Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet, finally. The kind of quiet that settles like dust in corners, heavy and unmoving. Regulus stood by the bedroom door, watching the small figure of Draco curled under the worn blue blanket. The boy’s breathing had evened out, his brow uncreased at last. In sleep, he looked younger—safe. At peace. As if the weight of the world hadn’t already begun to press against his tiny shoulders.

Thank God, he's safe.

Regulus exhaled silently and closed the door with care, fingers lingering on the chipped wood as if to seal in that moment of stillness. The hallway light flickered overhead. He didn't bother to fit it anymore. Truth be told, he didn’t bother with much at all lately—like he’d aged all at once, in the span of a single breath. As if the foolishness of youth belonged to another life entirely, distant and untouchable, like a dream half-forgotten at dawn.

His hands were cold as he crossed the narrow living room. Outside the rain had started again—just a soft drizzle now, tapping on the fogged window like ghost fingers. The apartment smelled faintly of damp concrete and the remains of tonight’s dinner: canned beans and overboiled pasta. Evan had sent some bread over, fresh from the bakery where he worked illegally on weekends. Barty had handed it over with a wink and a tight-lipped smile, pretending not to notice how Regulus’ fingers trembled when he took it.

His coat hung over the kitchen chair, still wet. He’d walked home with Draco wrapped in it, carried him most of the way when the boy’s feet had started to drag. He hadn’t had the heart to scold him—not after the way Draco had leaned against him and whispered, “I missed you today. So much. Love you, dad.” Before falling asleep peacefully into his arms.

Dad.

That word still hit like a blade—blessing and curse.

He was reaching for the kettle when the knock came. It wasn’t loud. But in the hush of that late hour, it was a cannon blast. Regulus froze. His fingers tightened around the chipped ceramic handle. Another knock. Slower this time. Measured.

He didn’t get visitors. Not without warning. Not at this hour.

Not anymore.

His bare feet made no sound as he crossed to the door. The breath caught in his throat. Barty? Evan? No—they had keys. Maybe Sirius, though Sirius hadn’t darkened his door in three years. Since everything fell apart. Who? Oh god— maybe- maybe- no- no it couldn't be- The creditors came again. This time at night, cloaked in silence and smoke, like shadows slipping through the cracks in the world.

Where would they be safe now?

Regulus still opened the door, because what was the other option? Running away? Not this time. Not in the future.

But there she was.

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the hallway, soaked through, the rain making a halo of her once-flawless blonde hair. Her coat was expensive but threadbare, clinging to her frame in a way that made her look smaller, fragile. Her heels were cracked. Her mascara had smudged just slightly beneath her eyes, but she didn’t look away from him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Regulus stepped back. “Come in,” he said hoarsely.

She entered like a ghost. Like she had never left.
The door closed behind her with a groan. Narcissa stood in the middle of the living room, trembling slightly, eyes taking in the worn couch, the mismatched chairs, the sad little heater by the wall. She didn’t comment. She didn’t dare.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore.
Something inside him had locked up, frozen in place like a clenched fist buried deep in his chest. He didn’t know what was keeping him from lunging forward, grabbing his cousin by the arm, and throwing her out into the rain she came from. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe— maybe it was that dangerous thing still beating faintly inside him: love. But why? Why did he still care for her, after everything?

She had left them. She had walked out and taken the warmth with her, taken every promise she’d ever made, and left him to sweep up the shards of their shattered life alone. She’d abandoned Draco when he still woke up crying in the middle of the night. She’d abandoned him, too—her brother not by blood, but by choice, the boy who had stood between her and everything that wanted to break her.

And now she was here. Standing in the wreckage she helped create.

And he… he couldn’t move.

“I—” she began, then faltered. Her voice was rougher than he remembered. Her hands, once manicured to perfection, were red and raw. “I came to see him. I… I brought something. For Draco.”

Regulus’ eyes fell to the small suitcase by her feet. Worn leather. He recognized it. It had belonged to their father. “You said you couldn’t stay. That you couldn’t afford to. That Lucius—”

“I know what I said.” Her voice broke like glass. “I know what I did. But I had to come back. Reg, please. He’s my son.”

Regulus laughed, bitter and low. It echoed strangely in the cramped space.
“Your son? He calls me Dad now.”

That silenced her. She closed her eyes, just for a second. Her chin trembled.

Regulus wanted to look away, but didn’t. Couldn’t.
“You’re not the only one who lost everything, Cissy,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve worked myself raw. I’ve held him while he cried for you. While he asked why you didn’t want him anymore.”

“I never—” she choked on the words. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

She turned her back to him then, shoulders curling inwards as if his words had struck her physically. Her voice, when it came again, was a whisper: “Lucius left me with nothing. No money, no allies. I begged his lawyers to give me something. I sold the last of the jewelry just to get here. I thought… maybe I could fix it. Try. For Draco. For you.”

A long silence.

Regulus stared at her. She was no longer the shining, untouchable sister he’d once envied. She looked tired. Older. Human.

And still—still—she was family.

He stepped forward, reached out, and brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek.
“Go dry off in the bathroom,” he said quietly. “Hopefully, there’s still some hot water.”

Narcissa looked up at him. Her eyes filled with tears—but she didn’t let them fall. She nodded once.
As she moved toward the bathroom, Regulus stood still, his hand lowering slowly.

At the threshold, she paused. There was a breath, a flicker of hesitation—then she nodded to herself, like finishing a silent conversation in her head.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For opening the door.”

Regulus looked away. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“I never do,” she murmured, and then slipped into the steam and quiet of the bathroom.

Regulus exhaled—long, shaky, exhausted.
“Liar,” he said under his breath. From behind the bedroom door, he could hear Draco’s soft, steady breathing.

Narcissa reemerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel that had long since lost its softness, clinging damply to her slender frame. Her hair, once carefully curled and golden like sunlit silk, now hung in sodden ropes against her cheeks and neck, darker, heavier, stripped of its elegance. Water still clung to her skin, trailing down the line of her collarbone, pooling in the hollows of her elbows. She crossed the room with careful steps, each one uncertain, as if the floor might give out beneath her.

Regulus hadn’t moved.

He stood near the kitchen counter, half-shrouded in dim light, arms folded tight across his chest. His body was rigid, lean with hunger and exhaustion, every muscle drawn as if he were holding himself together by force of will. His hair—dark and unkempt—fell over his forehead, damp from the rain or maybe from the sweat of a long day. The shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones and eyes, deepened by the yellow flicker of the faulty bulb overhead. He didn’t blink when she entered. He didn’t speak.

Narcissa hesitated, then perched delicately on the edge of the couch, the towel bunched beneath her thighs. She looked small there, misplaced, like something that had wandered into the wrong life.

“I didn’t know,” she said suddenly, her voice barely more than a breath, “that he calls you that.” Dad. "Didn't expect that. You were almost allergic to kids."

Regulus said nothing. His jaw flexed, eyes locked on her, unreadable. He fought for that privilege, he fought to have that place in Draco's life and no one, not even his mother would take him away.

The silence hung like a blade between them. Heavy. Tense. The only sound was the rain ticking softly against the windowpanes and the low hum of the old fridge vibrating in the corner. Somewhere in the walls, a pipe gave a low moan, then stilled.
“Why now?” he said at last, and his voice was quiet, deadly in its restraint. “Why tonight? After all this time?”

Narcissa looked at her hands. They were folded neatly in her lap, the way she’d been taught as a child—still playing the part of the lady, even now. “Because I couldn’t stay away anymore. I couldn’t sleep, thinking of him. Wondering if he hated me.”
Narcissa lowered her gaze to her hands. They were pale and raw, the skin reddened from cold water and harder days. Once, her fingers had glittered with rings. Now, they were bare and trembling in her lap.

Regulus inhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, like he was holding back something jagged.
“He cried for you,” he said at last, his voice low and razor-thin. “Every night for six months. Every night, Cissy. I couldn’t make it stop. He’d wake up screaming, begging for you. I tried everything—I told him you’d come back, that you were just far away, that you loved him. And then one day, he stopped crying. He stopped asking.”

He stepped forward, slow and quiet, and stood across from her now. The room was too small for distance. Their breath shared the same air.
“I think that hurt worse,” he added.

Narcissa blinked. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes shimmered. She blinked again, once, then again, fighting back the tide. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t love him,” she managed. “Or you. You have to believe me.”

Regulus scoffed. Not cruelly, but bitterly. Like a man too tired to even summon his anger properly. “Do I?” he asked.

She closed her eyes briefly, then looked up again. “I left because I thought I could help. I thought if I ran fast enough, maybe the people after me—the debts, the collectors, the name—maybe it would pull them away from you. From Draco. Maybe you two could have peace, even just for a little while.”

“You thought wrong,” Regulus snapped. “The rent is three weeks overdue. The power’s gone out twice this winter. I work twelve-hour shifts in a bar run by a man who pays me less than dirt and thinks I should be grateful. I come home broken, Cissy. My hands shake when I count coins for groceries. I fall asleep sitting up because I’m too scared to dream about what happens if I fail him.”

His voice cracked on the last word. Him. Draco. Everything.

“And through all of that,” he whispered, “you were gone.”

Narcissa flinched as if he’d slapped her.
“I know I failed you,” she said, voice shaking. “Both of you. But don’t pretend you weren’t already used to being left behind. You know what they said about you. You know what they did. I was there, Reg. I saw it. And you still let us stay. You took us in when no one else would. When the Blacks closed their doors on you—”

“They tried to kill me,” Regulus hissed, his voice suddenly sharp, jagged like a cracked bottle. “Orion threw a chair. Walburga told me I should’ve never been born.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I didn’t stop them. I should have. I was scared.”

“I was scared too,” Regulus said. “But I stayed.”

Narcissa reached up and wiped her face with the edge of the towel. “You’ve always been stronger than me.”

“No,” Regulus said, almost gently. “I just didn’t have a choice.”

Another silence fell. This one was quieter.
Not gentler, not yet—but less sharp. Less defensive.
He wasn’t giving up on her.
Not quite.
But something in him was starting to let go of the fight.

It scared him—that quiet loosening in his chest, like something long-clenched was beginning to breathe again. He stood there, arms crossed tight over his ribs like armor, and watched her—watched the way she sat hunched on the edge of the couch, fingers twisted together, eyes rimmed with salt and rain and regret.

And he thought—maybe- Maybe she was really back.Maybe she meant it this time.

That hope—small and stupid and unwanted—pressed against the old wounds inside him like salt. And yet he couldn’t kill it. It was growing, no matter how he tried to stamp it out. He had been so close to breaking. So close to believing he was destined to be alone.

When Sirius left, Regulus had spiraled. Quietly. Violently. Inward.
He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t chased him through the fire and smoke of his escape. He’d just folded in on himself, like a letter never sent. He had gone to bed that night and had not spoken a word for three days. No one had noticed.

And when Narcissa left—when she left—Regulus didn’t even have the energy to collapse.

That, he’d decided, was the pattern. A truth he couldn’t unsee.

The people he loved would always leave him.
And maybe… maybe it was his fault. Maybe it was something inside him—rot, unworthiness, something stained into his soul that made him impossible to hold on to.
Unlovable.
Inadeguato.
He wasn’t enough.

So he tried. He tried so hard.

With Draco, he gave everything. Every coin, every breath, every second of his aching, exhausted day. He poured himself out, hollowing bit by bit to fill that boy’s world with something warm, something safe, something that lasted. Even when he had nothing, even when his stomach clawed and his hands shook and the ceiling leaked and the city crushed him like a fist—he gave.

Because maybe, just maybe, Draco wouldn’t leave.

Maybe this small, fragile creature—the one who wrapped his arms around Regulus’ neck and whispered “Dad” into the hollow of his throat—would be the exception.

Maybe he would choose to stay.

And that…
That hope was the only thing keeping Regulus breathing.

“I’m not here to take him,” Narcissa said, it was almost like she could read his mind.
“I wouldn’t dare. He’s not mine anymore, not like he was. I know that. I see it in your face" She looked at him then—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes were purple and bruised. His cheeks were gaunt. His clothes hung too loose on him. His shoulders sagged like something was physically weighing them down.

And still—there was fury in his eyes. Grief, too. But mostly rage.
“I’m not here to take him, Regulus. You must understand this.” she whispered.

“You can’t have him,” Regulus spat. “He’s not a doll you can visit when you feel like it. He’s not your redemption arc. He’s everything I’ve got left. You don’t get to show up out of the fog and—”

“I know,” she said, and her voice had dropped into something raw.

Regulus turned his head, eyes drawn toward the closed bedroom door, where behind it a child slept, unaware of the storm just inches from his world.
“He calls for me when he’s scared,” Regulus said, his voice barely rising above a whisper, like the words had weight, like saying them aloud cost him something.
“He comes to me when he’s sick. He wants me after school, when he’s tired or upset or just wants to feel safe. I’m—” he paused, eyes flicking to the floor like he couldn’t look at her, not when everything in him was trembling, “I’m his everything. Alright? His—his parent. His father.”

The word came out ragged, like it had claws. Like it had rooted itself so deep inside him, it was part of his bones now. Regulus wasn’t speaking to her anymore. Not really. He was saying it to the quiet. To the weight in his chest. To the part of him that still couldn’t believe it was true, even after all this time.

He was his.
Draco was his.
His child. His burden. His salvation.
And he would burn the world to keep that boy safe. No second thoughts. No apologies. No mercy.

This time, Narcissa didn’t flinch. Her shoulders sagged, and a quiet sob escaped her lips, but it wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t an argument. It was grief. Acceptance.
“I wouldn’t take that from you,” she said. “I couldn’t. You’re the one who stayed. The one who fed him. Held him. Taught him to tie his shoes, walked him to school. He’s my son, yes. But you… you’re the one who raised him.”

Regulus watched her. His face, so long carved from stone, began to shift. His lips parted slightly. His eyes softened—not much, but just enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

She looked so small now. So far from the Narcissa he remembered. And yet, somehow, closer to the girl who used to sit beside him on the roof at Grimmauld Place, whispering dreams into the dark and pretending they had a future.

He stepped forward slowly and lowered himself into the armchair across from her. His bones creaked as he did, a sound too old for his age. His hands dragged down his face. When he spoke again, his voice was just above a murmur.

“It doesn’t change anything. You left.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“But,” he said, drawing the word out like a thread, “he needs you. And I… can’t keep doing this alone. Not forever.“ he said slowly, lowering his hands, “Draco needs… something. Stability. A future. Not this half-life I’m barely managing. And if you’re serious—if you mean to stay—then maybe… we can try.”

Her lips parted in a silent gasp. Her face crumpled—not dramatically, not in a wail, but quietly, like a page folding in on itself. Relief and sorrow mingling in every softened line. “I won’t leave him again,” she said. “Or you.” Narcissa nodded slowly, tears streaking down her cheeks now, silent and steady.
“I want to try,” she said. “To be something again. To be better. For him. For you.”

Regulus watched her for a long moment, then finally—finally—leaned back, resting his head against the worn fabric of the chair. He closed his eyes.
“Then try,” he said. “But don’t expect anything from me. Not yet.”

She nodded again.

He gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s tea. If you want. Just don’t wake him.”

Narcissa rose to her feet, clutching the towel to her chest. “Regulus…”

He looked up.

“I never stopped loving him. Or you.”
Regulus nodded once. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but also—warm, almost. The flicker of something not quite forgiveness. A beginning, maybe.

He stood, rubbing at his face. “He’ll be up at seven. He likes pancakes, but only the ones Evan makes, and don’t call them crepes, it pisses him off.”

Narcissa laughed under her breath, and Regulus glanced toward the bedroom door.

“He had a nightmare last week,” he said softly. “Came running into my room." A pause. And then- "I don't know what to tell him.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” she said. “If you let me.” The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t jagged. It was… reverent. Narcissa closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away.
“Reg- one last thing-" He stopped, his breathing with him. What else? "He’s lucky,” she said. “Because he has the best father one he could’ve asked for.”

Regulus didn’t respond. Because no. No, Draco deserved this and more.
But as she moved past him, he reached out—not far, not deliberate—just enough to brush his fingers lightly against her wrist. It was fleeting. But it was there.

Chapter Text

The apartment still smelled faintly of rain—and maybe a bit like regret from last night, too. Regulus sat at the kitchen table, eyes bloodshot, fingers cramped around his pen. The French text in front of him was a total blur, full of formal phrasing and boring market lingo. He really needed to get this done—and fast. Just another dull business translation for some guy who always paid late and never bothered to say thank you.

His head throbbed.

He’d stayed up the entire night. Between the conversation with Narcissa and the churning worry in his chest, sleep had never been a possibility. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—wet with rain, lined with guilt. And every time he opened them, it was Draco’s voice in his head. His crying voice, asking for his mum.

Behind him, Narcissa was curled on the couch beneath the thinnest blanket in the house, still asleep. The rising light of dawn cast long shadows across her face, softening her edges. She looked younger like this. Or maybe just sadder.

The quiet was broken by a soft creak—then tiny footsteps padding across the hall.

Regulus didn’t look up—he didn’t need to. The mere presence was enough. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips before he even realized it. Of course it was Draco. It could only be him.

“Bonjour, papa,” Draco murmured sleepily, rubbing one eye as he clambered onto the chair beside him. His French was slurred with drowsiness, soft and a little messy, and Regulus almost scoffed—more out of fondness than anything else. It was unbearably cute.

“Bonjour, mon dragon. Bien dormi?” Regulus exhaled, the first real breath in hours. He turned his head and smiled, faint but real.

Draco nodded, laying his cheek on the table and squinting at the mess of paper in front of his father.
“Tu travailles encore? C’est samedi…” his pout so childish and genuine.

Regulus chuckled softly, the sound dry like old paper. “Je sais, mais le samedi ne fait pas disparaître le travail en retard, mon trésor.”

Draco frowned, tapping his fingers gently.
“Tu es fatigué.”

Regulus stared at him for a moment, as if Draco could read the weight in his eyes. How must he look to him, he wondered. Probably weary, worn-out, the edges of his face softened by exhaustion. Not the vibrant twenty-five-year-old he once imagined himself to be, but a man molded by countless burdens, by nights spent awake with worries that gnawed at his soul.

Regulus let out a quiet breath, masking the tiredness the best that he could. Draco deserved better. The world. “Je suis un peu un zombie, oui.”

Draco giggled. “Un zombie avec une moustache.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, mock-offended.
“Quelle moustache?!”

Draco grinned. “La tienne! Ici!” he pointed gleefully at the faint shadow on Regulus’ upper lip.

Regulus leaned in dramatically. “Fais attention, petit monstre. Les zombies avec des moustaches mangent les enfants qui ne finissent pas leurs devoirs.”

Draco shrieked with laughter, pressing his face to Regulus’ arm. “Non! Pas moi! Je fais toujours mes devoirs!”

Regulus ruffled his hair, finally letting his head rest gently against his son’s.
The silence that followed was softer than the one before.

“Je t’aime, papa,” Draco whispered, voice almost lost in the stillness.

Regulus closed his eyes.
“Moi aussi, petit cœur. Moi aussi.”

Draco was still giggling when Regulus scooped him up and plopped him onto his lap, wrapping an arm around his small frame.
“Alright, alright,” Regulus said, letting the French slip away. “You win, I’m a zombie. A very old, very tired zombie who makes terrible coffee and eats toast with no butter because someone”—he gave Draco a side-eye—“keeps stealing all of it for his after-school snack.”

Draco gasped, all scandal. “That’s not true!”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, dramatically doubtful. “Oh no?”

The boy grinned, all milk teeth and defiance. “Maybe just a little true.”

“Aha.” Regulus smirked and rested his chin lightly on Draco’s head. “Caught you.”

They sat in silence for a minute, warm in the quiet kitchen. Outside, the sky was shifting from pale gray to something gentler. The kind of light that made even cracked windows look forgiving.

Draco played with the cuff of Regulus’ sweater, absentmindedly. “Are we gonna make pancakes today?”

Regulus hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Draco before a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “We might have to negotiate with Evan. You know his pancakes are the only ones you like.” He paused, the smile growing a little more, softer now. “Today’s brioche day, though—”

Draco nodded, satisfied. “He makes them with the crispy edges. Yours are always a little too soft.”

Regulus feigned offense. “You wound me.”

Draco giggled again. But then Regulus shifted, just slightly, and something in him changed. He had to tell him. He had to tell Draco that his mother was here, because he couldn’t let him discover here like this. Out of nowhere.
It wasn’t obvious—not stiff or cold—but Draco felt it. His father’s chest rose in a deeper breath. His hand, which had been lightly tapping on the table, went still.

Regulus looked down at him, gently, but serious now.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Draco blinked, turning his face up. He frowned a little. “Are you sick? Again?”

Regulus’ heart squeezed, fast and sharp. “No. No, nothing like that. I promise. I’m fine.”

“Are you sad?” Draco’s voice was smaller now.

Regulus smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sometimes I could be. But I’m okay. Because I have you. And you're the best.”

Draco tilted his head, confused. “Then what is it?”

Regulus ran a hand down his face, suddenly aware of how heavy his limbs were, how much everything inside him ached from holding the world up for too long.
“It’s about your mum.”

Draco froze. Just for a second. “Where is she?” Then: “Is she back?” Always too intelligent for his age. Too clever. Smart.

Regulus nodded. “She came home last night. You were asleep. She’s… in the living room now, catching some sleep.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a moment. His face was unreadable. Too old for five. His fingers curled around Regulus’ sleeve.
“Is she staying?”

Regulus didn’t lie. “She wants to. She says she missed you.”

Draco looked away. Then back again. Regulus wondered what a five-year-old kid could possibly think after all this. What did he feel? Did he understand any of it—or did it all just turn into that strange, heavy silence kids carry in their chest without knowing why? And then- “Are you mad?”

Regulus swallowed, his throat tight, not expecting this question at all. But kids were so unpredictable sometimes. So innocent. Always seeing the other side. “Honestly? I was. For a long time. But… I think she’s trying to make it right.”

A silence. Then, very softly:
“Are you gonna leave? Now that she's back? Leave me to her?”

Regulus didn’t answer at first. He wrapped both arms around Draco and pulled him in, pressing his cheek against the boy’s soft hair. When he did speak, his voice cracked—just barely.
“No. Never. You hear me? I’ll never leave you, Draco.”

Draco nodded, small and serious.
“I don’t want her to take me away. I love being here.” If Draco liked what Regulus was giving him, he couldn’t really believe it.

“She won’t,” Regulus said immediately. “She couldn’t if she tried. You’re mine. You’re… you’re home.”

Draco stayed quiet for a long moment. Did he understand any of it—or did it all just turn into that strange, heavy silence kids carry in their chest without knowing why?Regulus hoped not.
He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to raise Draco to be free—free to feel things, to say them out loud without fear. No emotional constipation, no swallowing things down just to survive. Not like he was. Not like they were raised. But then, Draco said quietly: “Do I have to call her Mum?”

Regulus took a breath. Let it out slow.
“Only if you want to,” he said gently. “That’s your choice. No one can make it for you.”

Draco nodded, almost to himself. “I think I’ll wait.”

Regulus smiled faintly—tired, but warm. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Draco’s head, breathing in the soft scent of sleep and cheap shampoo.
“That’s okay,” he whispered. “That’s more than okay.”

Then, after a beat, he added in a softer voice, “I don’t want to tell you too much- Last night your mother asked if she could be the one to explain. Properly. When you’re ready to hear it.”

Draco didn’t say anything. But the way he curled a little closer, small arms wrapping around Regulus’s waist, said everything he needed to.

Regulus closed his eyes for just a second, holding him close before getting up and starting to look around. Their kitchen was small, more of an afterthought than a room. Cabinets hung slightly crooked, and one of the drawers had to be yanked open with a sharp jerk every time. Regulus stood barefoot on the cold tiles, arms crossed, staring at the near-empty fridge like it owed him answers.

There was a carton of milk with just enough left for Draco’s breakfast, half a stick of butter, and an apple that had gone soft on one side. Not much else.

"Here, Draco." Regulus passed a mug filled with milk to him.

Evan was supposed to stop by soon—he’d promised to bring something fresh for breakfast. Probably day-old pastries from the bakery, maybe an extra croissant for Draco if the owner wasn’t watching too closely. Regulus hadn’t had the heart to tell him not to bother anymore, not when things were this tight.
Not when there were three mouths to feed now.

He glanced at the wall clock. Nearly seven.
If Evan didn’t show, there was always toast.

Barely. But for Draco it was enough, and he was the priority.

Draco sat on the counter, legs swinging, his small hands holding a chipped mug of warm milk like it was fine porcelain. His curls were still mussed from sleep, but his eyes were sharp—always watching.

“Do you think Evan will bring pain au chocolat today?” he asked between sips.

Regulus leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “Only if you promise not to make fun of his accent this time.”

Draco grinned, mischief blooming in his cheeks. “I like his accent.”

“You told him he sounded like a frog.”

“He laughed!”

“He looked offended.”

Draco giggled and shrugged. “He likes me too much to stay mad.”

Regulus shook his head, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Terrible influence,” he muttered, brushing crumbs from the counter.

He let the quiet settle a moment, the soft clink of the mug against Draco’s teeth the only sound.

He should take on an extra shift tonight. Maybe Narcissa could watch Draco for a few hours. She was here now. And God knows they needed the money—there were bills he’d been ignoring for days, hoping something would change.

He could take Draco to the park this afternoon—wear him out a little, give him a moment that felt like childhood. Next week, maybe he could buy him some ice cream, if tips allowed it. Then there were new crayons he needed to get. And a new pair of shoes.

Regulus’s gaze lingered on the boy beside him. For a second, he wasn’t thinking about unpaid rent or shifts at the bar that left bruises on his ribs. He was just thinking about Draco—his son, for all intents and purposes. The way he clung to his father like an anchor, even when the world was tipping sideways.

“You know,” Regulus said, gently ruffling his hair, “when you were a baby, you used to scream every time someone said your name.”

Draco gasped, scandalized. “No I didn’t. I wasn’t such a coward.”

“You did. Like you thought the name ‘Draco’ was an insult.”

“Well… it kind of sounds like a- a- a bad thing.” Draco said with a snort, then grinned up at him, swinging his legs some more.

Regulus laughed softly, shaking his head. “And yet, here you are. Dramatically surviving it.”

Draco was about to respond when a soft sound came from the other room. A rustle. Then a cough. Muffled. Regulus turned his head slightly, tension flickering in his shoulders.

Footsteps followed—a little uneven—and then Narcissa appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wrapped in the threadbare robe he’d offered her last night. Her hair was tangled at the ends, a far cry from its usual regal wave, and her eyes were still puffy with sleep. But she stood tall. Chin slightly lifted. Always poised, even when cracked open.

Her gaze landed on Draco first—and softened.

Then on Regulus.

No words yet.

“Hi,” he said, but the word was flat. Small. He didn’t move closer. There was something almost innocent about him, a shyness that didn’t quite belong. Draco was rarely like this—always so composed, so serious, as if the weight of the world had settled early on his shoulders. Well-if both your parents abandon you like that, what else could you possibly turn into?

Narcissa’s smile faltered. Her arms hovered, unsure, and then dropped quietly to her sides.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she said again, softer now. As if trying not to frighten him. But the distance between them stayed thick.

Unspoken. Alive.

Regulus watched all of it, jaw clenched, hands still braced on the counter behind him. He didn’t interfere. Not yet. He just observed the weight of her hesitation and the way Draco’s shoulders subtly tensed, as if waiting to be told what to feel.

He opened his mouth—to say something, anything—but a knock at the door beat him to it.

Three fast raps, followed by two slower ones. Evan’s signal. Of course.
Draco’s head whipped toward the sound like salvation had knocked.
“I’ll get it!” he said quickly, already scrambling to the door before Regulus could stop him.

Regulus didn’t miss how he didn’t even glance back at Narcissa.
She stood frozen in the archway, arms wrapped loosely around herself. She will come around, Regulus thought, Draco too. They'll find their own rhythm soon, without his help. Time healed most of the bruises, maybe not the scars but Draco was only five years old- he would forgive her.

The door swung open with a squeak, and Evan swept in, arms full of warm paper bags, the smell of cinnamon and butter curling in behind him like comfort on a breeze. Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grateful—truly grateful—for whoever had given him Evan and Barty as best friends. Without them, he didn’t know how he would’ve made it through. And the kid loved them.

“Ah! My favorite tiny monster,” Evan announced, bending just enough for Draco to throw himself against his side. “Tu sens comme un petit chat mouillé ce matin.”

“I’m not wet!” Draco laughed, beaming. “Just awake.”

Behind them, Barty followed—tousled, yawning, wrapped in a scarf far too dramatic for the early hour. He carried two coffees and a smile that only half hid how tired he looked.

“Morning, boys,” he said. Then, noticing Narcissa—his eyes flicked up, quick, sharp. “And guest.”

“Hi,” she murmured, uncertain. "Hum-"

Regulus moved then, finally stepping forward. “This is Narcissa,” he said, flatly. “Draco’s mother.” Barty raised his brows slightly. Evan froze, but only for a moment, before recovering with that breezy charm he wore like armor.

“Well. Lovely to meet you,” Evan said, setting the bags down. “We brought croissants. Not the real kind, of course—Frenchmen would riot—but the kind a child with good taste might enjoy.” He winked at Draco and he giggled happily.

“I like them even if they’re fake,” Draco declared proudly.

“Then we shall call them… fauxsants, right little lion?” Barty muttered, sipping his coffee and grinning.

Regulus gave a huff of breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.

Evan caught the weight in the room anyway. His gaze drifted to Narcissa, then back to Regulus, uncertain, almost shy. “Should we… go? Maybe it's better if we leave-”

“No,” Regulus said quickly. “No. Stay. Please. Draco needs the normal. And you're family.” That, more than anything, made Evan’s expression soften.

“Okay,” he said. “Normal it is.”

Draco was already pulling at one of the paper bags, and the kitchen filled, briefly, with the sounds of breakfast. Flaky pastries, clattering mugs, Evan’s gentle humming as he handed Draco a napkin and helped him tear open a bun.

But in the background, tension still sat like a ghost at the table.
Narcissa didn’t speak again. She sat down when invited, touched almost nothing, and her eyes followed Draco with a quiet ache that no one addressed.

Not yet.

Regulus stood leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, exhaustion etched deep into every part of him—but for the first time that morning, he let himself watch.
Just watch.
His boy, laughing over crumbs. Evan and Barty chatting quietly like family.
And Narcissa, there but not quite included. Not yet.

The apartment now smelled of toast and the last remnants of coffee. More like a home. Sunlight filtered in through the grimy window panes, painting faded shapes across the kitchen table, where four mismatched mugs stood like old friends sharing secrets. Draco went to wash his teeth and probably get ready for park. Without a word, he reached for the kettle, fingers moving out of habit more than thought. The scent of coffee mingled with cinnamon in the air—steady, familiar.
One more cup, because some days needed it like oxygen.

Evan was leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, buttering toast with a flourish like he was hosting a morning show.

“—and then, just as I’m taking the croissant out of the oven, the inspector walks in. I’m elbow-deep in flour, sweating like sin, and he goes, ‘Monsieur Rosier, is this sanitary?’” He mimicked the accent with theatrical flair.

Barty snorted into his tea. “You? Sanitary? Please. I’ve seen the state of your room. And unfortunately the state of our house. It's all your fault!”

“I have a system,” Evan said, smug. “It’s organized chaos. Don't butt in if you can't understand art.”

“Shut up idiot. It’s fungus and shame.”

Narcissa gave a small, genuine laugh as she folded a blanket over the back of the couch. “You two should take that act on the road.”

Evan turned to her with a wink. “Only if you promise to be our manager. We can't afford anyone else.”

“I’d make a dreadful one,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “But I’ll sew your costumes.” The air was warm with something like ease. For a few minutes, they were just people. Just housemates. No ghosts. No debts. No bruises.

Draco came sprinting down the hall in mismatched socks and a jumper slightly too large, his cheeks flushed with morning energy, his eyes wide awake. “Can we go now? To the park? You said today, Dad! Pleaseeeee. You promised me!”

Regulus, still tying his boots by the door, glanced up with a faint smile. “Give me five minutes to recover from my fifth coffee and we’ll see.”

“Daaaaaaad come on, come on, come on! I wanna climb trees” Draco turned his hopeful gaze toward Narcissa. “Do you want- maybe- You’ll come too, with us?”

She hesitated. Just a second. Barely enough to notice. But Regulus caught it.

Narcissa smoothed her hands over her sleeves, her expression soft but uncertain. “Maybe another day, sweetheart. I was thinking I could stay and tidy a bit. Make this place… feel more like home again.”

Draco’s smile dimmed, just a fraction. But he nodded. “Okay. Next time. Next week is ice cream’s day, if dad is okay with it you could eat it with us! I could share mine if-“

“There’s no need to share, honey. I’ll buy one for your mother too,” Regulus said quickly, stopping the kid while he was washing the dishes. But he didn’t want Draco to give up the one good thing he could offer him.

Evan nudged Barty with his elbow. “That’s our cue. Off to hell. I want an ice cream too now, my love!”

Barty muttered a clear “fuck off” under his breath, and Regulus chuckled, already used to the rhythm of them.

“Wish me luck with the ovens,” Barty announced as he grabbed his coat. “If I don’t make it back, avenge me.”

Draco giggled. “Tell the pastries I said hi, Evan!” Barty rolled his eyes, and Regulus let out another soft laugh, the kind that came easier when these two were around.

On his way out, Evan swooped dramatically to kiss Draco’s forehead. “Be brave, little prince. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Evan! He’s five for Even's sake! Stop tainting him!” Regulus called after him, half-laughing.

“No swearing in front of my child, Regulus Arcturus Black!” Narcissa’s voice rang out as she crossed her arms with theatrical disapproval. The door shut behind their friends, and the quiet settled back in like a familiar coat—warm, lived-in.

Regulus stood with a sigh, brushing imaginary lint from his jumper, a glint of resolve returning to his face. “Well,” he said, offering his hand to Draco. “Park it is. Let’s go make some fun.”

Narcissa watched him quietly, then knelt and adjusted Draco’s scarf with careful fingers. “Be good,” she murmured.

“I always am,” Draco said solemnly.
And for the briefest second, Narcissa’s eyes shimmered.
Regulus said nothing. Just opened the door and held it open as Draco ran out ahead.

The wind carried the smell of wet leaves and old smoke, the last remains of winter clinging stubbornly to the early morning chill. The park was half-muddy, dotted with faded benches and patches of stubborn grass trying to push through the soil. A crooked swing set creaked with each gust of wind, and birds circled overhead, slow and lazy.

Draco ran and ran, boots splashing through shallow puddles, his little scarf trailing behind him like a banner. Regulus let his eyes linger on it for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. That scarf had once belonged to Barty, knitted during a particularly dramatic teenage phase. Now it belonged to Draco, who wore it like it had always been his.

Regulus followed at a slower pace, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn coat, his breath fogging the air. His limbs ached—partly from lack of sleep, partly from everything else. His ribs still carried the echo of the last time his boss had shoved him into the wall for answering back.

But Draco’s laughter cut through it all like light through dust.

The park was nearly empty, the morning chill still clinging to the air. The trees lining the paths swayed lazily, their bare branches whispering secrets in the breeze. A pale sun hung above, not quite warm but kind enough, and Draco was trotting a few feet ahead of Regulus, his little boots thudding against the dirt path with unbothered rhythm.
“I bet I can climb the rock faster than last time!” Draco shouted, already halfway to the jagged little outcrop at the far end of the park.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Only if you don’t fall and break your nose again.”

“That was one time!” Draco huffed. “And I didn’t even cry.”

Regulus smiled despite himself. “Liar.”

“I’m not a liar,” Draco called back, his tongue stuck out in defiance. “I’m a climber!”

Regulus watched him scramble up the wet stone like a tiny prince trying to conquer a mountain, hands sure, eyes wide with delight.

Regulus shot a quickly message to his boss, asking if he needed someone to cover for the night. Usually, he did—because, honestly, the guy was such a nightmare that no one, and literally no one, ever wanted to work under him.
The pay wasn’t great, but it was enough to get by. And the pub was close to home, which meant he could still pick up Draco from school without it being too late.
That was the deal. Scrape by, stay close, keep the kid safe.

He looked up again, just as Draco reached the top of the rock.
The boy turned dramatically, arms flung wide like he was king of the world. “Reg! Look!”

“I’m watching,” Regulus said, settling onto a nearby bench with a sigh and stretching his sore legs. “But if you fall and break something, I’m not taking you to hospital in this weather.”

“You’d have to!” Draco laughed, already halfway up. “You love me!”

Regulus chuckled quietly, the words landing deep in his chest like a gentle thud.

He did.

God, he did.

The climbing frame rattled under Draco’s weight, but he was confident, nimble, brave in the way only children could be. When he reached the top, he turned with a proud grin, wind tugging at his pale curls. “See? Im the best!”

“I see,” Regulus called up to him. “Champion of the playground. Now come down before the wind decides you’d make a better kite.”

Draco giggled, then crouched carefully and began his descent.
When he reached the bottom, he ran straight to the bench and climbed into Regulus’ lap without a word, the cold of his cheeks pressing against Regulus’ throat.

“Why do the trees look like skeletons?” he asked quietly. "I like them better with their leaves. They're almost scaring."

Regulus blinked, surprised by the sudden stillness in him.
“Because it’s not their time yet,” he said after a pause. “They’re sleeping. Waiting for the spring.”

Draco curled into him. “Will they wake up?”

Regulus smoothed his hand over the back of the boy’s head, fingers catching in soft blond curls. “Yeah. They always do. Just takes time. Every year.”
They sat like that for a long while, until the wind started to bite harder and Draco’s nose turned pink.

Draco spun around suddenly, arms flailing with the excitement of his monologue. “So tomorrow we have to bring in something we made ourselves, but it has to be useful and also beautiful. And it can’t be food, because of allergies and last year someone’s dad brought a cake with almonds and Maxine’s face went all red—”

“Useful and beautiful, huh?” Regulus asked, watching him with soft amusement.

“Oui!” Draco beamed. “Like… like a pencil holder! Or a letter opener! Or—wait—Evan said a soap dish could be artistic too.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “And what are you making?”

“I thought maybe a notebook cover. I could draw on it! Or, or, Barty said he could help me make one with actual fabric, like a book-jacket.”

“That’s very clever.”

“I am clever,” Draco said smugly, puffing out his chest as he skipped ahead. “Miss Turner says I’m the best in English and maths. Harry only beats me in art, but I think it’s because his uncle is an artist!”

“Natural advantage,” Regulus said with a grin. “You’ll have to find your own artist to coach you.”

“Maybe Evan, he’s always mixing stuff in the kitchen. Pastries is art right? I like them colored!”

“God help us if that boy starts teaching you cuisine,” Regulus muttered under his breath. "Our house could not afford it, it would collapse under Evan's arm. Let's go home. Maybe I could help you a little before work." Regulus shifted slightly. “Alright, little dragon?"

“Will she still be there?” Draco asked, muffled into his coat.

There was no need to ask who he meant.
“I think so,” Regulus said. "Maybe she could help us doing something for your work?"

Draco didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away either. They walked a little farther together now, shoulder to thigh, Draco’s tiny hand slipping into Regulus’s coat pocket. It was automatic. Familiar. “Oh right! Harry said maybe I can go to his house this week. His uncle Remus promised to bake cookies.”

Regulus glanced down. “Mmh- and when you thought of telling me? His parents are okay with that? I'll have to talk to them.”

“Yeeesss they're okay with it! He wants me to see his house! Please daaad I want to go so bad! And he says his dad’s going to take us to the museum soon.”

Regulus hesitated—just for a beat. “You think- you'll like it there? They're good for you? harry is the kid you are always talking about right?” Being a single dad with too many debts and not enough hours in the day meant Regulus missed parts of Draco’s life—parts he hated himself for missing. Not the big ones. Not birthdays or Christmas morning or the nights Draco woke up from a bad dream and needed a hand to hold. Regulus was always there for those.

But the small things—the ones that slipped between late shifts and exhausted mornings—those slipped through his fingers more often than he liked to admit. School meetings. Art shows.

Regulus tried. God, he tried. He scraped together every bit of time he had, sometimes running from the bar to the schoolyard still smelling like whiskey and old smoke just to be on time for pick-up. He knew Draco understood more than he said. He could see it in the way the boy didn’t complain, didn’t ask too many questions. That quiet patience, that early maturity—it wasn’t natural. It had been learned. And that broke something in Regulus every time.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he saved up enough. Just until he could find something better. But the truth was, this was survival. And survival didn’t leave room for recitals or midday calls from the school office.
And still—every night, no matter how late, he came home. No matter how tired, he tucked Draco in. And every morning, he woke him with a kiss to the forehead and a breakfast together. It wasn’t perfect, but it was love. And for now, it had to be enough.

“Yeah,” Draco said easily, kicking a pebble down the path. “And Harry says that they’ve got a nice dog. And at school he always gives me the blue crayon even though it’s his favorite. And his dad’s funny.”

“Funny, huh.”

“He makes faces. And he lets Harry play pirates after dinner, even if it’s late. And he comes at school wearing weird costumes, they're nice!”

Regulus nodded slowly. Something quite twisted in his gut, but he kept walking. Draco really needed all of these things? Was he unhappy? But then he looked at him and his smile was genuine so- was he failing him or was it just his mind?
“You know,” he said, “when I was your age, I thought parks were boring. I’d always sit and sulk on the swings.”

Draco looked up at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. Didn’t have anyone to climb with.”

Draco reached up and grabbed his hand then, fingers cold but sure. “You have me now. Next time you'll climb with me, okay? Pinky promise?”
Regulus didn’t answer. Just squeezed that small hand in his, tight enough to ground himself, gentle enough not to break the moment.

They kept walking, the wind threading through the trees and carrying with it the low murmur of life around them: distant traffic, a dog’s bark, the creak of the swings swaying lazily behind them.

And in that soft, unremarkable stretch of morning, Regulus let himself feel it—the weight of that little voice beside him. The miracle of being needed. Of being loved, without condition.

"Yeah, next time we'll climb them together Draco."

Chapter Text

Harry was talking to himself in the living room again.

Not unusual—his son had more imagination than most theatre troupes—but it still took James a second to realize he wasn’t arguing with a stuffed toy this time. He was arguing with his left shoe.

“You’ve got five seconds to make peace with it before I declare it lost and replace it with one of grandma’s slippers,” James called out from the hallway.

Harry turned to him, completely serious. “Dad, it’s mad at me. Says my left foot smells.”

“Alright, stinky foot, apologize. Harry, let’s get ready from school." While his kid nodded eagerly. Mornings were Harry’s favorite part of the day.

And honestly, James didn’t mind them either—not anymore.
The house hummed quietly with the start of another weekday. It was big, a little too big for just him and Harry most days, but bright and lived-in, with half-finished puzzles on the coffee table and a line of muddy boots by the door. The kitchen, though, was their kingdom.

James stood barefoot, sipping coffee from a chipped Gryffindor mug, shirt untucked, watching Harry sit proudly in the middle of the kitchen island wearing his glittery dragon cape. One sock yellow, the other blue. Cereal bowl balanced precariously on his lap. Alright- time to redo anything. And probably relearn colors.

“Do you think I can wear my dragon cape to nursery?” Harry asked, spoon halfway to his mouth.

James raised an eyebrow. “The glittery one?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “It has fire. Like- almost real fire, dad. Obviously that one.”

“Well,” James said, as if carefully weighing the legalities of such a bold fashion statement, “that is the fire-breathing edition. Very exclusive. Very heroic. I think you’re obligated to wear it, honestly.”

Harry grinned wide, cheeks puffed with cereal. “I’m gonna be the fastest dragon in the world.”

James sipped his coffee and smiled. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

This was their rhythm now. James, juggling the mornings before work. Harry, inventing new ways to make them more chaotic and charming. Lily had moved out two years ago, and everything had reshaped itself quietly, gently. She lived nearby with her partner now- Mary who brought Harry illustrated science books and taught him how to bake banana bread. It worked. No drama, no bitterness. Just two parents who still liked each other enough to co-parent with an actual calendar and matching Google Docs.

“Did you brush your teeth?” James asked over the rim of his mug.

“Did you brushed your hair?”

“That’s not the same, hon.”

“Your hair is worse,” Harry insisted. “It’s like… like a tree.”

James laughed. “Rude. But fair.”

Behind him, the toast popped up. He ignored it. There was no winning breakfast with a five-year-old and a dragon cape in the room. Instead, he moved through the kitchen with easy familiarity—grabbing Harry’s lunchbox from the counter, double-checking the snack drawer, sliding one more banana into the bag just in case.

He was tired, sure. Running Potter & Sons took a lot out of him—meetings, product launches, investor calls. But it was his, passed down from Monty, who now spent his retirement joyfully pottering around the garden and refusing to use email. The business was in good hands, and James had built it into something even sleeker, more modern. Still, he carved out time. Always. For Harry.

“Alright, backpack-” James called.

Harry was already gone, thumping down the hallway. A moment later, he came back with his backpack and crayons, dragon cape flapping behind him.

James knelt and helped with the other. “There. Now you’re battle ready.”

“Nursery’s not a battle.”

“You’ve clearly never faced a room full of four-year-olds with paint.”

Harry giggled and held up his arms dramatically. “To the battlefield, Captain Dad!”

James opened the door, letting in a breeze and the soft sounds of the waking street-
The walk to the nursery was only ten minutes, but with Harry, it always stretched into fifteen. Maybe twenty, if there were ducks and dogs along the way.
James carried the backpack, now heavier with half a dozen “just-in-case” items, and Harry carried a stick he’d declared his wand of the day. They passed the same row of houses, each one a little different—some with wind chimes, others with cracked garden gnomes—and Harry greeted them like old friends.

“Good morning, gnome army! Billy, Sandy and Joe, hi everyone!” he shouted at one particularly lopsided display.

James grinned, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “They said you’re late for your patrol, so move on little soldier. Hop-hop.”

“I told them I’m undercover,” Harry whispered back, eyes darting side to side as if expecting spies in the bushes and James just huffed in sympathy. Crazy son.
When they turned the final corner, the nursery finally, finally came into view—a cheerful building with bright murals and an eternal smell of glue sticks and applesauce. A handful of kids were already there, parents chatting half-awake, coffee cups in hand.

And then—

“Harry!” a voice shrieked, excited and familiar. "Hey Harry! Harry!"
From across the little yard, a blond blur bolted toward them. James knew that kid- he was named like a dragon so Harry liked him from the very very start. They almost bonded together.

Draco, tiny and determined, was dragging a tall, elegant woman by the hand. Her heels were impractical for gravel, but she barely seemed to notice. She was elegant in a way James hadn’t seen up close in a while—sharp cheekbones, smooth blonde hair, coat too expensive for this part of town.

James blinked. The kid moved fast. Draco skidded to a stop in front of Harry, his eyes bright. “You’re late!”

Harry pointed at his stick. “I had to battle a gnome army.”

Draco accepted that with a nod. “Reasonable. But you're still late. I need to tell you something!” And then James looked up—and met the eyes of the woman Draco had hauled along. She was clearly his mother even though he never saw her before: same ice-blond hair, same sharp little chin. She looked faintly amused, and entirely too put-together for 8:15 in the morning.

When she stopped in front of him, she gave a polite nod. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Narcissa Malfoy. Draco’s mother.”

James paused, the name catching somewhere in his memory like a snag on fabric. Narcissa Black. That name had once carried a kind of mythic weight in the half-stories Sirius used to tell when they were younger—always grudgingly, always laced with sarcasm. His cousin. The perfect one. The one who never stepped out of line, who wore pearls to breakfast and could silence a room just by blinking. Elegant, Sirius had said once, like it was an accusation. Cold as a bloody moonbeam.

But she just said that- Malfoy.

So—was it the same person? Or a coincidence? Or maybe she had married into the name? James’s brain tripped over the options for a second too long, trying to puzzle out what he was supposed to say—or not say. There was a flicker of that’s fantastic, followed by a silent, panicked prayer that Sirius would never find out. Or if he did, that he wouldn’t show up at his house one evening demanding to know whether she still walked like she was being followed by paparazzi.

James smiled automatically, trying not to look like his thoughts had just wandered off a cliff. Right. Fine. Nothing dramatic here. Just a casual parenting conversation with someone who might or might not have once made Sirius contemplate legally changing his last name.

James offered another smile, careful. “Nice to meet you. I'm James. Harry's father as you can see.” She glanced at Harry, who had already launched into a conversation with Draco about building a lava trap in the sandbox.

“It seems our sons have hit it off. He talks about Harry a lot.”

“Looks like it,” James said. “They’re quite the duo. Always sticking together as Harry says. He likes Draco very much.”

“Would it be alright,” she asked, a touch formal, “if Draco came over one afternoon? He mentioned something about being invited but I don't know if he did it himself or there was really a proposal.”

Before James could answer, Draco turned toward them, eyes wide. “I was serious! Harry asked me last week! I'm not a liar!" The kid pouted and James smiled. Harry did in fact ask Draco to come to their house. "And please get his number! Dad said he wants it. So he knows who has me. He gets weird if I don’t text.”

Narcissa gave a soft sigh and a fond eye-roll. “Yeah- alright. Sorry but he’s a bit overprotective,” she said to James, almost apologetic. “But not entirely wrong.”

James reached into his jacket pocket and handed her his phone. “No problem. I'm the overprotective dad as well so I understand perfectly. Here, go ahead. That way we’ve all got it.”

She took the phone delicately, her fingers brushing his briefly as she tapped in the number. “Thank you,” she said, meeting his eyes again. “It’s good to know who’s looking after him.” There was something steady in her tone—not cold, not exactly warm, but… clear. Measured.

James gave a small nod, unsure what else to say, or how exactly he felt about the way this morning was unfolding. “So? When do you prefer?” James asked, slipping his hands into his pockets in an attempt to look more casual than he felt.

Narcissa tilted her head slightly, thoughtful. “Whenever it suits you best, honestly. We don’t want to intrude or complicate anything.”

James gave a small shrug, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No intrusion. I’m pretty flexible—perks of owning the company. I can shift things around if needed.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised for a second, before nodding. “Well, in that case… Wednesday might be ideal, if it’s not too last minute?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wednesday’s fine. Something going on?”

“Yes, actually,” she said, glancing briefly at Draco, who was now balancing on the edge of the sandbox like a tightrope artist. “I have a job interview that afternoon. And his fath— I mean- yeah well- whatever- he’s working a double shift, so no one would be able to pick Draco up until late.”

James nodded slowly. “Then Wednesday it is. We’ll keep him entertained. Might even put him to work in the kitchen,” he added with a smirk.

“I doubt he’d complain,” Narcissa said, her mouth curving faintly into what might’ve been the start of a smile. “He thinks Harry’s house is something out of a storybook.”

James laughed, a warm sound. “I hope he’s ready for glitter in his food and dragons under the couch, then.”

She looked at him properly now, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Sounds manageable. Thank you so much for the trouble.”

As soon as she stepped outside, Narcissa pulled her coat tighter around her and tapped the call button on her phone. The wind was sharp, the kind that made the bones ache if you stood still too long. It rang twice before a familiar, harried voice answered.

“I’ve got five minutes before the piece of shit returns to make everyone cry again,” Regulus said without preamble. “Make it count.”

“Charming as always,” Narcissa replied dryly. “This won’t take long. I’ve arranged for Wednesday. After school. Is that alright?”

A pause. She could hear background noise—doors opening, distant shouting, something clattering.
“That’s fine,” Regulus muttered. “Thanks. Harry's place, right?”

“Yes. I didn’t get the address yet, but I will. I got his father number so you're happy to text him if you're iper-anxious. Do you… happen to know his father? James? Don't know the surname though-”

Regulus snorted. “No. I’ve only ever spoken to the teachers. I know a few of Draco’s classmates by face, maybe. This Harry- round glasses, dark hair, nice smile. Why?”

Narcissa hesitated. “Nothing. He just seemed a bit… familiar, I suppose.”

A short silence. “Wait,” Regulus said, amusement slipping into his tone. “Are you eyeing a dad, Cissy?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was already smiling. “Go fuck yourself, Reg.”

He laughed. “Just asking questions. You're a free woman now."

She shifted her weight against the stone wall of the building, glancing up at the grey sky and rolling her eyes with a soft smile at the corner of her lips. “You said five minutes. Do you want me to keep Draco longer tonight so you can do an extra shift? Or maybe to sleep a bit? I can take him from school too.”

“If you’re free,” Regulus said, serious again. “I could stretch four more hours after six. We’re behind.”

“Four? What are your plans today?” she asked, even though she knew she might not want the answer.

Regulus exhaled. “Bar shift until eleven, kitchen work until two. Then the library ‘til six. And if you’ve got him, back to the bar for some more hours. Home by nine-thirty. Ten, maybe. Hope to see Draco still up, he gets antsy when I don't read him before bed.”

She blinked. “Planning to collapse in between or after? Are you out of your mind Regulus? Come home and rest a bit..”

“It's not really an option, Narcissa” he said. “It’s been like this for a while. I’ve always done it. We’re still behind on last month’s rent, and this month’s already ticking down. So yeah. It’s necessary. Nothing wrong. Nothing weird.” She didn’t respond right away. The silence stretched just enough to shift the air. She was feeling so guilty.

Regulus had always been the one with all the potential—the one with the sharp tongue and sharper mind, the one who could’ve done anything if he’d only been given the room to breathe. He’d had a place waiting for him at a ballet conservatory once, a letter she remembered holding in her hands, the parchment still faintly scented from where he’d hidden it in a bottle of cologne so no one would find it. He could’ve studied anything, economy, english literature, poetry, philosophy, mathematics. He could've been anything.

And now he was running himself into the ground with back-to-back shifts, library shelving and bar cleaning and dishwashing, barely sleeping between the cracks. No time to study. No time to dream. Just enough to keep Draco clothed and fed and the lights on.

He didn’t deserve this. Not any of it.

“Cissa it’s fine,” Regulus added more quietly. “I’ve stopped thinking of it as a problem. It’s just life now. Normal. You stop waiting for the easy part.” And worst of all, he’d learned to say it was fine. Like it wasn’t swallowing him whole. Like it was just how things were.

Narcissa pressed her lips together. “Still. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” Narcissa swallowed around the lump in her throat and blinked up at the pale sky, trying to ignore the sting behind her eyes. The world had asked too much of Regulus for too long, and he’d stopped expecting it to ever be different.

He hummed, almost noncommittal. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was another pause. The sounds on his end had shifted again—footsteps, a distant door slamming. “Alright,” Regulus said, voice flattening as he came back to himself. “Break’s up. Gotta go pretend to be useful.”

“Don’t die,” she said.

“No promises,” he replied, but there was a faint smile in it.

The line went dead.

Narcissa stayed still for a few seconds longer, the cold biting at her fingers, before slipping her phone back into her coat pocket. She didn’t move right away. Just looked out at the quiet street, thinking of Harry’s house, of laughter and dragons and glitter tucked under sofa cushions. And of Regulus, still clawing his way through every hour just to keep the lights on.

For a moment, she envied the simplicity of Harry’s storybook world. Then she straightened her coat and walked back inside. It wasn't her business.

The front door burst open like a herald of chaos.

“We’re home!” Harry shouted, storming into the house like a very small, very loud knight returning from battle. His dragon cape trailed behind him like a war banner, and his stick—now slightly chipped from an encounter with a particularly aggressive curb—was still clutched proudly in one hand.

“Incoming,” James called, not far behind, setting down the backpack with the long-suffering sigh of a man who had just survived a conversation with a woman far too elegant to be standing outside a nursery.

From the living room came a series of sounds: the clink of a teacup, the muffled laugh of someone trying not to laugh, and then—
“Speak of the devil,” Sirius’s voice rang out. “And by devil, I mean you, Smallfoot.”

Harry came skidding around the corner. “Uncle Padfoot! Uncle Moony! MUM! You're all here wow!! That's awesome!”

Remus, already smiling, opened his arms as Harry launched himself onto the couch, half-draped in his dragon cape, and gave him a lopsided hug.
“Battle stories, please,” Remus said, smoothing down the cape. “I expect at least three acts and an intermission.”

“Did you win?” Lily asked, emerging from the kitchen with a bowl of cut strawberries and that familiar mum-tone that somehow demanded honesty and offered comfort at the same time.

“I mostly won,” Harry said, nodding with complete seriousness. “But only because Draco helped. He has a shield spell.”

Sirius raised both eyebrows. “Oh- Draco? Who?”

“Yeah!” Harry plopped onto the rug and took one of the strawberries. “He’s my best friend now. We built a volcano in the sandbox. And we made a truce with the gnome army. And tomorrow we’re gonna build a moat. With lava.”

Remus gave an approving nod. “Practical.”

Lily, seated on the armrest now, cocked her head. “And who’s this Draco, then?”

“Draco Malfoy,” Harry said between mouthfuls. “He’s got white hair and shiny shoes and he says his dad checks if he brushes his teeth with a flashlight.”

Sirius made a choking noise into his tea. “I’m sorry. Malfoy?”

James dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and called from the hallway, “Harry, hands! Before you smear lava and gnome blood all over the sofa.”

“On it!” Harry leapt up and thundered toward the bathroom.

Sirius waited exactly two seconds before rounding on James. “Please tell me this Draco Malfoy is not related to that Malfoy.”

James wandered into the room and grabbed a strawberry from the bowl like a man preparing for battle. “He is. But hold onto your outrage for a moment, we’re not there yet.”

“I’m already outraged,” Sirius said, clearly delighted.

“Of course you are,” James muttered.

“Wait,” Lily said slowly, setting down the fruit. “Are you saying your son’s new best friend is Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“He is,” James said again, popping the strawberry into his mouth. “And he’s actually… nice. Sort of weirdly nice. And polite. Scarily polite. He isn't an ordinary kid.”

Remus hummed, always the more measured one. “Kids don’t come pre-installed with their parents’ sins.”

Sirius leaned back dramatically, hand to heart. “Remus, love of my life, why must you ruin my right to be a bitter old grudge-holder? Malfoy sucks- question closed.”

James just grinned, because this was what home sounded like now. Familiar bickering. Harry’s voice echoing from the bathroom as he sang to himself about dragons and dental hygiene. Lily and Remus keeping the peace. Sirius finding new and exciting reasons to take things very personally. This was normal. Well. Their normal. James hadn’t even gotten to the weird part yet.

Sirius, still dramatically sprawled across the armchair like he’d just heard that tea was canceled forever, shook his head. “I never liked that guy. Not once. I saw him at a couple of those ghastly family dinners, remember? Always lurking at the end of the table like a very shiny spider. Practically drooling over my cousin.”

Lily blinked. “Which one?”

“Narcissa,” Sirius said, with the same tone someone might use for arsenic. “All pearls and posture, and he’d just sit there smirking like he thought he’d already won a prize. Honestly, he gave me hives.”

James rubbed a hand down his face. “Well… turns out he did win. Narcissa is the prize. They’re married.”

There was a silence so sharp you could’ve cut toast with it.

Sirius sat bolt upright. “I’m sorry, what?”

James held up both hands like a man diffusing a bomb. “Don’t shoot the messenger! She introduced herself this morning—Narcissa Malfoy. I nearly blacked out. She’s Draco’s mum. The Draco.”

Remus blinked slowly. “Oh. Oh that explains- a lot? I mean- just- wow- I can't get my head through it. So you were like- neighbors with your cousin all this time along?” He pointed at Sirius who covered his eyes scared.

Lily blinked faster. “Hang on. Narcissa Black is the mother of your son’s best friend and you didn’t lead with this?!”

“I was processing!” James said, pacing now. “Do you understand what kind of mental gymnastics it took not to shout ‘OH BLOODY HELL’ in front of two five-year-olds?”

Sirius was still stunned. “You shook hands with her?”

“She put her number in my phone,” James deadpanned. “We’re basically pen pals now.”

“Oh my God.” Sirius looked faintly horrified. “You’re in deep.”

James flopped down onto the couch with a groan. “And now Draco’s coming over on Wednesday. It’s happening. I’ve entered the snake pit.”

Remus sipped his tea calmly. “Well. At least it’s a well-mannered pit.”

"This is bad- so- so bad."

"Don't be over dramatic Sirius, they're just kids-"

"No you don't-" Sirius started to say before he got stopped.

From the hallway came the sound of Harry yelling, “I’M CLEAN, WHERE’S MY SNACK?!”

James waved a hand in the air, exhausted, taking the strawberries from the fridge. “He’s five and he’s already the king of the house.”

Sirius pointed his spoon dramatically. “I’m telling you now, Prongs. If Lucius Malfoy shows up at your doorstep in a cravat, I’m moving in.”

“You already have a drawer here,” Lily muttered.

“And a mug,” Remus added.

“And a toothbrush,” James pointed out.

Sirius shrugged. “It’s called being prepared.”

Harry burst back into the room, socks mismatched, hair even worse than usual. “Is there still fruit?!” James tossed him a strawberry like a man throwing snacks at a tiny lion.

“Catch, Dragon Commander.”

Harry caught it with one hand. “I like strawberry best. But only when they're juicy like these!” Lily smiled gently as Harry climbed up beside her on the couch, still chewing on the last bite of strawberry.

“So,” she said, brushing a bit of glitter off his dragon cape, “you invited Draco over, huh? Are you happy?”

Harry nodded eagerly. “Yup! I told him he could come on Wednesday. He said he never gets to go to other people’s houses much, so I said it’s fine ‘cause we have lava traps and snack time.”

“Well, that sounds very welcoming,” Lily said with a chuckle. “You like him, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, a little quieter now. “He’s cool. He knows about goblin tunnels and he said he can draw a map with invisible ink. And…” He paused, fidgeting with the edge of his cape. “He told me his mum went away for a really long time. But she’s back now. So it’s okay. He said she had to leave for grown-up stuff. Like… really far. Like space or something.”

Lily’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Space?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. But he said his dad stayed and did everything—like even helped him with his shoes sometimes, and he’d get a little stressed if things weren’t perfect. But Draco said he's the best, even when things get complicated. He loves his dad loads.” Harry said that last part with such certainty it could’ve been a magic spell. James and the others exchanged glances, none of them speaking—just a shared, subtle flicker of grown-up tension.

Harry, oblivious, popped another strawberry into his mouth. “Anyway, I said he can come over and we’ll show him the glitter drawer. He looked like he really needed that.”

Lily smiled, but there was something thoughtful behind her eyes now. “That’s lovely, sweetheart. It’s nice when we can make people feel welcome.”

“Yeah!” Harry grinned, now twisting around to lie dramatically across the couch, arms flopped like he’d just completed a noble quest. “We’re gonna build a whole dragon kingdom. Or something about pirates, he likes them very much!”

James cleared his throat softly. “Just the playroom, champ. Not the entire kingdom.”

Harry waved a hand, perfectly knowing that at the end James would lose his battle.

Remus leaned closer to Lily and murmured, “Space?”

Lily’s smile didn’t falter, but she whispered back, “Or maybe… not space.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Mysterious Malfoy history already? Wonderful. Let’s all make popcorn before the next chapter drops.”

Harry bounced off the couch with his usual enthusiasm, running toward his drawing corner. “I’m going to draw the dragon kingdom now! There’ll be sparkling rivers and lava caves! And tomorrow I'm going to show it to Draco.”

Lily smiled, watching him go. “Just don’t color your room's walls again, okay?”

“I won’t,” Harry called back, already halfway across the room. “But the walls might turn glittery. It’s a secret.”

James chuckled. “A glittery secret, huh? I like it.”
As Harry immersed himself in his world of colors, the adults lingered behind, exchanging looks. Sirius was the first to speak up.

“So, Lucius Malfoy, huh?” he asked, still not fully processing. “You’re telling me Draco’s father is Lucius? The same Lucius Malfoy who is a total piece of shit and—”

James cut him off. “Yeah. We've been on it for the last ten minutes Prongs, move on please. He’s Draco’s dad. Wonderful. And—”

“Wait, wait,” Remus interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Harry said his mom went away for a long time, and his dad did everything for him, including brushing his hair. Lucius is the one doing all that? And his mother went away leaving a kid with that kind of man?”

"Maybe she had no choice. Maybe- she- he could've been bad for her-" Sirius shifted uncomfortably, changing subject but James knew what his best friend was thinking.
Why did Narcissa leave Draco? James had heard the rumors about Lucius—how he treated those beneath him, why his company had collapsed. Was he better with a kid? Maybe if he was his. Maybe-

“You know, growing up in a house like mine… I just can’t help but worry. I’ve seen what that kind of pressure can do to a kid. And if Draco’s getting that from Lucius… Well, I don’t know. I just don’t want him going through what I went through.”

Lily’s expression softened, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes. “But we don’t know exactly what’s going on behind closed doors. Draco could be fine. He in fact seems pretty fine. Happy. Taken care of.”

Sirius shook his head, still not convinced. “Maybe. But Lucius is… a lot. I’ve seen the way he operates. I just don’t want Draco to be another kid who has to carry around his father’s expectations like armor. It’s not easy growing up in a house where you’re not allowed to fail. Narcissa grew up there too. She wasn’t like Bellatrix—she wasn’t bad—but… when you’ve got parents like we did, they don’t just raise you, they get into your head. They shape you. Every thought, every move. So—”
He gave a small shrug. “I don’t know.”

James stayed silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the floor. “I know what you mean, Pads. It’s hard to shake off that kind of upbringing. But we can’t assume that’s what’s happening here. Draco seems like… well, he’s different. He’s not his father. Or like you. He likes it there.”

Remus glanced at Lily, his voice low. “And yet, it’s still worrying when you hear things like that. When Harry says things like… his mother went away for a long time- why? Does- does Malfoy- well I don't know but It makes you wonder.”

Lily sighed. “It does, doesn’t it? But Harry seems happy, and Draco seems okay for now. Maybe we’re just overthinking it. And we better stop, because it can lead to misunderstanding or false information.”

Sirius shook his head again. “I just… hope Draco’s okay. I wouldn’t wish what I went through on anyone. Especially not him. Not a kid.”

There was a long, quiet pause before James spoke, his voice softer than before. “We’ll keep an eye on it, Pads. No one’s going through anything alone if we can help it.” The room was quiet for a few beats, as each of them took in the weight of the situation.

Chapter Text

The house smelled of warm cinnamon and citrus cleaning spray—the odd but comforting combination of Wednesday baking and mild panic. Sirius was perched on the arm of the couch, watching his boyfriend work. As always.
Remus stood at the dining table, laying out a handful of colorful napkins and setting down bowls of crisps and neatly sliced fruit. On the floor, a few toy dragons and picture books lay scattered, half-forgotten in the rush of the morning.

It was Wednesday, and the house was open and ready to greet Draco—because what else could you expect at the Potters’?

In the kitchen, Lily’s laughter rang out, light and easy, blending with Euphemia’s low, warm voice as they debated whether cupcakes counted as a snack or a dessert. Monty had claimed a quiet spot in the corner, book in hand and a steaming mug cradled between his palms, occasionally humming in agreement without looking up. The room was alive with that layered, comforting kind of noise only families seem to master—plates clinking, a phone chiming softly with a message, the oven letting out a sharp beep as it finished preheating.

And then the house phone rang.

James, hands still damp from washing a tray, reached for it with a grin, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Potter residence,” he said lightly, “who speaks?"

There was a pause on the other end. His smile faltered.
“…Yes, this is James Potter. Harry’s father.”

In the living room, Sirius slowly turned from the banner. Remus straightened. The room’s warmth didn’t vanish—but it did still, like someone had gently pressed pause.

James’s brow creased, his eyes no longer on the tray he’d been drying. “Is he hurt? How is he? How this happened?”

Another pause. His jaw tensed.

“I see. Alright. Yes. I can come now. Thank you for calling.” He hung up slowly, as if the air had gotten heavier in his hands.

“What happened?” Lily’s voice came first, quiet but urgent, already halfway into the room. James glanced at her, then to the others, trying to locate the calm somewhere in the center of his chest. His Harry—his little boy—had gotten into his first fight. And with Draco, of all people. Draco, the boy who was supposed to come over today. Harry’s best friend.

What could’ve possibly gone wrong?

He’d seen Draco—polite, sharp, with that eerie sort of calm some kids carried too early. And he knew Harry. Harry didn’t pick fights. He didn’t push. He’d rather give up a toy than argue over it. The thought of him bleeding under the chin, the thought of them fighting— It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

"Harry got into a fight. At school.”

Remus blinked. “A fight? Harry? The same Harry we know?” James nodded knowingly, worried and scared. His son. Harry. Draco. Harry and Draco.

“They said he’s okay—just a scrape under the chin. A bit shaken. The other kid pushed him.” Monty lowered his mug, eyeing carefully James.

“You don't know who was the kid- the one who-" Sirius began, already halfway to the answer.

James nodded once. “Draco. Apparently there was some argument. Teachers didn’t see how it started. But they need one of us to come pick him up.”

"Draco? Oh God, why?" Lily was already reaching for her coat. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, it’s alright,” James said quickly, lifting a hand to cut off any further protests. “I’ve got it. You’ve still got a dozen things to prep here, even though I don’t know if Draco will come anymore and one of us is already enough to—”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly from the couch. “James, you’re not going to that school alone. Not for this. It’s Harry’s first fight. With Draco. If anyone knows what could’ve happened, it’s you. But you’re not going in there without backup.”

James sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to process the knot in his stomach. “I’ll be fine, Sirius. It’s just a little bump. He’ll be alright. Lily doesn't need to-”

“Actually,” Sirius interrupted, brushing his palms together as he stood, “I’ll go.”

James blinked. “No. Why? What? You don’t have to—”

“No, I think I do,” Sirius said, grabbing his jacket from the hook near the door. “It’s Harry’s first real fight. With another kid. And not just any kid—Draco bloody Malfoy.”He hesitated, glancing toward the window as if waiting for something.

Remus shot him a glance. “Language.”

Sirius ignored it. “Besides,” he added, softer now, “I know the Malfoys. A little. Enough. Lucius especially. And if there’s even the slightest chance he shows up, I’d rather be the one standing in the room when he does. You're too nice and he could be a very piece of-" He stopped midway when Remus coughed. "Yea whatever- I'm coming. I wasn't doing much anyway."

Remus, who’d been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was calm but firm. “Sirius is right, James. It’s not about just fixing the problem with Harry. It’s about making sure Draco’s safe too. If there’s any chance Draco’s dad gets involved…” He trailed off, letting the unspoken tension hang in the air.

“Alright,” James said, his voice steady, though his heart was a little heavier now. “Let’s go then. But we’re getting to the bottom of this. No dramatics. Just—just making sure everything’s alright.”

Sirius gave a two-fingered salute, already heading for the door. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring Harry and James back in one piece.”

“And the other kid?” Remus called after him.

“Can’t make promises, he's my godson that he has hurt” Sirius muttered. The door clicked shut behind him. And for a moment, James just stood there, staring at the spot Sirius had been.

Then Lily reached over and took his hand, her eyes filled with concern.
“Draco and Harry,” she murmured. “Of all the kids in that class…”

James sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah. Wonder what happened. I'll let you know..”

The door clicked shut softly behind them, the quiet hallway giving way to the low murmur of an office smelling faintly of pencil shavings, old paper, and school soap.

Professor McGonagall looked up from behind her desk, her hands folded neatly on a file. She wore her usual crisp blouse under a navy cardigan, her expression even—but there was the slightest crease between her brows.

“Mr. Potter,” she said with a small nod, then glanced at Sirius beside him. “And Mr. Black. Thank you for coming on short notice.”

“Of course,” James replied, voice tight with worry. “Is Harry—?”

“In the nurse’s room,” she said gently. “He’s alright. Just a scrape under his chin. He was more upset than injured.” James didn’t wait for more. He nodded quickly and made for the hallway she indicated. Sirius followed a step behind, slower, quieter.

They found Harry sitting on a too-big cot with a small plaster under his chin, tear tracks dried on his cheeks, clutching a slightly squashed dragon sticker in one hand.

“Dad!” he cried the moment he saw James, who was already kneeling in front of him.

“Oh, buddy…” James wrapped his arms around him, breathing in the scent of soap and strawberry shampoo. “You okay? That looks like a mighty battle scar.”

Harry hiccupped. “It hurted. And Draco pushed me. But maybe I said something bad—”

“What happened?” James asked, brushing a hand through his hair. “Why were you two fighting?”

Harry sniffled. “He got mad. I just said what you and Uncle Padfoot said. About his dad. That maybe he wasn’t nice to him sometimes. But I didn’t mean it bad! I was just thinking out loud!”

James blinked. “Wait—you heard us talk about that?”

Harry nodded, rubbing his eyes. “At home. When I was drawing. You were in the kitchen.” James exhaled slowly. That had been days ago. He hadn’t even realized Harry had been listening.
“I didn’t know it was a secret,” Harry mumbled.

Sirius looked at James, then back at Harry, mouth parted slightly in realization. “He repeated us.”

James ran a hand down his face. “Oh, no… this is the worst—”
But Harry started crying again, his small body trembling against James’s shoulder, so he swallowed the rest of his panic and gently rubbed his back.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, soft and steady. “You’re alright, yeah? You’re okay. Draco too. Everything’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

There was a knock at the door, and then Draco peeked in, shoulders hunched, face blotchy. Behind him stood a teacher with a look of well-practiced patience.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” Draco said immediately, voice shaking. “He said my dad was bad! He’s not! He’s not!”

James stood, careful not to tower over him. “Draco—hey. No one’s mad. I just wanted to check that you’re alright.”

Draco didn’t answer. His fists were clenched.

“I know what Harry said upset you,” James went on gently. “But I think it might’ve been a misunderstanding. Sometimes… grown-ups talk about things they shouldn’t. And sometimes kids overhear things they don’t fully understand.”

Sirius stepped closer, but cautiously. “No one’s saying your dad isn’t good to you.”

Draco’s head snapped up, face red and furious. “Yes, you did! You said he wasn’t nice and maybe he was mean! Harry said you did! He said my dad might be hurting me!”

Sirius froze.

“Draco—” James began.

But Draco’s voice rose, brittle and panicked. “He doesn’t! He’s the best dad ever! He gives me cocoa and reads me stories and fixes my socks and—and—he’s mine! You don’t even know him!”

Harry looked stricken. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “I just thought maybe he was sad. Like when Mum says you act weird ‘cause you’re tired…”

Draco stared at him for a long second, chest heaving.

James crouched again. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “This is all just a big mix-up. No one thinks badly of anyone. But Draco, your feelings are real, and it’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to tell us. But you shouldn't have pushed Harry, even if you were angry."

Draco’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t speak.

The teacher gave a nod from the doorway. “You boys can take a few minutes, if you’d like.” James gave Harry’s hand a light squeeze, and Sirius glanced at Draco, something soft and almost protective flashing in his eyes.

The silence that settled next wasn’t comfortable—but it wasn’t painful either. Just the kind that comes when everyone’s still figuring out what they need to say.
Draco’s bottom lip wobbled, and then, quite suddenly, he crumpled.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just the small, shuddering collapse of a boy too full of emotions and not enough space to hold them. His shoulders curled inward, his hands rubbed angrily at his eyes, and tears started falling in thick, hot drops down his cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to push him,” he sobbed, voice thick and high. “But I was so mad! And then I got scared, and I—I just want my dad. I- I want him-”

James’s heart cracked a little at the sight. He reached out instinctively, but stopped halfway, not wanting to crowd him. “It’s alright, Draco,” he said gently. “You’re allowed to feel all of this. No one thinks you’re bad.”

“I just want my dad…” Draco repeated, quieter now, as if the crying had taken all the air out of him. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry-"

James glanced at Sirius, then crouched down again beside the little boy. “I only have your mum’s number,” he said softly. “But we can call him. I promise.”

Draco didn’t answer. He was hiccupping now, clinging to the sleeve of his jumper like it might keep the rest of him from falling apart.
Just then, the classroom door opened again and Professor McGonagall stepped back in, holding a clipboard and a phone.
“I’ve got the emergency contacts,” she said calmly. “I’ll call his dad now, wait a minute.”

McGonagall stepped just a little away from the children, the phone pressed firmly to her ear. Her expression, which had been stern and composed all morning, shifted—brows tightening just enough to betray a new kind of concern.

James stayed quiet, seated beside Harry, who had curled slightly against his side. Across from them, Draco was sniffling quietly, eyes puffy and red, clutching the hem of his jumper. He didn’t look angry anymore—just small and afraid.

“Yes, Mr. Black, I understand you’re at work,” McGonagall said calmly. “But your son has asked for you, and he’s… understandably upset.”

A beat. James watched as her mouth pressed into a firmer line, the kind that didn’t leave much room for doubt. He was too far to catch the words, but the tone—hushed, clipped—told him enough. It wasn’t good.

“I see. No, I understand. Of course. I’m sorry your manager won’t allow you to step out—”

James blinked.

She continued, her voice a touch softer. “Well, Draco is alright physically, but he’s quite shaken. Yes. Harry’s father is here—he came as soon as we called him.” She paused, eyes flicking back toward James, assessing. Then she gave a short nod. “Yes, I think that would be appropriate. One moment, I’ll pass you to him.”

She turned toward James, lowering the phone just enough. “Draco’s father would like to speak with you—he can’t leave work.”

James, already halfway rising, nodded and took the phone carefully, his fingers brushing hers. “James Potter speaking.” From the other end of the line came a voice, tight with strain and the background hum of noise—distant kitchen clatter, someone barking an order. He didn’t sound like he had a second to breathe.

There was a pause, then a sharp breath on the other end. “Mr. Potter. Hi. Uhm- I'm Draco's guardian. Thank you for coming- I—” His voice faltered, tight with something James couldn’t name yet. “I can’t leave. My shift’s locked down and if I step away, I might not have one to come back to.”

“No worries,” James said quickly. “Draco’s not hurt. He’s just… really shaken up.”

A longer pause. When Lucius spoke again, his voice was low, almost trembling with frustration. “He wouldn’t have done it without a reason. I know he pushed your son, but—Draco doesn’t lash out unless something’s wrong. Please know that. He's a good kid and I'll make him understand that this is not acceptable.”

“I believe you, and Draco had his way for being upset. You're right.” James said gently. "We can figure it-" but James was stopped midway.

Suddenly, a voice barked in the background—loud and cutting. A man.
“What the hell are you still doing on the phone? You think this is a tea break?”

James sat up straighter.
His voice snapped back, strained. “Just one minute, I said—just give me a bloody—”
There was a harsh crash. Something metal hit the ground. James heard him gasp like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Hello?” James said, alarmed. “What’s going on? Everything is alright?”

“Just— just give me two minutes,” Draco's dad muttered, and the phone muffled abruptly. He didn't sound so old like Lucius would. James didn't expected this- he sounded almost- almost younger than him, tired obviously. A tiredness that came from years of working but- it was weird. Unusual. Not expected. He expected Lucius Malfoy to sound demanding, angry, bitter, hard. Not- not this.

More shouting followed. The unmistakable sound of something slamming. James stood, heart racing. What was happening there?
After nearly a minute, the phone unmuted again. “Sorry,” he breathed out, almost wheezing and James shrugged. “I can’t leave. I really can’t.”

James swallowed. “It’s alright. I can take Draco with me, that’s not a problem.” He hesitated. “But… he doesn’t want to come. He said he wants to go home.”

There was a pause. Then he said, very softly, “Could you put him on the phone? Please. I’ll take care of it.”

James nodded before realizing that he couldn’t see him. “Of course. Just a moment.”

He turned toward the hallway, already walking to find the little boy curled in on himself, pale and quiet. James crouched down, still holding the phone, as Sirius stepped in behind him, brow furrowed.

“What’s going on?” Sirius asked quietly, eyes flicking between the two boys.

“It’s Lucius,” James murmured. “He can’t leave work. He asked to talk to Draco.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened, but he just nodded. James turned toward the small figure curled into the beanbag by the classroom bookshelf.

“Draco?” he said gently. “Your papa wants to talk to you. Do you think you can take the phone?”

Draco looked up with glassy eyes. He hesitated, his lip wobbling slightly, but then reached out with one small hand. James passed the phone to him slowly, and Draco pressed it to his ear with both hands, holding it close like it might steady him.

“…Papa?” he whispered.

There was a long pause. Then—
“I’m okay,” Draco whispered, voice barely audible. “No. I didn’t mean to push him. I just—he said things and I got scared. I thought—I'm sorry dad.”

James and Sirius exchanged a look, careful not to interrupt.

Draco sniffled, listening hard. “But they were talking about you… I thought maybe they were saying… bad things. And I didn’t want them to think you’re like that. You’re not. You’re the best.”

Harry inched closer, just enough for their shoulders to nearly touch.

“…No,” Draco murmured. “I didn’t get hurt. Just a scrape. Harry’s okay too. I didn't meant- I know-” He paused, blinking fast. “Can I still go? Even though we fought? I don’t wanna ruin it. Maybe Harry's upset.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the classroom clock and Harry fidgeting with the edge of his jumper.
“…Okay. I promise. I’ll be good. I’ll say sorry again. When can I see you?”

Draco nodded slowly to himself, clutching the phone tighter.

“Love you too.”

He handed the phone back to James, eyes still wet but a little more settled.
“He said it’s alright. If… if I still want to go. If- if I can still-”

James smiled, gentle. “You’re still invited, Draco. Nothing changed. It's normal to fight. The most important thing is to talk about it. We were wrong for saying those things about your dad and you were wrong for pushing Harry, alright?” Draco nodded, his eyes still puffy, but he was almost okay now. James huffed, almost exhausted by that day.

Sirius crouched down beside Harry and whispered theatrically, “Think we still have time to hide the good snacks?”

Harry grinned a little, elbowed him, and turned back to Draco. “You can have the red dragon. The one with glitter wings. I mean… if you still want it. I'm sorry Draco.”

Draco gave a shaky laugh, the smallest thing. “Yeah. I do. I'm sorry too Harry.”

James let out a slow breath. “Alright then,” he said, standing. “Let’s go home.”

The second the call with James ended, Regulus stood frozen for a moment, the phone still clutched in his hand, pulse hammering in his ears. The world around him — the noise of the kitchen, the sharp clang of metal on metal — felt distant, like he wasn’t standing there at all.
Regulus stood there, hunched in his coat, the phone pressed tight to his ear. His hand trembled slightly, partly from the cold that affected his bones, partly from the quiet panic still coiled in his chest.

His fingers moved on their own, dialing the number he knew by heart.
It barely rang once.

“Regulus?” Narcissa’s voice was crisp, composed, but beneath the surface he could hear it — the faint thread of worry pulling taut. Regulus swallowed, glancing back at the kitchen door, half-expecting his manager to come storming out and bark at him again.

“Cissy.” His voice came out rougher than he’d meant, strained under the weight of everything he didn’t know how to say. “I just got a call from Draco’s school.”

Something in her tone shifted instantly. “What happened?”

“There was… a fight. He’s alright, I think, but he was scared. He asked for me.” Regulus paused, his hand tightening around the phone. “And I wasn’t there.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Where is he now?”

“James Potter picked him up.” The words tasted foreign in his mouth — unfamiliar, but not bitter. Just strange. And for a moment, the name hung heavy in his head. James Potter. The name carried its own weight, its own history. The savior. The golden boy. The best friend Sirius had chosen, the brother he had wanted, the one Regulus had never been. The thought twisted something deep in his chest. He could picture it too clearly — James, steady and kind, with Sirius, fierce and loyal bending down to comfort Harry. The kind of care Sirius had never known how to give, not even to his own nephew — assuming he even knew Draco existed at all.

But Regulus couldn’t let himself spiral down that path. Maybe they’d drifted apart, the way Sirius had drifted away from everything that once mattered, including him. Maybe this was all just coincidence. Or maybe it wasn’t.
Either way, it wasn’t the time for old ghosts. Not now. Not ever.

Narcissa’s voice pulled him back. “Potter?”

“Yes. He was already at the school for his son. That James,” Regulus added, voice lowering slightly, struggling to lock his emotions back into place. “Anyway — I need to go to Draco. I can’t let him sit there thinking I don’t care.”

“Of course not. But I’m sure he’s not thinking that,” she said, her voice softening, more practical now. “Are they at their house?”

“That’s the thing — I forgot to ask. Do you have the address? You’ve been texting him, haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.” He could hear her moving, the faint rustle of papers, the click of a pen against wood. “I’ll send it to you. Regulus—”

“What?”

“He’s alright. You’ll see. Just go.”

His throat tightened, and for a moment he could only manage a quiet, “Thanks.”

“I’ll head there too, as soon as I can. I’m on the other side of the city, but I’ll meet you there.”

Regulus nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Alright.”

Then — the soft finality of the call ending. That little click. The quiet afterward was deafening. And for the first time all day, the full weight of panic settled into his chest like a stone dropped into deep water. Heavy. Cold. Final.

Regulus stood still for a moment, staring at the darkened screen of his phone as if it might tell him something more. As if it might change its mind and offer him reassurance. But it didn’t. It was just a piece of glass. Just static in his palm.
He shoved it roughly into the pocket of his coat and wiped a hand across his mouth, trying to collect himself. His fingers were shaking slightly. He curled them into a fist.

Then he turned, shoulders tight, every movement now urgent — deliberate. He walked back toward the house with long, purposeful strides, pushing aside the tangled mess of thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

Not now. Not Sirius. Not James. Not the past.
There was only one thing that mattered now.
Getting to Draco.

Lily was already in the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel. The moment she saw Draco, her expression softened instantly. “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice low and warm, but careful. “Would you like something warm? We’ve got hot chocolate and banana bread.”

Draco looked down at his shoes. His shoulders were drawn tight, his cheeks still a little pink from crying—but mostly from embarrassment now. He gave a small shrug, noncommittal.

Sirius ruffled his hair gently as he passed him. “It’s good banana bread, mate,” he said. “Remus made it, which means it’s actually edible.”

That earned a faint twitch of the mouth. Almost a smile. Almost normal again.
James helped Draco out of his coat. “You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry,” he said quietly. “Just come in. Get warm.”

Draco nodded once, still silent, and stepped inside. Soft music played in the background, and someone—maybe Monty—was laughing from the kitchen. He could hear the clink of dishes, the hum of conversation. All of it so normal. And he felt like a storm cloud walking through it.

Harry peeked around the corner from the living room. His eyes were still puffy too. He held something in his hand—a crayon drawing, it looked like—and didn’t say anything at first.

Draco froze looking at him.

James looked between them. “Harry,” he said gently, “you want to come say hi?”

Harry hesitated, then nodded. He walked over slowly, like someone approaching a wild animal. “Hi,” he whispered. “You look a bit better now.”

Draco stared at him. “I’m still a little bit mad,” he said, but his voice cracked a little.

Harry looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence between them—thick, but not angry anymore. Just tired.
Draco reached out slowly, offering the crayon drawing. “This is for your wall. If you still want it. It was a thank you for inviting me.”

Harry took it like it was made of glass. “Yeah. I do. I really like it.”

James smiled softly, stepping back to give them space. Sirius caught his eye, and mouthed, Good? James gave a small shrug and a nod. Getting there.

Lily returned with a tray of two mugs of hot chocolate—one with whipped cream, one without. She didn’t ask, just set the one with cream in front of Draco. “In case you changed your mind,” she said lightly.

Draco blinked at it. Then nodded. Just once.

Sirius crouched down beside him, eyeing him with something like fondness. “Hey, kiddo. You want to call your dad later? Let him know you’re okay?”

Draco nodded again. But this time, his eyes welled up slightly. “I think he's a bit mad at me. I don't usually push around other kids. I'm sorry." He looked small in the big living room—pale, eyes still red, and jaw stubbornly set like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

James knelt beside him, hand gently resting on his back. “Don't worry anymore Draco. Just play with Harry a bit. Im sure your father is not mad at you, you're a good kid, love."

Draco didn’t answer. But he took the hot chocolate in both hands, curled into the corner of the couch—and stayed. He hadn’t taken a sip yet of the hot chocolate yet, but he seemed a little better, now exchanging glances and small talks with Harry.

From the kitchen archway, Lily leaned in with concern written all over her face. “James?” she asked quietly. “What happened?”

James ran a hand through his hair, glancing toward Draco before answering. “There was a fight. Not huge. Just… pushing. Harry said something about his dad. Something he must’ve overheard at home. Draco got upset.”

“About Lucius?” Remus asked, frowning.

James nodded. “Yeah. Harry said something like, ‘maybe your dad isn’t nice sometimes,’ and Draco… well, lost it.”

