to notice. 

And even worse, Regulus never came back.

For three days, James went back to Père-Lachaise. At first, he sat at Regulus’s grave for hours, hoping he would reappear. Then, he tried speaking aloud. Then silence. Then nothing. He walked through the paths, through the crypts and mausoleums, through the wind-rattling trees, waiting for the sound of a footstep behind him, a voice.

Nothing.

The air was still and stagnant now, that only served to make his heart ache worse. 

On the fourth morning, James woke up to a phone call.

His father had collapsed. Something sudden, something serious. Not fatal, but urgent. James was needed back home. The kind of need that overrides everything else.

He stared at the blinking screen of his phone, at the email confirmation for his train, at the packed bag by the door. He hadn’t even realized he’d packed.

It all felt hollow.

But he went.

He didn’t know when—or if—he’d come back. But before he left Paris, he made one last stop at Père-Lachaise. 

The cemetery was gray with mist, dimmer and muggier than the day that he and Regulus met. It seems that the cemetery had lost all of its charm—maybe it never had any, maybe Regulus just made everything seem better than it truly was.

James knelt in front of Regulus’s grave, the marble damp beneath his hands. The letter was folded twice, tucked into an envelope. He placed it gently beside the headstone, anchoring it with a small rock.

No dramatics. No attempt to summon him like people do in those horrible paranormal movies. No tears. Just silence.

He lingered a little longer, but not by much. He knew if he stayed too long he may choose to stay and never leave. He decided to take one last opportunity and took a picture of Regulus’s grave. Not to show his friends or to tell the story of how his budding romance just so happened to be with a dead person, but to ensure that he won’t forget what Regulus looks like.

Before he turned away, he whispered, “I hope you’ll be able to read it.” 

And then he left.

—

Regulus had no choice but to watch as James put the letter down and turn his back to Père-Lachaise. He had no choice but to watch how his hand trembled while he put the letter down and took a photo of the statue that depicted Regulus so closely and beautifully. Regulus wasn’t sure if he’d show up in the photo or not, but he was next to the stone the whole time. 

Something in Regulus changed during that moment, whether it was the realization of romance or the processing of loss, he didn’t want James to go. Instead of standing idle, he followed James down the path, trying to get his attention repeatedly. 

“James,” Regulus said hopelessly. “James please.” 

“Please, James. I’m sorry I didn’t try to get you to stay, but I want you now.” He begs, but nothing happens. There’s no shift in the atmosphere or the veil caused by heartbreaking feelings, that would be too easy, and Regulus knows better. Reality doesn’t bend for the emotions of living beings.

James continues walking, stone-faced and unaware that Regulus is trailing next to him. Regulus tries reaching out repeatedly, “Please, I don’t normally do this but I’m begging.” He isn’t sure whether he’s begging James, or the creators of the universe, just anyone that’ll listen. 

His hands go right through James, and James doesn’t even flinch or react. He can’t tell that Regulus is doing anything, he can’t feel Regulus like he used to be able to. Whatever connection they have is gone, and Regulus is left with a feeling of anguish that he’s never experienced before. 

Randomly, Regulus gets pushed back by something and away from James. He lands on the ground, though he’s unable to feel it. He looks up—they’re at the gates. Regulus gets to his feet. He tries to call out one more time but his effort is proved to be in vain when he gets no response. 

Pathetically, he sinks to his knees and just watches James until he turns a corner. That’s when he breaks down. It’s not loud or disruptive, but it’s the type of breakdown that changes things, whether it’s an opinion or perspective, Regulus knows that he wants—no, he needs James. 

After around an hour, he finds his way back to his own grave and grabs the note that James had left. He takes a few minutes to look at it. 

What if this is the last time he ever sees James’s handwriting? Will he forget that about James? 

He opens it and unfolds it carefully. 

“Regulus, 

I didn’t want to write this. I didn’t want to leave. I’m not ready. 

I feel like I’ve been ripped in half. Like something started to happen between us and now I’m being pulled away before I can understand what it meant.

