Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The November air bit through James’s Quidditch robes as he tightened his gloves. Wind howled through the pitch, tossing golden and scarlet banners like waves of fire. Across the field, the Slytherins hovered in a tight, dark cluster, emerald robes gleaming even in the dull gray light.

And at their center—Regulus Black.

James tried not to look at him too long, but it was impossible not to. Regulus looked like he’d been carved from frost and marble, his expression sharp beneath his helmet, hair whipping out behind him as he mounted his broom. The contrast between them was almost laughable: James, all wind-tossed curls and sunshine grins; Regulus, cold elegance and unspoken defiance.

“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius called, grinning from the stands, already wrapped in a scarlet-and-gold scarf. “Try not to hex my brother off his broom this time, yeah?”

James rolled his eyes, pretending not to hear him. “Right,” he muttered, swinging his leg over his broom. “Let’s make this clean.”

The whistle blew.

The match exploded into motion—scarlet and emerald streaks slicing through the gray sky. James darted upward, his broom vibrating beneath him as he swerved past a Bludger, eyes scanning for the Quaffle. Slytherin’s Chasers were fast, ruthless, and Regulus—though Seeker—moved with a quiet precision that made James’s chest tighten every time he crossed paths with him.

They weren’t supposed to notice each other. Not really. Different teams, different worlds. But James did. Every time Regulus banked into a dive, every time the wind whipped his hair just so—James noticed.

The score climbed fast: 50–40, Gryffindor.

Then came the moment.

James had the Quaffle, streaking toward the Slytherin hoops, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye—a silver flash, Regulus diving straight down. The Snitch.

“Watch it!” someone shouted, but James didn’t hear. His heart lurched. Regulus was too low. The ground rushed up, faster and faster, and before James could think, he dropped the Quaffle and pulled into a sharp dive, shouting—

“Regulus!”

It was too late.

The crack echoed across the pitch, horrible and final. Regulus’s broom snapped clean against the turf, his body twisting as he hit the ground.

The stands went silent.

James landed hard, nearly tripping over his broom as he sprinted toward him. Regulus lay pale against the grass, leg bent at an angle no leg should ever bend. His eyes were open—glassy, confused—but he was breathing, raggedly.

“Don’t move,” James said, breathless. “Don’t—Merlin, don’t move.”

Madam Pomfrey was already running down the field, wand drawn. James stumbled back, chest heaving, watching her murmur spells that glowed blue and green against Regulus’s skin. The Slytherin team crowded close, shouting, accusing.

“You hit him!” one of them snarled. “Potter, you—”

“I didn’t!” James’s voice cracked. “He was—he just—”

But the words died in his throat. Because even if he hadn’t touched Regulus, he had distracted him. Shouted his name.

He watched as Madam Pomfrey levitated Regulus onto a stretcher, his leg bound in shimmering light. James’s stomach turned over. Regulus’s fingers twitched once, faintly, before going still.

The hospital wing smelled like potions and clean linens.

James wasn’t supposed to be there. It was past curfew, and he’d already been told off twice by McGonagall for hovering in the corridor outside. But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t sleep.

He sat in a chair by the far window, staring at the closed curtain around one of the beds. He could hear Pomfrey’s low voice from behind it, the rustle of fabric, the clink of glass. And then—

“This is… beyond simple repair,” she said softly. “The bone is shattered, nearly to powder in one place. Even with Skele-Gro, he’ll need months. He’ll walk, yes—but flying again… unlikely.”

James’s chest constricted. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he might be sick.

It was his fault. He knew it. He shouldn’t have shouted. Should’ve let Regulus focus. Should’ve stayed out of it.

The curtain rustled, and Pomfrey stepped out, startled to see him. “Mr. Potter,” she said sternly. “You shouldn’t—”

“How is he?”

Her expression softened. “He’ll recover. But I meant what I said. Quidditch is… unlikely.”

James swallowed hard. “Can I—can I see him?”

A long pause. Then, a sigh. “Five minutes.”

She left him alone with the curtain.

James hesitated before pulling it aside.

Regulus lay pale against the sheets, face turned toward the window, eyes half-open. He looked smaller somehow without his robes, like all that sharpness had been carved away, leaving something fragile underneath.

James cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Regulus didn’t move. Then, slowly, his gaze flicked toward him. “Potter,” he murmured, voice thin and dry. “Come to finish me off?”

James winced. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Regulus interrupted, eyes closing again. “You never mean to.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

“I’m sorry,” James said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Fall?” Regulus gave a humorless laugh. “Neither did I.”

Silence stretched between them. Outside, the rain started to fall, tapping softly against the window.

James looked down at his hands. “I’ll… I’ll help you. Whatever you need. Notes, food, anything. I mean it.”