“He said we said that?” Lily’s face pinched. “Oh, James…”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s our fault. We weren’t careful. Harry didn’t mean anything by it. He just didn’t know it would hurt.”

Monty stepped in, quiet and thoughtful as always. “But why such a strong reaction?” he asked gently. “Isn't everything alright now? The kids always push each other. It common among them.”

“Yeah- it's just- He asked for his dad,” James said. “Was desperate to call him. I spoke to him—Lucius, I mean. He was at work. Couldn’t leave. Sounded… stressed. Like the kind of stressed that makes you shout even when you don’t mean to.”

Lily’s brows drew together. “You think he yelled at Draco?”

“No. But- or well- I don't think so. Im still not sure. I heard yelling. I don't know from him or someone else did. I mean- While I was on the phone. I heard something crash, and then it sounded like he got hurt.” James looked toward the living room.

“That poor boy,” Euphemia murmured, stepping in behind Lily with a dish towel still in her hand. “He must be terrified he’s in trouble.”

Remus looked at James. “He’s not staying the night, right?”

“No,” James said, shaking his head. “His dad’s coming to get him. Said he’ll be off shift in a little while. He asked me to keep Draco here till then.”

“Lucius Malfoy,” Sirius muttered from where he stood by the door, arms crossed. “What a treat.”

“You think he’ll show up?” Remus asked.

“He said he would,” James said. “And honestly, he sounded… younger than I expected. Not quite how I imagined Malfoy to sound.”

Lily tilted her head. “Younger?”

James nodded. “Just a feeling. Not what I imagined a man like Lucius to be. But maybe I just caught him at a strange moment.”

“He’s always a strange moment,” Sirius muttered again.

They all turned to glance back at Draco— now Harry was showing his trains and he seemed a little more alive. Smiling almost. The cup almost finished at his feet.

“Should we ask him?” Monty said softly.

James shook his head. “No. He’s still wound up. Let’s wait till his father arrives. Maybe things will make more sense then.”

Lily crossed her arms, her eyes still on Draco. “I don’t care who his father is. That boy is scared.”

“And until he walks out that door,” Euphemia said, stepping fully into the room, “he’s one of ours.”

The kitchen was a furnace—heat rolling off the stoves, metal clanging, steam hissing. Regulus had been working the pass for six hours straight, the back of his shirt soaked through with sweat, the tips of his fingers still red from plating too quickly.

He glanced up at the clock. Draco was probably at the Potters’ by now. Still upset. Still waiting. Regulus wiped his hands on a stained towel, then stepped out from the line and moved toward the office.

“Five minutes,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I just need five minutes to collect my things and then I can go-” But before he reached the door, he heard it—his boss’s voice, sharp and biting from behind.

“Black.” Regulus stopped. Closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly. Turned around. It was one fo those days, those interminable days where things went bad, downhill bad for him.

His boss—Mulciber, tall, broad, with a red face that always looked like it was on the verge of shouting—was storming toward him, grease-stained apron tied tightly over his gut. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I told you before that I need to leave early,” Regulus said, voice low but controlled. “My son is—”

“I don’t give a shit about your son,” Mulciber snapped. “You’re on until close. That was the deal. You walk now, you don’t walk back in.” What deal was he talking about? There wasn't even a real contract between them. But Regulus's restrained himself from saying so- he didn't want to provoke him. Not today. Not when he was like this.

Regulus straightened. “It’s an emergency. I really need to go.”

“You think anyone else here doesn’t have emergencies? You’re not special, Black. You got a shift, you stay till the goddamn end. Or you don’t come back.”

Regulus felt his pulse climbing. “You don’t understand. He got in a fight. He was crying—he asked for me—”

“Then maybe you should’ve found a better job before you had a kid,” Mulciber sneered, stepping in close. “That’s on you. You pay for being careless.”

Regulus’s fists clenched. His jaw locked. “I said I need five minutes. Just let me grab my things. I’m going. I did what I had to do today, so my shift is finished.”

“No, you’re not.”

And then—without warning—Mulciber shoved him. Hard.

Regulus stumbled backward, heels sliding on the damp floor—and slammed into the edge of the flat-top grill behind him. Pain shot through his side like fire. He let out a half-choked yell, teeth clenched so hard it echoed in his skull. There was the sizzling sound of skin on heat, the sharp stench of burned fabric and flesh.

He shoved himself off, staggering, hand pressed to his arm. His apron was smoldering where the side had made contact, and the pain was already blooming into something white-hot and dizzying.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Mulciber growled. “You’re done here.”

Regulus looked up at him, chest heaving, eyes wide and unfocused. His ears rang, and for a second the world seemed tilted — too loud in some places, too quiet in others. He didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. What was the point?

Then, silently, he turned.

His steps were uneven, dragged down by the limp he’d picked up in the scuffle — the one he was trying very hard to pretend wasn’t getting worse. His hand stayed clutched tight against his side, where a dull, nauseating throb pulsed with every breath. The pain was hot and sharp, radiating through his arm like fire beneath the skin.

Fucking dick, he thought, every heartbeat pounding the words deeper into his skull.
Fucking—fucking dick.

He didn’t stop to change. Didn’t even grab his bag.
The back door groaned as it swung open behind him, cool air rushing over his face like a slap. His breath caught. He kept walking.

The sleeve of his jacket stuck slightly to his skin where the wound had already begun to bleed through — thick, warm, and too much. It hurt. It hurt so much more than he was willing to let on. But there was no time. No room for that.
He clenched his jaw, forced the rising nausea down. He couldn’t afford to be sick. Not now. Not again.

There was only one thing left in his mind, burning bright and desperate:
Draco. Draco needs me.
And as he stumbled out into the cold, dark night — aching, furious, bleeding — he held onto a single, spiraling thought:
I’m coming. Just hold on, baby. I’m coming.

The quiet hum of the house had settled, like a storm finally drifting out to sea. The boys’ laughter had softened into the background, low and steady, as if the weight of the day had never touched them at all. Their world had already moved on — back to toy dragons and chocolate frog cards, back to the warm bubble of childhood where trouble couldn’t reach for long. It was almost unfair, the way children could bounce back from chaos like it was nothing but a gust of wind.

James leaned against the kitchen counter, mug in hand, steam curling up and catching in the faint overhead light. The ceramic was warm beneath his fingers, grounding. He didn’t sip yet—just held it, like the stillness of the moment might slip through his grasp if he moved too quickly.

He could hear the boys in the other room—Draco’s voice chiming in high and full of energy, Harry’s following close behind, overlapping with wild little exclamations and the sound of small feet thudding against the floor. Euphemia’s laughter came next, gentle and fond, likely indulging them with stories or snacks or both.

His muscles, tense from hours of low-grade adrenaline, had begun to unwind. The sharp edges of worry dulled, smoothing out into something more manageable. Beside him, Remus sat on one of the stools, arms folded on the island, chin tipped toward Monty who was flipping through a cookbook like it was the most riveting mystery in the world.

The conversation between them was easy, quiet—nothing urgent, just soft exchanges about recipes and memories and the odd shared joke. James wasn’t fully listening, but the rhythm of it was comforting, familiar.

The doorbell rang. It wasn’t urgent, not loud or frantic — just a simple sound, but it sliced neatly through the room.

James glanced toward the hallway, pushing himself away from the counter with a soft sigh. “I’ll get it,” he called, already moving, though the faintest flicker of unease stirred in his chest.

He pulled the door open.

And froze.

And time staggered, just a little.

Regulus stood there, half-shadowed beneath the low porch light, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. The years hadn’t erased him, not entirely — the sharp cut of his features was still the same, the dark eyes still held the same gravity. But there was something else now, something worn thin, as if the world had kept carving at him long after James had stopped looking.

For a moment, James could only stand there, staring, caught between recognition and the soft ache of old memories. The last time he’d seen Regulus had been a lifetime ago, or maybe even longer. He looked different, but also exactly the same.

His voice never made it past his throat.

Before he could speak, another voice broke the silence behind him — low, rough, unprepared.

“…Reggie?” James turned his head, just enough to see Sirius standing a few steps away, his expression locked somewhere between disbelief and something harder to name. "Reggie- what the fuck?"

Regulus’ eyes shifted past James, meeting the sound more than the man, and for a moment — for the briefest, sharpest heartbeat — the world seemed to hold its breath.

But no one moved.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The rain had started coming down harder.

It wasn’t the soft kind, the kind you barely notice until your hair’s damp and your coat’s spotted. It was the kind that soaked through to the bone, that drummed against the pavement like it wanted to swallow the whole city whole.

James stood at the door, one hand still gripping the handle, the other slack by his side. He hadn’t moved, not really, not since the door had swung open and Regulus Black had appeared on his doorstep, soaked to the skin, pale as chalk, eyes dark and ringed with exhaustion.

There was a beat — an impossible stretch of silence between the rain and the breath James forgot to take — and then Sirius was there, standing just behind him.
The moment his eyes landed on his brother, something in his chest snapped tight.

“Reg— what the hell happened to you?” Sirius’s voice broke straight through the quiet, sharp with panic that he couldn’t quite keep buried. His eyes flicked over Regulus’s face, down to the arm cradled awkwardly against his side, the way the wet fabric clung too tight over the shoulder, misshapen and heavy.
“Was it Mother?” Sirius took half a step forward before Regulus could answer, his mind already running ahead. “Oh god, your arm— did she-”

James turned, snapping out of the daze, his hand coming up in a wordless gesture, half warning, half comfort. “Let him in, Pads.”

Regulus’s eyes, dull and unfocused, lifted slowly to meet Sirius’s. His voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, like it hadn’t been used in days.
“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sirius faltered, mouth still open, words lost somewhere between his throat and his chest. The air shifted — not quite relief, not quite understanding — and James gently stepped aside, hand hovering by Regulus’s elbow as if expecting him to collapse.

“Come inside, Reg- Regulus” James murmured. “You’re soaked through.”

Regulus didn’t argue. His legs felt like stone beneath him, but somehow he stepped over the threshold. The warmth of the house hit him like a wall, almost disorienting after the cold. The soft light, the muffled sound of the kids’ voices somewhere deeper in the house — all of it felt like a different world entirely.

And then, before anyone could speak again, there was the sound of quick, light footsteps padding across the hardwood floor.

“Dad?”

Regulus barely had time to turn his head.

Draco appeared from around the corner, a stuffed animal dangling loosely from one hand, his cheeks still a little pink from the heat of the living room. His eyes locked on Regulus, wide and shining — and without hesitation, without a second thought, he crossed the space between them at full speed.

“Dad!”

The word wasn’t strained. Wasn’t unsure. It was bright, full, the kind of sound that belonged to safe places and open arms, not to the tension that had filled the house a moment earlier.

Draco threw himself forward, small arms looping around Regulus’s waist with a force that nearly knocked the breath from him. His soaked coat squelched under the pressure, but Regulus didn’t care. One hand — the uninjured one — lifted instinctively, fingers curling gently into the back of Draco’s shirt, as if anchoring himself.

For a long second, the world was silent, save for the rain still lashing against the windows. When Regulus finally lifted his head, his eyes met Sirius’s, who stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, staring at them both like the floor had just given out beneath his feet.

James said nothing. He didn’t need to. Lily too. They only shared a glance at Regulus wondered what-? Where was Lucius? What was going on? And James tried to make sense of it all.

Draco’s voice was smaller now, muffled against his coat. “I knew you’d come.”
Regulus closed his eyes. His throat worked around the words, but they didn’t make it out. All he did was hold his son a little tighter.

And Draco didn’t just hug him — he folded into him.

The force of the boy’s small body against his chest, mixed with the weight of his soaked clothes and the sheer exhaustion thrumming through his bones, almost made Regulus buckle. His knees bent, and before he even realized it, he let himself sink down onto the floor, right there in the hallway.

Draco slid with him, arms locked tight around his neck, his face buried against his shoulder as if the world might disappear if he let go. Regulus pressed his lips against the boy’s temple, closing his eyes for a brief second, trying to ground himself in the only thing that felt real in that moment: the warmth of his son.

The rain had softened into the background, replaced by the thrum of Draco’s unsteady breath against his ear.

Regulus’s hand came up, fingers threading carefully through his damp, mussed hair, holding him close, grounding both of them through the weight of that moment. For a while, neither of them spoke. Regulus just closed his eyes and let the relief flood through the pain in his arm and the exhaustion humming through his bones.

When he finally managed to breathe properly, he whispered, voice rough and quiet against Draco’s ear, “What happened, Draco?”

There was a shift behind them, the creak of a floorboard, and James’s voice came low, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if it was his place to speak.
“It was—”

But Draco shook his head hard against Regulus’s shoulder, cutting James off, his voice small but insistent. “I’m sorry, dad. Im sorry.- don't be upset with me I know that fighting is bad and I should talk before anything-”

Regulus pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing the hair away from his tearstained face. “Why are you sorry? Mhm? Can you tell me what happened?”

Draco’s lip trembled as he tried to explain, words tumbling out in a rush.
“I got mad. I thought— I thought- Harry said… at his house, he told them… I thought it was true. They say that you were mean and- and- Harry didn't want to meet you because he was scared of you” His throat tightened. “And then I got so mad I pushed him. I shouldn’t have done that. I was wrong. I’m sorry. But I- I was so mad dad-”

Regulus felt his chest squeeze, not from pain this time but from the sharp ache of knowing — knowing how easily a child’s heart could twist itself into knots over the smallest misunderstanding.

Before he could answer, the soft patter of socks against the floor sounded, and Harry came skidding around the corner, breathless, cheeks red, eyes wide and guilty. He didn’t hesitate for a second; he threw himself at Regulus too, his voice shaking.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Black! I didn’t mean to make him upset! I didn’t know! I just said what I heard — I didn’t know it wasn’t true — I didn’t mean to! I want to meet you now! Draco is happy and- and- and I'm sorry!”

James moved to pull Harry back, hand catching his shoulder gently.
“Harry— give them a second, mate—”

“Let him, James.” Regulus’s voice held none of the gentleness it had when he spoke of his boys — only cold, controlled fury now, sharp enough to cut through the air. He wasn’t angry at Harry. Not truly. The real weight of his rage was aimed elsewhere, aimed at the same place it always found its mark.

Of course Sirius had something to do with this. Of course. Who else? Who else could have said something that would twist around a child’s heart like barbed wire? Who else would plant that poison, even if only in careless words, and leave it to grow? Of course his long-dead brother, in all his endless charm and arrogance, would still find a way to hurt him. Still loyal to their family’s twisted legacy when it counted most, their great little puppy.

And of course he’d said it to his best friend — and Potter, bloody Potter, always the loyal one, wouldn’t have thought twice before repeating it to his own son, not realizing those words would find their way back to Draco like a dagger.

He was beyond furious. Sick with it, trembling with the effort not to show it in front of Draco.

But still — even through all of it, with Draco clinging to him and his own body aching in ways he didn’t yet have the strength to acknowledge — Regulus looked at Harry. The boy stood there, guilt writ large on his face, his small frame still tense, waiting for the scolding he thought he deserved.

Regulus shifted, drawing Draco a little closer, and despite everything — the rain still dripping from his hair, the deep throb in his injured arm, the long night stretching ahead — offered Harry the smallest, tired smile. He opened his other arm to hug the boy who came running into his arm.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly. “It’s alright, Harry. Don't worry, alright? It's fine. I'm not mad, not with you, not with Draco. It happens, okay?”

Harry lingered in his arms for a moment, shuffling awkwardly on his knees, the weight of his guilt still heavy despite Regulus’s quiet forgiveness. His small hands fidgeted with the hem of Regulus shirt before his voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. “I… I made you a drawing. It’s in my room. I wanted to say sorry.”

Regulus blinked, momentarily thrown by the simplicity of it — the pure, unfiltered way children tried to fix what they broke. His throat ached with something deeper than exhaustion, but he managed a nod.
“Oh- thank you Harry- will you show me then?” he murmured.

Harry’s face lit up, a soft spark beneath the lingering guilt, and without waiting for approval he turned and scurried down the hall, his little feet pattering against the wooden floor. Regulus exchanged the barest glance with James — who, for once, looked like he didn’t know what to say — and then pushed himself up, carefully, still holding Draco’s hand as the boy trailed beside him, silent and pressed close.

Harry’s room was exactly what you’d expect for a five-year-old with too much imagination and a loving family. The walls were littered with half-peeled stickers, shelves bent under the weight of books and toy figures. There were scattered soft toys on the bed, and a carpet covered in colourful block towers and matchbox cars left mid-adventure.

But what caught Regulus’s attention was the small desk in the corner. There, in a neat little tin, sat dozens of pastels, bright and worn down from use, their paper wrappers peeled back by small, impatient fingers.

Harry climbed onto the chair, grabbing the sheet of paper with both hands. He turned, proudly presenting it like it was some priceless artwork. The drawing was a messy splash of colours — shaky stick figures, big round heads, and crooked letters scrawled in a child’s hand. At the top, in bold and earnest strokes, it read:

“SORRY DRACO & REGULUS”

Underneath, the stick figure version of Harry had drawn himself, standing next to a smaller Draco with an exaggerated frown. Off to the side was Regulus, easily recognisable by the dark scribble of hair, drawn taller, with a smile stretched carefully across the face.

Regulus crouched slowly, lowering himself onto the edge of Harry’s bed, the drawing resting lightly in his hands. His thumb traced over the lines, soft and slow.
“You did all this?” he asked.

Harry nodded eagerly, climbing up beside him on the bed. “I wanted to give it to you before you left. I made it with Draco he told me how you looked like! I didn’t mean to make Draco sad.” He glanced over at his friend, fidgeting again. “I was only repeating what Uncle Pads said. I didn’t know it was bad.”

Regulus’s gaze flicked to the pastels on the desk, and his voice softened even more, like the edges of old paper.

“Those pastels — your uncle gave them to you?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s lips tugged into a small, proud smile. “Uncle Pads is an artist! He said these are the real kind. Grown-up ones. I always draw with them now.”

Regulus swallowed hard, the faintest trace of a bittersweet laugh catching in his throat. “Of course he did,” he murmured, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry leaned against his side, the guilt finally beginning to ease now that his peace offering had been delivered, and Regulus reached out, resting his hand gently over the boy’s untamed hair.

“It’s a very good drawing,” he said, quietly but firmly, as though the boy’s small heart needed to hear it clearly. “Thank you. Now I understand why Draco says that you're good at drawing.” Harry blushed heavily and Regulus smiled.
Draco finally climbed up next to them too, inching close, his earlier tears long dried but his face still pressed against Regulus’s shoulder like he’d never let go again.

For the first time all evening, the storm outside sounded distant. The room felt warm. Full of toys, childish drawings, and soft breathing. And for a brief moment, Regulus let himself rest there, between the two boys, holding the drawing like it was the most important thing in the world.

Regulus let the silence sit for a moment longer, his hand absently brushing over both boys’ heads as they leaned against him, small and warm and heartbreakingly oblivious to the tangled mess between the adults.

Then, with a soft breath, he spoke.

“All right, you two. Go on. Play a little longer. Gotta go and talk with the grow-ups now.” Harry blinked up at him, hesitant, but Draco gave a small nod, nudging his friend gently. Whatever tension was still lingering between them was long forgotten, replaced by the quiet comfort of having Regulus there. They slipped off the bed, the sound of their soft steps padding away toward the toys scattered on the floor.

The moment the door clicked behind them, the warmth bled out of Regulus’s expression. His spine straightened, his jaw locked, and the exhaustion in his face sharpened into something far colder — something brittle and dangerous.

The house had grown too quiet.

When he stepped back into the hallway, they were all there now. James stood closest, still by the archway, hands tucked into his jeans like he didn’t know what to do with them. Sirius hovered near the fireplace, pacing in short, restless lines, his face pale and tight, the old guilt already tangled deep in his expression. Remus sat on the arm of the worn sofa, brow knit with quiet concern, and next to him, Lily and Euphemia exchanged low, murmured words, the tension knotting everyone’s posture.
Their expressions shifted the second they saw him; Sirius’s mouth parted as if to speak, but Regulus cut him off with a sharp, dry laugh.

“So.” His voice was quieter than before, but razor-edged. “I suppose I should thank you both.”

James blinked. “Regulus, listen—”

“Don’t.” The word came out like a command. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, but his knuckles were white with tension. “I heard enough. I had hours to piece it together, after all, while my son was sitting there, thinking I didn’t care about him, because of you.”

Sirius took a cautious step forward, hands slightly raised. “You’ve got it all wrong—”

“Do I?” Regulus’s voice cracked, sharp and venomous. “Because from where I stand, it’s painfully clear. You ran your mouth about me, didn’t you? Couldn’t resist. Same old Sirius — always the good one, always the noble one, and me… what was it this time? A perfect little Black? A shadow of our parents? Or was it just easier to tell your best friend’s kid that I’m no better than Lucius Malfoy?”

The name left his lips like a curse. James stiffened, exchanging a confused glance with Sirius. “Regulus- stop. It's-” James echoed, brow furrowing. “We weren’t talking about you, Regulus. We were talking about Malfoy. About how he’s… he’s dangerous. That Draco deserved better than him.”

But Regulus only stared at him, his expression unreadable. His lips twitched into something that might have been a smile, if not for the pure fury burning behind his eyes. “Right,” he muttered. “Of course. And it just so happened that your son walked away thinking I was the one you meant.”

Sirius stepped in again, his voice lower, strained. “Reg, come on, I would never—”

“You would.” The words came out too quickly, too bitter. “You have. My entire life, you’ve done nothing but paint me with their brush.” His voice broke slightly, but he caught it, swallowed it down. “And now you’ve done the same to Draco. Congratulations. You finally managed to make me into the monster you always thought I was.”

Sirius looked stricken, mouth open but empty of words, and James shifted uncomfortably, trying to cut in:

“Regulus, we didn’t even know — none of us knew you were his—we just thought that he wasn't safe in his home-” But even that, intended as explanation, only cut deeper.

Regulus tilted his head slightly, his voice lowering into something quieter, but all the more cutting for it. “You don’t get to do that.” His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. There was steel in it, sharp and cold. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for him. Not you, not any of you.”

“Regulus—” James started, but the name sounded clumsy, too soft against the weight of Regulus’s anger.

“No,” Regulus snapped, the word cutting through the room. His hand curled into a fist at his side, shaking slightly, though whether from exhaustion or rage it was impossible to tell. “You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. You sit here in this house, with your happy little lives, your perfect little family, and you think you have the right to judge.” His voice cracked at the edges, but he didn’t stop. “You don’t get to talk about me like that. You don’t get to talk about my son like that.”

Sirius flinched at that, straightening, his own temper rising to the surface. “For God's sake, Reg, look at yourself.” His voice was sharp, and the words shot out too fast, too raw. “You look like a bloody dead man walking. What the hell do you expect us to think?”

The room seemed to freeze around them. Regulus stood still for a moment, eyes dark and unblinking, before something in his chest snapped.
“Ah.” His voice dropped, lower, quieter, but full of poison. “There it is.”

Sirius’s throat worked, the fire gone from his eyes, regret flickering behind it, but Regulus wasn’t done.

“You think I can’t take care of him. You think I’m not enough, is that it? Because I don’t have this—” his hand waved sharply around the room, at the warm walls, the framed photographs, the crackling fire — “because I don’t have your house, or your money, or your perfect fucking life.” His voice broke on the last word, but his expression didn’t waver. His fury held it all together.

“That’s not what I meant,” Sirius tried, but every word landed wrong, digging deeper.

“Isn’t it?” Regulus barked a bitter, humorless laugh. “Don’t pretend. You’re still the same. Still sitting there on your high horse, looking down at me. You don’t know a damn thing about the life I’ve built. About the hell I crawled out of.” His gaze flicked toward James, then to Lily, then to Euphemia, who had instinctively stood, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “None of you do. And none of you have the right to talk about him, or about me, like I’m some curse that latched onto him.”

The room was suffocatingly silent.

Remus cleared his throat softly, voice steady but quiet. “Regulus, no one here wants to hurt Draco. No one said you weren’t enough.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked to him — and for a moment the sharpness faltered, the exhaustion winning ground — but only for a heartbeat.
“They didn’t have to,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “They’ve already done enough.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, only broken by the distant sound of Harry and Draco’s laughter from the other room — bright, innocent, painfully untouched by the conversation unraveling here.

Sirius shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his voice lower now, the sharp edges of the fight worn down by the sight of his brother looking so utterly wrecked. His words were meant to be gentle, meant to reach out—meant to help.

“Reg… maybe you don’t have to do this all alone.” He glanced briefly at James, then at his mother, at everyone who had been standing there. “If Draco needs something—stability, help, even just… We can help you figure it out.”

But the moment the words left his mouth, Regulus’s expression shifted. His stomach turned cold, his mind snapping to the only place it could in that moment, the only place years of pain and judgment had trained it to go.

Help you figure it out.

It wasn’t a lifeline. It was a polite way of suggesting that Draco would be better off elsewhere. That he couldn’t handle it. That he wasn’t enough. That, like everything else in his life, he was failing even at being a father.

Regulus felt the breath squeeze sharp in his throat. His heart hammered hard against his ribs, fury and panic choking his voice before it could fully form. His spine locked stiff, trying to hold onto the last scrap of control, even as the room around him seemed to tilt.

“No.” His voice cracked through the silence, low but searing. “No.”
His hands curled tightly at his sides, white-knuckled, as the words finally forced their way out: “He’s mine. He’s the only good thing I’ve got left. And I won’t let anyone take that away.”

Regulus stood in the middle of the room- now something else was creeping in — slow and cold and suffocating. His breath hitched, shallow and uneven, the walls starting to tilt ever so slightly around him. “He’s mine. He's- Draco is-"

His arm throbbed, a deep, burning pulse that radiated sharp pain through his shoulder and down his side. The damp fabric clung to his skin, chilled and heavy, and the cold of it seemed to crawl under his ribs. His head spun, the room growing smaller, the voices of the others blurring into one distant, muffled sound.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the haze, but it only made it worse.

Everything in him wanted to sit, to curl in on himself, to press his hands to his eyes and let the world disappear for a second. His throat tightened, the sting of tears rising uninvited — the kind of tears he hadn’t let fall since he was a child.

And then, standing there, soaked and shivering, in a house that wasn’t his, surrounded by faces he didn’t trust, Regulus felt it: the sheer, crushing smallness. Like he didn’t belong there, like he never had. He could see James standing across the room, tall and steady and clean, his clothes dry, his life untouched by the filth that clung to Regulus’s skin — the unspoken reminder of who had always been the better brother. The better man.

A sharp wave of panic squeezed his chest. His breath turned shallow, short, barely enough. The room swayed.

“Regulus?” Euphemia’s voice, soft but firm, pulled him back a little. She was already close, her hand hovering near his shoulder but not quite touching, reading the tension in him. “Sweetheart, you need to sit down. You’re freezing. And your arm — you’re shaking. Sirius didn't mean to take Draco away- he’d never intended to imply that-”

But her kindness only made the pressure worse.

His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He didn’t want her to touch him. He didn’t want anyone near. They were kind, too kind, and that only made the fear worse. He felt surrounded, cornered, trapped in a house that wasn’t his, with people who didn’t understand, couldn’t understand.

Euphemia tried again, lowering her voice into that old, professional calm — the kind she used to use when her sons came home scraped and bruised as children. “It’s alright. You’re safe now. Just sit, Regulus, let me—”

But the moment her fingers brushed his arm, the pain shot through him like fire, and the panic burst free. He flinched, pulling away, breath sharp and broken.

He could feel their eyes on him — all of them. Sirius. James. Remus. Lily. Staring, watching him splinter apart right there in front of them like some shattered, pathetic thing. And he was. God, he was. He could feel it crawling under his skin, in his chest, in the way his lungs refused to fill properly.

He couldn’t even breathe on his own.

How could he take care of a kid? How could he protect Draco when he couldn’t even hold himself together? The thought looped in his head, sharp and relentless. How — how — how.

The walls were too close, the air too thin. His throat burned with the threat of tears, his whole body tight with the sheer force of holding them back. He couldn’t fall apart here. Not here. Not in front of them. Not in front of Sirius.

A sharp knock at the door. The bell.

For a second no one moved, the room held in a frozen pause.
Then James turned, moving to the door, and when it opened, the tension in Regulus’s chest snapped — the kind of relief that hurt.

There, framed in the doorway, soaked to the bone but steady as ever, stood Narcissa.

Her gaze landed on him instantly, taking in the wet clothes, the pale face, the tightness around his eyes, the way his whole body looked like it might fold in on itself at any moment.

“Hello- I'm here for- Oh Regulus what happened?"
Narcissa didn’t waste a second. As soon as she stepped inside, she shrugged off her damp coat, her eyes immediately locking on Regulus. Without sparing a glance at the others, she moved toward him, her hands gentle but firm as they closed around his injured arm. She felt him flinch, a sharp tremor of pain that he couldn’t quite suppress.

“Reg,” she whispered, lowering her gaze to the soaked fabric, the edges of the burn peeking through. “Come on. What happened?”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. His eyes were on the ground, the weight of everything pressing down on him — the pain, the exhaustion, the overwhelming sense of being lost in a world that felt too foreign. Too many people. Too many questions.

Narcissa sighed, soft and full of quiet concern. She could feel his hesitation, could see how he pulled inward, as if bracing for something.
“I need to know,” she continued, her voice steady but insistent. “Tell me, Reg. What happened?”

He didn’t speak at first, but his fingers curled into fists at his sides, the tension in his body saying more than words ever could. Finally, after what felt like a long time, he exhaled sharply, looking up at her with a glimmer of something in his eyes — frustration, pain, anger, and perhaps something deeper.

“They think it’s Lucius,” he muttered, his voice raw. “They think I’m like him. And like my father. My mother.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened, a flicker of understanding passing through her. She looked toward Sirius, and then back to Regulus, her expression shifting. She didn’t need to ask. She knew. She could see how much it had hurt him, how deeply the words had cut.

“Don’t listen to them,” she said quietly, but firmly. “They don’t know you. They have no right to say anything.”

Regulus wanted to snap back, to tell her how wrong she was, how his entire life had been shaped by comparisons, by the weight of those expectations. But before he could speak, the sound of voices from the other room broke through the tension.

Sirius was there, his voice rising in frustration, and James… James, who had been so kind earlier, now seemed distant, confused. Regulus felt a surge of anger well up in his chest. He turned his head sharply toward them, but Narcissa’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Reg,” she said, her voice low, “take Draco. Bring him home with you. I’ll stay here and talk to them.”

For a moment, Regulus hesitated. He looked at her, the chaos swirling in his mind. But there was no other option. He needed Draco. He needed to be with his son. Slowly, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Narcissa gave him a gentle push toward the door. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

His feet moved before his mind caught up. Each step toward the room where Draco had disappeared felt like wading through deep water. He paused by the door, pressing his back against the frame for a moment, forcing himself to straighten up, to hold his shoulders higher, to look—at least on the outside—like he hadn’t completely fallen apart.

When he finally stepped inside, Draco was sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed, holding one of the boy’s stuffed animals loosely in his lap, his small fingers absentmindedly curling around the worn fabric. His blond hair was still damp from the rain, his cheeks flushed from everything—the crying, the cold, the fear.

Regulus swallowed the tightness in his throat and bent slightly at the knees, forcing his voice into something soft, almost cheerful.

“Ready to go home, sweetheart?”

Draco looked up at him, and for a second, the boy just stared—like he’d been waiting for Regulus to change his mind, or disappear altogether. But then he slid off the bed and walked into his arms, pressing his face against Regulus’s coat without a word.

Regulus tightened his hold, letting out a breath against the crown of Draco’s head, and whispered, “We’re alright. I’ve got you now.”

As they turned to leave the room, Harry’s small voice piped up behind them, soft but hopeful.

“Will I see him again?”

Regulus paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. Harry stood there, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand, still looking a little lost.

Regulus managed the faintest of smiles, tired but genuine.
“Of course you will,” he said gently. “I’m sure you’ll see each other very soon. Tomorrow at school, right?”
Draco looked back at Harry too, offering a shy little wave before tightening his grip on his father’s hand.

When they returned to the hallway, Narcissa was waiting for them by the front door, her coat already draped over her arm, her expression sharp but composed. Regulus shifted his hold on Draco slightly and met her gaze.

“I’ll wait for you at home,” he told her quietly, his voice still scratchy and worn but steady enough. Regulus turned slightly then, his gaze flicking over to the others in the room—James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Euphemia, Monty—each of them still lingering in the aftermath of a storm that felt both too large and far too personal.

He straightened his posture, smoothing out any trace of vulnerability before lifting his gaze to meet theirs — calm, composed, every inch the man he needed to be.
When he spoke, his voice was steady and clear, with the quiet strength of someone who refused to bend.

“Thank you all for looking after Draco in the meantime.”

Silence hung for a moment, heavy but no longer sharp, as if the weight of his words had settled over the room. He gave a single, firm nod and turned toward the door without waiting for anyone to reply.
His back was straight, his steps sure, even if his body ached with every move. Whatever storm had followed him here, it stayed at the threshold. For Draco, it had to.

Narcissa gave a small nod, brushing her hand briefly against Draco’s cheek.
“Alright. Go on,” she murmured. “I won’t be long.”

It had been years since he’d seen his brother. Years.

And yet, the second Regulus had stepped into that doorway — soaked through, rainwater dripping from his collar, trembling from exhaustion and pain — Sirius had felt the world tilt off its axis.

For years he’d believed his brother was long gone. Dead, or worse. Swallowed whole by the pureblood world they both had once belonged to, or simply vanished into the shadows of a life Sirius could never reach. In his mind, Regulus had been frozen in time — the sharp-eyed, quiet boy who had stayed behind when Sirius ran, who had held onto the Black name long after it stopped meaning anything at all.

But standing there, in the dim light of James’s hallway, Regulus looked nothing like that boy.

Thin, worn, scarred in places the eye couldn’t see, and yet — and yet — there was something unshakably unbroken about him. Something that even pain and time and life hadn’t managed to strip away. His posture, strained as it was, held a quiet defiance; his gaze, though dulled by exhaustion, still carried that same sharpness Sirius remembered. Older now, and tempered, but not defeated.

That was the thing about Regulus. Even as a child, he had always seemed older than he was, like the world had forced him to grow up too fast, molding him into something harder, quieter, less visible. And now, Sirius thought, looking at him, that weight hadn’t vanished — it had only settled deeper into his bones. A man shaped by struggle, by choices that had cost him everything, and yet still standing. Still holding his head high.

It twisted something sharp and cold in Sirius’s chest.

Because it was his fault.

He’d seen the flicker in Regulus’s eyes, just before the mask slipped — before the exhaustion and fear finally cracked through the steel. That wasn’t the look of someone weathering a bad night. That was the look of someone used to standing on crumbling ground, and realizing — for the first time — that the earth beneath his feet had finally given way.

And all Sirius could do was stand there, watching the only person left who could still break his heart.
And now, Narcissa had arrived.

She barely spared Sirius a glance before her gaze cut to the stairs, to the place where Regulus had disappeared with Draco still clinging to him. Her sharp eyes flicked back, locking on Sirius with all the fury of a woman who knew exactly who to blame.

“What happened to him?” Her voice was flat, cold, not even angered — not yet. That came second. “His arm is burned. He’s pale as a sheet. You let him stand there like that?”

Sirius swallowed, jaw locking as James stepped in beside him.

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t what it looked like, Narcissa,” James started, his voice aiming for calm but tripping somewhere between awkward and tense. “We didn’t know. I swear, we didn’t know. He just… showed up. Out of nowhere.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, words tumbling faster than his brain could catch them.

“We thought Lucius was still his father— I mean, biologically he is, of course he is, that part’s not really up for debate, but— but we didn’t know the whole… you know, situation.” He gestured vaguely, as if that might fill the gaps in his rambling. “So it’s like… adopted? Or something? I don’t know what I’m saying. Bloody hell.”

Narcissa’s lips parted, confusion flashing for the briefest second. Then the puzzle fit together. Her voice dropped lower.

“Of course you didn’t.” She shook her head slightly, the words coming sharp, cutting. “Because nobody asked. Because all these years, you all wrote him off. You assumed he was like them. Like Mother. Like Lucius. He stayed behind when I left, when all of us left. He was the only one who stayed for that child, and none of you even noticed. It was written on all the newspapers, idiots.”

Sirius felt the words like blows. His throat worked, but whatever defense he’d been scrambling for was gone.
“It wasn’t— I wasn't trying to-” he started, desperate to fix it, but even he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“It was a misunderstanding,” James tried again. “We weren’t talking about him. We were talking about Lucius. And only about him- we didn't even say Regulus' name.”

But Narcissa’s stare cut right through the explanation.
“You might want to explain that to Regulus,” she said coolly. “Because from where he stood, it sounded like a sentence, not a misunderstanding.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the storm still rattling faintly at the windows behind them.

Sirius dropped his gaze, fists curling tightly at his sides. He could still see the rainwater dripping from Regulus’s sleeves, still see the pain stamped into his face. He looked so small. So breakable. And Sirius hated himself for not knowing sooner. For not seeing.

And then Euphemia stepped into the room, a small metal tin cradled carefully in her hands. “I prepared this,” she said softly, crossing the room. “It’s a salve for burns. Dittany mixed with murtlap essence — should keep the wound clean and stop infection from setting in. The skin looked angry, and if he doesn’t apply something tonight, it might blister worse by morning. It could become infected, and well- it's not good when it happens.”

Narcissa’s hard exterior faltered for a breath, her fingers brushing the tin, closing around it slowly. “I… I can’t pay for this.”

Euphemia shook her head. Her voice was warm, but firm.
“You don’t have to. After the mess that’s unfolded in this house tonight, it’s the very least we can do.”

For a long moment, Narcissa said nothing. Just held the tin, knuckles white around it. Then, finally, her voice softened — almost too quiet.

“Thank you. We appreciate it.”

And without waiting for any more explanations, she turned toward the stairs, ready to go back to the only person in that house who truly needed her right now.

Sirius didn’t follow. He just stood, rooted to the floor, staring at the place where Regulus had stood.

The boy he thought he’d lost.
The brother he’d never known how to save.

Chapter Text

The rain had finally given them a break. Morning light, pale and soft, stretched across the kitchen walls, catching on the steam rising from a chipped mug of tea. The flat smelled of clean linens and the faintest trace of antiseptic — a lingering reminder of the bandages that still wound around Regulus’s arm, neat and secure beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

It didn’t ache as much as before, not the sharp, blinding kind of pain that had pulsed through him the first few nights. Now it was a dull, insistent throb, the kind that settled deep under the skin, where the new pink layers were trying their best to knit over the worst of the burn. The scabs were starting to form along the edges, ugly but clean, and the swelling had gone down enough to let him sleep a little more than an hour at a time.

He stood by the window, watching Narcissa slip her coat on by the door, her blonde hair pinned up, sharp lines under her eyes betraying the weight she carried. She was going to try, again, today — another round of job hunting, another dozen polite rejections waiting on the other side of shop counters and reception desks.

“You don’t have to stay home with him, you know,” she said as she pulled her gloves on, voice light but tired. “We can call Evan, or—”. No- no Evan and Barty both had to work this morning so they couldn't be here.

Regulus shook his head, one hand curled around his tea, the other flexing unconsciously at his side.
“It’s fine,” he murmured. “I’ll take today. He’s only got a cold — not the plague. I think that tomorrow Draco can go without problem.”

Narcissa snorted, though there wasn’t much humor in it. She lingered by the door, adjusting her scarf like it gave her an excuse to hesitate. Regulus didn’t blame her. Neither of them liked leaving the other alone these days, as if absence itself might make the weight of it all worse.

“I won’t be long,” she said at last.

He only nodded, and watched as the door clicked shut behind her, the lock sliding into place with a sound that felt too final for a Tuesday morning.
The flat settled into its quiet rhythm again — the low hum of the radiator, the occasional creak of the floorboards, and the soft, muffled coughs coming from the small bedroom down the hall.

Regulus set his mug down, wiping a hand over his face as if that might chase off the heaviness clinging to his bones, and drifted toward the room. The door was half open, and the sight that greeted him pulled the edges of his mouth into something painfully soft.

Draco was still curled up in bed, hair sticking out in every direction, his pale little face flushed pink from fever but his breathing steady. The boy had kicked the covers off at some point and lay tangled in the mess of them, arms splayed out, one stuffed dragon held limply in his grasp.

Regulus stepped inside, lowering himself to the edge of the bed. His fingers hovered for a moment, brushing a strand of blond hair off Draco’s damp forehead, lingering there as the boy stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.

For the first time in days, the knot in Regulus’s chest loosened. He was safe.

Bruised and angry at the world, still too young to understand all of it — but safe. And that was more than Regulus had dared to hope for, just a week ago.
Regulus stayed there a moment longer, his hand resting lightly against Draco’s head, feeling the faint warmth still radiating off him. The boy stirred again, this time shifting with a faint, dry little cough. His eyes fluttered half open, heavy-lidded and glassy, confused by the light leaking through the curtains.

“Hey, little one,” Regulus murmured, voice soft, low. “Time for something.”

Draco wrinkled his nose, barely coherent, his voice a dry croak. “Don’t wanna.”

Regulus huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh, as he reached over to the nightstand where a glass of water and a small line of medicine waited, already prepared. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle, pouring the right measure into the spoon, steady even with the ache running up his arm.

“You don’t have to want to,” he said gently, brushing his fingers over Draco’s hair. “But you do have to take it. Doctor’s orders.”

Draco, too tired to argue for long, sat up with the slow, clumsy resistance of a child whose body had given up before his stubbornness. Regulus brought the spoon to his lips, steady, waiting. The boy grimaced at the bitter taste but swallowed obediently, chasing it down with a sip of water.

“Good lad,” Regulus murmured, wiping the corner of Draco’s mouth with the sleeve of his jumper. “That’ll help.”

Draco hummed something half-intelligible — a protest, or maybe a thank you — before flopping back onto the pillow, curling his small frame under the blankets this time without a fight.

Regulus stayed until his breathing settled back into that soft, even rhythm, brushing a hand once more over his head before standing, quiet and careful not to disturb the fragile calm. He stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed, leaving just enough of a gap to hear if Draco stirred again.

The kitchen felt colder than before. Empty, quiet, the kind of quiet that settled too heavily when you were alone with your thoughts. He reached for his half-full mug, the tea long gone lukewarm, and stood there by the window, watching the dull grey skies roll past. The world outside moved on, indifferent — but for the first time in days, the quiet didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.

The sharp knock at the door pulled Regulus from his thoughts, the mug pausing halfway to his lips. He lowered it back to the counter with a quiet sigh, glancing once toward the hallway where Draco’s room sat undisturbed.

Another knock, a little firmer this time.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and crossed the narrow kitchen, already regretting existing before midday, and pulled the door open just enough to see who was standing on the other side.

Remus Lupin.

Of course.

Regulus blinked at him, brows lifting in unimpressed silence. “You’ve got about three seconds to explain what you’re doing here before I close this door on your face.”

Remus, ever the picture of calm, simply lifted the paper bag in his hand, a faint smile playing at his mouth. “I brought pasticcini.”

Regulus stared at the bag, then at him, one brow arching higher. “Is that supposed to buy you forgiveness or stall me long enough for a lecture?”

“Little bit of both,” Remus admitted, shifting his weight awkwardly on the doorstep, rain still glistening on his coat. “I thought I’d try my luck.”

Regulus huffed, the sound halfway between annoyance and reluctant amusement, but didn’t move from the doorway.
“How’d you find us?” His voice wasn’t hostile, but there was an edge of curiosity sharpened with suspicion.

Remus gave a small, sheepish shrug. “One of the teachers at school owed me a favor. Let’s just say the address came with the apology.”

Regulus blinked slowly, dry as ever. “That’s illegal, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Remus replied, completely unfazed. “Not my first time bending a rule or two for the right cause.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes, lips twitching despite himself. “You might want to stop there, Lupin. Any more confessions and I’ll be obliged to turn you in.”

“Fair enough,” Remus said lightly, then tilted his head, a note of genuine softness cutting through his voice. “May I come in?”

Regulus hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder as if the walls might offer him a better excuse than his own. The flat smelled of weak tea and leftover worry, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood for company — but the man had, after all, brought pasticcini.

And Draco was asleep. For now.
He stepped back, just enough to leave room for Remus to cross the threshold.

“Wipe your feet,” he muttered, already heading back toward the kitchen. “And don’t make me regret this.”
The door clicked shut behind Remus, the sound sharp in the cramped silence of the flat. The air inside felt different — thinner, colder, as if the walls themselves had long since grown tired of keeping the world out.

Regulus moved through the narrow hallway without a word, his steps slow but steady, and Remus followed, taking in the place with an unspoken heaviness. The flat was small — too small for three people. The living room, if it could even be called that, was barely wide enough for a second-hand armchair and a scuffed coffee table whose legs sat uneven on the warped floorboards. There was no sofa, no soft glow of comfort, only the stale scent of damp and detergent, of cold walls and long nights.

The kitchen, too, told its own quiet story. The counters chipped and worn, the paint peeling in places where moisture had settled over the years. An old kettle sat on the stove, humming faintly as though trying to fill the silence with something other than the growing discomfort.

Regulus leaned against the counter, his good hand cradling his mug again, and let his eyes drift lazily toward Remus, who stood awkwardly near the door, still clutching the paper bag like it might save him from the conversation to come.

“Well?” Regulus broke the silence, his voice low, sharp around the edges. “If you’re here for the grand tour, I’m afraid this is it. Kitchen, bedroom, and whatever space is left for the rest. Can’t offer you the luxury of a bloody sitting room, but you’re welcome to stand there and gawk all you like.”

Remus opened his mouth, but Regulus cut him off before a single word could slip through.

“And if you’ve come to make commentary on the decor,” he added flatly, gesturing vaguely at the faded curtains, the threadbare tea towel slumped over the back of a chair, the cracked paint and old rugs, “I suggest you turn around and let the door hit you on the way out.”

His tone wasn’t raised — not angry, not defensive. Just tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that wrapped around his words like lead, pressing hard against his ribs.

Remus swallowed, eyes flicking briefly toward the small, dim hallway where a half-closed door hinted at Draco’s room. There was no need for him to comment on the space; it spoke well enough for itself.

But Regulus, standing there with his posture straight and his expression unreadable, still looked… unbent. Time and exhaustion had worn at him, but hadn’t broken him. He wasn’t the boy Sirius remembered, not anymore. He was a man now — scarred, bruised, worn thin by life — but still standing.

And Remus, in that moment, didn’t dare pity him. He knew Regulus would’ve torn him apart for it

Regulus didn’t say anything for a while. His fingers circled the rim of his mug, feeling the chipped edge beneath his thumb, as rain tapped steady against the thin window glass. The room smelled of weak tea and damp air, the kind of quiet that pressed too hard on your chest.

Remus stood by the table, still holding the paper bag of pastries like he’d forgotten it was even there.

After a moment, he broke the silence, his voice soft — not pitying, just honest.
“You know,” Remus said, a dry little laugh catching at the edge of his words, “this is already a hell of a lot more than I had when I moved out.”

Regulus lifted his gaze, brow slightly raised but silent, waiting.

“I was eighteen,” Remus went on, his voice even, as if reciting something he’d said before but still tasted bitter. “My father remarried. His new wife didn’t exactly love the idea of her husband’s kids hanging around — especially not ones that were grown and still breathing.”

His hand shifted slightly on the bag, knuckles pale.

“So I left. Took what I could carry, found a place with the little I had saved. If you could even call it a place.” He huffed out a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Hole in the wall, three roommates who were worse than the flat itself. Heating barely worked, ceiling leaked every time it rained, and the neighbours…” He shook his head, the ghost of a smile flickering and dying before it could settle. “They made living there feel like the least of my problems.”

His eyes finally drifted back to Regulus, steady and open.

“So, believe me when I say this,” he gestured around the small kitchen — the worn counters, the cold air, the threadbare fabrics, the cracked plaster. “This is more than enough. Especially with a kid under the roof. This place — it’s perfect.”

Regulus sat still, his hands curling tighter around his mug, and for a moment the retort — sharp, defensive, automatic — hovered on his tongue, but it didn’t come.
Because there was no judgment in Remus’s voice. No condescension. Just quiet, unflinching understanding. And for a man who’d spent his whole life sharpening his edges to keep the world out, it was almost enough to undo him.

Regulus felt the heat creep up his neck before he could stop it. His fingers shifted around the mug, gripping it a little too tightly as if that alone could will the flush away. He cleared his throat, angling his face slightly toward the window, pretending to focus on the rain.

Remus noticed, of course, but was kind enough not to say anything. Instead, he leaned back slightly against the chair, offering the most casual of smiles.
“You know,” he said, “for someone who spent his school years perfecting the art of looking unbothered, you’re doing a spectacularly bad job right now.”

Regulus huffed, a dry sound that could almost pass for a laugh. “Must be the company.”

Remus snorted under his breath. “Sure. Blame the company.”

There was a beat of quiet, just long enough for the weight of the conversation to settle back between them. Regulus shifted, lowering his mug onto the table with a soft clink, and tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing — all sharpness again, but not cruel. Just tired.
“Alright, then,” he said, cutting straight to the point. “You’ve danced around it long enough. Why are you here, Lupin?”

Remus’s easy posture didn’t waver, but the lightness in his face dimmed, making room for something more careful. “I came to ask for a second chance.”

Regulus lifted a brow. “A second chance at what?”

“To fix things,” Remus answered. “For Sirius. For James. For all of us.”

Regulus’s jaw tensed the moment the name slipped from Remus’s mouth. His whole posture shifted, shoulders going rigid, and that small flicker of warmth that had been lingering — the brief illusion of ease — vanished.
“If this is about him,” Regulus cut in, sharp as glass, “don’t waste your breath. I don’t want to hear it.”

Remus raised his hands, palms open in surrender, but his voice remained calm, steady. “It’s not about Sirius. Not the way you’re thinking.” He paused, watching the walls slide back up behind Regulus’s eyes. “And I didn’t come to defend him.”

Regulus huffed, leaning back slightly, jaw still locked. “Then why?”

Remus glanced toward the little kitchen table, fingers brushing over the side of the pastry box. Regulus arched an eyebrow, still guarded.
Remus let out a slow breath. “We didn’t know, Regulus. Not about you. We thought Draco was still with Lucius. That Lucius was his father. Everyone did.”

That struck deeper than Regulus expected, his chest tightening at the mention. His voice came out quiet, but laced with something bitter.

“Well. He was, once.”

Remus’s face softened. “I know. But none of us realized things had… changed. That you’d stepped in. That you were the one raising him.”

Regulus let out a short, dry laugh, without a trace of humor. “Of course you didn’t. That’s the problem with all of you. You see a last name and think you’ve got the whole story written.”

“We judged wrong,” Remus admitted, no excuses, no backpedaling. “And I’m not here to defend anyone else. Least of all Sirius. I’m here because I owe you an apology. I judged you on what I thought I knew, and I was wrong.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched at the corner, like he wasn’t sure whether to sneer or smile. “So you’ve come all this way to clear your conscience?”

Remus shook his head once. “Not just that. Harry’s been asking too, you know. He and Draco see each other at school, but he didn’t understand — none of us did — that you were the one in his life now. Harry keeps asking when he can see him properly. He wanted me to tell you.”

Regulus looked away, the weight of everything pressing down again — the chaos, the judgments, the fact that none of them had known because no one ever thought to ask. “He’s mine,” Regulus said quietly, voice hoarse but unwavering. “The only good thing I’ve got left. And I won’t let anyone take that away.” The words hung heavy in the air.

Remus gave him a small, understanding nod. “No one’s trying to. Least of all Harry. He just misses his friend. And I thought… maybe, even after all the mistakes, you deserved to hear that.”

Remus leaned back slightly in his chair, giving Regulus the space he clearly needed, but his voice stayed quiet, even.
“I think… it’s the same for them, you know.” His gaze drifted toward the worn window, rain still gently tapping against the glass. “They got it all wrong too. Sirius especially. But that doesn’t mean they don’t want to fix it.”

Regulus didn’t reply right away, his fingers brushing absently over the rim of the cold tea cup, lost somewhere between skepticism and exhaustion.

Remus let out a breath, lips quirking with the barest hint of a smile. “They’ve both been in knots about it all week. You’d think it was some life-or-death thing, the way Sirius has been pacing like a caged dog, and James — well, James is practically allergic to the idea of anyone disliking him. He’s been running around trying to plan the perfect apology, as if that’d erase everything in one go.”

That earned him a glance from Regulus, sharp but slightly less hostile, the smallest flicker of amusement surfacing at the mental image.

Remus shrugged lightly, resting his arms on the table. “They’re idiots. But they’re not heartless idiots. And this — what happened — it wasn’t out of malice. It was just…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Ignorance. Stubbornness. Pride.”

His voice softened even more.

“And I think both of them are learning the hard way what that costs.”

Regulus didn’t answer, not right away.
The quiet stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable — like the house itself had grown used to silence. His fingers tightened a little around the chipped mug, knuckles paling, and his gaze lowered to the table.

It wasn’t just anger that coiled in his chest anymore. It was fear. That old, dull ache that never really went away. The fear of being seen for what he was: someone who didn’t have enough. Not enough space. Not enough money. Not enough strength. Not enough future to offer his son. He’d spent so long trying to pretend otherwise — trying to stand tall, even when the weight of the world pressed him into the floor. Even when the walls around him peeled and cracked and the air inside the house stayed sharp with cold.

Sirius had seen him like this once before, back when they were boys. Back when neither of them had the power to fix it.
And now… here he was again. The thought hollowed his chest.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Remus’s voice cut through, light but knowing, as if he’d followed every piece of the spiral inside Regulus’s head. “That we’ve all been judging you. That we’re still doing it.”

Regulus didn’t lift his head, but his fingers twitched. Guilty, caught.

Remus huffed a soft breath, tapping his own mug against the table.
“You’re doing more for Draco than most kids ever get, Regulus.” He smiled — lopsided and honest. “A roof, a bed, someone who gives a damn whether he takes his medicine or forgets his scarf.” His brow quirked. “Sure, the place is small, the walls are thin, and the kettle looks like it survived two wars, but… it’s still home.”

Regulus’s throat worked around a dry swallow. His voice, when it came, was barely there. “I’m not exactly giving him a future.”

But Remus only shrugged, casual and unbothered.

“You’re giving him a parent. The rest… comes later.”

For a moment, Regulus let the words settle over him, the quiet hum of them gentler than the doubts in his own head.

And Remus, catching the flicker of something softer in his eyes, added with a small, knowing grin, “Besides. I think you’re doing a hell of a lot better than Sirius would, if it were him.” A dry, reluctant sound almost escaped Regulus — not quite a laugh, but close enough. Yeah- probably-

Remus caught himself, his gaze drifting down to where Regulus’s hand hovered, fingers unconsciously resting over the worn fabric of his sleeve, right above the bandaged burn. The way he cradled it — absent, almost defensive — told more than words ever could.

“Still giving you trouble, huh?” Remus murmured, voice light but laced with concern. “Looks rough.”

Regulus dropped his hand at once, as if the gesture had betrayed too much. His mouth pressed into a thin line, but the answer never came. Silence lingered, awkward and heavy.

Remus cleared his throat, nudging the moment aside with a half-smile.
“You know… if you and Sirius ever called a truce, I could actually stop by more often. Bring biscuits. Maybe even teach Draco how to make them, if you’re brave enough to let him turn your kitchen into a warzone.”

A sharp, dry sound broke from Regulus — not quite a laugh, but something close. His lips curved, faint and guarded.
“We don’t need your pity, Lupin,” he said, the words edged but without true venom, more instinct than intent.

Remus didn’t flinch, his smile barely shifting. “Good thing it isn’t pity, then,” he answered simply, voice soft but sure. “Been there myself, remember?”

For a moment, Regulus’ sharpness dulled, replaced by the faintest crease of thought on his brow. He was about to reply, but his voice stalled as something else clicked into place in his mind. “Does Sirius know you’re here?” he asked instead, tone slipping back into its natural coolness.

Remus gave a little snort, leaning back against the rickety kitchen counter.
“Even if he is my boyfriend, Reg, he doesn’t get to decide where I go, or who I talk to.”

Regulus hummed under his breath, half in acknowledgment, half in reluctant approval. "When did I become Reg? Uh Lupin?"

“Shush- we're pals now. So, is it your day off?” Remus asked casually, his eyes flicked to the battered kitchen clock. “Or is Draco keeping you hostage?”

Regulus exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. The tension, for the briefest second, lifted.
“Sort of a day off,” he muttered. “Narcissa’s out, and Draco’s down with a cold. I figured the world could survive without me for one bloody day.”

Before Remus could answer, the soft creak of footsteps on worn floorboards cut through the air. Both men turned just as a small, sleepy figure appeared in the doorway — Draco, hair a tangled mess, cheeks flushed from sleep and the stubborn trace of fever still lingering behind his pale skin.

Regulus straightened at once, his entire posture shifting from guarded to gentle in a heartbeat. His voice softened.
“There you are,” he said quietly, moving toward the boy. “You should’ve stayed in bed, little menace.”

Draco rubbed at his eyes, sniffling faintly, before looking up — and that’s when his gaze landed on Remus. His tired face brightened, just a bit.
“Hi, Mr. Lupin,” he mumbled, voice hoarse but sweet. "Why're you here?"

Remus offered him a warm smile, raising the paper bag slightly. “Hey, kiddo. I brought pasties, but only if your dad says it’s alright. And Haz says hi.”

Draco blinked, visibly more awake at the mention, his nose crinkling slightly as he turned toward Regulus with a hopeful, expectant look — one Regulus knew all too well. "Wow dad! They're better than Evans' one! Can I one?"

“You shouldn’t be eating rubbish when you’re sick,” Regulus started, trying for stern, but his resolve crumbled fast under the boy’s soft, pleading gaze. His hand came up, ruffling Draco’s messy hair with a quiet sigh. “…Maybe just one.”

Draco lit up, even if the tiredness kept his excitement dimmed, and shuffled closer to the table where Remus placed the bag. Regulus watched him carefully, instinctively reaching out to steady the boy by the shoulder, feeling the heat of the lingering fever under his fingers.

Remus watched the two of them — the way Regulus, despite all the sharpness and distance he threw at the world, became something entirely different around Draco. Softer. Grounded. Real.

“You’ve got your hands full,” Remus said lightly, as Draco peeled open the bag, eyeing the pastries like treasure.

Regulus, eyes never fully leaving his son, answered with the faintest smile. “Always.”

Remus glanced at the clock and winced slightly. “I should go,” he said, rising from the rickety chair. “If I leave now, I might catch James before he disappears into a stack of parchment. Sirius will be there too—pretending to be helpful while doodling in the margins.”

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. “Helping him with what, exactly? Moral support through paperwork-induced suffering?”

“Something like that,” Remus said with a chuckle, pulling his scarf tight around his neck. “Sirius has this sudden urge to ‘understand the working class,’ which mostly translates to drinking all of James’s coffee and complaining about how uncomfortable the chairs are.”

A faint smile tugged at Regulus’s mouth. “Sounds like him.”

Remus hesitated, looking at him with an earnestness that softened his usual dry humor. “Thank you for letting me in today. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Regulus shrugged lightly, his voice low. “Don’t thank me yet. I might still slam the door in your face next time.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Remus said, then turned toward the door. “Tell Draco I’ll bring more biscuits next time. Maybe chocolate ones—if he promises to share.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “He won’t. He’s a hoarder when it comes to sweets.”

Remus laughed and stepped outside. “Like father, like son.”

The door closed behind him with a gentle click, and Regulus stood in the quiet kitchen for a long moment, hand resting on the worn table. There was something strange about the way Remus had fit into the room—as if the cold walls and cracked tiles hadn’t mattered for a little while. As if someone had brought in a bit of warmth and left it behind, just enough to notice once it was gone.

Regulus exhaled, slow and steady, and reached for the teapot again.
It was time to get some work done. Even if he was at home, he still had some translation that could bring home some easy money.

The tea had gone slightly cold, but he drank it anyway, the bitterness grounding him more than the warmth. The flat was quiet now, save for the faint creak of the old pipes and the occasional rustle of sheets from Draco’s room. He liked it best when it was like this — quiet, stable, manageable.

He gathered the half-folded parchments from the corner of the table, ink-smudged and dense with runes, the kind of work no one else wanted to do but that paid decently if you didn’t mind headaches and late nights. He didn’t.

As he dipped the quill into ink, his eyes flicked once to the door.
Remus’s presence still lingered — not physically, but in the strange sense of being seen and not immediately judged.
He pushed the thought aside and bent over the parchment. Words. Runes. Structure. That, at least, he could control.

Remus knocked twice on the polished wooden door bearing the golden plaque: Director James Potter – Head of Communications.
A second later, without even a “come in,” the door swung open.

The office smelled faintly of ink, cheap coffee, and whatever James had last microwaved. Remus knocked once before letting himself in.

James looked up from a mess of papers. “There he is. Man of the hour.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Remus said, setting down his coat. “I’m five minutes early.”

Sirius, perched on the arm of the small couch by the window, was halfway through doodling something in the margin of James’s planner. “Early? Thought you had classes all morning.”

“I didn’t. This was my free morning.”

James raised an eyebrow. “You gave up your one peaceful morning to come here? Something’s wrong.”

Remus shrugged. “Actually, I went to see Regulus.”

Sirius’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the pen. “You what?”

“I saw Regulus.”

“Wait—how? Where?”

Remus smiled, just a little too pleased with himself. “That’s a secret.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t…”

Remus didn’t answer.

“Oh, come on,” Sirius groaned. “You didn’t go ask Poppy again, did you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Remus said, inspecting the coffee mug James offered like it might be poisoned. “She owed me a favor.”

“You’re both menaces,” Sirius muttered, slumping back.

James looked between them, bemused. “Is he… alright? I mean, I know things got a bit—tense last week.”

Remus nodded. “He’s… not great. But he let me in. We talked. Well, I talked. He mostly grumbled. But I think he listened.”

Sirius ran a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing with restless energy. “God, I thought he’d slam the door in your face.”

“He almost did,” Remus admitted, sipping his coffee. “But I had biscuits.”

James grinned. “Never underestimate the power of baked goods.”

But Sirius didn’t laugh. “Did he say anything? About… me? Us?”

Remus hesitated, just for a beat. “Not exactly. But the door wasn’t locked behind me when I left. That’s something I guess.”

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But he didn’t—he didn’t look worse, did he? I mean, not more than before?”

“He looked tired. Still in pain, I think, from the burn. But… he was there. Present. Not just surviving.”

James glanced at Sirius, then back to Remus. “Did you see Draco?”

Remus nodded. “A little. He was sick, Regulus said—just a cold, nothing serious. He stayed home from school.”

“Huh,” James muttered, frowning. “I didn’t see him this morning. Harry was a bit off, too, actually. Quieter than usual.”

Sirius looked up sharply. “You think he’s still upset about the fight?”

Remus shrugged. “He’s five. Everything’s the end of the world for five minutes. Draco has already forgotten everything in my opinion. The difficult one here is Regulus” Sirius opened his mouth- probably to say something but Remus stopped him- "Rightfully so- right Sirius?"

Sirius didn’t smile. “Yeah, I mean—But still. I just… I hate not knowing what’s going on with them. With either of them.”

There was something in his voice that tugged at Remus—genuine worry, threaded with guilt. And Remus hated that. Sirius was the man he loved, the man he’d drop everything for, the man he’d follow into fire if he asked—and yet this? This was between brothers. This was old, rooted deeper than any of them could reach. And all they could do was wait.

“I know,” Remus said quietly. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe he just needs to see we’re still here. Not pushing. Just… here.”

Sirius exhaled, running both hands through his hair now. “He looked like a ghost, Moons. That night. I don’t know how he’s still standing.”

“He’s not,” Remus said. “Not fully. But Draco’s what’s holding him up. And I think he knows that.”

Sirius leaned back into the worn chair, eyes closed for a second too long. “I just wish I knew how to talk to him.”

“You don’t,” Remus replied, honest and gentle. “Not yet. But you’ll get your moment. Just don’t screw it up.”

James reached out and patted Sirius’s shoulder. “Hey. You care. That’s what matters. You’ll get a chance to fix it. I'll get a chance to fix it. And probably the kids will help us, Draco and Harry are too attached, and with Draco, Regulus comes along.”

Sirius nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “I just hope I haven’t already burned that chance down.”

James had just dropped Harry off at the school gates, ruffling his son’s hair one last time and adjusting the strap of his backpack like it might somehow protect him from anything the day could throw his way. These little moments, brief as they were, reminded him of what really mattered.

He was about to head back to the car when he caught sight of a familiar figure.

Regulus Black.

He walked across the sidewalk with quiet purpose, coat pulled close to his thin frame, posture straight as ever, like nothing in the world could touch him — though James knew better now. And even from a distance, there was something… striking about him. Not just the way he moved, but the sharp lines of his face, the way the light caught in the strands of his hair, the stillness he carried like a shield.

James blinked.

It wasn’t new — Regulus had always been beautiful in a way that felt almost untouchable — but maybe James had never let himself really notice. Not like this. Not with the weight of everything they now knew hovering between them.

He shook the thought away.

Regulus didn’t look his way — his eyes were on the school building, scanning, no doubt, for Draco. James wondered if this was routine. If Regulus always walked him in. If he hovered, reluctant to let go.

He looked tired. Worn in a way James understood too well. But composed, too — grounded in a way that made James feel, inexplicably, a little unsteady.

Before he could think too much about it, James lifted a hand. “Reg!” he called out, voice friendly, careful.

The figure stopped.
When Regulus turned, James felt the air in his lungs still.

There was no cold indifference on his face, no quiet dignity or poised calm — just fear. Raw and unfiltered. His eyes were wide, rimmed with fatigue and something far worse. His breath puffed out in a short, uneven stream, trembling in the cool morning air like it had fought its way up from somewhere deep. His lips were slightly parted, and his hand was clenched at his side, white-knuckled, as if it was taking everything he had not to break.

James’s smile vanished in an instant. He took a step forward, then another, hands up, instinctively gentle.

“Regulus—what is it? What happened?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, hard, like speaking might shatter whatever fragile grip he had on himself. His eyes darted toward the school building, then back to James.

And then, barely above a whisper, hoarse and sharp as cracked glass:

“We saw him.”

James froze. “Saw who?”

Regulus looked like he might be sick.

“Lucius.”
The name landed like a thunderclap.

James felt it thrum down his spine, a cold, crawling sensation rising beneath his skin. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The street, quiet just moments ago, suddenly seemed too loud — cars passing, children shouting, the echo of a bell somewhere in the distance.

Regulus shook his head slowly, as if still trying to convince himself it had happened.

“He’s back,” he murmured. “Lucius is back in London.”

Chapter Text

“Regulus, look at me. Can you hear me?” His eyes were wide—unfocused—but he nodded. Or at least, James thought he did. He looked like he was barely holding himself upright, shoulders tight, breath coming in ragged puffs.

“Alright. Just breathe with me, yeah? In… and out. That’s it. You’re alright. You’re safe.” Regulus didn’t speak. Not at first. His body felt stiff, like he had forgotten how to be in it. He was still standing, but James had the distinct feeling that if he hadn’t been there, he might have crumpled to the pavement.

James placed a steadying hand on his arm, grounding. Regulus didn’t pull away—but he didn’t lean in, either.
“Draco’s fine. He’s in school, he’s safe,” James said quietly, watching the panic pulse behind those dark eyes. “Did you hear me? Draco is safe. And whatever it is, we can handle it.”

Regulus’s breathing picked up again for a moment before he steadied himself, got it back under control. He knew that he needed to be strong. For Draco.
He closed his eyes, jaw locked. Then, slowly, voice frayed and brittle, he said,
“There’s been news.”

James frowned. “What kind of news?”

“I didn’t see him,” Regulus muttered, almost defensively. “But there were articles. Reports. You know—being The Lucius Malfoy gives you a sort of reputation. So someone posted about a man matching his description in Camden. Then a few more in Holloway. He’s back. Lucius is back in London.”

James froze, just for a second. Then something cold settled in his chest.
“Are you sure?”

Regulus nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s not confirmed. But too many people saying the same thing… It’s him.”

His breath caught on the next inhale, a visible tremble in his hands. James noticed the way Regulus was holding himself now—rigid, as if holding everything together by sheer force of will. And that bloody coat—thin, frayed at the cuffs, far too light for a January morning—clung to him like it was doing more harm than good.

“Christ, Regulus,” James muttered. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine—I swear I’m fine. Let me- let me go- I'm fine, I'm fine- Draco- Draco needs- I'm fi-” They weren’t words of reassurance. They were the reflex of someone who had said them too many times, someone who was breaking quietly beneath the weight. And James—James felt something twist in his chest. A sudden, aching urge to pull Regulus into his arms, to shield him from the world, to help, somehow. To take even a piece of that pain away. To make his life easier. Or at the very least—bearable.

“You’re not. You're not fine and it's okay. We'll get through it. But right now you’re freezing, Reg. So come on, let’s get you out of the cold. There’s a café just around the corner.”

Regulus didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the school, his mouth still murmuring empty reassurances — maybe for whoever was listening, maybe just for himself, like saying them out loud might somehow make them true.

James softened his voice. “Just five minutes. Warm up. And you can show me what you saw. Or bot. You'll decide that.”
There was a long pause.

Then, finally, Regulus nodded—just barely.
James didn’t push further. He just stayed close, ready to catch him if the weight became too much again.

The café had been warm, mercifully so. The air inside had smelled like cinnamon and fresh bread, the windows slightly fogged from the cold outside. James had nudged the door open with his shoulder, holding it until Regulus had stepped through, still pale and silent, like he hadn’t quite been present in his own body.

He had guided him gently toward a corner booth—away from the windows, away from the noise. Regulus hadn’t protested. He had moved like someone on autopilot, sliding into the seat slowly, carefully, as if sitting down had taken more effort than it should.

James had followed, hovering for a second, unsure if he should sit too. But something in the way Regulus had gripped the edge of the table had made him hesitate.
“I, uh—I’ve got to head to work soon,” Regulus had mumbled, voice quiet, distant.

James had blinked. “Already?”

Regulus had glanced at his watch, like he hadn’t been entirely sure of the time either. “I start at eight. Takes about forty minutes on foot.”

James had frowned. He had checked his phone—7:20. Just enough time to order a coffee and get out. Barely. But with his car- fifteen minutes were enough.
“I’ll drive you,” James had said simply.

Regulus had looked up at him, surprised, like James had just offered him something absurd. “You don’t have to—”

James had raised a brow. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to. Come on, I’m already up, we’re here, and you’re frozen half to death. Let me be the hero, just this once.”

Regulus had hesitated. “You’re already doing enough. I'll go.”

James had softened. “Reg, it’s a ride. You’re not asking me to co-sign a mortgage.”
That had earned him the ghost of a smirk. James had taken it as a win.
“Besides,” he had added, more gently, “I don’t think you should be walking anywhere in this weather after the morning you just had. And it’s not like I was going to let you disappear into the mist like some Victorian ghost.”

Regulus had let out a soft breath—almost a laugh, maybe—and had finally nodded. “Alright. Just this once.”

James had smiled, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly. “Good. Now sit there, don’t vanish, and I’ll get us some coffee and then go.”

Regulus hadn’t answered, but the small nod he gave had been more than enough.
James had turned toward the counter, heart still pounding from earlier, but steady now. Steady because he had to be. For Regulus. Just for now.

James returned with two cups, the cardboard carrier balanced in one hand, a warm croissant wrapped in napkins tucked under his arm. He slid into the booth across from Regulus, who hadn’t moved an inch since he’d sat down. The other man looked up only when the coffee was set in front of him.

“Still black, right?” James asked casually, unwrapping the croissant and tearing a piece off for himself.

Regulus gave a single nod. “Thank you.”

James watched him for a moment. The way his fingers curled around the cup—too tight, like it was something anchoring him. His posture had relaxed only slightly, but the stiffness hadn’t left his shoulders.

“Croissant?” James offered, holding out the other half.

Regulus gave him a flat look.

James shrugged. “Worth a try.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the soft murmur of other early-morning customers humming around them. James sipped his coffee, then leaned back.
“You don’t have to talk about it, you know,” he said after a moment. “What you read. Lucius, the articles. Whatever’s running in your head. You don’t owe me that.”

Regulus was quiet for a beat, then: “I know.”
But his eyes lingered on the steam rising from his cup, as if the weight in his chest was too much to keep bottled up forever.
“It’s not just the sightings,” he murmured. “It’s the fact that I believe them. That I know what it means if they’re true.”

James didn’t interrupt. He let the silence stretch, let Regulus find his own rhythm.

““I spent so long building something small and quiet and safe for Draco and me. Not perfect, but… enough. Something that wouldn’t shatter if someone breathed wrong.” His jaw tightened. “Lucius showing up—it’s like hearing glass crack under your feet. You don’t even have to fall through to know it’s already ruined.”

James leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.
“You haven’t fallen through yet.”

Regulus met his gaze, eyes sharp. “But I might.”

“Then we’ll pull you out.” James didn’t hesitate. “Me. Sirius. Remus. My parents too—honestly, I think they basically adopted you the moment they laid eyes on you. You and Draco.”

Regulus stared at him, unmoving. His eyes narrowed, like he couldn’t quite believe someone could say something so… stupidly earnest. And mean it.
But James didn’t flinch.

“You really think it’s that simple?” Regulus asked, voice low, bitter. “That you can just walk into our lives and make the mess disappear? Potter—” He almost spat the name.
“Don’t go thinking you’re some kind of savior. You’re not. You mean nothing to Riddle. Nothing to Lucius. And to us—” His voice broke slightly. He looked away, fists clenching tight. “You’re just a distraction. One they’ll use against us the moment they can. And when they do—” He stopped himself, exhaled.
“You’re not doing anyone any favors by pretending otherwise.”

James took the hit. Let it sit for a second. Then said quietly,
“I’m not pretending anything. I’m not saying we can fix this, or that we know how. But we want to help. And we’re here. That’s… all I’ve got, Regulus. That’s what I’m offering.”

Something shifted. A short, unwilling sound escaped Regulus—half a scoff, half a laugh. He shook his head and looked away, but not fast enough to hide the flicker of something else. Something uncertain. Almost soft.

James saw it.

He’d seen that look before—on Sirius, once, years ago, when he still didn’t know how to ask for help without snarling first. That stubborn kind of fear, the kind that lived right next to need. A heart walled up so tightly it had forgotten how to knock.

It was a pattern. One James had learned to recognize, even if he didn’t always know how to answer it.
A silent request. Wrapped in thorns. But a request, still.

James leaned back again, picked up his cup, took a sip, and set it down with a small clink. Then, more lightly—but still sincere—he added: “Also, since we’re on the topic and the emotional casserole is still hot—” He offered a crooked smile.
“I owe you an apology.”

Regulus looked at him warily, scoffing again. “For what? For the croissant?”

James smiled, but it was a small, regretful thing.
“For being a judgmental prat when we met. And for what I said. What I assumed.”
He let out a breath, ran a hand through his hair.
“We’re all so sorry, Regulus. You can’t even imagine. We honestly thought Draco’s father was still Lucius, and even if that had been true—we had no right to say any of those things.” His voice faltered for a second, but he pushed through.
“We just stood there, judging your entire life like we had the faintest idea what it cost you. And—fuck, we were—” He paused, then gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah. We were wrong. So wrong. Like I said… I was a prat.”

Regulus blinked, clearly caught off-guard. “Yeah- Narcissa told me. About your assumption. And Remus already apologised for all of you.”

“I know,” James said. “And I love Remus, but I don’t want him doing my job. I should’ve been better. And I’m sorry I wasn’t. Usually I don't judge, I swear.”

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You’re very persistent.”

“Some call it charming.”

“No one calls it charming.”

James grinned. “Lily does.”

“That’s marriage bias.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

There was a small pause, but then—Regulus let out a soft sigh, his shoulders easing just slightly. “Alright,” he said. “Apology accepted.”
He looked away, his voice turning dry.
“Also because… I don’t really feel like picking a fight with the Potters right now. You’re not exactly my biggest problem.” A faint smirk pulled at his lips.

James raised his cup in a mock toast, smiling.
“To new beginnings, then?"

Regulus lifted his own, not quite smiling—but almost. “Don’t push your luck.”
That got a small, genuine breath of amusement from Regulus, and James found himself clinging to that sound more than he should have.
“You and Sirius are still close, then?”

“Too close, probably,” James said. “He practically lives at my place when he’s not throwing paint on things.”

Regulus arched a brow. “He’s still painting?”

“Mostly canvases these days, yeah. Less walls and school uniforms, thankfully.” James paused, then offered, quieter, “He really does want to talk to you. We both do. Not just about Lucius. About… everything.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He stared into his coffee like it might offer some kind of wisdom. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup before he finally spoke, voice quiet but clear. “I’m not there yet,” he said eventually.
“I mean—I’m not even angry at him anymore. Not really. It’s almost worse than that. It’s like I’ve run out of room to feel anything but tired.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“So no, I’m not mad. I don’t have the strength for it.”

He paused, then added, more bitterly:

“But I also don’t have the strength to face him. And I know I’ll have to. It’s inevitable. But I don’t want to think about it. I can’t think about it.”
His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
“We’re too much. Me and Sirius. Too complicated. Too hurt. Too—fucked up.”

James nodded. “That’s alright. We’ll wait. Sirius'll wait.”
There was a brief silence, and then James glanced up, as if suddenly remembering.
“By the way—what you said earlier, about ‘my wife’—Lily and I never actually got married.”

Regulus blinked, looking up. “Oh. I just assumed—”

“Most people do,” James said with a shrug. “Harry wasn’t exactly… planned. We were twenty-one, stupidly young, convinced we had everything figured out. But things happen.” There was no bitterness in his voice—just acceptance, and maybe a strange fondness.
“I love him. More than anything. But I’d be lying if I said we didn’t crash through those first years like lunatics.”

Regulus tilted his head, curious. “And Lily?”

James smiled, and this time it was warm—genuinely happy.
“She’s with someone else now. A woman, actually. They’ve been together a few years. She’s really happy. Which means Harry’s happy, and that’s what matters.”

Regulus’ brows lifted slightly. “So… no tragic love triangle, then.”

James chuckled. “Not unless you count Sirius getting jealous that I talk to Remus too much.” That earned another small smile from Regulus. He looked down into his cup again, then back up with something more vulnerable in his gaze.

“Draco was never adopted. Not legally.”

James blinked. “What?”

“No one was going to give custody to a nineteen-year-old boy, especially not with my family name. There were guardianship papers, sure, some temporary agreements when he was younger. But nothing binding.” Regulus’ fingers tightened slightly around his coffee. “If Lucius came back and decided to push it, he’d still have leverage. Too much of it.”

James frowned, his own stomach turning at the thought.
“That’s insane. You’ve raised him—every day. You’re his father.”

“Not in the eyes of the law,” Regulus said softly. “And with Lucius, that’s all that matters.”

James was quiet for a moment, taking it all in. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said gently, “We’ll figure something out.”

Regulus looked at him. Really looked at him. And for just a second, James thought he saw something break—just a flicker—behind those dark eyes. Exhaustion, maybe. Or gratitude. “You don’t even know me,” Regulus murmured.

James smiled, quiet and steady. “Getting there.”

Regulus couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. Not calm, not exactly—there was still something cold settled deep in his chest, something that wouldn’t melt just yet—but lighter, maybe. Less braced for impact.
James was doing most of the talking, and that helped. It gave Regulus something to listen to that wasn’t the constant thrum of his own thoughts.

He let the words wash over him—something about a trip to Scotland with Sirius and Harry that had gone predictably wrong. There was a goat involved. A rental car that died halfway up a hill. Sirius had apparently declared a personal war on every goat north of Hadrian’s Wall.

Regulus huffed a short laugh before he could stop himself. It wasn’t forced.
James had that effect, somehow—he made things feel less sharp, less breakable. Like for a moment, the world could hold together without Regulus having to keep it in one piece.

And he wasn’t what Regulus expected, not really. He was… warm. Earnest in a way that should have been annoying, but wasn’t. Too kind for his own good, probably. The sort of man who’d drive a near-stranger across town just to make sure they weren’t late to work. And annoyingly enough, he was good-looking. The kind of good-looking that crept up on you. The kind that felt steady and safe and unfairly charming.
Not that it mattered.

Regulus stirred the dregs of his coffee absently, pretending not to watch the way James tilted his head when he laughed. “So then Sirius storms out of the cabin,” James was saying, grinning, “wrapped in a tartan blanket, swearing he’s going to fight a stag, and Remus just—deadpan—asks if it’s mating season.”

That made Regulus huff a laugh. “You people are completely unhinged.”

“We prefer ‘spirited.’”

Regulus was just about to reply—some sarcastic comment on Gryffindor delusions—when his eyes drifted to the clock on the wall.

His stomach dropped.

“Shit.”

James blinked. “What?”

“It’s—” Regulus stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. “It’s almost quarter past. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get across town or my manager will have me skinned alive.”

James was already standing, grabbing his keys. “Okay, okay, let’s go—no way I’m letting you run across London like that.”

Regulus shook his head, already pulling on his scarf. “James, seriously, you’ve done more than enough— I'm not used to- to actually being in a car and it's okay. I can take the bus- I'm not your responsibility-”

“Nope.” James held the door open with a determined set to his jaw. “I’m driving you. End of discussion. You’re not dying on my watch, Black. I promised you and- let's say it's part of the apology, alright?”

Regulus glanced back once at the table, the coffee cups still warm. The tension from earlier had softened, at least a little. And he was almost disappointed to leave it behind. "You really are something Potter- alright- alright. Let's go."

Almost.

He followed James out into the cold, and despite everything—despite the weight in his chest and the clock ticking too fast—he found himself walking just a bit closer than necessary. Just in case.

The car was nicer than Regulus had expected. Sleek, black, probably too expensive for a man who regularly wore scuffed sneakers and forgot his own coffee order. The inside was warm already, the heating humming low and steady, and it smelled faintly of pine and whatever cologne James had casually decided to throw on this morning.

Regulus sank into the passenger seat, still tugging his coat tighter around himself out of instinct more than anything. The chill clung to him like a second skin.

James slid in behind the wheel, glanced over, and reached for the heat settings. “You’ll be warm in a second. Seat warmers, too—don’t say I don’t spoil you.”

Regulus snorted, voice rough with cold. “Lavish.”

“Exactly.” James started the car with a quiet confidence that Regulus found both irritating and, frustratingly, reassuring. “Where to?”

Regulus gave him the address, a corner café just off Highbury. His voice still held a bit of the morning tremble, and he hated how fragile it sounded in the space between them.

James nodded, tapped the location into his phone, and pulled out smoothly into the street. “That’s fifteen minutes tops. You’ll be early.”

Regulus blinked. “It takes forty on foot.”

James gave him a sideways glance, smirking faintly. “That’s why I own a car. Revolutionary, I know.”

Regulus let his head rest lightly against the window. The glass was cold, his breath fogging up the edge, and outside the sky was still grey and low. The city hadn’t quite woken up yet — people were shuffling down streets in coats and scarves, traffic lights blinking through the mist.

Inside, it was warm. Safe. And James was humming quietly to whatever was playing on the radio, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Regulus watched him for a moment, eyes trailing over the relaxed set of his jaw, the curl of his hair just above the ear.

He didn’t mean to feel this comfortable. Not with anyone, and especially not with James Potter.

And yet.

“Thank you,” Regulus said suddenly, voice low but sincere. “For the ride. And the coffee. And… not panicking.”

James glanced over again, softer this time. “Of course. You don’t have to thank me, Reg. I meant it earlier — I’m here. You and Draco aren’t alone in this. I want to help you, alright? So please—don’t go disappearing halfway across the world or whatever dramatic thing you’re secretly planning.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but the edge was dulled. Of course he’d say something like that. James Potter, all open hands and stubborn loyalty, still clinging to the idea that things could be fixed just by standing next to someone long enough.
Typical. Stupid. Reckless. It made Regulus’s chest twist and his stomach lurch in a way that was absolutely unfair.

Regulus barely registered the passing buildings outside the car window. The heater in James’ ridiculously nice car hummed softly, warmth curling around his fingers and face like a blanket, and for a moment, he allowed himself to breathe. Really breathe. The kind of breath that didn’t catch in his throat or taste like panic. He sank a little deeper into the seat, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. It felt safe in here—too safe, maybe. Like he could close his eyes and sleep for days.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Not when the ache in his wrist still pulsed dully under his coat. Not when exhaustion clung to his bones like it had been there for years, not just days. Not when he was about to walk through a door and see the man who had done it. Who’d done worse.

James’ voice broke through the fog. “You sure this is the place?”

Regulus blinked and glanced up at the looming brick building ahead. Cold, grey, tired-looking. Just like him. “Yeah. That’s it.”

“You’ll be early,” James said, checking the clock. “Only took us fifteen minutes.”

Regulus nodded absently and reached for the door handle, but James stopped him with a light touch to his arm.

“Hey. You good?”

Regulus gave a weak smile. “I’m fine.”
The lie burned on his tongue. He opened the door before James could press further. The cold hit him like a slap. He stepped out into the street, the wind cutting clean through his coat. His shoes crunched against the frost-covered pavement as he walked, head down, heart racing. He could already see Mulciber, standing at the door with a cigarette between his fingers, eyes tracking him like a hawk.

Regulus slowed his steps.
He hadn’t told James everything. He didn’t want to. There was nothing James could do, anyway. No one could.

“Black,” Mulciber called, voice sharp, too loud for the quiet street. “You’re late.”

Regulus checked his watch. 7:57.
“I’m early,” he replied evenly, even though his voice sounded thin.

Mulciber exhaled smoke through his nose and dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “Is that attitude? Because I don’t pay you to tell time, sweetheart. I pay you to work. And maybe keep that mouth shut while you’re at it.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just nodded, head down. It was always better that way. Keep your head down. Keep breathing.

He reached the door, but before he could step inside, Mulciber’s hand was on his shoulder. Tight.

“You look tired,” he said, almost amused. “Something keeping you up at night? That little brat of yours, maybe? Or…” His grip tightened. “You sneaking off somewhere else again before work? You smell like coffee.”

Regulus flinched, barely. “I just stopped to warm up.”

“Didn’t realize you needed warming up to do your job. Must be nice, having time to get cozy. Maybe I should cut your shift, see how cozy you feel then.”

He let go of Regulus with a shove and walked inside, leaving the door swinging open behind him. Regulus exhaled. His hand instinctively moved to his wrist again, the phantom ache still there.

But then he felt it. Mulciber's hand slid lower. A slap. Too familiar. Too practiced.
Right across the back of his trousers.

Regulus jolted, breath caught in his throat, stomach twisting. “You fuck—” he hissed, and turned, fury spiking hot in his chest.

But Mulciber just smiled, teeth yellowed and smug. “Easy, princess. We both know how this works.”

Then another voice broke through the fog of rage: “What the fuck did you just say?”

James.

He was there—he must’ve followed him, the idiot—and his voice was sharp, no-nonsense, filled with the kind of fury that made people step back. Regulus turned and saw him storming forward, hands clenched, jaw locked.

Mulciber raised a brow. “Who the hell is this?”

James was almost nose-to-nose with him now. “That’s none of your business. What matters is that I saw you put your hands on him.”

Mulciber chuckled, slow and ugly. “You his boyfriend?”

James didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The tension in his body said enough.

Mulciber’s smile dropped. “I don’t give a damn who you are,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You come into my business, throwing fits, you’ll find your friend without a paycheck by the end of the week.”

Regulus felt it like a punch to the chest. “No—wait.” He stepped between them, hands up, voice cracking with urgency. “Please. I can’t— You can’t do that.”

“Watch me.”

The panic surged. His mind ran wild—Rent. Gas. Groceries. Draco’s school forms. That new coat he needed. The dentist bill he’s been ignoring. If I lose this job, I lose the flat. If I lose the flat, I lose Draco. If Lucius comes back—if he pushes for custody— he wouldn’t stand a chance. Not on part-time pay and hand-me-downs.

“James, please,” he muttered without looking at him. “Just go.”
There was silence. Just the three of them, the cold air, and Regulus’s heart thudding so loud it hurt. Finally, James stepped back. But not far. He didn’t leave.

Regulus didn’t look at him as he turned toward the bar’s back hallway. He couldn’t.
The worst part wasn’t the slap, or the threat. It was the shame. That James had seen it. That part of him wished James hadn’t come back.
Because if he hadn’t, everything would’ve stayed as it was. Quiet. Tolerable.

