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It’s been a proper awful day. All Regulus wants to do is go back to his dorm, crawl under the covers of his four-poster bed, shut the curtains tight, and disappear.
To start, he was late to Quidditch practice this morning. He was up all night finishing his Transfiguration essay, only to fall asleep and drool all over it. He managed to smudge half the words into illegibility. Then Quidditch practice itself was rubbish. He slipped on his broom during a scrimmage, the smooth wood wet with rain, and missed the Snitch to the team’s reserve Seeker.
He swore colorfully when he noticed Dorcas frowning up at him from down below. She had her hands on her hips and looked every bit the Disappointed Captain. He knew what she was thinking. They have a match against Gryffindor this weekend; there’s no time for Regulus to be distracted during practice scrimmages. He needed to be focused.
Except there was a cheeky Gryffindor sitting in the stands. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke. Didn’t the universe pity him? Did it have to send James Potter in his soaking wet Quidditch shirt and gray joggers?
Worse still—did it have to let the rain drip from the ends of his hair like that? It was obscene. Especially when he caught Regulus’ eye and smirked, his grin only widening when Regulus slipped, missed the Snitch by millimeters, and blushed furiously.
Damn him. Damn Potter right to wherever it is the Muggles send the worst of the worst.
Regulus only saw the smirk because he made eye contact. He only made eye contact because James looks like a Quidditch Weekly model now instead of a scrawny, irritating boy. And James only looks like a Quidditch Weekly model because he spent all summer training with Sirius. Now he has unfairly broad shoulders and thick biceps—which his rain-soaked shirt clings to, and which Regulus’ gaze snagged on before the wretched eye contact that cost him the Snitch.
Everything is circular and terrible today.
Perhaps life would be easier if Regulus was straight. Then he wouldn’t have the world’s biggest crush on James bloody Potter. At the very least, everything would be easier if James looked like he did last year before he went and turned seventeen, spent the summer holiday getting gorgeous, and then showed back up at Hogwarts to ruin Regulus’ life.
Is he being dramatic? Maybe.
He’s still pissed he missed the Snitch.
Unfortunately, his day did not improve. The morning’s botched Quidditch practice put him in a foul mood for the rest of the morning, which meant he stabbed his eggs aggressively at breakfast, glowered at the First Years with more menace than necessary, and had no patience for Professor Slughorn’s poorly delivered jokes in Potions. As if a bit of attitude would ever cost him his seat in the Slug Club. Even if it did, what does he care?
Today is not a day for caring, because he fell asleep working on his Transfiguration essay again, and now he’s late for dinner and might not even make it in time for dessert. He still has a Charms essay to work on, there’s Quidditch practice early tomorrow, and—
The collision rattles his teeth in his skull. It sends him falling backwards, and he lands on his ass with an oomph. Pain shoots up his spine; the cobblestone floors of the castle are unforgiving.
Did he hit a wall?
Regulus looks up, blinking stars from his vision, and groans. “Oh, Merlin. Is today not through with me yet?”
“Reg? Are you alright?” James stares, all who-the-hell-knows-how-many centimeters of him towering over Regulus. “Why are you running like that?”
Not like James Potter would understand. Everything goes just splendidly for him. His will bends iron, and the world is more than happy to twist itself backwards if he asks it to. Quidditch star; Head Boy; best marks in his year, second only to Remus. He even had the prettiest, most sought after girl in his year until they mysteriously split a few months ago. Not that Regulus paid any attention to that bit of gossip. He doesn’t care who James Potter is dating. Or snogging, because apparently it’s not just girls he snogs these days.
But if Regulus thinks too long and too hard about what that means, then his heart starts to ache. When James was the token straight jock with a gorgeous girlfriend, he was untouchable. Little more than a fantasy Regulus indulged in while alone in the showers. James would never like him because Regulus has all the wrong bits. It sucked, but at least he knew it wasn’t him. Not exactly.
Until the rumor spread like wildfire that James Potter was caught snogging another boy behind a third-floor tapestry—and he was damn proud of it. To Regulus, he’s still untouchable, but it’s for different reasons now. James could like him, but he won’t.