Regulus turned his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You feel guilty.”

James met his gaze. “Maybe I do.”

Regulus studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he said, quietly, “Then prove it.”

Chapter Text

The castle always felt colder after a Quidditch match, but this time it wasn’t just the weather.

Rumors had spread faster than Filch chasing first-years: Regulus Black’s leg shattered. Out for the season. Might never fly again.

James heard the whispers everywhere — in the corridors, the Great Hall, even the library. And every time, his stomach twisted tighter. He stopped laughing as much, stopped sitting with the team at breakfast. Sirius tried to joke it off at first, but even he couldn’t miss the guilt written all over James’s face.

“Prongs,” Sirius said one night, throwing a pillow at him from his bed. “You’ve got to stop moping like a widowed house-elf. It wasn’t your fault.”

James stared at the ceiling. “He’s never going to play again, Pads.”

Sirius sighed, sitting up. “Yeah, and you think you’re helping by skulking around like a ghost?”

James didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know how to help — not yet.

The next morning, he found his answer.

He was heading to Transfiguration when he saw Regulus for the first time since the hospital wing.

Regulus was halfway down the corridor, leaning on a cane, his green scarf looped tight around his neck. His posture was perfect — proud as ever — but his steps were uneven, small. He carried his bag awkwardly in one hand, trying not to let it bump his bad leg.

Something in James’s chest lurched.

Before he could think, he crossed the hall in three strides. “Here,” he said, reaching for the bag. “Let me—”

Regulus’s glare could’ve frozen the lake. “I don’t need your pity, Potter.”

James froze, bag halfway between them. “It’s not pity. I’m—”

“You’re what? Sorry?” Regulus’s voice was low, sharp. “We covered that.”

James swallowed hard. “Then consider it… atonement.”

Regulus blinked, clearly thrown off by the word. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, maybe.” James grinned faintly. “But you’re limping, and I’m not, so hand it over before you faceplant in the corridor.”

A long pause. Then, with an exasperated sigh, Regulus let him take it. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not thanking you.”

James only smiled wider. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It started as small things.

James carrying Regulus’s bag between classes. Fetching extra parchment from the supply cupboard. Bringing tea to the library during long evenings when Regulus was catching up on missed lessons.

Regulus never asked — but he didn’t tell him to stop, either.

Sometimes they sat in silence, the scratch of quills and crackle of the library fire filling the space between them. Other times, James caught Regulus watching him — quick, cautious glances, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to thank him or hex him.

One evening, as snow drifted softly past the windows, James finally asked what had been gnawing at him for weeks.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “All the time.”

James hesitated. “Pomfrey said—”

“I know what she said.” Regulus’s tone was clipped. “No flying. No Quidditch. No fun ever again.”

“That’s not—”

“I can’t even climb the Astronomy Tower stairs without feeling like my leg’s on fire,” Regulus snapped, finally looking up. “So yes, Potter, it hurts.”

James flinched. “Sorry.”

Regulus sighed, guilt flickering across his face. “Don’t be. It’s just… frustrating.”

“Yeah,” James murmured. “I’d go mad if I couldn’t fly.”

Regulus gave him a long, searching look. “Then stop coming here.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. You being here—it’s making it worse. You remind me of… everything I lost.”

James’s throat tightened. “And if I stop coming?”

Regulus hesitated. “Then maybe I’ll finally stop thinking about it.”

James forced a smile. “Guess you’ll have to hex me, then, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere.”

Regulus’s eyes softened for a heartbeat before his walls snapped back up. “You’re insufferable.”

“Part of my charm.”

Days turned into weeks. The snow outside deepened; Christmas came and went. Regulus’s limp grew less severe, but he still used the cane when he thought no one was watching.

And James — well, James was watching.

He noticed the small things: the way Regulus tapped his quill when frustrated, the quiet hum under his breath when reading, the faint smile he’d try to hide whenever James said something stupid.

One afternoon, James found him by the lake, sitting under a tree with a blanket and a book. The winter sunlight glinted off the frozen water.

“You’re going to catch cold,” James said, dropping down beside him.

Regulus didn’t look up. “I’m not made of glass, Potter.”

“No, just marble,” James said lightly. “Cold, smooth, and impossible to ignore.”

Regulus’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

James shrugged. “Take it how you want.”

Regulus stared at him for a moment before shaking his head, hiding a tiny smile behind his scarf. “You’re absurd.”

James grinned. “And you’re smiling. Progress.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

For a long while, they sat in silence, the air crisp and still. James wanted to reach out—to brush his fingers over Regulus’s hand, to say something real—but the moment was too fragile. So he just sat there, heart thudding, pretending the ache in his chest was just the cold.