Just enough. Now it was unraveling.
And Regulus wasn’t sure how long he could keep it from breaking entirely.

Mulciber turned slightly when a couple walked in through the back entrance, still laughing, breath fogging in the cold. Regular customers. His manager straightened up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, slick and oily like everything else about him.
But then his gaze slid past Regulus and landed on James—still standing there, motionless, fists clenched at his sides like he was deciding whether to shout or break something. He opened his mouth and then looked at regulus- like he wanted to tell him something. And Regulus already knew what was going to say-

And that—that was when Regulus snapped. He couldn’t afford this. Not here. Not now. “James,” he said sharply, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Go. Leave. Now.”

James blinked, startled. “Reg—”

“I said go,” Regulus hissed. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was full of steel. “This isn’t your place. You shouldn’t have followed me. Stop messing with-” With what? The dickhead boss? Or the shitty job? His life maybe?

Mulciber was already turning, picking up on the shift in tone, his smirk curling at the edges like smoke.

James took a slow step forward. “Regulus—he can’t talk to you like that. He can’t touch you like that.”

Regulus clenched his jaw. “I- I- yeah- I know. But it’s not your fight, Potter.”

Mulciber laughed low behind him. “Aww, how sweet. Is he your little watchdog now? Bit young, isn’t he? But he has a nice car so good choice.”

Regulus ignored the bile in his stomach and turned fully to James. “I need you to go. Now James!” There was silence. A long moment where James didn’t move, didn’t blink—just stared at him, jaw tense, chest rising and falling too fast.
But then, finally, James gave a short nod. One step back. Then another.

He left without another word.
And the door slammed shut behind him with a jingle of the bell and a gust of cold air.

Regulus exhaled shakily, and for the first time that morning, he felt like he might be sick. He didn’t dare look at Mulciber.
Regulus stood there for a moment, unmoving. The sound of the bell above the door seemed to linger in the air even though James had already gone. Even though he was already out.

And something else closed up inside him, just as quietly.

James could’ve been—might’ve been—one of the very few good things to ever happen to him. A steady presence, warm and solid. Someone who didn’t flinch at his silences, who didn’t bolt at the cracks. Someone who didn’t want anything from him.

Someone who stayed. And now he was gone. That, too, was gone.
But it wasn’t anything new. Not for him.

He knew that feeling. Knew it so well he almost let himself settle into it. The disappointment. The hollowness. The ache that never quite finished unraveling. It wrapped itself around his ribs like old rope.

He exhaled—long, slow—and rolled up his sleeves.
There was still work to do.

He slammed the car door shut harder than he meant to. The sound echoed down the street like a gunshot, but James barely noticed. His heart was still hammering in his chest, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had gone white. James exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

He couldn’t drive. Not like this. Not with that image still burned behind his eyes—Mulciber’s hand on Regulus. The flinch. The look on Regulus’ face. The helpless fury simmering just below the surface.

James reached for his phone with shaking fingers and hit Sirius. It barely rang twice.

“Mate? What the hell—it’s not even nine. Did something happen to Harry?”"

“Sirius.” His voice came out rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. “I swear to God, if I ever see that bastard lay a hand on him again, I’ll kill him.”

“Wait—what? Who? What’s going on?”

“Mulciber. His boss. The one Regulus works for.” His jaw clenched so tight it ached. “He touched him. In front of everyone. Smirked while doing it like it was some fucking joke. Said things I—” He broke off, his pulse spiking all over again. “He’s been doing it for a while, I know it. And Reg just takes it." His voice cracked with restrained fury. “And when I said something, when I stepped in, he threatened Reg with his fucking paycheck. You should’ve seen Reg’s face, Pads. He—he looked like he was drowning.”

There was a long pause. Then, low and steady:

“I’ll kill him.”

James huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, bitter and sharp. “Get in line.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then Sirius’ voice, low and cold.
“He hurt him?”

James pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, trying to breathe. “Not in front of me. Not physically. But emotionally? You should’ve seen him. He looked like he was going to collapse if anyone so much as breathed wrong.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” James muttered. “Exactly.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I tried.” He let out a frustrated laugh. “He told me to leave. Said I’d made things worse. Told me not to come back.”

Another silence.

“You’re not going to just listen to that, are you?”

James looked up at the empty sidewalk. The cold creeping into the car. “I don’t know. I want to help, Pads. But I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You being there probably reminded him what not being alone feels like. That kind of thing scares people when all they’ve ever known is the opposite.”

James closed his eyes. That sounded a little too true.

“I’m serious,” Sirius added. “Don’t back off. He may not say it, but he needs someone. And it sure as hell can’t be me.”

James’s grip tightened again. “It should be.”

“Maybe. But he won’t let me.” A pause. “He might let you.”

James didn’t say anything for a long time. Then James added, quieter now, the fury shifting into something colder. “And there’s more. Regulus told me this morning—he’s seen reports. Online, whispers, photos. Nothing confirmed, but… it looks like Lucius is back in London.”

Sirius went dead silent.

“James—”

“I know. I know it might be nothing. But he was already shaken when I found him outside the school this morning. Scared. And now this. Mulciber, the job, the way he’s barely holding it together…” James swallowed. “If Lucius really is back, it’s not safe. Not for Reg, not for Draco.”

Sirius cursed under his breath.

“I don’t know what we can do,” James said. “But I’m not letting him go through this alone.”

There was a beat of silence before Sirius replied, voice low and resolute.
“Neither am I. We gotta plan something- are you free this weekend? Maybe we can go to the park with Harry and Draco and talk to my brother a little more. We'll get him through this, James. I want my brother back.”

The key slipped in with more effort than usual—like even the lock had grown tired of him. Regulus pushed the door open with a shoulder and stepped into the flat, letting it close behind him with a muted click. He didn’t bother locking it. Let the night have him, if it wanted. He didn’t care.

He stood in the silence for a moment, the weight of the day pressing into the space between his shoulder blades, into the arch of his back, into his ribs. The coat hung off his frame, damp from the outside, and still he didn’t take it off. He didn’t move. Not yet.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the warm light spilling from the living room and kitchen. Someone had lit a few lamps. Narcissa, probably. He could hear faint voices—Draco’s, then hers. Laughter. Not much, just a quiet bubble, but enough to remind him that the world was still spinning even when he felt like he wasn’t.

He swallowed hard.

The bag on his shoulder dropped to the floor with a dull thud. His keys followed. The shoes took more effort—he toed them off, missed the mat entirely, left them abandoned somewhere between the wall and the edge of the rug.

His body ached.

But more than that—it pulsed. The kind of pain that didn’t sit in the muscles or bones, but somewhere deeper. Like fatigue had carved out a space between his heart and lungs and taken up residence there. He felt hollowed out. Like he’d been scraped clean.

Images from the day flickered behind his eyes.
Mulciber’s voice. The hand. The laugh.

The look on James’s face when he’d realised what was happening. The way his jaw had clenched—tight and furious—before Regulus had shoved him away with words he hadn’t meant. Maybe. Or maybe he had.
The shame came next. It always did. Followed closely by the guilt, then the panic, marching one after the other like soldiers trained to break him down in perfect rhythm.

He’d yelled. He’d made a scene. He’d chosen to push away the only person who’d made him feel—for a split second—like he wasn’t entirely alone.

And for what? To keep his job?
To keep a roof over their heads?
To keep Lucius from taking Draco?

The thought made him wince. His fingers were still trembling slightly. He curled them into fists and then let them go again, trying to focus on the sensation of blood, of skin, of now.

In the air, he smelled leftover food. Something with garlic, maybe—soft, rich, made with care. His stomach gave a dull, miserable twist, but he knew he wouldn’t eat. The idea of sitting at a table, of lifting a fork to his mouth, was more than he could manage. It felt performative. And he had nothing left to perform with.

The flat was quiet now. He could hear only the hum of the fridge, the tick of the old kitchen clock. Footsteps moved in another room. A door closed softly.
He closed his eyes. It had been a long day. No. It had been a long life.
And he was so tired, he didn’t know how to be anything else.

He hadn’t taken more than two steps into the flat when he heard the thud of hurried footsteps—light, a little uneven, too fast for the small space.

“Papà!”

Draco’s voice cut through the heaviness like a thin beam of light through smoke, and then the boy was there, skidding slightly in his socks across the wooden floor, a grin already tugging at his mouth. His eyes were bright, flushed from warmth and whatever game he’d abandoned in his rush.

Regulus forced himself to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but Draco didn’t seem to notice. He crouched instinctively—though his knees protested—and caught him in a quick hug, holding him tighter than he meant to. "Oui, mon amour?"

“You’re late,” Draco announced with the calm certainty of a five-year-old who believed the world should run on his schedule. “But we saved you some dinner. I told Aunt Cissy not to eat it even if you didn’t come back before nine.”

He said it proudly, like a promise kept. Regulus managed a tired smile, kneeling down to unlace his boots, the tension in his shoulders heavy and sharp.
Draco was still calling her Aunt Cissy, and Regulus supposed that made sense—for now. It wasn’t what they had planned. Wasn’t how they’d imagined their lives turning out. But if it made Draco feel safer, more grounded, then Regulus wouldn’t correct him. Not yet. Eventually, he thought, he’ll come around.

Regulus let out a quiet breath, a hand coming up to brush back the boy’s hair, slightly tousled. “I appreciate your vigilance.”

“You okay?” Draco asked, pulling back just enough to study his face. His little brow furrowed with concern, lips pursed in that serious way only five-year-olds could manage. Too perceptive, as always.

Regulus straightened carefully, forcing his shoulders not to flinch, and smoothed a hand over Draco’s hair. “Obviously, hon,” he said with a tired smile. “But I missed you so much today. So so so much.”

Draco beamed, the worry melting off his face as he bounced slightly on his heels, arms still loosely looped around his father’s neck. “I missed you too! So, so, so much!” He flung himself against Regulus again with renewed enthusiasm, nearly knocking the air out of him. “I like it more when you’re the one who picks me up from school. It’s better. You don’t forget my drawings. Or my snack. Or my coat.”

Regulus let out a soft, surprised laugh. “Right, of course. Because I’m the responsible one.”

Draco nodded very seriously against his chest. “Yeah!"

Regulus held him tighter for a second, closing his eyes.
“Alright,” he whispered into Draco’s hair, “let’s go inside, little knight. Tell me everything. Did you conquer the playground? How was Harry?”

Draco giggled, already pulling him toward the door. “Almost! But Harry cheated again—he always cheats when we play dragons!” He turned and bounded back into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, it’s still warm!" Draco nodded. “We made pasta. Cissa let me stir the sauce and everything. It didn’t even burn.”

“Miraculous,” Regulus said, deadpan with a little smirk at the end of his mouth.

Draco giggled, clearly proud. “And guess what? At school, we had art class, and I drew a dinosaur, but not a normal one. It had a pirate hat.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “A pirate dinosaur?”

“Yeah, with a sword and everything.”

“Dangerous combination,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You terrorize the classroom with it?”

“Nooo,” Draco said, giggling again, “but I told Miss Harper it could eat the math homework. She didn’t laugh though. She’s the worst one—she never laughs about our jokes—but daaad, they’re just jokes, right?”

“Oh my God, it’s tragic, honey.” Regulus said, his voice laced with mock pity as he wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. He couldn’t help it. The sheer enthusiasm in Draco’s voice was something that made the heaviness in his chest feel just a little less suffocating.
Draco beamed up at him, clearly waiting for more of a reaction.
“I mean, if she can’t appreciate the art of humor in its highest form, what hope does the world have?” Regulus continued, trying to make it sound like a serious statement, his lips twitching into a smile.

Draco nodded sagely. “Exactly, Dad! You’re the only one who gets it.”
Regulus felt his heart tighten. A fleeting, absurd thought crossed his mind: If only it could be like this forever. Just the two of them, laughing at the little things that mattered to a five-year-old, no looming shadows of past mistakes or present fears.

He ruffled Draco’s hair affectionately. “Well, if you ever need a backup comedian, you know who to call.”

Draco giggled again, his bright eyes shining. “Thanks, Dad!”
There it was again—Dad. That single word, so simple but so profound, made his chest feel impossibly full, and yet impossibly empty at the same time.

Regulus followed slowly, the weight of his limbs reasserting itself. The kitchen was softly lit, and smelled like rosemary and tomato and something buttery. A plate sat covered on the counter, clearly kept aside for him. The table had two empty glasses, one still with a bit of juice left, and a crumpled napkin where Draco must’ve left it.

Narcissa stood at the sink, drying her hands. She turned when she heard him, her expression shifting instantly from neutral to concern. Her gaze swept over him, noting the coat still on, the slump of his shoulders, the pallor under his eyes.

On the coffee table, a plate of food sat under foil. He couldn’t even look at it.

“Regulus,” she said softly.

“I’m fine,” he said, sharper than he meant. Then, quieter: “I’m fine. Just—give me a minute.”

Narcissa held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded. “Your plate’s there. Eat something, alright?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need—”

“I know,” he cut in. “I know. I just… I need to talk to Draco first.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply. Just turned toward the small sofa near the window, where Draco had flopped down with one of his sketchbooks. His legs dangled over the edge, socks mismatched. Regulus sat beside him slowly, body aching as it folded itself down.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft.

Draco looked up. “Yeah?”

He nodded but didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, he looked back down at Draco. “Alright, I need to ask you something, sweetheart. Did you see anyone strange today, on the way home? A man?”

Draco tilted his head. “A man?”

Regulus reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked—he hadn’t even remembered that happening. He tapped a few times, then turned the display to Draco. An image of Lucius stared back—taken years ago, but recent enough to be recognisable.

Draco blinked. “Is that…”

Regulus waited.

“That’s my….” Draco says quietly, unsure what to call Lucius anymore. Regulus can only quietly feel proud that Draco doesn’t want to call Lucius his father.

“Your father,” Regulus said. The word tasted like acid. “Yes.”

Draco frowned, eyes flicking back to the screen. “He looks kind of… weird.”

“That’s right,” Regulus exhaled slowly, his voice tight with the weight of unspoken concerns. “Listen to me carefully, alright? If you ever see him—anywhere, even from far away—you tell me. Or your Aunt Cissy. Or James. Understand?”

Draco blinked, his small brow furrowing as he processed the seriousness in his father’s tone. “James?”

Regulus nodded, his gaze steady but soft. “Yes. James. We’re friends now. We made peace.”

Draco tilted his head, eyes bright with curiosity. “Like me and Harry? Are you friends now, too?" Regulus nodded and Draco smiled amazed. "Okay… so- uh-… I’m not supposed to go with him, right?”

Regulus gave a small, reassuring smile, despite the lingering tension in his chest. “Exactly. Never go with him. If you see him, you come to one of us right away. Promise? You don’t go anywhere with him. Ever. No matter what he says.”

Draco’s face shifted into an earnest expression, a rare moment of seriousness for his age. “Promise, Dad.” Draco nodded. It was a small, uncertain movement—but it was enough. Regulus exhaled, his heart easing slightly. But the weight of the world was still there. For Draco’s sake, he thought, I have to make sure nothing happens.

“Good,” Regulus murmured. “That’s good.”
Draco leaned against his side, the warmth of his small body a small comfort amidst the exhaustion. Regulus looked at him, the tired smile that appeared on his face barely able to mask the weight he felt inside.
“Good. Now, let’s not worry about that for tonight. Go get ready for bed, yeah? I’ll be in in a bit.”

Draco stood, stretching dramatically, and trudged down the hallway with exaggerated steps, his socked feet making soft, shuffling sounds. “I’ll wait for you, okay? Can you come sleep with me?”

Regulus’s heart twisted at the simplicity of Draco’s words. The small boy’s need for closeness, for safety, was enough to shatter him in that moment. “Yeah, I’ll come. In a little while.”

As Draco disappeared down the hall, Narcissa appeared in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand. She didn’t speak, but the quiet concern in her eyes was enough to say everything.

Regulus sank back into the worn cushions, his hand dragging over his face in exhaustion. The day felt like it had drained him of everything. The weight of it—of what he was dealing with, of what he had to protect—seemed almost unbearable.

Regulus couldn’t answer right away. His hands trembled against his face, his breath coming in broken gasps.
How could he explain it?
How could he explain that for the first time, he didn’t know what to do — that the fear wasn’t just about Lucius reappearing, but about losing everything he had fought so hard to protect?

“They’ll take him from me,” he finally whispered, voice raw. “He’ll take him—Lucius—he has the money, the connections. He can buy lawyers, bribe judges—”
His chest heaved, the panic rising again. “I don’t—” he broke off, voice cracking.

Narcissa knelt in front of him, hands firm on his knees, steadying him.
“No, Regulus. Listen to me.”
Her voice, though soft, carried a sharp edge. A certainty he couldn’t summon for himself.
“I’m his mother,” she said fiercely. “You think he can just erase that? You think money alone will give him our son?”

Regulus lifted his head slightly, enough to meet her gaze, desperate and hopeless.

“With what, Cissy?” he rasped. “With what money are we going to fight him? I can barely pay rent—barely keep the lights on—and he—he—”
He shook his head again, feeling defeated.
“He’ll crush us.”

For a moment, Narcissa was silent, her eyes glinting with a furious, tear-bright determination.
“Then let him try.”
She squeezed his hands tightly.
“We’ll fight him. I’ll sell what I have left, I’ll beg if I have to, but he will not take Draco from you. Or from me.” Regulus’s lips parted, a shudder running through him at her words.

Narcissa didn’t let go of his hands, as if she could feel there was still something else weighing heavy on him, something he hadn’t yet said.
“Reg,” she murmured, her voice steady but impossibly gentle. “Is there anything else? Anything else that’s scaring you?”

Regulus swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He hesitated, pulling one hand free to scrub at his face. For a moment, he didn’t answer—because saying it aloud would make it real.

Finally, in a broken whisper, he said, “My job.”

Narcissa’s brow furrowed in immediate concern. She didn’t push, simply waited.i
Regulus let out a hollow laugh, bitter and short. “It’s… bad, Cissy. Worse than I let on. I—” He cut himself off, breathing shallowly. “Something happened. An incident. James… James saw it.”

Narcissa straightened, alarm flashing across her features. “What kind of incident?” she asked, careful, but there was steel under her tone now.

Regulus shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “Mulciber—he… he humiliated me. In front of everyone. Pushed me around. Threatened to dock my pay—” His voice cracked, and he pressed his hands to his temples, trying to keep himself together. “James tried to step in. I… I told him not to. I can’t lose that job, Cissy. I can’t. We barely make rent, the gas bill is late, Draco needs—”

He let out a shaky breath, trying to gather himself before speaking. His voice cracked as he began, recounting everything. “And James… James- he tried, Narcissa. He tried to help, he really did.” Regulus paused, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “But I pushed him away. I couldn’t let him see how weak I was. How broken.”

His hands trembled as he rubbed his face again. “He was there when everything went wrong. He saw it. He saw how I’m falling apart. And he tried, he really did, but I… I turned him away. I didn’t let him in. I thought I could handle it myself, but…”

Narcissa stayed silent, listening, her gaze intense. She knew how hard it was for Regulus to open up, and though it pained her to hear the depth of his pain, she didn’t interrupt. When he finished, the room felt heavier than before, a quiet weight pressing down on them.

“I ruined it,” Regulus whispered, his voice raw. “I ruined everything. For me, for Draco. I thought he was someone I could trust. I thought maybe—maybe for once, I could let myself have someone who cared. But I… I pushed him away. And now he’ll never come back.”

Narcissa’s face softened, though a flicker of concern crossed her features. “Regulus, you can’t just carry all of this by yourself. You need help. You need to change something before—” She stopped herself, unable to finish her thought.

“Before Lucius comes back,” Regulus finished, his voice barely a whisper. He shuddered at the thought, the weight of the fear pressing down on him even more. “I don’t know what I’ll do if he does.”

Narcissa was quiet for a moment. Then, her voice was firm. “You need to change your work, Reg. You can’t keep doing this. It’s killing you.”

Regulus leaned back, wiping his face again, his exhaustion seeping into his bones. “I know. But I can’t just quit. What am I supposed to do? How can I—how can I afford to? Draco needs me. He needs this. I need to hold everything together. And if I quit…”

He couldn’t finish the thought. The weight of everything—his life, Draco’s future, the threat of Lucius—pressed down on him, suffocating.

Narcissa sighed heavily, watching him with a look that said more than words could. “I don’t care how difficult it is. You have to change something. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You deserve better.”

Regulus stared at the floor, the silence between them thickening. Then he swallowed hard, a lump in his throat. His heart ached at the thought of James, at how close he had come to something real, something good. “I pushed James away. I ruined everything,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Narcissa reached over and gently cupped his face, forcing him to look at her.
“You’re wrong. He didn’t give up on you. He might not come back, but he won’t forget that you need help. He saw you. And he’s not the kind of person to forget that.” She paused before adding quietly, “I know you’re afraid. But don’t push people away just because you’re scared of what might happen. You have to let people in, Regulus.”

Regulus closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, allowing her words to sink in. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still something he could salvage, even if he was terrified to reach for it.
“You’re not alone, you know,” Narcissa said softly, her voice filled with compassion. “You have us. You have James. Sirius even. Remus. And even if things seem impossible right now, you’re not alone. You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

Regulus let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. He didn’t know how, but somehow, he would find a way. For Draco. For himself. For everyone.

Regulus sat there, the weight of the day pressing down on him, his tears still lingering on his cheeks. But as Narcissa’s words began to settle in, his phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the stillness. Regulus paused, his heart skipping a beat. He pulled it out and saw it was a message from James.

He hesitated for a moment, then opened it.

James:
“Hey, Reg. Hi. Uh—”

James:
“Hi Regulus. Sorry to bother you—uh, you gave me your number this morning, right?”

James:
“Well. Obviously you did. Hah—anyway.”

James:
“I was just wondering if maybe you and Draco would wanna get together this weekend? Harry’s been asking if he could see him, and I thought it might be nice. No pressure, obviously. Let me know what you think.”

James:
Good night! :>

Regulus’s breath caught for a moment, a mixture of surprise and something else—something that felt almost like hope. He stared at the message, his fingers trembling slightly as he ran them over the screen. Harry wanted to spend time with Draco. James was still reaching out. Despite everything, he was offering something good, something that felt real.

A soft laugh bubbled up from deep within him, the tension in his chest momentarily easing. It was a strange feeling—like warmth beginning to seep into his bones, like things weren’t completely hopeless after all. He looked up at Narcissa, who had been quietly watching him, her knowing gaze never leaving his face.

Regulus’s voice was thick with emotion as he spoke, a quiet chuckle escaping him through the tears still fresh on his face. “You were right, Cissa.”

She smiled at him, a faint glimmer of understanding in her eyes. She had known this was coming. There was so much more beneath the surface, so much Regulus kept buried. But she could see the way the pieces were beginning to fall into place.

“I know,” she replied softly, her voice full of warmth. “I always know.”

Regulus nodded, the smile on his lips now more genuine, though the emotion behind it was complicated. It was relief, and uncertainty, and something close to joy, but just a little bittersweet.
He wiped his eyes, taking a deep breath, and then turned to head for Draco’s room. “I’m going to tell him. I don’t want him to fall asleep without hearing this. It’s good news. He deserves it.”

Narcissa watched him for a moment before speaking, her voice tender yet firm. “You’re not alone, Regulus. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

Regulus paused in the doorway, glancing back at her, his eyes softening. He nodded once, a quiet affirmation that he didn’t say aloud but that she understood all the same. He didn’t have all the answers, but maybe—just maybe—there was a small part of the puzzle that was starting to make sense.

Chapter Text

Regulus adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with slow, methodical movements, staring at his reflection without really seeing it. The fabric was a little worn, the color dulled with age, the seams starting to show signs of fatigue just like everything else he owned.
His fingers brushed under his eyes — the shadows were almost purple today, deep and bruised. No matter how much he slept — not that he did — they never really faded anymore.

He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to tame it into something acceptable. It didn’t work, of course. His hair never sat right. Not like— He caught the thought before it finished and closed his eyes for a second, breathing in through his nose. No. It’s not like that. It’s not.

The image of James Potter drifted across his mind anyway — golden-brown skin, that easy, messy hair that somehow always looked intentional instead of tired. The way he smelled faintly of soap and something fresh, something clean and solid and good.
James always looked put together, without trying. He made people want to stand closer just to breathe the same air.

Regulus exhaled sharply and shook his head at himself, disgusted.
Ridiculous. James is just Harry’s father. That’s it.

“You look fine,” Narcissa’s voice floated in from the hallway, as if she could hear the frantic spiral inside his head.
He turned slightly, catching her smirking at him from the doorframe, arms folded, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. She stepped in, reaching out to adjust the crooked collar of his shirt without asking.

“It’s not a date, Reg,” she teased softly, tugging the fabric into place. “You’re just going to see some friends. Some Draco's friends.”

He huffed under his breath, half a laugh, half a sigh.
If only it were that simple.
If only he didn’t care so much about making a good impression.
If only he didn’t want — in some impossible, stupid, broken way — to seem like someone worth looking at twice.

But he only muttered, “I know,” trying to convince himself that it was true. "But Sirius is going to be there-" and James. And everyone else. Looking at home like he might collapse on the spot. And he was not.

He was not.

From somewhere down the hall, Draco’s voice bubbled with excitement, mentioning cake, Harry, and something about balloons. Regulus straightened his sleeves again, checked his reflection one last time, and told himself this was fine. It would be fine.

“Mhm, are you doing this to impress- Sirius? Your brother?” Narcissa hummed again, clearly unconvinced but merciful enough not to press further. “Anyway you look fine. Really. We’ve got good genes. The only decent thing about the Black family.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, tugging the jacket a little tighter around himself. Fine wasn’t good enough, though, not when it came to… well. No. James was just Harry’s father. Nothing more. Nothing important. Stop it.

He turned sharply before his thoughts could wander any further.
“Alright, let’s go, Draco,” he said, his tone more determined than he felt. Draco immediately latched onto his side, skipping beside him as they stepped into the chilly afternoon air.

“Say bye to Aunt Cissy, Draco,” Regulus prompted.

“Bye, Aunt Cissy! See you later!” Draco chirped, waving enthusiastically.

Narcissa smiled softly, watching them go. “Be good,” she called after them.
Regulus offered her a quick nod, then turned his attention to the road ahead.

The city air was brisk, smelling faintly of smoke and wet pavement.
Draco’s little hand was warm and sticky in his own, and for a moment, Regulus let himself breathe. It was just a casual afternoon. No pressure. No expectations.
He could handle that.

They reached the house after a short walk — the kind that left your fingers a little numb and your cheeks pink from the cold.
Draco skipped ahead a few steps, tugging on Regulus’s hand with impatient little jerks.

“Dad, c’mon! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!!"

But Regulus didn’t move immediately.
For the first time — properly, really — he let himself look at the house.

It was beautiful. Not big in a showy way, but big enough to feel like it breathed. The bricks were warm-toned, the windows large and gleaming even in the gray afternoon light. There were plants — actual plants, not the sad kind you found on city balconies — climbing up the sides like something out of an old novel.
It looked like a home.

Something twisted sharply in his chest.

“You staring because you wanna move in?” Draco asked innocently, craning his head back to look at the house too.

Regulus blinked, startled, then snorted under his breath. “No. Definitely not.”

“Because it’s huuuge,” Draco continued wisely. “You could get lost. I bet they have a hundred bathrooms.”

“Sounds exhausting, don't you think?”

“I think it sounds awesome,” Draco said, bouncing slightly on his toes. “You could live in one bathroom, and I could live in another, and we’d never have to share.”

Regulus let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
He ruffled Draco’s hair — the boy wriggled indignantly — and finally lifted his hand to press the doorbell.

The chime echoed inside.
The door opened almost immediately, and there stood James —
looking, of course, like he hadn’t rushed at all.

His dark hair was as messy as ever but somehow on purpose, and he smelled faintly like fresh air and something warmer underneath, something like spice and clean laundry. His skin was a little flushed from the cold, golden-brown and stupidly perfect.

“Hey, you made it!” James grinned, wide and easy. His hand lingered a moment on the doorframe, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Regulus blinked up at him, swallowed, and nodded stiffly. His mouth felt a little dry.
James’s smile faltered slightly — just for a second — then returned, softer this time. He stepped back, holding the door wider.

“Of course. We— we wouldn’t miss it,” he managed, voice a little too stiff, a little too formal. "Draco wouldn't miss it." He corrected himself and he almost rolled his eyes.

James’s smile softened like he noticed — but kindly, not mockingly.
“Come in, it’s freezing out there.”

Regulus nudged Draco gently ahead and stepped inside, careful not to brush against James as he passed — and immediately froze.
There were colorful paper streamers hanging from the hallway ceiling, a crooked glittery banner that read Happy Birthday, Mary! in bright blue letters, and the warm, sweet smell of cake drifted from somewhere nearby.

Draco gasped, spinning to look up at him.
“Dad— there’s a party! You didn’t tell me it was a party!”

Regulus opened his mouth, then closed it again, feeling the stirrings of guilt tightening in his chest. He glanced helplessly at James, who shrugged, looking sheepish.

“I— I might have forgotten to mention it,” James said. “But seriously, it’s nothing formal. Mary didn’t even want anything. We’re kind of forcing her.”

Regulus hesitated, the guilt sharp and sour. “I didn’t bring anything,” he said, lowly. “No gift, no— I didn’t know—”

James cut him off with a quick wave of his hand. “Seriously, Reg. It’s fine. Just you guys coming is already a gift.”

Regulus exhaled a little, tension draining from his shoulders — just slightly.
Still, he murmured under his breath, “Next time, I’ll bring flowers or something. I’m not completely hopeless.”

James laughed — a real, surprised laugh — and Regulus caught the flicker of something else in his eyes. Something warm.
“Deal,” James said, grinning.

At that moment, Draco tugged Regulus’s sleeve, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Can we see the cake?!” Regulus smiled, small but real.

“Lead the way, little man.”

James ruffled Draco’s hair fondly, and the three of them moved further inside, the house buzzing with low music, voices, and something Regulus hadn’t realized he’d been craving until now — something like home.

They stepped into the kitchen, and the noise hit them like a soft, messy wave—overlapping voices, the clatter of dishes, the faint hum of a radio playing something old and cheerful in the background. It smelled warm, sweet, and a little bit like burnt sugar.

The room was full: people perched on counters, gathered around the table, kids darting between adults. Streamers and balloons hung lopsided from the ceiling beams, clearly an afterthought rather than a serious effort. Someone had scrawled “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARY” in thick black marker across a paper banner that was drooping over the window.

Regulus hesitated in the doorway, feeling immediately out of place.

Remus was the first to spot him. He waved a hand, grinning wide.
“Oi, Reg! You made it!” he called out, crossing the room with a few quick steps. Before Regulus could brace himself, Remus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, almost making him stumble.
Regulus rolled his eyes automatically but couldn’t fight the small, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.

Monty, sitting at the end of the table with a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee, lifted the cup in greeting.
“Good to see you, boy!” he called, his voice bright over the chatter.

Regulus nodded stiffly, smoothing the front of his jumper, feeling like everyone was looking even if they weren’t. He caught James’ eye across the room—James, standing half-casually against the counter, in a navy blue sweater that made him look maddeningly warm and golden, like he belonged here in ways Regulus never had.

Mary was weaving her way toward him, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Oh—you must be Regulus!” she said brightly, smiling like they were old friends. “I’m Mary. Don’t worry if nobody told you- it’s a bit of a birthday thing, right? It’s not a big deal, I swear."

Regulus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, smoothing a wrinkle from his sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t realize- or well James didn't tell me-”

Mary laughed, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “You brought yourself! That’s the best thing, honestly. I’m pretending not to have birthdays now, so you’re safe.”

From somewhere near the stairs, Harry’s voice rang out:
“Draco! C’mon! You gotta see what I got!” Harry was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, tugging at Draco’s sleeve.

Draco stumbled after him but twisted around first, his face serious for a second.
“Mary!” he called out, loud over the buzz. And Mary as the other five people in the room turned to see what his little boy had to say. Even Regulus was a bit curious, he was usually shy. “My dad is my present! ‘Cause he doesn't go out much with people he doesn't know! But he's really fuuunny!”

The kitchen went quiet for a beat—just a blink—and then James, who had pushed off the counter to come closer, let out a warm laugh.
“Well, now I feel like I should wrap your dad up in shiny paper, right Draco?" he joked, throwing Regulus a sideways look that was too fond, too easy.

Regulus burned scarlet from his cheeks to his ears, mumbling something inaudible while the two boys disappeared in a tangle of excited shouts toward the living room.
Laughter erupted around the kitchen again.

“Oh, he’s adorable,” Lily said from near the sink, watching Draco and Harry vanish. She turned to Regulus, her green eyes sparkling.

Euphemia, bustling around with a tray of what looked like lemon bars, added without missing a beat: “And you, dear, are welcome anytime. We’ve been needing some proper new blood around here, not just the same old fossils.”

“Oi!” Monty protested good-naturedly, over the rim of his cup. “Speak for yourself, Effie!”

The room filled again with the cozy, overlapping noise of chatter and laughter. Someone turned up the music a little louder. Plates clattered.
James brushed past him lightly, close enough for Regulus to catch that clean, sun-warm smell again—the kind of scent you only got if your life had never been wrecked.

Regulus let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and finally took a step further into the kitchen. The buzz of voices and laughter slowly folded around Regulus like a blanket he wasn’t sure how to wear yet. He stood awkwardly near the kitchen doorway, watching Draco and Harry tear through the living room like twin storms, their giggles loud and bright.

“Come on, Reg,” Remus said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’re officially stuck with us for the next couple of hours. Might as well make yourself comfortable.”

James, a little behind him, grinned and added, “House rule: if you don’t have fun, you have to wash the dishes.” Regulus gave a tight, reluctant smile, the kind he hadn’t meant to let slip, but it was hard to keep it locked down with the way they were looking at him—like he wasn’t an outsider here.

Before he could come up with something witty (or more likely awkward) to say, Harry crashed into his legs, nearly sending him backwards.
“Catch me!” he squealed, then immediately darted away toward the other end of the room, chasing after a giggling Draco.

Regulus stumbled a step, blinking, and felt a chuckle rumble out of his chest without warning.

“You’re doing great,” Remus said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Regulus caught Sirius hovering a few feet away. His brother looked—strangely—uncertain, one hand ruffling his already messy hair, the other shoved deep into his jeans pocket. Sirius met his gaze briefly, then glanced away, pretending to be busy tying a stray balloon back to a chair.

It wasn’t much. But Regulus saw it—the tentative attempt.
He appreciated it more than he could say. He tucked the feeling away carefully, somewhere private, and focused back on the chaos around him. On James. Again.

“Do you do this every time?” Regulus asked, eyeing the room with its loud chatter and scattered toys. “I mean, all the balloons and noise?”

James, with a slight grin, glanced over at him. “Oh, yeah. This is just what happens around here when someone has a birthday. It’s like… a tradition. Mary’s been asking for the same thing for years now. The more chaotic, the better.” He shrugged, almost nonchalant.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, glancing at the kids who were halfway through a pillow fight. “Seems like it. Are you sure they’re all… happy? For me it's like a nightmare-”

“Definitely,” James said, his voice warm. “You’ll find they get more excited for the mess than the presents. The whole day is just one big chaotic celebration. Don’t let the noise fool you. It’s just part of the fun.”

Remus, who had been leaning against the doorway, chimed in with a grin. “Honestly, the mess is half the point. If the house is still standing at the end of the night, we call it a success.”

Regulus couldn’t help but laugh quietly, a soft chuckle escaping him. He felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards as he looked around at the familiar scene, letting the liveliness of it wash over him. Maybe it was a little… overwhelming, but in a way, it felt right. Part of him even wanted to join in.

James crouched nearby, pretending to help Euphemia gather some stray toy cars scattered across the floor, but Regulus wasn’t fooled.
He was just keeping an eye on him.

It made something twist sharply in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he felt the heat crawl up his neck again.
Regulus, what the hell. He was blushing. Like some hormonal teenager.

Fuck it, he thought, dragging a hand through his hair.
He was twenty-four years old. He could still find someone attractive, couldn’t he?
Even if that someone was Harry’s father.
Even if he was devastatingly handsome, with that maddeningly perfect mess of dark hair, the sun-warm skin, the easy smile that crinkled the corners of his stupidly beautiful eyes.
Even if he smelled good, all soap and something clean, something safe.

Regulus let out a slow breath.
Yeah. It was harmless. No one had to know.
He could look. Dream, maybe. But nothing more. Ever.

He glanced sideways and caught James smiling at him again, easy and warm, like it cost him nothing. Of course- he’s like that with everyone, idiot. It’s just James. James Potter. James, golden boy, Potter.

“Hey- you okay? You’re surviving so far?” James asked, his voice low and teasing. Regulus huffed because he couldn't believe he got caught at staring.

Regulus arched an eyebrow, disinterested. “Barely. You people are insane.”

James chuckled—a soft, genuine sound that made something inside Regulus stupidly flutter—and leaned a little closer, as if sharing some secret. “You get used to it. Or you pretend really well. Either works.”

Regulus huffed a quiet laugh despite himself. “Pretending sounds about right.”

“Good. You’ll fit in just fine, then,” James said, bumping his shoulder lightly against Regulus’s. It wasn’t necessary. The room wasn’t crowded. There was plenty of space.
But James stayed close anyway, like he wanted to. And Regulus told himself, very firmly, not to read into it.

Sirius approached, holding a beer in one hand, looking like he was trying his best to appear casual, though there was something soft in his eyes that told a different story. He took a seat next to Regulus, deliberately not crowding him but giving him space. Regulus, for his part, was trying to maintain some distance too, his arms crossed, observing the chaos of the kids playing nearby. The noise was overwhelming, but there was an odd sense of warmth to it, something Regulus wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge.

Sirius took a sip from his beer, clearing his throat softly before speaking. “You know,” he said, leaning back slightly, his voice light but carrying an edge of something thoughtful, “I’ve been meaning to apologize for… everything with Lucius. I know it probably wasn’t easy for you. And I was a proper dick. With a capitol D.”

Regulus stiffened for a moment, but the apology was unexpected, and for a second, it caught him off guard. He didn’t say anything right away, but his lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded slowly.
“It’s fine,” Regulus muttered, his voice quiet, but there was an unspoken weight in his words. “It’s just… complicated, you know? Not for me- I mean I'm big and strong. It's for Draco.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows, giving him a look that suggested he didn’t fully believe it was “fine,” but he let it go. Instead, he shifted slightly, trying to find something more neutral to discuss. “So, err- how’s life? With Narcissa and Draco, I mean. Must be… different, huh? Not exactly what you were used to, I imagine.”

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. He glanced at the kids—Harry and Draco still wrestling with pillows on the floor—and sighed softly. “It’s… better than I thought. They’re- we're good. Draco- I love him,” Regulus said, almost to himself. “I never expected this, you know? But it’s nice. It’s quiet, in its own way.”

Sirius nodded, taking a sip from his beer and watching Regulus carefully. “It’s a good thing, I think,” he said, his voice softer now. “It’s not easy, changing everything up like that. But you seem happy. More than I would’ve expected, honestly.”

Regulus chuckled lightly at that, a bit self-deprecating. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the picture of happiness, am I? I basically had a panic attack in your house last week-” He shook his head, his fingers tapping restlessly on the edge of his drink. “But I’m getting by. More than I expected. I never really thought I’d be here, you know? See you again- never thought of it.”

Sirius studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I get that. It’s… good, though. You’re doing okay, right? You’ve got people who care about you now, me or James- Remus- even Monty and Euphemia and that matters. Sometimes more than we think.”

Regulus gave him a sidelong glance, unsure if he was truly asking or just trying to offer comfort. But before he could respond, Sirius spoke again, this time with a little more hesitance in his voice.

“I’m… I’m glad you’re here, Reg.” Sirius’s voice was quiet, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say it. “And I’m— I’m sorry. For not… for not making things easier. With Lucius. With… with everything.”

He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, eyes flicking away for a second.
“I mean— even before that. Even when…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, his brow furrowing as the words fought him. “When I ran away. I— I didn’t treat you right. I was so angry. And scared. And— and I didn’t know how to look back without feeling like I was drowning.”

He glanced at Regulus, testing the distance between them.
“You were so young. And I kept telling myself you weren’t ready. But maybe I just… didn’t understand you. Not really. I didn’t even try.”

Regulus tensed slightly but then exhaled slowly, the sharpness in his shoulders softening just a little. The apology was unexpected, but the sincerity in Sirius’s voice made something inside him loosen. He wasn’t ready to delve into all the old wounds, not yet. Not now, when the noise of children and the smell of food filled the room.

“It’s okay, Sirius,” Regulus said softly. His voice wasn’t cold — just a little distant, careful. “We’ll… we'll talk about it. Eventually. Just… maybe not now, yeah?”
He hesitated, then allowed the ghost of a wry smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.
“And— well— last week I said some things too. Things I didn’t mean. Or maybe I did, but not like that. We both got a few good punches in, didn’t we?”
A breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“There’s a lot to unpack, I think. But we’re Blacks — it sort of comes with the name, doesn’t it?” He gave the smallest of nods, almost imperceptible, before turning back toward the living room. His gaze settled on Draco, who was now halfway up the pillow fortress Harry had built, determined to conquer it like a castle. Regulus let out a quiet breath, something fond softening his features.

Sirius gave him a moment, reading the subtle discomfort in Regulus’s body language. He didn’t push any further, sensing that Regulus wasn’t ready to unpack everything.

“Yeah— you’re right,” Sirius said, forcing a lighter tone. He cleared his throat, trying to ease the tension that lingered between them. “Sorry, uh— I guess I’m a little nervous here. I’m not great at this whole… ‘talking about feelings’ thing.”

Regulus snorted quietly, glancing sideways at him. “It shows,” he teased, a flicker of humor lighting his expression, though it was still a little guarded. “You’re lucky I’m not taking notes.”

Sirius rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but grin. “Good thing, too. Otherwise, I’d owe you about fifty dollars for a therapy session.”

Regulus chuckled softly, the sound a little rusty, but it was genuine. “Yeah, well, if I start charging, I’ll make sure you’re my first client. I’ll make a fortune.”

“Deal,” Sirius said with a mock-serious expression. “But only if you throw in a free bottle of whiskey. It’s part of the package.”

“Right,” Regulus replied, shaking his head but still smiling. “I’ll think about it.”

Sirius cleared his throat again, his gaze flickering back to the kids, now engaged in some chaotic game that involved far too many pillows. “You know, I think Harry’s definitely going to be the one to break the house next. We should probably start saving for repairs.”

Regulus grinned, finally relaxing a little more. “I’m not sure it’s worth it. You might want to just put a tarp over the house and call it a day.”

Sirius laughed, leaning back slightly, as if settling into this moment of camaraderie. “You know, for a while, I honestly thought I was the one causing all the damage. Turns out, it’s all Harry.”

“Figures,” Regulus said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “The kid’s a whirlwind. I’m already bracing for the destruction.” For a moment, they just stood there, side by side, watching the kids wrestle on the floor.

“So, uh… how- how are you uh- now? ” And Sirius looked at him like he knew that there was something else. Like he knew that his worlds was folding under his legs. Like he could read in his heart and see how crappy everything was, aside from Draco.

His gaze shifting briefly toward Draco, who was now standing triumphantly on a pillow, pretending to be a knight. The sight was so absurdly endearing that Regulus couldn’t help but smile.

“You know- the usual,” he said, his voice lowering slightly, “There is Draco. He’s got an energy that’s… contagious, to say the least.” He paused, watching Draco’s wild antics for a moment. “He keeps me on my toes, that’s for sure.”

Sirius chuckled softly, watching the kid pretend to slay dragons with a toy sword. “That sounds like Draco. Quite the little character.”

Regulus smiled, but there was a subtle shift in his expression as his thoughts drifted. “And then there’s work. Work, work, and more work,” he continued, his voice dropping even further. The words felt heavier now, like a burden he had to carry in secret. “It’s been hard. We’re always tight on money. Just… right now, I need—”

But then he stopped. Regulus clamped his mouth shut, eyes flickering away from Sirius as he realized how much he’d just let slip. Maybe it was too much. Too much about how things weren’t perfect, how much they were struggling, and he wasn’t sure he could bare that, not in front of Sirius. Not in front of someone who had always seemed so comfortable in a world of wealth and privilege.

The words hung in the air between them, unspoken but still there, thickening the space around them.

Sirius noticed the hesitation, the way Regulus’s expression changed. He could sense the discomfort creeping in, and though he didn’t press, he softened his tone. “You don’t have to explain, Reg. I get it.” He offered a small, reassuring smile. “Things aren’t always easy, but I know you’ve been doing your best.”

Regulus nodded stiffly, thankful for the understanding, even if it made him feel more exposed than he would’ve liked. He shrugged it off quickly, though, trying to mask the unease that had flared up within him.

“It’s just how it is,” Regulus muttered, forcing a lighter tone. “You do what you can. You know, for Draco.”

Sirius gave him a knowing look, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah, I know,” he said softly. “I’m not here to judge, Reg. And I’m glad Draco’s got you. You’re doing a good job.”

Regulus was quiet for a moment, his gaze lingering on his son, who was now pretend-slashing at invisible foes with a look of intense concentration. The sight, so full of life and imagination, softened the knot in Regulus’s chest. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this.

“Thanks, Sirius,” he said quietly, still watching Draco. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for exactly, but the words felt necessary. They lingered between them, a quiet understanding hanging in the air.

“Speaking of change,” Regulus muttered, “I think we’ve officially lost control of the fort-building process.”

Sirius laughed softly. “Yep, that’s about right.”

As they shared a brief laugh, Sirius leaned back slightly, nursing his own drink, before something seemed to cross his mind. His eyes flickered to Regulus, a playful glint in them.
“By the way,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing to ask, “I’m just curious—do you ever think about going back to… I don’t know… dancing?”

Regulus froze. The smile that had been tugging at the corner of his lips dropped like a stone. His body stiffened, and his grip on his drink tightened, the edges of the glass pressing against his palm. He hadn’t expected that. He’d known, of course, that Sirius might ask about it one day. Hell, he had imagined the question hundreds of times in the quiet moments. But hearing it out loud, hearing Sirius say it, felt like a sudden jolt to his chest. The memories came rushing back, unwanted and overwhelming.

“What do you mean?” Regulus replied, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. His eyes darted away, unwilling to meet Sirius’s gaze.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly, sensing the shift in the air. “I mean, you were good at it. With Draco—I thought maybe you stopped, but… you were so good. Every ballet school wanted you. You know, the best schools, Reg. You could’ve—”

The mention of it—the “could’ve” — made Regulus’s breath catch in his throat. His hand tightened around his drink until his knuckles were white, but he still didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, avoiding any glimpse of Sirius’s expression.

“Don’t ask,” Regulus said, the words coming out colder than he meant. It was a plea disguised as an order. “Let’s just leave it at that.” He gestured at Draco even if everything fell a part long before Draco, when his- a chill run long his arms, just thinking about that time, just reviewing in his mind what happened, the pain, the suffering- was enough to make him shiver.

Sirius didn’t press, thankfully. He leaned back in his chair, sensing that Regulus wasn’t about to open up. Instead, his hand fell to Regulus’s shoulder in a gesture that was a little more forceful than before, as if to ground him. To remind him that, despite everything, he wasn’t alone.

“Yeah, alright,” Sirius said quietly, giving Regulus a small but sincere smile. “You don’t have to talk about it. But just so you know… I think you’d be great. Just… don’t forget it completely, okay?”

Regulus remained silent, the weight of Sirius’s words sinking in. He didn’t answer immediately, instead allowing the room to feel a little too quiet for a few seconds. His eyes moved back toward the children playing in the corner, but his thoughts were elsewhere, drifting back to a time when things were different—when he had believed in the possibility of something else.

He allowed himself just a second of that old dream—of spinning on a stage, of the music, of the passion he had felt. But it was fleeting. Like everything else, it was locked away now, in a place where it could never be reached.

He didn’t respond to Sirius’s offer, but he appreciated it, in a way. Regulus gave a small, tight nod, as if accepting the kindness without actually acknowledging it.

“Maybe,” he said softly, though he knew it wasn’t true. “But it’s… it’s not meant to be.” He shrugged, his voice losing its edge, and tried to steer his thoughts back to the present. “For now, I’ve got other things to worry about.”

Sirius didn’t say anything more. He seemed to sense that there was no point in pushing it. The conversation had served its purpose: it had let Regulus know that someone still remembered. Someone still believed that he could have had more.
Before either of them could say anything else, a voice suddenly piped up from behind them.

“Wait—dancing?”

It was Lily, her curiosity immediately piqued, carrying a half-empty glass of wine and looking far too pleased with herself. Mary trailed right behind her, wearing a knowing smirk like she was about to hear something juicy.

Regulus stiffened slightly, immediately regretting everything. He barely resisted the urge to glare at Sirius, who raised his hands innocently, as if to say don’t look at me.

“We might’ve heard a little something…” Lily teased lightly, swaying her glass in a playful arc. “About a certain someone being a dancing prodigy once?”

Mary laughed. “And here I thought we were done learning secrets today.”

Regulus shifted on his feet, defensive without even meaning to be. He hated the way his body reacted—like being backed into a corner.
“It was a long time ago,” he muttered, avoiding their eyes. “Not really worth talking about.”

Lily and Mary exchanged a quick glance, clearly unconvinced, but sensing how uneasy he was, they didn’t push—at least, not too hard.
“Fair enough,” Lily said, her voice a little softer now. “But you know—an old friend of mine, someone who teaches dance, might stop by later. She’s nearby and said she might pop in for a quick hello.”

Regulus gave a small, polite nod, not trusting himself to say much more. His heart was beating too fast for something so stupid. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t want their expectations.

Mary, seeing his discomfort, jumped in smoothly.
“Yeah, she’s just dropping by for a bit, nothing dramatic. Promise.”

The idea of meeting someone tied to the world he’d abandoned made Regulus’s stomach twist, though he didn’t even know what he was afraid of exactly. Probably of feeling things he wasn’t ready to feel.

But before he could dwell too much, salvation arrived.
From across the room, Euphemia called out warmly,

“All hands on deck! The kids are plotting a cake for Mary—only it’s not much of a surprise now—and they’re demanding adult supervision before the kitchen explodes.”

At that moment, a small blur came dashing into view—Draco, looking determined and breathless.
“Daddy! Come on! We need you!” he shouted, grabbing Regulus’s hand insistently. “Before Harry eats all the chocolate!”

James, behind him, burst into laughter, ruffling Harry’s messy hair as the boy protested. “I only ate two pieces!”

“That’s a lie!” Draco declared dramatically.

“Accusations flying already,” Remus muttered, chuckling as he pushed himself off the wall. Regulus let Draco tug him toward the kitchen, feeling some of the tightness in his chest ease as the lively, chaotic energy of the household swept him along.
The kitchen was pure chaos.

Flour dusted the countertops, bowls and spoons were scattered across every available surface, and in the middle of it all, Harry was standing on a stool, waving a whisk triumphantly like a sword.

Regulus hesitated on the threshold, instinctively pulling Draco a little closer to his side. Maybe this had been a bad idea after all.

“Too late to back out now, Black,” Remus said with a smirk, nudging him lightly on the arm before stepping inside.

James caught sight of them and grinned, coming over with a ridiculous, flowery apron in his hands. Without giving Regulus time to protest, he slipped it over his head.

“Order of the day,” James said solemnly. “Kitchen soldiers must wear full uniform.”

Regulus shot him a dry look, tugging uselessly at the apron strings. “I should have known there would be a uniform involved.”

James laughed, easy and bright, and for a second Regulus forgot to be tense.

“Alright!” Mary clapped her hands. “We’re making Mary’s Birthday Surprise Cake. Which is not a surprise anymore. Thanks, Harry.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Harry objected, cheeks pink.
Draco immediately chimed in, dramatic as ever- “He did! He told everyone!”

"Draco- be nice to Harry-" Regulus reprimanded, and Draco made a mock, saying sorry at the same time. Regulus rolled his eyes, dramatics run in the family.
Then Draco tugged Regulus toward the center of the kitchen, where ingredients were already half-measured and chaos was clearly inevitable. Regulus let himself be pulled along, rolling up the sleeves of his jacket in resignation.

“Okay, Dray,” Regulus said, crouching a little so he was eye-level with Draco, “we are under strict instructions. Think you can handle this?”

Draco puffed up with importance, nodding seriously. “I’m very good at cakes, Daddy. Harry says he's too. But I’m the best. Right, dad?”

Harry, not to be outdone, crossed his arms. “I’m better!! I made pancakes once with Dad!”

“Once?” James teased, ruffling Harry’s hair. “You forgot the flour, mate.”

Regulus chuckled, surprising even himself.
They set to work. James showed Harry how to carefully measure sugar (“Not like that, mate—no, no, no, you don’t just throw it—”) while Regulus helped Draco crack eggs into a separate bowl.
(Draco managed to get most of the eggshell into the mixture, but Regulus skillfully scooped it out without comment.)

Every so often, Regulus caught James sneaking glances at him over the mess of flour and mixing bowls. Nothing obvious—just watching, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Regulus knew it wasn’t anything more than James trying to make sure he felt welcome, not out of place. He was kind like that. Thoughtful.
But Regulus didn’t need babysitting. He could handle a room full of people treating him badly if it meant Draco was happy.
Not that they were, anyway. They were all lovely, truly. There wasn’t a problem.

And then, when James handed him a clean whisk — brushing their fingers lightly — Regulus felt that suspended feeling again.
Like the world slowed down for half a second too long.
Like maybe James was about to say something — something private, meant only for him — but didn’t.

Instead, James just cleared his throat and said lightly, “You’re good at this. You ever think about opening a bakery or something?”

Regulus snorted, shaking his head. “I can barely afford eggs half the time, Potter. A bakery’s not exactly in the plans.”

James’s face softened — not with pity, but with something more grounded, almost admiring. “Still. You’re good.”

“Don’t inflate my ego. Draco’s convinced I’m a hero already,” Regulus muttered, pointing at his son, who was now proudly smearing flour across his cheeks like war paint.

Harry giggled. Then, suddenly, Harry leaned over to grab Regulus’s hand with his smaller one, tugging at him excitedly.
“Come see Reg! Come see what we made!”

Regulus let Harry pull him, feeling strangely warm — the same way Draco usually clung to him. And sure enough, as if sensing some competition for his father’s attention, Draco immediately latched onto Regulus’s other side, hugging his waist fiercely.

“Papa- come! Look here!” Draco announced to the room, clinging tight, grabbing Regulus arm to himself.

"Jealous much, buddy?" James grinned and Draco hid his face in Regulus chest.
There was a round of laughter — some gentle teasing from Remus, Lily, and even Euphemia, who wiped her hands on a towel and said fondly, “Well, of course he is, sweetheart.”

Regulus smiled helplessly, ruffling Draco’s hair.
He caught James’s eye across the room — and for a brief second, there was something so soft in James’s expression that Regulus had to look away.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

The kitchen was still buzzing with movement and chatter when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” Mary called, abandoning her station at the frosting bowl and hurrying off, wiping her hands on her jeans.
James leaned over to Regulus and murmured, “Ten Galleons says it’s another poor soul bringing sugar.”

Regulus chuckled under his breath, smoothing Draco’s hair again as his son leaned heavily against his side.

A minute later, Mary’s voice rang out again from the hallway.
“Hey! Look who finally decided to show up!”

Curious, everyone half-turned toward the entrance.
And there, stepping through the doorway, was a woman with sun-bright blonde hair tied in a messy braid, a colorful scarf looped around her neck, and an easy, beaming smile on her face.

At first, Regulus stiffened automatically—new person, unknown territory.
But then— His breath caught.

Because the woman’s face wasn’t unfamiliar at all.
“Pandora?” Regulus heard himself say, almost disbelieving.

Her blue-green eyes lit up instantly. “Reg! Merlin’s beard, it’s really you!”

Before he knew it, she was pulling him into a brief, tight hug — casual, warm, normal — and Regulus actually found himself hugging back without thinking, smiling for real for what felt like the first time all day.

When they broke apart, Pandora held him at arm’s length, laughing.
“I can't believe it. Look at you—still all stiff and fancy. Where did you go? How are you doing?”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re the one who used to trip over your own feet in practice,” he said dryly.

“That was one time!” Pandora protested, scandalized, as the others watched with open amusement.

“Twice,” Regulus corrected smoothly.

James, watching this exchange unfold with wide eyes, leaned in to Remus and whispered, “Okay, that’s the happiest I’ve seen him all day.”

Remus grinned. “Maybe we should’ve invited her sooner.”

Meanwhile, Lily came up, wrapping an arm around Pandora’s shoulders.
“You two know each other pretty well, then?”

Pandora nodded eagerly. “We trained together for years. He was my first real partner — even when we were tiny and barely knew our left from our right.”
She laughed, and something in Regulus’s chest twisted pleasantly — bittersweet memories, but good ones.

Pandora grinned wide, clearly delighted to be catching up.
“Oh, Reg—do you remember when we tried that lift for the winter showcase and you dropped me right onto Professor Merton’s lap?”

Regulus let out a quiet huff of laughter. “You kicked me in the ribs. Hard.”

“It was your fault for being so scrawny! Still are.” she teased, nudging his arm.
He shook his head, but the edge of his mouth twitched upward. The memories were soft around the edges, almost funny now.

Pandora’s smile softened a little, her voice dipping lower.
“And you were incredible, you know. Everyone knew it. All the schools wanted you after that first competition. Everybody was so jealous.”

Regulus shrugged lightly, the compliment brushing past him like wind. He didn’t want to dwell on it. Pandora hesitated just a second, then added, more carefully,
“It’s just… such a shame. After what happened.”

The air shifted—Regulus’s whole body stiffened almost imperceptibly.
He set down his glass a little too neatly on the counter, fingers twitching at his sides.
“It’s old news,” he said quietly, almost detached. “I don’t dance anymore.”

“But you could—you responded so well to the physiotherapy—Emmeline told me—”
But Regulus was already shaking his head. A sharp, final gesture.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

The word echoed like glass shattering behind his eyes.
A sob pressed against his throat, raw and burning, but he swallowed it down like poison. He couldn’t afford to break. Not here. Not again.
He didn’t want to hear about potential. About recovery. About what could have been.

Because he knew exactly what he had lost. And it wasn’t just movement. Or training hours. Or stage time.

It was everything.

The dream he’d built bone by bone, on sore feet and quiet determination—
gone. Crushed. By the hand of someone who should have loved him. Protected him.
He couldn’t go back. He couldn’t even let himself imagine what it would mean to try.

Not now. Not when the thought alone carved holes into his chest.
Not when Draco needed him.

He didn’t have the luxury of chasing ghosts.
He couldn’t vanish into rehearsals and auditions, praying someone would still see him as worth the risk.

He needed to work. To survive. To stay upright.
Even if it meant pretending the stage had never mattered at all.

Sirius, standing nearby and nursing his beer, frowned slightly. “Wait—what happened? Physiotherapy? Reg?” he asked, glancing between them.
But Regulus didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him.
Instead, he turned half away, pretending to be distracted by something on the other side of the room.

“That’s not true!”
Draco, ever the little knight at his father’s side, bounced forward indignantly.
“He does dance! He dances with me at the park! All the time!”
He grabbed Regulus’s hand, holding it up like a victory flag.
“And he’s really good! Better than the music-people!”

Regulus flushed scarlet, letting out a mortified little breath through his nose.
“Draco, please— don't-” he muttered. "He's lying."

Pandora covered her mouth, laughing behind her fingers. Sirius barked a laugh too, and even Remus let out a soft, amused snort.
James’s grin was absolutely obnoxious.

“Caught in 4K, mate,” James said, nudging Regulus lightly in the ribs with his elbow.

Pandora leaned in, mock-conspiratorial.
“You’re not getting away with it now, Reg. Not with your tiny hype-man here.”

Regulus groaned into his hand.
“You’re all horrible,” he muttered, but there was a betraying curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "And It's not even dance, dance- it's just stretching- to keep my joint flexible."

Draco, determined to press the advantage, wrapped his arms tightly around Regulus’s waist and clung to him. “No way! He’s my dancer!” he declared proudly, muffled into Regulus’s jacket.

Regulus groaned, tugging Draco closer as if he could use the child as a shield.
“Traitor,” he whispered to him, but there was no real heat in it.
Draco only laughed and hugged his waist tighter.

The house was starting to quiet down, the buzz of voices and laughter slowly fading into a soft, sleepy hum.
Draco, stubbornly trying to keep his eyes open, was swaying a little where he stood, his small fists rubbing at his bleary eyes.

James noticed immediately and pushed himself off the wall with an easy grin.
“You’re going to pass out standing there, mate,” he said warmly, crouching down beside him. “Come on. Let’s get you two home. I’ll drive you.”

Regulus shifted, adjusting Draco’s weight as the child leaned heavily into him. “No need,” he said quietly. “It’s not far. I can carry him.”

James arched a brow. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Let me help.”

“I’m fine. I'm used to it.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t. But I’ve got a car and nothing better to do.”
Regulus hesitated, jaw tightening with the instinct to refuse again—until James added, softly, “Let me do this. Come on Reg.”

And somehow, that worked. Regulus sighed, the resistance melting just enough for him to nod once. “Alright.”

Gathering their things was a quiet, careful affair.
Regulus zipped Draco’s jacket up to his chin, adjusted his little scarf with practiced hands, and lifted him easily into his arms, feeling the comforting weight of him, the rhythmic little puffs of breath against his collarbone.

The night air was crisp and sharp against their faces as they stepped outside.
James opened the car door without comment, waiting until Regulus and Draco were safely buckled in before starting the engine.

For a while, they drove in silence.
Regulus stared out the window, the familiar tightening in his chest making it hard to breathe.
Finally, when he couldn’t bear the heaviness between them anymore, he spoke, voice rough and low:

Then Regulus spoke. “I… I should’ve said this earlier.”
James glanced over, surprised by the shift in tone.
Regulus looked out the window, fingers twisting lightly in the hem of his sleeve. “About the other day. At work. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You were just trying to help.”

James didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do. I had no reason.”

“Well then,” James said, “you’re forgiven. But for the record—I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad because someone like him gets away with it. You shouldn't be the one apologizing, he is.”
Regulus turned his head, watching him carefully. James kept his eyes on the road but his jaw was set, his expression earnest.
“He treats you like that and expects no one to blink,” James continued. “It’s not right. And I’m sorry I made it harder by being there.”

“You didn’t,” Regulus said, and for once, the truth sat easily in his mouth. “You didn’t make it worse. I mean- maybe a bit- I just… I’m not used to anyone seeing it. Especially not someone like you.”

James let out a soft breath. “Someone like me?”

“You know what I mean,” Regulus huffed, rolling his eyes.
Charming. Steady. Warm. The kind of man who laughs easily, who people gravitate toward without even trying. Who says things like ‘I’ll drive you’ and actually means it. Who cares, even when he shouldn’t.

He could feel the weight of the words lingering between them, heavier than he meant them to be. So he straightened a little, cleared his throat, and added quickly,
“You’re… fine. I mean- I just mean—forget it.”

He smiled faintly, and for a while they said nothing. The kind of nothing that felt like something — comfortable, tentative, growing.
“I don’t think less of you, you know,” James said eventually. “For anything.”

That made Regulus swallow hard. “Even if I’m a bit of a disaster? Even if my boss- bosses me around? Even if I'm barely standing?”

James grinned. “You’ve met me, right? Should I remember you that your brother is my best friend?” Regulus gave a small, breathy laugh, tilting his head back against the seat. "You don't even know how many messy situations we saw. I mean- I had a child at twenty- one- it's speaks for itself?" And Regulus laughed. Really laughed. Because yeah- that was a pretty good change. Something he never expected from the James Potter he knew in high school.

By the time they pulled up in front of the building, Draco was sound asleep in the backseat, thumb loosely tucked near his mouth.

James turned off the engine but didn’t move to get out yet.
“Thanks for trusting me,” he said.

Regulus looked at him, really looked this time, then nodded slowly. “Thank you for giving me reason to.”

They both got out quietly, careful not to wake Draco as Regulus lifted him gently into his arms. The boy let out a tiny sigh and nestled into his shoulder, utterly boneless with sleep. The wind had picked up a little, brushing cold fingers through their hair. James lingered near the car, hands in his jacket pockets, watching them for a beat.

“And also thanks for letting me help,” he said finally, his voice low but sincere.

Regulus turned back, eyes soft but tired. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

"No" James chuckled. “No, I didn’t. But still.”

For a second, neither of them moved. Then, as if following some quiet instinct, James reached out and let his hand rest lightly on Regulus’s arm—just a brief, grounding touch over the fabric of his coat. His thumb moved once, a slow, absent stroke.
“I’m really glad you came today,” he said, voice warmer now, steadier. “So was Harry.”

Regulus didn’t pull away. He just stood there, the weight of Draco in his arms, and let the moment stretch between them.

A breath. A nod. “Goodnight, James.”

“Night, Reg. See you soon.”

Then he turned and walked toward the house, Draco still tucked against him, and James stayed by the car a little longer, watching the door close behind them.

Chapter Text

The house felt unusually still without Harry’s chatter bouncing off the walls — almost too quiet, if James was honest. But it was Saturday, the sun was still hanging low and lazy in the sky, and for once, the adults had the house to themselves.
The living room was bathed in soft golden light, pizza boxes open on the coffee table, the smell of garlic and melted cheese wafting through the air. A bowl of popcorn had already been half-spilled onto the rug, courtesy of Sirius, who was dramatically reenacting a Quidditch match as if they hadn’t all seen it live.

“—and then he actually tried to block the shot with his face,” Sirius was saying, nearly choking on his own laughter. “I swear on- James' left sock, it was like watching a ball take personal offense.”

“Oh my God,” Lily snorted, tipping her head back against the couch, “you are such a liar.”

“Ask Remus!” Sirius gestured wildly with a slice of pizza. “He was there.”

“I was there,” Remus said dryly from his spot on the floor, cross-legged beside Mary, “but I wasn’t looking. Unlike some people, I was actually trying to win the match.”

“Right, and how’d that go for you?” Sirius shot back, grinning.

“We lost. Miserably,” Remus admitted with a grin of his own.

James was sprawled at one end of the couch, beer in hand, smiling quietly to himself. “I feel like every story from school ends with ‘and then we lost miserably.’”

“That’s because we were too cool for that, winning is overrated.” Sirius declared. “We were more a team of misunderstood artists.”

Mary, snuggled into a fleece blanket beside Remus, rolled her eyes. “You lot were just loud and disorganized. And losers. In every way.”

“Oh, please, Mary. You’re just bitter because you were in the book club and had to take everything seriously.”

“At least we graduated with decent marks. Unlike someone here.”

“Details, details.”

James chuckled and leaned his head back, letting the buzz of friendly bickering wash over him. It was warm in the room, cozy even, the low thrum of the stereo mixing with the occasional clink of bottles and rustle of snack wrappers. The kind of evening that made you forget for a little while that anything outside the four walls mattered.
“Do we actually want to watch something,” he asked eventually, “or are we just going to insult each other until someone cries? Not me obviously, there's nothing to say about my performance.”

“I vote for insults,” said Sirius. "Against James. Can we agree on this? Please?"

“Movie,” said Lily firmly, grabbing the remote.

“I second Lily,” Remus added. “I can’t take another one of Sirius’s dramatic reenactments.”

“Cowards, the lot of you,” Sirius muttered, but he shifted to make space as the lights dimmed slightly and the opening credits started to roll. James smiled, happy to have everyone at his house, they were the best, really.

The living room was bathed in warm light, a half-eaten pizza box open on the coffee table, bottles of butterbeer littered around it. The movie had just ended, none of them really watched it, unless something absolutely cringe happened and they all had to comment about it. The credits were rolling on mute while the conversation turned lazily from the plot to random gossip.

Sirius, sprawled on the armchair like a bored cat, shot James a sideways glance. “Alright, Prongs,” he drawled, swirling the last of his butterbeer, “so what’s going on with my little- and I want to say again- little brother?”

James blinked. “What?”

Lily, curled up beside James on the couch with her feet tucked under her, raised a brow. “Oh, come on. You don’t see it?”

“See what?” James said, sitting up a little straighter, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I—there’s nothing going on. He’s Draco’s dad. And your brother?”

Sirius let out a loud, disbelieving snort and flopped back against the cushions. “Right. He’s just Draco’s dad. That totally explains the way you light up every time he enters a room. Honestly, you look like someone turned on the sun.”

“That’s not true—” James said quickly, his ears already turning red.

“It’s exactly how you looked at me that one year,” Lily interjected smoothly, swirling her drink and watching him with a maddeningly smug smile.

James turned to her, appalled. “I did not! That was completely different!”

She raised a brow. “You fall fast. Fast and hard. Hovering behind him like a lost golden retriever for weeks after you met him.”

“I do not hover,” James muttered defensively, crossing his arms.

“James,” Sirius said, utterly deadpan, “you invented hovering. If you hovered any closer to him last week, you’d have been inside his coat.”

Mary, who had been sprawled comfortably on the floor, her head resting on a pillow and a bag of crisps balanced on her back, propped herself up on her elbows. “Honestly,” she said, crunching loudly, “if he hovered any harder, we’d need to tie weights to his ankles to stop him from orbiting the man.”

“You’re all being ridiculous,” James said, but his voice lacked conviction. His eyes darted away. "I did not- I was just being a nice host. And you know- I was doing that for Harry."

Lily exchanged a glance with Remus, who was calmly sipping tea in the armchair. He hadn’t said a word yet, but the amused twitch of his mouth said enough.
“You like him,” Lily said, grinning now. “You actually like him.”

James groaned and flopped back onto the sofa, covering his face with both hands. “God help me, you're insufferable.” The room burst into laughter, James groaning as he hid his face in his hands. “I hate you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Remus said calmly from the armchair near the fireplace, a book still open on his lap though he clearly hadn’t been reading. “You just weren’t expecting to be the topic of tonight’s emotional inquisition.”

James peeked at him through his fingers. “Thanks, Moony.”
James ran a hand down his face, flushed. “I didn’t even think—look, I mean… I like him. He’s—he’s Regulus. But it’s not like that. And don't make that face- I don't like him like that-”

“Isn’t it?” Sirius said, more gently now. “He’s your type. Brooding. Complicated. Looks like he’s about to flee the second someone’s nice to him. You like fixing things, James. Always have.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not saying it like it’s a bad thing,” Sirius replied, gaze drifting a little. “I’m just saying… I’ve been there. With someone who never believed they deserved to be cared for. It’s hard. But you’ve got that look again. Like you’d try anyway.”

James was quiet for a long moment, fingers tapping absently against his bottle. “It’s not just that,” he said eventually. “It’s not about fixing him. He’s… he’s one of the most hardworking people I’ve ever met. Honest. Not in the easy way—he doesn’t sugarcoat anything. He’s difficult sometimes, but not cruel. He’s—he’s got this whole world inside him and he hides it like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

Lily watched him quietly, her expression soft. “See? That’s what we were talking about.”

Remus smiled, soft and warm. “I think it’s nice, actually. You’re different around him. Softer. He brings something out in you. And I think—he needs someone who doesn’t expect him to be perfect. Just to be… steady.”
Sirius’s face twitched, like he was trying not to show how much that struck him. He looked away, clearing his throat.

James’s ears turned a deep shade of red. “I’m just—look. It doesn’t matter. Regulus has way more important things going on. He works himself to the bone, he’s raising Draco basically on his own. He’s not looking for a relationship. He probably doesn’t even like me like that. And I’ve met him like—three times? I know I usually fell fast, because my brain is an asshole, but him? Nah- Reg, no.”

Sirius leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, more serious now. “It’s not about time, mate. It’s about what happens in that time. And you’ve seen him in ways most of us never have—and maybe never will. He trusts you. My brother- Regulus Black doesn’t trust anyone lightly. He’d let you pick up Draco from school, and that’s… that’s huge. That’s practically sacred ground for him.”

James looked down, thumb tracing the rim of his mug. He didn’t answer right away.

“Do you want something to happen?” Sirius asked gently, no teasing this time.

James hesitated, images flashing behind his eyes—
Regulus with his hands shaking ever so slightly after a long shift.
Regulus brushing a curl out of Draco’s eyes with the kind of tenderness that never made it to his own face.
Regulus in the passenger seat that night, tired but present.
Regulus laughing, really laughing, at James’s idiotic goat story.
“…Yeah,” James said, voice quieter now. “Maybe I do. I don’t—I don’t really know what that even looks like. But yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, then Lily’s lips curved into a knowing smile, warm and unhurried.

Sirius sat back with a mock sigh and an overexaggerated shake of the head. “Well, then. We better make sure you don’t screw it up, Potter.”

Mary lifted her bottle with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “To James Potter: Oblivious romantic and tragic hoverer.”

Remus chuckled from his corner. “Long may he hover.”

James groaned and buried his face in his hands—but this time, he was smiling. Embarrassed, maybe. Nervous, definitely. But smiling.

Maybe—just maybe—they were right.

The bar had that kind of dim, amber lighting that tried to be flattering but mostly just made everything look softer, older. The shelves behind the counter were lined with mismatched bottles, labels peeling, the low hum of conversation blending with the slow jazz coming from the jukebox in the corner. Regulus leaned against the polished wood of the bar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes half-lidded with something between exhaustion and practiced indifference.

“Table three asked for you again,” Emmeline Vance called as she swept past, tray balanced expertly on one hand, lipstick still perfect despite the rush. “That’s the third time this week. They’re obsessed.”

Regulus arched a brow. “It’s the cheekbones. Irresistible.”

Emmeline snorted. “It’s the fact you look like you hate every second of being alive. People love a man in pain.”

“Story of my life,” he muttered, tying his apron a little tighter around his waist before heading off with a practiced, unbothered air.
He slipped into the persona like a second skin: back straight, smile lazy, gaze just soft enough to make someone believe it might mean something.
“Evening, gentlemen,” he said as he dropped off a fresh round of drinks with a little flourish. “Refills, or are you just here to admire me?”

The younger of the two at the table grinned, clearly caught off guard. “Depends. You offering anything stronger than gin tonight?”

Regulus let out a low, deliberate chuckle—the kind that lingered. “Only charm. But that doesn’t come cheap.” A few folded notes were pressed toward him on the tray, and he let them stay there for a beat too long before slipping them into his apron pocket.

The music pulsed low through the speakers, not loud enough to drown conversation, but steady enough to set the rhythm of the night. Lights washed the walls in warm gold and dim red, giving the whole bar a dreamlike glow — the kind that blurred the sharp edges of exhaustion and made everything feel just a little easier. The Valchirie had that effect. Maybe that’s why Regulus liked it here.

Or maybe it was the steady weight of things to do — drinks to mix, trays to carry, glances to trade — all of it keeping his thoughts from spiraling too far inward.
He leaned one elbow on the polished counter, flashing a lopsided smile at the man perched on the nearest stool — tall, bearded, wedding ring conspicuously absent.

“Another one?” Regulus asked, voice lazy, inviting.

The man grinned back, already half-gone on his third whiskey. “Only if you bring it yourself.”

Regulus chuckled low, brushing a few strands of hair from his eyes. “What a demanding man,” he murmured, reaching for the bottle. “Lucky for you, I’m very accommodating.” The man laughed, and Regulus made sure to graze his fingers just slightly as he passed the glass. It earned him a wink — and, more importantly, a folded bill slid across the counter. He pocketed it wordlessly.

Behind him, Emmeline moved fast, hands flying as she pulled drinks and slid them down the bar with casual grace. Her silver-blonde hair was tied up in a high bun, a pencil stuck through it like a hairpin, and she looked every inch the no-nonsense owner she was — until she caught Regulus’s eye and smirked.

“Stop seducing the clientele,” she said, dryly, wiping down the bar beside him.

“I’m not seducing,” he replied, innocently. “I’m improving customer loyalty.”

Emmeline rolled her eyes. “One day, someone’s husband is going to come for you with a bat.”

“Well, hopefully not tonight,” Regulus quipped, sliding past her to grab another order ticket. “Tonight, I could use a quiet shift.” But even as he joked, a flicker of tension tugged at his spine. The ache behind his ribs wasn’t physical — not exactly — but something tighter. Something that had been there all evening.

He pulled out his phone briefly, checking the screen. No new messages.
Still open, though, was the last one from Narcissa — hours ago, when he’d texted her during the dinner rush at the restaurant.

NARCISSA:
Will you be home after?

REGULUS:
No. I’m covering at the Valchirie tonight. Closing shift.
Problems at home?

NARCISSA:
Don’t worry. I’ve got it.

It had been a short exchange, typical of them. But something nagged at the back of his mind, did something happen? No- Narcissa would have called him.
A crash pulled him back to the present — someone had knocked over a glass on the other end of the bar. Regulus moved without thinking, fetching a towel and dropping to one knee.

“Sorry!” the girl squeaked, already flustered. “I’m such a klutz.”

Regulus looked up, smile already forming. “It’s alright. I’ve made worse messes.”

She laughed, and he tilted his head, offering a wink before standing again. “Another drink?” She nodded gratefully, and he turned back to the bar, where Emma handed him a fresh glass with a knowing shake of her head.

He worked smoothly, falling into rhythm — clearing, pouring, glancing, flirting just enough to keep the tips coming. The rush of it all filled him, distracted him. But underneath, the thought lingered:
He should’ve gone home. Maybe. Maybe he should've- no. Narcissa could handle Draco. He was a great kid. And she was his mother. Or well- had been- but she was his mother nonetheless.
And he couldn't miss a shift. Not in this bar. Not when the tips were so good. Not when he actually enjoyed his boss, Emmeline.

And then again, home was too quiet. Too full of drawings he hadn’t seen. Too full of silence. So he stayed behind the bar — smiling, flirting, earning enough in folded bills to keep the gas on another week — and let the night carry him forward, drink by drink.

The front door swung open with a faint chime, and a gust of cooler air curled through the room. Regulus barely glanced up from the register — until a familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.

“Tell me you’ve got something strong tonight,” Barty drawled, weaving between tables with that cocky, loose-limbed stride of his. “Preferably something that’ll make me forget I spent two hours playing pretend tea party.”

Regulus huffed a laugh, his shoulders easing before he even realized it. “Back corner,” he said, tipping his head toward the bar. “I’ll bring it to you.”

“Already feel loved,” Barty called back, slipping into a stool with dramatic flair. “I’ve missed our codependent banter.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as he filled a glass with neat scotch — no ice, just how Barty liked it.

He slid it across the bar a moment later, leaning in slightly. “What’s the damage?”

Barty took a grateful sip before answering. “Your spawn has been a nightmare.”

Regulus blinked. “What did he do now?”

“He’s not bad, don’t give me that look,” Barty corrected, hand gesturing vaguely. “Just—fussy. Whiny. Emotional. You know, being five.”

Regulus exhaled slowly. “Go on.”

“He kept asking for Harry’s toys. Wanted that bloody model car. Then he switched and started sulking about the Potters’ backyard. Said it was unfair they had a garden and he didn’t.” Barty took another sip, arching a brow. “Then there was a meltdown over toast being ‘too brown.’ I barely survived.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“I think,” Barty added thoughtfully, “he’s just… tired. Or overwhelmed. Or maybe he’s figured out that the Potters’ house has more space and fun things and adults who don’t look like they’re about to drop dead at any moment.”

Regulus gave him a flat look.

“I said look like, not are, thank you.” Still, Regulus didn’t answer right away. He leaned back against the shelf behind the bar, arms crossed loosely, his gaze drifting unfocused for a second.

“Don’t do that,” Barty said, softer this time.

“Do what?”

“That face. The ‘I’m a failure’ face. He’s a kid, Reg. Kids complain. They want what they see.”

“I know,” Regulus muttered. “Doesn’t make it easier. Especially when you don't even know if you can afford something for special occasions like birthdays or whatever.”

Barty sighed and gave the glass a slow spin. “No. But at least he’s saying what he wants. He’s not bottling it up like someone else I know.”

Regulus shot him a dry look. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” Barty grinned. “But I brought you money and affection, and I didn’t let your son eat crayons today, so really, I’m the MVP.”

Regulus snorted. “You’re the reason I can work nights without panicking. That’s your MVP award.” Barty had just launched into one of his usual rants — something about deserving a medal for surviving an afternoon of babysitting in hostile conditions — when a tall man in a half-unbuttoned shirt and a lazy grin sauntered up to the bar.

Regulus caught the movement from the corner of his eye and straightened up, slipping easily back into his role behind the counter.
“Duty calls,” he muttered to Barty, tossing him a quick smirk.

Barty saluted dramatically, settling back in his seat.

The man leaned in. “Busy night?”

“Not for me,” Regulus replied smoothly, voice low and inviting. “But we could change that.”

It earned him a laugh and an appreciative look. The man slid a few galleons across the bar. “Two shots, if you’re allowed to drink with customers.”

“I make the rules,” Regulus said, already reaching for the glasses. “And you just paid for my cooperation.” And only God knew how much he wanted to drown the whole bottle, right now.

They clinked the tiny glasses together and downed them. The whisky burned all the way down, and Regulus gave a practiced little wince — just enough to earn another grin from the man before he turned and wandered back into the crowd.

Barty raised an eyebrow when Regulus returned. “Wow. Slut.”

Regulus snorted. “It’s called customer service.”

“I’m learning so much,” Barty said with mock reverence, sipping his drink. "Can I apply?"

"Idiot. So- what was you saying? How bad?"

“Uh—before Romeo showed up—,” Barty huffed, flipping a dish towel over his shoulder, “it's all that, Reg. Just Draco being fussy all day. I stopped listening somewhere around tantrum number four, so I don't really know. Nothing too bad.”

Regulus sighed, and the sharp edge of humor in his eyes dulled just a little. “Yeah… that sounds about right. I’m—sorry? I mean, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He’s got toys, sure, but when you see—” he trailed off, expression going briefly distant. “You should see James’s house. It’s like… everything a kid could dream of. Like a storybook.”

Barty gave him a pointed look and rolled his eyes. “Reg, please. Keep calm and drop fret yet, will you?” His tone was dry, but not unkind. “He wasn’t some awful spoiled brat. Just a little clingy. A little moody. Wanted you, mostly. You know how he gets when he’s overtired and dramatic—it’s practically in the five-year-old manual.”

Regulus leaned back against the bar, arms crossed. “And Narcissa?”

Barty’s expression softened slightly. “She handled it. Or well she tried. With you he's different but it's normal. You're his anchor. But then they had a quiet evening after dinner. He fell asleep on the couch with a picture book in his hands.”

That tugged at something deep in Regulus’s chest — guilt, fondness, something warmer and heavier all at once. He nodded slowly. “Thanks for telling me. So I know what to expect tomorrow.”

"Don't even start, buddy. I got your back-" Barty tilted his head. “And you? Okay?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he wiped the bar absentmindedly, eyes distant. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Just… tired. Im till 2:00 tonight.” He looked at the clock, it was midnight. So two more hours. Good. That was good.

Barty didn’t push. He just tapped his glass twice on the counter and murmured, “Join the club.”

The bell above the door jingled faintly, but it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Regulus looked up — and froze.

Riddle walked in with two men trailing behind him like shadows. One was broad-shouldered and mean-looking, the other wiry and sharp-eyed, both dressed too well for the kind of trouble they carried.

Regulus’s heart stuttered. His breath caught like something solid in his throat. For a second, his body forgot how to move.

Barty noticed it immediately. “Reg?” he asked, brow furrowing.

Regulus swallowed hard, eyes locked on the trio making their way through the bar like they owned it. “Don’t react,” he said under his breath. “That’s Riddle.”

Barty blinked. “As in—?”

“Yes.” His voice was low, clipped. “Lucius’s debt Riddle. Tom fucking Marvolo Riddle.”

Barty stiffened, sitting up straighter.
Regulus stepped back slightly, instincts screaming even as he forced his face into something blank, calm. Defensive. Controlled.

But Riddle saw him instantly. His smile curved like a knife. “Well, well. If it isn’t the prettier Black.” He sauntered up to the bar with that unsettling, smooth confidence, casting a glance around the room like he was amused by it all — the music, the low lights, the smell of alcohol and perfume hanging in the air.

“I see you’ve done well for yourself,” he drawled, eyes flicking over Regulus’s figure, his apron, the bar. “Cosy little setup. Not quite the Manor, but it’s got… charm. And you? You look dashing in that apron.”

Regulus didn’t smile, didn't falter. “What do you want?”

Riddle raised an eyebrow, mock-offended. “Straight to business? Not even a drink first?” The larger of the two men chuckled under his breath. The other one scanned the room without a word, eyes cold.

Regulus’s fingers tightened around the edge of the bar. “This isn’t a good time, Riddle. Fuck off- I'm not in the mood to play.”

“Oh, but see—when you owe someone, their time becomes your time, and their game becomes your game. So let's play a bit, right?” Riddle said smoothly, leaning in just a little. His voice dropped. “And I think it’s time we had a chat. About your nephew. Or son. Or whatever you like to call him.”

Barty stood quickly. “Don’t.”

Riddle turned his gaze on him, lazy but sharp. “And you are?”

“A simple costumer.”

“Then go back to drink,” Riddle said lightly, not even looking as he waved a hand like Barty was something to swat away. “This is family business.”

Regulus didn’t let Barty move. “Stay.”
His eyes never left Riddle. His body still screamed danger, but he stood straighter now, chin lifted. Whatever fear was pulsing through him, he wouldn’t let it show.

Not yet.

Riddle tapped a knuckle against the bar, almost cheerfully. “So. Let’s talk numbers.”

Regulus didn’t answer. His jaw locked tight.

“Between the partial payments, your cousin’s generosity,” he drawled, eyes glinting, “and whatever you scraped from the sale of that charming little house — we’re still short, aren’t we?”

“How much,” Regulus asked quietly, voice like stone.

Riddle smiled. “Eighty thousand.”

Barty swore under his breath.

“You’re out of your mind,” Regulus said, low and sharp. “We’ve given you everything.”

“They were one hundred and sixty thousand, now it's just the half, so no. You didn't give me everything,” Riddle mused, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “But I’m not unreasonable. You’ve got until the end of the year.”

"What the fuck? You can't!" Regulus’s heart pounded so hard he could barely hear, but Riddle just smiled.

"Oh- but you see, I actually can- dear Regulus."

Regulus closed his eyes. Because fucking hell- yes Riddle could. Ye-s he fucking could ruin his life and ask for fucking eighty thousand until December. “Or what?”

Riddle’s smile spread wider. “Or I take the boy.”

Time stopped. The words hit like ice water, washing everything else away.
“No.” Regulus stepped forward. “No. You can’t. He’s five. He’s a child.”

Riddle tilted his head, pretending to consider. “And yet, his father’s debts don’t seem to care much about that. Funny, isn’t it?”

Regulus shook his head, voice rising now. “He’s just a kid. What the fuck would you even do with a child?”

The grin that came then was slow and cold. “Things you don’t need to know.”

Barty surged forward, hand on the bar. “You so much as look at him—”

Riddle held up a lazy hand. “Spare me the heroics. If I wanted the kid tonight, I’d already have him.”

Regulus’s voice was shaking now, but his eyes were steady. “Lucius is in town. Go after him.”

“Oh, I will,” Riddle said, suddenly bright. “But Lucius… has other uses. He owes more than money, you see. And besides—” he leaned closer again, “it’s so much more fun watching you squirm.” He straightened his coat and gestured to the door, already turning away. His men followed without a word.

At the threshold, he glanced back one last time, lips curling. “Eighty thousand. End of the year. Don’t disappoint me, sweetheart.” Then he was gone, laughter trailing after him like smoke.

Regulus stayed frozen in place for a second too long, breathing shallow and fast. His hands were white-knuckled on the edge of the bar. Barty was at his side in a heartbeat.

“Reg. Hey. Hey—look at me.”

But Regulus couldn’t. Not yet.

Because all he could see was Draco.

And a clock counting down.

Regulus barely made it to the bathroom before he collapsed to his knees.
The door banged open against the wall, but he didn’t care — he was too busy heaving into the toilet, shaking so hard he thought his bones might shatter. His stomach twisted and cramped, bringing up nothing but bile and dread, again and again, until his throat burned raw and tears blurred his vision.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

His hands braced against the rim, cold porcelain beneath his fingers, the only thing grounding him as the weight of it all came crashing down at once.

Eighty thousand.

A child.

Draco.

Eighty thousand.

They were going to take Draco.