My dad got hurt and I have to go. No question about it. It’s not a choice that I get to weigh. I have to go now. And I hate that. I hate that this decision got made in a rush, it’s not even my real decision, whatever that is. Because if I’d had time, if I’d had just a little more time , I think I would’ve stayed. 

I think I would’ve chosen you.

I was already halfway there. I know you felt it. The way I lingered, the way the world outside started to fade when I was near you. The way I was changing. I wasn’t scared of it, not really. Not when it was you on the other side.

But I don’t get to stand in the cemetery and say “I choose you” like the rest of it doesn’t matter. I’ve got a father who still needs me. A life I haven’t finished living. I can’t walk away from that, even though everything in me wants to turn around and run back to you.

I hate this. I hate that I didn’t get to decide on my own terms. I hate that the world made me choose with a deadline and a train schedule.

And I hate leaving you behind like you’re something I can just walk away from. You’re not.

I don’t even know what we were. What we are. But it felt like something I’ve been waiting my whole life to find. And now I’m being pulled away from it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t happen.

But it did and it was beautiful. You were beautiful.

And if there’s any justice in whatever rules govern the space between life and death, if there’s any mercy, you’ll find a way to come back to me. Or I’ll come back to you. Just not yet. Not today.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry, please forgive me.

-James”

—

James was home, but it didn’t feel like it.

The town looked the same. Same cracked sidewalks, same corner shop that smelled like coffee and dust, same neighbor who watered her plants at exactly seven in the morning with ruthless precision, same chipped sign outside the pub he used to stumble out of in his twenties.

But he wasn’t the same. And that made everything feel just a little off-kilter, like someone had moved the furniture in a familiar room by just a few inches. 

His father was doing better. The doctors said it wasn’t life-threatening, just a scare. A warning for him to give himself a moment to slow down. So James stayed. He brought groceries, sorted his father’s medication, sat in the living room with sports on low volume and the quiet hum of a space that hadn’t changed in years.

Everyone acted like they were glad to have him back. And maybe they were. But James always caught himself staring out the window, wondering if the wind smelled different in Paris. 

Wondering if the ivy had crept further over Regulus’s grave, wondering if his letter was still there, or if the rain had blurred his words into nothing. There’s never a moment where he didn’t think of Regulus. Does Regulus feel that way aswell? How often does Regulus think of James? Is Regulus still in Cimetière Père-Lachaise? 

He couldn’t talk about it, not really. How could he explain that the most important connection of his life might’ve been with someone who doesn’t technically exist anymore? That he fell for a ghost in a graveyard many miles away, and left his heart within the marble hands of Regulus Arcturus Black’s statue?

Instead, he played the part. He smiled when people welcomed him back. He made dinner for his parents. He pretended not to glance at the empty space beside him when he sat down.

At night, he dreamed of cold stone, cypress trees, and a beautiful shade of grey. 

He dreamed of Regulus.

One evening, a few weeks after returning home, he found himself standing in front of his suitcase, fingers drifting. There, nestled between an old novel and a few shirts, was The Picture of Dorian Gray. The same exact worn copy he’d bought in Paris.

He hadn’t remembered packing it. But there it was. A phantom weight in his luggage. Or maybe he’d kept it close the entire time and just forgotten, he never thought he would forget something related to Regulus though, so that’s unrealistic. 

He opened it and a dried flower pressed between the pages fell into his hand.

James stared at it—small, fragile, white with a faint edge of blue. They don’t have those kinds of flowers anywhere near where James lives, and he’s pretty sure he would remember if he put it in his own book. 

On the specific page that it fell from, in handwriting that wasn’t his, just three words were written in the book:

“I forgive you.”

That led to James sitting down hard on the edge of his bed, heart pounding like it had teeth.

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t need to. He’d seen what he needed to see.

Somehow, some way—Regulus was still with him.

And James had no idea what that meant.

Only that it wasn’t over. Atleast not yet. 

—

It started again with mirrors. 

James would catch glimpses of him. Not full apparitions, not like in Paris, but small bits of reflections.