Because Regulus is Regulus, and James is James, and they’re like oil and water, aren’t they?
So Regulus can’t help it—he’s inexplicably furious. Here James is, towering over him with that crooked grin, and Regulus is tired. He doesn’t want to have a crush on his brother’s best friend. He wants to be scouted by a professional Quidditch team, pass his N.E.W.T.s with flying colors, quit falling asleep on his essays, and let everyone continue to think he’s simply too busy for a girlfriend.
No one needs to know he’s never been kissed—not by anyone. All he wants is to finish his Sixth Year, then his Seventh, and be done with Hogwarts. Maybe life will be a little kinder once he’s away from all of this.
Damn James and his shiny, curly, wild hair. Damn him and his gold-flecked hazel eyes with their thin ring of brown. Damn him and his loose ties, his perpetually untucked shirts. Damn him, damn him, damn—
“Reg?” James’ brows draw close together, his forehead crinkled with concern. “Are you… I didn’t see or hear you coming. I’m sorry about that. Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey? You look a bit—”
“I’m fine, Potter. No thanks to you.” Regulus pushes to his feet, brushing James off when he attempts to reach out. “I said I’m fine.”
James’ expression sours. “I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t. I don’t need anything from you.”
James scowls, and all of his good-naturedness evaporates. “You don’t need to be a dick, Reg.”
“Don’t call me that,” Regulus snaps. “We’re not friends.”
This sends James reeling. For a brief moment, Regulus feels a little bad. They aren’t friends, but they aren’t not friends, either. It’s a gray area made murky by who they are to one another: Sirius’ baby brother, and Sirius’ best friend. Acquaintances. Nothing more.
“Who pissed in your eggs this morning?” mutters James, which only serves to incense Regulus further. He’s already having a bad day. He’s missed dinner and dessert. Quidditch practice was terrible. He has mounds of unfinished assignments.
Now this?
It happens in a blur and is all rather unnecessary if Regulus reflects back on it with any semblance of clarity. He raises his wand, James raises his—and they duel. Or rather, they lodge jinxes at one another and shout obscenities in the empty corridor. Regulus is just so damn frustrated, and it feels good to take it out on someone. Especially someone who makes his blood boil.
But the delight is short lived.
Within minutes, Professor McGonagall appears. Her weathered face is pinched, her wrinkles pronounced. Her bun makes her expression appear more severe, and when she hands them both detention, it’s with a mother’s disappointed glare.
James tries to talk them out of it. That, at least, Regulus can appreciate. But McGonagall doesn’t budge even for James’ widest, most earnest eyes, and this is how Regulus finds himself stuck in detention with James Potter well past a reasonable bedtime.
He has so many assignments that need finishing. Another Quidditch practice. The game this weekend. He doesn’t need this detention. He needs sleep—and plenty of it. What he especially does not need is Potter in his space, but that’s exactly what his punishment is now.
McGonagall’s detention involves the Restricted Section. One of the stranger books on the shelves went flying off and wreaked havoc on several other rows. Books litter the floor, most of them ancient tomes that require extra care. McGonagall says they can’t be handled with magic. Regulus isn’t sure whether or not he believes her. The runaway book responsible for the mess even managed to break a window, which no one has bothered to repair yet.
Regulus certainly will not be the one to do it.
He’s too busy gingerly picking up old tomes off of the floor. He fixes their pages, careful not to bend their spines, and follows the system McGonagall provided to place them back on their proper shelves. A few books have screamed at him. One tried to choke him. Another spewed green goo all over his robes.
It was only after James had his fill of laughter that he said, “Scourgify,” and Regulus felt magic as bright and warm as a summer’s day on his skin.
A wishbone lodged in his throat, and a blush crept up his neck to his cheeks. He was so thankful for the darkened corner of the library; it was all that saved him as his heart beat hard and fast. It slammed against his ribs with the same intensity as if he was playing a high stakes Quidditch game.
“Better?” James had asked, grinning in that crooked, mischievous way.
Regulus had only managed a scowl.