They were going to take his baby.

He could still hear Riddle’s voice — calm, smug, amused. Eighty thousand. End of the year. Don’t disappoint me, sweetheart. The way he’d said it like it meant nothing. Like Draco meant nothing.

Regulus choked back a sob, slamming his fist against the wall. “Fuck!”

He was drowning. Every breath hurt. Every thought clawed at his throat. How was he supposed to fix this? What more could he possibly give? He’d already sold the house. Already worked himself sick, scraped together every knut, whored out every bit of dignity he had left just to keep them safe, and it still wasn’t enough.

He was failing. Failing the only person who had ever needed him. Failing his son.

“I can’t do this,” he gasped, curling in on himself, forehead pressed to the cold tile. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—I can't- I can't- please- I just- I can't-”
Then- footsteps. A door creaked open.

“Reg—”

Barty.

Regulus shook his head, his voice breaking. “Don’t. Don’t say anything. I’m not—I’m not okay. I can't- I can't be okay, Barty. I can't.”

“I know,” Barty said softly, crouching down beside him. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Regulus bit out, lifting his head with bloodshot eyes. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. If I break, he breaks. If I lose this, if I screw this up, they’ll take him. You heard him, Barty—he’ll take Draco.”

Barty’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed calm, steady. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” Barty said, his voice firmer now. “And I know you’d burn this whole fucking city down before you let anyone touch that kid.”

Regulus let out a trembling breath, his hands digging into his sleeves like he needed to hold himself together. “But I’m tired, Barty. I’m so tired. And I don’t know if there’s anything left to sell. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have—anything.”

“You have us,” Barty said simply. “You have me. And we’ll figure something out. I’m not letting you do this alone. I swear Reg, I swear on my life, okay?”

Regulus looked at him then, eyes full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I mean it,” Barty continued. “We’ll talk to Narcissa, to—fuck, we’ll rob a bank if we have to. But he is not going to win. And Draco is not going anywhere.”

Regulus blinked hard, a fresh wave of tears falling. “He’s all I have.”

“I know,” Barty murmured. “Which is why we’ll do whatever it takes.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, trembling, trying to breathe, trying to believe that maybe—maybe—he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

And Barty didn’t leave his side.

Chapter Text

It was 7:03 when he woke up.

“Regulus,” a voice called softly. Then again, a little sharper. “Regulus. Your phone is ringing.” He startled. "Regulus, wake the fuck up."

His body jerked as if dragged from deep water, eyes snapping open, heart already thudding against his ribs like a warning. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him, the heavy stillness of the living room, or the faint, gray light bleeding in through the curtains. His mouth tasted sour, like ash, vomit and old panic.

“Regulus,” Narcissa said again from the doorway, arms crossed, perfectly dressed as always—even at this ungodly hour. There was a touch of impatience in her voice, but her eyes lingered on him a second longer than necessary.

He blinked hard. The ringtone was still going, that shrill, buzzing vibration dancing against the edge of the coffee table. He must have left it there when he stumbled in last night—or was it this morning? He couldn’t tell anymore. Time had stopped making sense somewhere between the bar, the alley behind it, and Tom Riddle’s voice whispering promises of ruin.

“Shit,” he croaked, rubbing a hand over his face. His throat felt like he’d swallowed dust and broken glass.

He reached for the phone with sluggish fingers, his body heavy, weighted down by exhaustion, dread, and something colder—something clawing.
He didn’t bother checking the caller ID before answering. Just dragged his thumb across the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

“What,” he rasped. His voice was barely there—raw from disuse, from the dry heaving and vomiting that had followed him into the night like a curse.

There was a pause on the other end. A soft breath.

“…Hey. Er- It’s James. Potter. Uhm- Sorry. Did I wake you? I'm sorry- I really didn't though about it- maybe you came back late and- sorry again-”

Regulus blinked, his eyes gritty. He glanced at the clock on the wall, its ticking suddenly obnoxious. 7:04. Of course it was James. Who else would call him at that hour with a voice like he was apologizing for existing?

He sat up slowly, back cracking in protest. A dull ache throbbed at the base of his skull. “No, no- don't worry” he lied, automatically, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “I was just… thinking about all my life choices. What do you need?”

James gave a faint, amused exhale—just barely.

“I, uh… I wanted to ask something. My friends—well, actually they run this riding place just outside the city—and they invited Harry for a morning ride. Ponies, you know- uh- little horses,” he added quickly, like Regulus might somehow imagine something more dramatic.

Regulus didn’t respond right away. His hand tightened slightly around the phone.
"Yes, James, I know what ponies are." He exhaled slowly, forcing down the bitterness still lodged in his stomach. “So you thought of Draco?” he said at last, quieter now. The edge was still there, but dulled.

“Yeah,” James admitted. “I know Sundays are usually your day off. Figured maybe you’d want to come too. Or not. I mean—if you’re busy, that’s fine, I just thought- er…”
There was another pause. Not silence, exactly—just that breathless in-between where something could go either terribly wrong or surprisingly okay.

Regulus leaned back against the armrest, phone still pressed to his ear. For a second, he closed his eyes. “He’s never been around horses,” he murmured. “He’ll probably demand one for Christmas.”

James chuckled, warm and low. “He can add it to his list next to the flying car and the dragon egg.”

Regulus huffed a dry sound that might’ve passed for a laugh.
“I’ll ask him when he wakes up. If he wants to go, we’ll be ready by nine, is that ok? But I think that's already a yes-”

There was something like a beat of relief in James’s silence.
“Alright, alright- good- nine it's okay. Perfect actually” he said, softer now. “Thanks, Reg.”

Regulus didn’t say you’re welcome, because he should be the one to thank him. Because James was the one who was using his free rides for Draco. But he didn't want to talk too much, so he just nodded, even though James couldn’t see him.

“See you later, Potter.”
And before James could say anything else, he ended the call.

The call ended, and for a moment Regulus just sat there, phone still in hand, eyes fixed on nothing.
Then, slowly, he lowered it to the floor, and bent forward until his elbows found his knees, and his hands cradled his head.

The silence pressed in.

The dull hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The distant sound of a car passing outside. The quiet creak of wood as the building settled around him. And beneath all of that—his own heartbeat, unsteady and hard, echoing in his skull like a second ticking clock.

Eighty thousand.

Eighty thousand fucking pounds.

His stomach curled inward, tight as a fist, and the air in his lungs turned to something sharp and useless. His fingers dug into his scalp, trying to hold something still, anything, as his thoughts scattered like shards of glass. What did he have? A half-dead savings account, a wallet with seven euro coins and two crumpled receipts, three shirts without holes, and a child who trusted him completely.
A child who smiled in his sleep and asked if they could afford strawberries this week.

And Tom Riddle had looked him in the eye like it was nothing. Like taking Draco would be as simple as breathing.

Regulus inhaled through his nose, but the breath caught halfway down and lodged there. A strangled sound slipped out—something between a choke and a sob. His chest was tightening again. The walls were moving in. His mouth was dry. His fingers were numb. He couldn’t—he couldn’t think. He needed to move. He needed to do something. He needed—

“Regulus.”

The voice was quiet. Not demanding, not impatient. Just there.
He didn’t look up at first. He couldn’t. But he heard the soft clink of ceramic on wood and the scent of chamomile and something faintly sweet wrapped around him like a thread.

“I made tea,” Narcissa said. “Figured you didn’t.”

There was a pause. A silence that wasn’t empty, but full of watching.
Then, slowly, Regulus let his hands slide down his face. He sat back against the couch again, dragging in a shaky breath. His eyes were rimmed red, but dry. For now.

Narcissa stood a few feet away, arms loose at her sides, not elegant this time but present. A tall mug sat on the coffee table in front of him—steam rising gently from it, curling toward his face like a hand reaching out.

“I didn’t,” he said finally. His voice was a whisper, rough and quiet and very, very tired.

She didn’t move to sit. Just watched him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable except for the tiniest crease between her brows.

“Draco’s going to ride a pony today,” he said, after a while, like he was reminding himself that the world still had soft things in it. “With Harry. And James.”

Narcissa smiled faintly. “Good. He’ll love that.”

Regulus nodded, once. Then again. And again, slower. As if each motion was carving out the space he needed to survive the day. “I’m so tired,” he whispered. And it was the first honest thing he’d said in what felt like days.

“I know,” she said.

Regulus reached for the mug with both hands, holding it like it might warm more than just his fingers. He didn’t drink right away. Just breathed in the scent, letting the steam fog the air in front of him.

Narcissa didn’t move.

She stayed standing, arms crossed now, but not in that performative way she usually had—no sharp elegance or show of control. Just stillness. Contained tension. Her eyes stayed on him, unblinking.

“Regulus,” she said, quieter this time, but firmer. “What happened last night?”

He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he took a sip of tea—too hot, it burned his tongue—and set the mug back down with a trembling clink. His fingers stayed wrapped around the handle, anchoring him.

“I saw Barty practically drag you inside,” she continued, stepping closer, her voice tight. “You didn’t even change clothes. You smelled like whiskey and kitchen grease. You didn’t speak. You barely looked up. What the hell happened?”

Regulus exhaled. It wasn’t quite a sigh. More like the last gust of air from a punctured tire.
“Tom Riddle came into the bar.”

That was all he said at first. Just the name.

But it hit her like a slap. Her posture stiffened instantly, face draining of color. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then finally said, in a whisper- “What?”

Regulus finally looked up.
His eyes were dull, the pupils too wide in the morning light. “He waited until we were closing. Emma had just left. He sat at the bar like any other customer. Didn’t even order.”

Narcissa’s hand flew to her mouth. Her other arm wrapped tight around her waist like she had to hold herself together. “What did he want?”

“He said I owe him money.” Regulus gave a half-laugh, humorless and thin. “From Lucius’s debt- He never said it outright, but—he knows. He knows Draco’s with me now.”

The room had gone cold.
“What did he say exactly?” she asked, her voice nearly breaking.

Regulus’s gaze dropped again to the tea, now cooling between his hands. “He said I have until the end of the year to pay him back. Or he’ll take Draco as… compensation.”

A beat. A breath.

And Narcissa’s knees gave just slightly.
She reached for the back of the nearby armchair, gripping it until her knuckles whitened. “He said that?” Her voice was high and thin now, disbelief and horror mixing like acid in her throat.

He nodded, slow and grim. “Said it like it was nothing.”

“How much?” she asked, though she already dreaded the answer.

Regulus stared at a spot on the floor, then lifted his eyes to hers with a flat, exhausted kind of clarity.

“Eighty thousand.”

Narcissa blinked once. Then again.
Silence stretched out between them, thick and suffocating. Somewhere outside, a dog barked in the distance. The sun was beginning to climb through the window, but the room remained gray, untouched.

“Eighty,” she echoed, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer. There was nothing else to say.

She looked at him, really looked, at the way his shoulders had curled in on themselves, the faint red marks still visible under his eyes, the way his fingers trembled when they weren’t gripping something. Her baby cousin. The one who’d always looked like porcelain and shadows, now looking more like someone scraped raw.

She let go of the chair and crossed to the couch in three slow steps, then sat beside him without asking.

“What are we going to do, Regulus?” Narcissa’s voice trembled, barely holding itself together. “You’re already working three times harder than you should, and we’re still sinking. I can’t find anything steady—only part-time jobs—and I’m with Draco every afternoon. How… how are we supposed to fix this?”

He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched so tight it ached, a dull throb spreading through his face.

Narcissa leaned forward, desperation making her voice sharper, her fingers tightening around his. “We have to think. Now. Right this second. What’s your plan? What could possibly—”

“I know, Narcissa, I know,” he cut in, voice rough and tired. “I’ll think about it—”

“About what, Regulus? Because we’re out of options, and—”

“Yeah, from today I’ll start thinking,” he snapped, voice rising, eyes darkening with frustration.

“Fuck—December? This—this December—Regulus, what—”

“We’ll think about it,” he snapped again, sharper this time, louder than he intended.

Narcissa flinched, stepping back slightly. “Regulus—”

“I said we’ll think about it, Narcissa,” he barked, suddenly standing so fast the tea on the table rocked and nearly spilled. He paced to the far end of the room, one hand threading through his tangled hair, tugging at the roots like trying to pull a solution free from the mess. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t ask me what I’m supposed to do when I don’t have a single answer. When I’ve been trying to keep my head above water for years, and now I’m just—”

He broke off, voice fraying at the edges. The silence afterward was sharp.

Narcissa stood slowly. “Eighty thousand,” she said, still stunned. “Do you even know how much that is—?”

“Yes,” he snapped, turning toward her. “Yes, Narcissa, thank you, I can count. I know exactly how much I’ve been paying for the mess your husband left behind.”

The words landed like stones in the room. Narcissa went still. Her lips parted just slightly, but no sound came out. She stared at him, the line of her throat trembling faintly.

Regulus’s breath caught in his chest.

The moment stretched—and then broke. Guilt flooded his expression. His shoulders dropped. “I didn’t mean that,” he said quickly, quietly, voice hoarse with regret. “I—shit. I didn’t. I’m just—”

“I know,” she said, and it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant. It was soft. Tired. “I know, Reg.”

He lowered himself back onto the couch, head in his hands again.

Narcissa moved without hesitation this time. She sat beside him once more, not touching him, but close enough that their knees brushed. For a while, they just breathed in the same space. The tea was cold. The light in the room had turned golden.

After a while, her voice came again, quieter than before.

“He said he would take Draco?”

Regulus nodded without looking up.

Narcissa inhaled slowly. “Then we’ll find a way.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “You say that like we’ve got some vault of gold hidden under the floorboards.”

“I say that like we don’t have any other option,” she replied. “Because we don’t.”

He turned his head toward her. “I can’t let him near Draco.”

“And you won’t,” she said, fierce now. “We won’t. But we have to start thinking smart, Regulus. I know you’re used to doing this on your own. But this… this isn’t just your burden anymore. He’s mine too.”

Regulus blinked.

Something in his chest tightened—something ancient and aching, like the last bit of armor cracking. He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

“You didn’t,” she said simply. “I walked in willingly. He's my son Regulus, maybe you forgot. And I was the one to put you into this fucking mess. So I was at fault. You were barely twenty and I ruined your life and I'll never fucking forgive myself. So let me be here, at least for this.” And when he turned away again, eyes burning, she let him be.

But then a small set of footsteps padded down the hallway—light, quick, and unmistakably excited. Regulus cleared his eyes form the unwanted tears, and turned just as Draco rounded the corner, already mid-sprint.

“Daddy!”

Regulus barely had time to brace himself before a blur of blond hair launched into his arms. He caught Draco with practiced ease, arms wrapping around the boy as he laughed, surprised.

“You weren’t here last night,” Draco mumbled into his shoulder, voice muffled. “I missed you.”

Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, just holding him. The tension in his chest loosened slightly, like someone had finally opened a window in a room that was too tight, too dark.

“I missed you too, little star,” he murmured, kissing the top of Draco’s head. “I’m sorry.”

Draco pulled back just enough to look at him, grinning. “Are you staying all day today?”

Regulus gave him a tired but genuine smile. “Not all day. Only this morning.”
That seemed to satisfy Draco, who nestled back into his arms like a content kitten. Regulus let himself breathe, really breathe, for the first time since last night. It was such a simple thing—his son’s arms around his neck—but in that moment, it was everything.

Then, clearing his throat softly, Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Although… I heard from Aunt Narcissa and Barty that someone was making a bit of a fuss yesterday.”

Draco immediately pulled back, his mouth forming a dramatic little pout. “I wasn’t fussing.”

“No?”

“I was just saying that Harry had lots of new toys,” Draco said with great indignation. “Really nice ones. And I don’t.”

Regulus tried to keep his expression stern, but the corners of his mouth were already twitching. “So you were just… making a helpful observation?”

“Exactly.”

Regulus let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Draco, pleased with himself, leaned his head back on Regulus’s shoulder. “You love me anyway.”

Regulus closed his eyes again, nodding softly. “Yeah. I really do.”
Regulus kept his arms around Draco but gave him a pointed look, calm and firm.
“Even so, Draco, it’s not okay to act like that,” he said gently. “Just because someone else has something you like doesn’t mean you get to be rude about it.”

Draco pulled back, frowning. “But I wasn’t rude…”

“You were complaining. Loudly. To two grown adults who were just trying to help. And I know you, my little dragon—you don’t like being told no.”

Draco huffed, arms crossed dramatically over his small chest. “I just want a garden too! And a big room, and a swing. And more toys. It’s not fair.”

Regulus let out a slow breath, brushing his fingers through Draco’s soft hair.
“I know it doesn’t feel fair,” he said. “But listen to me: not everything that looks perfect is perfect. Just because Harry has a swing and a shiny new toy box doesn’t mean his life is better than yours.”

Draco blinked up at him, confused. “But he does have more stuff.”

“Yes. But stuff isn’t everything. You have people who love you, who’d do anything for you. And you know what they say—‘not all that glitters is gold.’”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Draco muttered.

Regulus smirked. “Then let me try it another way.” He tapped his chin dramatically. “Okay. How about this: why don’t you give me your stuffed dragon—you know, the one you sleep with every night—and I’ll go ask Harry to trade it for one of his brand-new train toy?”

Draco gasped, scandalized. “No!”

Regulus tilted his head, teasing. “Why not? His toys are newer. Cooler. Don’t you want better things?”

Draco was already wriggling out of his arms, scrambling toward his bedroom in a panic. “No! Don’t touch him! He’s mine!”

Regulus stood with a laugh and followed, slow and dramatic. “What? You don’t want to trade your dragon? But I thought you wanted better—!”

“Noooo!” Draco shrieked, diving onto his bed and clutching the plush dragon to his chest like a shield.

Regulus swooped in and grabbed him gently around the waist, pulling him back onto the couch. “You little thief,” he teased, tossing Draco onto the cushions and kneeling beside him. “Keeping all the best treasures for yourself?”

Draco was already giggling before the tickling even began, but then Regulus pounced, hands moving mercilessly under his arms and at his ribs. Draco squealed, laughing uncontrollably, kicking his legs and trying to escape.

“Stop! Stop! Okay—okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry to who?” Regulus said, still grinning.

“To you! And to Cissa! And Barty!” Regulus slowed, then finally stopped, letting Draco catch his breath as he slumped back against the cushions, flushed and smiling.

Regulus looked at him fondly, smoothing the hair off his forehead. “Good. Because all I want is for you to be happy, little star. But that doesn’t mean you get everything you want.”

Draco nodded, curling close to him, clutching his dragon again. “I know. I’m still glad you’re home.”

Regulus closed his eyes for a second, holding him close. “Me too.”

After a few quiet moments, with Draco still curled up against him, Regulus gave a soft smile and brushed a hand through his hair.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got some news for you.”

Draco lifted his head, eyes already sparkling. “Is it good news?”

Regulus nodded, voice gentle. “Very good. James called earlier—he said Harry’s going to a riding stable today. His friends own the place, and they invited him to spend the morning with the ponies. And they asked if you’d like to come too.”

Draco gasped. “With the horses?! Like real horses? Like big ones? Like in fairy tales?”

“Like very real ponies that you can actually ride,” Regulus said, smiling a little more now at the boy’s growing excitement. “So… what do you think?”

Draco launched into his arms with such force that Regulus fell back against the couch, laughing. “I wanna go! Please can I go?! Let's go!”

“You can absolutely go,” Regulus chuckled, holding him tight for a second before sitting up again. “But—uh—we don’t really have riding clothes, do we?” He looked at Narcissa, talking mostly to himself- obviously the didn't.

Draco paused mid-bounce, frowning dramatically. “Do I need riding clothes?”

“Not really,” Regulus said. “Just something comfy. Maybe the tracksuit—the blue one?”

Draco made a face. “The one with the weird zipper?”

“It’s not that weird,” Regulus teased. “It’s just a zipper. Besides, it’ll be perfect for today. And I bet ponies love blue.”

Draco sighed like he was being terribly inconvenienced, but then scrambled off the couch. “Okay. But I’m bringing my dragon with me.”

“The stuffed one?” Regulus asked.

“No, the real one,” Draco said with a deadly serious face, then grinned. “Yes, the stuffed one! What kind of question is that?”
Regulus gave a short laugh as the boy ran off down the hall, already shouting for Narcissa to help him find the zipper that always got stuck.

Left alone for a moment, Regulus exhaled slowly, the smile lingering faintly on his lips. He made his way into the kitchen and splashed cold water on his face at the sink, trying to piece himself together—trying to look somewhat presentable before heading out to meet James and his friends. They owned a bloody riding stable, which probably meant they were comfortably rich. Well, at the very least, he had to be clean.

But as he leaned forward, water dripping from his chin, Regulus caught it again—that faint, bitter trace of whisky clinging to the fibers of his clothes. It made his stomach turn. It made him feel like him.

Like his father. A drunk, bitter man who had never known how to love properly, not without control or cruelty.
Regulus clenched the edge of the sink, jaw tight. He wasn’t that man. He knew that. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the shame from creeping in under his skin like smoke.

He grabbed a ragged tea towel, scrubbed his face dry, and muttered to himself, “Just get the smell off.” As if that could cleanse all the rest. When he was done washing, Regulus felt so drained he half-expected to collapse right there on the kitchen floor. His limbs were heavy, his head light, and hunger gnawed at his insides with sharp, relentless claws. He hadn’t eaten yesterday—for obvious reasons—and now the dizziness was hitting him full force. His stomach growled, low and hollow, and he grimaced.

Brilliant start to the day, he thought bitterly.

He dragged himself toward the couch, each step a little slower than the last, and let himself sink down onto the cushions. Maybe if he leaned back—just for a second—the spinning would stop. Maybe the emptiness in his chest and the acid burn in his gut would quiet down long enough for him to get through the morning.

Maybe.

Narcissa stepped back into the living room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands, her expression caught somewhere between baffled and impressed. She stood there for a moment, watching Regulus quietly, then let out a breath.
“He’s getting dressed,” she said, placing the cup on the table. “That was… impressive.”

Regulus glanced up from where he was half-sprawled on the couch, still catching his breath from the tickle attack. “What was?”

“You,” she said, gesturing vaguely in the direction Draco had run. “You just snapped your fingers and he ran off all happy and excited. I’ve been trying to get him to stop pouting and crying about toys since yesterday. He wouldn’t budge.”

Regulus gave a small, tired shrug. “I bribed him with a horse.”

Narcissa blinked. “That’s not the point. He was so—light. And you. You smiled.”

He lowered his eyes for a second, rubbing his neck. “I smile sometimes.”

“Not like that,” she said softly, and there was no judgment in her voice—only something almost wistful. “It’s just… I didn’t know we could be like this. I didn’t grow up with that kind of… warmth. I never saw it. And- I don't know after yesterday- he wined so much Reg that- I don't know my parents would have closed me in my room for a week without food- and I- kindness was not really par of my life.”

Regulus exhaled slowly, his voice quieter now. “Neither in mine.”

She sat down beside him, curling one leg beneath her. “So how do you know how to do it?”

He gave a tired, wry smile, his gaze unfocused on the opposite wall. “I don’t. I’m just trying. Every day, I try. Sometimes I screw up, sometimes I lose it, but… I don’t know. He’s small. He doesn’t deserve to feel like he’s not enough.”

Narcissa stared at him, something fragile moving across her face. “You’re a better father than most of us ever had. Hell- one of the best, Reg.”
Regulus looked away, swallowing hard. She was wrong. Because Draco needed so much more. It wasn't enough- he was just giving to him a little part.

And then—three quick knocks at the door.

They both turned. Regulus sat up straighter, blinking once as if surfacing from deeper thoughts. “That must be—”

“James,” Narcissa finished, already rising to her feet.

Regulus stood too, brushing invisible lint from his jumper, chest tightening just slightly.

There was another knock at the door—sharp, impatient.

“Don’t be so excited,” came Barty’s voice through the wood, smug as ever.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “God help me.”

Narcissa gave him a questioning look. “That’s not James, is it?”

“No,” Regulus sighed, already regretting existing this early in the day. He opened the door with a dry expression.

Barty stood there in a violently patterned coat, hair tousled and mouth already halfway through a smirk. “You look terrible,” he said brightly. “Love the whole ‘haunted war orphan who hasn’t slept’ aesthetic.”

Evan was a step behind him, quiet and composed as usual. He gave Regulus a short nod. “Morning.”

"Morning" Regulus leaned on the doorframe, unimpressed. “You’re not James.”

“Shocking, I know,” Barty said, brushing past him without waiting for an invitation. “And here I thought I was everyone’s favorite.”

“We’re not all mentally ill,” Regulus muttered, but he smiled nonetheless.

“Speak for yourself,” Evan added, slipping in and closing the door behind him.

Barty flopped dramatically onto the couch, kicking his feet up. “Relax, we’re not here to hijack your family outing. I just wanted to talk before you disappeared into the countryside with your son and your not-boyfriend.”

Regulus shot him a look. “You came here at eight in the morning to talk?”

“Yes,” Barty said, utterly unapologetic. “I didn’t sleep. Evan said it would be good for me to get out of the house. And honestly, I wanted to see your face when you realized it wasn’t James at the door.”

Regulus gave him a long, dead-eyed stare, then turned and walked to the armchair with the weight of a man reconsidering all his life choices. He sat down slowly, dragging a hand down his face.
“You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet, here we are,” Barty grinned. "And you love me-"

Evan sat more neatly beside him, glancing toward the kitchen where Narcissa had retreated. “How’s the morning going?”

Regulus let his head fall back against the armchair. “It’s eight o’clock. My child is already dressed like an Eastern European track star, and I might vomit from anxiety. He'll be riding horses- like real horses-”

“Ah,” Barty said, steepling his fingers like a therapist. “So the usual.”

Regulus didn’t bother replying. The three of them sat in silence for a beat, the early light creeping in through the windows, just enough to make everything feel both too awake and not real enough.

Barty squinted at him from the couch, legs still shamelessly sprawled across the cushions.
“Anyway You really look like shit,” he said, not unkindly.

Regulus didn’t even blink. “Touching.”

“No, seriously,” Barty went on, cocking his head. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Probably two hours.”

“And did you eat anything?”

Regulus raised a brow. “Are you my mother now?”

“Well, someone has to be.”

Regulus sighed. “No. Narcissa needs to do the groceries—there’s nothing in the house.”

Evan let out a sharp curse under his breath. “God, Reg.”

“I know,” Regulus said quickly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know. It’s not— I’m not worried about me. Draco’s the one who’s got nothing but a few old biscuits and that weird juice Barty brought last week.”

“It was kombucha,” Barty said dryly. “Very healing.”

Regulus gave him a look. “It was neon green.”

“Still healing.”

Barty straightened up slightly, just enough to show he wasn’t entirely joking anymore. He watched Regulus for a moment, then said, “I came to talk about last night.”

Regulus stiffened. "Yeah-" His fingers twitched on the armrest. “Thought you might,” he muttered. “Go on, then.”

Barty exchanged a quick glance with Evan, who nodded slightly, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. For once, he looked almost serious.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what Riddle said. About what he wants. That number—eighty thousand. He’s not bluffing. And we both know he doesn’t just ask for something if he doesn’t already have a plan to take it.”

Regulus closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening. “Don’t remind me.”

“I have to,” Barty said. “Because you can’t handle this alone. And you’re going to try. But it’s too big, Reg. Even for you.” Barty leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tapping nervously. “So- I’ve been thinking,” he said, and there was something too careful in his voice. “I could go back. To my father.”

Regulus froze. “What?” he asked, cold and sharp.

Barty pressed on. “He’d give me the money. All of it. Hell, he’d probably double it just to get me back in the manor. If I—if I gave him what he wants.”

Regulus shot up from the couch, eyes dark and blazing. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Barty blinked. “Reg—”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Regulus snapped, voice low and dangerous. “You know what that would mean. You, back under his thumb? Letting him own you again, parade you around like some trophy son who finally got his head on straight?”

Barty’s jaw flexed. “Better me than you. Better me than Draco.”

“No. No, don’t say that. You don’t get to decide that.” Regulus was pacing now, one hand raking through his hair. “You’d be giving up Evan. Your freedom. Your name, Barty. You’d be signing a contract with a man who believes you’re broken, who’d try to fix you by force. You think I could watch that happen?”

“I’d survive,” Barty said, more quietly. “I’ve done it before.”

“That’s not surviving, that’s dying slowly in a velvet cage.” Regulus whirled on him. “You’re talking about hiding who you are. Pretending Evan doesn’t exist. Pretending you don’t exist.”

Evan had been silent all this time, staring into his mug as if the answers were steeping with the tea leaves. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, even. “It would probably be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”
Barty glanced at him, startled—but Evan didn’t look angry. Just… resigned.
“But Draco,” he added. The name alone was enough to pull the oxygen from the room.

Regulus closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell once, twice, shallow and fast. Then he whispered, “Don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this.”

“I’m just saying—” Barty began.

“No.” Regulus turned back, his expression carved from stone. “If the price of saving Draco is losing you, then it’s not saving him. It’s just trading him for you. And I won’t allow it.”

Silence stretched between them like a tightrope.

“I’d rather steal,” Regulus said, his voice quiet now but unshaking. “I’d rather crawl through the fucking mud and beg and bleed than sell your soul to that man. Because that’s what it would be, Barty. A contract. A life sentence. And I won’t do that to you. I won’t let Draco grow up thinking that saving people means erasing yourself.”

Barty looked at him for a long moment, chest rising with a shaky breath.
Evan reached over and finally, finally took his hand.

The silence had stretched just long enough to feel heavy without hurting.

Barty was still holding Evan’s hand, staring at the space between his shoes, when Regulus moved—slowly, like something inside him had to unlock first. He sat back down, this time closer, elbows resting on his knees.

“Hey,” he said quietly, looking at Barty now. “Look at me.”

Barty did, reluctantly. His eyes were sharp as always, but there was something raw behind them—unguarded, like the mask had slipped.
Regulus spoke softly. “Thank you.”

Barty blinked. “For what? Offering to sell myself to the devil in a designer cloak?”

“For loving him that much,” Regulus said, glancing toward the hallway where Draco had disappeared. “For loving us that much. Even if I can’t let you do it.”

Barty swallowed hard, the usual smirk nowhere to be found. “I meant it.”

“I know,” Regulus said. “That’s why it scared the hell out of me.”

There was no teasing in his tone. Just something gentle and painful and fiercely protective.
Barty gave a small, crooked smile. “You’re lucky you’re prettier than me, or I’d resent that heroic energy.”

Regulus huffed a breath, something like a laugh. “Shut up.”
But he reached over and bumped his shoulder gently against Barty’s—a small, silent gesture of thanks from a man who never said it out loud unless it mattered.

Evan leaned back, eyes closed briefly, as if granting them that tiny piece of peace.

And then— Tiny footsteps, fast and chaotic.

“I’m ready! We can go!”

Draco appeared in the doorway, zipped all the way up to his chin in the infamous blue tracksuit, mismatched socks, and one of Narcissa’s silk scarves tied around his head like a bandana.

All three of them blinked.

Regulus stood, lips twitching. “That’s… a look.”

Draco beamed. “I’m a cowboy dragon.”

Barty clapped once. “Ten out of ten. Iconic.”

“Come on, etoile,” Regulus said, grabbing his coat, and trying to tame his curls. “Let’s wait outside for James. You don’t want the ponies getting bored, do you?”

Draco squealed and bolted to the door. Barty and Evan followed, more slowly. Regulus took one last glance around the flat before stepping out.
The air outside was crisp, the sky pale with early morning light. And for a moment, just one, everything was quiet.

James Potter had barely finished tying one shoe before the other was flying across the room.
“Harry,” he groaned, reaching under the armchair. “What did we say about launching your shoes like cursed objects?”

“It was an accident!” Harry called back, standing on one foot in the hallway, his tiny frame trembling with excitement. “I need to find my red socks. The ponies like red!”

James chuckled to himself. “Do they now? Is that from one of your scientific journals?”

Harry peeked around the corner, messy-haired and flushed. “From Luna. She said ponies like bold colors.”

“Well, can’t argue with that,” James muttered, finally retrieving the rogue shoe and tossing it on the armchair. “Come here, you little menace. Let’s get you dressed before you break something.”

Harry practically bounced into the room, arms raised, ready for assistance. James crouched down, helping him into his jacket and tugging the zip up while Harry buzzed like a beehive at full volume.

“And there’s gonna be hay! And maybe goats? And maybe I could brush one of the ponies? If I behave, and—”

“Sweet Merlin,” James muttered, eyes crinkling. “You’re vibrating.”

“I’m just really happy,” Harry said, smiling up at him, his cheeks pink with excitement. “And Draco is coming! I like Draco. He’s funny. He always says ‘ridiculous’ like it’s a bad word.”

James laughed, smoothing down Harry’s hair in a futile attempt to make it behave. “He gets that from his dad.”

Just then, from the other side of the house: “James Fleamont Potter!”

“Mum!” he shouted back. “We’re in here!”

Euphemia Potter appeared in the doorway, dressed immaculately as always, tea cup in hand, one eyebrow delicately arched. “You told him about the ponies, didn’t you?”

“Guilty,” James grinned. “I wasn’t going to, but he caught me calling Regulus and demanded answers. He’s very aggressive when he senses a secret.”

Euphemia looked amused. “So, Regulus? Mmh? Are you taking him alone?”
James rolled his eyes. He still couldn’t believe that nearly all of his friends and family had picked up on his—recent developments in the way he felt about Regulus Black. Was he really that obvious?

“Mum, come on,” he groaned. “Yes. Regulus will be there. With Draco, obviously. And it’s just a few hours—he has to go back to work this afternoon. Nothing dangerous, promise.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” she said, sipping her tea with a smirk. “You should be. If Regulus looks even half as sharp as he did at the playground last week, you’ll be too distracted to steer a horse.”

James groaned. “Mum, stop flirting with people on my behalf.”

Euphemia winked. “Someone has to. And if you don’t make a move soon, I’m keeping him for myself—so play your cards well.”

“Mum! I'm calling dad, now!” he laughed, his cheeks turning faintly red. He turned back to Harry, lightly patting his coat. “Alright, cowboy. Boots on. You’ve got ponies to impress.”
Harry gave him a dramatic salute and bolted out of the room, calling for his plush dragon and red socks.

James stood up, running a hand through his hair. He hesitated for half a second, then reached for his phone to text Regulus- “On our way. Do you need coffee?"
He didn’t expect a reply right away. He just hoped Regulus had managed a little sleep. Or at least hadn’t burned the flat down in exhaustion.

The drive was quiet, save for Harry’s enthusiastic chatter in the backseat, narrating his theories about pony personalities and whether or not dragons could also be trained to trot. James hummed responses now and then, eyes on the road, mind already a few miles ahead—at the small riding stable just past the edge of town, and the man who’d agreed to meet him there.

When they pulled into the gravel driveway, the first thing he noticed was Draco—bouncing on the balls of his feet near the entrance, dressed in a bright blue tracksuit, practically glowing with excitement.

The second thing he noticed was Regulus.

And he had never seen him look so… terrible.

His eyes were red around the edges—not just tired, but raw, like he hadn’t had a real moment of rest in days. Maybe he’d cried. Maybe he hadn’t slept. Either way, the damage was visible in every line of his face. His curls looked deflated, their usual crisp shape dulled into something that clung lifelessly to his temples. And his entire posture, despite standing tall, felt like it was straining under the weight of something invisible but relentless.
Like the responsibilities were crushing him down, slowly, with nowhere to rest.

And yet—

Regulus still stood with his chin raised. Still laughed quietly at something Draco was saying, reaching out with one hand to steady the boy as he spun in a circle. There was a flicker of sharp wit in his smile, a thread of elegance that hadn’t been completely buried.

James pulled the car to a stop and exhaled slowly.

It was impossible not to admire that. The sheer effort it took to hold yourself together like that—for a child, for the world. For yourself.

“Come on, Harry,” he said gently, opening the car door. “They’re waiting.”
Harry was out in a flash, dragon plush in hand, already calling Draco’s name.

James took one last look at Regulus before stepping out.
You’re still standing, he thought. But how much longer can you do it alone?
As soon as the car door opened, Harry bolted across the gravel like a rocket, calling, “Draco! Look, I brought Stormy!”—holding up his slightly squashed dragon plush like it was Excalibur.

Draco gasped with appropriate dramatic flair. “He can fly?!”

“They’re gone,” James murmured with a grin, watching the boys vanish toward the paddock entrance like the universe was collapsing without their urgent investigation.

“Draco,” Regulus called, not raising his voice but making it very clear. “What did we say about greetings?”

Draco paused mid-skip, wrinkled his nose, and turned half around. “Hello, Mr. James,” he mumbled quickly, before immediately swiveling back to Harry and taking off again.

Regulus exhaled, unimpressed, and rolled his eyes.

James gave a soft laugh. “Well. I feel honored.”

“That was the polite version of ‘go away,’” Regulus muttered, watching them disappear toward the barn.

James glanced at him, studying his face briefly before falling into step beside him. “He always like that?”

“Only when he’s happy,” Regulus said, dry as ever. “You’d think I’d be grateful.”

James opened the gate for both of them, holding it with one hand as he looked over. “And you? Are you happy?”

Regulus hesitated for just half a second too long.

Then, “Define happy.”

James didn’t push, but the way he looked at him changed—something softer, quieter behind the grin. “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Like… new level of tired.”

Regulus glanced sideways, eyebrows raising slightly. “Is this your subtle way of saying I look like hell?”

James smiled faintly. “No. You always look good. Very good! It’s just… now you look good and like you haven’t slept since Tuesday. But still good, don't worry!”

There was a flicker of something in Regulus’s expression. Surprise, maybe. Or appreciation. Hard to say.
“I slept a bit,” he lied, adjusting the strap of his coat as they walked.

James didn’t press. But he kept walking at Regulus’s pace, slower than usual, like it mattered. “Come on,” he said, nodding toward the stables. “Let’s try not to lose them in the first five minutes.”

Regulus arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. “So you said that—I always look good? Nice to know, Potter.”

James blinked, caught mid-step, and instantly felt the heat crawl up his neck. “I didn’t mean—well, I did mean—but not like—” Then gave him a sideways glance, amused. Regulus was flicking with him right now. He could see from his smirk, subtle but still there. “Fishing for compliments, Black?”

“Always,” Regulus replied smoothly, not missing a beat.

James huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head, opening his car's door for Regulus and the kids. “Alright, champions,” he said, lifting his voice. “Inside. Morning’s short and the ponies get bored easily.” Harry and Draco came running immediately, still mid-debate, and darted past them, hopping into the car.

Regulus followed just behind, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, his voice calm and low, but not so quiet James wouldn’t hear it.
“So,” he began dryly, “I didn’t sleep, my bones hurt, and I still have to go to work this afternoon.”
James glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised in sympathy—but before he could respond, Regulus continued.
“And yet,” he said, letting the car door swing shut behind him with an easy flick of his wrist, “here I am. Still looking good. That’s a new life goal, Potter. You could never.”

James tried not to smile. He really, really did. Didn’t work.
God, he liked them petty and self-assured. A little too much, probably.

He rolled his eyes, mostly at himself.

Because this—this wasn’t anything. Couldn’t be. Regulus had far more important things to worry about than being casually pretty for someone like him. And James had enough self-preservation left not to go falling for someone already half-drowned.

Still, he thought, watching Regulus talking to Harry and Draco about something—he really does look good. He shook the thought away before it could stick.
They had horses to meet, children to keep from breaking their necks, and maybe—if the morning allowed it—a moment to breathe.
But not feelings. Definitely not those.

The drive was mostly quiet, apart from the backseat chatter that refused to quit.

“I’m going to name mine Lightning,” Harry announced proudly.

Draco scoffed. “That’s not even original. Every kid names their pony Lightning. Mine’s going to be Storm Lord the Third.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s nobility.”

James smiled faintly, eyes on the road. “Remind me to apologize to the stable staff in advance.”

Next to him, Regulus let out a soft, almost reluctant chuckle. His eyes were on the road, but unfocused, like the noise in the car was happening behind a thick pane of glass. He was quiet in a way that James was starting to recognize—not cold, not irritated. Just… emptying. The kind of silence that came from being too tired to filter thoughts into words.

“You alright?” James asked, glancing sideways for a moment.

“Mhm,” Regulus murmured. “Your car is nice-”

James nodded once, not pushing, not commenting. He knew enough to let silence stand when it needed to. Regulus was quiet, staring out the window, the way he always did when he was running on fumes. His posture was starting to loosen. Head angled slightly. Breathing slower.

So James started talking. Not about anything important—God forbid.
“You know, I read somewhere that horses can’t vomit,” he said casually.

Regulus blinked, turning his head just barely in his direction. “What?”

“It’s true,” James said, eyes still on the road. “They don’t have the muscles for it. If they eat something bad, it just sort of… ruins their whole day. Or their life. Dramatic animals.”

Regulus made a soft, tired sound. “That’s deeply unfortunate.”

“I mean, same, honestly. You should see me with a bottle of gin.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Regulus’s lips, but he didn’t respond.

James glanced again at Regulus—just in time to see him shift slightly, pull his coat tighter around himself, and lean toward the window. His head found the edge of the headrest, angled toward the glass.
It wasn’t much. Just a tilt of the body. But something in it made James’s chest tighten.

Regulus hadn’t slept last night. James was sure of it now. There were faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from just one bad night, but several. His jaw was relaxed now, mouth parted just slightly, his entire frame looser than it had been all morning.

He wasn’t fully asleep. Not yet. But he was close.

James adjusted his grip on the wheel, a little slower, a little softer. Like even the way he handled the car might disturb the fragile quiet in the passenger seat.
“I also learned,” James continued, “that some ponies have mustaches. Like actual facial hair. It’s horrific. I’m telling you this now so you’re not shocked when we get there.”

Regulus hummed again. This time he didn’t open his eyes.

“You’re welcome, by the way. For the warnings. I’m being a very responsible co-parent.”

No answer. Just the slow, even sound of breathing. James glanced sideways.
Regulus had slouched slightly in the seat, arms still crossed, face tilted just enough that his temple was resting lightly against the window. His curls brushed the collar of his coat. Eyes closed.

James swallowed. He kept talking, softer now.

“Also, Harry once asked if ponies could have jobs, like in retail. I think he meant like… boots store mascots or something. Honestly, I said yes. I don’t know why. It felt rude to say no.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but James noticed his breathing deepen. His body had finally let go of whatever tension it had been gripping all morning.
And it was stupid—so stupid—but James suddenly felt like his voice had weight. Like maybe, just maybe, it was helping.

So he kept talking, quietly, about nonsense. About ponies with bad attitudes. About the one time Sirius tried to ride a donkey and got bitten. About nothing.
And Regulus slept. Just for a while. And James didn’t stop driving.
Didn’t stop speaking. Didn’t stop watching him out of the corner of his eye—like maybe, if he just kept going, Regulus could breathe a little easier.

Even just for the morning.

Regulus stepped out of the car just as the first drops of rain began to give way to misty sunshine. The gravel crunched beneath his boots, and ahead of him stretched the quiet elegance of the Longbottom stables — white-fenced paddocks, a stone path lined with neat hedges, and a long barn that smelled of hay, leather, and something peaceful.

He didn’t trust it. Peace rarely meant safety.

Draco clung to his side, eyes wide and skeptical, already pulling at the sleeves of his jacket as if trying to disappear inside it. Regulus placed a hand on his shoulder — gently, but firmly.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he murmured.

The barn door creaked open, and Frank Longbottom stepped out with that same easy warmth Regulus always found vaguely suspicious. Alice was at his side, cheeks flushed with the kind of energy that made him feel exhausted just looking at her.

“James!” Alice called, her face lighting up as they approached. “Still alive, I see. And you haven’t burned down my barn — that’s progress.”

James grinned, casual and utterly at home. “It’s still early.”

Frank shook his head with a laugh and turned to Regulus. “Good to see you again. You must be the infamous brother I’ve heard so much about.”

Regulus gave a tight nod, extending a hand. “Regulus Black.”

“Frank,” the man replied, shaking it firmly. “And this is Alice."
Alice stepped forward and gave Regulus a once-over that was somehow kind and assessing at the same time. “We don’t have many guests, but James vouched for you.”

Regulus arched an eyebrow at James. “You vouched for me?”

James shrugged, blushing slightly. “I said you’re mildly tolerable. On a good day.”

Alice smiled knowingly. “Well, that’s practically a love letter coming from him.”

Draco tugged at Regulus’s coat again, and Regulus looked down — the boy’s eyes had found the horses. A large, dapple-grey mare leaned lazily over the stable door, watching them with slow, blinking curiosity.

“She’s gentle,” Alice said softly. “Want to say hello?”

Draco hesitated. Regulus hesitated harder. “Draco’s never been around horses before,” Regulus said, a little too quickly. “I just want to make sure—”

“That he doesn’t break his spine?” Alice offered with a smirk. “I get it. I’m the same with Neville. You’ll meet him — he’s the same age as Draco and Harry. Overprotective parent- Frank is the calm one.”

“I’m not overprotective,” Regulus muttered, mostly to himself. He was just worried. With everything going on in Draco's life, it was a normal response.

“He’s adorable about it, isn’t he?” James said behind him, and Regulus shot him a look that should’ve withered flowers.

“Don’t listen to him,” Alice said kindly. “You’re doing fine. We’ll take it slow. We’ve got a nearly empty schedule today — the whole place is yours. Relax. We’ll keep them safe.” Regulus nodded stiffly. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to let his shoulders drop, just a little. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

Regulus stood by the wooden fence, arms crossed tight over his chest, fingers digging into his sides like he was holding himself in place. The scent of hay and sun-warmed leather filled the air, mixed with something more raw — the sharp, unmistakable smell of horse sweat and earth.

James, meanwhile, was beaming behind his camera, crouched slightly as he took picture after picture of Harry climbing up onto the mounting block under Frank’s guidance. “That’s it, bud! Chin up — like you’re about to save the kingdom! That's my boy!”

Harry giggled, gripping the saddle horn like a knight, his helmet slightly askew.

Regulus didn’t laugh. His eyes were locked on the horse. Huge. Muscle-bound. Breathing like a furnace. The kind of beast that could trample a child with one misplaced hoof.

“You’re grinding your molars again,” James said softly, sidling up next to him without looking away from his lens. “They’ll start charging us for fence damage if you keep glaring like that.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“You’re glaring.”

Regulus exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. “It’s just—he’s five. That animal weighs more than both of us combined.”

James snapped another photo, then finally lowered the camera. “They know what they’re doing. Frank’s been doing this since we were kids, remember? And Alice practically trains nationals in her spare time.”

Regulus didn’t respond right away. He was watching Harry now, who was bouncing gently in the saddle as the horse shifted beneath him. Frank kept one hand near the reins, calm and easy.
“He’s going to fall,” Regulus muttered, more to himself.

“No,” James said, grinning, “he’s going to love it. And when he comes running to show you his saddle badge later, you’re going to act like you weren’t having a mild heart attack the whole time.”

Regulus gave him a sidelong look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Watching you try not to jump the fence and tackle Frank to save Draco from a horse named ‘Daisy’? Yeah. A little.”

Regulus didn’t quite smile. But he didn’t look away either.

“Do you want me to delete the photos where you look like you’re about to storm the castle?”

“I want you to shut up.”

James chuckled, nudging his shoulder gently. “You’re doing fine, Reg. The kids are doing fine, so everything is fine.”

"Stop saying the word fine, or I'll cut your tongue." And at that James laughed, warm and steady. Regulus gripped the fence harder when it was Draco’s turn. So in fact, he was not. The boy was focused, his blond hair tucked neatly under his helmet, little hands clutching the saddle horn as Alice steadied the reins. But the horse — taller than Harry’s, more spirited — pawed the dirt like it had somewhere better to be.

Regulus’s knuckles whitened on the wooden beam, breath held.
“Hey—” James’s voice was low, cutting gently through the rush of blood in his ears. “Reg, let go for a second. Come on.”

“I’m fine. Don't stress me.”

“You’re not.” James’s hand closed over Regulus’s, prying gently. “Christ, Regulus, your hands are frozen.” Regulus didn’t answer, just stared at Draco like sheer willpower could keep him upright.

James stepped in closer, their elbows brushing, the space between them suddenly charged and delicate. He didn’t drop Regulus’s hands — just held them loosely, like he might be able to warm the tension out of his bones.

“He’s okay,” James murmured. “He’s focused. He’s careful. And he’s got Alice beside him, not a dragon.” Regulus’s mouth twitched, but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was bracing for impact.

“I don’t think I’m built for this,” he said quietly, after a long pause. “This… letting go. Trusting. I’m awful at it. But—” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “But he’s so little and—”
He didn’t finish. Because the rest lived somewhere behind his ribs: his parents never cared. Not about him. Not about Sirius. Just do this, Regulus. Be this, Regulus. I don’t care if you’re sick—you can’t miss school. I don’t care if you’re falling—point your toes and finish the arabesque.

So he’d made himself a promise. That Draco would never feel that. That Draco would see him in the crowd, every time. At competitions. School events. Even if it killed him. Even if he was barely standing. He was failing more days than not. But God, he was trying.

James looked at him — really looked at him. “I don’t think anyone is,” he said gently. “At first.”

Regulus turned, just slightly. Their faces were close now. Too close for anything careless. “And you are, now?” he asked, quiet. Challenging.

James didn’t step back. “No. But I’m trying. That counts for something, right?”
Regulus exhaled slowly, eyes flicking down to their joined hands. James’s thumb brushed against the sharp ridge of his knuckle — just once, soft.

Neither of them spoke again—because just then, Draco laughed. Bright, clear, triumphant. The kind of laugh that cracked through the morning air like sunlight.
“Dad! Dad, look! I’m riding!”

The pony had started to move, slow and steady, and Draco sat tall in the saddle, one hand gripping the horn, the other flailing enthusiastically in the air like he was conquering a dragon.

But then James squeezed his hand, steady and warm.
“See?” he said softly, eyes on Draco. “He’s flying.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. But his fingers relaxed slightly under James’s, and after a moment, he gave the smallest nod. Just enough.
Something in him let go. Not completely — but enough to breathe again.

Draco was happy. Really happy.

And for the first time that day, the noise inside Regulus quieted. Tom Riddle, the debt, the panic—it all faded into the background, if only for a moment. Just a boy on a pony, smiling like the world wasn’t broken.

James didn’t say anything at first — just shifted his stance and, without letting go, took both of Regulus’s hands and slipped them inside his coat. The movement was smooth, unhurried. His chest was warm beneath the layers of wool and flannel, and Regulus’s fingers twitched slightly against it, startled.

“There,” James said, his voice a little lighter, like he was trying to distract him. “Better. You’re going to lose a hand to frostbite if you don’t stop trying to impress people with your circulation issues.”

Regulus blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief, but he didn’t pull away. His jaw tightened — a quiet resistance — but he stayed still, hands tucked between James’s ribs and the lining of his coat, heat seeping into his skin.
“I don’t need—”

“Don’t argue,” James cut in, soft but certain. “You’re like a damn corpse.”

With one hand still holding Regulus close, James lifted the other and gently brushed the back of his fingers along Regulus’s cheek.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, “you’re ice.”

Regulus flinched — not from the touch, but from the sensation of it. From the way his body reacted without permission. A shiver ran down his spine, and he cursed under his breath, jaw locking tight. "Fuck you're a furnace, instead-"

James raised an eyebrow, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. “Language, Black.”

Regulus shot him a withering look, but it lacked venom. His lips were slightly parted, a quick inhale caught somewhere between indignation and… something else.

Without warning, James unwound his scarf — striped, slightly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and something warmer — and reached around, draping it around Regulus’s neck. One loop. Then another. Then, very gently, he tugged the ends up to cover Regulus’s mouth and nose.

Regulus narrowed his eyes at him over the thick wool.

“There,” James said with an exaggerated sigh. “Now you look like a very stylish bank robber.”

Regulus tried to speak, muffled. “I hate you.”

James beamed. “You say that, and yet your hands are still inside my coat.” And Regulus didn’t move them. Just as James was about to tease him again, a low gurgle broke the quiet between them. Regulus’s stomach.

He froze. James blinked. And then— Regulus immediately tried to pull his hands back, but James held on. Regulus’s cheeks darkened, the flush creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “It’s nothing,” he muttered quickly. “Ignore it.”

“Reg,” James said, softly. “When was the last time you actually ate something?”

“I said it’s nothing. Don’t make it into something.”

James didn’t let go. “There’s a café just next to the stables. Come on, let’s go grab a coffee, maybe something warm to eat.”

“I’m not leaving Draco,” Regulus said sharply. “He’s still riding.”

“He’s not alone,” James replied. “Alice and Frank are with him. They're family friends.”

Regulus exhaled, his voice sharp. “They’re your friends. I just met them this morning.”
That landed with more bitterness than he intended, and he instantly regretted it. James didn’t flinch. He just looked at him — calm, patient, maddeningly kind.

“That’s not fair, Reg and you know it” James said. “Yes I've known them longer than you have, Reg. But I trust them, and you know they’d never let anything happen to him. They’ve raised Neville around these horses since he could walk. You can take ten minutes for yourself. You deserve that much.”

Deserve. The word echoed strangely in Regulus’s chest — a hollow space that rarely welcomed things like comfort or need. He looked away, at the fence, the fog of his breath, at anything that wasn’t James.

Because James was still holding his hands. Still warm. Still steady.

And Regulus hated how his body responded — not just physically, but deeper, in the quiet parts of him that wanted to scream. He couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this without expecting something in return. The last time someone insisted he take care of himself, and not just because it benefited someone else.

He wanted to say no. That was always the first instinct. No was easy. No meant control. No meant he didn’t have to think too long about how tired he was, about the cold clawing at his spine, about the pounding behind his eyes that hadn’t left for weeks.

But James’s fingers were gentle around his. His thumbs brushed lightly across Regulus’s knuckles, and something inside Regulus — something constant and mechanical and exhausted — finally stalled.

His brain, always spinning with checklists and responsibilities and fears, slowed for one single breath. One second of stillness. It was terrifying.

And he hated how good it felt. He looked at James again — at the earnest worry in his eyes, at the steady pull of his presence. The way he stood there, not pushing, not demanding. Just offering.

A pause. An invitation. Regulus didn’t move, didn’t nod. But he didn’t pull away either.

Just as James opened his mouth to say something more, Alice passed by them with a bright, familiar smile — cheeks slightly pink from the wind, hair half-pulled back in a braid. She gave a quick glance toward the paddock and then toward them.
“Everything alright here?” she asked, her voice light, but not without noticing the tension.

James straightened. “We were thinking of heading over to the café for a bit. Just to warm up. Is that okay?”

Alice chuckled softly. “Of course it’s okay. Nothing’s going to change here for the next two hours, trust me. The boys are having the time of their lives. They’re careful and they’re focused, and Frank and I will be right by them the whole time.”

Regulus glanced toward the paddock again, hands tightening around the edge of the fence. “Still… maybe we shouldn’t leave them completely.”

Alice’s gaze softened. She stepped a bit closer to him, her voice lower now, less teasing. “I understand what you’re feeling, Regulus. I do. But you’re allowed to take a moment. This place is safe. James has trusted us before — you can trust us now. Go warm up. Get something into your system. Let yourself breathe.”

Regulus hesitated. He hated how much her words made sense. Hated more how much of himself he saw reflected in the way she looked at him — with experience, with empathy, with that rare kind of understanding that only people who’d carried the same weight could offer.

“I just don’t want to be careless,” he said quietly.

Alice reached out and gently squeezed his arm. “Then don’t be. But don’t punish yourself either. This is supposed to be something good, remember? Let it be.”

James caught Regulus’s eye then, his expression unreadable — waiting, patient, but hopeful. And after a long moment, Regulus exhaled.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just for a bit.”

James smiled. “You won’t regret it.”

“No,” Regulus replied, already pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. “But you might if the coffee’s shit.” Alice laughed behind them as they headed toward the small wooden building near the gates, its sign swinging gently in the wind, a warm glow spilling from the windows like a promise.

They walked side by side across the gravel path, the chill of late morning biting at their cheeks. The wind tugged playfully at their coats, and Regulus muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely murderous.

James glanced over. “Sorry, was that a curse or a weather review?”

Regulus didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

James chuckled, hands shoved in his pockets as they crossed toward the little wooden café by the entrance gates. From the outside, it looked like something out of a travel brochure — slanted roof, soft amber lights glowing through the windows, and the faintest scent of cinnamon and burned coffee hanging in the air.

“I swear to Merlin,” Regulus murmured, “if this coffee tastes like cardboard again, I’m going to stage a quiet, well-dressed riot.”

“I’ll make a sign,” James offered. “‘Give this man proper espresso or we all suffer.’”

Regulus snorted softly. “Not wrong.”

As James pulled the door open for him, the warmth hit them like a wave — immediate, comforting, almost unreal after the cold outside.
Regulus stepped in and groaned. Actually groaned. A low, genuine sound of relief that slipped out before he could stop it. He really needed a new coat. This one even has holes in his pockets.

James raised both eyebrows, grinning as he stepped in behind him. “Should I leave you two alone? You and the central heating seem to have a very intense thing going on.”

Regulus blinked at him, deadpan, though his face was still slightly flushed from the warmth. “If it keeps me alive, I’m not asking questions.”

James laughed. “Fair. I just didn’t realize temperature control was on your list of kinks.”

Regulus gave him a withering look, scarf still halfway around his neck. “Keep talking, Potter, and I’ll take the last cinnamon roll out of pure spite.”

James held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Truce. I’ll order the coffee. You save your strength for the pastry.”

Regulus nodded once, solemn as a knight. “Deal.”

The line wasn’t long, but it moved slowly, the cozy hum of the café filling the space around them—quiet conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine, clinks of porcelain.

Regulus scanned the pastry case with the cautious intensity of a man calculating risk versus survival. He was starving—hadn’t eaten anything solid since… what, yesterday morning? Maybe earlier?
There was a pain au chocolat behind the glass that practically winked at him.
He sighed and reached into his coat for his wallet. He already knew it wasn’t good news. Three pound coins. A fifty pence piece. And two tens.

Four pounds, exactly.

He did the math. Coffee and pastry—barely enough, and it made his stomach twist. Not from hunger, this time. From pride.
He didn’t want to spend it. Not now, not after last night. Eighty-thousand pounds hanging over him like a guillotine. But he also couldn’t let James pay again. Not after the last time. Not now. He couldn’t become that person.

So before James could step forward—before he could flash his easy grin and hand over his stupid gold card—Regulus beat him to it.
“I’ll take two black coffees,” he told the barista quickly, then gestured to the pastry. “And the pain au chocolat, please.”

James blinked. “Wait—Reg—”

Regulus was already pulling the coins from his palm, jaw tight, refusing to look at him. “I’ve got it.”

James frowned. “Oh come on- Let me—”

“No.” The word came sharper than he meant. He dropped the last coin on the counter and gave the barista a brief nod.

James exhaled slowly. “You know I like doing things like this, right? It’s not about—”

“Well, I don’t,” Regulus cut in, folding his arms. “I don’t like feeling like I owe people for coffee.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“But I would,” Regulus snapped, a little too loud. Then quieter, forcing the words out between clenched teeth: “I would. Whether you meant it or not.”
They stood there in silence while the barista moved behind the counter, filling cups. James glanced at him—really looked at him—and saw it: the tightness in his mouth, the fight he didn’t want to be having, the line he was trying to walk barefoot.

“I’m not trying to—” James began again, voice softer now. “It’s not a power thing, Reg. I just… I can. So why wouldn’t I?”

Regulus looked away. His voice was quieter, tighter. “Then keep it. Use it for—whatever you want. I’ll manage.”
They both knew it was a lie. He wasn’t managing. Not even close. That stupid pastry probably meant skipping lunch. Again.

James didn’t push. He just nodded, carefully. “Alright. Then I’ll get some biscuits. For the boys.”

Regulus let out a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “James…”

“What?” James replied innocently, already turning toward the display case. “You said I could do whatever I wanted.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Too late.” James grinned. “I’m taking it very literally.”

Regulus sighed, defeated. “Fine. But you’re going to spoil them.”

James shrugged. “Good. I'm here for this.” Their coffees came. The pastry too. Regulus picked it up like it weighed a bit more than it should’ve, hands wrapped around it carefully, like it might fall apart in his grip.
James didn’t reach for his wallet again. Didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything smug.
Because sometimes love looked like not insisting. And sometimes, that was harder than anything else.

The first sip of coffee nearly made Regulus groan again. It was hot, a little too bitter, but real—and it sank into his chest like something alive. He pulled his scarf looser and curled his fingers around the cup, letting it warm his hands. For the first time all morning, he wasn’t cold. He could actually breathe.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Outside the window, the wind stirred the leaves on the gravel path. Inside, the world was quiet and still.

James watched him for a while—careful, not pressing, just observing the way Regulus blinked slowly, like his body hadn’t realized it was safe to relax yet. He let him finish half the cup before speaking.

“You alright?” James asked, voice pitched low, careful. Like he already knew the answer and was hoping to be proven wrong.

Regulus didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes on the swirling surface of the coffee, watching the steam rise and vanish into the space between them. It was easier to focus on that than the concern in James’s voice. Easier to hold onto something warm than acknowledge how cold he felt everywhere else.

“You didn’t seem okay this morning,” James added, trying again, a little softer now. “You still don’t.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then another.

Regulus didn’t answer. Because what could he say?

That Tom Riddle had walked into his life like a ghost with a knife, and now he owed enough money to sink five lives? That every time he looked at Draco, he felt like he was walking a tightrope above fire? That he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, and couldn’t even afford a second pastry without doing the math in his head like a desperate man?

He couldn’t say any of that. Not to James.

Not when James was safe, warm, unburdened. Good.

He looked miserable enough already. He felt miserable. He wasn’t going to add humiliation to the list by falling apart in front of the one person who still looked at him like he was something worth holding onto.

And it’s not like James could help. Not with this. He couldn’t just say, “Hey, by the way, I need eighty thousand pounds or they’re taking my kid.”
So he stayed quiet. Just stared into the dark swirl of his coffee like it might offer a way out.

His fingers tightened slightly around the mug. The ceramic was warm. Solid. Something real in a world that didn’t make sense anymore.
And though his body hadn’t moved much, James felt the shift. The way Regulus seemed to fold in on himself, just a little. The way something invisible closed between them. Like a door. Quietly shutting.

Finally, Regulus said, “I’m fine.” The words were so flat, so painfully neutral, they barely sounded like him at all.

James didn’t answer right away. He watched him for a second longer, jaw tightening, resisting the urge to say something — anything — that might crack through that wall Regulus had just thrown up again.

But he didn’t. Because he knew that voice. Knew what it meant.

It didn’t mean fine.

It meant don’t ask.

It meant not here.

It meant I’m drowning, and I don’t want you to see it.

Still, something in James couldn’t let it go. “You know,” he said eventually, stirring his coffee without looking at him, “you don’t always have to carry everything alone.”

Regulus didn’t respond. Not with words. Just that same silence that spoke volumes.

James tried again, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Whatever it is… you don’t have to hide it from me.”

A beat passed. Regulus’s jaw ticked.
And then, so quietly James almost missed it: “Don’t make promises you don’t understand.”

James blinked. “I’m not,” he said softly. But Regulus just shook his head. Not angry. Not cold. Just… closed. Like the windows had been shut and latched from the inside.

James swallowed whatever else he might have said. And they sat there like that, two coffees cooling between them, the air thick with everything that couldn’t be said.

Then James nodded once, slowly, and looked away.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Just… if that changes.”

Regulus didn’t nod. Didn’t thank him. Just sat there, quietly sipping his coffee, eyes fixed on the window. Outside, Draco was still laughing—his coat flaring out as the pony made another careful turn.

But James didn’t press. Because Regulus Black didn’t let people see behind the door unless it was already halfway off its hinges. And this morning, it had only been slightly ajar. Now, it was locked again.
He took a quiet sip of his coffee, eyes drifting toward the fogged-up window beside them. A pause settled between them, not quite awkward—just full of things unspoken.

Then, gently, James smiled. “By the way, Sirius and Remus finally moved in together,” he said, voice lighter, carrying something like warmth. He said casually, as if it were the kind of news you drop over a pint and not during an emotional standstill. “Signed the lease last week.”

Regulus looked up, one brow raised. “Oh?”

“Yep. One bedroom, one kitchen, zero boundaries,” James smirked. “They’re arguing about paint colours now, which is how you know it’s serious.”

Regulus let out a soft snort. “Let me guess—Sirius wants to paint everything black, and Remus is begging for beige.”

“Forest green, apparently. The thrilling compromise of the century.”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “Sounds like Sirius is mourning already.”

James grinned. “Please. Remus already owns his soul. The paint is just a formality.”

There was a small pause, then Regulus tilted his head slightly, something sly in his tone. “So. That means you’ve got the house all to yourself now.”

James raised an eyebrow, sensing the implication but playing along. “I do.”

“Must be a relief. No more finding your best friend’s underwear in your laundry basket.”

James took another sip of coffee, shrugging. “I mean… it’s peaceful, yeah. Quiet. Spacious.”

Regulus leaned an elbow on the table, eyes narrowing faintly. “Lonely?”

James gave him a look over the rim of his cup. “Are you fishing for an invitation, Black?”

Regulus didn’t miss a beat. “Always.”

James choked on a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Regulus said smoothly, “here you are. Inviting me for coffee and letting me win every conversation.”

“That’s very generous of me.” Regulus let the smallest smile tug at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Still, he was talking. Still, he was here. And for James, that counted as progress.
“Tell Sirius I said congratulations,” Regulus said after a moment.

“I will.” James paused, watching him. “He’ll be happy to hear it.”
Another silence. Comfortable now, softened by steam and sugar and the vague promise of something better.

“Maybe I should start charging rent,” James said, stretching his legs beneath the table. “What with all the Black brothers drifting in and out of my house.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Please. I wouldn’t stay long enough to ruin your minimalistic aesthetic.”

James smiled again, more to himself this time. “Shame, I'd really like it.”

Then James leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee as he watched through the window. Harry and Draco were still in the paddock, helmets slightly crooked, their laughter muffled by the glass. It was a good kind of quiet — the kind that didn’t ask too much.

Regulus was watching too, expression unreadable, the mug between his hands mostly untouched.
“They’re not bad,” James said eventually, nodding toward the kids. “Bit chaotic. But not bad. Careful. Didn't really know they already had it in them.”

Regulus gave a tiny shrug. “Draco keeps trying to correct Frank and Alice is laughing about it for about one hour.”

James grinned. “Can’t imagine where he gets that from.” Regulus shot him a look, but didn’t argue. James took that as a small victory.
A pause. Then- “Have you ever ridden?” Regulus asked, eyes still on the field.

“Horses? Once,” James said. “I was twelve. Got thrown off and cried in front of my cousin. Very dignified moment.”

Regulus huffed, something very close to a laugh. “Did she laugh at you?”

“He. And yes. Relentlessly. Still brings it up.”

“Sounds like you deserved it.”

James smirked. “Probably. What about you?”

Regulus tilted his head slightly. “Took lessons when I was a kid. One of the few things Mother insisted on. Proper posture, proper hobbies. That sort of thing.”

“And did you like it?”

He hesitated. “I liked the horse. But I hated every moment of it. Never again.”

“That’s something I think.” James smiled at that. “You know,” James said after a moment, casually tapping the side of his mug, “Harry’s been asking about music lessons lately.”

Regulus glanced over, arching a brow. “Really? What instrument?”

“Drums. Of course.” James sighed. “Because why not make the house even louder.”

Regulus smirked. “That does sound like Harry.”

“He said he wants to be in a band. Hasn’t even picked up a stick yet, but he’s already picking out stage names.”

Regulus stirred his coffee. “What’s he calling himself?”

James grimaced. “Sir Sonic.”

Regulus snorted, coughing lightly to cover it. “He could do worse. At least he’s aiming for ‘cool’ and not ‘abstract poetry.’”

“I take it Draco’s more refined in his musical ambitions?”

“Please. He wanted to learn the harp for exactly one week. Then he realised it didn’t come in black with silver runes and gave up.”

James laughed. “That sounds… on brand.”

They fell into a brief silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. James sipped his coffee, eyes flicking over Regulus’s face—he looked tired, still too pale, but something about the way he leaned back in his chair now, like he could breathe for a minute, settled something in James’s chest.
“I used to play piano,” Regulus said, almost offhand, like the thought had only just surfaced. “Stopped when… things got complicated.”

James tilted his head. “Do you miss it?”

Regulus shrugged, gaze lowering to his cup. “Sometimes. It was one of the few things that made sense. With ballet obviously. They went along.”

James didn’t push. Just nodded, fingers drumming softly on the table. “Maybe you should try again.”

"Please" Regulus huffed and rolled his eyes. Obviously James would say something like that, like it was easy, like he had a piano in his pocket- “I’d need a piano first.”

“Mine’s gathering dust. Harry banged on it once and declared it cursed. You’re welcome to borrow it.”

Regulus gave him a look. “Borrow your grand piano?”

James grinned. “What’s the point of having one if not for dramatic guests with unresolved trauma?” Regulus huffed, shaking his head. Regulus took another slow sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting toward the arena outside where Draco and Harry were now laughing near the horses. James watched him watch them, something soft creeping into his chest again.

Then Regulus spoke, still facing the window- “So. I borrow your piano, what’s the catch?”

James smiled into his cup. “Catch? What makes you think there’s a catch?”

Regulus turned back to him, one eyebrow lifting. “You don’t strike me as someone who lends out grand pianos to just anyone.”
Because no one was this kind. No one was this generous just to be generous. And James—James was looking at him like offering a piano was nothing. Like he was nothing short of deserving it.

It made Regulus want to laugh. Or flinch. Or disappear before he started to believe it—before he let himself fall into the illusion that he was worth more than his work, his debt, the next thing he could do to prove himself.

James was too much. Too bright, too easy, too real in a way that made him feel like a dream. And Regulus… Regulus was tired of waking up.

James leaned back in his chair, arms folding lazily across his chest. “Well. I suppose I have a weakness for mysterious, difficult men who look like they haven’t slept since the Cold War.”

Regulus blinked, then huffed a laugh—more breath than sound. “That’s specific.”

“I’m a man of refined taste,” James said, deadpan. “And a poor sense of self-preservation.” There was a pause. The kind that hummed with a little too much heat for a chilly February morning.

Then Regulus said, smooth and sharp and almost smiling,
“Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you’re flirting.”

James met his eyes without missing a beat.
“I’m absolutely flirting.”

Regulus looked away, but his lips curved just barely at the corner. “Noted.”

When they stepped back out into the late morning light, the chill had softened. The wind was still there, but gentler now, brushing past their coats instead of biting through them. The riding ring stretched wide in front of them, golden with sunlight, the soft thuds of hooves mixing with the laughter of children and the low murmurs of parents watching from the fences.

And there he was.

Draco, perched proudly on a small dappled pony, his cheeks flushed, his blond hair wild from the breeze. He was laughing—completely and utterly laughing—his eyes squinted with joy, one hand raised slightly in the air for balance while the other gripped the saddle.

Regulus stopped walking. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, still holding the last of his coffee, breath catching in his throat as he watched his son fly.

Because that’s what it looked like—freedom. For just a moment, Draco wasn’t a boy weighed down by the things Regulus couldn’t give him, or the ghosts of the Malfoy name. He was just a child. Smiling. Alive.

Regulus slowly reached into the inside pocket of his coat, fingers brushing past loose tissues and a crumpled receipt before closing around the familiar, battered shape of his phone. The screen was still cracked from when it had slipped out of his hand weeks ago in the rush to get Draco to school on time — a spiderweb of fine lines slicing through the glass, distorting everything behind it.

He didn’t even hesitate.

With one hand trembling slightly from the cold — or maybe the fatigue, maybe both — he opened the camera. The image that appeared on the screen was fractured, interrupted by dark splotches and streaks of damage, but Draco’s laugh still shone through it.

Click.

The shutter sound was sharp and hollow, like a distant echo. He looked down at the screen again. A piece of the image was lost in the crack near the center, and another was dulled by the dead pixels bleeding in from the corner. But he could still see Draco’s smile. His eyes lit up with something unspoiled.

He took another. Adjusted the angle slightly, even though he knew it wouldn’t make much difference. The phone wasn’t worth much anymore. He’d meant to get it fixed. He couldn’t afford to get it fixed.
But that moment—this moment—he wasn’t letting it slip past just because his life had cracked around the edges too.

Because even if the image blurred, the memory wouldn’t.

He’d remember the light on Draco’s hair, the way his boots barely reached the pony’s sides, the sharp sound of his laughter ringing through the air like something rare and impossible.

A fragment of joy in the middle of ruin.

Click.

Draco laughing. Head tipped back. Light all around him.
He took another. And another. As if he could trap the moment—fold it, store it, keep it safe in his pocket for the next time the world started falling apart again.

James stood quietly beside him, watching without saying anything. He didn’t need to.
He saw the way Regulus held the phone like it was something fragile and sacred. Like if he blinked, he might lose it.

When Regulus finally lowered the phone, there was a look on his face that James couldn’t quite place. Not happy, not sad. Something in between. Something heavier.

“You got it?” James asked softly.

Regulus gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Draco spotted them then and waved furiously from the pony’s back. “Papà! Mr.James! Did you see me? I’m riding!” His voice cracked with pride.

Regulus lifted his hand in return, a soft smile breaking across his face—honest and warm, for once unguarded. “We saw you, mon etoile! You’re doing amazing!”
Draco laughed again, proud and high. And Regulus stood there, scarf loose around his neck, exhaustion in every line of his body—but smiling. For real this time.

Not because everything was okay.
But because, for a single moment, Draco was.
And that was enough.

Regulus stood there, phone still in hand, scarf half-untied, his breath misting in the air. “Thank you, James,” he said quietly, without turning. The words slipped out like something private, something delicate he hadn’t planned to say. Maybe hadn’t even meant to. But once they were out, he didn’t take them back.

James blinked at him, caught slightly off guard—not by the words themselves, but by the weight behind them. Regulus wasn’t the type to thank people, not really. He joked, he nodded, he dismissed. Gratitude wasn’t his native language.

But he’d said it. And James felt it settle between them like warmth.
He stepped a little closer, careful not to break whatever had just cracked open.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said gently. “I wanted to be here.”

Regulus finally looked over, something almost wary in his eyes—like he didn’t know how to hold kindness when it stayed too long.
“I know,” he replied, voice hoarse. “That’s probably the strangest part.”

James gave a soft laugh at that, not mocking—just amused in the most affectionate way. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, bumping Regulus’s shoulder lightly with his own.
Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was no real sharpness in it. If anything, he looked… lighter. Like for a second, the tightness in his chest had let go just enough to let him breathe.
James hesitated, then added, softer now, “You’re doing a good job, you know. With him.”

Regulus looked at him for a moment, long and unreadable. And then he nodded—slowly, once. “I’m trying my best.” And it's not enough.

James smiled. “It shows.”

And Regulus smiled too. Not the practiced one. Not the polite one.
Just a real, tired, thankful smile.

And James thought it might’ve been the most beautiful thing he’d seen all day.

Chapter Text

The drive home was quiet.

Draco had fallen asleep less than five minutes in, slumped in the backseat with his cheek pressed against the window and his little hands tucked into the sleeves of his coat. Regulus kept glancing at him through the mirror, the corners of his mouth softening each time. The boy had talked and laughed so much that morning he’d exhausted himself—finally, Regulus thought, in a way that didn’t come from stress or tears or nightmares.

When James pulled the car up in front of their building, Regulus didn’t move right away. He sat there, hands resting on his thighs, gaze locked on some fixed point ahead that James couldn’t see. The engine had barely gone silent, and already the weight of everything was settling back into Regulus’s shoulders—an old, familiar cloak he had no choice but to wear.
His bones ached. His head throbbed in that slow, sick way that meant he hadn’t eaten properly—again—and hadn’t slept more than an hour or two.

But beneath all that dullness, the gnawing fatigue and the noise that never quite left him, there was something else.
Stillness. Not peace, exactly. But something near it. A breath. A pause. A moment where nothing hurt more than he could handle.

James shifted in the driver’s seat beside him, eyes tracing the side of his face with a careful sort of concern.
“Home sweet home,” he said lightly, voice warm but easy. Testing the air.

Regulus let out a low breath—something between a scoff and a sigh. “If you say so.”

They shared a glance, brief but full—half amusement, half exhaustion, and something else under it all. A flicker of understanding. Something that didn’t need words.

Then Regulus pushed the door open, the cold hitting his face like a slap. He didn’t flinch. He circled around and opened the back door quietly, scooping Draco into his arms with the kind of practiced ease that only came with months of doing it over and over again. The boy murmured something unintelligible against his chest, then went limp again, face tucked in the curve of Regulus’s shoulder.

James had come around to the other side. He didn’t say anything right away—just stood there, watching.
There was a look on his face, one Regulus wasn’t sure he could stand to meet. Not too intense, not too soft. Just full. Too full. And trying, failing, not to show it.

Regulus adjusted Draco’s weight and turned, starting toward the stairs.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said, eyes fixed forward. “And… for everything else.”

“Anytime,” James replied—quiet, but certain. Then, after a breath, “Really.”

Regulus paused, foot on the first step. He didn’t turn, not quite, but he glanced over his shoulder—just enough. The porch light from the flat above caught the side of his face in gold and shadow.
“I know,” he said softly.

The moment stretched, weightless and quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything. That just… held.

Then, after a moment of silence — the kind that sat lightly between them, not awkward, just full — Regulus spoke again, voice quieter now. Less guarded. Almost tentative. “He had fun.”

James’s lips curved — not into that wide, public grin he offered the world, but into something smaller. Truer. The kind of smile he didn’t waste on just anyone.
“So did I.”

Regulus nodded faintly, his eyes flicking down to the bundle of warmth in his arms.
Draco had finally stopped squirming. His little hand clutched the edge of Regulus’s coat, face buried against his chest.
“He’ll probably talk about this for weeks,” Regulus said. His voice was low, but there was something warm tucked inside it. Something reluctant and honest all at once.

James let out a quiet breath — not quite a laugh, but almost.
“Good. That was the plan.”
Then, a beat.
“Did you—?”

Regulus paused mid-step.

James’s voice softened. “Did you have fun?”

There was something in the way he asked it. Something that wasn’t casual, even if the tone tried to be. Like he was asking about more than just the day. Like he was asking if you felt safe here. If this meant something to you, too.
Regulus turned slightly, looking over at him, and for once, his smile came without defense. Small. Crooked. A little surprised.
“Yeah. I did.”
He adjusted Draco’s weight in his arms, exhaled. “I had fun, James. I—thank you. Really.”

James didn’t move. Just stood by the car, hands deep in his coat pockets, watching them like he wanted to remember the exact shape of that moment.
Regulus turned again and made his way up the steps — slow, careful, like he didn’t quite want the night to end. He reached the top, hand on the door.

Then he stopped.

Didn’t turn fully — didn’t need to.
Just shifted his head enough that his voice would carry over his shoulder.

“See you around, Potter.” James straightened a little, heart thudding once, sharply, like it hadn’t expected the words to mean so much.

His reply came easy. Warm. Steady. “You’d better, Black.”

And then Regulus disappeared inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and James stood there a moment longer, wondering how someone could make saying goodbye sound like a promise.

Regulus pushed the door open with his shoulder, careful not to jostle the sleeping weight in his arms. The flat was quiet, warm from the weak afternoon light spilling through the kitchen window. Draco murmured something against his collar, still half-lost in sleep, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Narcissa appeared from the hallway, her heels soft against the floor. “Oh, you’re back,” she said, lowering her voice when she saw Draco. “How did it go?”

“He loved it,” Regulus murmured, moving toward the couch. “He rode a pony and now apparently he’s a cowboy.”

Narcissa let out a gentle laugh as Regulus eased Draco down onto the cushions, pulling off his tiny boots. “He’s asleep?” She asked in a low voice, stepping closer.

“Like a stone,” Regulus murmured. “Didn’t even wake up when I got him out of the car.”

“Poor thing,” she said, brushing a knuckle gently across Draco’s hair. “We’ll let him rest for a while. You must be exhausted too.”

Regulus let out a soft sound—half a breath, half a laugh—He grabbed a blanket from the back and tucked it around him, brushing some of the blond strands away from his face. “I have to head to work soon,” Regulus said instead, stretching his back with a grimace. “Just a light shift at the restaurant. Some prep before they open. Should be back by seven.”

They both exchanged a look—one of mutual understanding and silent agreement—
Narcissa nodded, crossing to the kitchen to grab her bag. “Alright. We’ll wait for you and have dinner together. Something warm. Something decent.”

They both looked back at Draco, sprawled out like a little prince on his threadbare couch, face tucked into the pillow.
“So,” Narcissa said quietly, “we’re letting him sleep, yes?”

“God, yes,” Regulus muttered. “Let him have the damn nap. If anyone deserves it today, it’s him.”

She chuckled softly. “Then, once he wakes up—because let’s be honest, he’s not sleeping through the day—I’ll take him with me to do the grocery shopping.”

“Perfect, you'll be in charge” Regulus said, already shrugging off his coat. “Leave him with me one more hour and I’d probably sell him to the neighbours.”

“Tempting,” Narcissa said, amused. “But no, you could never. You love him too much. But when you're back you can collapse in peace on the couch. I'll tire him out.”

"Sounds like a plan." He headed for the bedroom to change, pausing just long enough to say over his shoulder, “Don’t worry. I’ll be home by seven.”

“You’d better,” she called back. “Dinner’s waiting. So is Draco.”

The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but it already smelled like something expensive and half-finished—like a promise in the middle of being made. There was the scent of butter warming in a pan somewhere out of sight, of wine reduced to sweetness, of freshly sliced herbs bleeding their perfume into the air. But beneath it all, there was also the sterile tang of bleach, the faint bitterness of coffee grounds left too long in the pot, and the unmistakable undercurrent of ambition—like every corner of the room was quietly demanding perfection.

Regulus slipped inside with the cold still clinging stubbornly to his coat, like even winter didn’t want to let go of him. The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that felt heavier than a slam. He didn’t speak. He never did when he first arrived. Not out of rudeness, but ritual.

The restaurant was quiet in that specific way places are just before they come alive—still, but pulsing with invisible movement. Silverware glinted from the sideboards. Chairs sat tucked in with military precision. And the late afternoon light filtered in through the tall windows, brushing against every surface like gold leaf. It painted the polished floors and the dark wood panels in hues of soft amber, gave the wine bottles a faint glow, and cast faint reflections on the mirrored walls.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost looked beautiful. Not comforting. Not warm. But something close to it. Something polished and unreal. And in that moment, Regulus felt both inside it and apart from it. Like a figure in a painting, not the artist.

He shrugged out of his coat with practiced ease, movements economical but elegant, and hung it neatly in the staff closet. The fabric was still damp at the hem. The scarf tucked inside smelled faintly of smoke and someone else’s shampoo—probably Evan’s, he thought absently. He didn’t let himself dwell on it.

Then, as always, he adjusted the sleeves of his black button-up shirt—folding each one to precisely the same point just below his elbow. His cuffs were sharp. His collar immaculate. The apron he tied around his waist was crisp, starched to a fault, its knot perfectly centered at his back. Everything about him looked controlled, efficient, intentional.

His posture was cleaner than the wine glasses stacked behind the bar. Shoulders straight. Spine long. Chin level. Like if he just stood still enough, breathed carefully enough, he might stay intact for another shift. Maybe longer.

It was armor, of course. But at least it fit.
“Mara,” he said flatly, nodding once toward the woman behind the bar.

She glanced up from her clipboard, pen tapping against her mouth. “You’re early.”

“Tragic flaw of mine,” he replied. “Punctuality. Right next to pride, sarcasm, and unpaid overtime.”

Mara huffed, lips twitching as she looked up from her clipboard. “Grab the fresh linens from the back, Black. We’ve got that private party coming at seven, and I don’t want to hear one more complaint about the napkins being “too wrinkled for luxury dining.””

Regulus didn’t even blink. “Of course,” he replied dryly, already turning on his heel with the poise of a man who considered perfection the bare minimum. “God forbid the linens aren’t as stiff as the guests.”

“And don’t forget to polish your attitude while you’re back there,” Mara shot after him, but she didn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounded amused. She always had a soft spot for his brand of venom.

He was halfway to the storage room when another voice cut in—bright, amused, and just this side of condescending.

“Hey, Black!”

Regulus paused.

Emma Vanity stood behind the bar, a stack of menus in her arms, a pencil stuck behind her ear like she belonged in some old black-and-white film. She didn’t look up, just continued sorting the stack like a queen organizing her court. “Since you’re heading that way, can you check the wine shelf too? I think we’re out of Côtes du Rhône again. And, tragically, you’re the only one in this establishment who can pronounce it without sounding like a wounded duck.”

Regulus raised a brow. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming.”

Emma finally looked up, grinning. “Please. You love feeling useful.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Only if ‘useful’ involves quiet competence and the ability to walk across a room without tripping over my own ego.”

“So yes, then,” she said sweetly.

He smirked, turning again. Honestly, he preferred it this way. The restaurant gave him a rhythm. Tasks, repetition, silence between commands. A framework. Something that made sense in a world that rarely did. He liked being good at something. At anything. And he liked not being home long enough to notice how quiet it was when Draco wasn’t there.

“…Did you hear he’s raising a kid on his own?”

“No way. He doesn’t even look like he eats.”

“He doesn’t,” said the other, snickering. “He lives off sarcasm and bitterness.”

“…Can you imagine raising a kid in a flat like that?”

“Not my business, but… he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.” Regulus froze.
He recognised the voices—two newer waiters, gossiping in that low, gleeful tone of people who think the world’s watching but never really paying attention.

He didn’t move. Just stared at the shelf in front of him as heat curled in his chest.

“He’s so put together, though,” one said. “Kinda impressive, honestly.”

“Yeah, but still—alone? With a kid? He’s what, twenty-six? No twenty-four maybe- That’s… brutal.” Something in Regulus’s jaw ticked. Slowly, he straightened.

He did, however, turn on his heel halfway down the hallway, walked back three paces, and leaned against the edge of the prep table with all the casual elegance of a man who’d been raised to command rooms he didn’t want to be in.

“Oh—please,” he said, folding his arms, “do carry on. This is already more amusing than anything I’ve heard all week. Apparently, I’m a dietary mystery now?”

The two froze, colour draining from their faces.
“I—uh—didn’t mean anything—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Regulus said smoothly. “People rarely do. It’s the beauty of thoughtless commentary, isn’t it? You open your mouth and whatever falls out just becomes everyone else’s problem.”

He let that sink in, eyes cold, posture loose but razor-sharp.

“But let me clarify a few things, since my life is clearly of academic interest today,” he continued, tone perfectly cordial. “Yes, I’m twenty-four. Yes, I’m raising a child. Yes, I work three jobs and sleep about as much as a haunted portrait. And no—I don’t need your sympathy. Or your gossip. Or your uninformed opinions delivered behind my back like I can’t hear them through plaster walls and bad acoustics.”

A pause. Then, with a razor-thin smile, “If I wanted that, I’d go to dinner at my parents.” The silence after that was thick enough to chew.
Regulus straightened his sleeves, nodded politely, and walked away like nothing had happened.

By the time Regulus returned to the main floor, Emma was still behind the bar, now counting change. She glanced up as he passed and gave him a knowing look.
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”

“Tempting,” Regulus murmured. “But no. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.”

“Oh? What is it this time?”

“Civility,” he said, placing the wine bottle gently on the counter. “Just for the week. We’ll see how long it lasts.” Emma rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Mara passed by again, this time carrying a box of glasses. “I heard you scared the new recruits,” she said, not looking at him. “Everything alright?”

“Apparently I’m a topic of the day.” He said flatly, washing his hands at the sink. “So I educated them,” Regulus replied coolly. “Terror is a useful pedagogical tool.”

Mara snorted. “One day, you’ll work here without threatening someone.”

“One day,” Regulus said, already walking away, “you’ll learn to stop dreaming.”

Mara paused, one brow raising, her mouthful twitching, he was too funny. “What did they say this time?”

Regulus dried his hands and reached for the tray of cutlery. “That I’m bitter. Shocking, I know.”

“Well- are they wrong? Even though I thought you didn’t do public speeches,” she said.

“I don’t,” Regulus replied. “That was a sermon. Very different.”

Mara snorted. “They’re new. Still dumb. Don't care about what they say, people like to gossip.” She watched him for a moment, and her expression softened, just a little. “You’re alright, Regulus. Even on your own.”