In the mirror above the bathroom sink, he saw the outline of a figure standing just behind him, always blurred at the edges. In a train window. In a store display. The onyx color of a coat. The pale ivory shade of a face he knows well, always gone when he turned.

At first, he chalked it up to exhaustion and loneliness. He wasn’t sleeping well. He wasn’t eating right. He was trying too hard to act normal in a life that no longer fit him. But it kept happening. And then, the lights began to flicker.

Not dramatically. Not horror-movie obvious. Just enough to feel purposeful. Just enough to make him pause with his hand on the light switch and whisper, “Regulus?” under his breath like a fool.

But maybe he wasn’t exactly a fool for it, maybe it wasn’t false hope. 

One night, the power went out altogether. Just for a moment. And when it came back, the mirror above the fireplace—an antique thing from his mother’s side of the family—was fogged up, as if someone had breathed on it.

One single word was written in the mist:

‘James.’

He stepped back so fast he knocked over a chair. His heart slammed against his ribs, wild and ungraceful, but underneath the fear was something worse. The feeling that’s quieter yet more important than fear is hope .

Soon after that incident is when the dreams got more vivid. Sometimes he would wake up from a dream to see Regulus in front of him, but then he would jolt upright in his bed once again only to find out that he had never really woken up in the first place—he could never really tell if he was awake or dreaming. 

During one dream—was it a dream? Regulus was sitting on his bed and James immediately sat up and spoke before Regulus could disappear or James had a false-awakening. 

“Regulus, is this real? Please, I’m losing my mind—I don’t know what to do, nothing is real anymore.” He spoke frantically and at a fast pace. Regulus didn’t seem alarmed by this. 

“I don’t know. You’re basically in between, I think.” Is the response that James got, which answered absolutely zero of his questions. 

After that ‘dream’ or whatever it was, they changed. 

Every night, without fail, his dreams pulled him back to Père-Lachaise, only it wasn’t quite the same as he remembered. In the dreams, the cemetery blurred and shifted: tombstones rearranged themselves, trees bent unnaturally toward him, and the bell tower stood taller than it should’ve, its shadow cutting across the sky like a wound.

Regulus never spoke in those dreams. But he was there, just keeping tabs on James. Sometimes he was watching, sometimes he was simply just a shape in the otherwise undisturbed fog.

James didn’t really know what else to do after that, it felt like a sign. Without giving anyone anything but a brief explanation, he booked a one-way trip to Paris. 

—

James arrived back in Paris just after dusk.

It was raining—of course it was. Not a dramatic, cinematic storm. Just a constant, drizzling mist that soaked into his collar, turned the air to bone-chill, and blurred the streetlights. The city was quieter than he remembered. Or maybe he was, it seems like the only thing he associated Paris with is Regulus. 

He had booked the same flat without even meaning to, and when he arrived and opened the door, everything was in its place. Same narrow bed. Same echoing stillness. Same window looking out at the same rooftop angles, black with rain. 

He sat on the bed, soaked through and shivering, and stared at nothing. He didn’t know why he’d come back. Not really.

He didn’t even know what he wanted anymore.

To live? To die? To love a ghost forever in the ruins of his own life? To let go of the past? To vanish into it?

He wasn’t even sure there was a difference anymore.

He didn’t go to the cemetery that night.

He couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t move.

Instead, he sat at the little kitchen table and watched the candle again. One from home. It had come with him, packed into the corner of his suitcase like a talisman. He lit it and stared at the flame until his eyes ached.

Nothing happened.

No flicker. No brush of cold air. No note in the margin.

Just him. Just the rain outside. Just the unbearable weight of being here without knowing what for.

The question kept crawling back in his skull:

‘What are you doing, James?’

He had no answer. Every version felt hollow. He didn’t even know what was possible, what the rules were. Can you fall in love with the dead and still have a life? Can you become something in-between without losing everything you’d ever been? Was Regulus even still waiting—or had he passed beyond some unseen threshold, unmarked and final?

What if James had missed his chance?

What if all of this was just madness? Grief?

What if this was him finally breaking?

The next morning, he woke up on the floor.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. His neck ached. His mouth tasted like metal.