He tries not to think about it as he continues picking books up off the floor, but honestly, it’s all he can think about. He’s read about them before—unique magical signatures. Everyone has one. Like a thumb print, no two are the same. When he asked, Barty said Regulus’ magic felt like early autumn rain—still warm with the last tendrils of summer, but oddly refreshing.
If Regulus casts a spell on James like James just did to him, will that be what James feels? Or will it feel differently to him? James is summertime embodied; Regulus doubts he would have any interest in a boy whose magical signature probably smells like wet, dead leaves. Barty was just being nice.
Regulus really does try not to think about it. He tries not to think about how James’ magical signature smells and feels exactly like the Amortentia the Slytherin Sixth Years learned how to brew last week. Regulus wrote the strongest notes of his in the margins of his Potions textbook, and Barty had teased him that his one true love must be Quidditch.
Freshly cut grass.
Broom polish.
Citrus.
Summer sun.
It hadn’t made sense then. A part of Regulus really did think it was Quidditch related. But not twenty minutes ago, James waved his wand, still chuckling about the green goo fiasco, and Regulus knew. He knew the second James’ magic washed over him. It felt like lying on his back in the grass, eyes closed against the summer sun and skin sticky with a thin sheen of sweat. Orange peels in his lap and bright, fresh citrus on his tongue.
Why did he have to go and fall for James Potter?
What a stupidly stupid idea.
“You’re quiet this evening,” James says, coming around the corner to slide on a book on the shelves behind Regulus. His voice is soft, barely a whisper, but in the quiet of the Restricted Section, it’s practically a shout. Or perhaps Regulus’ nerves are fried beyond repair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to convince McGonagall not to give us detention…”
“Whatever. I’m sorry you had to find out that your charm doesn’t work on every woman in the world.” Regulus bends down to grab another book, careful to stay as far away from James as possible.
“Minnie has built up a tolerance, I’m afraid. A lost cause, unfortunately. Anyway, you find me charming?”
Regulus’ cheeks heat. “I didn’t say that.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘your charm.’ Which leads me to believe that you find me charming.”
“I do not.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I find you annoying.”
James shrugs, ever the unflappable boy. “Perhaps being annoying is a part of my charm.”
“It is not.” Regulus snaps a book shut hard enough a plume of dust erupts in front of his face. He sneezes suddenly, his entire body convulsing, and the book drops to the floor.
The moment it touches the ground, the stacks become pure chaos.
Books fly everywhere, brought to the life by the sudden screaming of the tome Regulus dropped. He and James scramble for it, both of them on hands and knees as the screaming book flaps its pages. The sound is an ear-piercing screech that echoes off the library’s high ceilings. Regulus wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve managed to wake the entire bloody castle.
“Oh, Merlin,” James laments once he finally manages to shut the damn thing. He shoves it on a shelf, wedging it between two books, and drops against the bookcase with a tired sigh. Every book they managed to organize over the last hour or so has wound up right back on the floor, plus a few more. “We’re going to be here for ages.”
Regulus sits against the bookcase opposite. He pulls his knees to his chest and drops his head back against a shelf. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sniffling. He fights the sudden urge to sneeze again; the falling books kicked up more dust. It hangs like gossamer in the moonlight. “I didn’t mean to drop the book.”
“S’alright.”
The silence is unbearably loud after so much damn screaming. Regulus picks a piece of lint from his trousers, swallowing around the nerves bundled together in his throat. He’s alone with James in the Restricted Section at an ungodly late hour. Madam Pince left them to their own devices ages ago, and McGonagall said she trusted ‘near adults’ to handle themselves with grace and responsibility.
Regulus is suddenly too hot under his robes. His tie is too tight. James wasn’t even wearing robes when he showed up, and in the chaos of the last few minutes, his perpetually loose tie has been thrown over his shoulder. It makes him look like more of a mess than usual.
Unfortunately, he’s still gorgeous.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Regulus glances up sharply. “What question?”
“Do you find me charming?”
“What do you care, Potter? You could charm the pants off the whole school. Well, except Professor McGonagall. And maybe Mrs. Norris. But the rest of them? Definitely.”