He looked up at that. Really looked at her. And for a moment, he didn’t seem quite so detached. “I have to be,” he said simply. Then he turned, went back through the swinging doors, and started laying tables like nothing had happened.

When the restaurant opened, he switched modes like a light. Calm. Controlled. Charismatic, if required. A couple of regulars smiled at him like they always did—“You’re the charming one, aren’t you?”—and he answered them like he always did- “Only where it counts.”

But that tight coil in his chest never really eased.

Not until 6:58 p.m., when he glanced at the clock, untied his apron, and headed for the door without waiting for permission.
“You off?” Mara called after him.

"Yes finally-" He nodded. “I have somewhere I actually want to be.”

And then he was gone—stepping out into the crisp air, the kind that hit like glass against the skin, thin and sharp and impossible to ignore. He pulled his coat tighter around him and buried his hands in the pockets, feet already moving fast along the pavement. It wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. Ten minutes if he walked slow. But he wouldn’t walk slow—not when something warm was waiting at the end. Not when there was dinner. A table. Laughter, maybe. Draco’s voice saying “Look what I drew,” or “Guess what Harry said today.”

That was what he wanted. Not peace, not perfection—just… that.
Something real. And God, after yesterday, he needed real.

He took a breath that felt clean. Clearer than he’d had all day. The streetlights were flickering on one by one above him. A bus passed in the other direction, windows lit and full of faces that blurred into one another. Regulus barely noticed. His pace quickened. His chest felt lighter. He could feel the faint warmth of the wine kitchen still clinging to his clothes, the leftover adrenaline of being in motion, doing something. But for once, the ache in his legs didn’t matter. The knot behind his eyes didn’t matter.

He was almost home. Almost there.

Then his phone rang.

He didn’t even think before pulling it out. Probably Narcissa asking if he was on his way. Or Barty telling him he needed something. Or James, maybe, sending a photo of the boys or asking if he wanted to—

He looked down at the screen. Narcissa.

He answered immediately.

“Regulus.” Her voice was broken. Not cracked. Broken.
Something inside his stomach dropped, flipped, turned inside out.
“Regulus, you need to come home. Now. Please—please come, I don’t—I don’t know what to do, I—” She was crying. She never cried.

His feet were already moving. “What happened?”

“Just—just come. You need to see-” She didn’t finish.

Regulus didn’t wait.

He didn’t speak, didn’t hang up, didn’t ask again. He just ran. The phone dropped into his pocket. His bag hit against his hip with every step, but he didn’t stop to adjust it. His coat flared open in the wind. The cold clawed at his chest, his neck, his ears—but he didn’t feel it.

His legs pounded against the pavement, breath tearing in and out of him like he’d swallowed fire. All the relief, all the calm he’d felt minutes ago shattered like glass in his chest. His lungs burned. His heart burned worse.

Please come. I don’t know what to do.

It echoed.

He was two blocks away. One.

And with every step, the worst thoughts were there, sharp and uninvited:
Draco fell. Draco choked. Draco’s sick. Something happened to Narcissa. Someone broke in. Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle. Draco.

His vision blurred—whether from the cold or from the panic, he couldn’t tell. His bones were screaming now, but he didn’t care. His boots slammed the sidewalk like they could beat fate to the door.
He turned the corner. Almost there. Almost— Hold on, baby. I’m coming.
If he let himself stop, even for a breath, he’d fall apart.

So he didn’t.

He burst through the gate, heart pounding so hard it blurred the edges of his hearing. The building loomed above him like it always had—grey, tired, silent—but the silence now felt wrong. Off.

The door was already open.

Regulus flew up the stairs, skipping two at a time, boots slamming into concrete, and then he saw them— Narcissa on the landing, pale as ash, her makeup streaked, her breath shallow. And in her arms, Draco—soaked, sobbing, clinging to her neck like he was afraid of the air itself.

“Regulus!” she called, and in the same instant Draco twisted in her arms.

“Daddy!”

He rushed the last steps and Narcissa all but dropped Draco into his chest, trembling with the release of it. Regulus caught him instinctively, arms locking tight around his son’s small frame, pressing him close, closer, feeling the way his chest hitched with every sob. His own knees nearly buckled.

“I got you,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Draco’s arms looped tightly around his neck, and Regulus could feel his fingers trembling. He pressed a kiss to his damp hair, to his temple, to his forehead. He was crying. Breathing. Alive.

He hadn’t realized until now that he’d been preparing himself for the worst.
“What happened?” he asked, voice raw as gravel. His gaze snapped to Narcissa. “What the hell happened?”

Narcissa’s mouth worked soundlessly at first, then she swallowed, wiping her cheek with the back of her wrist.
“The flat’s flooded,” she said, breath shaking. “The whole kitchen and corridor. Pipes must’ve burst. I don’t know, I just— I went to warm something for Draco and my feet were suddenly underwater. But Regulus…”

Her voice dropped, thin with horror. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something out— a piece of folded parchment, damp around the edges.

“He left this.”

Regulus adjusted Draco slightly on his hip and took the note with one hand. His fingers shook as he unfolded it.

The handwriting was neat. Precise. So clean it looked carved.

If I can get into your locked home,
how hard do you think it will be
to walk out with the boy?

A friendly reminder.

— T. R.

For a moment, everything slowed. The hallway fell away. His heart—still thundering—seemed to stall.

He read it again.

Then again.

The paper trembled in his hand.

He looked at Narcissa. Her eyes were wide with unshed tears, lips bitten red. And Draco was shaking against his chest.
“I’m going inside,” he said suddenly.

Narcissa caught his arm. “Regulus, no—”

“I need to get clothes. Things. Documents. I know what’s where.”

“You shouldn’t go alone, what if he—”

“He’s not here. If he wanted to do something worse, he’d have done it already.” Regulus’s voice was clipped, sharp as glass. “He’s not here. He wanted to scare us. He succeeded.”

He kissed Draco’s temple again, gently pried him from his chest and into Narcissa’s arms. The boy whined, but didn’t fight. He was tired now—exhausted, wet, clinging.
“Take him downstairs,” Regulus said. “Wait there. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Regulus—”

“I said ten.”

He was already turning. Already moving. Already tasting copper in the back of his throat. Because the relief was gone. And the fear? The fear was back tenfold.
Narcissa clutched Draco tighter as Regulus stepped back toward the door.

“Where are we going dad?” Draco asked, breath catching.

"Don't worry, kiddo." Regulus didn’t pause. “Everything it'll be alright. I’ll fix it.”

“You can’t fix this—Regulus—what are we even going to do—” Narcissa said, one hand on Draco's shoulder.

“I said I’ll handle it,” he snapped, though his voice had no bite—only exhaustion. “Just… take care of Draco. Get him warm, get him dry. Please, Narcissa.”

He was already turning when she called after him, her voice sharp-
“Be careful! There might be a short circuit in the kitchen!”

Regulus stopped for a beat, closed his eyes, and muttered, “Of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be.” Then he stepped inside. The door creaked open like it was dreading him, and the moment he crossed the threshold, the cold hit him like a slap to the chest.

Water, freezing and murky, pooled at his ankles. The floor squelched with each step, the soggy carpet sucking at his shoes. Overhead, water dripped steadily from the ceiling in fat, relentless drops. The smell was awful—damp and mildew and something scorched. Something dead in the wires.

It was dark. Not pitch black, but shadowed, oppressive. The dim grey of a cloudy day trying to bleed in through the ruined curtains. But it wasn’t enough to see clearly. And that made everything worse.

He moved forward slowly, feeling the cold soak through his jeans, through his socks. Something soft brushed past his ankle and he flinched violently—only to realize it was a floating towel. Or part of one.

The ceiling above the kitchen had cracked in two places. Plaster dust floated down in the water like snow.

He glanced at the wall.

The microwave: fried.
The fridge: buzzing weakly, one light flickering like a dying star.
The stove? He didn’t dare touch it.

“Great,” he muttered. “Perfect. Brilliant fucking life choice.”

The coat he’d worn to work was already soaked through, the dampness chilling straight to his spine. Every movement sent shudders through his bones. And yet he kept going—kneeling once to grab the fireproof folder from the lower cabinet near the back wall. Insurance. Birth certificates. Draco’s health papers. His own ID. He clutched them to his chest.

Then he turned for the bedroom. It was worse in the hall—deeper, somehow. The water reached higher, and with no light, the edges of furniture turned into ghostly limbs. Every time his foot knocked against something submerged, he jerked, half-expecting to feel hands. To feel him.

Tom Riddle wasn’t there. He knew that.

And yet his fear crawled all over him, bone-deep and sour. He stumbled, caught himself on the hallway wall, fingers scraping over wet paint.
“I swear to God,” he whispered under his breath, voice shaking. “I’ll kill you if you touch him. I’ll kill you.”

The house didn’t answer. Just another drop from the ceiling. Just the groan of a dying pipe. Just the sense that everything—everything they had—was being swallowed up right under him.

And as he stumbled through the hallway, pushing open the door to Draco’s room, the memory struck him like a lightning bolt- The floorboard.

He froze.

“The fucking floorboard—”

It was a stupid hiding spot. So stupid. But he didn’t have a vault, didn’t have a bank account that wasn’t drowning in red. No Gringott’s vault for him—just a sliver of hope taped in plastic under the fourth board beside Draco’s dresser. Five thousand pounds. Saved from every extra shift, every skipped meal, every tip stuffed into his sock instead of spent.

It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But it was everything.

He fell to his knees, the water soaking through his jeans, cold enough to bite. His fingers shook as he gripped the corner of the board, nails scrabbling until he found the notch and pulled. It came up with a wet crack, revealing the hollow space beneath.

Empty.

No—no, not empty. The envelope had come loose, waterlogged and bloated, its edges curled and soft as moldy bread. It floated just out of reach, caught under the dresser leg.

Regulus lunged. He grabbed it, tore it free, and clutched it to his chest, barely breathing. The plastic sleeve he had wrapped the bills in had mostly held. The notes inside were wet around the edges, but intact.

He didn’t count them. He couldn’t. He just prayed they were all there.

Five thousand. That was nothing. That was a few days of safety. A few hours of peace. But for Regulus Black, it was all the security he had left. And now it was barely hanging on. He shoved the money into the lining of his coat, then staggered to his feet, heart still pounding.

His eyes flicked to Draco’s bed—small, drenched, the stuffed dragon soaked through and floating like roadkill.

“Fuck.”

He grabbed the emergency bag from the closet. He hadn’t touched it in months. Hadn’t thought about it in months. But now his hands moved like they knew exactly what they were doing—rolling socks, underwear, two clean shirts, Draco’s favourite pyjamas. Toothbrush. The little stuffed dragon. The photo from the fridge, half-peeled at the corners but still whole.

He zipped it up hard, slinging it over his shoulder with a wince, his spine screaming from the cold and effort.

And then he pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, smeared with condensation, his fingers slippery and shaking as he opened the contacts.

He didn’t think. He just hit call.

James.

And prayed to God he picked up.

And obviously he picked up. Because he was James.
Beautiful, strong, funny, brave, unstoppable, caring James.

He picked up on the second ring. “Regulus?”

He tried to speak, but his throat felt swollen, blocked by the cold and the fear sitting like a stone in his chest. His teeth were chattering now, fingers stiff around the phone, wet fabric clinging to his skin like it had fused there.
“Hey,” he managed eventually. It barely sounded like him—hoarse, low, tired.

There was a pause on the other end. “Reg? Are you okay? What happened?”

He swallowed, pressing the phone tighter to his ear. “I need… I need Sirius’s number,” he said, skipping past everything, every pleasantry, every explanation. “We never exchanged it, and I just—only for tonight, okay? I just need—somewhere.”

James didn’t answer right away. “Regulus,” he said again, softer now. “What happened?”

Regulus closed his eyes. The water dripped from his sleeves. His coat was soaked through. His feet were numb. The house smelled like damp wood and electricity gone wrong. Draco’s stuffed dragon was still peeking out from the emergency bag, small and ridiculous and somehow the most painful part.
“The house is flooded,” he said, voice thin. “Pipes broke—everything broke—everything’s gone to shit.” He tried to laugh. It cracked halfway up his throat. “I just need a place for Draco. For tonight. That’s all.”

He didn’t say please. But it was there. Tangled in the silence between breaths.

“I’ll call Sirius if you just—”

“No.” James’s voice was immediate. Firm. “Don’t call him.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“I’m five minutes away,” James said. “You’re not staying with Sirius. You’re staying with me." A pause, then, more gently- “You should’ve called earlier.”

“I didn’t want to—” Regulus started, but James cut him off again, not unkindly.

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Grab what you need. I’m coming to get you.”
And then he hung up. Regulus stood there for a second, the line dead, the sound of dripping water surrounding him like a slow drum. He should’ve argued. Protested. Said he didn’t need help.
But instead, he exhaled—and for the first time all day, let someone else take the lead.

The flat was quiet when James walked in. Blessedly, deliciously quiet.

He toed off his boots by the door, shrugged off his coat, and let out a sigh that came straight from the soles of his feet. There was something about Sundays that always felt just a bit suspended from time—especially the early afternoons, when the world seemed to move slower, like it was catching its breath.

Harry was with Lily now—his weekend shift officially done. Not that it had felt like a shift, really. Spending the morning at the riding stable with Harry and Draco, watching the two boys laugh themselves breathless over ponies and mud puddles and sugar biscuits, had been… perfect. Easy. Honest. Something bright and simple in a world that rarely was.

James moved through the living room, tossing his keys onto the dish near the lamp. He should’ve been tired—he’d been up early, after all—but instead he felt energized in a strange, buzzy way. He checked the time. Still early. A whole stretch of hours ahead before Harry would be back, before anyone needed anything from him.

A part of him—a very small, very guilty part—felt almost giddy about it.

He flopped onto the couch, leaned his head back, and let his eyes fall shut.

But instead of blank space, the inside of his mind filled immediately with Regulus.

Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or anything remotely poetic. Just… images. Quiet snapshots. The way Regulus had held Draco that morning, tired but steady. The way his coat had hung from his frame, slightly too wet, slightly too thin. The way he’d sipped his coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

James let out a soft breath through his nose, eyes still closed.

It was becoming a pattern, this—seeing Regulus like that and wanting to do something about it. Not out of pity. Not even out of guilt or hero complex. Just because… he cared. Because there was something about Regulus that sparked his attention like very few things ever had.

The truth was, James didn’t admire many people. He liked people, sure. He was good with them. But admiration? That was rarer.

And Regulus—dry, sarcastic, infuriating Regulus—had earned that from him without even trying.

The man had every reason to fall apart. And yet every time, he chose to hold it together for someone else. For Draco. For Narcissa. For some job that didn’t deserve half of what he gave it. And still, when he smiled—truly smiled—it was like a window cracking open somewhere dark, letting in light no one had remembered existed.

James sat up a little, stretched, and grabbed his phone.

He thought about texting. Just something simple. Made it home. Hope Draco naps well. You looked good today, by the way. You always do, but you really did.
He didn’t send it. Too much. Or not enough. Or both.

Instead, he got up and ordered takeaway for one. Thai. Spicy. His usual comfort food. He was halfway to opening a beer when his phone buzzed on the counter.

James had just collapsed onto the couch, tablet balanced on his chest and an unopened beer sweating quietly on the table nearby, when his phone buzzed to life. Without even checking the name, he smiled and answered.

“Mum,” he said, voice already dipping into the relaxed tone he used only with her. “Just in time to stop me from fusing with the sofa.”

“Don’t be dramatic, James,” Euphemia replied with fond exasperation. He could hear the clink of a spoon against a mug in the background and pictured her exactly as she always was—tea in hand, sitting by the kitchen window like she ran the entire country from there.

“I’m not. I was mid-transformation. One more minute and I’d have grown cushions.”

Euphemia chuckled. “How’s my grandson?”

“He’s brilliant, obviously,” James said, stretching his legs out. “Told me I look tired and that I should moisturise. Which is rich coming from someone who still eats glue sticks.”

“You did used to eat glitter glue, if I remember correctly.”

“That was one time. And I thought it was sparkly frosting.”

“Sure you did.” They both laughed, and James shifted so he could sit up a bit more, propping the tablet on the coffee table.
“He’s with Lily for the afternoon,” he added. “So I’m technically free.”

“Technically? James Fleamont Potter, you always manage to sound like you’re about to invent trouble.”

“Not this time,” he grinned. “I’m gonna use the peace and quiet to work on the seasonal launch stuff. Got those new serums we’re planning, and I need to draft the packaging notes.”

“Oh, so you’re working.”

“Well, yes. But in loungewear and possibly with a nap halfway through. It’s the deluxe version of productivity.”

“That’s my boy.” He could hear the smile in her voice. And for a moment, he let himself rest in it—grateful, grounded.

“Thanks for calling, Mum.”

“Of course. Always. Call me tonight and tell me what Harry eats for dinner. I like knowing these things.”

“He’s five, Mum. He eats the same five things every day.”

“Yes, but I like hearing it from you.”

James rolled his eyes but smiled. “Okay. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart. Be kind to yourself.”

“I’ll try.” And then the line clicked off, and James sat back with a soft sigh, rubbing a hand over his jaw before turning toward the tablet.

Time to work. But for once, he didn’t mind.
James had fully immersed himself in the world of packaging drafts, surrounded by mood boards, scent notes, and render mockups for the winter skincare line. His tablet was balanced against a stack of books, fingers flying over the keyboard with rare precision.

Outside, the afternoon had softened into something golden and quiet, but inside, James was deep in his zone — cross-referencing textures, deciding between minimalist fonts, imagining how a midnight blue cream jar might look against a bathroom counter lit with morning sun.

He didn’t even hear his phone buzz at first. It was the second vibration that broke through, faint but insistent. His eyes darted sideways, absently annoyed—until he saw the name.

Regulus.

He dropped the stylus immediately.

The brief flicker of something like happiness — that strange new joy he hadn’t yet dared to name — surged and then stumbled.

Because it was the middle of the afternoon, evening maybe.
Because Regulus never called unless there was something urgent. Because his mind was already running through possibilities — Draco, maybe? A fall? Something wrong at work? Mulciber?

And worst of all, Regulus Black was not someone who asked for help unless everything else had already collapsed.

James grabbed the phone, sat upright, and answered in a low voice that betrayed the sudden thrum in his chest.
James picked up on the second ring, phone already halfway to his ear.

“Regulus?” he said, brows furrowing as he sat up straighter, the warmth of the room suddenly irrelevant.

The voice that answered wasn’t Regulus as James knew him. It was rough—worn out. Raw around the edges in a way that made James’s gut twist.

“Hey,” Regulus rasped. Just one word, but it sounded like it cost him everything.
James froze for a beat. That tone—that voice—wasn’t the Regulus who threw dry sarcasm like knives or glared at the world with his chin tilted up. This one sounded… like he was holding on by threads. Wet threads.

“Reg?” he said again, lower now, soft with alarm. “Are you okay? What happened?”

He could hear rustling on the other end—movement, or maybe just the sound of someone falling apart quietly. There was something distant in the background, a kind of soft dripping, and it made James’s chest pull tight.

“I need… I need Sirius’s number,” Regulus said, voice stripped of all the usual armor. “We never exchanged it, and I just—only for tonight, okay? I just need—somewhere.”

James blinked, then frowned. What the hell was happening?
“Regulus,” he said again, trying to keep his voice steady, anchoring. “What happened?”

Another beat of silence. James could hear the quiet tremor in his breathing. It made him ache.
“The house is flooded,” Regulus finally said, barely above a whisper. “Pipes broke—everything broke—everything’s gone to shit.”

There was a pause. James could picture him, soaked to the bone, standing in the wreck of that cramped flat, probably trying to keep Draco warm with a bag full of soggy clothes and pride.

“I just need a place for Draco,” Regulus went on, weaker now. “For tonight. That’s all.”

James didn’t even hesitate.
“No,” he said firmly. Too firmly, maybe—but he meant it.

On the other end of the line, Regulus sounded startled. “What?”

“I’m five minutes away,” James said, already standing, keys in hand. “You’re not staying with Sirius.” Because Sirius and Remus had just moved into that tiny new flat, with half the furniture still in boxes and no working dryer yet. They didn’t even have curtains up, let alone a proper bed for a kid.

“You’re staying with me.” There was a short silence. James could hear the doubt, the protest forming—and he stopped it before it could start.

“You should’ve called earlier,” he said gently. Not a reprimand. Just the truth. I would’ve come running.

“I didn’t want to—” Regulus began, but James cut him off again.

“Five minutes,” he repeated. His voice softened. “Grab what you need. I’m coming to get you.” He hung up before Regulus could argue. Because he would. Of course he would.

James stood in the middle of his quiet living room for a moment, phone still in his hand, and felt something coil tight in his chest—anger, maybe. But not at Regulus.
At whatever it was that left him sounding like that.
Then he grabbed his coat and bolted out the door.

James practically launched himself down the stairs, phone clutched tight in one hand, car keys in the other. The wind slammed into him the moment he was outside, sharp against his skin, but he barely felt it. His brain was already five minutes ahead—picturing Regulus soaked through, holding Draco close, with that cracked voice echoing through his head like a siren.

He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition with a jolt, and hit the speaker button as soon as the engine roared to life.

Calling: Sirius

One ring. Two.

“Hello?” Sirius answered, chewing something. “Mate, if this is about your skincare—”

“It’s Regulus,” James cut in, breath already uneven from the rush. “His house is flooded. Pipes burst. Everything’s wrecked. He called me asking for your number—he didn’t have it. Just wanted somewhere to crash for the night.”

Sirius went quiet on the other end. The kind of silence James had only heard a few times from him—thoughtful, brittle, a little stunned.
“Shit,” Sirius finally muttered. “Is he—are they alright?”

“I don’t know,” James said honestly. “He didn’t sound alright. And that’s—Regulus never sounds anything. But he actually asked for you- your number to call.”

A pause. Then Sirius exhaled. “He asked for me?”

James nodded even though Sirius couldn’t see. “Yeah. You.”

Another breath from Sirius. “I’ll be at yours in twenty. Tell him I’m coming. I want to see him. Talk to him. I mean—hell, he actually reached out. For the first time in years. You know what that means.”

“I do,” James said quietly. “But he’s coming to mine tonight. I told him.”

“Good,” Sirius replied without hesitation. “You’ve got the space. Harry’s not there. And let’s be real—our place is a bloody shoebox with half the appliances still in the packaging. We can barely make tea without flipping a breaker.”

James gave a breathless half-laugh, shifting gears. “Yeah. That’s what I figured. But if he needs you—I’ll let him know.”

“Always,” Sirius said, voice steadier now. “Always. And thanks, mate. For being there.”

James didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the road now, turning the corner into Regulus’s street. “I’ll call you later,” he said quickly. “I’m here.”
And then he hung up just as the building came into view—its steps slick with rain, and a lone figure standing soaked in the doorway, holding a bundled child against his chest. James’s heart clenched at the sight.

He hit the brakes, threw the car into park, and was out the door before his brain could even catch up.

James’s boots splashed into a shallow puddle as he crossed the street in long, hurried strides, but his eyes were already locked on the door of the building. Regulus stepped out just then, Draco clutched tightly in his arms, and James felt his heart twist.

Regulus looked… wrecked.

His coat was soaked through, water still dripping from the ends of his curls, sticking flat against his cheeks and neck. His trousers were clinging to his legs, heavy and dark from the water, and his knuckles were white around the two overstuffed duffle bags hanging from his shoulder. Draco was tucked against his chest, quiet, but the boy’s small fingers were wound tightly into Regulus’s scarf, like he hadn’t let go since the moment the world went sideways.

“Jesus, Reg—” James murmured as he reached them, voice breaking softly. But he didn’t hesitate. He popped the trunk open and immediately bent down to check inside, hands moving fast through the clutter: emergency supplies, toolkit, a few old jumpers Harry had outgrown. There—at the bottom, tucked in a corner like some forgotten treasure—was an old fleece blanket.

He grabbed it and turned back, unfolding it quickly as he stepped close.

“Here,” he said, draping it carefully over Draco’s back first, then wrapping it around both of them. “It’s freezing, Regulus. February’s not screwing around. You’ll catch your death like this.”

Regulus didn’t protest. He just nodded once, barely, jaw tight with exhaustion. His eyes were red at the corners, not just from the cold. His body trembled slightly under the weight of the moment, of the bags, of everything.

James’s gaze flicked to Narcissa, who stood a step back, her coat thrown over her nightclothes, eyes glinting with stress and unshed tears.
“Are you alright?” he asked her, voice softening.

“I don’t know,” she said tightly. “But Draco is. That’s what matters.”

James nodded. “We’ll take care of everything else.”

James stepped in closer, took one of the bags from him without asking, then the other. He stowed them gently in the back seat, trying not to imagine what was left behind. These were the essentials. The last-minute salvaged things. Which meant everything else was probably ruined.

Gone.

Regulus stayed quiet, adjusting Draco a little in his arms. The boy let out a soft sigh and buried his face deeper into his father’s shoulder.

James didn’t push. Not yet.

He just reached out again, this time slower, one hand on Regulus’s back to steady him. “Let’s get you in the car, yeah?" He stored them gently in the back seat, then turned and opened the passenger side door. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get warm.”

Regulus hesitated for a moment—just a flicker—and then nodded. He shifted Draco in his arms and climbed in slowly. Narcissa followed, carefully gathering her coat tighter before sliding into the backseat beside the bags.

James circled to the driver’s side. His fingers were already numb from the cold as he started the engine. James swallowed hard. His throat felt tight.
He reached slowly for the ignition. He reached forward, turned the heat all the way up, and then said quietly- “Alright,” he said, voice low. “You’re safe now.”

And in the back, Narcissa, her voice barely a whisper, echoed it like a prayer.
“Thank you, James.”

James looked at her in the mirror, then back at Regulus.
He didn’t smile. But his voice was steady. “Always.”

Regulus barely registered the hum of the car as James pulled onto the main road. He was cold—bone-deep, marrow-deep cold—but it wasn’t just the water that had soaked through every inch of him. It was something else. Something older. Like the shock had settled in his joints and was now running the commands in his place.

Autopilot.

He moved mechanically, adjusting the blanket around Draco’s small form, tucking it under his chin, then again at his sides, even though it was already snug. He had to be sure. He had to be sure. His fingers trembled, not from the temperature, but from the aching echo of that note.

If I managed to enter your home, how hard do you think it will be to take the boy?

He blinked hard and pressed his hand more firmly against Draco’s side, just to feel him breathe. Still here. Still warm. Still his.

Draco squirmed a little, looking up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Are we going to sleep at James’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Just one night?”

“Yes, just one.”

“Will it be fun? Does he have snacks? Are we bringing Toothless with us? Did the water break everything or just some things? Why was Auntie Cissy crying? Is the bath broken too? Can we still have pancakes?”

Regulus closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe.
Draco was talking too fast for his tired mind to follow, his questions skipping like stones across water. Every syllable hit him somewhere tender. Somewhere raw.
He reached up and smoothed a damp curl from the boy’s forehead, then let his hand drift down, cupping Draco’s cheek gently with his knuckles. Just to feel him again. Just to make sure.

The house was a ruin. A cracked husk of too many memories. The water had swallowed more than furniture—it had soaked into his sanity, his future, his last scrap of a plan. But Draco was here. Still here.

Regulus shifted, angling his body so that Draco was tucked into his side, the blanket secured around both of them. He didn’t speak. Not yet. If he opened his mouth, something might break.

Draco kept going, like he always did when he was too tired to know he was tired. “Will the restaurant still be there tomorrow? Are we gonna get new plates? I had a favorite one—did the water get my dragon eggs? Are you cold? You look cold.”

Regulus blinked back the sting in his eyes and leaned down slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Draco’s head. His voice, when it came, was thin but steady.
“I’m alright, love. I’ve got you.” He wrapped an arm tighter around him.

They stepped into the house in a quiet flurry of wet shoes and February air, the warmth of James’s home brushing against their cold skin like something too soft to believe.

Draco, bundled tightly in the blanket from the car, was wriggling in Regulus’s arms now, the adrenaline of fear fully replaced by the irrepressible energy of a five-year-old.

“Why did the water fall from the ceiling?”
“Are we gonna go back to the house tomorrow?”
“Will my dragon be okay?”
“Why did it smell like wires?”

“Draco,” Regulus murmured, voice tight but gentle. “Breathe. Please.”

James closed the door behind them, smiling faintly at the barrage. “He doesn’t take breaks, does he?”

Regulus huffed. “No. Not even in emergencies.”

Draco blinked up at James. “Where’s Harry?”

“He’s with his mum tonight,” James said, shrugging out of his coat. “But he’ll be back tomorrow. You two can play all afternoon if you want.”
That earned a wide, gap-toothed grin from Draco.

Narcissa hovered near the entrance, arms crossed tight over her chest. She hadn’t spoken much since the car ride — just occasional glances at Regulus, checking that he was still standing, still moving.

Regulus looked at James, and there was something strained about his posture now. The kind of tension that spoke of things not yet said.
“We need to talk,” he said. “About logistics- how to—”

But James held up a hand. “Shower first,” he said, soft but firm. “You’re soaked, Regulus. I don’t even think you realise it.”

Regulus blinked at that. He didn’t feel the cold anymore — hadn’t, really, since Narcissa’s call. His body had been moving on autopilot. But now, standing still, he could feel it: the water clinging to him like a second skin, heavy and icy. The chill in his fingers. The ache in his bones.

He exhaled slowly and nodded.

James turned toward the hallway. “There are fresh towels in the bathroom, second door on the left. Take your time.”

Regulus started that way, shifting Draco slightly in his arms — but James touched his arm gently. “Hey—do you need clothes?” he asked. “I mean, besides what you’re carrying.”

Regulus hesitated for a second, then gave a single, quiet nod. “Yeah. I'm- I couldn't bring much- so-”

"Yes-" James nodded back quickly. “I’ll get you something. Don’t worry about it.”
Regulus didn’t say thank you. But he met James’s eyes for a breath—just long enough for it to mean something. For now, it was enough.

Then he turned, disappearing quietly down the hallway.

He didn’t go straight to the bathroom, not yet. His steps slowed near the bend, where the light dimmed and the sounds from the front room filtered in softer, more distant. He lingered—not quite eavesdropping, but not not-eavesdropping either.

"Are you fine?" he heard James ask.

Narcissa’s voice was calm, but clipped. “Ask me again when I know where we’ll sleep tomorrow.”

Regulus grimaced, one hand tightening against the damp strap of the bag still on his shoulder. He had already thought about it. The emergency stash hidden under Draco’s floorboards. Five thousand pounds. It wasn’t much—not with what they needed—but it could cover a motel. Maybe two weeks. Long enough to figure something out. The landlord would have to deal with the damage, surely. It wasn’t his fault the pipes had burst, wasn’t his fault everything had drowned in one single night.

It would be fine.

It had to be fine.

And then James said it. “Here, obviously.”

Regulus’s heart stuttered, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

No. No. Absolutely not. That was out of the question. He couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t stay here, in James Potter’s house, eating his food, borrowing his clothes, putting Draco to sleep in his guest room as if they belonged here. As if they were his responsibility.

He couldn’t. …Could he?

He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, the dampness in his clothes now clinging to him like guilt. He didn’t want James to offer. He didn’t want to need him this way. And yet—

Draco was safe. Narcissa had stopped shaking.
And James was saying obviously, as if it wasn’t even a question. As if opening his home to them was the most natural thing in the world.

Regulus opened his eyes, and for the first time since the flood, he let himself hope—just for a moment—that maybe it wasn’t weakness to accept. Maybe it was just… being human.

James didn’t push. He just turned toward the living room. “I’ll get the kettle going,” he said. “You both need warmth. And I think I’ve got some biscuits left.”
From down the hall came the soft click of a door, and finally, the distant hum of running water.

The bathroom was warm—mercifully, gloriously warm. Regulus stepped inside and closed the door behind him, locking it with a soft click like it was some sacred rite. He peeled off his soaked clothes slowly, deliberately, each piece hitting the floor with a wet slap. His fingers were trembling—not from nerves now, but from cold, from shock, from something that had settled deep in his chest and refused to leave.

When he finally stepped under the water, he hissed. The heat was almost too much, stinging against his skin where the cold had sunk in deepest. His body jerked involuntarily, but he didn’t step back. He let it burn a little. Let it hurt.

And then— Relief.

The steam rose thick around him, blurring the world into something soft, indistinct, safe. He tilted his head forward and let the water hit the back of his neck, drip down his spine, roll off his shoulders. His hair flattened in dark curls, the last of the grime and the dirt and the stink of floodwater finally washing away.

God, it felt good.

Too good.

He hadn’t had a shower like this in years. Not since Grimmauld Place. Not since he could stand under the water without counting the seconds, without worrying that the hot would run out or that someone would shout from the hallway to hurry the fuck up because we’re paying for it. He stayed there longer than he should’ve—he knew it—but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wasn’t wasting anything. Not here. Not tonight.

And it was the first time in hours—maybe days—he wasn’t freezing to his bones.

His eyes slipped closed. But the thoughts didn’t stop.

Tom Riddle.

The name alone made his jaw clench.

This wasn’t just about money. It couldn’t be. No one like Riddle waited a year for repayment unless they wanted something more than gold. Unless they were playing a longer game. Unless the debt itself was just an excuse. A leash.

But why?

What the hell did he want with Regulus?

He’d seen men disappear over smaller debts. Watched them bend, crumble, break. But Riddle hadn’t crushed him—yet. He’d given him a year. Why?

Power. That was the only thing that made sense. Riddle wanted leverage. Something to hold over his head, to control him. And now—with the flood, with the house in ruin, with Narcissa’s fear and Draco’s tiny, trembling arms around his neck—Regulus had even more to lose.

And Riddle knew it. Of course he knew it.

The bastard had probably planned for this. That note—if I could get into your house, how hard do you think it would be to take Draco—wasn’t just a threat. It was a reminder. A warning.

He braced his hands against the tile and let the water run over his face.
God, he was so tired. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. That didn’t go away with sleep, if you were ever lucky enough to get any.

And he needed to think about the house. That hellhole of a flat. The insurance, if it would even cover water damage. The landlord, who’d probably try to pin this on him. The furniture that was ruined. The appliances that were fried. The cash he’d stashed under the floor that might as well have been dipped in acid. Gone.

Everything was gone. He’d have to call the landlord. Explain. Beg, if necessary. He didn’t know how much more he could carry, but he had to carry it anyway. For Draco.

Draco.

He had to keep Draco safe. Keep him fed. Keep him warm. Keep him—

Here?

Staying in James’s house would solve so many problems. It made sense. James had space. James had warmth. James had Harry, and Draco adored him. Regulus could see it already—Draco sleeping better, calmer, happier, waking up in the same place as the people who made him feel safe.

But it wasn’t that simple. He’d pay. Obviously. For food, for the room, for everything. James might wave him off, but Regulus wasn’t a guest. He wasn’t a charity case. He wasn’t someone’s burden to carry.

Draco was his.

So were the eighty thousand pounds he owed.

So was the threat hanging over his life like a sword.

He wouldn’t shift that weight onto someone else. Not even James.

A sudden sneeze wracked his chest, sharp and loud. Then another. His throat burned. His lungs felt heavy. “Shit,” he muttered, voice echoing in the steam.

No. He couldn’t get sick. He refused to get sick.

There was too much to do, too much to fix. He couldn’t afford to be laid up in bed with a fever and a cough, not when there were bills and forms and phone calls and fucking monsters in human skin circling his life like vultures.

He shut off the water finally, and the chill hit him instantly as the steam began to thin. The cold wasn’t gone. It had just been hiding, waiting.
When Regulus stepped out of the bathroom, the air was cooler than before — not freezing, just lived-in — but he paused anyway.

Folded neatly on the small bench beside the door, there was a stack of clean clothes: black sweatpants, a soft grey t-shirt, thick socks, even a jumper that didn’t look half bad. Not his, obviously — James’s. Everything smelled of clean linen and maybe, annoyingly, cedar.

He hadn’t heard the door. Hadn’t noticed the steps. He’d been so deep in his thoughts, in the heat, in the rising panic, he hadn’t even felt James come in.

Bloody stealth skills.

He dressed quickly, clothes clinging in places where his skin was still damp. But the warmth — God, the warmth — was grounding. He hadn’t realised how violently he’d been shaking until he wasn’t anymore.

Then came the next step.

He dug his phone from the coat he’d dumped earlier and scrolled to Landlord, but not before muttering under his breath, “Here we go.” He hit Call and brought the phone to his ear, already bracing himself.

It rang three times.

“Snape,” came the clipped, unmistakable voice on the other end.
“It’s Regulus Black,” he said, not bothering with niceties. “The flat flooded.”

A pause.

“How bad?”

“Ceiling came down in the bedroom. Water up to my ankles in the living room. Kitchen’s out. I don’t know about the wiring, but it’s not safe. I turned the mains off. Most of our furniture’s ruined. And the heating unit’s probably dead.”

Another pause. Longer this time.
“You didn’t report any plumbing issues previously.”

Regulus nearly laughed. “Because there weren’t any. Not a leak, not a sound. This wasn’t a slow drip. It exploded. The pipe behind the boiler must’ve gone, or one in the ceiling.”

“Did you interfere with the piping?”

Regulus’s voice dropped. Cold. Controlled. “No. I don’t rip my walls open for fun, Snape.”

Silence. Then: “I’ll send someone to assess. You’ll need to sign a temporary vacate notice.”

“I’ve already vacated.”

“And the insurance?”

“I don’t know yet,” Regulus snapped. “But you’d better hope this isn’t a fault in your system. Because I’ve got photos, timestamps, the works. If it’s negligence on your end, you’re covering everything.”

“You can read your contract, Mr Black. I’m responsible only if—”

“I have read it. And trust me, if this is structural, I’ll find it.”

A sharp exhale came through the phone. “I’ll be in touch by tomorrow. Don’t touch anything until then.”

“Sure.” Regulus didn’t wait for the rest. He ended the call, jaw locked tight, and slipped the phone into his pocket like it might burn him.

He exhaled once, sharply, then made his way down the stairs. The house felt too large suddenly — clean, quiet, nothing dripping, nothing breaking. He stepped into the living room where Narcissa sat on the edge of the couch, a tea in her hands, her coat still on. Draco was curled up beside her under a blanket, drowsy but alert, blinking slowly at the telly.

She looked up as Regulus entered.
“What happened?” she asked, voice low but immediate. “You were gone a while.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair, then dropped it to his side.
“Spoke with Snape. He’s sending someone to check the structure tomorrow. Ceiling’s gone, kitchen’s dead. He was as delightful as ever.”

Her expression twisted in sympathy. “And insurance?”

“God knows. If it’s structural, maybe. If not… we’re fucked.”

She reached over and squeezed his hand lightly. “We’re not. Not yet.”
He didn’t answer. Just watched Draco, small and unaware for now, and thought: Not yet. But we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

James stepped into the room, “Everything alright?” he asked, glancing from Regulus to Narcissa. His voice was casual, but his eyes tracked too sharply, reading the room. “If you’re dealing with insurance stuff or paperwork—Lily’s good with that. She’s an actual solicitor now, technically. Would be happy to help.”

Regulus froze. Just a second, not long enough for Narcissa to notice. But James did. He saw it: the tiny shift in posture, the flicker in his eyes like something inside had seized. Another person. Another name. Another hand reaching into his life—his chaos, his failure—and offering to clean it up for him. He didn’t ask for this. He should be able to solve it on his own. He had to.
But now wasn’t the time. “Thanks,” Regulus said eventually, voice even. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

James nodded, not pushing, not yet. He moved toward the hearth, shrugging off his coat. “Look. I know we didn’t talk earlier—properly. But I just want to say… you can stay. Both of you. And Narcissa, of course. For as long as you need.”

Regulus blinked.

James went on, gentle but firm. “Sirius will be here in a bit, I told him. He offered too, obviously, but my place is bigger. I’ve got two rooms ready. One for Narcissa, one for you and Draco. Or—however you want to split it. I don’t care. Just… you don’t need to look anywhere else.”

Regulus didn’t sit. He didn’t move. He stood near the arm of the couch, jaw tense, arms folded. Then he said quietly, “I’ll pay you.”

James turned. “What?”

Narcissa straightened where she sat, the tea on her lap suddenly forgotten. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’ll pay,” Regulus repeated. “You’re giving us food and a roof and rooms. I’ve got some emergency money. I’ll use it.”

“Reg—” James started.

“I’m not taking this for free. I’m not a fucking stray cat you’ve decided to rescue. I’m not—this isn’t charity.”

Narcissa stood. “You will not spend your emergency fund. What happens if there’s another emergency, Regulus? What if Draco gets sick or—”

“I’ll figure it out,” he cut her off, but his voice was tighter now, rougher around the edges. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it.” He couldn't believe that Narcissa was ready to take everything- gratis? How could she?

James crossed the room now, arms half-lifted in disbelief. “This isn’t a mess, Regulus." James called him Regulus, he was getting annoyed. But he didn't care.
"It’s a situation. People go through shit. Friends help. That’s what this is.”

Regulus stepped back a fraction. “I don’t need help. I need control. This is how I keep it.”

James frowned. “By paying me to sleep in a room I wasn’t using anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Are you listening to yourself?”

“I am. Loud and clear.”

“Christ, Regulus—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m being irrational. That I’m making it harder than it is. I have to make this hard. Because if I don’t, I’ll start to think this is fine. That depending on you, on anyone, is fine.”

“It is fine,” James shot back. “That’s what people do when they care about each other!”

Narcissa stepped between them, voice firm but low. “Enough.” Both men stopped. Breathing heavy. She looked from one to the other. “We’re not solving this tonight. You’re both exhausted, and Draco’s still awake. You want to pay, Regulus? We’ll talk about it. Tomorrow. When everyone’s thinking clearly.”

James looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded, jaw still clenched. Regulus glanced away, shoulders still tight. Silence stretched between them again.
James finally sighed. “You can use the room. No one’s billing you for the privilege of being safe tonight. Deal with the rest after.” Regulus didn’t answer.

The doorbell rang—once, sharp and urgent.

James was already halfway to the hallway when it rang again, louder. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, pulling it open.

Sirius all but burst through the door. He didn’t even wait for an invitation.
“Where is he?” he demanded, scanning the living room like he expected Regulus to be bleeding on the floor. “Is he okay? Where’s—”

“Uncle Sirius!” Draco’s voice rang from the hallway like a firework, and he darted straight past James, launching himself into Sirius’s legs with a wide grin.

Sirius blinked, caught the boy with a soft “oof” and let out a surprised laugh, crouching to hug him tightly. “Well, hello there, little monster.”

“I rode a pony today!” Draco declared proudly, arms flailing for emphasis. “And I didn’t fall, and I made it trot!”

“You did?” Sirius looked up, impressed. “That’s brilliant. We’ll have to get you your own soon, then.” Regulus rolled his eyes. Obviously Sirius would say something like that. Draco gasped like that was the best idea he’d ever heard and started talking again, fast and unstoppable, words tumbling over each other.

But Sirius’s eyes had already moved past him—toward the figure leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

Regulus looked… worse than he expected.

His hair was still damp and curling at the ends. His face was pale, drawn, the faintest flush on his cheeks probably from the heat of the shower, not from life. He had one hand curled around a cup of tea, the other pressed against the doorframe as if it was the only thing keeping him upright. His expression was blank, unreadable—but his eyes were heavy. Too quiet.
“Hey,” Sirius said, softening immediately. “Hey, Reg.”

Regulus barely nodded. “Sirius.”

“You look like shit.”

Regulus huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, or a cough. “Feel like it too.”

Sirius stepped forward, carefully this time, lowering his voice. “Are you—? I mean… what the hell happened?”

Draco was still babbling at Sirius’s side, completely unaware of the grown-up tension threading the air like smoke. He tugged at Sirius’s coat and whispered, “We’re staying here for a bit. The house went boom.”

“Boom?” Sirius asked, glancing up.

Draco nodded enthusiastically, clutching his jacket. “Yeah! There was water everywhere—like a whole lake inside!”mSirius laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his nephew’s hair before setting him down again. Then his gaze shifted—more cautious now, more serious—as it found Regulus.

He straightened. “Reg?” he asked quietly, voice lowering with the weight of real concern. Sirius hesitated. Then, with gentleness few people ever saw from him, he stepped closer. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Draco, still buzzing around James’s legs, then looked back at his brother. “I’m not pretending,” he said. Then, after a breath: “I just don’t want him to worry. The house went boom- have you heard?”

Sirius looked at him for a long beat, grinning a bit. "Loud and clear, thanks Draco."
Then nodded slowly, understanding etched into every line of his face. “But fair enough,” he said. And he didn’t press. Didn’t ask anything more. Just turned and ruffled Draco’s curls as the boy tugged at his hand.
“C’mon,” Sirius said to him. “You’ll have to show me where they’re hiding all the biscuits in this place.”

Draco giggled and ran to the kitchen while Sirius stayed a little back, following him quietly, scanning Narcissa and Regulus once more.
Then he turned to James, lowered his voice. “He’s really not okay, is he?”

James shook his head once. “He’s trying, I think.”

And Regulus, leaning against the doorframe, just stared into his tea, silent, letting the noise happen around him. His arms didn’t uncross. His eyes didn’t soften. Then he moved with them, he had to make Draco some dinner, he wasn't able to eat before so he was probably starving. He glanced at the clock- 9 PM. Way past his bed time. Some milk and biscuits will do for tonight.

The kitchen had a warm glow, the kind that settled low in the chest and wrapped around your ribs. James had switched the overhead light to something softer, and Regulus moved almost silently around the space, opening a cupboard, pouring milk into a small pan. His sleeves were pushed back with mechanical precision. He moved like he wasn’t tired—though everyone knew he was.

Draco sat at the table, little legs swinging off the chair, still too wired to eat but too hungry not to. Regulus broke a few biscuits into a bowl, added warm milk with a touch of honey, then set the spoon beside it just so.

Narcissa was leaning against the counter with a cup of tea in her hands, while Sirius had taken over the far end of the room, perched on a stool like he owned the place. He probably felt like he did, too.

“I wish we could take you,” Sirius said, addressing the room but looking toward Regulus. “But our place is barely livable right now. There’s still boxes everywhere, and the boiler makes this noise that sounds like a dying Puffskein. Remus says it’s haunted. He might be right.”

Narcissa smiled faintly. “It’s alright. We’re staying here. It makes sense.”

Regulus didn’t look up. “It’ll be perfect—once James decides to take the damn money.”

Sirius blinked. “Wait. Money?” Narcissa groaned under her breath and sipped her tea.

“I’m offering to pay for the room,” Regulus said flatly, placing the bowl in front of Draco. “Board. Food. Utilities. Whatever’s fair.”
Draco didn’t notice the tension building. He was too busy whispering something to his peluche.

James, who had been leaning against the fridge, rubbed a hand across his face. “And I said I don’t want your money, Reg. It’s just a spare room.”

Sirius looked between them, eyes wide. “You’re serious. Like dead serious?”

“I’m Regulus,” he snapped back dryly. “You're Sirius.”

Sirius laughed. “Come on, Reg. Like Mum and Dad made me pay rent the five years I lived in the bloody attic.”

“They should’ve,” Regulus muttered.

“I should’ve charged them, if anything,” Sirius countered. “I added character to that dump.”

Narcissa shook her head. “He’s right, Reg. Stop being so proud. You need rest. Not another ledger to balance.”

Regulus’s jaw clenched. He picked up Draco’s water glass and refilled it, giving himself something to do with his hands. “It’s not pride. It’s principle.”

“It’s madness,” Sirius replied. “You’re family. And you’re exhausted. Stop trying to keep the whole bloody planet spinning with one hand.”

James stepped forward then, quiet but clear. “Regulus,” he said, and Regulus paused just slightly, his back still to the room. “You’re not alone here. You don’t have to keep proving you deserve space.”

“I do,” Regulus said, not looking up. “To me, I do.” There was a long silence, filled only by Draco’s quiet chewing and the ticking clock on the wall.

Finally, Sirius exhaled and pushed himself off the stool. “Well. This went cheerier than expected.”

James cracked a small smile. “It’s a Black family dinner. What did you expect?”
Regulus finally looked up, but the lines around his eyes hadn’t softened.
Still, he said nothing as he reached out and smoothed a hand through Draco’s curls—because the child had stopped eating for a second and was watching all of them like he could sense the undercurrents.
“Eat, Draco,” he said gently. “It’s just grown-ups being idiots.”

Draco nodded solemnly, then dug his spoon back into the bowl.
Sirius leaned against the counter again, arms crossed loosely, eyes scanning between them. “So… the pipes really exploded?”

There was a pause—just long enough to make the silence obvious. Regulus didn’t look up. Narcissa, beside him, took a slow breath. Their eyes met for half a second. A quiet conversation passed between them.

But neither of them answered.

Sirius frowned. “What? What happened, huh?” Still nothing. Regulus picked up Draco’s empty mug, his fingers brushing the little chocolate smudges along the rim. He brought it to the sink and began rinsing it, the quiet running of the water filling the space they weren’t ready to speak into.

Sirius let it go, for now. He tilted his head toward Draco, who was blinking sleepily now, curled into one of the kitchen chairs with his stuffed dragon held tight to his chest. “Alright, kiddo. So… who do you want to bunk with tonight? Narcissa or—?”

“I want dad!” Draco yelped before the sentence was even finished. “I want to sleep with dad! He can’t leave me alone!” It wasn’t a whine. It was a panic. Everybody was pretty shocked by this outburst and Sirius dropped his hand, his eyes almost comically wide.

Regulus turned immediately, drying his hands roughly on a towel as he crossed to Draco in two long strides. He crouched down in front of him, steady hands on Draco’s knees, voice low and firm but soft at the edges.
“Hey. Look at me.” Draco did. His lip was trembling. “I’m not going anywhere,” Regulus said. “You’re with me. You hear me?” Draco nodded quickly, like the words needed to be hammered in before they could slip away.
“You’re safe here. And you’re not sleeping alone. Okay?”

“Okay,” Draco whispered, burying his face into Regulus’s collar as he was lifted into his arms.

James watched from the other side of the kitchen, arms loosely folded, jaw tight.

Sirius exhaled through his nose, his earlier sarcasm softening into something quieter. “God, Reg. You don't have a single day of peace” and fuck- that was basically the statement of his fucking life.

Regulus didn’t answer. He just pressed his hand to the back of Draco’s head, fingers carding through his hair with the instinct of someone who had been doing this for years—even if it had only really been months.
“I’ll take him now, to bed” he said. “He needs to sleep.”

Narcissa nodded and started clearing away the tea things without being asked. Sirius opened a drawer, pulling out clean cutlery with the ease of someone who had grown up setting tables without being told.
“You need sleep too,” James muttered behind him, voice low and tight, jaw clenched like he was still holding onto the edges of their earlier fight.

Regulus didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer. He heard the concern in James’s voice, but he ignored it — pushed it down the way he’d learned to push everything down that made him feel like he didn’t deserve to be here.

He wasn’t doing this to be stubborn. Not really. He was doing it because he had to.
Because if he didn’t do something — if he didn’t prove his worth, pull his weight, earn his place — then he was just another body someone had to carry.

And bodies like that? They got left behind.
He had seen it. Over and over. He had lived it.

So no — he didn’t care if James was angry. Didn’t care if Sirius insisted they were family. He was going to make himself useful.
Make himself known.
Make a name, even now, even here, where they’d tried to give him softness.

Because Regulus Black didn’t survive by being loved.

He survived by being needed.

And as Regulus stepped out of the room with Draco tucked safely against his chest, no one moved to stop him. There was nothing left to add—no advice, no comfort that hadn’t already been silently offered. The boy needed sleep, that much was obvious.

And yeah- if Regulus did too he wasn't going to say.

His arms ached, his chest felt tight, and the rasp in his throat was growing louder in his own ears. He only hoped it wasn’t turning into something worse. But for now, he had Draco. And that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

Regulus woke before the alarm. It was still dark, the kind of black that wrapped around the room like wool, quiet and heavy and slow. The clock read 6:03. Close enough. He pushed back the blanket with a quiet sigh, careful not to stir Draco, curled tight against his side like a kitten. Warm. Safe.

Not for long.

He slipped out of bed, joints stiff, limbs aching like they’d run a marathon in his sleep. The floor was cold beneath his feet, the borrowed clothes a little loose on his frame, but he didn’t care. He padded into the kitchen, half by memory now, and set the kettle on, mind already racing through the day.

Draco had to be ready by 6:45. Narcissa would take him to the nursery at seven sharp. It wasn’t ideal—waking him so early, barely giving him time to blink at the new day before being carted off—but it was the only way Regulus got to see him in the morning. The only way he got to press a kiss to his hair, to make sure he’d eaten, to know he was okay.

Because starting next week, he’d picked up two extra shifts. Three, maybe, if Mara could swap with him. And God only knew how many more he’d need. How much money it would take to undo everything—Riddle’s threat, the destroyed flat, the landlord being a complete bastard, the cost of new clothes, new beds, new everything.

Too much.

His fingers trembled slightly as he opened the cupboard for a mug. Not from stress—well, not just stress. Something was wrong. He could feel it now. A weight pressing down behind his eyes. His throat—

He swallowed, and winced.

Raw. Like fire. Like he’d swallowed glass in his sleep. His head pulsed, slow and relentless, the pain coiling tight just behind his temples. And his eyes—it wasn’t just fatigue. Everything looked too bright and too dull at the same time. Blurred. Fuzzy.

No.

No, no, no, he didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have space for this. Not now. Not with everything already balancing on a thread.

He moved slower, more carefully now, pouring the water, setting the spoon in the coffee jar like it was sacred. A bit of caffeine. That would help. It always did. He just needed to push through the next few hours. He could collapse later—maybe. Maybe not.

Behind him, a sleepy voice mumbled, “Papa?”

Regulus turned, coffee forgotten. Draco stood in the doorway, hair a mess, cheeks puffy with sleep, dragging the little dragon plush behind him by one wing. It tugged something in Regulus’s chest—something ancient and instinctive.

“Sorry, love,” he said softly, crouching down. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re leaving?”

“In a bit,” Regulus said, brushing a hand through his hair, then pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But you’re going with Cissy, remember?”

Draco nodded, rubbing one eye. “I wanted to stay in bed with you.”

Regulus smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Me too hon, me too.”
He stood again, slowly, ignoring the way the room swayed slightly around him. He could feel the fever now, rising up his spine like a slow tide. But it didn’t matter. He had a job. He had a son. He had no fucking choice.

He set the coffee cup down with more care than he felt, the ceramic barely whispering against the countertop. His hand lingered on it for a second, knuckles white.

Draco was already tugging at his sleeve again, bleary and clingy the way only small children were in the morning. Regulus smoothed a hand over his head and led him gently back upstairs. The warmth of the boy’s body nestled against his side made something ache in his chest—something worse than the fever he could feel sharpening with each breath.

Once Draco was tucked back in bed, Regulus hesitated a moment, standing at the threshold. He watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the dragon plush curled around his side like a second heartbeat. He reached out, brushed the hair from Draco’s forehead, and whispered something he couldn’t quite say aloud.

Then he turned to go back down—and froze.

There were voices. Not loud, but clear. Not arguing, exactly—but definitely tension beneath the words, like the air before a storm. His name. And then something else.

T. R.

A chill ran up his spine before his mind even caught up.

He moved halfway down the stairs, quietly, barely breathing, lingering in the shadow of the wall. He didn’t mean to listen. He didn’t want to. But when your survival depended on knowing the room better than anyone else—on anticipating every conversation, every glance, every risk—you didn’t turn your ears off.

“—T. R.?” James’s voice, a low whisper. Not accusing. Confused. “What is this? Who the hell is T. R.? And why is he writing about Draco?”

Silence. Not long. Just long enough.

Then Narcissa answered. “It’s not your concern.”

“I found the letter on the bathroom floor, Narcissa.” James didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared. “A threat. This isn’t just someone playing games. This is—”

“You don’t get to demand answers,” she said, voice tight, composed, but her usual silk had a tear in it. “You’re not family.”
Regulus’s heart twisted. He nearly turned around. Nearly walked in and ended it—told her to stop, to lie if she had to, to say it was nothing. But he didn’t move.

“And yet here you are,” James said, more gently. “Staying in my house. Sleeping in my beds. And Regulus—Regulus isn’t well. I’ve seen him this week. He’s… he’s carrying something, and you know it.” A pause. “I’m just trying to help.”

More silence. Then, from Narcissa: “We owe him money.”

“Him who?”

“T. R.” A beat. “Tom Riddle. The man behind the name. You know who that is, don’t you?”

James’s breath caught. Regulus could almost hear it. “From Lucius’s company?”

“He’s the one who paid off Lucius’s debts. All of them. Took them on as a… consolidation. Or maybe a trap. We still don’t know. But he’s the reason we’re not buried. And now he wants to be paid back.”

“How much?”

“That’s not your business.”

James exhaled sharply, pacing maybe. Regulus could picture it. He knew that sound—frustrated footsteps on hardwood. “You saw Regulus this week, right? You see how he is? You’re telling me he’s being crushed under some number, and you won’t even—”

“Because if I tell you, you’ll try to fix it. You’ll take it on.” James didn’t answer.
Narcissa went on, quieter now. “He won’t let you. You know that. You saw how he reacted when you tried to pay for coffee. Imagine if you tried to take on this.”

Regulus exhaled slowly through his nose. Grateful. Ashamed. He was pathetic. God, he was so fucking tired of being looked at like he might break. Especially by someone like James—so golden, so whole.

“Fine,” James said. “Then tell me this. How long does he have?”

A pause. Long enough that Regulus braced himself. Narcissa’s voice had lost all its edge. “Too soon.” There was something in the way she said it. Not final. Not fully honest either. There was something more. And James heard it too.

“What aren’t you saying?” Regulus leaned forward without realizing.

She hesitated. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Riddle. His insistence. The timing. The deadline. It’s all too… personal.”
Regulus frowned. Narcissa added, “I don’t know what exactly he wants. But I think—it’s something to do with Regulus.”

Silence.

And then James again, soft but low. “Why?”

And Narcissa, even quieter: “I think he’s… obsessed with him. He always was a little strange. Curious. Whenever Regulus came to the office—he used to visit me, back when Lucius was still alive—Riddle would linger. Listen. Watch him. It was subtle, but I noticed. The way you notice when something’s… off.”

Fuck. Regulus gritted his teeth, closing his eyes. Of course.
Of course it was about him. It always was. This wasn’t just a debt. It wasn’t even about Lucius anymore. This was about control. About leverage. About having a reason to keep him close. A reason to own him.

And now James knew. Regulus sagged slightly against the wall, head bowed.
Not ready. He wasn’t ready for this. Not today. Not while living in James’s house, under his roof, depending on his heat and his soap and his patience. He didn’t want to be pitied. He didn’t want to be saved. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But it was too late now. The words were out. And James knew. He rubbed a hand down his face and forced himself to breathe. It didn’t change anything. He’d still go to work. Still scrape together what he could. Still find a way to get Draco out of this mess. Alone, if he had to.

But he couldn’t afford to fall apart now. Not when everything else already had.

Regulus didn’t bother to pretend he hadn’t heard.
He stepped into the living room like a shadow tearing through fabric—wet curls still damp against his temples, his jaw clenched so tight it might shatter.
“Oh, so now we’re talking about me when I’m not in the room?” he asked, voice razor-sharp. “Is that how this works?”

James flinched, rising halfway from the armrest where he’d perched. “Reg—I—”

“Not now,” Regulus snapped, without even looking at him. “You and I will talk after.”
James sat back down slowly, stunned.
“Narcissa,” Regulus said, turning on her like a storm. “A word.”

She raised a brow, arms folded tightly. “A word? After you storm in here like a madman?”

“You had no right,” Regulus spat. “None. To tell him—any of it.”

“Oh, please,” she shot back, rising from her chair like ice cracking open. “What else was I supposed to do, Regulus? Keep covering for you? Keep lying?”

“You could’ve shut your mouth for once,” he barked. “That was my business to handle. My life. My debt.”

“And look how well you’re handling it!” Narcissa snapped. “You’re drowning, Regulus! You have been for months! And you won’t let anyone help you!”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” His voice thundered through the room, sharp enough to make James blink hard.

“No, you never do!” she hissed. “You just fall apart in silence and expect the rest of us to pretend we don’t see it. I’ve spent two months in hell trying to keep Draco safe and pretending like everything is fine—”

“Two months?” Regulus laughed bitterly, hollow in the chest. “Try three years, Narcissa. Three years since you left, and I was the one left cleaning up everything your precious husband ruined—Draco, the debts, the silence. You disappeared. Don’t act like I’m the one who abandoned anyone.”

Narcissa’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. James stood now, alarmed.
The silence between the two of them pulsed like a living thing.

Regulus took one step forward—then his breath caught.

He coughed once. Hard.

Then again. Harsher.

His body bent forward slightly, hand to his chest, and for a second he looked like he might fold. His hands shivered and his head was pounding like crazy. Fuck fuck fuck fuck- he couldn't- he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Everything was fine. He was fine. Just a little cold. It was just that. Nothing to worry about.

Narcissa moved, alarm flickering across her features. “Regulus—”

“Don’t.” He backed up, still coughing, still breathless. “Don’t touch me.” She froze.
“I’m fine,” he rasped out, straightening again, though he looked anything but. “You don’t need to play the concerned cousin now. Just—leave it.”

Narcissa looked at him like she wanted to argue. But she didn’t. Her arms folded again, this time across her stomach like a shield.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” she said, tone cooler now.

“I am sick,” Regulus muttered under his breath. “Just not in the way you think.”
He turned toward the hallway, eyes flicking toward James—who looked like he didn’t know whether to intervene or not, hands clenched at his sides.
“You’re getting the money,” he said flatly.

James blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Regulus’s voice was quiet but hard. “You’re getting the bloody money, Potter. I don’t care if it makes you uncomfortable or goes against your moral code or whatever fucking fantasy world you live in. I’ll pay you.”

James straightened, anger sparking under his ribs like a struck match. “Absolutely not.”

Regulus threw his hands up. “Oh, for—why does everyone in this fucking house think they can just decide what’s best for me? I said I’d pay you—”

“And I said no!” James cut in, stepping forward. “Do you think I’m doing this for a payout? That this is some sort of—of favor to cash in on?”

“I think—” Regulus’s voice cracked, and he pushed forward anyway, chest heaving. “I think I’m tired of being the charity case in a house that isn’t mine.”

“You’re not—”

“Oh spare me, James!” he barked. “I don’t need you to be noble right now. I need to feel like I’m still in control of something!”

James’s fists clenched. “Then control Draco. Control yourself. But don’t try and buy a fucking bedroom in my house like it’s a hotel. You and Draco are here because I want you here. Because you need to be. Not because I’m waiting for your next bloody transfer!”

Regulus nearly laughed. Or screamed. It was hard to tell. His voice dropped, dangerously low. “Well, what a privilege. To be wanted.”

James flinched.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Regulus added bitterly. “Not anymore. Not if it means this.”

“This?” James’s voice rose. “This? You’re the one twisting it into something it’s not! I offered you help, Reg, not chains.”

“Well it sure feels like them!” Regulus shouted, voice raw now. “Everything’s falling apart! My house, my family—me. And the worst part is, I can’t even break down properly because I’m in your fucking house.”
Silence. Even the air seemed to pause. James opened his mouth. Then closed it. He didn’t know what to say to that. Regulus’s hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Escape. But he couldn’t afford another mess.

He dragged a shaky breath in through his nose and turned toward the stairs.

“I have work,” he said, voice clipped.

“Regulus—” James started, but the name barely left his mouth before Regulus cut him off again.

“I’ll be gone before seven." Regulus closed the bedroom door behind him with a soft click. The room was dim, the only light coming from the crack in the curtains, but it was enough. Enough to see the small shape still curled under the covers. Enough to catch himself in the mirror above the dresser.

He froze. His reflection looked back at him like a ghost. Skin pale, too pale. Hollowed out in places he didn’t remember allowing to fade. Collarbones sharp. Ribs visible where his shirt clung too close. He looked older. And younger. And wrong.

Something twisted inside his chest.

He turned away.

He stripped quickly, his clothes damp with sweat and clinging from the fever he refused to acknowledge. Then he pulled on his work uniform with mechanical movements—black button-down, sleeves rolled cleanly to the elbow, dark trousers, neat, severe. The kind of uniform that didn’t allow room for failure.

He didn’t look back at the mirror.

When he turned toward the bed, Draco was beginning to stir, blinking up at him with heavy lids and messy blond hair sticking in every direction.
“Morning,” Regulus said, voice rough from sleep—or maybe just everything else.

Draco blinked a few more times, then smiled faintly. “Is it nursery day?”

Regulus nodded. “It is. Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

He moved with quiet precision, helping Draco out of his pajamas and into a warm jumper and trousers. The boy leaned into him without question, still too sleepy to fuss, and Regulus pressed a brief kiss to his forehead before running a comb gently through his hair.

Draco yawned. “Are you staying today?”

Regulus hesitated. “Not this morning,” he said softly, tying his shoes. “I’ve got work, remember?”

Draco looked up at him, brow furrowed. “But- but I wanted to stay with you.”

“I know,” Regulus murmured, crouching to his level, brushing his fingers over the boy’s cheek. “But I’ll be back before you know it. And tonight—tonight I’ll read you that new book. The one with the flying dog. Deal?”

Draco considered for a moment, then nodded. “Deal.”

Regulus gave a small smile. “Good man.” He stood, steadying himself against the slight dizziness that washed over him. He hadn’t eaten. Again. He couldn’t afford to think about it.

One more shift. One more day. One more lie.
He took Draco’s small hand in his own and led him toward the hallway, voice perfectly composed as he called out for Narcissa.
But inside, he was already crumbling.

James had hoped — briefly — that things might settle. Not solve, no. That would’ve been naïve, even for him. But settle, at least. Calm down enough for people to breathe without bracing for the next blow.

Instead, Regulus disappeared.

Not physically — he was still in the house every night, still drinking coffee in the morning, still helping Draco with shoelaces or homework. But emotionally? Mentally? He was a ghost, hovering at the edges of the room, present and yet entirely unreachable. James had seen people shut down before. But Regulus didn’t go quiet. He went efficient. Efficient and polite.

He made himself smaller without vanishing. Barely spoke unless spoken to. Laughed only at Draco’s jokes. Worked. Always working.

James noticed it first the next morning when Regulus had left the house before the sun had even fully risen. James had only stirred when he heard the front door close and the faintest rustle of coat against the frame. The coffee pot was still warm when he made his way downstairs, and Draco’s breakfast had already been laid out with almost military precision: toast with jam, apple slices, juice in the blue cup.

“Has he been eating?” James had asked Narcissa, later that day.

She had looked up from her tea, then sighed. “He says he is.” A pause. “Which probably means not really.”

The routine settled: Regulus left at dawn, often before anyone else was even awake. Narcissa would take Draco to nursery, depending on the day. James would watch the clock. Sirius dropped by more often now, claiming to be “checking in on his people,” but mostly because he, too, had noticed the shift.

“I tried to talk to him yesterday,” Sirius said, flopping dramatically into one of the kitchen chairs while Remus stirred something in a pot. “He sat down and fell asleep before I finished the first sentence.”

Remus hummed. “It’s not a surprise. He’s overworking himself again.”
Again. The word echoed in James’s chest. Or still?

They were all in the kitchen — Lily had just stopped by to drop Harry off for the afternoon. The boys were running through the living room, shrieking about dragons. Narcissa was folding laundry with surgical precision. James stood at the counter, eyes flicking toward the front door every few minutes.

“He’s doing that thing,” Remus said, voice quieter now. “The one where he buries himself in movement so he doesn’t have to think. Or talk.”

James didn’t answer. He already knew it.

That evening, Regulus came back late, hair windblown and coat soaked, his phone still clutched in his hand. He murmured something about Snape — some legal thing, some update, some paperwork. Draco ran to him, clinging to his waist. Regulus hugged him back but with a tiredness that weighed heavier than his soaked clothes.

“He needs to slow down,” James muttered to Sirius later, when they were putting away the dinner plates. “He’s burning through himself.”

“And what, exactly,” Sirius asked, drying his hands on a dish towel, “are you going to do about it?”

James hesitated. “I don’t know. But I can’t watch him do this much longer.”

Narcissa found him asleep on the couch the next night, one arm slung over his eyes, the other still curled protectively near the emergency bag they hadn’t unpacked yet. She said nothing — just covered him with a blanket and went to bed.

The next morning, Draco refused to eat. “Where’s Dad?” he asked, bottom lip wobbling. "I miss him!"

“He had to leave early again, sweetheart,” Narcissa said gently.

“But I didn’t see him. I didn’t talk to him! Where is he! I want my dad!”

James watched the scene unfold with something tight in his throat. He got down on one knee, trying to make his voice light. “Hey, how about we draw him something today? A whole stack of pictures. So he sees them when he gets home.”

Draco nodded, but his eyes were dimmer.

Later, James found Regulus’s jacket still damp in the hallway. A schedule lay folded in the pocket — new shifts. More hours. A double booked for Friday. A third job? James didn’t know. But he could guess.

“He’s taking advantage of the safety,” Remus said to him again, two days later. “This house means Draco’s taken care of. So now he can do what he’s always done. Carry the weight himself.”

James looked up at that, a frown creasing his brow. “But he doesn’t have to. Not anymore.”

"He has grown up like this." Remus placed a hand on his shoulder. “He doesn’t know how not to.”

Then there was the fifth day, the fifth day is when everything spiraled.

Bad.

The morning had begun almost too quietly. James was in the kitchen, barefoot, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and holding his mug like a lifeline. The sky outside was the kind of pale grey that promised rain, and the house was still, settled into that rare hush that only ever happened before everyone woke up.

He was halfway through his coffee, considering whether to try and sneak in a few emails for work before Harry woke up, when it happened.
A scream. High-pitched. Raw.

“Draco?” James blinked, straightening so fast he nearly spilled his drink.

Another shout followed — not just loud, but broken. Angry. Crying. James didn’t hesitate. He dropped the mug on the table and rushed toward the hallway, heart stuttering.

The voices were coming from near the front door. By the time he turned the corner, he found them — Regulus, fully dressed, coat on, keys in hand, frozen mid-step. And Draco. Draco was crying like the world had split open.

“No!” Draco yelled, backing away from Regulus, tears already soaking his cheeks. “No! I don’t want you! Go away!”

Regulus had gone pale. His eyes wide, his posture completely still, like any movement might make things worse. “Draco—” he said, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Hey. Look at me. I'm sorry- It’s just work, sweetheart, I’ll—”

“NO!” The boy screamed again, choking on a sob. “You’re always leaving! You don’t want me! You’re just like Narcissa! You'll leave me alone! Again!”
That landed like a blow. Regulus flinched — visibly. His lips parted, but no words came out.

James stood there, frozen too. He’d never seen Draco like that. He’d never seen Regulus like that.

“I don’t care if you’re my dad!” Draco cried, stamping his foot. “I want James! I want James to be my dad! At least he’s here! He's always with Harry! He loves him and you don't!”

James’s breath caught. And Regulus — Regulus broke.

Not in a dramatic way. There was no falling to his knees or tears running down his face. Just a silence that seemed to vibrate. A stiffening of his spine. A twitch of his lip as if it had tried to move and couldn’t.

His fingers trembled around the keys. His jaw clenched so tightly James could see it from across the room. And his voice — when it finally came — was rasped, barely audible.
“All right,” Regulus said. “Okay. That’s… That’s enough now, Draco. I said that I'm sorry, I'll do better okay? Take some time. You're- you're right honey, I'm sorry.”

But the boy was still sobbing, too worked up to listen. James moved forward instinctively, bending down and placing a hand on Draco’s back.

“Hey,” he said softly, “it’s okay. It’s okay to be upset. But you can’t say things like that, yeah? Regulus is your dad. And he loves you more than anything.”
Draco didn’t answer. He just leaned into James, hiccuping, clutching at his shirt. And James held him, but his eyes stayed on Regulus.

The man hadn’t moved.

His face was unreadable now — all the devastation buried under layers of control. But James could still see it. The cracks. The way he’d gone stiller than still, like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

“Reg,” James said gently. “He didn’t mean it. He’s just—he’s scared. You’re all he has. And you're seeing him so little these days.”
Regulus didn’t speak. He nodded once, then turned around and walked away, heading back toward the stairs with slow, deliberate steps.

James watched him go, something hot and aching settling in his chest.

Draco clung to him. James held him tighter. But his eyes stayed on the empty hallway, already missing the sound of footsteps that had stopped before they should’ve.

Regulus didn’t remember walking back up the stairs.

Everything felt thick—the air, the light, even the sounds. Like he was moving underwater. Like if he turned around too fast, the world would ripple and collapse and drag him under. He reached the bathroom and locked the door without thinking. His fingers trembled as he turned on the tap, splashing cold water onto his face. It didn’t help. It didn’t cut through the fog. It didn’t bring him back.

The reflection staring back at him was as familiar as it was unbearable. Pale cheeks. Lips pressed tight. Eyes sunken and shadowed like he hadn’t slept in days—which, fine, he hadn’t. But it wasn’t the exhaustion that clung to him now. It wasn’t even the sting in his throat or the echo of his son’s voice still ringing in his ears.

It was the truth buried in the words.

The way Draco had said them—like a wound, raw and certain.

You’re just like Narcissa.

His hands braced against the sink, knuckles white, head bowed low. His chest tightened, breath short.

No. No, I’m not.

I stayed. I’m still here. I never left.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying.

But that wasn’t how it looked to a five-year-old.

He was always leaving. Always gone before Draco woke up, back after he fell asleep. They shared the same roof but now he somehow saw him less. And not because he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more than to be there, every second — but there wasn’t time. There wasn’t money. There was only a long, stretching debt and an even longer list of responsibilities he couldn’t afford to drop.

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles white against the porcelain.

James. I want James to be my dad.

He swallowed hard, the sting in his throat unbearable now. His own son had looked at another man — a man who was warm, and steady, and present — and said that’s what I want.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even blame him.

James was there. James was kind. James had the kind of softness Regulus had spent years learning how to fake and never quite mastering.

His breath caught, chest squeezing. It shouldn’t hurt like this. He’d known it was coming — this implosion. He’d felt it in the distance like thunder. But it still hurt. And he hated how much. He hated how, for just a second, a voice in his mind whispered: Maybe he’d be better off with someone like James.

He stood up straight, biting down the thought like poison. No. No. Draco was his son. He had fought too hard, given too much, to let anyone — even James bloody Potter — take that from him.

He reached for a towel, dried his face, and forced himself out of the bathroom.
The hallway was silent. No footsteps. No voices. The kind of quiet that made him feel like an intruder in his own life.

When he was nearly ready, he paused at the mirror again. Tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Straightened his collar. Smoothed his sleeves. He looked almost composed.

Then he went to Draco’s bed. The boy wasn’t there, of course. Still with James, probably. Still safer in someone else’s arms.

But Regulus made the bed anyway. Tucked the corners, folded the blanket, straightened the pillow. Because it was something he could do. Something small. Something that made him feel, briefly, like a father again.

His throat burned and not just for the fever. He wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not ever.
He stood still for a moment, just looking at the tiny, empty space — the stuffed dragon still propped in the corner, its stitched smile so at odds with everything else.

And then he turned, picked up his bag, and left the room in silence.
His body felt like it was moving without him.
One foot in front of the other. Bag on shoulder. Mind running blank.

The fever was worse this morning — not a question anymore, but a fact. His limbs were heavy and shaky, his vision slightly blurred at the edges, and the chill in his bones wasn’t just the cold anymore. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, the ache behind his eyes, the sharp rasp of each breath like his lungs were wrapped in sandpaper.

But he had to go to work.

And before that, he had to see Draco.

He needed to tell him. Today. Right now. Not tonight. Not after. He was tired of after. After never came.
He crossed the hallway in silence, the house still holding that early-morning hush. Everyone else was waking slowly — the kettle clicked somewhere in the kitchen, distant voices carried softly. He followed the small scuff sounds and turned the corner into the living room.

Draco was curled on the couch, knees to his chest, a blanket wrapped around him like a fortress. His head snapped up when he heard the footsteps. His eyes, red-rimmed and tired, met Regulus’s—and then, instantly, he turned away.

Regulus felt it like a slap. He took a tentative step forward. “Draco—”

“No.” The voice was small, but sharp. A child’s command. Final. “I don’t want you.”

Regulus froze. “Come on, Draco- don’t—”

“I said no!” Draco’s voice cracked as he practically shouted the words into the pillow now shielding half his face. “Go away! I don’t want you!”

Regulus stood still for a moment. The words were knives. They shouldn’t be — not really — he knew Draco didn’t mean them, not like that. But God, they landed so precisely. So cruelly accurate to the fear already carving into his ribs.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. But he also couldn’t force him.
So he swallowed, nodded once, and stepped back. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay, I’ll go.” It was fair. It was human to want space. Even for a five-year-old.
Still, he lingered at the doorframe, throat tight, gaze locked on the small figure curled into the couch’s edge.

Then, softly — barely more than a breath- “I love you, Draco. More than anything. More than everything. Always remember this, alright?”
He waited. Just for a second. Just in case. But there was no reply.

Only silence. Only the soft sound of Draco’s breath against the pillow, and the quiet that stretched between them like a wall.
Regulus turned, blinking away the heat in his eyes, and headed for the door — fever rising, body aching, heart breaking.

Tonight, he’d fix it. He had to.

James was already waiting in the hallway, as he had been for the past five mornings. Quiet, alert, doing his best not to hover — just to be there. For anything. For nothing. For Regulus.

But today, something was off the second he stepped into view.
Regulus looked worse than usual — pale, drawn, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. He moved like every step cost him something. His coat hung loose on his frame, and when he paused to pull it tighter, his fingers shook.

“Hey,” James said softly, watching him reach for his bag.
Regulus didn’t answer at first. Just nodded once, distracted. Then he stopped, hand braced against the wall for a second longer than necessary.
“Reg,” James said again, more gently this time. He stepped closer, touched his arm. “You alright? I know- I know that it seems bad- but- but it's not. He's doing this because he loves you.”

"I know my son, James." Regulus glanced at him — just a glance — but it was enough. James saw it. The flush high on his cheeks, too pink for the cold. The glassy sheen in his eyes. The tightness in his jaw like he was biting something back.

James reached out, fingertips brushing his cheek — and froze.

“Reg?” he breathed. His hand moved quickly — forehead, nose, the side of his face. Burning. He was burning up. “Christ, Regulus, you have a fever—”

Regulus flinched back slightly, more out of habit than rejection. He coughed once — wet and low — and straightened up like he could shake it off. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” James stepped in front of him, blocking the way. “You need to stay home. Fuck- you're burning-”

“I can’t,” Regulus said simply, like it was a fact, like it wasn’t even up for debate. His voice was hoarse, but steady. “They pay me today. I have to go. I have to give Snape the advance.”

“You’re seriously going to drag yourself into that restaurant with a fever and—”

“I’ll be home by seven, or- or before seven. I don't know.” Regulus said quietly, as if that settled it. He stepped past James, or tried to.

But James moved with him, catching him by the wrist — gently. “Regulus. This isn’t sustainable.”

Regulus didn’t respond. He just leaned forward—slowly, almost hesitantly—and rested his forehead against James’s shoulder. The gesture was unexpected, and it silenced the room more completely than words ever could. James froze, every muscle going still. His breath hitched in his throat, caught somewhere between surprise and something deeper, something he didn’t quite have a name for. Whatever he’d been about to say disappeared entirely, lost to the sudden closeness, the quiet weight of Regulus leaning into him.

Tentatively, James’s hands brushed against Regulus’s waist, unsure at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. But then they moved—upward, slowly, gently—tracing the curve of his sides, the line of his back, until his fingers found the nape of Regulus’s neck. He let them tangle in his damp curls, then drift up to the fever-warm skin of his forehead.

Regulus shivered beneath the touch. A subtle, involuntary tremble. And in that moment, he couldn’t tell whether it was the fever making him shake… or the way James was making him feel.

They stood like that for a moment — the world around them hushed — as Regulus let himself exist in that silence, in that warmth. Let himself breathe.
“Tomorrow,” Regulus murmured against him. “Tomorrow I’ll stay home. I promise.”

James wanted to argue. Desperately. But instead, he exhaled slowly and wrapped a hand around the back of Regulus’s neck, grounding him. “Okay,” he said softly. “Tomorrow.” It wasn’t enough. But for now, it was all they had.

By the time Regulus reached the corner of the street, he was already drenched in sweat beneath his coat, despite the icy wind clawing through London’s alleys. His breath came shallow and fast, every step like dragging chains. His lungs felt too full and too empty all at once, like they were collapsing in on themselves.
He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. Still burning. Still not enough to stop.

He had to do this.

Because Mulciber owed him. Because this job, horrible and thankless and humiliating as it was, paid. And because today, of all days, he couldn’t afford to miss a single hour.

The bell over the bar door rang with its usual shrill screech as he pushed inside. The heat hit him like a slap, thick and artificial. Regulus blinked, blinked again. His vision was fogging around the edges, the floor tilting just slightly. He kept walking.

Mulciber was already behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp and calculating. “You’re late.”

“I’m on time,” Regulus muttered, not even bothering to remove his coat yet.

Mulciber sneered. “You look like hell.”

Regulus forced a smile, thin and dangerous. “Thanks. You look exactly like the last time I had a stomach flu.”

That earned a dark chuckle. “Still got that pretty little mouth, Black. Shame it doesn’t match your work ethic.” Regulus said nothing. Just shrugged off his coat, hanging it slowly, trying not to sway. His shirt clung to his back. He hated how obvious it felt. How weak. But he wouldn’t let Mulciber see that. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“You’ve got full floor today,” Mulciber continued, tossing him a damp cloth like it was a punishment. “That includes front tables. Someone puked by the window this morning. Mop’s in the back.”

Of course. The full shift. The worst tables. The worst timing. Regulus bit the inside of his cheek, grounding himself in the sharp pain of it. He nodded once, just once.
“Fine.”

Mulciber leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “You gonna make it the whole day, or am I gonna have to carry your corpse out the back door?”

“If I go down, I’ll make sure to aim for your shoes.”

That made Mulciber grin. “Keep that fire, Black. Might be the only thing keeping you upright.” Regulus turned before he could reply — before the shake in his fingers gave him away. He grabbed the mop, the bucket, the bleach. His legs ached. His spine ached. His soul ached.

But he thought of Draco. Draco who was five. Draco who wanted James as a father. Draco who was probably still upset. And it burned. A different kind of fever.
Regulus squeezed his eyes shut for a second as the mop sloshed into cold, dirty water. He could do this. He had to do this.

Because Draco deserved more. Because someone had to pay for what was broken.
And Regulus Black —Regulus Black would always choose the pain, if it meant keeping the people he loved out of it.

The morning passed in a blur of footsteps and boiling air. Every movement was like wading through sludge — thick, slow, resistant. Regulus kept his head down, shoulders tight, as he cleaned the corner table with practiced, precise strokes. The bleach stung his hands through the gloves, but at least it cut through the smell of sour beer and something vaguely rotten coming from the floorboards.

A pair of customers pushed through the door, laughing too loud for the hour. Regulus didn’t glance up.
“Oi, sweetheart!” one of them called, plopping onto a barstool. “You do food here or just scowls?”

Regulus straightened, cloth still in hand. “Depends. You want a menu or a mirror?”

The man blinked. His friend laughed. “Bit of attitude, huh?” Regulus didn’t bother responding. He walked behind the bar, grabbed the menus, and set them down with a flat thud that suggested he’d already reached his limit today. And it wasn’t even noon.

Mulciber leaned against the far end of the bar, arms crossed. Watching. Always watching. “Try not to insult all the paying customers, Black,” he called, voice lazy and drawling.

“I’ll save some for the dinner shift,” Regulus muttered, already moving toward the back to restock the cutlery tray. His steps faltered once he passed through the swinging door — the momentary quiet pressing in like a hand on his chest. He braced himself on the metal prep table, letting his weight sink into his arms.

Don’t sit down. Don’t stop moving. You stop, you collapse. He filled the tray. One fork at a time. One breath at a time.

Back out front, the doorbell shrieked again — this time a woman with a toddler and an expression like she’d been dragged through hell sideways. Regulus caught the eye of a younger server who instantly looked away. Of course.

He moved toward her. “Can I help?”

“High chair. And something he’ll eat,” the woman said, lifting the kid who was mid-scream and holding a fistful of her hair.

Regulus nodded. “Toast fingers, no crust, and a butter potion.”

The woman blinked. “What?”

“We make one,” he said flatly, already leading her to the table. “It works. I’ll bring it out.”

She didn’t say thank you, but she looked like she wanted to. That was enough. When he passed the bar again, Mulciber was there. A mug in hand. Watching, again.

“Didn’t peg you for the motherly type,” he said with a smirk. “Though I suppose you’ve always had that… softness under the sneer.”

Regulus grabbed the mug off the tray next to him and handed it to a customer without looking. “And you’ve always had that excessive saliva under the smirk.”

Mulciber laughed, low and appreciative. “Still sharp. We’ll see how long that lasts when the double shift hits.” Regulus exhaled through his nose. He didn’t rise to the bait. Didn’t have the energy. Not when his vision was starting to shimmer around the edges. Not when he felt like he was breathing through fabric soaked in ice water.

He ducked into the kitchen. The cook raised a brow. “You good?”

“Fine,” Regulus replied automatically. “Toast. No crust. Butter potion.”

The cook didn’t question it.

The hours crawled. He served, cleaned, fetched, refilled, all on autopilot. His bones ached. His skin burned. Every time he stopped for more than a few seconds, it felt like his soul tried to slip out of his body — like it wanted a chance to breathe where he couldn’t.

By mid-afternoon, the bar was half full and Mulciber was sitting at a booth, feet up like he owned the world. His boots left streaks on the cushions. Regulus would have to clean that later, too.

“Hey, Black,” he called, pretending to be friendly. “You do that thing I asked? With the wine?”

“I’m busy.”

“Did I ask if you were busy?”

Regulus stopped in place. Turned. “No. You asked if I did the thing. And I didn’t. Because I’m not your bloody sommelier.”

Mulciber grinned again — not angry. Amused. “See, I knew there was something I liked about you, sweetheart. But I'd keep that checked out when you're talking with your boss. I'm still the one who pays you, remember.” Regulus’s fingers curled into fists. But he didn’t say another word. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Not today. Not with Snape breathing down his neck, not with Draco barely speaking to him, not with James watching him like a man waiting for someone to fall.

He walked away. Shoulders straight. Mouth shut.

Just a few more hours. Just make it to the end.

By the time the sky outside had gone full ink-black, Regulus was shaking.

Not shivering. Not trembling. Shaking.

His spine felt like glass, ready to crack under the next flicker of pressure. His shirt clung to his back like it was painted on, cold with sweat, and his hands had stopped responding properly—every grip slower, every movement imprecise. He didn’t even bother checking if he looked presentable anymore. He probably didn’t. He was just trying to survive.

The evening crowd was louder now, more chaotic, more drunk. More demanding. The clatter of glasses and chairs filled the air like gunfire. Every voice felt like it was aimed directly at his skull.

And Mulciber was still there. No longer lounging in his booth, no longer idly watching from behind the bar. Now he stalked the floor with the air of someone who’d decided it was time to remind everyone just who owned the place.

And Regulus was an easy target. “So this is what the mighty Black family has come to,” Mulciber muttered, just loud enough for the passing waitress to hear. She flinched but kept walking. Regulus was refilling a tray at the bar. His knuckles were white against the metal, jaw locked.

“Pouring drinks for the people you used to step over,” Mulciber went on, sidling closer. “Fitting, don’t you think? Or maybe you’re into it. Some of your kind like being beneath someone.”

Regulus didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. His throat was raw. Every breath was like gravel. He wasn’t sure he could speak even if he wanted to.
“Hey,” Mulciber added, louder now. “You deaf or just too good to answer?”

Regulus picked up the tray and turned. “I’m too busy keeping this place from falling apart while you act like a drunk rodent in silk,” he said, quiet and flat.
It wasn’t even his best line. He didn’t have a best line anymore. He was running on fumes and fury.

Mulciber stepped forward—too close. Regulus didn’t flinch, but it took everything not to. “You little shit,” Mulciber spat. “You think because you have someone with a nice car, you’re someone? You’re a joke. A sick, pathetic—”

The tray tipped. It wasn’t deliberate. Regulus’s hand simply failed him. His arm gave way like a rope gone slack, and the entire tray tipped out of his grip, crashing down with a spray of glass and silverware and a half-finished roast lamb that hit the floor like a wet slap.