He walked to Père-Lachaise in silence. No coffee. No breakfast. Just motion. Just rain. 

His shoes made no sound on the wet stone paths.

The cemetery was empty. No tourists. No lingering mourners. Just gravestones and trees, still heavy with water.

He found Regulus’s grave easily. Of course he did. It was etched into him now.

The letter was gone. The small stone he’d used to hold it in place was still there, but the paper was gone. Not torn or buried by wind and rain, just absent.

He knelt down slowly.

“Regulus,” he said, his voice cracking halfway through the name. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” The words hung in the air like fog, going obviously unanswered. 

James sat back against the bottom of the grave and stared up at the sky.

“I thought I could live without you,” he said. “That I could go back to normal. Whatever that means. But nothing fits anymore. I don’t want the life I had. But I don’t know what this is either, I don’t know my options.”

He rubbed his hands together, nervous, cold.

“Was it real?” he asked. “Any of it? Or did I break something and make myself lose my mind?”

A gust of wind stirred the trees. Somewhere distant, a crow called once, sharply.

James laughed—low, breathless, tired.

“I came back hoping you’d be here. But I didn’t think beyond that. I came to Paris—for a fucking ghost. That sounds so insane.” He breathes, “I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Do I want to die? God, I don’t know. Maybe. Some days. But not the way I used to. I don’t want to disappear if I die, I want to be stuck with you. Is that weird? Wanting to die because I have no hope here? I think you took all that hope when you left.”

Silence.

His voice dropped.

“I want you,” he admitted. “I think I did from the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t a stranger. Like you’d already seen through me.”

“I want you,” he repeated, “but I don’t want to stop living, not entirely. I just want to stop living like this.”

He curled his arms around his knees.

“I don’t know if there’s room for both.” He whispers to himself.

“There’s not.” 

James looked up—and right in front of him was Regulus, who looked just as ethereal as he did the day James first saw him.

But instead of a sweet reunion, James’s face crumpled. His body gave out in a trembling exhale, and he began to cry.

Reality had played too many tricks on him lately. Dreams. Shadows. Whispers. How could he know this wasn’t just another hallucination, a shape conjured by loneliness and grief?

He kept his eyes lowered.

“Please,” he murmured, voice shaking. “Don’t do this to me.”

But when he looked up again, Regulus wasn’t gone.

He was sitting right in front of James.

More vivid than ever. Rain caught in the folds of his coat. Hair darker than James remembered. His expression was almost calm—but something raw flickered behind it, too.

“I negotiated, James,” Regulus said. “I get to speak to you once. Only once. Then you have to make a choice.”

James nodded, silent, breath held like it might hold him together.

Regulus looked directly at him. “The only way that anything between us can ever exist is if you’re dead, or if I’m alive. We both know the second part can’t happen. Bringing people back from the dead isn’t possible. But that means you would have to be dead.”

He paused. His gaze softened, a little.

“It doesn’t have to be right now, James. You can go live your life. Travel. Laugh. Grow old. And then find me eventually after you die.”

Regulus looked away then, voice dropping low.

“I just don’t know if I’ll be here by then.”

James closed his eyes, and something inside him snapped. He fell forward, hands catching on Regulus’s lap—not quite touching, not quite passing through. Like Regulus was half-there, stitched into the rain and grief.

“I can’t do this without you,” James whispered. “I thought I could. I’ve tried. I’ve done all the things. But nothing means anything without you in it.”

Regulus’s eyes filled with something that looked like sorrow or tenderness, maybe both.

“James.”

“No,” James choked. “If the only way I get to be with you is to die, then I want to. I want to die. There’s nothing left for me out there. Just empty rooms and polite conversations and people who think I’m fine, nobody that knows anything about you and how much you mean to me.”

He gripped the front of Regulus’s coat, shaking.

“I choose you. Please, let me do that.” He pleads. 

Regulus was silent. The wind blew through the trees again.

Finally, he spoke. “It’s not that simple. You can’t just die for me, James. That’s not what love is. That’s not what I want it to be.”