James frowns. His expression is otherwise inscrutable. For someone whose emotions always sit on the surface, it’s unsettling that Regulus can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“What’s wrong?” Regulus prods, his tone a smidge too close to mocking. “I’m sure you already know you can charm the pants off the whole school. I’m not telling you anything new.”
“I don’t care about them.”
Regulus snorts. “Sure.”
“I don’t.” James’ frown deepens. “I don’t care about the rest of the school.”
“I find that terribly difficult to believe.”
“I mean it, Reg.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re not friends.”
“Why not?”
Regulus scowls. “Because I don’t want to be friends.”
“Oh.” James noticeably deflates. Hurt flits across his features, but he quickly schools his expression back into one that’s blank and unreadable. “Did I do something to upset you?”
“Yes. You exist.”
James’ mouth bunches to one side. “Oh. I see. Right then.”
All of this is so damn frustrating. No, James Potter is frustrating. He looks genuinely hurt by Regulus’ words, but Regulus doesn’t know how to explain that he doesn’t want to be friends with James. Being friends with James is a surefire guarantee for pain. It will mean Regulus is reminded daily that he isn’t good enough to catch James’ eye. That he will forever be Sirius Black’s little brother, who garners few second glances and is more likely to receive a friendly headlock than a kiss.
Acquaintances.
Regulus gathers a few books off the floor, desperate for something to do so he doesn’t have to feel the weight of James’ eyes on him. He stacks them neatly, then shrugs off his robes and tosses them aside. Despite the cool night air blowing through the open window, he’s dangerously close to overheating.
He gathers the books in his arms again, gets his legs under him, and pushes up on his knees. He’ll be fine. James just wants his ego stroked. I don’t care about them. As if that could ever be true. James is the definition of someone who cares about what other people think. He might hide it well, but Regulus knows what it looks like. After all, Regulus always cares what other people think about him.
“Reg…”
He freezes in place on his knees. The world goes very, very quiet, as if someone’s sucked all of the sound out and there’s nothing but deafening silence to take its place.
James has risen up on his knees, too. He looms over Regulus, so bloody tall it’s unfair. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, which is really rather criminal of him. Regulus can’t help but follow the little pink muscle before it disappears. It leaves James’ mouth looking shiny and pink and kissable.
Not that Regulus would know anything about that.
“What?” he squeaks, cursing his vocal cords for giving his nerves away. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you really hate me?”
Regulus stares up at him, slightly taken aback. “I never said that I hate you, James.”
“Oh.”
“I just find your ego to be unbearably massive and—”
“Can you say that again?”
Regulus’ mouth snaps shut. They’re close now. Too close. Less than an arm’s length separates their chests, and Regulus catches a whiff of James on the air. Fresh grass, citrus, summer. “Which part?” he asks, swallowing thickly.
“My name.”
“I—What?”
James shuffles closer until their knees touch. “It’s always ‘Potter.’ Sometimes it’s ‘stupid git.’ I think you once even called me a ‘giant, ego-ridden Flobberworm.’ But it’s never ‘James.’ You never call me James.”
“Of course I do. It’s your name.”
“No. Trust me, I would remember if you said my name.”
Regulus chews on his bottom lip. They’re far too close now. He has to tilt his head back to look into James’ eyes. Tension crackles between them, but he isn’t sure why. There’s never been tension between him and James. Not like this.
“Say it, Regulus.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I like it best when you say it. But I need to hear it again to be sure.”
Regulus squeaks softly when James’ hands come up to tentatively cradle his face. There are fingers in his hair. Thumbs on his cheeks. Close, close, too close. Close enough to see the gold in James’ eyes, the rings of brown around his pupils. “What are you doing?” Regulus asks, his voice thin.
“I’d like to kiss you, if that’s alright.”
“What?”
James chuckles, and his breath blows warm across Regulus’ lips. “You didn’t know? Suppose not, since you don’t even want to be friends… But I thought it was obvious. I come to watch you practice every morning.”
“I thought you were just spying on us.”