Everything went quiet for a heartbeat.
Then— “What the fuck did you just do?” Mulciber roared.

Regulus tried to steady himself, but his knees were locked wrong, and his eyes were swimming with heat. His stomach rolled. His skin felt blistering and frozen all at once. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but then Mulciber’s hand came down fast and sharp.

The sound of the slap was like a whip.

The impact whipped his head sideways and the rest of him followed. He staggered, footing gone, his vision turning to static. His shoulder hit a chair leg. Then the floor caught him. Hard.

And then— Nothing. The ceiling spun above him, too far away. There was shouting. Distant movement. A voice calling his name.

His name.

All Regulus could feel was the floor—cold, sticky, and unforgiving beneath his cheek—and the crushing weight of failure pressing against his chest like a slab of stone. The world tilted. Colors smeared together, shapes losing their edges as the floor seemed to rise up and swallow him. For a moment, everything went dark—he slipped past the edge of consciousness, floating in that quiet, heavy void behind his closed eyes.

Then, violently, he came back.

A gasp tore from his throat as he blinked, disoriented, struggling to focus. Pain exploded in his head—sharp and rhythmic—centered at his temple and cheekbone. His mouth tasted of copper, bitter and metallic. When his fingers reached up, they came away wet—blood. Sticky, hot, and fresh.

Mulciber stood over him, arms crossed, a lazy smirk stretched across his face—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t even touch him,” he said, voice silky with mock concern. “It’s not my fault.” Regulus forced his eyes to stay open, blinking through the nausea and spinning room. Each movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing over him. He felt the sting of an open cut on his temple, another along his cheek. Raw, sharp pain.

A voice cut through the haze—female, tense, uncertain. “Should we call the police?”

Before he could even process the words, let alone respond, Mulciber’s hand snapped forward again. The slap landed hard, a crack like a gunshot echoing through the room as Regulus’s head jerked sideways. “Wake up,” Mulciber snapped, crouching down, his face far too close now—eyes cold, voice sharp with command. “Don’t pass out on me. Say you’re fine. I don't want the police in my goddam bar.”

Regulus coughed, wincing, and struggled to sit up, every movement sending sparks of pain through his skull. His voice was rough, barely a whisper. “I’m fine… No need…”

Mulciber cut him off with a hard shove to the ribs, making Regulus gasp and falter.
“Enough of this,” Mulciber snarled. “You’ve made enough of a mess. Get out—now. Before I decide to call someone who will make sure you don’t come back.”

Regulus blinked slowly, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, then forced himself to stand. The room spun, but he steadied himself against the table, jaw clenched tight.

He didn’t argue. He wouldn’t give Mulciber the satisfaction. Slowly, painfully, he made his way toward the exit, every step a battle. The weight of the cuts and bruises, the stinging humiliation, pressed down on him like chains.

Mulciber’s eyes followed him coldly. “Remember this, Black. This is what you’re worth.” Regulus didn’t reply. Not now. Not ever.

Regulus pressed the damp cloth to his temple as he reached the front steps. His fingers trembled around the fabric, now stained a dull red. The cold February air clung to his clothes, but the warmth from the wound made his skin feel feverish in contrast. He had managed to wipe the worst of the blood from his face, though the gash at his brow still throbbed with every heartbeat, and he could feel a sting along his cheekbone—just under the eye.

His key scraped against the lock as he opened the door. The warmth of the house hit him like a wave, almost dizzying. His knees ached. His ribs pulled tight with each breath. But still, he stepped inside.

“Regulus?” Narcissa’s voice came lightly from the sitting room. “You’re back early—”

And then, Sirius: “Oi, Reggie, you’re just in time. Draco’s been waiting for you all da—”

But Regulus didn’t hear the end of the sentence. Because Draco was already there. Small feet slapping against the wooden floor. Pale hair a blur. And before Regulus could brace himself, the little boy collided into his legs, arms flung around them.

“I’m sorry,” Draco choked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! I love you, I love you so much—don’t be mad—please don’t go away!”

Regulus’s throat closed. His hands hovered awkwardly over Draco’s small back, then slowly came down, pressing him close. He tried to crouch, to meet him at eye level, but the moment his knees bent, his vision blurred.

“I’m not mad,” he whispered. “Never at you, alright? I love you more than anything Draco, more than anything, always.” His voice was rough, thick, distant even to his own ears. From the corner of his eye, he saw Narcissa walking toward them—and then stopping in her tracks, her face blanching.

“Regulus?” she breathed, and now there was sharpness in her tone. Panic.

“What the fuck—” James’s voice came next, louder, coming from behind her. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Regulus didn’t answer. He pulled Draco gently away, brushing his hair back, smiling faintly, shakily. “Sirius,” he rasped, eyes glassy now, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze. “Take- take Draco, please.”

Sirius blinked, confused. “What?”

“Take him—” Regulus repeated, "I don't feel-" but his voice cracked, and this time, when he swayed forward, his body gave in completely.

Except he never hit the floor. James moved faster than he knew he could. One second he was standing behind Narcissa, and the next his arms were around Regulus’s torso, catching him just before he collapsed. He eased him down, lowering him gently to his knees, cradling him like something fragile and burning.

“Reg—bloody hell—Reg, look at me.” Regulus didn’t respond. His head lolled slightly, coming to rest against James’s chest, limp and far too warm. His breathing was shallow. Uneven. Heat radiated off him in thick, suffocating waves, like he was burning up from the inside out. James tightened his grip, heart hammering. “Hey. Hey, come on, don’t do this—stay with me.”

“His face—God, is that blood?” Narcissa dropped to her knees beside them, hand flying to cover her mouth.

“Yeah,” James hissed. “And he’s burning up.”

Draco whimpered in Sirius’s arms, confused and terrified. “What’s wrong with him? What's wrong with my dad?” Sirius tightened his grip, murmuring reassurances as he backed away slightly, holding Draco tight. "Dad! Dad! I say that I'm sorry! Dad, dad please! I'm sorry! Why are you like this?! I'm sorry!"

"Buddy, please- keep calm- it's not your fault okay? We'll take care of your dad, alright?" Sirius tried to calm the kid, keeping him far from Regulus who didn't move.

James ran a hand along Regulus’s forehead, checking for other wounds, his heart pounding too fast. “We need to get him upstairs. Now.”

Regulus didn’t protest. He didn’t say anything at all.

Chapter Text

Draco was crying. Not just sniffling or whimpering—he was sobbing, loud and broken and inconsolable, his small hands clawing at Sirius’s shirt as he tried to wriggle free. “It’s my fault! It’s my fault, he didn’t feel good and I was mean—he didn’t even hug me this morning—he didn’t—he didn’t—! And I didn't say that i loved him and-”

James barely heard the rest. His mind was a ringing void as he adjusted Regulus more securely in his arms. He felt too light—weightless in a way that made James’s stomach twist. Burning hot to the touch, skin flushed and damp with fever, and still somehow far too fragile.

And James was slowly losing it. Regulus. His Regulus. The same beautiful, stubborn bastard who had fought tooth and nail against storm and wind and the entire fucking world just to see Draco smile again—he couldn’t be like this. Not now. Not boneless in James’s arms, barely conscious, barely breathing, like he was fading by the second. A surge of panic clawed at James’s throat, raw and sharp. He held him tighter, as if that alone could anchor him. As if his grip could somehow keep Regulus tethered to this moment—to him. “Stay with me,” James whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead against Regulus’s temple. “Please. Just stay.”

“Your dad's sick, Draco,” Sirius said firmly but gently, keeping the boy close, giving him the care that he needed right now, a warm hand on his shoulder, a nice word. “That’s all, kid. He’s just sick. Nothing you said did this, don't worry honey. We'll take care of him and he'll be good for you, alright?”

“But what if it made it worse?” Draco wailed. “What if he doesn’t want to come back—what if he’s not okay—what if he—”

James didn’t stop to hear the rest. He couldn’t. Not now. Not with Regulus so still in his arms, head resting against his shoulder, breath shallow and quick and terrifyingly uneven. He took the stairs two at a time, holding him as if Regulus might shatter with the wrong touch.

His knees hit the floor by the guest bed, and he eased Regulus down with a care that bordered on reverence. His limbs were damp. His skin flushed and blotchy. His clothes stuck to him like he’d run a marathon in the rain.

And his face— The cuts. The bruises. James had seen enough fights to know what a slap looked like. But there was no time for rage, not now. He needed help. Immediate help. He fumbled for his phone with one hand, the other brushing Regulus’s hair back from his clammy forehead. “Come on. Stay with me,” James muttered under his breath. “Don’t pull a bloody dramatic Black faint on me, not now—”

The call connected.

“Mum? Mum hi- It’s me. I need you to come over—right now. It’s Regulus—he’s sick. I think he collapsed from exhaustion or fever or both, but he’s also injured. His face—he’s burning up. Can you—? Please-”

She didn’t even let him finish. “I’m on my way.”
He dropped the phone to the nightstand and looked back down at Regulus, still motionless but breathing. That was something. Not enough—but something.

There was the sound of footsteps, rapid and heavy, and then Narcissa appeared at the door with a bowl of water and a stack of cloths. Her face was pale, lips pressed in a line too tight to speak. She didn’t ask what had happened. She just set everything down beside James and knelt beside the bed.

“Let me,” she said quickly, dipping a cloth in the cold water and wringing it out. James moved to let her, watching as she carefully dabbed at the side of Regulus’s face, her fingers trembling only slightly.

“I should’ve forced him to stay home,” James said, barely recognizing his own voice. "I should've done something this morning- I knew- I fucking knew and still-"

“He wouldn’t have let you, James. And you know that. As I know that.” Narcissa murmured, brushing Regulus’s damp hair back. "He's too stubborn."
And it was true. James knew that. Knew that Regulus would have dragged himself to work on broken legs if it meant paying off even a fraction of what he owed. But it didn’t make it hurt any less—watching him like this. Crumpled. Defeated. Burning.

The scent of blood and sweat and something sour filled the room.

Narcissa flinched when the cloth hit the wound near Regulus’s temple. “This one’s deeper than it looked.”

James cursed under his breath. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Who?”

James looked up. “Whoever hit him—Mulciber, I think—I’m going to punch him in the face. Then I’m going to sue him. He’s going to regret ever laying a hand on him.”
And if Narcissa was shocked—or secretly impressed—she didn’t show it. But her look was unmistakably approving.

James wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

He. Would. Absolutely. Kill. Him.

Narcissa didn’t reply. She just dipped the cloth again. Draco’s cries echoed faintly from downstairs, sharp and aching. James turned his gaze back to Regulus, then to the door, willing the sound of his mother’s apparition.

He needed to be okay. He had to be okay.

James reached out, his hand brushing against Regulus’s knuckles, limp against the blankets. “Just hold on, Reg. Please.”

James had just straightened up when he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs—too fast, too frantic. The kind of noise only a small child makes when the world feels like it’s slipping out from under them.

“Draco—wait!” Sirius called from below, breathless. But it was already too late.

Draco barreled into the room, cheeks tear-streaked, eyes wide and red. His arms went straight for the bed, for the bundle of warmth and pain that was Regulus, and he clambered up beside him without hesitation. He wrapped himself around his father, small fingers grasping at the damp blanket as if trying to make sure he was real.

And James saw it happen.

The shift. The flicker.

Regulus stirred.

It was faint, barely a twitch, but his brow creased, his mouth moved—a rasp of breath that didn’t sound entirely unconscious. And James, still seated at the edge of the bed, leaned forward.

“Draco—hey, careful, he needs—”

But Regulus’s voice cut in, hoarse and low. “No. He can stay.” His hand moved slowly, a trembling shape in the half-light, reaching to brush Draco’s curls back from his forehead. “Just- just for a minute.”

Draco sniffled, burying his face against Regulus’s chest. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, fast, messy, barely breathing between words. “I didn’t mean anything I said. I was angry and I didn’t— I just wanted you to stay— and I thought maybe if I— I thought you didn’t love me anymore—”

“Hey, hey, baby-” Regulus murmured, voice cracking with effort, “Stop. Just stop.”
He smoothed his hand gently over Draco’s hair, over and over like he’d done a thousand times, even if James had never seen it so plainly. “None of this… is your fault.”

“But—”

“I was stupid,” Regulus interrupted, firmer now, even through the gravel of his voice. “I kept pushing. I thought if I worked more, I’d fix it. I thought I could do it all.”
James sat frozen at the edge of the bed, chest tight. It wasn’t just the fever talking—at least, not entirely. This wasn’t weakness. This was surrender. The kind that comes after too many nights holding up a dam with your own hands.

Regulus let out a ragged breath and turned slightly, eyes fluttering toward James without fully focusing. “And now James is helping me, okay? I'm in good hands.” he said, as if explaining something sacred. As if it needed to be said aloud to be true.

James’s heart clenched. There was no grandeur in the moment, no perfect cinematic swell. Just Regulus, broken and burning up, finally letting someone in. Finally letting him in. He swallowed hard, fighting down the warmth rising in his throat. He reached out, gently adjusting the blanket around both of them. “I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Both of you.” And this time—Regulus didn’t pull away.

Effie arrived faster than James had expected—coat barely buttoned, silver hair windblown, and the kind of focus in her eyes that came only from years of instinct. She didn’t even take her boots off before making her way upstairs.

“He’s in my room,” James said quietly, voice tight with worry. “Still asleep, but… I don’t know. It looks worse.”

Sirius was already crouched beside Draco at the dining table, coaxing him into eating one more bite of something warm before sending him off to play with Harry. “Come on, little prince,” he whispered, brushing back his godson’s fringe, “we’ll eat a little bit, okay? Let them take care of your dad.”

Draco hesitated, his eyes drifting toward his mum.

“I’ll come get you as soon as he wakes up,” James promised, crouching briefly to touch Draco’s shoulder. “I swear.” Draco nodded, reluctantly, and let Sirius lead him away.

When James stepped back into the bedroom, Effie was already by the bed, fingers pressed gently to Regulus’s neck.
“He’s still got a strong pulse,” she said softly. “But his fever’s climbed.”

James hovered uselessly in the doorway, hands clenched. “He was worse than this when I carried him up, I swear. Then he calmed down.”

Effie didn’t look up. She reached into her worn leather bag and began pulling out supplies: a thermometer, a jar of powdered ginger root, a vial of blue cooling salve, and a stethoscope. “That can happen. When the body collapses from exhaustion, it sometimes shuts everything down to preserve what’s left. But the fever’s doing damage underneath. We need to bring it down.”

She slid the thermometer gently into Regulus’s mouth, keeping one hand at his wrist the whole time. The other she used to check his chest, frowning slightly as she watched the slow, uneven rise and fall.

“How high is it?” James asked, voice rough.

“Almost 39.7,” Effie said, removing the thermometer. “Too high for someone in his condition. And his breathing’s shallow.”
She unscrewed the vial of cooling salve and began massaging it gently into Regulus’s temples, then down his neck and along his collarbone. “This should help regulate his temperature. I’m also giving him a fever-reducing draught and rehydration tincture. When he wakes up, we need to get fluids in him—water, soup, anything.”

James watched in silence, his heart thudding loud in his ears. But it wasn’t just the numbers or the salves. It was Regulus’s expression—tight with discomfort, almost pained. As if whatever dream he was having was too much. As if his body didn’t know how to rest, even in sleep. He was shivering violently, as if he wasn't able to warm up even though he was under tons of covers. James could feel his heat radiating from there, Regulus' mouth was open like his nose couldn't bring enough air in his lungs.

“I think he’s in pain,” James said, stepping closer. “He didn’t say anything, but… he looked better when he was passed out. Now it’s like—”

“He likely is,” Effie murmured. “It’s not just the fever. There’s bruising here…” She pulled the blanket down slightly and revealed the dark smear along Regulus’s ribs. “…and swelling here at the temple. Did he fall?”

James clenched his jaw. “Someone- probably Mulciber hit him.”

Effie stopped for a breath. “You’ll tell me that story later.”
She took a fresh cloth, dipped it in cold water, and folded it before laying it gently across Regulus’s forehead. “Right now we need to keep him stable. No sudden movements when he wakes. No pressure.”

“He doesn’t do well with help,” James said quietly.

Effie gave him a small, understanding smile. “Neither did your father. But help’s not about comfort. He'll understand.” Then, brushing Regulus’s damp hair off his forehead, she turned to James fully. “Stay with him. Talk to him. Sometimes even a sleeping mind listens. I’ll go take the medicine.” James sat down on the edge of the bed, brushing a thumb just under Regulus’s cheekbone where the skin was too hot, too pale beneath the fever’s flush.

James stayed there, elbow on the mattress, fingers resting lightly over Regulus’s wrist, counting each pulse beat like it might vanish if he didn’t. Sometimes he passed a gently hand on his forehead, just to check, hoping to feel something different than hotness.

The room had gone almost completely quiet, save for the faint shuffle of Effie downstairs and the low hum of the heating charm that James had reinforced as soon as he’d gotten Regulus into bed. He hated how cold he had been. How light he’d felt in his arms. It didn’t match him. Regulus Black was supposed to be sharp and precise and made of steel under fire. Not burning up and broken, mumbling in his sleep.

James leaned a little closer, voice low. “You scared Draco, you know that?”
He glanced over at him, just in case. No reaction. Still asleep. Still tense.
“But he’s fine. Sirius is keeping him busy. And Harry’s got him playing chess—although he’s cheating, so I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

Still nothing.

James sighed through his nose and reached for the cloth on Regulus’s forehead, dipping it into the bowl again before wringing it out with slow fingers. He wiped gently along his brow, then let it rest back in place, watching the way Regulus’s face twitched subtly at the touch. Too hot. Still too hot.

Effie returned just as James was leaning back again. She handed him a small vial of bright orange liquid and a bowl of steaming broth with something floating inside that smelled vaguely like star anise and lemongrass.

“Medicine,” she said. “And soup. We’ll wake him now, slowly.”

James braced one hand under Regulus’s shoulder as Effie gently put her hand to his temple, whispering something James didn’t catch—probably trying to see if she could do anything else to broke Regulus' fever, and Regulus stirred.

It was weak. A twitch of the fingers. A small, wet breath.
“Reg,” James said, voice tight. “Come on. You with us?”
Regulus shifted, his brow furrowed deeper now, his body curling slightly as if from pain. He blinked once, unfocused, and then again.

Effie leaned in. “Regulus, sweetheart, I need you to take this. Just a sip.”
His eyes fluttered toward her but didn’t quite land. His lips were dry and cracked, and it took effort to part them.

James slid in closer, gently lifting his upper body so Effie could bring the vial to his mouth. Regulus flinched at the contact, but James held him steady.
“That’s it,” James whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, love.”

Regulus drank. Not all, but enough. Then he sank back down again, breath shallow, skin still too hot. Still trembling. Still shivering.
Effie nodded. “Good. That should help. He needs rest. I’ll be back in a few hours to check again.”

“Thanks, Mum,” James murmured, barely glancing away from the man in the bed.

Effie hesitated at the doorway. “He trusts you,” she said. “Don’t let him push you out when he wakes up.”

James smiled grimly. “He won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”
When she was gone, James let the silence settle again. He brushed his knuckles along Regulus’s jaw, still thinking about what he’d said downstairs.

“I’ll pay you.” As if that’s what mattered.

James exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You think everything’s a transaction,” he muttered, voice quiet, eyes locked on the sleeping face. “But not this. Not us. You don’t owe me anything, Reg. I want to help you. I want you here.”
He paused. Then, softer: “And I’m not going to let you burn yourself to the ground trying to prove you don’t need anyone.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but James swore—just barely—that the furrow in his brow lessened. And still, James stayed. Through the next hour, and the next. Watching over him. Waiting for him to come back.

It was nearly eleven when James heard the soft creak of the upstairs floorboards.

He glanced up from the kitchen, where a mug of untouched tea was going cold on the counter. The house had quieted—Draco and Harry long asleep, Sirius lounging half-asleep in an armchair, and Narcissa reading in the corner, eyes flickering up at every sound.

James rose before he could stop himself. Something about the silence didn’t sit right. Something about Regulus never did—especially lately.

Upstairs, he caught the tail end of Sirius slipping into the guest room. James lingered by the banister. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop—not really. But he stayed.

He heard Sirius’s voice first, low and careful. “You awake?”

There was a pause. Then- “Unfortunately.”

James closed his eyes. That voice—rasped raw, like gravel underfoot—cut straight through him.

“You need anything?” Sirius again, a little closer now.

“Yeah. Actually…” Regulus’s voice trailed off for a second, thin as a thread. “There’s… there’s a folder in my bag. Students. Essays. French. They’re due tomorrow and I—I was supposed to finish them tonight.”

“You’re kidding,” Sirius muttered.

“They pay me,” Regulus insisted, a little more urgently now. “I need it.”

James could picture it perfectly—Regulus, pale and barely upright, still trying to cling to some sense of control. Still trying to work through fever dreams and exhaustion. Still believing that the weight of survival was his alone to carry.

“Reg,” Sirius said, clearly trying to hold back frustration, “You’re burning up. You're trembling under the cover and two of James' sweatshirt. You can't even hold your hands tight for how much they're shaking.”

“I know.” A beat. “But I still need it.” Something about the desperation in that made James move. He stepped away from the railing, not wanting to intrude more than he already had—but something tugged at him, that now-familiar thread wrapped around his ribs. So he waited. Gave Sirius time.
“They pay well. It’s French. You speak French. Come on, Sirius. Can you help me?”

James could practically hear the eye-roll that probably followed. But still—this was something. Regulus was finally asking for help, even if it was just about fucking French essays. He was talking to Sirius. That alone was a win.
Because one thing led to another—and James knew that he and Sirius would take good care of him.

“I mean, yeah, but I nearly flunked it in school.”

“You flunked everything.” He rasped out, before coughing.

“Oi,” Sirius scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Fine. I’ll do them. I’ll figure it out. I hope-”

A breath—soft, tired. “Thank you.” James leaned a little closer to the door. He shouldn’t be listening. But then he heard Regulus again, quieter this time. “Draco?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if it painted him just to speak. And probably it was like that.

Sirius was silent for a second, then his voice dropped to something softer. “He’s okay. He had dinner with Harry. Lily made him draw a ‘get well soon’ card for you.”

James smiled faintly at the image. He hadn’t known. He made a mental note to thank her. There was another silence. Then Regulus again: “Did he… say anything?”

Sirius sighed. “He misses you. A lot. But you scared him. Not with the fever, with… with everything before.”

James held his breath. He knew exactly what Sirius meant.

“I know,” Regulus rasped. “I’ll fix it. Tomorrow. I’ll fix everything.”
James’s chest ached. Because of course Regulus would say that. Sick as he was, barely conscious, he still believed everything was his to mend.
He didn’t hear Sirius respond this time—only the sound of the chair scraping as he stood, then the soft creak of the door opening.

Sirius stepped into the hallway, blinking when he saw James waiting.
“He’s out again,” he said quietly. “Still burning up. Shivering. Sick. But stubborn as hell.”

James gave a tired half-smile. “Heard you’ve got some homework to do?”

Sirius groaned dramatically. “I didn’t even do my own at school, and now I’m doing it for some dumb kids. Unbelievable.”

James chuckled, voice low. “You’re a saint.”

“Tell Reg that when he wakes up,” Sirius muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I want full credit.” James gave a quiet nod, brushing past him and into the room.
He just stepped into the room, slowly.

The lamp was still on. Regulus lay curled on his side, hair clinging damply to his forehead, breathing shallow. His lips were slightly parted, skin flushed in that way that said the fever was still climbing. Even in sleep, there was a crease between his brows—like something hurt. Or haunted him.

James sat beside the bed, not making a sound. Just watching.
And then, as if in response to some unspoken tether between them, Regulus shifted. A small movement. A hand emerging from the covers, reaching instinctively—

James caught it. Threaded their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Regulus didn’t wake. But his grip tightened ever so slightly. And James’s breath caught in his throat.

The sound that woke him was not loud, not at first. Just a soft, broken coughing, buried under layers of blankets and the thick weight of fevered breath.
But then it rose—wet, rattling, like lungs fighting against something they couldn’t quite lift. James sat bolt upright.

“Reg?”

Another cough—deeper this time, painful, almost choking. Then another. And another. He turned on the lamp so fast it nearly toppled. The soft golden light poured over the bed, and James felt his stomach turn to ice.

Regulus was curled sideways, drenched in sweat, his breath shallow and ragged. His face was flushed red and far too pale at once, like the blood didn’t know where to settle. His lips were dry. His skin burned to the touch.
“Regulus—hey, come on, breathe. Look at me—breathe with me—” But he was coughing again, chest convulsing like something was tearing its way up through him.

“Shit—Mum!” James was already on his feet, storming into the hallway. “Mum!”

Effie Potter was already halfway down the hall, robe on, hair pinned up in her usual no-nonsense twist. “What is it?” she demanded, even before he could speak.

“He’s—he can’t breathe properly—he’s burning— the fever is too high”

They both burst back into the room. Effie took one look at Regulus and her expression darkened. Her voice shifted instantly into something clipped and professional. “Light brighter. I need to see his face.”

James obeyed, hand shaking slightly.

Effie approached the bed and laid a cool hand against Regulus’s forehead, her brow knitting. She moved quickly, watching over Regulus’s chest, feeling his pulse, his heartbeat. “Pneumonia,” she muttered grimly. “It’s developed rapidly. His lungs are inflamed. Badly.”

James felt the floor tilt slightly. “What do we do?”

“I have an antibiotic in my case downstairs, thank God. But if it doesn’t bring the fever down in the next two days—if the fluid in his lungs doesn’t reduce—he’s going to the hospital, no discussion.”

James stared at her. “Mum, this can kill him.”

“At this stage? Maybe,” she said bluntly. “But we’re not there yet and he's young. You did the right thing calling me when you did.” James turned toward the bed, his hands flexing at his sides. Regulus had gone limp again, the coughing slowed but replaced by shallow, raspy breaths. His shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat, and his eyelashes stuck to his skin, damp from heat and effort.

Effie placed a small, vial-like bottle on the bedside table and uncorked it.
“I need him awake enough to drink this,” she said. “Help me sit him up.”

James moved immediately, slipping one arm under Regulus’s shoulders and the other behind his knees. Even through the fever, Regulus flinched at the contact, coughing softly, dazed eyes cracking open for a moment.

“Hey,” James whispered, voice tight. “Just for a second, okay? Drink this, and you can sleep again.” Regulus blinked at him—eyes glassy, unfocused—but obeyed, swallowing with effort as Effie poured the bitter liquid into his mouth.

“There,” she said. “That’s all for now. I’ll stay close, but you need to keep watch on his temperature. Wake me if it spikes further or if he starts coughing again that hard.”

James nodded numbly. Effie laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “He’s strong. You just need to keep him here long enough for the potion to work.”

Then she left, her steps soft but quick. James turned back to the bed, easing Regulus down again, brushing the hair from his forehead. His chest still rose and fell too fast. His body still trembled. And this time, when he settled into the armchair by the bed, he didn’t sleep at all.

James hadn’t slept. Not really. Every sound in the night had been either too loud or too quiet. Every shift in Regulus’ breathing had made him hold his own. He’d changed the damp cloths three times, offered him water, sat through the fevered dreams that made him mumble and twist, and now—now morning had finally crept in through the windows, and James felt both exhausted and wired.

He slipped downstairs, running a tired hand through his hair. The kettle clicked on, and he leaned against the counter for a moment, just breathing. Behind him, soft footsteps—Sirius, already up.

“You look like hell,” Sirius muttered, grabbing two mugs.

James gave a dry laugh. “I feel worse.”

“Any change?”

James shook his head. “Still burning up. He coughed for hours.” He hesitated. “Mum said it’s pneumonia. The antibiotics should help but—if he doesn’t improve in the next couple of days…”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. “He’ll pull through.” James nodded, but didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice.

A few minutes later, Narcissa joined them, robe drawn tightly around her, her face pale and unreadable.
“I heard him coughing again at four,” she said quietly.

“I stayed with him,” James replied. “He didn’t wake up, but—he’s not resting either.”

Narcissa exhaled slowly and took a sip of her tea, gaze lowered. “He’s going to keep pushing. The moment he can walk, he’ll go back to work.”

“I know,” James muttered. “Which is why we need to stop him.”

“I was thinking,” Sirius cut in, his tone more serious now. “I could take over some of his shifts. I’ve got time this week, and if I show up in his place, maybe Mulciber or whoever is his boss, won’t throw a fit. Or maybe he will—but he’ll have to deal.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Mulciber will let you breathe in his direction?”

Sirius smirked. “No- I don't think so. But I can be persuasive when I want to.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Narcissa muttered, but she didn’t protest. “It might give Regulus a few days to recover. And give us time to think of something more permanent.”

James nodded slowly. “He won’t take charity. Not from me. But if it looks like we’re just filling in-”

“-he might tolerate it,” Sirius finished. “Yeah.”

James looked up at the stairs, heart tight. “He probably won’t like it. But I think that something shifted yesterday. I'll plan on making him understand that we're not kidding.”

“Yeah—hopefully,” Narcissa agreed, folding her arms, her voice dropping with something heavier, older. “But he’s a fucking stubborn git. And he doesn’t trust easily. Not after what happened to him.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the living room with a soft warmth that contrasted the sudden chill in the air. James straightened slightly in his seat, eyes flicking toward her. Sirius, who had been tossing a cushion back and forth between his hands, stilled completely.

“What happened?” he asked, voice lower now, careful. A question posed by a brother afraid of the answer.

Narcissa looked at him—really looked—and her expression softened for a brief second. Pity. Guilt. Something close to exhaustion. “You know I can’t tell you, Sirius. It’s not my story. And if Regulus ever wants to talk about it, he will. But he suffered for it. I think… I know you blame me, and I am too. Blaming me, I mean. For everything. For leaving him. For putting him in charge of Draco at twenty. For stepping out of the mess that should’ve been mine to fix. For running away and letting Reg taking the rein, Draco, the debt- all alone. And maybe you’re right.”
She paused, her jaw tight. “But Regulus needed that. He needed a reason to stay. To fight for something. Or—I don’t know what could’ve happened to him. I really don't."
The words lingered. James felt them settle over all of them like fog, slow and choking.

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again. Then, after a second: “It’s about the ballet, isn’t it?”

Narcissa looked away. Not with shame—more like retreat. It was her answer, and not an answer at all.

James blinked, confusion rising. “Ballet?”

Sirius nodded faintly, his voice distant. “He used to dance. Obsessively. Since he was little. Ballet was—everything. He was a bloody natural. Mother hated it, of course. Said it wasn’t proper, said it was a waste of time. But Reg—he didn’t care. He danced anyway. He fought for it.”

James had a vague recollection, now that Sirius mentioned it. He had seen Regulus once, a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart. A performance at the Royal Opera House, maybe—one of those charity nights he had gone to with his parents, half-distracted and half-bored.

But then Regulus had come on stage.
And suddenly it hadn’t been boring anymore.

“He was like… a fucking butterfly,” Sirius said, gruffly, not looking at either of them now. “Weightless. Like the whole stage bent around him. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Never.”

James remembered. He’d been thirteen, maybe. Watching this boy—this impossibly graceful boy—on stage who looked like he was floating above the world. Beautiful. Effortless. But James also knew better now. Knew that nothing Regulus did was ever effortless. “He pulled all-nighters,” he said quietly. “Didn’t he?”

Narcissa nodded, finally meeting his eyes. “Every night. Alone. In a half-frozen studio he paid for with his own savings. Bandaged ankles. Bruised ribs. Once he danced with a fractured toe for two weeks because he didn’t want to fall behind. Obsession doesn’t begin to cover it.”

James felt something in his chest twist.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t known that Regulus was intense—driven. Of course he was. He was the kind of person who could hold a grudge longer than most people held a thought. But to picture that same self-control, that same brutal discipline, turned inward? It made his stomach ache.

“What happened to it?” he asked softly. “The dancing?”

“Something broke,” Narcissa said, after a long silence. "But as I said it's not my story- so let's go on. We have to restore him, or Draco will get mad." She snapped her fingers. They all sat with that for a moment, the fire flickering in the silence.

James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. “He still holds himself like a dancer.”

“Of course he does,” Narcissa said quietly. “You don’t forget something like that. It stays in the bones.” James didn’t answer. He was thinking of Regulus curled up in his bed upstairs, sick and silent and tired to the point of breaking. Of how he moved through the world like every step cost him something—and yet never stopped.
He was thinking of how much strength it took to stay when everything inside you wanted to run. And how maybe, just maybe, someone should fight just as hard to stay for him.

When James came back upstairs around one P.M., the house was quieter than it had been in days. Draco was playing downstairs with Harry, Sirius watching over them with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. Narcissa had gone out for an hour to pick up some things. Effie had finally gone home to rest after spending the night monitoring Regulus’ fever, though she’d left behind another bottle of antibiotics and a very strict set of instructions.

He pushed open the door with a gentle hand, half-expecting Regulus to still be asleep.

But he wasn’t. Regulus was awake, barely, propped against the pillows with the blankets tucked high around his chest, pale and visibly fevered. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his eyes looked sunken—bruised by fatigue. His lips were dry, slightly parted, and his whole body seemed to shiver just a little beneath the layers.

James stepped inside quietly, closing the door behind him. He didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room, pulling the armchair closer to the bed. He sat down with a sigh and reached out, brushing the damp fringe from Regulus’ temple.

Regulus didn’t flinch. His eyes followed James slowly, the way one watches a familiar shape move through water.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” James murmured.

A faint shake of the head. “Woke up.”

“Still cold?” Regulus didn’t answer, but the way his fingers were curled tightly around the blanket spoke loud enough.
James reached out again, more firmly this time, cupping the side of his face. The heat radiating from his skin was worrying. It wasn’t just a fever—it was a furnace burning just beneath the surface.
“You scared the shit out of me, Reg,” James whispered, leaning forward slightly. “You really fucking did.”

Regulus’ lips curled—just slightly. A weak approximation of sarcasm. “Wouldn’t… be the first time.” James let out a shaky laugh and sat back. For a few moments, he just watched him. There were so many things he wanted to say. So many things he didn’t know how to.

Instead, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
“You’re not working for a while,” James said gently, but firmly. “Sirius is covering some shifts. Narcissa and I have figured out the rest.”

Regulus’ eyes closed slowly. Maybe from relief. Maybe from shame. Maybe both.
“I'm sorry” he rasped.

“Don't even think about it,” James said. There was silence. Long and steady. Then Regulus moved, shifting just enough that his legs tilted, knees bent slightly—and without a word, he lowered his head onto James’ lap.

James froze.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe, almost. His hand hovered for a moment above Regulus’ back, uncertain. Then it settled—gently, softly—between his shoulder blades. And stayed there.

Regulus let out a breath, shaky and raw, as if even that simple act had cost him something. “I’ll pay you back,” he murmured after a while.

James looked down at the top of his head. “You don’t have to.” Regulus didn’t respond. James started stroking his back slowly, rhythmically. “You don’t have to, Reg. I didn’t do this for payment. You and Draco… you’re not guests. You’re here. You’re family. Whether you like it or not.”

Another silence. This one heavier. Then Regulus spoke, barely more than a whisper: “Don’t say that.”

James tilted his head. “Say what?”

“That I’m family.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”

“Because I’m not,” Regulus murmured, voice low and raw. “Not to you. Not really. I’m… tolerated. For Draco’s sake. For convenience. But you can’t—” He stopped, swallowed. “You don’t want me to be part of your family. I’m broken. Unlikable. Unlovable, even.”

“Jesus, Regulus.” James leaned forward, his voice soft but unwavering. “You’re here because I want you here. Because I care. You’re not tolerated—you’re wanted. You’re wanted, Regulus.” Regulus didn’t speak. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come.

James pressed on. “And unlovable? There’s a whole house downstairs that would argue with that. Draco would throw hands for you. Narcissa packed half the linen closet when she heard you had a fever. Sirius nearly broke the table when you collapsed. Remus was scared as hell.”

Still, Regulus didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away, either. He stayed where he was, head resting in James’s lap, shoulders tense beneath the blanket but beginning to loosen. His breath hitched—just once—and then steadied into something quieter.

When James leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head—slow, sure, unshakable—Regulus let him. He let himself be held. He let himself be cared for.
James then let out a shaky breath, his hand moving gently through Regulus’s damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead with a kind of reverence that made the air feel still.

“And me?” he said softly, voice thick. “Don’t even start talking about me, Reg. I was ready to go barreling into the bloody hospital for you—throw myself at the Doctors’ feet and beg them to save you. For fuck’s sake, do you even understand how much you matter to me?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. But the blush that rose on his pale cheeks was unmistakable, even if James couldn’t tell whether it was from fever or something far more human. His lips parted like he might argue—but James was already speaking again, quieter this time, leaning over him.

“You break my heart every time you talk about paying me back. Every time you insist on giving something in return, like this—whatever this is—needs to be earned. Like I haven’t already decided I’d do anything for you.” His fingers threaded once more through Regulus’s hair. “Please, Reg. Let me do this. Let me help you. Let me… care. From you and for Draco. It's- it's who I am and I want it o do this for you.”

Silence fell for a moment, just the soft rhythm of Regulus’s breath against James’s ribs. Then— “…Okay,” Regulus whispered. “Okay. I won’t… I won’t try to pay you back anymore. You're more stubborn than Sirius.” His voice was so quiet it barely reached James’s ears. But it was there.

James exhaled through his nose, forehead dropping lightly to rest against Regulus’s. “Thank fuck.” Then, after a beat, his voice dipped into something warmer. “Next time, though, try not to almost die just to get a day off. There are easier ways to stay in my bed, you know.”

Regulus huffed—too tired to roll his eyes properly, but the sound was unmistakable.
“I’m gonna start being fucking spoiled,” he muttered, voice dry and hoarse. “See how you like it when I never move out and start making demands.”

James laughed under his breath, hand curling more securely in Regulus’s hair.
“God, I’d love that,” he murmured. “You’d be terrible at it.” Regulus didn’t argue. He just sank deeper into James’s warmth.

He didn’t know what time it was. Probably late—by the weight in the air, the hush of the house, the way even his own breath seemed to move slower. But for the first time in what felt like centuries, he didn’t feel like death incarnate.

Which was, frankly, a miracle.

Sure, the fever was still lingering—buzzing just behind his eyes and across his skin like a second, too-warm layer. Sure, his throat still felt like it had been sanded down with a brick and his lungs were staging small, persistent protests. But after what must’ve been twenty-three hours of unbroken, undisturbed sleep, and with a body finally given permission to stop—he felt… not awful. Which, by his standards, was practically euphoria.

And then there was James.

Bloody James Potter.

James who had let him collapse without making a scene. James who had caught him before the floor could. James who—somehow—still looked at him like he was worth holding onto. Even now. Even after everything.

Regulus blinked up at the ceiling, trying to feel the shape of his own thoughts.

He should’ve been embarrassed. Mortified, even. The fever. The fall. The fact that he hadn’t been able to keep his legs under him in front of Draco. That he’d literally passed out in James’s arms like some tragic heroine. He should’ve been panicking over all of it.

But instead, all he could feel was… safe. Inconveniently safe. Irritatingly safe.
Maybe it was just the fever again. Warping everything. Making it soft. Making him soft. But even now, curled beneath James’s blanket, his skin still warm from the careful pressure of James’s hand on his forehead, Regulus felt something dangerous blooming in his chest. Something like peace.

Or worse. Trust.

His eyes fluttered shut again. Not to sleep. Just to be still.

He could still feel James’s fingers brushing against his temple from earlier. Could still hear his voice—Next time, try not to almost die just to get a day off. Regulus had wanted to scoff. He really had. But it was hard to be cutting when someone looked at you like you mattered.

Like he could die—and it would wreck them. God, he hated how much that meant to him. And loved it. He hated it and loved it at the same time, and— And it unsettled him.

Since birth, everything had been planned. His clothes, his hobbies, his studies—hell, even his emotions.
Be a true Black, Regulus. Don’t show weakness, Regulus. You can’t do this, Regulus. Don’t let them see the real you—they’ll drown you.

So now he didn’t really know how to cope with all of this. With the way hate and love kept folding into each other until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

How the fuck could he be so completely done with James Potter and his insufferable grin, and at the same time want him around every minute of the damn day?
How could he want those stupid fingers running through his hair, that voice whispering him to sleep? His reckless bravery. His ridiculous joy.
Everything.

What did that even mean for him? Was— was it normal?
He didn’t know. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Sirius. God, that would be the worst. Maybe the fever really was fucking with his head. But he didn’t move. Didn’t need to. The world was finally quiet around him, and for once, he wasn’t carrying it on his own.

Regulus heard the door creak open and blinked slowly, not quite sure who to expect.

But then—Draco. His Draco. His baby. His light. His little star.

The little boy stood in the doorway in his rumpled pyjamas, clutching the edge of the frame, wide-eyed and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be there. His bottom lip wobbled just slightly, and Regulus felt something inside him twist painfully.

“Hey, petite etoile” Regulus said, his voice still scratchy. He opened his arms. “Come here, mon amour.” Draco didn’t hesitate after that. He darted across the room and climbed up into the bed like it was something he’d done a thousand times, burying his face against Regulus’s chest. “Je t’aime, mon petit dragon.”

Regulus held him tightly, one hand stroking his back. “But right now I’m sick, you know,” he murmured, brushing back Draco’s hair. “You really shouldn’t be up here. You’ll catch something awful and then we’ll both be useless and dramatic and whiny— your poor uncle will have to put us in separate corners.”

Draco didn’t laugh. He just held on tighter. “I don’t care,” he mumbled. “I missed you too much. Je t'aime aussi, mon papa.”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a careful breath. “I missed you too, love. So much. So so so much.”

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Draco added quickly, the words tumbling out now. “I was just angry. You were always gone, and it felt like—like you didn’t want to be here. Like you didn’t want me.”

Regulus’s throat closed, but he forced himself to speak. “I always want you,” he whispered. “Even when I’m not here. Especially then. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

Draco sniffled and nodded, little hands fisting in the blanket. “I know that now.”

“I’m sorry,” Regulus said quietly. “For everything. I was trying to do too many things at once and I forgot what mattered most.”

“You,” Draco said fiercely, looking up at him. “You matter most too. To me.”

Regulus smiled faintly, thumb brushing over Draco’s cheek. “You’re going to make me emotional, and then I’ll get even more congested.”

“Too late,” Draco muttered, tucking himself closer. “I’m staying here.”

Regulus sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow sneezing and miserable, I’m making Sirius deal with you.”

“You’d miss me,” Draco said smugly. Regulus didn’t argue.
“You’re my papa,” he said again, voice a shaky half-whisper. “And I don’t want James to be my dad.”

Regulus kept his tone light, even though something inside him twisted hard. The insecurity clawed at his chest like it wanted to break out.
“No?” he asked softly, forcing a smile. James was perfect, how could Draco not want him as a dad?

Draco shook his head hard, hair flopping into his eyes. “I only said it ’cause I wanted you to be… um…” He scrunched his face, searching for the word. “Sirius said it once. Jelly? Jello-y? Gello-so? Gel-y?"

Regulus let out a breathy laugh that was closer to a cough. “Jealous?”

Draco’s eyes went wide. “Yes! That one—jell-us!”

“And why,” Regulus asked, eyebrows lifting, “would you want me jealous?”

Draco took a big, serious inhale, the way five-year-olds do when they’re winding up for something very important.
“Cause when you say Harry’s super good at drawing, I try and try so I can be good too. So I thought”—he waved his hands in a frantic circle—“if I said James was the best dad ever, you’d wanna be an even bester dad and stay home more and not leave for work all the time, and then we could draw together and I wouldn’t miss you so much.”

The words tumbled out in one breath; when they stopped, he blinked up as if waiting to see if they’d made sense. Regulus’s chest tightened. He smoothed a palm over Draco’s flyaway hair. “That’s… some clever upside-down thinking, little snake.”

Draco squinted. “Upside-down thin-king?”

“Reverse psychology,” Regulus translated, amused despite himself. "Never-mind- it's a grownup thing. You'll understand later-"

“Oh.” Draco considered that, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “But it wasn’t true anyway. I don’t want James to be my dad. He and Harry are loud.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re quieter, and you tell the best bedtime stories, and you let me have the last biscuit sometimes even when you pretend you don’t.” He leaned closer, whisper-conspiratorial. “And you make the voices for the dragons right. And you're warm and your hugs are the best in the world!”

Regulus laughed—really laughed—and it came out hoarse but warm. “Glad to know my dragon voices are appreciated.”

Draco grinned, victory shining through the leftover tears. “So… you’re not mad?”

Regulus pulled him into a gentle hug, mindful of the ache in his ribs. “Not mad. Promise. I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much. I’ll fix that.”

Draco’s small arms squeezed tight. “’Kay. But you still gotta get better first.”

“Yes, Mr.Draco.” Regulus tapped the boy’s nose. “Doctor’s orders?”

“Mm-hmm.” Draco settled against him with a satisfied hum. “And when you’re all better, we can draw dragons together. Mine’ll be louder, though.”

Regulus smiled into Draco’s hair. “We’ll see about that.” And for the first time in days, the weight in his chest felt light enough to breathe. "And Harry draws really well but your dragons are the best Draco, so you don't need to be jello-y, alright?" And the toothy smile that Draco gave him was really the best gift he could ask for.

"You're really my favorite, dad!"

Chapter Text

Regulus woke slowly, blinking up at the ceiling as the early morning light filtered through the curtains. It had been a few days since the fever broke, and while he still felt like a slightly overcooked rag, at least the world no longer spun every time he opened his eyes. That was progress. Small, infuriatingly slow progress.
His muscles still ached, his chest still burned faintly when he breathed too deep, and he’d lost more weight than he could afford, but he could stand without swaying. He could walk without clutching at the wall. And he could, finally, breathe through his nose again.

He took that as a win.

Slipping on a loose sweatshirt that James had probably shrunk in the dryer— Potters and their war against proper laundry — Regulus padded barefoot down the stairs, slow but steady. The sounds of morning were already in full swing: clinking mugs, the low hum of the kettle, the occasional shriek of Harry or Draco from the front room. And in the kitchen, as expected, was chaos.

And at the center of it, looking like he’d barely survived a war zone, stood Sirius.

His hair was a mess—more than usual, somehow—pushed back by a pair of James’s reading glasses, which were perched precariously on his head for no apparent reason. He was wearing mismatched socks, one of which clearly belonged to Remus, and a grey hoodie that was inside out. In one hand, he held a spatula; in the other, a mug of coffee so large it looked like a small pot. The toast on the counter was burnt. There was a small fire in the toaster. He hadn’t noticed yet.

Regulus leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and raised an eyebrow.
“Well. This is horrifying. Truly, utterly horrifying. Did you ever cook?”

Sirius turned, mid-sip. “Christ. You’re alive.”

“Disappointed?”

“Only because now I can’t steal your jumpers guilt-free,” Sirius grinned, then immediately turned back to the toaster, swearing under his breath as he tried to put out the small flame with a napkin. It disintegrated.

Regulus sighed, walked to the sink, grabbed a glass of water, and dumped it in. “You’re a danger to yourself and others. Seriously- how old are you? Twenty-five? This is worrisome.”

“You think I don’t know that? Remus exists for a reason, Reggie. Thank God for that man.” Sirius wiped his hands on the back of his hoodie and stared at Regulus like he was seeing a ghost. “Seriously, though—you look better. Still got your shit-face. But better.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Asshole.”

“It was, believe it or not,” Sirius said, handing him a fresh mug of tea—miraculously the only thing he’d managed not to ruin.
“It’s been weird around here without you sighing in disappointment every time I breathe. Or scolding Draco every time he gulps without saying ‘sorry.’”

Regulus nearly dropped the mug. “He did what?! I leave him for one week and look what he’s become. Incredible.” Then he took a sip and grimaced. “Is this… cinnamon?”

“Don’t start. That’s all they had at the shop. I’ve been up since six wrangling two gremlins, trying not to burn the house down, and coordinating Narcissa’s schedule because someone had the audacity to collapse in the hallway and scare the life out of us.”

"Arh, arh-" Regulus snorted. “You poor thing.”

“I am, actually.” Sirius leaned back against the counter, dramatic as ever. “Do you know how many jobs you were juggling? I’ve done, like, a third of them this week and I’m ready to fake my own death.”

“And here I thought you didn’t believe in structure.”

“I don’t! But apparently you do, and your schedule is terrifying.” Sirius paused, frowning. “I think I finally understand why you walk around with that permanent frown. It’s not attitude. It’s exhaustion.” He looked genuinely offended. “And you didn’t tell me people bite.”

Regulus blinked, sliding into a chair and raising an eyebrow. “You got bitten?”

“Some old woman thought I was trying to steal her return receipt. I reached for the bin, and next thing I know she’s got her dentures on my hand like it’s a scone.”

Regulus choked on a laugh. “That’s what you get for working with the public.”

“Oh, now you’re smug. You’re not allowed to be smug. I’ve had, like, four consecutive twelve-hour shifts and both of the tiny gremlins—don’t get me wrong, I love them—but your son tried to barter me for candy yesterday.”

“That sounds like Draco. You just don't know how to say no.” Regulus reached for a mug, pouring himself lukewarm tea with the deliberation of someone who still had the energy of a dying fern. “Well. At least you finally respect what I do.”

Sirius slumped dramatically into the opposite chair.
“I want to build you a shrine. Do you want a plaque? A medal? I was thinking a statue—arms outstretched, eyes dead, paper cuts all over. We’ll call it Saint Regulus of the Never-Ending Shift.”

“It’s not that bad, you’re just new and need to adjust—” Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was a faint flush rising in his cheeks.
Embarrassment, probably. Or maybe the tea was just too hot.
Surely that was it. He was not blushing because his brother had just, what—called him great? “And you,” he added, setting down his mug, “are a drama queen.”

“And you’re not?” Sirius shot back, but there was a warmth behind his grin.
Regulus didn’t answer right away. He just sipped the tea again, quietly, letting the warmth settle somewhere in his chest. The chaos buzzed around them: more noise from the kids, James’s distant voice from upstairs. But here, in the kitchen, for a moment, there was just the two of them. Brothers. Older. Still learning how to live in each other’s orbit again.

Sirius bumped his shoulder gently. “Don’t get used to me being sentimental, by the way. This is a one-time morning-only deal. I still hate your guts.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “I’m writing it down.”

“Do. Because by lunch I’ll probably be yelling at you again.”

“That’s how I know everything’s normal.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “Narcissa’s already gone. She took your shift this morning. We planned it well. So you can return to bed and die for other- five hours I guess? I don't know, whatever you need Reg.”

Regulus froze, mug halfway to his lips. “She what?”

Sirius winced. “Yeah. She sort of insisted. Maybe she took a good look at my face and decided on it. I mean- look at my poor hair!”

Regulus didn’t speak at first. He just set the mug down—slowly, deliberately—his jaw tight, breath shallow.
“I didn’t ask you—or her—to do that,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m sorry. I messed up. Really badly this time. It won’t happen again.”
He grimaced, hating how hollow the words sounded even as he said them.

He had been an idiot. And now others had to clean up after him, while he’d been unconscious in a bed, useless. Not even able to decide for himself. And he hated that—hated this feeling. This loss of control. The needing help part. The not-being-useful part. The helpless-on-a-bed-for-days part.

Because if Regulus had anything—anything at all—it was control.
Over his days. Over his hours. Over his body, his breath, his thoughts. He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a big house, or some glittering circle of friends. Half the time, he didn’t even have peace.
But he had his mind. His schedule. His ability to manage, to keep things contained. That was his armor. His scaffolding. The thing that made him feel like he could survive in a world that had never given a damn about him.
And now it had slipped—everything had slipped—and someone else had stepped in to carry what he dropped.

And yes—he trusted them. Yes, he’d needed the help. Needed to take some weight off his shoulders, finally. But this? This had been too much. Even for him.

“I know,” Sirius said. “But you shouldn’t feel guilty. We did it because we can. Because you’re not invincible, Reg. And Draco is her child too. She’s living in your apartment too.”

Regulus exhaled—long, quiet, almost soundless. He hated knowing that someone else had picked up his responsibilities. That things had kept moving while he was still. That people had seen him—like that. But more than anything, he hated how deeply tired he still felt. Not just physically. This—sitting upright, dressed, drinking tea at a clean kitchen table—was draining in a way it shouldn’t be.

So he didn’t argue. He just nodded once, silently, eyes drifting to the window. The morning light cut sharp across the tiles. Everything felt still. Too still. Like he hadn’t earned this peace yet.

Sirius watched him, for once without the shield of sarcasm. Then he stood, coffee in one hand, keys in the other. “Look,” he said, voice low now, stripped of theatrics. “You’ve been doing everything for everyone for… I don’t even know how long. Years, probably.” He paused. Not for effect—just because he meant it.
“So for once—just once—let someone else do it. Let someone look after you.”

Regulus didn’t meet his eyes, but he didn’t brush the words off either. He just nodded again, smaller this time.
Sirius started toward the door, but before he left, Regulus called after him. “Wait.”

Sirius turned back. “Yeah?”

“Those French assignments.” Regulus cleared his throat, voice still rough from days of fever and coughing. “Did you finish them?”

Sirius looked vaguely offended. “Do I look like someone who does homework?”

“You promised. On my deathbed, might I add.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, muttering “Dramatic as fuck” under his breath. “I promised I’d try. I never said anything about actually succeeding.”

Regulus actually smiled—a faint, crooked thing, but real. “Come on. The kids pay me. Generously. I’ll have to dock your cut.”

“What cut?” Sirius squawked. “Wait—you’re getting paid generously? For French?”

Regulus took a slow sip of his tea, his smirk lazy. “It’s not exactly public knowledge. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Sirius groaned. “I feel used. Betrayed. Do you know how many poor, clueless souls I could’ve swindled with my rusty school French?”

“Probably none,” Regulus said dryly. “Your accent is offensive.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes and pulled open the door. “You’re out here corrupting desperate students and hoarding cash. Awful. Disgraceful. Remus was right about you.”

“Remus is always right,” Regulus called after him, then added smoothly, “And for the record, they’re not babies. They’re grown men. Grown men who need help writing about the French monarchy.”

Sirius snorted just before the door closed behind him. “Still sounds like corruption to me.” Sirius hesitated, turning back again. For a second, his expression softened again. No jokes this time. "But I did them, Reg. I mean- I don't know how they went but I think that they passed. Barely, maybe. But still a success, right? Now I gotta go and buy some eggs for breakfast, I'll be back in ten minutes! Bye!” he said.

Regulus didn’t reply. But Sirius didn’t need him to.
When the door closed, the house fell back into quiet. And Regulus let it. Let the silence wrap around him, let his bones rest a little deeper into the chair.

He still didn’t want to think too hard about everything. Not about the last week. Not about the fever that almost took him down, or the bruises he still hadn’t explained to anyone, or how close he came to breaking apart entirely.

But—he hadn’t.

Because of James. Because of Sirius. Because somehow, even after all the mess and distance and years of silence, his brother was here.
And maybe he wasn’t perfect. Maybe he had walked away once, crushing his childhood hope. But this past week… he’d shown up. He had been there, saving his ass with Mulciber and Mara and Emma.

Again and again. Like when they were kids and Sirius always saved his ass from their parents and their punishment. And that, Regulus thought as he sipped the rest of his now-cold tea, counted for more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Then Regulus he went to wash his face, tame the worst of his bed hair, and breathe through the soreness still lodged in his chest, before stepping in the kitchen again and eating breakfast with Draco and everyone else. When he stepped inside, the scene waiting for him was still both familiar and absurd: Sirius, now half-dressed was juggling a plate with some eggs and bacon, two lunchboxes, and a mug the size of his face. Regulus smiled tenderly at the vision, it was so cute.

Draco and Harry were at the kitchen table, hair wild, ties crooked, socks mismatched—like two miniature tornadoes had tried to wear school uniforms and only half-succeeded.

“Morning boys,” Regulus rasped, his voice still scratchy but stronger than it had been. "Ei Sirius, everything okay at the shop?" His brother nodded, sipping a bit of water from the glass.

“Dad! Dad!” Draco called out the second he saw him, slipping off his chair with a thud and rushing to his side. “You’re up! You're up! Hi!” He caught the boy mid-run, steadying him with one hand and instinctively brushing the hair from his forehead.

“Honey hi-" Regulus murmured, but his voice was soft, kissing his forehead gently and smiling against his warm skin. His kid, his beautiful, little child. “Come on, mon petite dragon. You’re a disaster.”

“I’m not!” Draco protested, giggling as Regulus turned him gently by the shoulders and started fixing his uniform—tucking in his shirt properly, retying his lopsided tie. A quick comb through his fine blond hair with his fingers, and Draco looked, finally, like a proper kid and not a woodland creature.

“Harry, you’re next.” Harry groaned but came over willingly enough, holding out his arms like a limp scarecrow. “Reg I think Sirius gave me two different socks.” Regulus mumbled something under his breath.

“I think Sirius is one second away from losing his mind,” came Sirius’s voice from the counter. “Just so you know.”
Regulus arched a brow but didn’t respond—too focused on getting Harry’s collar straight and running a wet hand through his hair to flatten the unruly tufts. The kid smiled up at him with sleepy gratitude.

“You guys look slightly less feral now,” Regulus muttered, standing back and inspecting both of them with a faint smile. “Now- You’re supposed to be eating,” Regulus muttered, brushing a hand through Draco’s hair as he leaned slightly into him. “Or you’ll be late.”

“You weren’t here yet,” Draco said simply, muffled but resolute.

Sirius snorted from the stove. “He’s been like this all morning. Refused to let me braid his hair until he saw you were awake. Little git.”

Regulus sighed softly, letting the kid hold on for another moment before gently prying him off. “Come on. Sit down, or you’ll forget your lunch again.”

"But you're here now!" Draco beamed. “And you’re the best dad.” It was a few days since Regulus started to get up again and feeling a little better, even though still weak and a bit feverish, but Draco never stopped to say that.
Regulus grimaced, because he was happy- sure- his kid was saying that he was the best of the best, but at the same time he was sorry that Draco had to witness his fall down. Literally. He didn't want to ask how much scared his little baby had been after seeing him passing out on the floor. "I love you!"

Regulus froze for half a second. Then, quickly, he ducked his head and turned back to the sink to rinse his hands. "I love you too, little etoile."
He didn’t want to make it a moment. Didn’t want to make it anything. But behind him, he heard Harry say to Draco, “Woo- he can speak French! Told you he was cooler than my dad.”

“Oi!” James’s voice rang out from the hall as he entered, hearing the tail end of the comment. “I heard that, little gremlin. Stay alert because I'm always here listening to you” Harry squeaked, laughing, hiding his face behind his little hands.
Draco just grinned and shoved a piece of toast in his mouth, and Regulus, when he turned around again, pretended like he hadn’t just been sucker-punched with a wave of something that felt suspiciously like happiness.

A beat later, James appeared in the doorway, laptop tucked under one arm and a fresh mug of coffee in the other. His hair was still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking so casually domestic that Regulus had to look away before his thoughts turned traitorous. No one was this beautiful at 7.00 AM. It was unfair.

“Look who’s here,” James said, already grinning. “You’re just in time for the last of the toast.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “How generous of you.”

“Oh, I’m the picture of generosity,” James said, stepping in to grab the pan from Sirius and empty it onto a plate. “Sit down, Reg. You don’t need to be standing like that.”

“I’m fine, James.”

“Uh-huh. Didn't say you weren't, darling. Sit anyway.” It wasn’t exactly a command, but it wasn’t not one either. Regulus hesitated, then let James pull out the chair beside Draco and lower gently him into it. His body still ached, though it wasn’t nearly as brutal as it had been days ago. And being off his feet for five minutes didn’t sound like the worst idea.

James slid the plate of toast in front of him and sat down across the table, flipping open his laptop. He didn’t say anything else, but Regulus caught the way his eyes flicked up every few seconds, checking him. Quiet, steady. Present.

Draco leaned his head against Regulus’s arm as he chewed. “You’re not sick anymore, right? We can play and draw together, now? You're not dying?”

"Honey- no- I'm feeling well now. No dying, alright?" Regulus glanced down at him, one corner of his mouth twitching. “And I'm not sick enough to stay in bed. So it's all good, right?” James gave him a pointed look, but didn’t argue. Not in front of Draco, at least.

“So,” Sirius said, grabbing his coat and slinging it over one shoulder, “who’s ready for a thrilling ride to school with Uncle Sirius and absolutely zero traffic violations?”

“No one,” Regulus said flatly.

Draco giggled. “Me!”

Sirius winked at him, tousled his hair, and glanced over at James and Regulus. “See you two later. Don’t burn the house down.”

“We’ll do our best,” James called, already typing something on his screen.
The door shut behind them a moment later, leaving the house quiet again. Regulus picked at a piece of toast, slowly chewing. James’s fingers clicked steadily on the keys.

Once the door closed behind the kids and Sirius, the house fell into an unusual kind of silence — the sort that clung to the walls in the absence of small feet and loud breakfast complaints. Regulus stood by the sink for a moment, hands braced against the edge, unsure of what to do now that the whirlwind had passed.

James was still in the living room, his laptop open on the coffee table, a half-drunk cup of tea beside him and a pencil tucked behind his ear despite typing everything out. He glanced up when Regulus appeared in the doorway.

“So? Alright?” he asked, voice gentle.

Regulus gave a noncommittal shrug. “Better,” he admitted, brushing a hand through his hair. “Still a little tired. But… better. And I'm not overestimating myself. I'm really better, James. Thanks.”

James smiled faintly and patted the seat beside him. “Come sit. You don’t have to do anything today, you know. Official orders.”

Regulus ignored the seat and headed straight for the kitchen again. "I’ll sit in a bit. This place is a mess.” He cast a critical glance around, already mentally reorganizing the chaos. Call it professional bias, if you want, but his mind was already settled. “Does anyone actually clean here, or are you collecting dust as a lifestyle choice? And the laundry—bollocks, James—the floor alone looks like a breeding ground for new life forms.” He grabbed a dishtowel with disdain. “It’s not healthy to live like this. Honestly. Breathing in this much dust should be illegal.”

“It’s not,” James called out after him, but didn’t insist. He knew better by now.
Regulus started by gathering the used mugs and plates, rinsing them before stacking them in the dishwasher. It wasn’t much — but it was something. Something to keep his hands busy. Something that made him feel less like a burden and more like a person again. He was fine now and his body was buzzing with the need of doing something. Anything. Just to occupy his mind a little, just to feel himself again.

That was when he heard it — James’s voice, sharper now, coming from the other room.

“No, that wasn’t the agreement,” he was saying into the phone, tone clipped. “I told you, the client had until Thursday—no, listen, you can’t just bump that up without clearing it with me first.” There was a pause, then a quiet exhale that Regulus could almost feel from across the house.
“I get that you’re under pressure. We all are. But if you start making last-minute promises to investors without consulting me, you’re going to wreck our timelines and I’m going to be the one who has to clean up after it, as your boss.”

Regulus stilled by the sink, drying his hands on a towel slowly. He didn’t mean to listen. But something about James’s voice — the frustration that coiled beneath it — made it impossible not to. Another pause. Then— “Yeah. Well. Maybe if half the team didn’t take Fridays as optional, we wouldn’t be two weeks behind. You can tell him that from me.”

Regulus ran a cloth over the counter, slower now, more thoughtful. He hated this feeling — of being still when someone else was moving. Of standing there in a borrowed kitchen, under a borrowed roof, listening to James fight off pressure from a job Regulus didn’t even fully understand, all while Regulus himself tried not to feel like he was taking up too much air.

The conversation in the other room was wrapping up. “No. I’ll fix it. As always,” James muttered. “Just… let me do my job, alright? Properly.”
He hung up with a sigh that echoed slightly. Regulus didn’t move, just quietly turned off the tap, wiped his hands again, and leaned on the counter with his weight shifted to one side. His head felt heavy — not from fever this time, but from guilt.

A moment later, James walked into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry about that,” he said with a tight smile. “Work.”

Regulus nodded, keeping his tone light. “They sound like a nightmare.”

“They are,” James said, almost laughing. “It’s like babysitting people even at work."

“You want help hiding the body?”

James looked up, surprised, then laughed. “You know, I might actually take you up on that.” Regulus managed a smile.

He then lingered in the doorway for another moment, watching James sit back down, fingers already flying over the keyboard like nothing had happened. His jaw was still tense. There was a tightness in his shoulders, the kind you didn’t even realise you were holding until it ached deep into the bones.
“Do you want anything?” Regulus asked quietly. “I could make another pot of coffee. Or tea. Or… something.”

James didn’t answer. Not because he was being rude—he was simply too far gone, too focused, already neck-deep in whatever chaos that phone call had unearthed. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his mouth moving slightly as if whispering the sentence he was typing to himself. The world outside his screen had disappeared.
Regulus watched him for a few seconds longer. Then he nodded once to himself, lips pressed thin.

Right. Enough standing around. Enough drifting.

He turned silently and padded down the hallway, opening a closet door and retrieving the mop and bucket he’d seen Sirius use the other day. He wasn’t entirely sure where the cleaning supplies were kept, but he figured it out by process of elimination—found the lavender-scented detergent tucked behind a box of cereal, because of course it was. This house was lived-in in that charming, mismatched, Potter way. It felt warm. It felt real.

He filled the bucket in the bathroom sink, sleeves already rolled up, mop clutched tightly in one hand. His head still ached faintly from days of fever and dehydration, but he was standing. He was breathing. That was enough.

He started in the hallway, working his way back toward the kitchen. The rhythm helped. Back and forth, back and forth. Rinse. Ring. Repeat. Every stripe of clean tile felt like a small victory. Every scuff mark scrubbed off felt like penance, or maybe purpose.

Because Regulus Black didn’t know how to sit still and feel cared for.

But he did know how to work.

He knew how to be useful. And maybe—just maybe—that counted for something.

Even here. Even now. Even with James, who didn’t ask for anything, and yet somehow made him feel like he didn’t have to prove his right to stay.
Still. Regulus had no intention of being dead weight. Not today. Not when he finally had the strength to stand.

Regulus wasn’t sure how long he’d been cleaning, but the floor gleamed under the morning light now, streaks of lemon-scented polish cutting through the once-dull tiles. His arms ached. His lower back screamed. His shirt clung damply to the small of his back. But it was fine. It had to be fine.

He could do this. He had to do this.

He bent forward to wipe a smudge under the table, and that was when it hit him—sharp and sudden, a spike behind his eyes, white-hot and sickening. His vision blurred, a shiver ran down his spine like ice water, and his knees almost gave way. He barely caught himself on the mop handle, knuckles whitening as he coughed harshly into the crook of his arm, chest rattling.

And then— “What the hell are you doing?”

Regulus flinched, turning sharply. James stood in the doorway, his laptop abandoned somewhere behind him, brow furrowed in disbelief.
“I—” Regulus started, breath short. “Cleaning. Clearly.”

James stared at him like he was mad. “You almost died four days ago.”

“That’s dramatic James.”

“No,” James snapped, walking in, looking around the kitchen like the freshly scrubbed counters were proof of a crime. “What’s dramatic is nearly collapsing with pneumonia and then trying to deep-clean half the bloody house like some Victorian ghost butler.”

Regulus blinked. “It’s just cleaning. I’m not made of glass. I can do this. I can be helpful.”

James threw his hands in the air. “No, you’re made of stubborn pride and poor decision-making!”

“I can’t just sit around, James,” Regulus said, sharper now. “I’ve done nothing for days but take and sleep and let everyone run around for me like I’m some sort of pathetic—”

“You were sick,” James interrupted, voice rising. “You are sick. No one’s keeping score.”

Regulus exhaled sharply, turning back toward the bucket. “Well, I am. You won't even let me pay you for the house and the food and everything else, so at least let me do this, alright?” James stared at him for a second longer, visibly vibrating with frustration. Then, muttering something under his breath, he turned on his heel and stormed to the stove.

“What are you doing?” Regulus called, still standing by the mop.

“Making tea,” James barked. “Because one of us still has functioning brain cells.”

Regulus followed him, dragging his feet more than he wanted to admit. “Don’t treat me like I’m being unreasonable.”

“You are being unreasonable!”

“I’m trying to help!”

“You’re trying to pass out standing up!”

Regulus scowled. “I’m not a child, James. I know my limits.”

"Please" James huffed. "No, you may not be a child” James said, spinning back around, “but you’re acting like one. What, you’d rather collapse again just to feel useful for ten bloody minutes?” Regulus opened his mouth, then closed it. The worst
part was—he didn’t know how to answer that.

Because wasn’t that the truth? Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing?

He probably needed to see a therapist about it but he couldn't even pay the fucking bills so it was out of question. Maybe one day.
“I just…” His voice dropped, quieter now. “I need to feel like I’m not just… taking up space. You're all- all going. And I'm not.”

James’s shoulders lowered just slightly, but his voice stayed firm. “You are not just taking up space. You are recovering. Which means you’re allowed to rest, for fuck’s sake. Not everything needs to be earned with blood and effort.”

Regulus leaned back against the counter, his head tipping back. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. But more than that, he was tired—of fighting, of trying, of pretending not to need help. But everything worth needed to be earned with blood and effort, his career as a ballet dancer for starter, no pain no gain, right?

The kettle clicked behind them. James stared at Regulus, chest rising and falling, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Then he took a step forward. Another. Until there was barely a foot between them.
“You know what you’re like?” James said, voice low and shaking, not with softness but with fury held barely in check. “You’re like a five-year-old I have to constantly watch or he’ll find a way to throw himself down the stairs. You vanish for two seconds and when I find you again you’re either cleaning blood off your face or collapsing in a hallway.”

Regulus’s nostrils flared. “So what, I need a leash now?”

“You need to stop pretending like you don’t matter!” James nearly shouted. “You—Jesus, Reg, worse than Harry when he was four! At least he stops jumping from the fucking sofa when I yell!”
Regulus pushed past him toward the kitchen table too angry to reply, but James followed, faster. “When are you going to get it? That people care about you! That we’re not just humoring you or tolerating you or—”

“Never!” Regulus snapped, spinning to face him. “I’m never going to get it because it’s not true! It can't be this easy! I don't do easy. I don't get anything!”

James froze.

Regulus’s voice was cracked and raw now, something ragged underneath it. “People don’t care. Not really. They leave. Or they use you. Or they hurt you. Or they smile while doing all three.”

Because that was it. That was his fucking li
His brother had fled the first chance he got and never looked back.
His mother—His mother had crippled him with a smile on her face, all because he wasn’t “useful” enough.
His father never cared—about him, his health, his nightmares—only about grades, and appearances, and how he looked standing next to the fucking Rosiers, or the Lestranges, or the goddamn Pope for all he knew.

So he pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.

And when Sirius ran—when he left him—he had to push even harder. Better. Stronger.
He couldn’t afford to fall.

And when the world did fall apart, when everything was ash and silence and blood, there was Lucius.
There was Riddle.
There was fucking Snape.

So he kept going. Kept pushing.
Again.
And again.
And again.

So no. He didn’t fucking know what it meant to “matter.”
To “be cared for.”
To be wanted just for existing.
Because that had never been part of the deal.

His hands were shaking.

“I give, James. That’s what I do. I give and I fix and I make myself useful so people don’t throw me away. Because if you’re needed—really needed—then you’re not replaceable. You’re not discardable. And I can’t—” His voice faltered for a second. “I can’t go back to being nothing.”

There was silence. Just the hum of the kettle behind them.

Then James stepped forward again, slow and deliberate, until Regulus’s back hit the table. “You’re not nothing,” he said, voice low and steel-edged. “You never were. Not to me. Not to Sirius. Not to Draco. And fuck you for suggesting otherwise.”
Regulus opened his mouth to argue, but James cut him off, pressing a hand flat against the table next to his hip, caging him in.
“Being loved is not the same as being needed. You’re not a tool. You’re not a fucking Swiss Army knife we keep around for emergencies. You’re a person. And if you keep doing this—if you keep throwing yourself against the wall until it cracks first—I will lose my temper.”

“I’m already doing that,” Regulus whispered. “Cracking.”

James looked at him then—really looked. His too-pale face, the way his chest stuttered when he breathed, the exhausted defiance in his eyes. And James’s own voice broke a little when he said, “You don’t have to.”
Another pause. Then James leaned forward, his face inches from Regulus’s. His voice was barely audible now.
“You’re allowed to stay. Without earning it. You hear me? You’re allowed. I'm- I'm the fucking owner of this house, and I'm allowing you to rest, to feel cared. To feel loved.”
James exhaled, slow and steady, the way he used to before a big match—trying to find the right words, trying not to say too much or not enough.

But then Regulus laughed. A short, low sound, bitter like old tea. James didn't know anything. He didn't know about the eighty thousand, about the threats, about the fucking mess he was in.
“You say that,” Regulus muttered, eyes distant, jaw tight. “But you don’t even know who I am. You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know what I’ve lost. What I do every day. You don’t—”

And then James kissed him.

He didn’t think about it. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t wait for the moment to become cinematic or perfect or clear. He just kissed him.
Because fuck whatever Regulus thought made him unlovable. Fuck the idea that he had to confess every sin before someone was allowed to hold him. Fuck the voice in his head that told him he was less than, too broken, too late.

And Regulus froze.

Just for a second.

And then—he melted into it.

Not softly. Not perfectly. The kiss was messy, uneven, breathless. Regulus gripped James’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. James’s hands slid around his waist, then up, steadying, grounding, anchoring them both.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was real.

James kissed him like he was trying to erase every word Regulus had ever said about not being enough. Like he was trying to say, I see you. I want you. Exactly like this. Not for what you do, not for how you serve, not for how well you suffer—just for you.

Regulus responded with the same desperation—slowly at first, then with something like hunger. Like maybe this was the only language they both understood. The only way to say, I’m here. I’m scared. But I want to try.

And when they finally pulled apart, breathing hard, foreheads brushing, James didn’t speak right away.

He waited.

Waited until Regulus opened his eyes again.

Waited until those eyes—shattered and sharp and scared—met his.

"I'm sorry I've not asked your permission before kissing you." And then, quiet and firm, James whispered, “but I know exactly who you are Regulus Black.” James’s hand moved up, gently brushing the side of Regulus’s neck. His thumb grazed the skin just beneath his jaw, slow, reverent, and something in Regulus shuddered. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let out the faintest sound- something caught between a sigh and a gasp, something involuntary, something needy.
"And I like every part of you, even when you're so fucking stubborn and mean and difficult."

James didn’t pull away. Not yet. His fingers skimmed up to Regulus’s cheek, thumb tracing along the high curve of the bone, the warmth of his palm stark against skin that was still too hot- too hot.

"James-" Regulus leaned in, lips parted slightly, and whispered, voice hoarse but clear, “I need-”

“I know,” James breathed. And then Regulus leaned up to kiss him again, slower this time, purposeful. His hand came up to cradle James’s face, his thumb brushing the corner of James’s mouth like he was committing it to memory. But as their lips were about to meet-

James hesitated. He leaned back just enough to see, really see Regulus’s face. His flushed skin. The glassy sheen in his eyes. The faint tremble in his limbs.
“…Shit.” James swore under his breath, his brows drawing together. “You’re burning up again.”

Regulus groaned, low and dramatic. “Oh, come on-”

“You have a fever,” James insisted, already guiding him toward the couch, one arm firm around his waist. “You’re not thinking clearly-”

“I’m not drugged, James,” Regulus shot back, trying to shrug him off. “I want this. I know what I want. You.”

“You’re not thinking clearly enough,” James said, chuckling despite himself. “Bloody hell, Reg, I’ve waited days- almost months for you to kiss me and you finally do it when you’re delirious and shivering like a ghost?”

“I’m not fucking shivering, stop being dramatic” Regulus huffed—then promptly shivered. James raised an eyebrow.
Regulus then flopped onto the couch, sulking, the high of adrenaline fading just slightly, but not enough to erase the kiss from his mind. His pulse was still racing. His skin still buzzed from where James had touched him.

James knelt in front of him, brushing sweaty hair back from Regulus’s forehead, his voice low but fond. “Look at you. You’re a mess, love. You really think I’d let you pass out in the kitchen just so you could make a move on me?”

Regulus gave him a tired glare. “Well- It was a good move.”

James laughed again, warm and unguarded. “Yeah,” he murmured, his hand settling over Regulus’s again. “It really was.” Regulus leaned his head back against the cushions, still catching his breath, still dizzy in every sense of the word.

James had kissed him. Really kissed him.
And even though his body still ached in all the wrong places, even though everything was still sore and fragile, his heart—somehow—felt lighter. Safer. Like someone had wrapped it in something warm and said, You can rest now.

Oh God. He felt like a teenager. Giddy. Breathless. Like he should be kicking his feet and hiding behind his hands, squealing about his crush kissed him back.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

And yet—he couldn’t stop the way the corners of his mouth kept twitching upward. Couldn’t ignore the heat still lingering on his lips. Couldn’t pretend he didn’t keep replaying it, over and over again, like his mind refused to let it go.

Regulus barely registered James moving away—just enough to grab his phone and step toward the kitchen. He kept his eyes half-closed, his body heavy against the couch, but his ears picked up the low murmur of James’s voice.

“…yeah, it’s still at thirty-eight point five. Is that normal? He’s—he looks better, but I’m not sure. I—no, no rash, and the cough’s lighter, but the fever’s not going down as fast as I thought.”

There was a pause.

Regulus blinked.

That was Euphemia. James was calling his mother.

Regulus groaned and reached out sluggishly. “Give me that,” he muttered, holding his hand out like a prince.

James turned. “Love. You should stay lying down—”

“I’m not dead, yet,” Regulus said, a little sharper than he intended, but James still came over and handed him the phone.

“Careful. You’re still—”

“Yes, yes, tragic and weak, got it.” He took the phone with one trembling hand, his voice raspy and unsteady but clear. “I’m really sorry to keep bothering you, Mrs. Potter,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue but sincere. “It’s not my intention. I swear I’m usually not such—such a… disaster. You don't need to worry- James is just- overprotective, I swear I'm fine.”

There was a soft laugh on the other end of the line. “Regulus, sweetheart. If you were a bother, I wouldn’t have stayed the night there just to make sure you kept breathing.”

He exhaled, surprised by the lump in his throat. “Still,” he murmured. “You’ve done more than enough. Really. I just—”

“You’re practically one of mine at this point,” Euphemia said warmly. “I worry about you the same way I worry about James and Sirius.”

Regulus’s face went hot again, but this time not from the fever. His mouth opened before his brain caught up. “Well, I hope not,” he muttered, “because if I were your son I’d have to stop kissing James and that would be… really unfortunate.”

Silence.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

He froze, eyes wide. Oh no. Oh- for the sake of-

James whipped around from the kitchen doorway, nearly dropping his mug.

Regulus just stared at the ceiling. What the fuck did he just do?

Euphemia’s laugh burst through the phone, clear and amused. “Oh, James! Anything you’d like to tell me?”

James made a strangled noise. “Mum—no. That wasn’t—He’s—he’s got a fever! Delirious! Mom!”

“Well, clearly not high enough to stop flirting,” she teased. “I think he’s adorable. Do you hear me, Regulus? You're absolutely adorable!”

“Mum—please—”

"Oh God-" Regulus buried his face in the pillow, groaning. “Please let this be a hallucination. Please. It's the fever. It has to be the fever. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.”

"Don't worry kid, you'll be able to kiss my Jamie soon." Euphemia was still laughing. “Just get some rest, darling,” she told him gently. “And stop worrying about bothering me. If anything, you’re the only one in this house who thanks me after throwing up.”
James made another indignant noise in the background, which only made Regulus smile, faint and a little dazed, but real.

He mumbled, “Thanks. For everything.” Then handed the phone back without another word, pressing the cool side of it against his cheek. He was still dying of fever. His body ached. His face was probably ten shades of red.

But Euphemia Potter liked him.

And James had kissed him.

So, really… maybe not such a bad day.

James was still spinning.

Still riding the chaos of it—him—of the way Regulus had kissed him like it meant something. Like it was something. Like he was something. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because James had been kissed before—God, he’d been kissed. But Regulus?

Regulus kissed like he worked. With that same razor-sharp precision, the same tireless resolve, that same beautiful obsession to get it right. He kissed like his life depended on it. Like he didn’t know what it meant to be held, so he was going to memorize it from the inside out. James could still feel it—like a current under his skin. A soft, maddening echo in the corners of his mouth. A touch that felt like falling and flying all at once.

And now?

Now he was sitting on the couch with Regulus’s legs draped across his lap, a laptop balancing on his thighs and a headache building behind his eyes.
Regulus was asleep again—finally. His fever hadn’t dropped much, but at least he wasn’t shaking anymore. He was curled into himself, tucked under the blanket Euphemia had left, head resting against the armrest, one hand half-curled against his chest like a child.

James adjusted the pillow beneath his head gently, careful not to wake him. Regulus made a soft sound, something between a sigh and a protest, but settled again. "J'ms"

“Don’t worry,” James muttered under his breath. “I’m not going anywhere. He opened his laptop again and groaned quietly as the tabs loaded. The client issue from earlier hadn’t gone away—in fact, it had escalated.

The proposal he’d submitted last week—the proposal, the one that was meant to finalize the biggest contract of the quarter—had apparently been lost in translation. Literally. Their liaison overseas had misunderstood the terms, and now James was being looped into an emergency video call with half the marketing team, all of them scrambling to fix a deal that was already dangerously close to collapsing.

He rubbed his temple with one hand and clicked Join Call with the other, adjusting his headset while shifting just enough to keep the laptop steady—without jostling Regulus, who was still fast asleep and pressed against his side.

“—No, I understand the concern,” James said, already mid-crisis, his tone even though his jaw was tight. “But we did specify that clause in section fourteen.” He paused, lips thinning. “Yes, I can resend the original documents. Yes, with annotations. Give me a moment.” He reached for his coffee, only to find it cold. He sighed, but didn’t move.

Beside him, Regulus stirred slightly at the motion. A soft, breathy sound escaped him—half a sigh, half a hum—and he curled closer, one leg sliding lazily over James’s. Still completely unaware.

James glanced down and looked at him.

Hair slightly tousled, brow relaxed, the faintest crease still lingering between his eyes as if he was dreaming about something complicated. Or someone. James reached out on instinct, brushed a strand of hair from Regulus’s temple with the back of his fingers. Regulus barely reacted—just shifted slightly, murmuring something incoherent.

God, he was beautiful like this. Still. Quiet. Unaware.
Unaware that someone was watching him and thinking about the way he managed to break James’s heart in the best and worst ways—every damn day.

James didn’t know how Regulus did it.
How he could be all thorns and armor when awake, and then this—
Soft. Open. Unknowingly devastating.

He exhaled through his nose and turned back to the call, eyes flicking back to the screen. His voice dropped slightly as he reentered the flow of the meeting, sliding back into professional cadence like flipping a switch.
“Sorry,” he said, smoother now. “Keep going. I’m listening.”

But even as the call resumed, his hand stayed resting lightly on Regulus’s shoulder. James shifted slightly, eyes flicking across the spreadsheet someone had just screen-shared. There was a blinking cursor and a half-formed bullet point about “revised fiscal terms.” He leaned forward, careful not to disturb Regulus as he typed with one hand.

“Yes,” he said, voice even. “That’s the revised timeline we discussed, but the wording needs to match the language in our Q2 proposal. Otherwise we’re going to hit legal pushback again.”

Someone on the other end sighed. “We’ll have to reformat the entire second page, then.”

James nodded once, already anticipating the extra hours. “Fine. Do it. I’ll send my version of the clause in five minutes.”

He muted his mic for a second and exhaled quietly, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dipped down again—this time brushing lightly along Regulus’s forearm as it rested across his lap.
He unmuted, eyes back on the screen. “Also—keep in mind that if the German partners are backing out of that clause, we’ll need a fallback plan. Can someone follow up with Luisa before end of day?”

“I’ll take it,” came a tired voice.

“Thanks,” James said automatically, sipping again at his cold coffee and grimacing. “And let’s be honest—if this deal falls apart, it’s not going to be because of that clause. It’ll be because we assumed too much clarity from the beginning. That’s on us. Let’s fix it.” There was silence on the call. Agreement. Maybe a little respect.
“Alright,” James said, eyes back on the screen. “Let’s get this done before lunch. I want a clean draft in two hours.”

The work call had just ended when his phone buzzed again, a softer tone this time. He glanced down—Lily.

James picked up with a tired smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, sorry, it's just a quick thing before going back to work-” she said quickly, her voice light but purposeful. "Are we still coming tonight? Even with Regulus sick? Maybe he wants some rest and peace.”

“Nah it's okay Lils- I think that some company will do good” James confirmed. “And we have to plan Remus' birthday. It’s tradition now. We suffer together. Or Sirius will probably lose his mind.”

“Perfect thanks. I’ll bring wine.”

“See you tonight,” James said, smiling.

“Yeah,” she replied. “And give Regulus my best.”

James glanced down at the man sleeping peacefully beside him. “Always.”

James heard the quiet creak of the sofa cushions before he heard Regulus’s voice. It was low and rough from sleep, barely above a murmur.
“…how long was I out?”

“Hours,” Narcissa replied softly, her heels clicking faintly against the wood floor as she moved around the room. “The boys just got back from Lily’s. And before you ask—yes, they were fine. No one caught fire. Harry even shared his snacks.”

James smiled faintly from the kitchen, where he was rinsing out mugs. He didn’t want to interrupt—not yet.
"Fuck-" Regulus groaned softly. “I was supposed to help. Clean the house. Keep James company.”

“You were supposed to rest,” Narcissa corrected. “And before you argue with me, Severus called. He told me to tell you that he’s fine, the money arrived, and he won’t accept any more from you for at least two months. We're good, Reg. Thanks to you.”

"Thank God-" There was a pause. “Did he really say that?”

“Verbatim. Well, with fewer pleasantries. And more bitterness. You know how he is.”

James could picture Regulus’s frown, the faint tightening of his brow. “I shouldn’t have made him wait so long. I was useless these past few days.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—Reg, you were sick. Properly sick. Not ‘Black family inconvenience’ sick, but real, human, terrifyingly-bad sick. You nearly collapsed. Again. You don’t owe anyone an apology for sleeping.”

Another pause. Then, quieter: “I know. I just… I'm feeling weird- not- not used to-"
James felt something tug in his chest. He dried his hands and leaned in the doorway silently, watching as Narcissa sat beside her cousin and reached for his hand.

“This is why this place is exactly where you need to be right now,” she said. “You’re rebuilding, Regulus. It doesn’t have to be fast. It doesn’t even have to be perfect.”

Regulus glanced down at their intertwined fingers. “Did Severus also say that?”

“No,” Narcissa said with a faint smile. “That was me.”

James took a breath and stepped forward at last, pretending he hadn’t heard most of it. “Well, if you’re done making my living room emotionally charged,” he said lightly, “we’re trying to plan Remus’s birthday in the kitchen.”

Regulus turned, startled, eyes still heavy with sleep but soft at the corners. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

“It’s Remus,” James said. “He deserves at least a week of preparation.”

"Dad!" Draco darted into the room then, dragging Harry by the wrist. “Can I tell him about the cake idea?! Please?!”

“No spoilers!” Narcissa called, standing up and straightening her jacket. “Let Regulus wake up properly before you start shouting about edible moons.”

James laughed. “You’ve been warned.” Regulus, still sitting on the sofa, looked at them all—Narcissa, the boys, James—and for a second, just one, he let himself smile.

The front door opened with a bang that only one person in the entire wizarding world would dare to make.
“Pizza delivery!” Sirius yelled, holding up two greasy paper bags like a triumphant hero. “And before you ask—yes, I ate a slice on the way. You’re welcome.”

“Only one?” Remus muttered behind him, arms full of drinks. “Miracle.”

James got up from the couch with a grin. “About time, mate. We were starting to discuss cannibalism.”

“I vote we eat Sirius first,” Regulus offered flatly, not looking up from the napkins he was laying out. “Less guilt involved.”

“Oi!” Sirius cried, setting the bags down. “You lot always gang up on me. Remus, defend my honor.”

Remus dropped the bottles on the table with a sigh. “What honor?” The whole room burst out laughing. Even Narcissa smirked as she started sorting plates. Draco and Harry were already fighting over who got the seat closest to the pizza box.

James slid back into his spot next to Regulus, nudging his arm. “Still want to eat him first?”