Later that night, as he climbed into bed, Sirius looked over from his own.

“Still hanging around my brother?” he asked, voice light but curious.

James hesitated. “Yeah.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I don’t know,” James admitted. “But it feels… right. Like I owe him something.”

Sirius studied him for a moment before smirking. “Careful, mate. Guilt’s got a funny way of turning into something else.”

James froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sirius just grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”

Chapter Text

Winter dragged into spring, and with it, something in the air changed.

The lake thawed. The days grew longer. And James realized, with a kind of quiet panic, that he couldn’t remember what life had been like before he started spending every day with Regulus Black.

It wasn’t just guilt anymore. It wasn’t even friendship, not exactly. It was… something else. Something sharp and bright that twisted under his ribs whenever Regulus smiled.

Regulus was still banned from flying, though Madam Pomfrey had cleared him to walk without the cane. He hated the attention, hated the way people stared when he crossed the courtyard.

One afternoon, James found him sitting on the bleachers overlooking the empty Quidditch pitch, a book in his lap.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” James said, climbing up beside him.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Why, afraid I’ll suddenly leap onto a broom and shatter my other leg?”

“Something like that.” James smiled, but his voice was soft. “You miss it, don’t you?”

Regulus didn’t answer at first. The wind tugged at his hair, golden sunlight catching on his pale skin. “I dream about it,” he admitted quietly. “The air. The noise. The moment right before you catch the Snitch—when everything goes still.”

James swallowed. “You could still come watch the matches.”

Regulus gave a small, humorless laugh. “Watch you fly? I’d rather gouge my eyes out.”

“Fair,” James said, grinning. “But I’d look spectacular doing it.”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

They fell into an easy silence, the kind that felt heavy with things unsaid. The pitch below gleamed green, the faint hum of magic in the air.

James found himself looking at Regulus again—really looking. The fine lines of his face, the faint freckles near his nose, the way sunlight brushed his lashes.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Regulus spoke.

“What?”

James startled. “Nothing.”

Regulus tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

James felt heat creep up his neck. “Maybe I was admiring your tragic, brooding aesthetic.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he looked away quickly, ears pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Part of my charm,” James murmured.

That night, they studied together in the library. The firelight flickered across the tables, casting long shadows. Regulus’s quill scratched steadily, his handwriting neat and precise; James’s parchment, by contrast, looked like a war zone.

“You’re hopeless,” Regulus said, leaning over to correct a line on James’s essay. His sleeve brushed James’s hand—just a whisper of contact—but it sent a shock through him.

James froze. Regulus didn’t move away. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single point of warmth.

Then Regulus blinked, drawing back quickly. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, cheeks faintly pink.

James grinned to hide his pounding heart. “And yet, here you are, helping me anyway.”

“I’m clearly a masochist.”

Over the next weeks, everything seemed to tilt.

They started meeting even when they didn’t need to. Breakfasts shared in quiet corners of the Great Hall. Walks around the lake where conversation drifted from teasing to secrets.

Regulus told James about the pressure of being a Black, the expectations, the silence at home. James told him about his parents’ endless kindness, about how it sometimes made him feel unworthy.

It was strange—how easy it was to talk to each other when it used to be nothing but rivalry.

One evening, rain pattered softly against the castle windows as they sat in the common room (Regulus had started slipping in after curfew, claiming “Gryffindors are too loud to notice”).

Regulus was reading; James was pretending to, but mostly watching the way candlelight reflected in Regulus’s eyes.

“You keep staring,” Regulus said without looking up.

James smirked. “Maybe you should start charging me for it.”

Regulus glanced up, mouth twitching. “You wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“Oh, I’d find a way.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time—it was warm, humming with something alive.

Regulus’s expression softened. “You’re impossible,” he said again, but his voice had lost its bite.

James leaned back on the couch, grinning lazily. “And you love it.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

It happened late one night in the library—the moment everything shifted.

Regulus was standing on a chair, trying to reach a book on the top shelf, stubbornly refusing James’s help.

“Reg, come on, you’re going to fall—”

“I’m fine,” Regulus said, stretching higher—

The chair wobbled.

James darted forward instinctively, catching him around the waist as the chair tipped. They stumbled together, the impact sending a row of books tumbling around them.

Regulus landed against James’s chest, breath caught, eyes wide.

For a moment, neither moved. James could feel the rapid thud of Regulus’s heart, the warmth of his breath against his neck.

“See?” James said softly. “Should’ve let me help.”

Regulus looked up at him, something unguarded flickering in his eyes. “You really are impossible,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” James breathed. “But you don’t hate me anymore.”