“No. I mean, yeah, that’s what I tell the Gryffindor team. Keeps ‘em from asking too many questions. But I’m there to watch you, Reg.”
“Why?” Regulus’ heart is going to beat right out of his chest and splatter all over the floor. The books will be ruined. McGonagall might kick him out of school.
But then James says, “Because I think you’re beautiful,” and Regulus couldn’t care less about Hogwarts or Quidditch or the mess of books around them.
James thinks he’s beautiful.
“Please don’t lie to me,” he whispers, terrified to get his hopes up that this is real. Perhaps the book exploded and shot him into another dimension. Perhaps this is an alternate universe, and any moment now he’ll wake up in his four-poster and realize he’s once again dreamed about his brother’s best friend.
“I’m not lying, Regulus. I think you’re breathtaking, on and off a broom.” James’ thumbs rub gentle back and forth lines along Regulus’ cheeks. “You’re not pushing me away yet, so I’m trying to figure out if that means you want me to kiss you or if you’re in shock.”
Both.
Definitely both.
Regulus struggles to swallow. His heart is in his throat and taking up too much space. “I’ve never been kissed,” he blurts, which is a rather idiotic thing to say. But being this close to James has rendered him stupid.
“Really?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I won’t. I just figured someone would’ve kissed you by now. Do you know how many girls and boys in this school have crushes on you? It drives me a little mad sometimes. But it’s not like I can tell them that I don’t want to share you. You’re not mine to keep.”
Regulus searches James’ eyes for any sign that he might not mean what he’s saying. But this is James Potter—infallibly earnest, kind, and loyal. He means what he says, and he says what he means. Try as he might, Regulus can’t find the lie.
“Oh,” he whispers, because there’s really nothing else to say.
James thinks he’s beautiful.
James wants to kiss him.
James smells of summer and fresh grass and citrus. Regulus’ Amortentia.
“What if I’m bad at it?” he whispers, suddenly self-conscious and admittedly terrified. James has a lot of experience snogging people. Regulus has absolutely none.
But James only smiles, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and says, “I can teach you. But I don’t think you’ll be bad at it. You’re good at everything you do.”
“Okay. Yes. You can—” Regulus sucks in a sharp breath, feeling all at once like he’s shot into the sky on the world’s fastest broom. “Kiss me, James.”
It’s a soft, pleased sigh at the sound of his name, and then the space between them narrows, narrows, narrows still, until it’s nothing—and James kisses Regulus full on the mouth.
Regulus positively melts. His arms fall useless at his sides. It’s a damn miracle he keeps the books clutched tight in his hands, but he doesn’t want anything to ruin this moment. Especially not screaming books. James cradles his face between warm, sure palms that make him feel precious. He always worried kisses would be wet and gross, but James’ lips are warm, pillow soft things that aren’t too dry or too wet.
As expected, they’re perfect.
Damn James Potter.
But Regulus doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he lets James slightly tilt their heads opposite ways. It slots their mouths together even better than before, and Regulus can’t help the whimper that crawls out of his throat. It’s answered by James who, clearly taking Regulus’ response as a positive sign, deepens the kiss. His tongue is wet and warm when it slides along the seam of Regulus’ mouth.
He has no bloody clue what he’s doing or what he should be doing, but he parts his lips anyway. Squeaks quietly when James’ tongue slips into his mouth and rolls over his own. James tastes like spearmint. His fingers slide into Regulus’ curls, and his other hand drops to Regulus’ waist.
It’s magic.
And Regulus might not have anything to compare it to, but he thinks this might be the best kiss he will ever experience. He kisses James back eagerly, mirroring what James has done to him in an attempt to try, to see what—
“Oh,” James breathes when Regulus’ tongue slips into his mouth. He makes a soft, quiet sound, and Regulus feels like he’s flying. Like he’s shot into the sky and is headed up, up, up, until he’s lightheaded and gasping for air. The kiss has grown frantic; Regulus dropped the books, though he doesn’t remember doing it, and has both hands fisted in the front of James’ shirt.