Regulus deadpanned, “Only if we run out of garlic bread.”

Draco, with a mouth already full of cheese, pointed a greasy finger at Sirius. “Uncle Siwus, why do you talk so much?”

Sirius placed a hand over his heart, gasping. “Et tu, Draco?”

"I don't know what it means." Harry snorted. “He says the same thing to me. It's think he's a bit silly.”

“Smart kid, Sirius is really silly” Regulus said, stealing a piece of pepperoni from James’s slice while he was distracted.

“Hey!” James protested. "You can't eat this! Mum say only soup for the sick boy!" Regulus rolled his eyes, eating the slice nonetheless. It was fucking pizza.

“You weren’t protecting this. So my healing it’s on you.”

James rolled his eyes, hiding a little smirk. "Take these," he said instead setting the bottle of pills in front of Regulus. "And eat all that soup, you menace. You haven't eaten something solid all day." Regulus smiled a little, taking a spoon for his soup. Doctor's orders, better to follow them.

Remus passed around the drinks and nodded at Regulus. “Glad to see you vertical.”

Regulus gave a small shrug. “Me too. I figured if I didn’t show up for pizza, and my celestial soup, someone would call the morgue. And for your birthday planning.”

Sirius clapped him on the back—not too hard. “That’s the spirit.” They all sat down, plates piled high, the air filled with warmth and pizza and laughter. James leaned slightly closer to Regulus as they ate, voice low.

“You’re holding up well.”

Regulus wiped his hands and shrugged, too casual. “Might collapse again after the crust, but we’ll see. I slept a lot today.”

James chuckled. “I’ll catch you.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile. “You planning to make a habit of that?” James just took a bite of his pizza and winked and Regulus thought again about their kiss.

Meanwhile, Sirius and Narcissa were arguing about toppings—again. “You brought pineapple, you absolute goblin,” Narcissa said with utter disgust.

Sirius looked horrified. “Goblin? That’s offensive. Pineapple is a brave choice.”

“It’s a crime,” Remus muttered, sipping his drink.

“Thank you,” Narcissa nodded, victorious.

“Honestly,” Regulus cut in. “You’re all wrong. The only acceptable pizza topping is garlic.”

“Which,” James added, “he dispenses freely.”

Draco leaned against his father’s side and whispered, “I don’t like pineapple either.”

Regulus lowered his voice. “That’s my boy.” Draco beamed at him and Regulus smacked a kiss on his head.

Harry nodded sagely. “We should make a club. No Pineapple Forever.”

Sirius stood up dramatically. “I am betrayed. In my own home. By my own godson!”

Remus pulled him down by the back of his hoodie. “Eat your crusts and be quiet.”

“Yes, Professor Lupin,” Sirius grumbled, already reaching for another slice.

As they all laughed and argued and passed napkins and drinks, Regulus caught James’s eye across the plates and paper towels and crumbs.

And James smiled. The kind of smile that wasn’t loud or flashy—but real. Quiet and sure, like a thread pulled tight between them, holding without needing to be knotted.

Regulus looked away first—but not because he wanted to. It was just too much, that kind of sincerity. That warmth aimed directly at him, like it belonged there. Like he belonged there. He folded the edge of a napkin between his fingers, letting the noise around him wash over—Sirius teasing Remus about cutting slices unevenly, Draco launching a dramatic defense of pineapple on pizza, Lily sighing as she wiped tomato sauce from Harry’s cheek.

And still, beneath all of it, that thread remained.

James didn’t look away. He didn’t need to. He just leaned back in his chair, one hand curled loosely around his glass, the other resting against his knee like he was grounding himself—not in the room, but in the people around the table.
In this moment.

And somehow, Regulus felt that, too.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.
It was… life. Messy, cluttered, imperfect.
And he was inside of it, instead of watching through the window.

They were still sitting around the table, finishing the last slices and sipping at whatever drinks were left—juice for the boys, tea for Narcissa, something vaguely alcoholic in Sirius’s glass. The pizza was cold by now, the napkins were disappearing under elbows, and someone had dropped a fork on the floor.
No one moved to clean it up.

Remus leaned back in his chair, content but visibly tired, his gaze drifting fondly across the room. “So,” James said suddenly, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Your birthday’s next week. Got anything in mind?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Besides pretending I’m still twenty-five?”

Sirius gave him a scandalised look. “Please. You peaked at twenty-three. Everything after was just a soft decline.”

“Thanks,” Remus said dryly. “That’s exactly the energy I was hoping for.”

Narcissa took a sip of her tea, eyes twinkling. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s just bitter no one asks him about his plans anymore.”

“I have amazing plans!” Sirius protested. “Just today I made it to the post office and the store in under an hour. That’s practically Olympic-level adulting.”

“I stand corrected,” Narcissa said, deadpan.

Remus chuckled. “But really—something quiet. I was thinking… just us. Here, maybe. Effie and Monty too, if they’re free. My mom. I don’t need anything big. Honestly, I’d rather spend the evening playing something ridiculous and watching Sirius lose at board games.”

Sirius gasped. “I let you win, and you know it.”

“You cry every time someone lands on your hotel in Monopoly.”

“That is strategic grief. It throws people off.”

James grinned. “So it’s settled? Low-key evening, food, drinks, games, and emotional manipulation?”

“Perfect,” Remus said, smiling. "Oh- one thing- my actual birthday is in the middle of the week so maybe we could do it on the weekend? Maybe when Reg is free? Sunday, right?" Regulus nodded, smiling sweetly at Remus. It felt nice to be seen, and he found Remus really enjoyable.

“Can we have cake?” Harry piped up from the other end of the table, already balancing an empty glass on his head.

“Of course we’ll have cake,” James said, ruffling his hair. “I’m not a monster.”

Draco looked up at Regulus. “Do we have to wear nice clothes?”

Regulus shook his head. “Not unless you want Remus to cry.”

“Rude,” Remus said calmly. “But fair. I like jumpers Draco, so that's it.”

James stood and stretched. “Alright, birthday plans sorted. Now what do you say—living room? I’ve got Scrabble, Uno, and something called Exploding Kittens that Harry made me buy.”

“Exploding what?” Regulus raised an eyebrow.

“It’s less violent than it sounds,” James assured. “Mostly.”

“I call dibs on the comfy chair!” Sirius shouted, already halfway to the living room.

“You always take the comfy chair,” Remus said, following him.

“Because I am a man of taste and foresight!”

Narcissa shook her head fondly, and the rest of the group gathered their things, moving toward the living room. Regulus helped Draco carry a plate, his steps still a little slower than usual but steady. James trailed just behind him, grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it onto Regulus’s usual spot without a word.

The coffee table was cleared in seconds, the games spread out like the most intense diplomatic summit in the wizarding world. Harry and Draco were already fighting over who got to be the “Cat Exploder,” Sirius was loudly reading the rules backwards, and Remus was quietly assembling teams with the strategic precision of a chess master.

James sat down next to Regulus, knees bumping, warm and easy.

“Hey,” he said softly, offering him a card. “No dying during game night, yeah?”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest curve to his lips. “No promises.”

Regulus had claimed the corner of the couch like it was a small island of peace in a house full of noise and warmth. He hadn’t really touched any of the games—he didn’t have the energy to argue over rules or shout about cards. But he didn’t mind. Not really. Watching them—watching James and Sirius bicker like twelve-year-olds over Uno, Harry giggling so hard he nearly fell off the armchair, Remus calmly reading the rules out loud while everyone ignored him—it felt like being wrapped in something safer than a blanket.

He shifted beneath the throw James had tossed earlier, pulling it up over his chest. It smelled faintly of detergent and something warm he couldn’t name. He rested his head against the cushion and let the chaos wash around him. Every once in a while, James would glance over, a small flicker of concern in his eyes, but he never made a fuss.

Regulus liked that.

From the couch, he could hear Sirius loudly accuse Narcissa of cheating (“You picked up four cards and didn’t even blink!”), and Narcissa replying, “That’s called strategy, darling. Look it up.” Even Regulus managed a quiet snort at that.

“You okay, love?” James’s voice, suddenly much closer, pulled him from the haze.

Regulus blinked up to see him standing just beside the couch, a soft smile on his face, a hand already reaching to touch his knee—gently, through the blanket.
“Yeah,” Regulus murmured, voice rough but amused.

James sat down next to him without a word, stretching out his legs and shifting so that their sides were touching. Regulus hesitated for a moment, then leaned over, resting his head on James’s shoulder. The warmth there was different—alive, grounding, real. James’s hand moved slowly under the blanket again, resting now just above his ankle. Not demanding, just there. Just with him.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

And then—a blur of blonde hair and soft cotton pajamas—Draco came barrelling across the room, launching himself onto the couch like a cat who’d made a decision.
“Papà!” he whined, crawling into the tiny space between them. “M’sleepy.”

Regulus let out a quiet huff of air, but his hand went instinctively to Draco’s hair, carding through it softly. “You’re getting too big to be climbing on people, you know that?”

Draco shook his head, already half-curled into Regulus’s side. “Nope. I’m still little.”
James shifted just slightly to give them more space, but his arm stayed where it was, steady against Regulus’s leg.

“I want to sleep here,” Draco mumbled, eyes closing fast. “You’re warm.”
Regulus looked down at the top of his son's head, then sideways at James, who was watching the two of them with an expression Regulus didn’t quite have the strength to decipher.

"No-uh- Draco- we're going to bed. Or tomorrow you'll wake up cranky and insufferable." Draco let out a sleepy sigh against Regulus’s chest, and Harry, from the armchair, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m tired too,” he mumbled.

James looked like he was about to get up, but Regulus shook his head gently, adjusting the blanket around Draco. “It’s okay. I can take them.”

“You sure?” James asked, frowning slightly.

Regulus gave him a small nod, brushing a hand through Draco’s hair. “Yeah. I’ll bring them up and come back down in a bit. Don't worry, I missed them.”

Draco clung to him on the way up, a warm, drowsy weight against his side. Harry walked beside them, slower than usual, one hand loosely holding the sleeve of Regulus’s jumper. It was quiet upstairs. The kind of quiet that settles in soft and heavy after a full day.
In the boys’ room, Regulus helped them change into their pajamas—slow, careful movements, still not entirely steady on his feet, but managing. When they were finally in bed, tucked under matching blankets, Harry looked up at him, blinking.

“Can you tell us a story?”

“Yeah, dad” Draco added, voice muffled by his pillow. “Pretty please. I like your stories the most!”

So Regulus lowered himself to the floor beside the bed with a quiet groan, pulling one of the cushions from a chair to sit on. “Okay, babies.” he said softly. “Let’s see…”
He thought for a moment, then began, voice quiet and low.

“There was once a boy who could speak to stars,” he said, eyes half-closed as the words took shape in the quiet room. “He didn’t know why they listened to him, but they did. Every night, he’d go up to the highest rooftop he could find and ask them questions. About the world. About people. About why things hurt sometimes. And the stars… they always answered.”

Harry was watching him with wide eyes, blinking slower now. Sleep was pulling at the edges of him, gentle but insistent. Across the room, Draco had already curled deeper into his blanket, limbs tucked in, but Regulus could still hear the faint rhythm of his breathing—awake, just barely.

And Regulus tried—not very successfully—not to think about himself and Sirius.
When they were small. When the world still felt quiet at night.
When they used to sneak upstairs and lie on the cold stone floor of the west tower, eyes fixed on the sky, Sirius pointing out stars with the confidence of someone who believed the sky belonged to them.

“That one’s yours,” he used to say, arm outstretched, finger tracing the constellation. “That’s Regulus. Mine’s right there—Orion.”
And Regulus, five years old and clumsy with adoration, would nod solemnly and try to memorize every word. Every star. Back then, it had felt important. Like being named after something in the sky made them mean something.

“One day," Regulus continued "He asked them why people had to be alone sometimes,” Regulus continued, his voice softer. “And they told him… that sometimes being alone teaches you how to find the ones who will never leave you.”

He looked up for a moment. Both boys were very still now.
“And did he find them?” Harry asked, barely audible.

Regulus reached out, brushing a stray curl from Draco’s forehead. “Eventually,” he whispered. “And when he did… he never spoke to the stars again. Because he didn’t need to.”

Draco shifted slightly, moving closer to Harry. “I like that one,” he mumbled.

“Me too,” Harry said. Regulus smiled. Tired down to his bones, but calm in a way he hadn’t been for a very, very long time. He leaned his head against the edge of the bed, meaning to stay just a minute—just until they were fully asleep.

But the room was warm, and he was so tired. Regulus hadn’t meant to fall asleep—of course he hadn’t. He’d meant to sit there for just a minute. Just until Draco’s breathing evened out. Just until the room felt settled.

So when James came upstairs later—expecting to find an empty hallway, maybe the low hum of Regulus’s voice keeping one of the boys company—what he found instead was this-

Regulus Black, fast asleep on the floor.

His back slumped against the wall, legs stretched out, one hand resting on the edge of the bed—barely an inch from Draco’s small, sleeping fingers. His other hand lay open in his lap, as if he’d meant to move and never quite managed it.
Draco and Harry were curled toward one another in the center of the mattress, their foreheads almost touching, blankets tangled but holding them both. Peaceful. Completely at ease.

And the whole room—quiet, dim, filled with the soft rhythm of breathing and the faint scent of chamomile from a half-drunk cup on the dresser—felt wrapped in something golden. James stood there for a moment, just watching. Breathing it in. That stillness. That impossible softness. That feeling of something earned and fragile, held gently in the dark.

He didn’t dare move. He didn’t even reach for his phone to capture it—not this.
This wasn’t something to keep in a photo.
This was something to remember. Something to protect.
Something he’d give anything—everything—to keep forever.

Chapter Text

The air was damp with the ghost of a morning drizzle, the kind that clung to skin and hair without ever quite becoming rain. Regulus didn’t mind the cold—it gave his fingers something to feel, something real to hold onto. A small discomfort he could name, unlike the heavier, dull ache still lingering behind his eyes.
The walk to Draco’s school had become routine by now. Familiar. Comforting, even. The streets didn’t expect anything from him. They didn’t ask him to smile, or explain, or be anything other than what he was in that moment—quiet, tired, moving forward.

His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He glanced at the screen and rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

Of course. Him.

The same person who had been taking up too much space in his head lately.
The same person who had a habit of making every decision feel just a little more complicated—because suddenly it wasn’t just his life anymore.

James bloody Potter.

The one person he could say no to, and somehow still wanted to say yes.
The one person who made him consider doing things like taking care of himself, like sleeping a little more, eating something that didn’t come from a packet—maybe even asking for help when it got too much.

Because that was James.

Irritating, infuriating, persistent… and steady in a way Regulus hadn’t realized he needed until it was already too late.

JAMES

Are you picking up Draco now?
Remember to get milk if you walk past that little shop? Thanks you lot!
Also—guess who’s wearing your scarf because someone left it behind again?
Found it tangled in my coat again.

Regulus rolled his eyes so hard he nearly walked into a streetlamp. He typed back quickly:

I didn’t ask you to adopt the scarf.
Next time burn it.
But fine. Milk. Anything else, Mr. caretaker?

James replied instantly:

Harsh. I was going to say it smells like you, but fine.
And don't roll your eyes, I can feel it from here

Regulus was still smirking faintly when the phone started ringing.

The sound pulled him out of his thoughts—but only just. His hand hovered over the receiver for a second too long, and it wasn’t because he didn’t want to answer. It was because his mind had drifted again. To that kiss.
It hadn’t happened again. James had respected the silence that followed with the same quiet grace he used when offering tea or adjusting a pillow. Gentle, steady, always careful—never pushing, never asking.

Still, they hadn’t talked about it.

Maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe this—this quiet understanding that had bloomed between them—was enough, for now. The easy glances, the shared sarcasm, the moments of unspoken care. There was a kind of complicity forming. Familiar, almost comforting. He didn’t trust it yet—but he liked it.

And It was better this way.

Regulus wasn’t in a place where he could name what was happening—emotionally unstable was putting it mildly. And if Draco had seen something, if he had asked… Regulus didn’t have the words for that. Not yet.
Because it was more complicated than he thought it would be. Because wanting things—wanting James—meant admitting to a hunger he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist. It had left something behind. Something soft and sharp at once, like a bruise you forget until you press on it.

And that kiss—that goddamn kiss—had rooted itself somewhere deep. It visited him in the quiet moments, soft and surreal, a flicker of something warm. When he managed to sleep, it showed up in dreams that smelled like cinnamon and rain and James, and he always woke up with the weight of it heavy in his chest.

He liked him. He really liked James.

Regulus exhaled through his nose, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and reached for the phone, who was still ringing.

Severus Snape.

With a quiet sigh, he accepted. “Yes?”

“Your cousin told me you were sick,” Snape said flatly, without preamble. “I assume you’re no longer on your deathbed if you’re picking up calls.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lovely to hear from you, too. I missed your voice. How are you Regulus? I'm fine, thanks for asking.”

“Your house,” Snape continued, ignoring him, “should be habitable again by Friday. The refrigerator is dead. The microwave survived. The television is functional. The couch, unfortunately, is halfway to a splintered grave, but I assume you and your little heir don’t need more than a mattress and a roof?”

Regulus’ jaw tightened, but his voice stayed smooth. “We’ll survive. Thank you for the… care.”

“Don’t mistake information for care,” Snape said dryly. “I’m the landlord. You’re the one who pays me—well, eventually.” Regulus didn’t respond to that. He didn’t need to.
“You can start moving in any time after Friday. I’ll leave the key with the shop downstairs.”

“Duly noted,” Regulus said. Snape hung up without a goodbye. He sighed rolling his eyes, what a pleasure. Really.

The afternoon sun was low on the horizon when Regulus stepped through the gates of the primary school, coat drawn tightly around him. It was still too cold for his liking—late winter clung to the air with fingers of damp wind, but the yard was loud with laughter and children sprinting from classroom doors with the pent-up energy of an entire day indoors. He lowered the phone slowly, slipping it back into his pocket just as the school bell rang and children began to flood the front gate.

He scanned the crowd automatically, eyes flicking through familiar shapes until—

“Mr. Black?”

The voice was clipped but polite, familiar. Regulus turned toward it to find Professor McGonagall walking briskly across the pavement, her coat buttoned up to her chin, a folder clutched under one arm. Her expression, though sharp as always, was tempered by something softer today—a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“Good afternoon,” Regulus greeted, nodding slightly. He was already on edge—McGonagall rarely stopped parents without a reason. “Is everything alright?” Did Draco got hurt? Did he hurt someone? Was his little baby okay? What happened?

“Oh, yes. Everything is perfectly fine, don't worry” she assured him. “I just wanted to catch you before you picked up Draco. If you have a moment.”

Regulus resisted the urge to glance at his watch. “Of course.”

She stepped aside slightly, gesturing for them to walk toward the side of the courtyard, where the younger children were starting to trickle out with teachers supervising the chaos of pickup time.

“We’re having a small event today,” McGonagall explained. “One of the school’s primary benefactors is visiting and touring the facilities. He’s a longtime supporter of educational initiatives in the city, particularly for schools like ours.”

Regulus kept his face politely neutral. No name, no clue. Not yet.

“He’s hoping to collaborate with us on a new campaign. Public awareness, social media visibility for public school excellence, that sort of thing. It’s early days, but he’s asked if he might be permitted to take a few photographs with some of the students who’ve been highlighted by the staff. Children who show… strong promise, academic or otherwise.”

There was a brief pause. Then her eyes flicked up to meet his with intention.

“Draco is one of them.”

Regulus blinked. “You want Draco to—?”

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” McGonagall cut in gently, sensing the tension beginning to coil behind his posture. “There’s no obligation. But he’s been nominated for the program based on his performance and his overall presence in class. His teachers speak very highly of him. He's a good and a clever boy. Very educated.”

A faint warmth tugged at Regulus’s chest—somewhere between pride and worry. He was the father of that kid. He did that. And Draco had been marvelous in following him. In trusting him. In loving him. “I appreciate you telling me,” he said slowly. “Is this happening today?”

“Yes, just in the next half hour or so. Our guest is already inside, meeting with some of the staff. If you’re open to it, we can bring Draco in for a few quick photos. He won’t be asked to say anything on camera, and we can remove him from any publication later if you change your mind.”

Regulus hesitated, glancing toward the school entrance. The idea of Draco being singled out for something good—seen as promising, intelligent, worthy—was- tempting. He deserved it. But something in him stayed sharp. Controlled. His overprotective part screaming at him. But James said that he had to learn to let go. And this was good. Draco would be happy.

“I’d like to meet this benefactor first,” Regulus said, keeping his voice pleasant, his face composed. “Before I agree to anything. Talk to him.”

“Of course,” McGonagall said with a quick nod, clearly appreciative of his care. “We’re set up just inside the assembly hall. I’ll bring you in.” She didn’t notice the way Regulus’s jaw tightened. Didn’t notice the slight shift in the way he stood, shoulders suddenly straighter, colder.

He followed her across the yard without a word.

The double doors to the assembly hall swung open with their usual heavy groan, and Regulus followed McGonagall inside. The space was half-lit, the last of the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows. A table had been set up on the far end, with some modest displays about the school’s achievements—art projects, framed photographs, a corkboard of newspaper clippings.

And then, standing at the center of it all, back turned, was the man.

“Well,” McGonagall said, her voice light with polite enthusiasm, “Mr. Riddle, I’d like to introduce you to one of our students’ guardians—Mr. Black.”

The man turned.

Regulus froze.

It was all too easy, too smooth, too theatrical. Tom Riddle had always known how to enter a room like it belonged to him. Like people were merely furniture in the grand design of his space. And Regulus—Regulus felt that same familiar shift, that subtle pressure in the air. That quiet danger masked in charm.

He looked exactly as he remembered him: sharp suit, perfect posture, hands folded with deliberate ease. But his eyes—they landed on Regulus like a weapon polished to gleam.

“Mr. Black,” Riddle said, smiling slowly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Regulus forced himself to take another step forward, masking the flare of tension in his gut. “Mr. Riddle.”

If McGonagall noticed anything off, she didn’t show it. She beamed with satisfaction at what she assumed was polite familiarity. “Draco’s been one of our standout pupils this year,” she said. “It’s wonderful that you’ll be able to speak with his guardian.”

“Oh, I’m delighted,” Riddle said, eyes still on Regulus. “I didn’t realize we’d be working with such… accomplished company.”

Regulus didn’t return the compliment. “McGonagall mentioned you’d like to take some photos.”

“Yes,” Riddle answered, as if the word itself were silk. “A small gesture to highlight the strength and promise of our public institutions. Faces like Draco’s make that so easy.”

Regulus nodded slowly. “Would you excuse us for just a moment?” he asked, his tone mild, even smooth. “I’d like a brief word with Mr. Riddle before we proceed.”

“Oh,” McGonagall hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Certainly. I’ll just step outside.”

She left with a final smile, the doors clicking softly behind her. And the air changed.
"What the actual fuck you're doing here?"

Riddle’s smile didn’t fade. “You look tired, honey.”

“You look the same, shitface” Regulus replied evenly. “Except now you pretend to care about children.”

Riddle chuckled, quiet and pleasant. “Pretending, dear boy? That hurts. I care very much. Especially when the children in question are… useful.”

Regulus’ jaw flexed. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, this place is quite floppy, expected something else. Something more-” He tilted his head. “more… grand. More Black.”

“Cut the theatrics,” Regulus said sharply, still keeping his voice low. “What do you want?”

Riddle’s smile faded by a fraction. “I want what’s owed to me. And I’d like it without further delay. It’s embarrassing, really, dragging this out. You know the number.”

Regulus didn’t blink. “I don’t have it. And you gave me until December, so what the fuck, Riddle? What are you playing at?”

“Alright- caught,” Riddle agreed, taking a step closer. “But you’re resourceful. I know that about you. And I wanted to see little Draco. It's like a nephew for me."

“You touch him—”

“I don’t need to,” Riddle said easily. “That’s the beauty of it. All I have to do is press the right keys. And you, Regulus… you’ll play the tune.”

Regulus swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “This is about more than money.”

“Of course it is,” Riddle said, voice almost tender now. “It’s about you. It’s always been about you.” Riddle’s hand shot out and gripped Regulus’s chin, forcing him to meet his cold, unblinking gaze. Regulus clenched his jaw, teeth grinding, every muscle screaming to pull away—but he held his ground.
He had to protect himself, and most of all, Draco.
“I’ve been lonely,” Riddle whispered, voice dripping with venom. “Where did you disappear to? I haven’t seen you at work… or anywhere.”

A shiver ran down Regulus’s spine. He jerked his chin free with a sharp motion, stepping back—only for Riddle to yank him back with a sudden pull. "Let me go, you fucker-"

“Where do you think you’re going, Regulus?” The voice was low, dark, almost a hiss. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until I say so.”

Regulus’s chest tightened, anger flaring hot against the cold knot of fear. “Don’t think I’m your pawn.”

“Oh, but I’m only asking for a small favor.” Riddle’s fingers found a handful of Regulus’s hair and tugged hard. Regulus bit back a strangled cry, tilting his head away— “Shhh- You wouldn’t want to alert the guards, would you?” Riddle whispered, dangerously close.

“No. No, no, no. Don't want to-” Regulus muttered, chest heaving, heart pounding, desperate to pull free — to disappear — but trapped, caged by Riddle’s hold. His eyes darted frantically, searching for an escape, for help, for any sign of safety. But there was only Riddle. And that cold, merciless smile.
Regulus’s elbow shot out before his mind could catch up—sharp and unyielding—landing a brutal blow to Riddle’s ribs. “Fucking psychopath,” Regulus hissed, the words rough and raw in his throat.

Riddle’s dark chuckle slithered through the air, low and cruel, like a serpent savoring its prey. “I wouldn’t advise that,” he murmured, voice silk over steel.

“Stay away from Draco,” Regulus warned, every ounce of control threading through his voice, steady but fierce.

For a long, suffocating moment, Riddle simply regarded him—eyes gleaming with cold amusement—before a faint, dangerous smirk curved his lips.
“Fine. For now, he’s off limits.”

The words hung between them, a fragile truce that felt more like a threat.

Regulus blinked, disbelief knotting deep in his gut. Was this some twisted mercy? Or a darker game just beginning?
“Is this about the debt?” Regulus’s voice was barely a whisper, breath hitching with cautious hope.

"Don't worry about it." Riddle’s answer was disturbingly casual, like tossing away an old coat. “Consider it wiped clean. Eighty thousand pounds—gone. Off your shoulders.”

His heart thundered—an erratic drum pounding in his chest. What did this mean? What devil’s bargain was being offered?
“What do you want from me?” Regulus demanded, voice tight, brittle with tension and fear.

Riddle laughed then—soft, but laced with venom, a sound that sank like ice into bone. “Simple. You.”

Regulus’s eyes widened, almost shouting the question back in disbelief, desperation. “What?” Riddle stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, voice a poisonous whisper that slithered into the cracks of Regulus’s resolve. "I'm nothing. So I'll ask again- what do you want from me?"

“Power,” he breathed, circling like a predator savoring the hunt. His fingers trailed mercilessly down Regulus’s cheek, cold as winter steel.
“The power only you can grant me. Your body, your influence, everything you hold—the keys to doors no one else can open.”
He leaned in, voice dripping with cruel promise. “Your return as heir. The place that’s always been yours to take. A Black heir… under my control. So intoxicatingly beautiful. A greyhound on my leash.”

His smile was a blade—cold, sharp, sadistic.

“Your family wronged me,” he murmured, voice folding into shadow. “An orphan left to claw his way through a world that spat me out. When I approached them, your parents, the mighty Lord Black and your dreadful mother- their eyes were filled with nothing but disgust. A thing to be discarded. Useless. Powerless. A nothing. An error.”

Regulus’s eyes rolled, bitter and weary, the weight of every wound pressed behind his gaze. Regulus’s eyes snapped open wide, then rolled with bitter exhaustion, the weight of every old wound pressing down behind his gaze.
“Honestly,” he almost shouted, voice cracking with frustration and rage, “if this is some kind of vendetta against my parents—then you’re a damn fool. Because I hated them too. They ruined me just as much as they ruined you.”

His words hung in the air, raw and desperate.

Riddle only laughed—cold, sharp, and utterly dismissive, as if Regulus’s pain was nothing but a nuisance.
“I don’t want to hear any of that,” he said, voice silky but ruthless. “What I want is you. You and only you, at my side. Like a trophy under their nose.”
He took a step closer, eyes glinting with dark promise. “And when I have you… then you can kiss your debt goodbye. I'll need a sign. Just your firm. No money. No Draco.”

Regulus’s breath caught—eighty thousand pounds. Impossible to gather by the deadline. He opened his mouth to protest, to say he had people now who could help, who could lend him the money. Better them than this monster.

But Riddle cut him off with a low, mocking chuckle.

“Oh, and by the way… your sweet James? His work problems? Guess who caused them.” The words fell like a hammer. Riddle smiled again, this time without warmth. “And I wonder how well the art world would take it if a scandal suddenly hit that darling little gallery Sirius works with. One wrong move, and it all falls apart. In an instant.” Riddle’s voice dropped to a whisper, venomous and cold. “And you… are the key. Do you really want to be the cause of all that?”

Regulus’s heart slammed to a stop, panic flooding through his veins like ice.
The threat wasn’t just in words—it clawed at him from inside, tightening like a noose.

Riddle’s smile curved again, dangerous and irresistible.
“Come with me,” he said, voice both a command and a promise, “and I’ll solve all your problems.”

Regulus’s heart thundered painfully in his chest, every beat a deafening reminder of the impossible choice before him. The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls closing in with the weight of expectations and threats.

What kind of power is this, that it binds me tighter than chains? His thoughts raced, tangled and chaotic. He’s not just holding my debt over me—he’s holding my life, my future, even Draco’s safety, like a leash I can’t escape.

The cold, merciless smirk on Riddle’s face blurred into the shadows of the past—parents who looked through him like he was air, a brother who fled, a world that never wanted him whole. I’ve been fighting for every scrap of control, every piece of dignity, Regulus realized bitterly. And now this man wants to own me. Not just my money, but me. My name. My blood.

A surge of anger flared, fierce and raw. I won’t be his pawn. I won’t be anyone’s puppet. But beneath the fire lurked a gnawing, suffocating fear—the knowledge that without him, everything Regulus cared about could crumble.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady the shaking in his limbs. If I say no—Draco, Harry, James… they’ll all pay the price. The thought of losing Draco’s trust, of becoming a ghost in the boy’s life, crushed him. What kind of guardian would I be if I let that happen?

The silence stretched between them like a blade. Riddle’s eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction, knowing he held Regulus’s future like a thread ready to snap.
And yet… Regulus thought, there’s a sliver of something else, too. A spark that refuses to die. Maybe this is a chance—not to surrender, but to survive on my own terms. To find a way to turn the leash into a lifeline.

His gaze locked with Riddle’s, steady but wary. “You want me,” he said slowly, voice low but firm. “But I’m not yours to take.”

Riddle’s smile widened, dangerously certain. “We shall see,” he whispered.
Riddle’s voice dropped to a chilling whisper, each word deliberate and heavy like a sentence passed in a court of darkness.
“You have one month. Thirty days to decide whether you stand with me… or fall beneath the weight of your debt. After that,” —his eyes sharpened to icy daggers— “those eighty thousand pounds become entirely your burden. No more mercy. No more negotiations.”

Regulus felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. Thirty days—too short to breathe, too long to endure. The clock was already ticking, a slow, merciless countdown to ruin.

Riddle leaned closer, his breath cold against Regulus’s skin. “Use that time wisely. Show me just how impossible it is to gather those funds. Prove to me that you cannot survive without my help.”

The words sank into Regulus’s bones like poison. Impossible. The debt was a mountain he could never climb alone.
His mind raced with frantic calculations, desperate schemes, and shadowed threats. Every flicker of hope was smothered beneath the certainty of Riddle’s dominion.
And yet, in that suffocating moment, something hardened inside him. The fire of defiance—the stubborn pulse that refused to be crushed.

He would play this game. For Draco. For himself. But on his terms, not Riddle’s.

Because surrender meant losing everything. And Regulus Black was not yet ready to be broken. Regulus didn’t even hear the footsteps until they were nearly beside him.

“Oh, there you are,” came Professor McGonagall’s warm, clipped voice as she stepped into the corridor with her clipboard still tucked beneath one arm. “Did you two manage to agree on the photo arrangement? We were thinking Draco could stand just by the banner—”

Riddle straightened at once, the transformation immediate and terrifying. In the span of a heartbeat, he became once more the polished benefactor: charming, composed, smiling faintly as though nothing had happened, as though his fingers hadn’t just been curled like claws in Regulus’s hair.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone,” he said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of his coat with deliberate ease. “An urgent matter’s just come to my attention, regrettably. But of course, I’m more than happy to support the school’s vision however I can from afar.”

McGonagall’s brow lifted, but she didn’t press. “I see. That’s unfortunate. We’ll move forward with the rest, then.”

Riddle turned to Regulus one last time, his eyes locking onto his like a predator tucking the kill away for later. “Lovely seeing you again,” he said, voice low and mocking, before he stepped past them and down the corridor like a shadow dissolving into light.

Regulus stood still. He couldn’t move. His limbs felt like they’d turned to stone, his jaw tight with pressure, heart thudding in rhythms far too fast.

McGonagall, finally noticing his silence, looked at him more closely.
“Mr. Black?” she asked gently. “Are you alright?”

Regulus forced his lips into something that could pass as a smile. He nodded once. “Yes. Sorry, just a headache. I’ll… I’ll tell Draco we’ll go ahead with the photos if you still need his help.”

He felt himself moving before he even knew what his body was doing—walking, breathing, putting one foot in front of the other because if he didn’t, he’d collapse.

Regulus walked beside Draco down the school’s paved path, his hand loosely holding the boy’s smaller one. Draco was chatting about something—one of his classmates, or the way the glue in art class smelled weird—but Regulus only half-heard it, his mind still echoing with the sharp hiss of Riddle’s last words. One month. One month to either sell his soul or watch everything he cared about fall apart.

But Draco didn’t know that. Draco had just smiled brightly when the teacher had told him he’d been chosen, and that smile was enough to force Regulus into composure.
“You were amazing today,” he said softly, looking down at him. “One of the few students picked. That’s no small thing.”

Draco grinned, eyes bright. “I was nervous! But the lady said I looked very responsible. Like someone who would be a good ambassador. What’s an ambassador?”

“Someone who makes other people look good just by being themselves,” Regulus said, brushing a bit of lint from Draco’s shoulder. “Which you’re getting dangerously good at.”

“Do we get to tell James?” Draco asked hopefully. “I wanna tell him.”

Regulus hesitated only a second. “Not right now,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “We’re going to see Evan and Barty first, remember?”

“Oh! Are they baking something? Can I have two of whatever it is?”

“We’ll negotiate,” Regulus murmured, unlocking the car and waiting for Draco to scramble into the back seat. "And I don't know- Evan's probably tired, hon-"

As soon as he walked out from school ground, Regulus reached for his phone, thumbs flying over the screen.

Group Chat – Evan, Barty, Narcissa

Regulus: Meet at Evan and Barty’s in 20.
Urgent. Bring coffe.

No questions followed. Only:

Narcissa: I’ll be there.
Barty: Done at the bakery. Be home in 10.
Evan: I’ll put the kettle on.

Regulus let out a slow breath. The act of organizing something gave him the illusion of control. Of clarity. He glanced at Draco—already humming something under his breath, cheeks still flushed from the afternoon’s excitement. It was horrifying how easy it was to keep smiling. To keep breathing. To keep pretending. Because for Draco, everything still looked safe.

Draco kept close to his side as they walked, the boy’s chatter bubbling up like a stream breaking over stones—light, harmless, happy. Regulus nodded occasionally, murmuring small answers when required, but most of his attention was elsewhere. His thoughts were jagged, loud, circling like birds over a carcass.

The afternoon air was cold and dry, their steps echoing down the residential road. The school was already a few streets behind them, the chatter of other parents and children fading into quiet. Regulus adjusted the strap of Draco’s backpack over the boy’s shoulder without a word and brushed a few strands of blond hair off his forehead, neatening him by instinct.

“You’re proud of me, right?” Draco asked suddenly, looking up.

Regulus blinked, caught off guard. “Of course I am.”

Draco kicked at a stone and grinned, arms swinging freely now. “Because I got picked for the photo thing.”

Regulus forced a smile. “Yes. For that. You handled everything very well. But even because you're a good kid. The best.” And Draco beamed at that, hugging his waist tightly. Regulus knew that Draco grieved for attention, for the need of being good, because he had been left behind, first by his father, even if he didn't even remember his face, and secondly by Narcissa.

Then Draco glanced at him with suspicion, as if sensing that his answer wasn’t full-bodied. “Why didn’t we do the photo though? Weren’t we supposed to?”

“There was a change of plan,” Regulus said smoothly, not missing a step. “Nothing important. They’ll reschedule.”

“Oh.” Draco looked thoughtful. “Is it because of that man? He was kind of weird.”

Regulus’s heart missed a beat, but he kept his voice calm. “Don’t worry about him.”

They turned a corner, the sun already beginning to lower behind the buildings, painting the pavement in long strips of gold and grey. Regulus’ phone buzzed in his pocket—he took it out quickly with one hand, checking the reply to the message he had sent barely five minutes earlier.

Evan: We’re here. Come up when you get in.
Barty: We have tea. Too much coffe is bad for you.

Regulus allowed the smallest flicker of relief to pass over his face. Good. They were there. They always were.

Draco tugged on his coat sleeve. “… are we going to our apartment?”

Regulus glanced down, smoothing a hand over Draco’s head gently, tucking a curl behind his ear. “Not yet, it's not ready. We’re just stopping by Evan and Barty’s.”

“Why?”

“They asked to see us,” Regulus said, tone firm but still soft. “We’ll head back to James’s later. He’s probably working right now.”

Draco accepted the answer easily enough, skipping ahead slightly as they turned onto another narrow street. The building was just ahead now, familiar and peeling and comfortable in the way only certain places could be. Home, almost. Even if only temporarily.

Regulus slowed a little as they approached the front steps, watching Draco hop up them two at a time. He felt the weight of the next conversation pressing down on his shoulders like cold stone.

There was no plan yet. Only panic. But at least now he wasn’t alone with it.

As they reached the door, Draco bounced up the last step and rang the buzzer before Regulus could even raise a hand. The door swung open almost instantly.
“Look who’s here,” Evan grinned, leaning against the frame with a mug in his hand. His gaze flicked briefly from Draco to Regulus, then back again. “And in one piece, too. Impressive.”

Draco beamed. “Hi!”

Evan bent slightly. “Hey, champ. You wanna come in and tell me everything about your big famous photoshoot that didn’t happen?”

“It’s still secret!” Draco said seriously, stepping inside with all the weight of a boy who’d survived something important.

“Of course it is,” Evan said with mock gravity, stepping aside to let them both in.

Barty was already in the living room, legs up on the coffee table, eyes flicking up from some half-finished crossword. “Look who finally remembered he has friends.”

Narcissa’s voice floated from the kitchen: “Be nice, Barty.”

Regulus stepped out of his coat with slow, deliberate movements. “I’ll only be five minutes, Draco,” he said gently, crouching slightly to meet his eyes. “You can watch something if you’d like, or—”

“Can I draw?” Draco asked, already slipping his bag off his shoulders.

“Of course,” Regulus said. “You know where everything is.”

“I’ll be at the table,” Draco declared, trotting into the living room.

Evan gave Regulus a sideways glance as he passed him on the way to the kitchen. “He seems okay.”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. His body was tense, jaw clenched like it hadn’t yet received permission to relax. He followed them in silence into the kitchen, where the light was softer and the smell of tea still lingered.

Narcissa had just poured herself a cup of tea when Regulus stepped into the kitchen, pale beneath the weak overhead light. She turned immediately, eyes narrowing with concern.

“You look pale,” she said, voice low but sharp in that way only a worried mother could manage.

Before he could offer one of his usual deflections, she had already crossed the room. “Sit,” she instructed, setting her cup aside with a quiet clink and pressing her hands gently to either side of his face. Her fingers were cool, firm, familiar.

Regulus blinked, startled, but didn’t pull away. There was something grounding about the gesture—Narcissa’s calm but insistent presence, her thumb brushing lightly across his cheekbone as she leaned in slightly, searching his eyes.
“I’m fine,” Regulus said automatically, eyes flicking around the room, trying to settle. “I just— We need to talk.”

Barty stood and pulled out a chair for him without a word.
Regulus sat. His hands weren’t shaking, but only just.

She ignored him, as she always had when he said that and looked like this. “Have you eaten? You’re not just running on fumes and spite again, are you?”

Regulus sighed, a soft breath through his nose, but the tension in his shoulders had already started to melt. "Narcissa, please, I'm fine- okay?"
Regulus rubbed his hands together once before placing them on the table, palms flat, as if grounding himself.
“Now that I’m feeling better,” he said quietly, “I think we can start focusing again. On the money. On… how to get out of this. We need a plan.”

There was a pause, the kind that came when everyone in the room already knew the weight of the topic before it was even spoken aloud.
“I make about two thousand and six hundred a month,” he continued. “After rent, bills, groceries, now a new fridge—everything—I’m lucky if I’ve got three hundred left over.”

Evan whistled low. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Regulus said. “And that’s without Draco needing shoes, or school trips, or… I don’t know, life.”

Barty leaned forward, elbows on the table, expression more serious than usual. “Is that with you working full time?”

Regulus nodded once. “Almost sixty hours a week, plus the prep. Sometimes more.”

Narcissa set her mug down with a soft clink. “I only bring in a part-time wage,” she said, with something like shame. “Two days a week at the shop. They cut hours over winter. I’m looking for more, but…”

“You also take care of Draco half the time,” Evan interjected. “Which is a job.”
She gave him a small, grateful look, but it didn’t erase the tightness around her mouth.

Regulus shook his head slightly. “We need to be realistic. Even if I saved every spare pound from this moment on—no school supplies, no emergencies, no birthdays—I’d have about twenty thousand by the end of the year. Maybe twenty-five? We need eighty thousand.”

“Yeah, it’s not happening just from your tips,” Barty muttered.

Evan gave him a pointed look. “Then we need to think bigger.”

Regulus glanced up sharply. “I’m not selling anything illegal. I can't go to prison.”

“No one’s saying that,” Evan said. “But we might need to look at options we hadn’t considered yet. Loans, side work, crowdfunding, hell, maybe even asking someone.”

Barty was the first to break the silence. “We can help too, Reg. I mean—obviously not with eighty thousand, but we’re not gonna let you do this alone.”

Evan nodded firmly. “We’ve got savings. A bit. Not much, but something. And I can pick up extra shifts if needed.”

Regulus looked at them, grateful but exasperated. “You already do too much. And even with everything— with your money- we’d barely scratch the surface.”
He leaned forward, rubbing his temples for a moment. Then, quietly: “If I added two more tutoring hours a day… say, five days a week. That’s roughly thirty pounds extra a day. Which—if I kept it steady—would be maybe ten thousand in a year. Maybe we'll get to thirty thousand?”

Barty raised an eyebrow. “That’s if you don’t get sick again.”

“I won’t,” Regulus said quickly. Too quickly.

Evan gave him a look. “Reg.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, then softened almost immediately. “I mean—I will be. That fever was just… timing. Bad luck.”

Narcissa was frowning, arms folded. “So you’d have ten thousand from that, plus your base salary—what, two thousand and five hundred a month? That’s another… let’s say, fifteen thousand if you cut it all down to the bone. Less.”

Regulus nodded. “And with your part-time salary, Narcissa and Barty and Evan-”

“Forty thousand at best,” she said, shrugging. "But we have to eat tomatoes and potatoes for eleven months without gifts and- and- everything else."

Regulus did the math in his head, ticking off each number like a death toll. “Yeah- almost impossible with a kid- so let's say twenty-five thousand. Maybe. With some help, maybe twenty-eight.”

“And you still need over fifty,” Barty muttered.

“You’re not working fourteen-hour days again,” Evan added, sharper now. “That week before you collapsed? You earned loads, sure. But you also nearly landed in the hospital.”

Regulus pressed his lips together. “Only because of the fever. That’s not going to happen again.”

“You say that like it’s a guarantee,” Narcissa murmured.

“I can handle it,” he said, firmer this time. “I have to. What else am I going to do? Sit around and hope someone saves me?”

Barty exhaled loudly. “We just don’t want you to kill yourself trying.”
Regulus didn’t respond. Not because he didn’t hear—but because deep down, he didn’t know how not to.
“I could always go back to my father,” Barty muttered, arms crossed. "As I already said. It's- it's the only possible thing Reg."

“No,” Evan and Regulus said instantly, voice quiet but resolute.

Regulus didn’t even look up from the papers he was absentmindedly arranging. “That wouldn’t be any different from what he wants from me.” The words slipped out like breath, low and tired.

The silence that followed was instant and sharp.
Narcissa’s head turned slowly toward him. “What did you say?”

Regulus froze.

Evan blinked. “Reg?”

Barty narrowed his eyes. “Who’s he?”

Regulus straightened, slowly, but still didn’t look at any of them. His voice was tight. “Forget it. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No,” Narcissa said, rising from her seat. “You meant it exactly that way. What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing,” Regulus replied too quickly. “It’s fine, really. I’m—”

“Regulus,” Narcissa snapped, and her voice didn’t often snap. “Is someone asking you to—sell yourself?” He flinched at her wording.

“Who is it?” Barty demanded. “Who wants that?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

“Reg,” Evan said gently. “Please don’t do this alone. We're here for you. Let's sort it today.”

He exhaled shakily and leaned against the counter, eyes unfocused.
“It’s Riddle,” he said at last. “He came to the school today. He wants me. Says he’ll erase the debt if I—if I give him control. Of me. Of my name. Of what I represent.”

Narcissa sat down again, too suddenly.

Barty’s expression was pure disbelief. “You mean—he—is blackmailing you?”

Regulus gave a bitter laugh. “He doesn’t need blackmail. He just knows the math. Eighty thousand pounds. He knows I’ll never make that in time. So he made an offer.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” Barty asked, sounding more hurt than angry now.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it. I- I'm scared guys- he-”

Narcissa looked up at him, pale and furious. “You’re family. You don’t get to decide whether we’re dragged into it or not. You think we’d let him touch a hair on your head? You think I’d let him look at Draco again?”

Regulus swallowed hard, and for a moment, didn’t speak. When he finally did, it came out smaller than he meant it to. “I just wanted it to go away.”

And the room stayed quiet. Until Evan moved forward and said, gently, “It won’t. But you don’t have to fight it alone.”

Evan took a slow breath and stepped forward, brows furrowed.
“Regulus. Say it again. What exactly did he tell you?”

Regulus leaned back against the counter, his hands gripping its edge so tightly his knuckles whitened. “He used the school,” he muttered, eyes locked on a crack in the tile floor. “Came as a benefactor. McGonagall didn’t know, obviously. He wanted a photo of Draco. A public one.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening.

“And then he said… if I agreed to become his—his property, basically—he’d clear the debt. And if I didn’t—” his voice cracked slightly, “—he’d make sure everything around me started to crumble. That the eighty thousand would bury me.”

There was silence. Then Barty let out a sound halfway between a growl and a scoff. “That’s fucking deranged. That’s not even blackmail, that’s—insanity. Why does he even care?”

“Power,” Regulus said hoarsely. “He wants control. Of a Black. Of me. To reach something else.”

“No,” Narcissa said firmly, eyes sharp. “Absolutely not. You’re not doing that. We’ll ask James. Or your brother. They’d give you the money without hesitation on the spot-”

“No,” Regulus cut in, voice sharper than he intended. They all turned toward him.
“No,” he repeated, lower now. “We can’t ask them.”

“Why the hell not?” Barty asked.

Regulus looked up, face pale but eyes burning. “Because Riddle already touched James. That work issue he had? That last-minute change to the legal board? That was Riddle. And he said Sirius is next. That he’ll make his gallery collapse if I bring them into this.”

Narcissa’s breath caught.

Evan stepped closer. “He’s threatening everyone.”

“He wants me afraid,” Regulus said. “Wants me desperate.”

“And are you?” Barty asked softly.

Regulus hesitated. "I think so." Then, finally—quietly, bitterly—he said, “And I’m fucking exhausted to be like this.” And none of them said anything for a long time.

James had always been good at pretending not to notice things. It was a skill—one honed through childhood, perfected during awkward teenage years, and sharpened again when becoming a father had meant learning to pick his battles, to wait until the right moment, to observe before acting.

But lately, it was harder to keep that skill sharp around Regulus.

There was something—no, not something—there was a very specific kind of heaviness around him since they’d come back. A tightness in the way he held himself. A sharpness in the silences between him and Narcissa. Nothing explosive. Nothing outright. Just a slight cold front trailing in the air when they crossed paths, a shadow clinging to Regulus’s shoulders even when he smiled at Draco, even when he thanked James for the tea, even when they brushed hands in the kitchen without meaning to.

James had seen it before—on his own face, in a mirror, once. After a funeral.

Now, standing in the living room with the soft hum of the dishwasher in the background and the kids already tucked upstairs, he glanced out the window. Regulus was outside again. In the bloody garden. In March.

James shook his head, tugging on a jumper. Of course he’s in the garden.

To be fair, it was finally getting a little warmer. The kind of warmer that wasn’t real warmth yet, but hinted at it. The air didn’t cut so sharply, the sky didn’t darken quite as early. The garden, wild and slightly neglected from the winter, smelled faintly of soil instead of ice. He slid open the back door, closing it quietly behind him. The evening air met him with that cool dampness only March knew how to carry. Not entirely unpleasant. Just honest.

Regulus was sitting on the far end of the bench, legs drawn in, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. His shoulders were hunched slightly, like the weight hadn’t left yet. His hair stirred just a little in the breeze.

James stayed quiet for a second, just watching him in profile. He wasn’t sure what to say yet. But then again—he rarely was, around Regulus. He only ever figured it out once he was already saying it.
He made his way across the grass, slow and casual, like they were just two blokes out for a smoke break during a party they both hated.

“Hope you’re not trying to freeze yourself on purpose,” James said finally, voice low and light.

Regulus didn’t turn, but James saw the faint twitch of his lips. “It’s less freezing than it was last week,” Regulus murmured, almost philosophical. “I’ll take the win.”

James sat down beside him, leaving just a bit of space between them, his eyes flicking up toward the stars starting to shimmer overhead.
“You okay?” he asked, after a beat.
It wasn’t the most original question in the world, but it was honest. “Rough day?” James asked eventually, quieter now.

Regulus gave the faintest nod. “Heavy. And quiet, in all the wrong ways.”

James looked out at the garden, the moonlight stretching long and silver across the grass. “You’ve been carrying too much for too long.”
Regulus didn’t deny it. He just closed his eyes briefly, letting the air sting his cheeks. When he opened them again, James was still there, solid and warm beside him.

“You do know we have walls, right? And heating?” he said casually, walking over.

Regulus didn’t move. “The cold helps,” he murmured, voice flat but not harsh.

James tilted his head, crouching a little to look at him better. “Helps with what, exactly? Reminding you you’re alive? Or just punishing yourself for some reason?”

Regulus huffed softly, almost a scoff. “It makes things feel… more solid. Less like I’m floating above my own life.”

James sat down beside him without asking, the stone cold and unforgiving under his legs. “So you’re out here using frostbite as a coping mechanism. That’s new. Nice.”

“It grounds me,” Regulus said, a little more sharply. “The cold makes everything real. It strips things down.”

James nodded slowly. “Right. You and the wind against your bones having a moment.”

Regulus finally turned his head, casting him a sidelong look. “Mock me all you want, but it works.”

“I’m not mocking,” James said, though the ghost of a grin played at his lips. “I’m just deeply concerned you’re becoming a snow witch.”

Regulus let out a breath, amused despite himself. “I’ll be sure to hex your heating first.”

James bumped his shoulder gently against Regulus’s. “Do that and I’ll pour hot soup directly into your boots.”
James let the silence linger a moment longer, before puffing out a breath and shifting against the cold stone. “You know,” he said, tapping a finger on his knee, “this whole mysterious silent brooding in the cold garden vibe of yours is very dramatic. Very effective. But it’s missing something.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow without turning. “Like what?”

James grinned. “Like falling into the koi pond. Which, for the record, is what I did when I was younger.”

That made Regulus turn his head, suspicion barely veiled. “You don’t have a koi pond.”

“No, but my Aunt Martha did, in her penthouse” James replied, already smiling at the memory. “She invited us over for this garden party once—very proper, floral dresses, champagne flutes, all that. I was twelve. I was wearing my best shirt. And someone—probably my father, you don't know how fucking reckless that man is—dared me to tightrope walk across the edge of the pond. So, obviously, I did.”

Regulus blinked. “Obviously.”

“I made it exactly one and a half steps before I slipped and faceplanted directly onto a lily pad,” James said proudly. “Landed so hard the fish scattered for an hour. Aunt Marta screamed like I’d assassinated a royal guest.”

Regulus gave a sharp, involuntary laugh. “Did she make you pay for traumatizing her fish?”

“Worse. She made me perform an apology dance for the koi and the guests. In front of everyone. I was dying inside.”

Regulus was already shaking his head, hiding a smirk. “You’re making this up.”

“I swear on Harry’s entire sticker collection. The apology dance included jazz hands. And that,” James added, “was the last time I ever danced. Publicly. Or willingly.”

Regulus gave him a long, amused look. “So what, you’re allergic to rhythm now?”

“No, I just never recovered from the public humiliation, it was horrible I swear. Never been to Aunt Marta again.” James said solemnly. Then, softer, with a playful tilt to his voice, he added, “But… you could fix that. Maybe.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Fix it?”

“Teach me,” James said, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. “How to dance. Properly. You’ve got that whole posh thing going on—you must know ballroom, or at least something that isn’t… interpretive koi flailing.”

Regulus snorted, but the laugh faded quickly. “You want me to teach you to dance.”

“Well, yes. Logically, you’re the best option in the household. Sirius has two left feet, Remus refuses anything that involves counting, and I doubt Narcissa has the time.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why?”

James met his gaze, this time without a smile. “Because… I know it used to make you happy. And maybe it still could. I figured—if I asked you to teach me, maybe it’d give you a reason to do it again. Not for work. Not for money. Just for you.”
Regulus stared at him for a moment, caught off guard. The wind picked up around them, and for a second all he could hear was the soft rustle of the trees and his own heartbeat.
“A waltz would be fine,” James added, a little sheepish. “I’m not asking you to choreograph a Broadway show.”

Regulus huffed a small breath, almost a laugh, almost not. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter. “You really are relentless.”

James stepped a bit closer, the space between them suddenly feeling smaller. “Only with things that matter.”

And Regulus, despite himself, looked down at his hands and whispered, “I don’t even know if I remember how to enjoy it.”

James’s voice was soft. “Then let’s find out.”

Regulus stood, slowly brushing off his trousers as if the moment needed formality. Then he held out a hand toward James, his expression somewhere between amused and resigned.
“Alright. Let’s learn this waltz. Come on,” he said, tone dry but unmistakably genuine. “Let’s see how quickly I can change your mind.”

James blinked at the offered hand, then took it like it was something precious. He let Regulus pull him closer, the distance between them dissolving into shared breath.
“Okay,” Regulus murmured, positioning James’s hands without asking. “Left hand here. Right hand on my shoulder. No—my shoulder, not my neck, you absolute menace.”

James laughed, loud and delighted. “Sorry! Sorry. I’m trying. This is very professional.”

“You have all the grace of a baby giraffe,” Regulus muttered, already regretting this.

“You say that like it’s not endearing.”

And then they moved. Or—tried to. James missed the first step, nearly knocked into Regulus’s foot, then panicked and stepped directly on it.
“Hell, James!” Regulus hissed, pulling his foot back. “Are you trying to flatten me?”

“I panicked!” James exclaimed through a fit of laughter. “You’re very intimidating when you’re trying to be elegant.”

“That wasn’t me trying. That is me, Potter.” Regulus glared at him, but there was a glint in his eyes. A spark. “Try again.”

They did, and this time James managed two steps before nearly spinning them the wrong way. Regulus grunted, muttering something about how this was why he never taught beginners.

But James was watching him, not his own feet. “You’re smiling,” he said, almost in wonder.

Regulus blinked. His mouth had curved without permission, just the faintest lift, something real and reluctant. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” James’s voice softened. “It looks good on you.”

Regulus gave him a look. “If you step on me again, I’m calling it off.”

James grinned. “Fair. I’ll behave.”

They moved again, slower this time. James found a rhythm — a clumsy one, but a rhythm all the same — and Regulus guided him with small nudges, correcting posture and grip, until it wasn’t horrible. Not perfect, but not horrible.

“You’ve really never had lessons?” Regulus asked after a few steps that could almost be called graceful.

“Nope. My family didn’t really do the whole ‘formal’ thing.”

“Mine did,” Regulus said, quieter now. “Parties. Charity events. Balls full of strangers who looked at you like you were a product on display. You had to know how to waltz. And smile. And lie.”

James looked at him, eyes softening. “Is that why you’re so good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Regulus said, lips quirking again, “because I hated it enough to perfect it.”

James huffed a small laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you. Now—don’t move your left foot yet. Wait for me.” They danced like that for another minute — slow, imperfect, uncoordinated — but James didn’t care. Because Regulus was laughing. Not much. Not loudly. But genuinely.

They continued, feet scraping faintly on the stone path beneath them, the occasional shift of balance turning into a full-body negotiation.
“You’re leaning too much on your right,” Regulus muttered.

James huffed. “I’m doing my best.”

“Your best is structurally unsound.”

“Oh, shut up, you dance snob.”

Regulus smirked, pulling him ever so slightly closer. “I’m only trying to stop you from ending up in a hospital. Or worse—crushing me to death.”

“I’m not that heavy.”

“I’m delicate.”

“You’re not—” James began, half-laughing, but the rest of his sentence was swallowed by the sudden, traitorous betrayal of the earth beneath them.
His heel slipped—something slick beneath the worn sole of his sneaker—and in an instant, he was lurching forward, arms windmilling wildly. Regulus instinctively tried to catch him, hands gripping at his shirt to stabilize him.

Bad idea.

Physics had other plans.

They crashed down together with a symphony of awkward gasps and muffled curses. Regulus let out a sharp, breathless “Fuck—James—!” just before his back hit the grass with a muffled thud, and James landed sprawled half on top of him.

There was a long pause. Then- “I told you,” Regulus wheezed, trying to shove James off his chest. “I told you not to lean—are you trying to murder me for the inheritance you won’t get?”

James burst into laughter, propping himself up on one elbow, hair falling into his eyes. “I think that was mostly your fault.”

“My—? My fault?” Regulus looked offended. “I wasn’t the one pretending to be a bloody ice dancer on damp stone.”

“You were very encouraging.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“You laughed,” James pointed out, grinning down at him.

“That was a momentary lapse in judgement.”

“Well,” James said, still smiling, “your momentary lapse was my favorite part of the evening.” Regulus opened his mouth to retort, but faltered. For a second, he just stared up at James, breath caught somewhere between his ribs. His hands were still on James’s chest—when had they landed there?—and James hadn’t moved yet.

The tension shifted. Not gone. Just quieter.

Then Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Get off me.”

“You’re really no fun.”

“You’re heavy.”

James didn’t move right away. Still half-draped over Regulus, his hand braced by his shoulder, breath warm between them, his gaze flickered—once, deliberate—toward Regulus’s mouth.

And something shifted. The air tightened like the moment before a storm. Not loud. Not grand. Just there.
Regulus noticed it too. His body stilled beneath James, the faintest catch in his breath betraying him.

James’s voice came out softer now, playfully muted. “But I was just trying to look at the stars.”

Regulus arched an eyebrow, flat. “You idiot. You’re facing the wrong way.”

A crooked grin curved James’s lips. “Am I?” His gaze dropped again, this time slower, heavier. “I’m looking at one.”

There was a beat of silence, thick as honey.

And then Regulus—Regulus Black, who didn’t flinch in the face of confrontation, who stared down Riddle himself not hours ago—turned crimson. A bright, undeniable flush bloomed high on his cheekbones. He looked away, eyes darting toward the hedges like they might save him.

James didn’t press him. Just watched. Just stayed there.
Regulus swallowed, voice almost inaudible. “You’re intolerable.”

“And yet,” James murmured, “you’re not kicking me off.”

Regulus blinked, and then—slowly, with a deliberateness that made James forget how to breathe—Regulus tilted his head back toward him, their noses barely an inch apart now. His lips parted just slightly, and he hesitated… but not in uncertainty. In need.

James’s heart pounded. But he still whispered, “We haven’t talked about the other day Reg. What this-”

“I know.” Regulus’s voice was raw. “But right now… just—just for a moment—can we not?” James’s throat tightened. There was something in Regulus’s eyes—not panic, not fear—but a tension pulled so tight it could crack at any second. A craving for silence, for touch, for a pause in the spinning world.

He looked like someone desperate to come up for air.

James understood. Not just the words. The weight behind them. The need not to make this about the future, not to label it or burden it with explanations.

Just this, now.

And maybe—maybe it was like earlier, when Regulus had gone outside to feel the cold against his skin. Something real. Something grounding. Something that tethered him to the moment.

Maybe this—James—could be that thing now.

James nodded. And this time, when Regulus leaned in, he didn’t stop him.
Their lips met slowly—like dusk touching the edge of the sea, soft and inevitable.

There was no urgency in it, no firestorm of movement or grasping hands. Just a slow, quiet press, warm and reverent. The kind of kiss that didn’t try to conquer, but to understand. One that trembled with restraint, and still held all the gravity of a confession.

James moved first, his hand finding the back of Regulus’s neck—fingers slipping into his hair with a tenderness that made Regulus shiver. He held him there, not to trap him, but to keep the moment from unraveling too soon. As if afraid the world would notice and take it back.

Regulus inhaled sharply against his mouth, breath trembling like the wingbeat of a moth caught in candlelight. He kissed him back with care, with aching precision, like someone memorizing the shape of a name they were never allowed to speak aloud.

It wasn’t just lips meeting lips—it was two stories finally touching at the same sentence. A soft declaration wrapped in silence. A promise neither of them had the courage to make, and yet were making anyway.

This was not a kiss of lust.
It was a kiss that said I see you.
A kiss that said you’re safe here.
A kiss that said you are not alone.

The air between them hummed, delicate and charged, as if time had bent just slightly to make room for this tiny, sacred thing.

And when they finally parted—breath mingling in the space between their mouths—Regulus didn’t move far. He simply let his forehead rest against James’s, eyes fluttered shut, as if grounding himself in the stillness. As if this quiet contact was the only thing tethering him to the world.

James didn’t speak. He couldn’t have, even if he tried. He only closed his eyes too, smiling faintly through the dizzy flutter in his chest.

Their lips met again—slow at first, a quiet echo of the kiss before. But this time, there was something different in the way Regulus leaned in. Something almost playful, something bold.

James felt it in the way Regulus tilted his head just slightly, how his fingers lingered at the edge of James’s jaw, how his breath hitched—like he was tasting the moment before taking it.

And then—God—he bit him.

Not rough. Not sharp. Just a slow, careful press of his teeth against James’s lower lip, like a dare wrapped in silk. A brush of want so soft and deliberate it made James’s breath catch in his throat.

His mouth opened without thinking. Automatically. Hopelessly.

Regulus didn’t rush. He simply leaned in closer, pressing his body into the space James had unknowingly left wide open. Their lips moved in perfect sync now, deeper, warmer, lips sliding and parting and learning, tasting. Slow, controlled, devastating.

James’s hand clenched in the fabric at Regulus’s waist, the other still behind his neck, trying to keep himself tethered because this—whatever this was—was undoing him from the inside out.

It wasn’t just that Regulus kissed well.

It was that he kissed like he knew what it would do to you.
Like he had mapped every nerve and lit each one on purpose.
Like kissing was a language and he was fluent in every dialect.

James made a small, broken sound into his mouth, barely audible. Regulus answered by brushing his nose against James’s cheek, by deepening the kiss just slightly—sensual, but still so intimate it made James ache.

When they finally pulled apart, James was breathless. Genuinely breathless.

Regulus looked at him with that maddening calm, lips faintly swollen, pupils blown wide. There was a smug, quiet satisfaction in his gaze, but also something gentler underneath. Like he knew exactly what he’d just done to James—and cared about it.

James tried to speak, but all that came out was a half-laugh, half-sigh.
“Holy hell, Reg—”

Regulus only smiled faintly, and for a moment, James thought he might kiss him again. But instead, Regulus leaned forward, rested their foreheads together, and whispered, voice low and sincere- “Just so you know… I meant that.”

James let his eyes drift shut too, heart pounding, mind reeling, and whispered to himself: Try to be cool. Try to be cool. You just had the kiss of your life—so at least be cool. “See?” he said, voice slightly hoarse, “Told you I could waltz.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

That was what his brain came up with? After that? A kiss that rearranged the molecules in his body and he comes out with 'Told you I could waltz?'

Regulus let out a broken little laugh, still close. “That wasn’t a waltz.”

“Felt like one.”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t pull away. Neither of them did.

So James kissed him again. It was instinctive this time—no grand pause, no lingering hesitation—just the pull of Regulus still beneath him, still close, still not gone. Their mouths met again, and then again, lips soft and warm despite the cold air nipping at their cheeks.

And Regulus didn’t stop. He matched each kiss with quiet hunger, like he was learning something with every brush, every breath. Like something inside him had unclenched and didn’t want to let go.

James huffed a laugh against his lips. “If we keep this up, my arse is going to freeze off.”

Regulus pulled back, just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one who dragged me into the grass like a lovesick Labrador.”

“Well,” James said, eyes dancing, “you are hard to resist.”

Regulus groaned dramatically, pushing at his chest. “Please, stop talking.”

James didn’t budge. “No, really. I think I lost all circulation. It’s entirely possible I’ll need a hip replacement.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll finally stop dancing like a drunk goose.”

James gave an affronted gasp. “Excuse you! That’s my signature move.”

Regulus snorted and shoved him again, harder this time. “Go inside, Potter. Before I’m charged with manslaughter by frostbite.”

James rolled off with exaggerated groaning, flopping onto his back beside him. “Fine. But I’m telling everyone I risked my life for romance.”

“No one’s going to believe that.”

“They will when they see the frostbite on my arse.” Regulus laughed. A real one. One of those rare, unguarded sounds that didn’t come around often. He pressed a hand to his forehead, shaking his head while the corner of his mouth refused to stop curling upward.

James grinned at the sky, then turned his head to look at him.
God, he loved that laugh. Maybe almost as much as he loved being the one who could cause it.

Once they were back inside, James toed off his shoes with a sigh and shook the last bits of cold from his jacket.
“I’m going to make us some tea,” he said, voice lower now, more domestic. “Or a chamomile, if we’re feeling adventurous.”

Regulus followed without a word, quiet footsteps padding after him like it was second nature now. The intimacy of the kitchen felt different tonight—warmer, slower. James moved around casually, pulling mugs from the cupboard and setting water to boil, while Regulus leaned on the counter beside him, arms folded.

They stood like that for a moment, close but not touching. A companionable quiet, the kind only shared by people who’ve survived a storm together.

James glanced at him sidelong. “You know… back there, while we were dancing—”

Regulus arched an eyebrow, amused. “If you call that dancing—”

James nudged him lightly with his elbow. “Shut up. I’m being serious.” He hesitated, then continued, eyes softer now. “You looked happy. Really happy. Like—like something settled in you, even just for a second. What happened to that? Where’d it go? I remember you as a great dancer, Reg—I think I actually cried when you performed—what was that—er—the Nutcracker?”

Regulus let out a quiet breath, a small smile twitching at his lips. “Well, at least I know I had an audience,” he murmured. "Someone who appreciated it."
Regulus’s lips parted slightly, as if to deflect with another quip—but something in James’s voice cut through. He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, then let it fall limp at his side.
“I guess…” He trailed off, glancing away. “I guess I should start telling people. At least you and Sirius.”

James turned toward him fully now, leaning a little on the counter, open, waiting.

"But be ready- it's not a happy story. And surely not a short one." Regulus inhaled. “I started dancing when I was very young. I don’t even remember choosing it—it was just there, something my body understood before I knew how to put anything into words. And I was good at it. Too good, maybe.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “My mother—she was a dancer too. Not many people know that. She could’ve had a career, maybe even been someone, but instead she married young. Family arrangement, money, legacy—all that garbage. She resented it.”

James’s brows furrowed gently, but he didn’t interrupt.

“She never said it aloud. But she hated watching me do what she couldn’t. And my father—” Regulus’s mouth twisted, bitter. “He thought dance was soft. Weak. Something girlish. Something he could barely tolerate. But he let me continue. Probably because I was too good. And because I was still getting top marks at school.”

He shrugged, jaw tight. “I trained everywhere. Competed. Performed. I was set to join a major company by the time I was fifteen. And then—”

He stopped. His eyes flicked toward the kettle, still not boiling.

“Sirius left,” he said simply, voice quieter now. “He got into that bloody art school in Scotland and took off like the world owed him freedom. And suddenly I wasn’t the younger son anymore. I was the only one left.”

James didn’t move. Just watched him, listening.

“My father panicked. And he turned his panic into rules, into pressure. Into plans. I wasn’t allowed to go to France to study. I had to stay. Had to be useful. Had to become a version of myself he could explain to the Rosiers over dinner.”

Regulus didn’t speak all at once. He kept his eyes fixed on the kettle, as if the steam rising from it could somehow carry away the words he was about to say. James didn’t interrupt. He just stood beside him, watching him unravel—one breath at a time.

“I had to excel at school,” Regulus began again, voice steady but brittle. “That was non-negotiable. But I never would’ve quit dancing. Not for anything. That was the line. That was mine.”

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh and shook his head.

“So I started sleeping three hours a night. Training during the day, schoolwork until dawn. I was crushing myself under it. But the dance—James, dancing was my life. Not something I did, not even something I loved. It was me. It was the only thing I chose.”

James’s heart ached at how fiercely, how honestly he said it. Regulus didn’t often speak like this—didn’t let himself.
“I kept going to auditions, workshops. I even started putting money aside—thinking I’d do what Sirius did. Just… disappear one day. Take what I saved, leave. Dance. Live.”

He paused, jaw tightening, eyes distant.

“But talent brings jealousy. And I wasn’t exactly well-loved by other dancers. Especially not Lockhart—the second soloist. He always hated that I was ahead of him.” James frowned faintly. Lockhart. The name rang a bell from somewhere.
Regulus’s voice dropped. “One day, during an audition, my mother called me. I’d left my phone in the dressing room. Lockhart picked up. Told her everything. Where I was. What I was doing. That I’d lied to go.”

A sharp breath in.

“They were waiting for me when I got home. Furious. Screaming. My father was dragging me by the collar, my mother pulling my hair like I was five years old again.” He finally turned his head, looking at James with tired, hollow eyes. “And I snapped. I snapped, James. I said I wasn’t going to stop. That I didn’t care what they thought. That I was going to leave. I was going to dance.”

James nodded slowly, throat tight, the image of younger Regulus shouting back at his parents flashing behind his eyes like an old photograph. Brave. Brilliant. Cornered.

“They didn’t want to hear it. And I think—I think they knew they couldn’t talk me out of it anymore.” Regulus swallowed, voice trembling just slightly now. “So my father… he shoved me down the stairs.”

James flinched.

“Just like that. partial, almost total, tear of the meniscus.” he said flatly, like a diagnosis. “Surgery. Recovery. Months of nothing. Career paused indefinitely. Eventually, permanently.” The kettle let out a low whistle, but neither of them moved.
“I could’ve gone back, maybe. I don’t know. But then Draco came along. And suddenly, there wasn’t just me to think about anymore. He needed someone. And I couldn’t let him grow up in that house. So I gave it up.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I didn’t even think twice about it. I’d already learned that dreams are expensive, and people—people like us don’t get to have both dreams and responsibilities. So I picked him.”

James had never felt this kind of stillness in his chest before. He stared at Regulus, who was now watching the swirling steam again, as if waiting for the moment to be over. But James wasn’t ready to let it end. He didn’t want to lose the boy who’d danced, who still moved like every step mattered—even when he pretended not to care.

So he simply said, quietly, “Reg… I’m glad you told me.” And Regulus, for once, didn’t brush it off. He just nodded, like maybe that mattered more than either of them could say out loud.

James pulled him into a hug without thinking. It was slow, gentle, a quiet answer to everything Regulus had just said. Regulus didn’t resist—in fact, he rested his head against James’s shoulder, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“You seem better now, I mean- physically-” James murmured, his cheek brushing Regulus’s temple.

Regulus gave a dry little laugh. “They paid for everything—the surgery, the physiotherapy. Couldn’t have a crippled son, you know.”

“Jesus, Regulus-"James whispered, not even trying to hide the pain in his voice.

Regulus chuckled again, dark and broken. “Sorry. Dark humor.”

James didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand found Regulus’s hair and started running through it, slow and thoughtful. “You know… you’d be a good teacher.”

Regulus snorted softly. “Don’t push it.”

“I’m serious,” James said. “Pandora has a dance school. Pretty well known. I could talk to her. She knows you. She knows what you’re capable of. And I think… you’d be really good with kids.”

"Pandora is-" Regulus opened his mouth to reply but stopped short, frowning. “Wait. She has a school? Pandora was going pro. She was supposed to be in Paris by now. Or Vienna. Or Italy, I don't know.”

James smiled faintly, almost apologetically. “Well… an unexpected pregnancy at twenty-one kind of threw a wrench in that plan. Luna’s three now.”

Regulus rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible. “What the hell is it with all of you and unexpected pregnancies at twenty-one? Do none of you know how condoms work? Pills? IUDs? Magic? I mean—pull out, maybe?”

James burst out laughing, doubling over slightly. “Jesus Christ—Regulus!”

“No, seriously,” Regulus said, his face deadpan but his eyes glittering with mischief. “Do I need to start handing out pamphlets? Host a workshop? ‘Safe Sex for Emotionally Inept teenagers’?”

“Oh, please do,” James wheezed. “I’d pay money to see that. You in front of a whiteboard with a pointer and a diagram.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “I do love a diagram.” They both laughed then—quiet but real. And for a moment, the world felt a little less heavy.
Regulus let out a quiet sigh and leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely over his chest. “Thanks,” he said, his voice softer now. “I don’t know. I just… felt off all day. One of those days where everything feels a bit too loud, even in your own head.”

James tilted his head, studying him for a second. Then he stepped closer and, without warning, pressed a kiss to Regulus’s forehead.

Regulus blinked. “Did you just… bless me?”

James smirked. “Consider yourself spiritually cleansed.”

“Wonderful,” Regulus muttered, feigning a deadpan expression. “Does that mean I’m free from sin now?”

“Not even close,” James said, grinning. “But you do look a bit more relaxed.”

Regulus gave a small shrug, almost embarrassed by the warmth curling in his chest. “I feel better,” he admitted. “Still tired. But… not like earlier. It helped. You helped. The bloody waltz helped.”

James leaned his hip against the counter beside him. “What can I say? I’m a miracle worker. Next time we'll continue our lesson.”

Regulus turned his head toward him slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Please- You tripped and crushed me in the garden half an hour ago.”

“Details,” James said, waving a hand dismissively. “I was testing physics. Now we know that Newton was right.”

Regulus huffed a short laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’m your idiot now, apparently.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “God help me.”

“Too late,” James said with a wink, “you’ve already been blessed.”

Regulus groaned. “I take it back. I revoke all gratitude. I hope your tea is cold and bitter.”

Chapter Text

The kitchen was still, basking in the soft hush of early morning light. The kind that spilled in sideways through the wide windows, filtered through gauzy curtains and the leafy shadows of James’s backyard trees. The air smelled faintly of roasted beans and toast left too long in the toaster — not burnt, just enough to carry the memory of crisp edges.

Regulus stood barefoot near the counter, his shoulders loose with sleep, his hair still a little tangled. There was a mug of coffee cooling in his hands, half-sipped, mostly forgotten. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just… temporary. The kind of quiet that knew it wouldn’t last.

James’s kitchen was absurdly cozy. Oak cabinets. Hanging plants. Mismatched mugs with chipped handles and Quidditch slogans. There was a dishtowel draped over the oven handle that read Kiss the cook (but only if he’s Potter), and Regulus hated that it made him smile the first time he read it.

It reminded him of the night before—of James sitting on the grass telling a story that started out about that ridiculous koi pond.
Of the way he’d asked Regulus to dance.
Of the way everything—just for a moment—had stilled.

James had a way of doing that. Of using a single word, a gesture, a stupid smile, to quiet the noise in Regulus’s head. To make the weight a little lighter, even if only for a breath. That was the kind of presence James had. The kind of calm he gave to people without even realizing it.

And if that was what Sirius had gotten to feel all those years—if that was what life felt like inside the Potter house—Regulus didn’t blame him.
He understood.
It was magic in a different way.

And then… the kisses.

Regulus hadn’t wanted to talk about them. Not because they hadn’t meant anything—because they had. That was the problem. Everything between them was already complicated, already teetering on a tightrope of timing and circumstance, and adding James into that fragile balance felt impossible. He didn’t know how to make space for it. For him.

How could he explain that to Draco? To Harry? How could he show up in their world with everything he was—bent, broken in places, running out of time—and expect them to accept it?

James didn’t deserve that. He deserved certainty. Stability. Someone who knew how to hold everything he had to give.
Not someone like Regulus. Not now. Now wasn’t the time to think about James. Not when everything else was still so close to collapsing.

He was watching the steam rise from his coffee when he noticed it. A faint buzz, a soft light pulsing from the edge of the table. A phone.

Narcissa’s phone.

She must’ve left it last night when she came by. Regulus hadn’t seen her this morning- He reached across the table to check the screen.

Not because he was nosy — he wasn’t.

He just… kind of looked- call it instinct or whatever-

And stopped breathing.

Lucius.

The name sat there, bold and unbothered, like it belonged. One message.
Then another. And then the phone buzzed again — as if Lucius could sense the silence and wanted to shatter it, just to remind him that peace wasn’t something Regulus got to keep.

Regulus stared.

His fingers curled tightly around the handle of his mug.

Then, carefully — so carefully — he set the cup down. The porcelain clinked against the counter, loud in the quiet room. He picked up the phone, just enough to read the message previews.

Nothing useful.

Just his name.
Just “We need to talk.”
Just “I heard—”

He took the phone from the table.

Then he turned and walked down the hall, down to Narcissa's current bedroom.
And he found her immediately.
Narcissa was sitting on the edge of the guest bed, her hair still damp from a shower, one of Lily’s oversized cardigans wrapped around her shoulders. She looked up at the sound of him — and froze the moment she saw his face.

“What is it?” she asked carefully.

Regulus held her gaze. “Lucius is texting you.”

She blinked. But only once. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh?” His mouth twisted into something like a smile, but colder. “Because I think it’s Lucius fucking Malfoy texting at seven in the goddamn morning.” Regulus let out a breath that sounded far too much like a laugh. But it wasn’t. Not even close.
“So of course it’s not,” he said. “Because why would it be? God forbid anything be straightforward in this fucking life.”

“Reg—”

“No. Don’t,” he snapped, stepping into the room properly now. “Don’t tell me it’s nothing. Don’t insult my fucking intelligence. Why is he calling you?”

"Oh come on Regulus-"

“I mean it,” he snapped, stepping further into the room. “I can’t even have one goddamn day. One day, Narcissa. One morning where there’s coffee and quiet and I don’t have to think about debt or work or who might come knocking next.”

“Listen—”

“No, you listen.” His voice sharpened, honed by weeks of restraint. “I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. And now he’s back? What — you talk to him now? Did you think that’d go unnoticed? That maybe I’d just see his name on your phone and carry on making toast?”

Her expression flickered. “He found out about the house. About Draco. I didn’t tell him.”

“Oh good,” Regulus muttered. “So he’s just stalking us now. Fantastic.”

“He said he could help.”

Regulus went still. Then, slowly — too slowly — he tilted his head. “Help,” he repeated, the word tasting like ash. “You think Lucius Malfoy wants to help? Of course he wants. Because when has Lucius Malfoy ever offered help without an invoice and a knife behind his back?”

“I didn’t say I believed him.”

“You answered him.”

A pause. No denial.

Regulus dragged a hand down his face, eyes burning with something too hot to be just anger. “He’s not part of this anymore. You don’t get to let him in through the side door just because your guilt gets itchy at night.”

Narcissa stood then, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I didn’t let him in. I didn’t invite this. He’s trying to force his way in, just like always.”

“Then block him,” Regulus said, stepping forward now, voice low. “Delete his number. Tell him to go to hell.”

“I was going to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“He’s Draco’s father.”

“No, I’m Draco’s father!” The words burst out of him like something he hadn’t meant to say aloud — but once they were out, they stayed. “I’m the one who stayed. I’m the one who feeds him and walks him to school and holds him when he cries. Lucius doesn’t get to want anything.”

There was silence after that. Her lips parted. But she didn’t answer.
And Regulus felt it again — that cold, crawling exhaustion at the back of his skull. The kind that came with too many fights, too many nights awake, too many fears he couldn’t even name out loud.

“You’re right. You’re right, Regulus. I didn’t think—I was just so worried about everything, about yesterday, about Riddle, the payment, about you… that I was hoping for something impossible. Maybe he found a way- maybe he was calling me to say that we were okay now, that Riddle's debit was his- I don't know Regulus!”

He turned away. Just for a second. His voice grew quieter now. Not softer. Just raw.
“I swear to God, I can’t have a single normal day. One fucking day."

He closed his eyes, because he understood what she was saying—that after yesterday, the eighty thousand pounds seemed impossible to gather and maybe—maybe that bag of shit could help them in some sadistic way.
But he wasn’t going to.
Lucius Malfoy was going to stab them in the back at the first chance he got.

The hallway creaked. Soft footfalls on wood. The shuffle of socks and half-asleep movement. James appeared first, hair a disaster, t-shirt wrinkled beyond reason, mug already in hand. He blinked blearily into the room like someone trying to remember if they were dreaming.

Behind him, Sirius padded in with a yawn that cracked his jaw. He squinted at Regulus, then at Narcissa, then back at Regulus — and frowned.
What was Sirius doing here? Was he always at James' house? Did he not transfer with Remus? Fucking hell-

“Are we yelling already?” Sirius asked instead, voice rough with sleep. “It’s not even eight.”

James glanced between the two of them. “Did something happen?”

Regulus didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed fixed on Narcissa, sharp and unreadable. “Apparently,” he said coolly, “I’m not the only one with a habit of keeping secrets.”

That woke Sirius up. He straightened, blinking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Regulus said, finally turning toward them, “that while I was trying to sleep for once in my miserable life, Narcissa’s phone was lighting up with messages from Lucius.”

Sirius’s expression froze.

James inhaled sharply. “Shit.”

Narcissa stepped forward, palms up. “It’s not—Reg, don’t start this in front of them.”

Regulus gave a bitter little laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want privacy while your ex-husband re-inserts himself into our lives like a roach with a family name?”

Sirius’s brows drew down. “He messaged you?”

“Multiple times,” Regulus said tightly. “And she didn’t think to mention it.”

“I was going to,” Narcissa said through clenched teeth. “Today.”

“When? Before or after he came knocking?” He took a step forward. “You said you were done with him.”

“I am.”

Regulus’s voice rose, rough around the edges. “Then I'll ask again- why is he calling you?”

The room fell into a brief silence. Until—

Bzzz. Bzzz.
The phone, still in his hand, lit up again.
This time, it wasn’t a message.

Incoming call: Lucius Malfoy.

No one moved. No one dared to breathe.

The sound filled the room like a threat. Narcissa swore softly under her breath and stepped toward the phone. “Don’t—Regulus—don’t do anything stupid.”

But he was already reaching for it.

“Reg.”

“Don’t.”

“Please—”

He snatched the phone and pressed answer before anyone could stop him.
Then, cool and lethal, he lifted it to his ear.
“This had better be good, Lucius,” he said, voice like ice. “Because I swear to God, if you’re calling to negotiate, I will burn whatever bridge you think still exists between us.”

"Oh my- who is this if not little Reggie?" Regulus grip tightened around the phone, he closed his eyes praying every deity that was out there to give him the strength that he needed. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."

"What the hell are you calling Narcissa for? If this is your plan, you can save it, shit face.”

Lucius’s voice was slow, dripping with that cruel amusement he always had.
“No, Regulus. I don’t give a damn about her. I just wanted to reach to you by her— it’s better for everyone if you give yourself to Riddle, okay? Makes this a win-win, don’t you think? Draco, the kid you treat like your own, gets his freedom. I get mine. So, fuck it. Everybody wins. You were always going to be a lapdog either way, Reggie dear.”

Regulus’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might break. His voice snapped like a whip. “Fuck you. You think I’m just going to hand me over like some goddamn bargaining chip? You’re out of your mind. I'm no puppet of yours.”

Lucius laughed, dark and low. “Out of my mind? Maybe. But you’re out of options. You’ve got Riddle breathing down your neck, the money’s running thin, and you’re barely keeping your head above water.”

Regulus’s voice dropped, razor sharp and deadly calm.
“I don’t owe you shit, Lucius. Eighty grand? Already paid. The rest? On your dime, asshole.”

Lucius’s tone twisted with mock sympathy.
“Oh, I wish those eighty grand were mine, truly. But I’m disappearing till December. You can either pay Riddle directly or let him take Draco. Your call.”

Regulus’s fist slammed on the table, voice thunderous now.
“You’re threatening me with your kid? That’s low, even for you. Don’t you dare. You want to play this game? Fine. But I swear, if you touch him, I’ll burn your world down piece by piece.”

Lucius smirked through the line, venom thick. “I know exactly who you are, Regulus. Desperate, broke, and clawing to survive. You owe me everything.”

Regulus’s voice cut through like a blade. “I owe you nothing but contempt. Keep pushing, and I’ll make sure you regret the day you ever called me.”

The silence was heavy, until Lucius spoke again, cold and cruel:
“Remember, I hold the leash on Narcissa. Think hard before you decide.”

Regulus closed his eyes, swallowing the rage, then spat one last time, dripping with warning. “Try me, Malfoy.”

Regulus ended the call with a sharp, decisive tap, then threw the phone onto the couch like it burned his hand. His whole body was tense, trembling from fury he couldn’t afford to let out.

Narcissa stood frozen, staring at him like she was trying to catch her breath.
“Did he really mean that?” she said quietly, more to the air than to him. Her voice cracked. “All of this—he doesn’t care about Draco. Or me. He just wants you to sell yourself off to cover the debt he ran away from.” Regulus' hands hitched, he didn't even know where to start to console her.
It was her husband at the end of the day, and she loved him in the past.
Lucius- Lucius apparently never loved his cousin, it was just power and nothing else for him, just a name. A Black name. But for Narcissa it had been different. She had believed in his lies.

Regulus didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched at his sides. Silence stretched thin between them.

And then Sirius exploded.

“Eighty thousand pounds?” he barked. “What the fuck does that even mean, Regulus? What the fuck is going on?”

Regulus turned his face away. “Not now.”

“Not now? Are you—” Sirius laughed, short and humorless. “You don’t get to say not now when you’ve got Lucius fucking Malfoy calling the house and Narcissa in tears. And you—” he jabbed a finger at him, “you’re talking about selling yourself? What the hell does that mean?”

Regulus’s eyes flashed. “It means it’s none of your business.”

Sirius took a step forward. His voice cracked, full of disbelief.
“So what, you’re just gonna lie down and take it? Sell yourself to Riddle like—like you’re nothing? Since when did you become this version of yourself?”

Regulus flinched. Just a little. Just enough. His voice dropped, sharp as broken glass. “Don’t pretend like you know anything about me.”

“I don’t, because you never fucking told me anything!” Sirius exploded. “You shut me out the moment I left! I came back and suddenly you’re neck-deep in god knows what, and you won’t talk to me!”

“You left,” Regulus spat. “You went off to Scotland to play the tortured artist, and when you came back, you didn’t even come home. You moved in with the Potters and never looked back.”

“Because ‘home’ was hell, Regulus!” Sirius shouted. “You think I wanted to leave you behind? No! But I couldn't make myself return there! It was hell, so much so that I developed PTSD, Reg!”

“You didn’t even ask,” Regulus hissed. “You left me there. I had to give up everything. Dance, school, myself, just to survive. And now you come back and act like you get to demand answers?”