“But I’m already dead without you!” James cried. “I’ve been dead since I left. You made me feel something again, Regulus. Something I didn’t think I could ever feel. If I can’t have that, then what’s the point?”

Regulus reached forward, his hand brushing James’s cheek. The cold static feeling was almost comforting.

James’s body trembled as he pressed closer to Regulus, voice barely above a broken whisper. “I want to die for you,” he said, the words raw and desperate. “I want to stop this endless waiting, the ache of half-living. I want to be with you, really with you. Nothing else matters.”

Regulus’s eyes darkened, a storm of emotions flickering across his translucent face. “James, you have to understand—this is not a choice I can make for you. Not ever.”

James shook his head, tears slipping freely now. “But you said you’d wait for me. I can’t keep pretending that waiting is enough. I’m tired, Regulus. So tired.”

Regulus swallowed the weight of that truth, the sting of helplessness. “If you do this, if you leave the living world behind, there’s no turning back. No more chances, no more time.”

“I know,” James said, voice cracking. “But I’m done with the waiting. Done with pretending there’s a life for me out there. There’s only the empty space you filled.”

The ghost’s gaze softened, haunted and heavy with sorrow. “I don’t want you to lose your life, James. Not like this. But I can’t stop you. That choice… it’s yours, and yours alone.”

James looked up, eyes fierce despite the tears. “Then I choose you. I choose to join you.”

Regulus hesitated, torn between the desperate hope in James’s voice and the cruel finality of the path he’s choosing. “If that’s really what you want,” Regulus said, voice barely a breath, “then I’ll be here.”

James nodded, the decision settling over him like a shroud. “Thank you, Regulus. For everything.”

As the rain fell softly around them, James felt the first quiet, steady pulse of resolve. The dark path ahead was terrifying—but for the first time in months, he felt certain of something.

He would find his way to Regulus. No matter the cost.

—

It didn’t take long for James to get everything he needed.

His family has always been wealthy, buying a plot in the cemetery without raising an alarm wasn’t too daunting. 

Writing notes takes more effort, he didn’t want to think of the impact that will be left.

He left all of his money and belongings to family and friends. 

Once everything was settled, it was time. 

He walked to the cemetery patiently, taking in everything around him for what would be the last time. He had sent the letters out and they would reach his friends and family within three days, he didn’t need to worry about anyone contacting him and trying to stop him. They wouldn’t understand it. 

Regulus was waiting for him at the grave. James had already taken the pills, he did it before he even stepped foot through the gates. He didn’t want to do it in front of Regulus because he cares enough to try to change James’s mind.

Regulus didn’t speak, nor did James. James simply sat against the grave and leaned his head on Regulus, who was now becoming fully solid. 

“I’ve never told you this, but I love you.” James whispered softly as he started to grow tired. The last thing he felt before falling asleep was the soft motion of Regulus’s cold ring-adorned fingers carding through his hair and a soft kiss being placed on his head. 

—

Nobody would talk about it in France—it wouldn’t even make the news, but on January 20th, James Fleamont Potter was found dead in the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise on the grave of Regulus Arcturus Black, a former heir of the Noble House of Black. 

None of the spirits would talk about it—but they could feel two souls leaving the limbo of earth, and moving on to somewhere greater, it seems Regulus was always going to be remembered, just not by the living.

—

James Fleamont Potter and Regulus Arcturus Black do not exist in loneliness. 

While Regulus had always been scared of what’s after Earth, James was the one to guide him and convince him it was a safe idea after spending a few months in the cemetery. 

They’re never apart now. 

In the afterlife, they have a lovely house that they reside in together, and they never have to worry about the feeling of cold and biting longing again. Speaking of—

“Reg. Reg. Regulus.” James whispers annoyingly. 

“I would strangle you if we weren’t already dead, why are you keeping me up at this ungodly hour?” Regulus groans and looks at James, who’s hovering over him with a huge grin. 

“No reason. Just need to say I love you.” James says and plants a soft kiss on Regulus’s lips, who accepts it without hesitation. 

“I love you too, Jamie.”