His mind still hasn’t wrapped around the fact that he’s kissing James Potter, but he’s trying not to think too hard about it. He’s afraid that if he does, he might break whatever spell James is under. The dream might end.
Regulus loops his arms around James’ neck, pushing forward, and it’s the touch of their bodies from hip to chest that rips a startled whine from James’ lips. He pulls away suddenly, much to Regulus’ disappointment. James’ chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm; there’s a gorgeous sheen on his kiss-bruised lips. His shirt is more of a mess than usual.
“I’m not—I can’t—” James runs a shaky hand through his curls, then twists those same fingers in the strands at Regulus’ nape. “We should take this slow. Really slow. And I’m not gonna be able to take it slow if you keep kissing me like that.”
“Did I do okay?”
James’ laugh is high-pitched and strangled. “Okay? Okay? Merlin, love. If you hadn’t told me that was your first kiss, then I would think you’ve practiced with half the boys in Slytherin. It was brilliant.”
“Oh.” Regulus beams, immensely pleased with himself. “Can we do it again then?”
“Yeah. Yes. Definitely. But I need…” James’ throat bobs, and he glances down as a blush tints his cheeks. “Maybe, er, give me a sec, yeah? To cool down. And we should maybe fix the books… But we can kiss a lot in between. I just need breaks here and there.”
Regulus can’t help it—he giggles. He looks down, sees exactly why James needs a few minutes, and grins from ear to ear. “That’s not very appropriate for the library.”
“I’ll write Madam Pince a formal apology.”
It’s with some measure of reluctance that Regulus lets James help him to his feet. He wants to stay here, on the floor and kissing until they both run out of air. But it’s nearly one in the morning, and they have far too big of a mess to clean up.
James does kiss him quite a lot, though, and it’s not until the first rays of morning sun shine through the still broken window that they begin frantically focusing on the books still littering the library floors.
The stadium is full. Three-fourths of it is red, but the Slytherins are godawful loud despite their fewer numbers. They beat their shoes on the stands and shout their chants. Their banners fly extra high.
It’s a long, arduous game. Gryffindor has always been the hardest team for Slytherin to play against. They have brawn that the other two teams don’t have, and their Captain is unfortunately brilliant. It helps that he spends his mornings watching Slytherin practice, but that’s not something Regulus is ever going to complain about.
The game only ends when Regulus closes his fingers around the Snitch.
“Slytherin has won the match!”
The stadium erupts in a cacophony of whistles and boos and whooping cheers. A Slytherin win never does garner much love from the whole school, but it doesn’t matter.
Regulus caught the Snitch.
“You played a good game, love.”
He turns on his broom to find James watching him with a broad smile on his face. There’s sweat on his brow, and his curls cling to his forehead. James after a game is unmatched; the high of the adrenaline pumping through all of their veins is a brilliant light in his eyes.
“You did, too,” Regulus says, turning to face him fully. He leans forward, flying until his knee bumps against James’. They’re opposite each other, close enough Regulus can smell the sweat on James’ skin mixed with fresh grass and sunlight. The Snitch flutters in Regulus’ fist, its little golden wings beating in time with his heart.
“What do you think would happen if I kissed you right in front of the whole school?”
Regulus pulls his lips between his teeth, desperate to hide his smile but failing miserably. “I think that I don’t care about them or what they think. Do you?”
“Not even a little.”
His gloves are rough, smelling of leather and broom polish, but Regulus doesn’t mind when one slips into his curls. James cradles the base of his skull, tilting his face up as he leans forward. They meet in the middle, lips pressed together high above the ground and just above the crowd.
The world falls away. Regulus is dimly aware of a new noise, of a crowd that’s going wilder than it was a second ago, but he doesn’t care. James is kissing him in front of the whole school. This is as good as shouting his name from the rooftops.
Regulus wants desperately to cup his hand to the shape of James’ jaw. It’s his favorite place in the world, if he’s honest. And he’s spent a fair bit of time nibbling on it these past few days.
For a moment, he hesitates. But then James deepens the kiss just that extra bit, and Regulus opens his fist to set the Snitch free.
It never really mattered anyway.