Regulus’s lips curved, just barely. “Maybe not.”

The silence that followed felt electric. James’s hand was still on Regulus’s waist, and for one dizzying second, he thought Regulus might actually lean in.

But then the clock struck midnight, the sound echoing through the library, and Regulus pulled away quickly.

“I should go,” he said, voice tight.

“Reg—”

“Goodnight, Potter.”

And then he was gone, leaving James standing there among the fallen books, heart hammering in his chest.

Back in the dormitory, Sirius glanced up from his bed as James stumbled in, dazed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

James rubbed a hand over his face. “Worse.”

“Oh?” Sirius smirked. “My brother?”

James groaned. “Don’t start.”

Sirius grinned. “Told you guilt turns into something else.”

James threw a pillow at him but couldn’t hide the smile spreading across his face.

Because maybe Sirius was right. Maybe something had shifted—and James wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it.

Chapter Text

Spring melted into the soft gold of early summer. Exams loomed, Quidditch season was over, and Hogwarts felt drowsy with sunlight.

Regulus’s limp was barely noticeable now, though he still moved carefully on the stairs. James had stopped offering to help weeks ago — not because he didn’t want to, but because Regulus no longer needed him to.

He came anyway.

Every day, without fail, James found a reason to cross Regulus’s path. A book to return, a question to ask, a joke to tell.

And Regulus — for all his sharp words and eye-rolls — stopped pretending he minded.

It was a warm evening when it all came undone.

The Gryffindors had won their last match of the year, and the common room was roaring with celebration. James slipped away early, unable to stand the noise.

He found himself wandering toward the Astronomy Tower — their unofficial meeting spot. He wasn’t expecting Regulus to be there.

But he was.

Leaning against the stone railing, hair ruffled by the wind, green-and-silver scarf fluttering like a banner against the darkening sky.

“Figured you’d be avoiding this place,” James said softly, stepping closer.

Regulus glanced over his shoulder. “I like watching the stars. They don’t care who wins or loses.”

James smiled faintly. “Can’t argue with that.”

He joined him at the railing. The sun had dipped below the hills, and the sky shimmered in streaks of violet and gold.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence was easy — but heavy with things waiting to be said.

Finally, Regulus broke it.

“Do you still feel guilty?”

James blinked. “What?”

“About me. About what happened.” Regulus turned to face him, eyes unreadable in the fading light.

James hesitated. “Sometimes. Less than before.”

“Good,” Regulus said softly. “You shouldn’t.”

James frowned. “You lost Quidditch because of me, Reg.”

“I lost Quidditch because I fell,” Regulus corrected. “You didn’t push me.”

“I distracted you.”

Regulus’s lips curved slightly. “You’ve been distracting me ever since.”

The words hit him like a Bludger to the chest. “Regulus—”

Regulus looked away, cheeks faintly pink. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

James’s heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. “You mean that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Regulus said quietly. “You should know that by now.”

James stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him in the cool night air. “You’ve been driving me mad, you know that?” he said, voice low. “For months.”

Regulus’s gaze flicked up, meeting his. “Then we’re even.”

For a long, breathless moment, the world seemed to still. The sounds of the castle faded, the wind died down, and it was just the two of them — standing on the edge of everything they weren’t supposed to want.

James reached out, hesitating only a second before brushing his fingers against Regulus’s.

Regulus didn’t pull away.

“I thought you’d hate me forever,” James whispered.

“I tried,” Regulus admitted, voice barely audible. “Didn’t work.”

That broke something in James — or maybe it healed something. He didn’t know. He just knew that he leaned in, slowly, giving Regulus every chance to move away.

He didn’t.

The kiss was soft, tentative — more a question than an answer. Regulus’s breath caught, and then he kissed back, steady and certain, fingers curling lightly in James’s sleeve.

When they finally pulled apart, Regulus’s eyes were bright, his usual composure slipping just enough for James to see what lay beneath.

“About time,” Regulus murmured.

James laughed quietly, forehead resting against his. “You really are impossible.”

“I learned from the best.”

They stood like that for a while, the stars blooming overhead, the air cool and sweet. It felt fragile and real all at once — like something that had been waiting to happen.

Later, as they walked back down the tower steps, Regulus glanced over.

“You know, I still can’t fly,” he said softly.

“I know.”

“But maybe you could teach me again. Someday.”

James smiled. “I’d like that.”

Regulus hesitated. “I’m not promising I’ll be any good.”

“I don’t care,” James said. “As long as you’re up there with me.”

Regulus looked away, but there was the smallest, softest smile on his lips.

“Maybe,” he said. “Someday.”

And for the first time since that day on the Quidditch pitch, James didn’t feel guilty anymore.

He just felt — whole.