“I’m not demanding answers, I’m—” Sirius stopped himself. “No. Fuck that. I am demanding answers. Because you’re my brother. Because I still love you. Always had, even though you think I don't. And I can’t stand here while you destroy yourself over a debt he created!”

“It’s not your job to stand anywhere!” Regulus shouted back. “Who the fuck are you to me now? You left. You left and never came back.”

Sirius reeled like he’d been slapped. His voice dropped, brittle. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Regulus’s voice trembled with fury. “You don’t get to be outraged now, Sirius. You don’t get to come in here and play the saviour when you haven’t been here at all.”

Sirius opened his mouth, then shut it again. His chest rose and fell rapidly. Then he said, almost too softly, “You’re telling me Riddle wants you to pay the debt… with yourself.”

Regulus didn’t answer. The silence said everything.

Sirius looked like he was going to be sick. “And Lucius is fine with this?”

“He- he's more than okay. He has called to- he proposed it.”

Sirius staggered back a step. “Jesus fucking Christ. That piece of shit.”

Regulus finally sat down, like all the anger had left him hollow. “There’s eighty thousand left. I paid the first half. Lucius bailed. He wants me to take the fall.”

“And you were going to go through with it?” Sirius asked, voice breaking. “Alone?”

Regulus didn’t look at him. “I am alone.”

Sirius moved forward again, quieter this time. “No. No, you’re not.”

Regulus finally looked up, eyes glassy but burning. “You don’t get to say that now. You forfeited that right a long time ago.”

Sirius ran both hands through his hair, pacing now, jaw tight, eyes wild.
“You’re fucking impossible, you know that?” he snapped. “You always have to do everything alone. Always have to carry the whole world on your back like some self-sacrificing idiot.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. “It’s not your problem.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Sirius shouted, spinning around to face him. “You could’ve come to me. To us. James and I—we would’ve given you the money. No questions. You need eighty fucking thousand? We would’ve found a way. But no, you’d rather—what? Sell yourself to a psychopath? Be Riddle’s pet to prove what? That you don’t need anyone?”

“You don’t get it,” Regulus said, quieter but harder, voice like flint. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about control. If I take your money, I owe you. And I’m tired of owing people.”

Sirius stared at him, breathless, furious, confused, broken all at once. “You don’t owe me. You’re my brother.”

“No,” Regulus said, his voice cracking. “You’re someone who left. You’re someone who built a life without me in it.”

“And we go back again. Circling and circling around,” Sirius barked, arms thrown wide. “Because I couldn’t fucking breathe there! Because I had to survive too! And now I’m back, and all I’m trying to do is help you, and you won’t even let me—”

“Because I can’t!” Regulus exploded, voice raw enough to burn. “Because if I open that door, if I admit I need you—what happens when you leave again? What happens to me?” He was shaking now, fists clenched at his sides.
“Why would you stay with me? After having all of this?” He gestured around the room — the walls, the kitchen, the muted comfort of the home that wasn’t really his.
“You have James. The Potters. Remus. Your friends. People who chose you. Why would you want me?” His voice dropped, trembling, quieter but cutting deep.
“A broken, desperate, soulless man? Why, Sirius? Why would you ever want me back when you already got out?”

Sirius froze. Just stood there, like Regulus had hit him. He opened his mouth but then he closed it. "Reggie-" he started then.

And then a small, muffled voice came from the doorway. “Uncle Siri? Dad?”

It was Draco. He was clutching a stuffed dragon to his chest, blond hair tousled from sleep, blinking up at them with wide eyes.

Narcissa appeared right behind him, pale and quiet but firm. She crouched, putting a gentle hand on his back.
“It’s alright, darling,” she said softly. “Go play in the living room, dad will come in a moment.”

Draco nodded, hesitant, then wandered off slowly.

Narcissa straightened, and her voice when she spoke was steady and sharp like steel under silk. “Don’t do this in front of him. He’s five. And he’s seen enough already.”

The room went still. Regulus’s anger collapsed in on itself all at once—like a wave breaking and retreating. He ran a hand over his face, turning away. "We know, Narcissa. I'm sorry."
Sirius looked at Narcissa. Then at the spot where Draco had been. Then at Regulus.
"He needs you, Reggie. We'll talk later."

Regulus didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Narcissa gave Sirius a look that silenced any further questions.
“Yeah go- you're his father in every way that matters,” she said quietly. “Lucius left. You stayed. That’s all there is. I wanted to say sorry about before. I didn't think through enough."

Silence again. Sirius sat down suddenly, like his knees had given out.
“Christ,” he muttered. “You should’ve told me.”

Regulus stayed facing the window, jaw clenched, eyes shining. “You weren’t here to tell,” he said.

The kitchen was quiet, steeped in the pale, milky light of early morning. Regulus moved barefoot across the tile floor, hair still messy, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He moved with the ease of routine—silent, deliberate.

Draco sat on a high stool at the counter, feet swinging above the floor, his dragon-print pajamas rumpled from sleep. His chin rested in his hands as he sliced the orange with practiced hands, peeling away the skin and cutting each segment cleanly. No pith. No mess. Just how Draco liked it.

“You didn’t wake me up,” he mumbled.

“You were drooling into my pillow,” Regulus replied, voice low and dry. “I took it as a sign you needed five more minutes.”

Draco blinked at the plate in front of him. “Tu as coupé l’orange?”

Regulus nodded, placing the bowl down gently. “Oui, je l’ai fait.”

Draco’s smile was slow, sleepy, but full of quiet delight. “Je t’aime.”

Regulus paused. The knife clinked softly in the sink behind him. “Moi aussi, mon petit,” he said, voice softer now. “Toujours.” Draco began eating, carefully, segment by segment like it was a job to do right. Regulus leaned back against the counter, rubbing his eyes.

A beat of silence. Then- “Can we go to the park after school?”

Regulus blinked. “On a Tuesday?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got homework.”

“I can do it after.”

Regulus sighed, already knowing that he would be at Mulciber's so it was practically impossible for him to do it, but he could ask Narcissa, or Sirius- even though he was currently angry with him, so maybe James but he had to go to work too. “We’ll see sweetheart. I'll think of something, alright baby?”

Draco chewed another slice, then asked, “Because you are working late again?”

“Maybe. As usual honey. I'm sorry. But when I'll came back tonight we can play something you like, so think it through, okay? Promise.” Draco nodded, yawning and Regulus smiled.

“Can uncle Barty come?”

“If he’s free. I'll text him.”

Draco nodded, like he was keeping track of possibilities. “If we go to the park, I want to bring the dinosaur. Not the small one. The big green one.”

Regulus smiled faintly. “The one that roars when I step on it in the dark?”

“Yeah. That one.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and ruffled his curls gently. “Finish eating first. You’ve got seeds in your hair from yesterday, don’t even start planning today’s chaos.”

Draco grinned. “You’re grumpy in the morning.”

“You’ve met yourself, haven’t you?” That earned him a quiet giggle — the kind that settled deep in Regulus’s chest and stayed there, warm and fragile. Like a reminder of why he got up in the first place.

James stepped in, slower than usual, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. The sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms, and there was a faint red mark on his cheek from where he’d clearly slept too hard on the wrong side of the pillow.

He paused in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was intruding.

Then his eyes landed on Regulus. And something in his face softened — the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile that was too gentle to be just polite, but not quite brave enough to be more.

“Hey,” he said, voice still rough from sleep. Regulus didn’t look up right away. He was rinsing the knife in the sink, movements slow, methodical — but he must’ve felt the shift in the room, the weight of being watched.

“Hey,” he murmured.

James stepped further in, socks whispering across the tile. His gaze flicked briefly to Draco, who was busy constructing something with two orange peels and a spoon like it was top-secret engineering work, then back to Regulus.
“You're better than before? The mighty lion has been tamed?” Regulus rolled his eyes but he couldn't stop a flicker of amusement on his mouth.

Regulus gave a faint shrug. “I guess I'm not still that upset with Narcissa anymore. I understand her. And with Sirius- it's always the same old story.”

James nodded. He didn’t ask why. He didn't really know how it worked as he was an only child, but Marlene always argued and screamed with her sister like that- so maybe it was something between brothers.

Instead, he lingered near the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the edge. There was something tentative in the way he held himself — like he wanted to reach out, say something warm, grounding, important — but didn’t know if it would land, or fall flat between them. “You, uh… you want me to take him to school today?” he asked. “If you need time. Or space. Or just… something.”

Regulus looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, James saw it — the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw hadn’t unclenched since the coffee had finished brewing. The exhaustion that never quite left him.

There was a flicker of something in Regulus’s expression.
“I’ve got it,” he said softly. “But… thanks Potter.”

James nodded again, slower this time. “Anytime.” Then James took a few steps forward, leaning on the edge of the counter, careful not to speak too loud.
“You know you could’ve told me. Us. I mean—I get why you didn’t. But still.”

Regulus sighed. “It wouldn’t have helped.”

James frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Regulus looked up, meeting his eyes now. His voice was low but steady.
“Yes, I do. Riddle knows everything. Names. Faces. Where you live. Who you care about. He made it very clear—if I try to drag anyone into this, if I even think about asking for help, he’ll make sure you pay for it. All of you.”

James’s face darkened, but he didn’t argue. He just stood there, watching him, something fierce and soft in his expression all at once. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You do,” James said, voice low. “You just don’t want to take it. Not if it puts someone else at risk.” Regulus didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Sirius’s voice cut through from the hallway, rough and loud.
“Wait—wait. Are you telling me this bastard threatened us too?”

"Apparently" James turned his head. “So Reg has been trying to handle it by himself.”

Sirius walked in fast, anger already rising behind his eyes. “We need to sit down and talk about this properly. Tonight. Because there is no fucking way you’re going to sell yourself to anyone. Especially not him.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Nice to know where your priorities lie.”

“Shut up,” Sirius snapped. “You’re not being clever, you’re being a bloody idiot.”

Before Regulus could respond, Narcissa appeared in the doorway, calm but sharp as ever, time to go to school. So Regulus immediately moved. He reached across the counter and brushed Draco’s hair gently from his forehead.
“Hey,” he said, soft again. “Go grab your backpack, alright? I’ll take you in five.”

Draco nodded and slid off the stool, disappearing down the hallway.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then James reached out. Just a little. Just enough that his fingers brushed Regulus’s sleeve. Then to his hand, and chills run along his arm. He almost wanted to lean on James.

Regulus didn’t look at him. But he didn’t move away either.
Something in his shoulders—something sharp—finally eased.

Then he walked toward the hallway, and James followed him to the door.

The car was too hot.

Not hot-hot — the kind that made you sweat — just stale, like the air had been sitting still for hours, thick with tension and old fast food wrappers and Sirius’s inability to sit still for longer than thirty seconds. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Then stopped. Then started again.

Remus shot him a sideways glance from the passenger seat, one hand curled loosely around a takeaway coffee cup. His other hand rested on his thigh, fingers twitching now and then — a tell Sirius had learned meant I’m listening, even if I’m not talking yet.

They were ten minutes from James’s place, maybe less. But it felt like they’d been circling that final turn for hours.
“I mean, eighty fucking thousand, Moons,” Sirius said suddenly, voice sharp with the kind of panic he only let show in the car, or at two a.m., or when it was just them. “Eighty fucking thousand. That’s—who the hell is he even talking to? How did it get that bad? I swear if I put my hands on Lucius he'll never see the light again. I'll murder him. Again and again.”

Remus sipped his coffee, calm as ever. “It didn’t get that bad overnight, Sirius. I think that Regulus has seen more in these years than a lot.”

“Exactly. Which means he’s been hiding it. From me. From everyone.”

“He’s been surviving,” Remus corrected gently. “And he’s always been good at making survival look like control. Or—well—I don’t know him like you do, but that’s the impression I get. And you were the same- remember that summer where you worked yourself to the bone just to repay the Potters for their hospitality? Because you thought they were angry with you and that they would have thrown you out?”

Sirius let out a harsh breath, pressing the heel of his palm against the steering wheel, Remus knew him too well, or well he remembered him too well, always observing, always looking. “I should’ve seen it. Or at least understood. I kept thinking he worked so much because he needed everything to be perfect for Draco. Like it was just some kind of control thing. But it wasn’t. It was more. So much more.”

“You haven’t exactly had a front-row seat, Sirius,” Remus pointed out softly. “You’ve only been back in his life for what—two months? He came back in January, it’s barely March. And you know how he is. He hides things. Just like you used to.”

Sirius flinched. Not because it wasn’t true—but because it was.
“He’s my brother,” he said, almost under his breath.

“And you’re his,” Remus said quietly. “You’re not his rescuer. You’re not a miracle. You’re just his brother. And sometimes, that has to be enough until he’s ready.”

The silence stretched again. Not heavy. Just full.
Outside the window, trees blurred past in the dull blue of late afternoon. The sky was clouded, the kind of sky that always made Sirius feel like time was both too slow and too fast.

“I keep thinking,” Sirius said, his voice quieter now, “what if Riddle really meant it? What if he has that much power—to hold a gun to our heads. To Regulus’s head.”

Remus didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached over and rested his hand gently on top of Sirius’s, where it gripped the gearshift.
“That’s why we’re going tonight,” he said. “To figure out what we can do. How to help him. Together.”

Sirius glanced at him. His chest felt painfully full, and somehow hollow at the same time. “I hate this. Not knowing how to make it better.”

“You’re already helping,” Remus said softly. “Just by being here. Even if you think you’re late. When you stand by him through all of it—he’ll stop looking at the past. He’ll see what’s ahead. And Sirius… Draco is his anchor. I think he’s the one who’s going to bring you two back to each other.”

Sirius’s fingers tightened slightly beneath Remus’s hand. “That’s the thing,” he murmured. “I always show up too late.”

Remus gave his hand a steady, grounding squeeze. “Not this time, Pads. Not this time.”

Silence fell between them, but it wasn’t cold. It was warm, and full of something that made the weight in Sirius’s chest a little easier to carry.
Sirius sighed and finally let himself lean back in the seat.
“Fuck,” Sirius muttered. “You’re irritatingly good at this.”

“I know,” Remus smiled softly. “That’s why you keep me around.”

“But I can’t think like that—” Sirius tapped his fingers nervously, then let his hand drop uselessly into his lap. “I fucked it all up, didn’t I?”

Remus didn’t answer right away.

“I mean—back then,” Sirius went on, eyes fixed on the windshield. “When I left. When I ran. I thought—I told myself I was escaping. That it was freedom. But I left him. I left him, Moony.” His voice cracked, the guilt curling in his throat like smoke. “I didn’t know how bad it was,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to know. I still don’t. He was just a kid. And I… I didn’t even look back.”

Remus shifted slightly in his seat. “You looked back. I remember. You just hated what you saw.”

Sirius let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m still doing that.”

A pause settled between them. Then Remus spoke, calm and steady, like someone slowly untangling a knot. “You were a kid too, Pads. And a scared one. You did what you had to do to survive. You developed PTSD, and the very thought of going back made you sick. You were traumatized—”

Sirius shook his head. “He needed me.”

“And you didn’t know how to be needed,” Remus said gently. “You do now.”

Sirius blinked hard, jaw tight. “It’s too late Moons.”

“No,” Remus said simply. “It’s not.” There was no drama in his voice. Just the kind of certainty that Sirius had always found maddening and comforting in equal measure.
“He’s here,” Remus said. “You’re here. And maybe you didn’t show up the way you wanted to. But you did show up. You are showing up. You'll show up again. And again.”

Sirius nodded slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I want to fix it,” he murmured. “I just don’t know how.”

“Start small,” Remus said. “Start by being there. And listening. And not giving up. And please- please- be calm. Don't start insulting him. Or yelling at him. You're the older so you should be the more responsible one.”

Sirius looked over at him. The warmth in Remus’s eyes made it a little harder to breathe. But in a good way. “I don’t deserve you,” he said.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “True.” Sirius snorted.

James opened the front door barefoot, wearing an old hoodie and a lopsided smile, one hand still holding a half-eaten granola bar.
“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with their presence,” he said, stepping aside to let them in.

“Bite me,” Sirius muttered, brushing past him and immediately toeing off his boots like the floor might swallow him if he didn’t. “You look like you’ve been awake since 4 a.m.”

“I live with children,” James replied. “Time has no meaning here.”

Remus followed more quietly, offering James a polite smile and a small wave with the coffee cup he still hadn’t finished. “We brought nothing. But our sparkling personalities.”

“That’s all I ask,” James said, shutting the door behind them. “And maybe one of you can help explain some homework later, because apparently I’m not smarter than a five-year-old.”

“Are we talking about Harry or Draco?” Sirius asked, heading toward the kitchen.

“Yes,” James replied flatly.

They laughed, and for a moment the house felt like it always did — safe, a little chaotic, filled with mismatched shoes by the door and the smell of toast that had burned slightly and been scraped into the sink.

Sirius followed the voices into the living room, but didn’t see Regulus. Just toys scattered on the floor. A pair of mismatched socks peeking out from under the coffee table. Someone had drawn dinosaurs on a post-it note and stuck it to the wall.
He stopped near the hallway and turned back toward James. “So,” he said, trying for casual but not quite landing it, “is he home?”

James didn’t need to ask who. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Got back maybe fifteen minutes ago. Took a quick shower. Kids pulled him straight into a game of we’re definitely not cleaning up. He surrendered quickly.”

Sirius gave a small, breathless laugh, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Sounds about right.”

“You wanna see him?” James asked, voice softer now.

Sirius hesitated — just long enough for Remus to glance sideways at him. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I should.”

James tilted his head toward the back room. “They’re in the den. Floor’s a disaster, but… y’know. That’s part of the fun.”

Sirius didn’t answer. He just started walking.

And the moment he crossed the threshold, he saw him.
The den was half-lit, a mix of golden lamplight and soft gray from the windows. The curtains were half-drawn, enough to let in the hazy blue of early evening, but not enough to chase away the corners of shadow.

The floor looked like a toy shop had exploded — legos, stuffed animals, crayons with no lids, and a cardboard box that might have once been a castle, now sagging under the weight of two plastic dinosaurs and what looked suspiciously like a sock puppet in a crown.

In the middle of the chaos sat Regulus.

Barefoot, jeans cuffed messily at the ankles, an old navy sweatshirt stretched slightly at the sleeves. His hair was damp from a recent shower, curling at the edges, and he looked tired — but not the sharp, brittle tired Sirius had seen too many times.
This was something softer. He was cross-legged on the floor, holding a cardboard tube like a spyglass, one eye squinting through it with exaggerated seriousness.

Draco, giggling, was perched on one side of his lap, waving a felt-tip marker like a sword. “Captain!” he shouted. “We’re under attack!”

“I see them,” Regulus replied, turning the tube toward the hallway like a real threat might appear at any second. “They’re approaching from the north. Do we fire the cannon?”

“No!” Harry shouted from behind the couch, where he’d built a “fort” out of couch cushions and one of James’s old jackets. “We offer them legos!”

“That seems like a weak strategy, Harry-” Regulus said, deadpan.

“They’re peace legos!!” Harry insisted.

Draco turned to him, frowning. “But you said we were pirates.”

“We are,” Regulus said. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t be polite.”

Sirius stood in the doorway and didn’t say a word. He just watched.
There was something unsteady in his chest, something that knocked hard and uneven against his ribs.

He hadn’t seen this version of Regulus in… years. Maybe ever.
Not the quiet, cornered adult, not the wounded boy behind expensive clothes — but this.

Softness. Laughter. A whole world behind his eyes that wasn’t entirely closed.

Draco launched himself toward the fort, sword raised. “I’m gonna steal your legos! And toys! Ah! Ah!”

“Noooo!” Harry squealed, scrambling behind a pillow and launching a stuffed bear in retaliation. The bear hit Regulus square in the face.
He blinked, deadpan, and let himself topple sideways onto the floor with a groan. “I have been defeated.”

“You’re supposed to fight back!” Draco laughed, climbing on top of him.

“I’m a pacifist now,” Regulus muttered from the carpet. “Too tired to riot.”

Draco flopped on his chest, giggling. “You smell like shampoo.”

“Thanks.”

“Is it the green one?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That one’s better.”

From behind the couch, Harry peeked out. “Uncle Siri?” Sirius blinked — he hadn’t realized he’d been standing completely still.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, kiddo.”

Harry grinned, cheeks flushed from battle. “You’re late.”

“I got stuck in traffic.”

“You always get stuck in traffic.”

“That’s because I live a very dramatic life.”

Regulus shifted then — his head turning toward the door, the smallest furrow between his brows. His gaze found Sirius’s, and the playfulness faded just slightly, replaced by something quieter. Warier.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Sirius swallowed. His palms felt a little sweaty and he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t fifteen anymore. He could walk into a room and say a thing without everything in his chest turning sideways.

Probably. He stepped inside, crouched to avoid a stray pillow, and sat down at the edge of the carpet. Not with them — not yet — but near enough.

Draco glanced at him. “Did you bring snacks?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not in the game.”

“Harsh.”

Regulus huffed a laugh, still sprawled flat. “He’s right.”

Sirius looked at him again. “How long have you been back?”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at the boys, then back at Sirius “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Shower, minor hostage negotiation, two rounds of pirate politics.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “Right.”

They sat in that gentle chaos for a minute. Crayons being uncapped. Harry explaining the cupcake treaty in great detail. Draco pretending to be a jellyfish. The quiet thud of normality. Then Regulus sat up, brushing marker stains from his sleeve, and spoke without looking at him.
“After dinner,” he said. “Once they’re asleep.”

Sirius didn’t need to ask what he meant. He just nodded. “Okay.”

The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes when the children are finally asleep and everyone else is pretending they aren’t holding their breath.
Sirius leaned against the wall across from the bathroom door, arms crossed, trying not to pace. He’d heard the sink running — twice. Then the sound of Regulus breathing, just barely, just enough to tell Sirius he wasn’t alone in the quiet.

When the door finally opened, Regulus stepped out, blinking into the dimness, his face damp, sleeves pushed up. His curls were darker at the roots, wet from cold water, and there was a rawness in his expression that hadn’t quite healed from earlier.

Sirius didn’t say anything. Just looked at him for a second. Then turned and started walking down the hallway toward James’s bedroom.

“Come on,” he said over his shoulder. “We should talk. Just the two of us, before meeting with the others.”

Regulus lingered in the doorway, hesitant. “Are you sure about this?” His tone was sharp, skeptical.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “No, Regulus, I thought I’d emotionally implode in front of an audience for dramatic effect. Of course I’m sure.”

This time it was Regulus who rolled his eyes. “Still the picture of maturity, I see.”

"One of us has to be the adult one." Regulus gritted his teeth, and Sirius smiled knowing that his brother was going to murder him in his sleep if he continued like this, but he couldn't stop.

"Surely not you. This is a bad idea, Sirius." But he followed.

The bedroom was dimly lit by a low lamp, warm-toned and humming faintly. James’s bed was unmade, of course, and someone had left a pair of socks curled like question marks at the foot of it.

Sirius sat down in the desk chair. Regulus hovered by the door a moment, then leaned back against the dresser, arms crossed, expression locked.
“You dragged me in here to apologise or to accuse me of something else?” he asked, voice flat. "Just to be prepared."

Sirius didn’t flinch. Not this time.

He looked down at his hands, at the scar on his knuckle from falling off a bike when he was eight. He’d cried for hours. Regulus had patched up the handlebars with glittery tape and not said a word.

He’d rehearsed it in the car, this moment- he thought. A dozen ways to say “I’m sorry” without sounding like he expected forgiveness. And now Regulus was looking at him like he’d set the house on fire, like Sirius was this night's burden, like he had given up on their relationship. And Sirius was not ready, he fooled himself for years, saying that he was better like this, with James, without his idiotic brother and his family. But the reality was far from it, the reality sucked- and the end of the day he had been an idiot, a coward, selfish, traumatized idiot. Because his little brother is the one who Sirius loved first and the one who taught him about love. About promises. About adjusting the cracks. Fill the emptiness.

“I got that scholarship,” Sirius said finally. “You remember that?”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Scotland. Some fancy boarding school for art. While James got it for the sport.”

“Yeah, exactly. I left at- sixteen, after secondary school. Went with James. Two years. That was the plan.”

Regulus didn’t speak. Sirius let the silence stretch before cutting it himself.

“When I came back, I never went home again. Not really. I went to College, Art college. Moved in with James, then with Remus. And I just… I couldn’t go back to that house.”

“You didn’t come back to me either,” Regulus said, his voice calm but tight. “It wasn’t just them you left. You left me waiting for you like a fucking idiot, I- I wanted so bad to contact you, when you came back home but when mom and dad found out that you were at the potter's- they broke my phone. I lost everything about you, buy I thought that at least you would return- to me.”

“I know.” Sirius swallowed. “I know.” Regulus looked away.
“I didn’t leave because of you,” Sirius added. “But I didn’t come back because of me. I felt—trapped. All the time. That house. The name. The way they looked at me like I was already a disappointment. They hated what I was, they hated that I chose art, they hated that I have loving air and piercing, that I paint my nails and I'm reckless. They hated that I'm loud and too much. I was traumatized by them, Regulus! They hated every part of me! And you—”

He stopped.

Regulus looked back at him.

“And you—” Sirius paused, breath catching. “You were everything they wanted. Quiet. Polished. Perfect. Composed. The prodigy. The little prince. Everyone talked about you. Your posture, your grades, your recitals. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. Not even with you. You did everything right. And I couldn’t bear to see you become the thing I was trying to run from.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but he still wouldn’t look at him.

“I didn’t know how to love you without hating myself,” Sirius admitted, voice rough. “And that’s not your fault. It never was. But it felt easier to disappear than to stand there and watch you become what they made us."

The silence that followed was brittle. Regulus shifted his weight slightly, arms crossing over his chest like armor. “At the start you were the only person who ever saw me, Sirius. Before them. Before the masks. You used to say I was too smart to be a Black.” Regulus let out a short, humourless sound. “That wasn’t real, Sirius.”

“It felt real,” he said. “You were what they wanted. I was what they tolerated.”

“No,” Regulus said, firmer now. “I was what they displayed. I was a fucking showroom dummy in a pressed collar. That wasn’t pride, Sirius. That was survival.”

Sirius blinked.

“You think I was happy?” Regulus said, stepping away from the dresser now. “You think I wanted to smile at their friends and sit up straight at dinners and practice until my toes bled just so they’d have something to brag about?”

Sirius didn’t know what to say.

“And this is- You didn’t even see it,” Regulus went on. “You thought I was fine. You didn’t look hard enough to see I was just… covering. Pretending. When you left—”
He cut himself off. Something flickered in his throat. He swallowed.
“When you left,” Regulus said more quietly, “everything cracked. I had to be both of us. For them. For the ghost of the family we never were.”

Sirius stood slowly. His voice was quiet, but steady. “I was sixteen,” he said. “I didn’t know how to stay. I didn’t know how to fight for someone else when I couldn’t even fucking breathe myself.”
He looked at Regulus, eyes dark with something that had sat buried for years.
“But it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. That’s the worst part.” He took a breath, shaky. “It’s my biggest regret, Reg. Leaving you. Running.”

He swallowed, his voice cracking around the edges.

“When I came back, I was terrified. Of them. Of what they’d done to us. I couldn’t even walk near Grimmauld Place without feeling like I was choking. I had panic attacks just thinking about going back. About seeing you.” He paused. Blinked. Then gave a hollow laugh. “So I started seeing a fucking psychologist. Because I wanted to be better. For you. So I could come back and not be that mess of a kid who ran.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, then looked down. “But it took time. Years. You don’t know how fucking difficult the human mind is. How long it takes to unlearn that kind of fear. That kind of damage. When I finally felt like I could breathe again, like I wasn’t going to break in half just by hearing our name—well, I was already twenty. Maybe twenty-one. And by then…” He trailed off, breath catching.
“I was too ashamed. Too fucking embarrassed to show up at your door after all that time, and say what? ‘Sorry for vanishing, sorry for surviving?’ I couldn’t face the look in your eyes. I couldn’t face your disappointment.”

Regulus shook his head, laughing once — sharp, brittle.

“And then- I always thought you'd be fine. That they’d let you go be whatever you wanted. That you'd be dancing in Paris or Vienna. Because they were so happy about you, about your dancing career” Sirius admitted. “I thought they’d at least… support that. So you would be gone too- maybe at sixteen like me you could be dancing around the world, away from them. So it was like- a win, right? For both of us-”

"Yeah" Regulus’s voice dropped low. Then he laughed. Hard. False. “They were so proud,” he said. “So proud they made sure I’d never be able to do it again.”
Sirius froze. Regulus gave a crooked smile. “Happy, you say? Yeah- happy to have a broken thing. Happier than ever."

“What happened?” Sirius asked quietly. "What do you mean, Reg?"

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He just sat down on the edge of the bed and picked at the seam of the blanket. Sirius sat beside him.

Neither of them said a word for a long time.

Sirius hadn’t meant to sit on the bed. But his legs folded under him before his thoughts could catch up. There was something crushing in the room now, something heavy in the air. Not just silence — memory.

Regulus was staring at the far wall like it had answers he hadn’t gotten yet. And Sirius couldn’t take it anymore. “You have to tell me,” he said softly. “Please.”
Regulus didn’t move. So Sirius kept going. Quiet. Desperate.
“I thought—I really thought you were okay. That they were… proud. I saw the photos, the awards, the shoes. I thought you’d go on to some school in Paris or something. I thought they’d let you.”

Regulus laughed. A dry, rusted sound. No joy in it. Not even bitterness. Just ash.
“Let me?” he repeated, blinking once. Slowly. “They would’ve framed me in glass if they could. But no. They couldn’t let me go. Because suddenly the prodigy had to become the heir.”

Sirius frowned, confused. “What are you—”

“They saw it,” Regulus cut in. “The softness. The way I bent instead of broke. The way I loved things that didn’t mean anything in that house. Dance. Poetry. Vulnerability. It disgusted them.” He stood up now, like the room was suddenly too small for the weight he was carrying.
“Mum got married and gave up her life for duty. Father built a legacy out of iron and glass. And I—” he laughed again, sharper. “I was supposed to follow it. Become it. A name. A function. A ghost in their fucking architecture.”

Sirius’s throat tightened. “You didn’t want it.”

“No,” Regulus snapped. “I wanted out. I wanted to move. I wanted to dance. To breathe. To make something beautiful that wasn’t built on control or cruelty or silence.” He turned then, eyes burning, face sharper than Sirius had seen it in years.
“But you left,” he said. “And suddenly, I was all they had.”

Sirius tried to speak. Failed. Regulus stepped closer. Not shouting — that would have been easier. He was controlled, precise. Dangerous.
“You know what they said when you left?” he asked. “They said I’d be better. Cleaner. Smarter. Easier to mold.”

“That’s not—”

“They said I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. And I didn’t. I made new ones.”

Sirius stood, hands open.

“Reg—”

“You want to know what happened to the dancing?” Regulus asked, voice lower now. Not quieter — heavier. “The dream you thought I had?”
Sirius didn’t answer. Regulus’s voice shook once. Just once.
“I was eighteen. They told me to stop going to the studio. Said it was a distraction. That I had responsibilities. University. A name. And when I didn’t—when I kept going—Mother waited until Father got home and said I was sneaking out like a whore.”

Sirius’s breath caught.

“And he—” Regulus paused, jaw set, voice shaking but contained. “He threw me down the stairs. Broke two ribs and my fucking knee. I hit the banister with my spine. Couldn’t walk straight for weeks.”

His voice was flat now. Hollow.

“I didn’t dance again.”

Sirius felt something in his chest split open. Not like a wound. Like a rift. A scream tried to claw its way out, but came out instead as a strangled, useless sound—a broken “no,” twisted with disbelief and horror.

He staggered a step back before moving forward again, one hand dragging through his hair as if trying to physically hold his skull together. His knees nearly gave under the weight of it.

“You didn’t—why didn’t you—” But there was no air, no words that could hold this.

Regulus turned away. “You thought they’d let me go,” he said, quietly. “You were wrong. They couldn’t let me be. That’s the difference.”

Sirius crossed the room blindly. He didn’t think. He just moved, like something in him had been ripped loose and couldn’t stand still.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice cracking in half. “God, Reg—I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t,” Regulus said quickly, eyes flashing—not anger, but something more fragile. “Don’t say it like it changes anything.”

“I should’ve taken you with me—” Sirius’s hands were trembling. He reached out, then pulled back. “I should’ve known.”

“You’re right,” Regulus said, and his voice didn’t waver this time. “You didn’t know. You didn’t ask. Why didn’t you look back?” Regulus asked, louder now. “Why didn’t you call? Or write? You vanished. You started over like I hadn’t even been part of the before. My life got ruined! My dream got ruined while you were living your best life!”

Sirius dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, like his body gave out. His hands covered his face, elbows braced on his knees. He couldn’t look at Regulus. He didn’t deserve to. “I thought I was escaping,” he whispered, muffled by his palms. “I thought leaving would make it better. I didn’t think—I never let myself think—what it would mean for you. What would happen if I left you behind. James, Remus… they made me feel like I was allowed to exist. And I knew if I went back, even for a second, I’d be sucked under again.” His voice broke again, a pitiful, desperate sound that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

Regulus didn’t move. He just stood there, tense, arms crossed tight around himself like scaffolding keeping him upright. “I didn’t dance again,” he repeated, softer now. Like he was trying to bury it, even as he said it out loud.

And Sirius—Sirius could only sit there and drown in it. Because Regulus was right. He was right. He was right. They- they- almost killed him. They pushed his brother, his little innocent brother down the stairs.

He could be dead now.

He could be dancing now.

And it all hit him. His brother, his waiting, his injury, his almost-death, his broken dream, his trauma, his life. Everything got ruined because of him. Because of Sirius Black.

Sirius was shaking.

Not just his hands, not just his voice—his whole body trembled, like something inside him had snapped and left him hollowed out. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, chest heaving like it couldn’t hold the air, couldn’t hold anything.

“What—” he gasped. “What did they do to you—what did they—”
His fingers clawed at his scalp, like he could dig the images out of his head if he just pressed hard enough. “God—what did they do, what did they do—?”
He stumbled back from the bed, eyes wild, like the room was closing in on him. “Because of me—because I left—because I didn’t ask—didn’t see—didn’t see—”

His knees hit the floor hard. He didn’t feel it.

“This is my fault. It’s my fault, my fault, my—fuck—” A sob ripped out of him, sharp and ugly, followed by another. “I left you. I left you in that house. With them. And they broke you. And I—I was free.”

“Sirius— hey- no, no, no-” Regulus knelt down, voice low but urgent, trying to reach through the panic. “Listen to me. Breathe. Please—look at me—breathe—”

But Sirius couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. He was crying now, full-body sobs that made his shoulders shake and his hands claw at the floor like he needed to hold onto something before he shattered entirely.

“I don’t deserve—” he choked. “Don’t deserve you speaking to me. Don’t deserve your voice. Or your time. Or your eyes. Don’t—don’t fucking touch me.”

Regulus froze, hands half-extended.

“I’m not here to make you feel better,” Sirius snapped, though his voice cracked halfway through. “Don’t comfort me. I don’t want comfort. I don’t deserve it.”

Regulus’s voice was quiet, steady despite the wreckage in front of him. “Maybe not. But you need it.”

“I need punishment,” Sirius hissed. “I need to suffer for what I let happen. I let it happen. I didn’t protect you. I should have. I should have known.”

“You didn’t know,” Regulus said, more firmly now. “And you couldn’t have known. You were a child, Sirius. A broken, scared child.”

“That’s no excuse!” Sirius shouted, gripping his head, curling in on himself. “You were a child too! And they destroyed you.”

There was a silence thick with grief, heavy and motionless.

“I didn’t dance again,” Regulus repeated, softer now. “But then Draco came. And I had someone to protect. Someone to love. And maybe… maybe if you had stayed, they would’ve broken both of us. So I was glad it was me. Because you always took their punishments instead of me. You always protected me when we were younger. Okay? So- so please- Sirius I was glad you got to live with James, with the Potters- I was just angry, okay? Angry but glad at the same time. Because you were safe.”

Sirius didn’t answer. His breathing was ragged, shallow, his eyes unfocused now, skin pale, slick with sweat.

“Sirius—” Regulus’s voice changed, alarm rising.

And then Sirius swayed. His body gave out, the panic crashing over him like a tidal wave. His legs folded beneath him, arms limp, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Sirius!” Regulus caught him before his head hit the floor, arms wrapping around him with a force he hadn’t expected to use in years. “Hey—hey, look at me. Etoile. Come on. No, no, don’t do this, don’t—” But Sirius was barely conscious now, breath coming in short, gasping bursts, his body boneless with exhaustion and panic and weight.

Regulus held him tighter, rocking slightly, whispering like he used to when they were children and Sirius had woken from nightmares he never wanted to name.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You hear me? I’ve got you. I’ve always had you.”

Sirius stirred faintly in Regulus’s arms, still breathing too fast, too shallow. His hands clutched uselessly at Regulus’s shirt, his voice little more than a wrecked whisper.
“I need to be punished,” he gasped. “I need to do something. Anything. I can’t just sit here—can’t just exist after what I let happen. I should pay for it. I have to pay for it—”

Regulus’s heart clenched.
“Oh gods,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone. “This is what you meant.”
He could see it now, clear as glass—those moments when Sirius had spoken vaguely about “damage,” about never going back, about waking up with his hands shaking and not knowing why. When Sirius had used the word PTSD and when he had flinched like someone had hit him.

“This,” Regulus murmured, brushing damp hair back from his brother’s forehead, “this is what they did to you.”

Sirius didn’t answer—he was trembling too hard, his eyes unfocused, lips moving soundlessly as if trying to make sense of the air.
Regulus cupped his face between his hands, gently but firmly, grounding him. His fingers were cold, but his touch was steady.

“Reg—don’t—” Sirius tried to pull away, ashamed, but Regulus held him still.

“Look at me,” he said, soft but commanding. “Just look.”

Sirius’s eyes flicked to him, glassy and wet, his breath hitching violently in his throat.

And Regulus—something in him cracked. Not like anger. Like memory.
He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, the way Sirius used to do when they were boys and Regulus had scraped his knees or cried himself sick.
He whispered, voice low and in French, the way Sirius used to speak to him when the world outside their room felt too cruel to name.

“Ça va passer,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Je suis là. Je te promets.”

Sirius let out a choked, wounded sound, not quite a sob, not quite a breath. His hands gripped Regulus’s sleeves like they were the last thing keeping him tethered to the world.

“Tu te souviens?” Regulus whispered. “Quand tu me disais ça… chaque fois que je pleurais?”

He stroked Sirius’s temple gently with his thumb, grounding him in that memory.

“Je te crois maintenant,” he whispered. “Moi aussi, je suis là.”

And slowly—achingly slowly—Sirius’s breathing began to even out. His eyes fluttered shut, chest still hitching, but not collapsing. Not this time.
Regulus held him close and didn’t let go.
Regulus kept Sirius’s face between his palms, holding him steady, anchoring him.

His brother’s breath was still uneven, eyes glassy and distant, caught somewhere between memory and pain. Regulus had whispered to him, in French, grounding him in old promises. But it wasn’t enough.

So he leaned in again. Pressed their foreheads together. And, softer than breath, he began to sing.

“Scintille, scintille, petite étoile…”

His voice was fragile, barely more than a whisper. But it was steady.

“Je me demande vraiment ce que tu es…”

Sirius shuddered, eyes fluttering shut, a tear slipping down his cheek.

“Au-dessus du monde si haut,
Comme un diamant dans le ciel…”

His hands, which had been gripping Regulus’s sleeves with desperate tension, began to loosen.

“Scintille, scintille, petite étoile…
Je me demande vraiment ce que tu es…”

It wasn’t perfect. His voice cracked in places. The melody trembled. The French wasn’t as polished as it once had been, years ago in whispered games under the covers.

But Sirius remembered. And that was all that mattered.
He let out a choked breath—somewhere between a sob and a sigh—and leaned into his brother’s touch, finally letting go.
Regulus kept singing, softer now, repeating the lines like a lullaby.
And in the quiet of that room, for the first time in years, Sirius let himself be held.

Regulus’s voice faded slowly, the final words of the lullaby hanging in the air like dust in sunlight.

Sirius was still pressed against him, breathing unevenly, but calmer. His face was wet with tears, his fingers curled loosely into Regulus’s jumper now—not clinging, not desperate. Just there.

And then, in the silence, Regulus smiled to himself. Just the ghost of it. And he murmured, like it was a secret passed through years:
“T’étais persuadé que les étoiles étaient en chocolat.”

Sirius’s breath caught—and then something cracked inside him, something lighter this time. He let out a shaky exhale, almost a laugh. His shoulders trembled.
“I did not,” he rasped.

“You did,” Regulus insisted, the smallest smirk curling at his lips. “You tried to climb out the window to eat one. You cried for three hours when it didn’t melt in your mouth.”

Sirius finally—finally—laughed. A real one, hoarse and broken and real. He buried his face against Regulus’s shoulder, the sound spilling out of him like relief.
“Oh God,” he gasped between half-sobs, half-laughter. “I was such a dumbass.”

Regulus snorted. “You were six.”

“You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.” They sat there, the storm slowly passing, and in the stillness left behind, there was a little light. A little warmth.

Regulus shifted, like he wanted to stand, to change the subject, to end it right there. But Sirius reached out—just a hand on his arm, gentle, not holding him, just touching.
“Wait,” he said softly. “Please. I want to hear the rest.”

"Sirius-" Regulus hesitated. His gaze flicked to Sirius’s face, still pale and drawn, still damp from tears and panic and grief.
“You just had a panic attack,” he said, low. “You don’t need—this.”

“I do, I really do Reg- please just-” Sirius whispered. “We stopped at the stairs.”

Regulus drew a breath. Let it out slowly. “Right,” he murmured. “The stairs.”

He didn’t look angry. Not anymore. Just tired. Like the words were stones he’d been carrying in his chest, and now he had to lay them down, one by one.
“They couldn’t have a son who limped,” he said, voice quiet, almost factual. “Not in public. Not when they were hosting galas and appearing in society pages. Not when Father’s reputation was balanced on sharp tailoring and colder smiles.”

He paused, fingers rubbing absently at his knee, as if it still ached.

“So they paid. Of course they did. The best orthopedic surgeon. The best physical therapist. The best lies.” Sirius didn’t move. He was holding still, holding breath, like one sudden motion would make Regulus disappear again.
“They bought me a new body,” Regulus said, his voice starting to shake. “Rebuilt what they broke. The doctor said I was lucky. Said I could dance again, if I followed the program. And i believed in it, even if they didn't know that. I did. Every day. I worked until I bled. Just to give them what they wanted. Just to get it back.”

His eyes went distant for a moment, and his voice dropped lower.
“And maybe—just maybe—they realized. A little. That they’d almost killed me.”

He swallowed hard.

“They got… nice, after that,” he continued, quieter still. “Too nice. Bought me a flat near the university. Paid my tuition in advance. Called me their star again.”
A bitter, fragile laugh slipped out.
“Nothing says ‘we love you’ like a marble bathroom and silence.”

Sirius stood—slowly, carefully—like he was approaching something sacred and broken. Regulus didn’t stop him.
“Then everything else started to crumble,” he said. “Narcissa’s marriage began to rot. Lucius got louder. Angrier. The money started vanishing, the company went down. And then… Draco.” The name settled like a feather in the room.
“He was so small,” Regulus said, voice trembling now. “And he screamed. All the time. And Lucius—he never had the patience. Not once.”

Regulus blinked hard. Once. Twice.

“I held him, and I thought: this can’t be the same house. It can’t be our house. But it was. Same walls. Same shadows.”

He looked at Sirius then. Really looked.

“I had to make a choice. Dance or Draco.”

Sirius nodded slowly, tears standing again in his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

Regulus’s voice cracked. “I picked Draco.” The words landed soft—but devastating.

And Sirius didn’t hesitate this time. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw.

Regulus flinched. “I don’t want your pity. I got a son, instead. It's so fucking difficult every day but I'm glad I did. Because I've seen Lucius and Draco would have been another one of us.”

“It’s not pity Reggie.”

“Then what is it?” His tone was quiet. Honest.

"You're so fucking strong Regulus. I couldn't pity you. I'm admiring you." Sirius stepped closer, pointing to the space between them. "When today you said that I couldn't want you because you're a broken, desperate, soulless man you couldn't be more wrong Reggie. I want you. I want this. You're so brave and so fucking full of love even though we lived where we lived. Draco is probably one of the most happiest child out there and it's all thank to you. He loves you. Narcissa loves you. James loves you."

Regulus blushed at this and Sirius nudged his shoulders with his head.

"And I love you, Reggie. I can't ask for a better brother than you. Seriously. Even though you think so little of yourself, even though you don't deserve half of the things you say about yourself. Because you're a fucking hero, Reg."

Sirius ignored the way his brother sniffed and he put his head on his shoulder, while he started stroking his curls.

“And I regret. Years of not knowing what happened to you and being afraid to ask. It’s me, sixteen and selfish and scared. But it’s also this—” he gestured again, hand trembling, “—me, here. Now. Not leaving.”

Regulus didn’t speak. So Sirius went on, softer now. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m just asking you to believe me. That I see you. And I’m not walking away again.”

Regulus’s throat worked as he swallowed.

Then, voice quiet as breath- “You better not.” And in the quiet that followed, something broke. But not in a bad way. Something opened.

A door. A thread. A chance.

Regulus let out a long breath. It was quiet, and uneven, and full of everything he hadn’t said yet. Then- “I’m too tired, Sirius.”

Sirius stilled. Regulus’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight of it was in the quiet. “I’m too tired to keep being angry. I don’t have the energy to keep holding it—whatever that was. The blame. The ache. The grief of it.”

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, one hand curling in the blanket, knuckles white.

“After everything,” he said. “After all of it—what they did to me, what Lucius became, what I had to give up just to stay standing—I can’t waste what little I’ve got left being furious with the only person who ever taught me what love felt like.”

Sirius’s breath caught in his throat. Regulus let out something like a laugh. Sharp. Crooked. “Of course, you also ripped that out of me when you left without a word. Not even a note. Not even a goddamn scrap of paper.”

Sirius looked away, ashamed. Regulus shrugged.

“But we were idiots,” he said. “Just kids. I didn’t know how to ask you to stay. You didn’t know how to tell me you were drowning.”
A long pause. Then softer- “I didn’t want to drown too. So I smiled. And danced. And broke.”

Silence.

“Now… now I have to think about what comes next.”

He looked up.

“And I can’t afford to get it wrong.”

Sirius took a careful step forward. “You won’t.”

“You say that like it’s simple.”

“It’s not,” Sirius said. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

Regulus exhaled, shaky. Looked down at his hands.
“I keep thinking about Riddle,” he said. “What he promised. What it would fix.”
His voice dropped to almost nothing. “But I don’t want to go to him.”

“Then don’t.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

Sirius moved, slow and sure. Sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Together. No more notes. No more silence. I’ll be here. This time, I won’t leave.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Not with words. But he didn’t pull away either.

Sirius stood first. He didn’t offer a hand — Regulus would’ve ignored it anyway. He just hovered there until his brother followed, slower, still unreadable.
Downstairs, the sound of quiet conversation drifted upward — cups clinking, the soft murmur of voices. James, Remus, Narcissa. Waiting.

Waiting for answers. Waiting for him.

Regulus paused in the doorway, exhaled like it physically cost him. His voice was quieter this time, more real.
“By the way,” he said, not looking at Sirius, “I meant it. When I said I was glad I took it for you. Better me than you, Siri.”

Sirius blinked, chest tight again. He bumped his shoulder gently into Regulus’s, trying not to drown in what that meant.
“I would’ve preferred it happened to neither of us, you dramatic little shit,” he muttered.

Regulus huffed, a crooked smile ghosting across his lips. “I mean—after seeing your panic attack? Yeah. No offense, but Mother would’ve eaten that alive. You’d have lasted, what—three minutes? Maybe two if you fainted fast enough.”

Sirius let out a snort, half laugh, half groan. “Fuck off.”

Regulus tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, she’d have monologued right over your unconscious body. Would’ve used your breakdown to redecorate the east wing.”

“Oh my God,” Sirius groaned, rubbing his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

Regulus smirked. “And still your favorite.”

Sirius didn’t answer, just bumped him again.
After a beat, he murmured, “Think they heard us screaming at each other?”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “With your voice? Please. I’m shocked James didn’t call the fire department.”

Sirius smirked. “What can I say- Moony likes it when I’m loud.”

Regulus made a face like he’d been physically assaulted. “Oh my God, can you not—”

“What? You asked.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“Too late. Picture’s in your head now,” Sirius said, sing-song, grinning like a menace.

“You’re disgusting,” Regulus muttered, already starting down the stairs.

Sirius followed, smug. “And now, who is your favorite?”

"Remus. Obviously is Remus."

And together, for the first time in years, they walked down the stairs side by side—not quite whole, not quite redeemed, but reconnected. Wounded and healing. Loud, and still loved.

The living room was dim, lit only by the tall lamp near the bookshelf and the soft orange glow from the kitchen. Someone — probably James — had made tea. The steam curled from four mugs on the coffee table, untouched.

James sat on the arm of the couch, elbow resting on his knee, watching them with that quiet, alert stillness he always had when something important was about to be said.
Remus was next to him, legs crossed, fingers loosely knotted. He met Regulus’s eyes only once, but didn’t smile.
Narcissa stood near the fireplace, arms crossed tight, as if still trying to fold herself smaller. Her posture was perfect — it always was — but Regulus could see the crack in her jawline, the place where the tension lived.

They were waiting. All of them.

“So—uh—are you good?” James asked, hovering in the hallway with the subtlety of a Labrador in a thunderstorm. He had a mug of tea in his hand and the look of someone bracing for emotional shrapnel.

Regulus didn’t even look at him. His eyes went straight to Sirius, tone razor-sharp.
“Oh, he’s fine. He just declared his undying love to me on the stairs.”

“I did not!” Sirius cried, scandalized.

Regulus tilted his head. “No? What do you call ‘you’re my little star, I should’ve taken you with me, I see you now’. That’s basically a love confession in Black family language.”

Sirius scoffed. “You’re such a drama queen.”

Regulus blinked at him, deadpan. “Says the man who nearly passed out from feelings.”

“I was emotionally overwhelmed!” Sirius snapped. “It’s called depth, Regulus. Try it sometime.” Sirius groaned.

"You’re such a slut, Sirius. And a liar.”

“God, you’re such a bitch. And your face looks like shit.”

“Have you tried looking in a mirror recently?” Regulus snapped. “You look like you fought a blender and lost.”

“You look like someone who critiques modern art unironically.”

“You look like someone who makes modern art and cries when people don’t get it.”

“I do cry when people don’t get it!”

“Exactly my point.”

There was a short pause. James blinked from the sidelines. “Soooo… we’re back to normal?”

Sirius and Regulus turned to him in unison.
“Shut up, James.”

“But yes,” Sirius said, voice low. “Now I’m ready to hear it. The—er—the second part of your story? Jesus Christ Reg, it's worse than a fucking soap opera- how many seasons?”

For once, Regulus didn’t have an answer ready. No bitter remark, no dry defense. Just silence. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
It was Narcissa who spoke first.
“When Draco was born,” she said softly, “Lucius and I were already falling apart.”

Regulus glanced up, startled—but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere across the room, eyes unfocused.

“Lucius was… always tense. Short-tempered. Nothing was ever enough. He couldn’t stand noise, or clutter, or—crying.” Her voice caught slightly. “And Draco cried. He was a baby, of course he cried. But Lucius had no patience. None.”

Regulus felt his chest pull tight. The memories pressed behind his ribs, sharp and familiar.

“I was constantly exhausted,” Narcissa continued, her voice brittle with restraint. “And Reg—he’d just had surgery. His knee, as you know. He was barely walking, deep in physiotherapy. But every morning, when I couldn’t get out of bed, when I couldn’t reach the crib—he did. Even on days when he could barely stand. Sometimes he left class, or work, just to come hold him.”

She looked at him then. Just for a second. Then away again.
“He did everything he could to protect Draco. And… well. Me, too.”

Regulus didn’t speak. That was the thing about pain—it taught you silence.

“I didn’t want to leave him with the baby, not all the time,” Narcissa went on. “He was barely more than a kid himself. Recovering. Traumatized. Still tangled up in everything your parents did to him. But I didn’t have a choice. And he—he fed Draco, changed him, walked with him up and down that endless hallway for hours. He soothed him when no one else could.”

Her voice grew quieter. “And that’s how Riddle saw him.” The room went still.
Regulus felt it again, that sudden pressure in the air. The weight of the name, curling like smoke through his lungs.
“He started showing up,” Narcissa said. “Said it was business. Checking in on Lucius. Talking about finances. But it wasn’t about that. He was watching. Always watching. And he was interested in Regulus. Kept trying to talk to him. Kept bringing up his family. Orion. The name. The Lord Black. The heir.”

Regulus’s hands had curled into fists. He didn’t even notice until his knuckles turned white, until the bite of his nails stung the soft skin of his palms. His pulse thundered in his wrists.

James noticed. He touched the back of Regulus’s hand, light as a breath.

“If only—” Narcissa started, then stopped. Her voice wavered.
Regulus shook his head, jaw clenched so tight it ached. But Narcissa kept going, her voice barely above a whisper.
“If only I hadn’t brought him down with me.”

She finally looked at him then. Her face was pale, dry-eyed, but the muscles around her mouth trembled.
“And then everything collapsed,” she said. “The company. The marriage. Lucius disappeared. And I— I went to Regulus. To the flat your parents bought him. Back when they were still pretending to feel sorry.”

James didn’t move. Neither did Remus.

“There was nowhere else to go,” Narcissa said quietly. “I had Draco. And there were reporters, creditors, people banging on the door every night. Not the kind who leave polite letters. The kind who scream. Who want a headline. Or a repayment.”

“So I sold the flat,” Regulus said. His voice was low, almost detached. “Took the cash. Paid half of what I owed Riddle.”

James blinked. “Half?”

“It was a good flat,” Regulus murmured. “Small. Cozy. Wish I could’ve gotten more for it.” He paused, then nodded once. “But it bought time.”

“It bought our lives,” Narcissa said softly.

Silence.

“I found us another place,” Regulus went on. “Nothing fancy. Tiny. Damp. The kind of flat where the lights flicker if you boil water and use the oven at the same time. But it was ours.” He stared down at the mug between his hands. His fingers tensed around it.

“And then she left.”

The words came out quiet. But they landed sharp.

Narcissa winced. “It wasn’t…” she started, voice thin. “It wasn’t the best decision. I know that. But I’d heard about work in France. Tutors in private households. Fast money. No Lucius. I knew the language. I thought—I thought I could go, earn, come back and fix everything.”

“You thought you were helping,” Remus said gently.

“No,” Narcissa said, turning to him. “I thought I was escaping. Like Sirius. Just for a while.” She turned to Regulus, voice cracking. “Regulus was better with Draco than I ever was. He made him sleep when I couldn’t. He soothed him, fed him, made him laugh. I think—I think I inherited the wrong parts of our family. But him—he was everything we never got. And even now, I still think… maybe it was better he stayed with you than with me.”

Regulus’s jaw locked. His chest twisted. “Please don’t say that,” he said, suddenly raw. “Don’t reduce it like that—it was a fucking nightmare. You don’t understand—”
His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “I was alone. Do you get that? Alone. Nothing made sense, I worked and worked and begged and begged again and again for help and it was never enough and—” He stopped. Cut himself off. “Forget it. It’s done. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

James’s hand brushed his knee. A quiet, steady touch. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there—later, I’ll be here. Later, I’ll listen. Regulus almost leaned in. He wanted to disappear into that stillness, into the idea of safety.

Across from him, Sirius looked away. And Regulus wondered—what was going on in his head? Was he angry at Narcissa, like Regulus had been? Like he still was?

He had hated her for leaving. Cursed her name. Screamed into pillows. Had panic attacks in grocery stores. Lost jobs for missing shifts because the nursery was closed and there was no one else. He’d cracked under the weight of being everything at once—provider, protector, parent.

“I came back a few months ago,” Narcissa said. “And it was worse. Everything had gotten worse. Draco had grown too fast. Regulus looked like he hadn’t slept in a year. And Riddle… Riddle was still there. Waiting.”

Regulus didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say. He inhaled slowly through his nose, fingers curled tight around the mug—not for warmth, but to stay grounded. To stay present.

“We’ve already looked at everything,” he said, voice steady, hollow. “Me. Barty. Evan.”
James lifted his eyes. “We’ve done the math ten times. My paycheck is £2,500 a month. It covers rent, groceries, Draco’s school lunches, and about four different kinds of existential dread.”

A beat.

“No matter how we break it down—even if Barty covers utilities, even if Evan throws in his share—I can’t save more than a couple hundred pounds a month. And that’s only if nothing breaks. If no one gets sick. If Draco doesn’t suddenly need a new uniform or outgrow his shoes again overnight.” He looked up. Met each of their eyes.
“I don’t have £80,000. Not now. Not in ten years. Not ever. Not unless something changes.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, brow furrowed. “Have you talked to—?”

“Yes,” Regulus said flatly. “Every bank. Every loan office. Even a few people I swore I’d never speak to again.”

“And?”

“They won’t touch me,” he said. “My name’s a red flag. My credit score might as well be classified as a public hazard.”

Remus made a soft sound — half sympathy, half helplessness.

Regulus exhaled, a long, dry breath. “I tried,” he said. “I’ve been trying. For years. I did everything right, every goddamn thing they tell you to do. And still—he’s there. Riddle. Like he never left. Like he never fucking leaves.”

The name hung in the room, thick as smoke. The silence held, taut and fragile. Regulus’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. Ash and air.
“You can’t help me. Or—I don’t know how you could help me.”

James leaned in. “Don’t say that. Reg, come on. We can figure this out—”

“No.” Regulus cut him off, sharp now. “You don’t understand.” His gaze flicked sideways. “As I said this morning—” Sirius stiffened. Regulus’s voice dropped, low and brittle. “Riddle… threatened to bankrupt you. Both of you.” Silence.
“And it’s not just talk. It’s never just talk with him. He’s sick. And calculated. And he knows where to hit. He’s been doing it his whole life.”

James stared at him. “You think I care about money?”

Regulus’s voice snapped. “It’s not about you, James. It’s about Harry. It’s about Lily. About Remus. I won’t drag you all down just because I’ve run out of exits.”

James didn’t flinch. But he didn’t move either.

Regulus pressed on, jaw clenched. “I’ve spent the last five years watching things rot from the inside. My body. My home. My name. And now he wants me to beg. To crawl. To give him that last piece of control — and smile while I do it.”

Narcissa stepped forward. “Reg—”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you do.” His voice trembled, then flattened. “Riddle doesn’t want repayment. He wants me. Humiliated. Cornered. Dependent.”

Remus spoke for the first time in a while. “Then don’t give him that.”

Regulus turned toward him, gaze tired. “And do what instead?”

And it was Sirius who answered. Voice low, but firm. “We fight, Reg.”

Regulus let out a dry, humourless laugh. “With what? My overdraft and your winning smile?”

Sirius stood. “We go public.”

“Right. Ruin what’s left of our lives?”

“We freeze the accounts. Talk to the press. Expose him.”

Regulus looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “You don’t get it. You really don’t. You think some newspaper story is going to make people care? That they’ll pull out of his projects because of ethics?”

James’s voice cut in then — calm, but burning under the surface. “Then we make them care.”

Regulus blinked at him. “Not if it puts your names on his list,” he said. The words were hoarse, worn out. “Not if it gets you hurt too.”

Narcissa swallowed hard. “Then we find something else.”

Regulus’s mouth opened. Closed. His fingers flexed, then tightened again on the mug. He didn’t look at anyone. “I’m scared,” he whispered. It came out smaller than he meant. Like something cracked.

Sirius stepped closer. “So are we,” he said, steady now. “But we’ll figure it out. If you let us in. If you stop hiding shit. If you stop carrying it all alone.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He just nodded — once, slow. His shoulders didn’t drop. Not yet. But the smallest part of him, somewhere deep, exhaled.

The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that follows confession, but precedes collapse. No one touched their tea. No one moved. Regulus leaned back into the cushions like they might swallow him whole. His spine ached from tension, and his fingers still twitched from clenching too hard.

He hated this. More than the debt, more than the fear — he hated being watched. Measured. Pinned between care and pity.

Remus cleared his throat. “We could write up a contract,” he said, measured, calm. “A legal loan. Someone you trust signs as a lender. Clear terms, no interest, flexible timeline. You’d have control.”

Regulus let out a bitter laugh. “Control’s an illusion, Lupin. Especially when you’re broke.”

“It’s not about pretending,” Remus said. “It’s about buying time. Giving you breathing room.”

“I’ve been buying time for five years.”

“And now you’re out of it.”

Regulus didn’t answer.

Then Narcissa spoke, voice soft but steady. “If we go public—like we were saying earlier—”

Sirius sat up sharply. “Cis—”

“No, listen to me,” she snapped. “We still have names people remember. Regulus has a past that matters. I can speak, on the record. I can give them enough to rattle Riddle’s lawyers. Make them sweat. Make him bleed in the press. It’s a story they’d kill to tell. And we’d be the ones telling it.”

Regulus shook his head. “You’d be putting Draco at risk.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this saves him. I don’t know, Regulus, I really don’t! He’s already in the middle of it. He has Lucius on one side and Riddle on the other, and he’s just a child. I don’t know what’s safer anymore.”

“Well, maybe not splashing his face across every front page, Narcissa,” Regulus snapped. “Not just because of Lucius and Riddle, but him. Draco. He’ll be remembered forever like this — the tragedy kid. The survivor. The ‘debt baby’ or whatever headline they write.”

James looked up then. Quiet. Steady. “There’s another way,” he said. “A story. But anonymous. Fictionalised. A campaign, maybe. I know people who can make it feel real without putting your name or Draco’s anywhere near it.”

Regulus stared at him. “You want me to perform my pain for cash?”

“No,” Remus said, gentle but unflinching. “We want you to survive this, Regulus.”

That silenced the room. Regulus opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked around like the air was too thick to breathe. “This is mad,” he said eventually, quieter. “I’m not asking anyone to fix this for me. I just—”

And then James stood. Calm. Dangerous. “That’s the problem.”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“You’re not asking. You’re sitting here treating your life like a mess someone else made, and now you’re the one left cleaning it up in silence.”

“Because that’s what it is.”

“No.” James stepped forward. “It’s your life. Not a punishment. Not a sentence. It matters. You matter.”

Regulus looked away. “Spare me the speech.”

“I’m not giving a speech.” James’s voice cracked, raw at the edges. “I’m telling you to stop pretending you’re a lost cause.” The silence after that wasn’t empty — it was charged. Regulus’s eyes snapped back to him, wide and stunned.
And James, barely above a whisper now, said, “Let us help. Let me help. Or what the hell are we even doing?”

Regulus shifted on the couch, pressing his fingertips against his brow, where the beginnings of a headache had started to bloom behind his eyes. The room had quietato — not in sound, but in energy. Everyone had said their part. There were no more solutions tonight. Just the echo of them.

He sat with one leg curled under him, the other stretched out, socked foot grazing the edge of the coffee table. His posture had begun to collapse, spine bent like something that had forgotten how to hold itself upright.

His voice came low, almost flat—“He gave me a month.” The room reacted like it had been holding its breath. Regulus didn’t look up.
“One month,” he repeated. “To either give myself over to him completely—terms undisclosed, of course—or to produce the full amount. Eighty thousand. No exceptions. No extensions.”
He rubbed at his temple with two fingers, a sharp, circular motion.
“I told him I needed time to think. He said he was feeling generous.”

Sirius let out a sharp, guttural sound — half laugh, half growl. His whole posture was coiled tight, like he might shatter the table just by breathing wrong.
Remus said nothing — but his hand pressed lightly against the small of Sirius’s back. A silent tether, keeping him steady.

James stood again, slowly, pushing both hands through his hair until it stood in wild, defiant curls. “What if we spoke to Lily?” Regulus blinked, startled. He looked up at James like he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

James stepped forward, arms loosely crossed, voice low but charged. “She’s not just good. She’s ruthless when she wants to be. If there’s a loophole, if there’s a crack in Riddle’s armor, she’ll find it. She’s brilliant like that.”

“You sure you want to involve even her?” Regulus’s voice rose, sharp with fear. “It’s dangerous, James. These aren’t just men with suits and agendas. They ruin lives. They kill people.”

“Then let’s ask her,” James snapped. “That’s her fucking choice, Regulus! You’ve been deciding for everyone else for months! You never gave us a choice!”

“You don’t understand—” Regulus was standing now too. “Even knowing is dangerous! I’m not in your life — or Harry’s — to put either of you at risk. You shouldn’t want to be part of this, you have a child for fuck’s sake!”

“Stop.” The word cracked out of Narcissa’s mouth like a whip. She rose slowly, eyes glinting. “James, we’ll think through it more, because Regulus is right. This is dangerous. And Regulus—you’ll stop being a stubborn little prat and accept at least Sirius’s help. Mine too. We’re family. And Draco is Sirius’s nephew. But James—” She turned to him, voice softer. “You have Harry. And I won’t let another child be pulled into this.”

James opened his mouth, then closed it again at the sheer force of her look. He muttered something under his breath, low and frustrated, and Regulus rolled his eyes at the familiar sound — because of course James Potter was ready to throw himself on the sword for someone else. Stupidly noble. Always so chivalrous it made Regulus want to scream. Who wants to walk willingly into this?

Narcissa wrapped her arms around herself and stood tall with a grace that barely disguised the shake in her limbs. “I have a headache,” she said simply. “I’ll take something and lie down. There’s no point in circling the same fire all night.”

She paused in the doorway. “We have thirty days,” she added. “Let’s use them wisely." No one stopped her. She left barefoot, spine straight, movements elegant — but Regulus caught the tremble in her fingers as they brushed the doorframe on her way out.

“She’s right,” Remus said, rising to his feet. His voice was tired, but kind. “We should head home too, Pads.”

Sirius lingered, still standing near the edge of the room, staring at nothing. When he finally turned to Regulus, his expression was unreadable — and yet, unmistakably full. Regulus knew that face. Had known it since they were small. It was the face Sirius wore when he didn’t have the words but felt too much to stay quiet.

And maybe that was why Regulus’s chest ached so sharply.
But he kept his voice even. “Go, étoile. It’s late.”

Sirius hesitated. He didn’t want to. That much was obvious. And then, gently — not theatrical, not loud, just real — he stepped forward and cupped Regulus’s face with one calloused hand. His thumb brushed along the edge of Regulus’s cheekbone, a memory of comfort in the shape of touch. Then he leaned in, forehead against his brother’s for a second that felt like a small eternity.

“Tu n’es pas seul,” he whispered. “Pas cette fois.” You’re not alone. Not this time.
And Regulus — for once — let his eyes close. Just for a moment.
Sirius stepped back without waiting for a reply. Just squeezed his shoulder, once, and followed Remus out into the dark. The door clicked softly behind him.

And Regulus stayed there, still, the ghost of his brother’s hand warm on his skin.
And just like that, the room emptied. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — not anymore. It was… settling. Like dust.

Regulus shifted slightly, his hand drifting instinctively to rub at the old ache in his knee — not because it hurt, but because it always did when he was tired. The motion was almost unconscious, like smoothing down a scar.

James stood and collected the mugs without a word, his movements soft, almost reverent. Regulus heard the clink of ceramic in the sink, the low rush of water. No noise beyond that. Just the house settling around them.
When James returned, he didn’t speak. He simply leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching Regulus the way you might watch someone walk across a tightrope — cautious, steady, holding his own breath.

“You’re quiet,” Regulus said at last, voice low.

James gave a slow shrug. “I think we’ve hit our drama quota for the evening.”

Regulus huffed, one eyebrow arched. “You? Restraining your mouth? Merlin’s balls. I should call the newspaper.” James gave him a look — but the edge of it was softened by something warm and fond. He crossed the room and sat, this time closer. Their knees didn’t touch, but the space between them was a whisper.
Regulus didn’t move away. A long moment passed.
“Are you angry?” he asked quietly. “That I tried to keep you out of this?”

James didn’t answer at first. Then: “A bit,” he admitted. “But I understand why. And I’ll think about something. And about Harry’s safety. You were right- he comes first. He'll always be my first thought, I can't risk him.” His voice dipped lower and regulus nodded. It was right this way. “But you really weren’t going to tell anyone, were you Reg?”

Regulus looked down at his hands — pale, still, thumb brushing a rough patch of skin. “I didn’t want to drag anyone into it. It was my mess. And the kids… as you say- They always came first. Harry doesn’t deserve any of this.”

“Stop doing that,” James said.

Regulus blinked, looked up. “Doing what?”

“Talking like this was something you planned. Like you earned it. Like you deserve to carry it alone. Like you wanted all of this.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched into a faint, bitter smile. “It’s a habit. A stupid one. You should try it.”

“I do,” James said. “But I’ve never been good at hiding when I’m drowning.”

"That's not true, and you know it. You always put everyone else before yourself so shut up, Mr. Hero." Regulus leaned back against the sofa, head tilted up toward the ceiling like he could disappear into the plaster. “I just- I didn’t want to need anyone.”

“I know.”

“I hate needing you.”

“I know that too.” There was a quiet beat. Then James’s voice, almost gentle: “But I’m glad you did. Even if it was Sirius you went to first.” Regulus didn’t reply. But he didn’t tense either.

When James reached over and nudged his knee — just the lightest brush, a breath of contact — Regulus didn’t pull away. He just exhaled, slow and silent. And then, without looking at him, he let his head tip sideways until it rested lightly on James’s shoulder.

For a long moment, neither moved. The silence between them changed — softened — like a held breath finally let go. James stayed still, solid beside him, a quiet place to lean. And then Regulus spoke, so soft it barely broke the air. “And what about us?” he said. “The kisses?”

James didn’t move.

Regulus swallowed, still looking down. “The ones we didn’t talk about. The ones that happened when I was falling apart, and you were there.” A pause. “I know we should talk. I just… don’t want you to think they were nothing. Or that I was using you to feel something. Anything. You're not nothing but I'm still trying to understand what-” what was going on between them. Because frankly- he didn't know.

"Love- stop-" James’s hand found his. Slowly. Purposefully. His thumb brushed over Regulus’s knuckles — once, then again. “You don’t need to panic,” James murmured. “Not about this. Not about us.” Regulus blinked, but didn’t pull away.
“I know what it was,” James said. “I was there too. You needed something. And maybe I did, too. Maybe it wasn’t perfect or clean or clearly defined — but it was real.”
Regulus closed his eyes. There was a strange kind of comfort in the way James said it — not romantic, not idealistic. Just honest. Gentle.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting someone close,” James added. “There’s no deadline for naming what that means. I know we're- something, alright? We just need a little more time to understand where this 'something' is going to carry us.”
Regulus nodded slowly. Not quite relief, but something that made his chest loosen. Just a little.

“We’ve got a priority list,” James said with a faint smile. “Number one: ruin Riddle’s life.” Regulus let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.
“Number two,” James continued, “kick Lucius so far into the void that he becomes someone else’s problem. Number three—make sure you and Sirius stop talking like you’re starring in some doomed French tragedy.”

Regulus gave a tired, crooked smirk. “We were born for tragedy.”

“Then let’s rewrite the ending,” James murmured. And then — softer, more serious — “After all that? Comes me. Us.”

That made Regulus turn. Just slightly. Just enough to see him.
“I’m sorry you’re last,” he whispered. "I don't want you to be."

James frowned, almost confused. “What?”

Regulus raised a hand and, gently, cupped James’s jaw. His fingers were tentative, trembling slightly. “You shouldn’t be last,” he said. "You matter to me- hell probably you're the only thing that's keeping me alive right now a part from Draco."
James looked at him with a gleam in his eyes and a little smile on his mouth. He stroked his cheek with his hand and Regulus closed his eyes at the touch.

Then — carefully, without rush — James leaned in.

The kiss was light. Thoughtful. Barely there, but full of intention. When he pulled back, he didn’t move far. His hand remained, his fingers now at James’s cheek, and he let their foreheads rest together.

James didn’t speak. He just nodded, like he understood something that even Regulus himself didn't. One slow, certain motion. And Regulus felt it like a promise.
They stayed like that — still, and quiet — until the air between them steadied. Until the only sound was their breath and the house around them exhaling at last.

Then James leaned back, just enough to look at him properly. His thumb brushed once more over Regulus’s hand, and he smiled.
“Thanks Reg. You matter to me too. We’ll handle the mess,” he said softly. “And then we’ll figure out us. No rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, Regulus didn’t flinch from the tenderness. He let it in.

Chapter Text

He ran.

Barefoot, breathless, blind — he ran.

Each inhale tore through his throat like barbed wire, each exhale a broken sob that barely reached the air. The world around him shifted with every step: stone turned to mud, mud to glass, glass to fire. The air was thick — choking, cloying, burning — as though the world itself had forgotten how to be breathable.

His feet hit something sharp. He didn’t stop. Somewhere behind him — or maybe ahead — there were voices. Not calling to him. Screaming. Shattering.
A child’s voice. High. Thin. Soaked in tears. “Dad! Dad! Where are you?! Dad—please—”

Draco.

His heart slammed against his ribs. “I’m here!” he screamed. “Draco, I’m here! Where are you?!” The hallway stretched endlessly in every direction. Every door led nowhere. Every turn twisted back into itself.

“Daddy, please—I’m scared! It’s dark—Daddy, I can’t see—”

Regulus turned frantically, stumbling into a corridor that hadn’t been there a moment before. The walls were mirrors now — dozens of them, floor to ceiling, every one reflecting his face. His own face.

Except— The reflections didn’t move with him. They stood still, their eyes hollowed out, their mouths twisted in grief or disgust or both. One bled from the eyes. One had rope burns around his neck. One had no mouth at all.

And then— They all moved at once. Each version of himself raising a hand, revealing strings — tangled, red, slick — attached to their wrists like marionettes.
“Look at you,” they hissed in chorus. Their voices layered, overlapping, distorted like a warped tape. “Do you like what you’ve become?”

A dozen puppets. A dozen monsters. “A servant. A coward. A ghost.”

Regulus backed away, shaking his head. “No. No, I—”

Their laughter rose like thunder. And then they shattered. All at once. The mirrors burst inward, shards flying, and he screamed as glass bit into his skin—
and then he was running again.

Running.

Running.

There was no end. Only corners and doorways and blood.

Then— Another voice.

Gentler. Quieter. Like an old song.

“Reggie-” He turned.

Sirius.

Sirius, slumped against the wall, blood pouring from his mouth, soaking into the front of his shirt like spilled ink. His throat was torn open — ragged, brutal. And he was trying to speak. Trying to breathe. Trying to move. His fingers scraped across the ground, nails peeling back, trying to write something in the dust—

YOU LET ME DIE.

“No,” Regulus whispered. “No—no—no, I didn’t—Sirius—”
He dropped to his knees, hands reaching, shaking, desperate to touch, to hold, to rewind time with his fingers—

But Sirius flickered.

Like a film reel slipping from its track. The light of him blinking out. The blood dissolving into smoke. Gone.
“No—please—” Regulus cried, voice cracking. “I didn’t leave you—Sirius—I didn’t know—”

The floor split beneath him.

The world collapsed.

And now he was home.

The Black family home.

Except—it was burning.

Every room engulfed. Flames bursting from picture frames. Smoke curling through the silk wallpaper. Ash snowing down in gentle, deadly flakes.
The portrait of Walburga shrieked from the wall, her voice distorted like an old radio played too loud, cracking with static and hate:

“THIS IS YOUR LEGACY—”

He stumbled forward, lungs heaving, eyes raw from smoke and salt. His feet burned on scorched tile, his skin too tight, too thin, every breath a blade. He turned a corner— And the parlour was there.

Wrong. Twisted. The velvet curtains were dripping red. The chandelier hung low, snapped at one chain, swaying like a noose.

And in the centre of it all — Narcissa.
On her knees before a cradle burned black, hands bloodied up to the elbows, face pale and empty, like the life had been scraped out from behind her eyes.
She didn’t look at him. “I should’ve stayed dead,” she said. Her voice was too calm. “I did. Inside. Thanks to you.”

Regulus froze. “No—” His voice caught, cracked. “Don’t—don’t say that, please—”

“It’s always your fault, Regulus.” She turned her head slowly, and her eyes were hollow, charred. “Always has been.”

“Stop—” he begged, but the fire didn’t. It climbed the walls like ivy. It swallowed the floor, step by step. It reached up with long, orange fingers — hot, hungry.

And then — It spoke. “Regulus.” Not a whisper. Not a scream. A summons. The air folded. The house cracked. And he turned.

James stood at the end of the corridor. Smoke curled behind him like wings.
His clothes were shredded. His arms were full — cradling Harry’s small, still body, limp and ashen. But it was James’s face that shattered Regulus: not angry. Not afraid.

Empty. “Why didn’t you save us?” James asked. Regulus shook his head. His body wouldn’t work. His legs were ice. His throat was sealed shut.
“Why didn’t you give yourself to Riddle?” James stepped forward. “Why us, Regulus? What did you do?”

“I—I didn’t know—” Regulus stammered. “I tried, I swear—”

“Why do you always wait until it’s too late?” James’s voice broke. Not in anger. In grief. And behind him—

Riddle. Crisp. Calm. Clean. Black suit. Black gloves. The fire didn’t touch him. It bowed around him, parted for him like loyal dogs. He smiled.
“Well,” Riddle said, as if introducing a guest at a dinner party. “Here he is. Our tragic little star.”

“No—” Regulus took a step back. “No, I’m not—this isn’t—”

“You chose this,” Riddle said. His tone was almost kind. “You were always going to choose this.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean anything,” Riddle said, stepping forward, boots silent on ash. “You only react. Like a dog. Like a broken thing. Like a puppet on tangled strings.”
He reached out. The cradle in the parlour turned to cinders. The walls cracked down the middle. James began to flicker, like a dying candle. Harry vanished in his arms like breath on glass.
“You ruin everything you touch,” Riddle whispered.

Regulus staggered, choking on smoke and grief.

“Now everyone is gone. Everything is lost.”

Riddle raised his hand.

And the world — Shattered.

Darkness. Cold. And then—light.

Not warm. White.

Sterile. Blinding. Regulus found himself standing in a room with no walls—only vast, gleaming marble and echoing silence. The air smelled of antiseptic. It felt artificial, unreal. A chamber of judgment.
He was dressed in black—his uniform. High collar, gloves firm around his hands, shoes so polished they reflected the ceiling. He stood utterly still.

In front of him was a stage. On the stage stood a single chair.

In the chair—himself.

No. Not him. A version. A puppet. A perfect doll. Head bowed, shoulders rigid.

The lights came up. People burst into applause.

Riddle stepped forward from the shadows and placed a gloved hand on the puppet-Regulus’s head. He murmured, quiet and precise:
“My finest acquisition. My lapdog.” The puppet smiled. It was not Regulus’s smile. It was brittle, practiced, empty. The applause swelled—too loud for such a small room. Too mechanical. Too deliberate.

Regulus struggled inside his own skin. He wasn’t allowed to move. He longed to flee. His thigh jerked with tension. His jaw clenched. But something beneath his flesh—a sick, malignant control—held him frozen.

Riddle circled him exactly, like an art critic inspecting a masterpiece with surgical precision. “Look at him,” he cooed to the invisible auditorium. “Perfectly obedient. Elegantly contained.”

The audience laughed softly, voices polite, but hungry.

A woman’s voice- “He doesn’t even blink.”

A man’s- “Can he speak?”

Riddle smiled wider. “Let’s see, shall we?”

He turned to Regulus. “Speak.”
Regulus’s throat raw, he opened his mouth. Nothing came. Only choking silence.
Riddle leaned in. His gloved fingers lifted Regulus’s chin. The touch was gentle. Efficient. Frigid. “Try again.”

Air trembled in Regulus’s lungs. He whispered- “I…”

Voice fragile as cracked glass. “I… serve…”

“Louder, darling.”

Shame flooded him. But the words found their way through clenched teeth. “I serve you.” A brutal crease of bone. The applause returned—cruel, overwhelming.

Riddle nodded. “Isn’t he charming?”

He made a gesture. And Regulus moved.
He moved like a marionette — limbs poised, spine impeccably straight. Head tilted in practiced elegance. A performance of precision.
Inside, Regulus’s lungs burned. He felt a scream clawing at his ribs. He could sense the red-hot howl behind his eyes—but it remained locked within.

He bowed at the waist.

To them.

To Riddle.

The invisible crowd murmured deeper, feeding on control.
“He’s so beautiful,” someone said.

“I want one,” whispered another.

Riddle laughed softly. “This one is one of a kind.” He clapped, measured and cold.
Regulus’s mirrored twin rose from the chair—with mechanical grace. It glided forward.
When the puppet reached Regulus, it smiled. The same twist. The same hollow emptiness. It lifted a hand, pale and precise, and touched Regulus’s cheek.
It whispered in a voice not his own, but eerily familiar:
“You should’ve given up sooner. You were always going to end here.”

The words stung. A lash of truth laid bare. Regulus shook his head. Thought of pushing away. But there was no strength. No will. The doll leaned in. Pressing cold lips to his forehead. The contact was hollow—an echo of comfort turned nausea.

He felt nothing.

Riddle appeared next to him again, voice soft but venomous:
“Why struggle? You look so much better like this.”
He pressed something cold against Regulus’s chest—a silver pin, slim and wickedly sharp. It drove through fabric. Through skin. Wove into bone.

Blood blossomed instantly, dark and bright against black cloth.

And Regulus smiled.

Because his body no longer belonged to him.
Because his soul felt too heavy to carry.
Behind them, high inlaid gold shone on the white marble ceiling:

PROPERTY OF RIDDLE

And below, etched with astonishing finality:

LAPDOG NO.

His limbs obeyed like marionette strings had been pulled from inside his spine. He stepped forward. Knelt.
Riddle placed a hand on his head. Rested it there.
“You see,” he said to the room, “when people are broken properly, they stop trying to escape.” Laughter again. A different voice now — deep, smooth, familiar.

Lucius.

“He always was so delicate. It didn’t take much.”

“Don’t speak of him like that,” Regulus whispered. Or thought he did. He wasn’t sure if the words left his mouth.

Riddle bent down. His voice was silk. Deadly. “Good boys don’t correct their masters.”
Then, without changing his tone- “Smile for them, pet.”

Regulus smiled.

He didn’t want to.

He did anyway.

More clapping.

A bell rang somewhere. A door opened behind him.From it emerged Narcissa — hands chained. Then Sirius — covered in soot, eyes hollow. Then James, dragging something behind him — a broken violin, or maybe a child.

Riddle stood tall, hands behind his back. “You may entertain us now,” he said. “Dance.” Regulus rose. His legs moved before his heart. He turned in place, a half-circle. Raised his arms. And began.

The worst part wasn’t the obedience.

The worst part was that he danced well.

Because he still remembered how.

And the people clapped harder.

And harder.

And harder—

And harder-

“Papà?” The voice was small. Fragile. But to Regulus, it crashed through the room like thunder. A single word, sharp as glass. "Dad! Dad! Dad come on!"

He woke choking.

His scream was still ripping through his throat when he opened his eyes — a raw, animal sound, echoing against the walls. His whole body convulsed, twisting in soaked sheets, limbs tangled, chest heaving like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The fire was still there, wasn’t it? The white room? The puppet, the blood, Riddle—
He gasped. Clawed at his chest. Pulled at his own shirt like something was still inside him. His mouth opened on another cry, high and shuddering—

And then again- “Papà?”

He turned violently, eyes wide and unfocused — and saw Draco scrambling away from him, clutching his stuffed rabbit so tight the fabric twisted in his fists.
The child’s face was white with panic. His lips trembled. His cheeks were already wet with tears.

“Papà, what’s wrong?!” he cried, voice cracking, trying to push himself into the corner of the bed. “Why are you screaming?! What’s happening?!”
His small hands scrabbled at the covers, trying to make himself smaller, safer. But there was nowhere to go. The walls were too close. The shadows were too deep.

Regulus reached for him instinctively, breath still jagged, hands shaking.
“Draco—no, it’s okay, I—I didn’t mean to—”

But the boy recoiled. “Don’t!” he cried out. “Don’t touch me! Why are you crying? Why are you doing this!?” The words sliced deeper than any knife.
“I—I tried to wake you up,” Draco sobbed, his voice shrill with fear, “You were shaking and screaming and I was calling you and you wouldn’t stop—!”

“I’m awake now,” Regulus rasped. His throat burned. His pulse pounded in his ears. “I’m here, love. I’m here—”

But Draco was sobbing now, full-bodied and choking, rocking slightly on his knees, eyes too wide for a five-year-old.
“I thought you were dying, I thought you were gone, you wouldn’t wake up—!”
Regulus dragged himself upright. Slowly. Like rising from a grave. His limbs felt like stone, his skin damp and ice-cold.

And when he reached out again, slower this time, softer—

Draco still flinched.

That was the moment the horror truly landed.

He’s not crying because he scared him.
He’s crying because he was gone.
Because Regulus left. Because even asleep—he left him alone.

“Draco,” he whispered, hoarse and broken, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The boy didn’t answer. Just trembled. His small chest hiccupped with every breath.

Regulus swallowed a sob.

The room felt like it was collapsing around him — too many shadows, too much silence, too much guilt. The nightmare hadn’t ended. Not really. Not when this was what he’d woken up to. He reached again, this time lowering his head, curling forward, as if in surrender. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “I’m back. I promise. I didn’t go anywhere. I'm okay. I'm really okay, thanks to you.”

It wasn’t enough.

It couldn’t be.

Because Draco had seen something no child should ever see — his protector, his constant, turned into something wild and helpless and frightening. And he was too young to understand it wasn’t him. That the monster wasn’t real.

And that Regulus had spent too long carrying monsters in his sleep.
And then—

“Regulus?!” The door slammed open. Narcissa rushed in — hair unpinned, robe clutched around her like armor, barefoot, breathless.
She stopped cold at the sight: Draco on the bed, curled in on himself and sobbing so hard he couldn’t breathe; Regulus on the floor, kneeling, shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, pale as bone, shaking like something had torn straight through him.
“What happened?!” she gasped, crossing the room in two strides.

“Cissa—” Draco hiccupped, reaching blindly toward her.

She swept him into her arms at once, cradling him against her chest, rocking instinctively. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Shhh, shhh, you’re safe. It’s alright now.” Draco buried his face in her shoulder, still sobbing, still hiccuping, still clinging like he thought she might vanish too.

Regulus slumped back against the wall, his head knocking lightly against the plaster. He was trembling all over. His eyes were wild and red-rimmed. His lips hung slightly open, like breathing had become a conscious act.
Narcissa looked at him over Draco’s curls, her voice quieter now, steadier. “You were screaming,” she said. “Like something was tearing you in half.”

Regulus shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at either of them. His voice cracked in his throat, fragile as glass.

“I dreamed I lost him,” he whispered. Just that. Five words, barely sound. There was a beat — a silence that felt too still, too suspended — and then came the rest, unraveling in pieces he couldn’t hold together- “I dreamed I served Riddle. Like a dog. I—he—” His breath faltered. “He told me to smile. And I did. I smiled, and I smiled and I smiled and- I smiled while everyone—” His throat closed. “—while everyone died.”

The air in the room dropped, cold and sharp.

His hands were trembling so hard now it made his shoulders shake, and there was something terrifying in the way he curled in on himself — not just grief, but horror. Like he didn’t know where his body ended anymore. Like he didn’t want to be inside it.

He was scared. But he was also scary — because there was nothing left between his voice and the dark. No shield. No dignity.
Draco buried himself against Narcissa’s collarbone again, frightened by the shaking, the broken voice, the way his uncle didn’t sound like him anymore.

Narcissa pressed the child close, one hand gently covering his head, murmuring low:
“It wasn’t real,” she said, soothing. “Not real, Reg. A nightmare. Just a nightmare. He’s here, you’re here. It’s over. You’re awake.”

Regulus didn’t seem to hear her.

His mouth was still moving, but no sound came out. He kept shaking his head, over and over, barely moving but clearly denying something — the dream, the guilt, the fear — and his whole frame looked like it was about to come apart.
“Reg,” she said again, a little firmer now. “Look at me.” No response.

So she reached forward, still cradling Draco in one arm, and caught one of Regulus’s trembling hands in her own. Cold. Sweat-slicked. Tense as wire.

She held it. She didn’t let go. “Come here, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Come on. It’s alright.” Slowly, she guided him forward — gently but without hesitation — until his forehead touched her shoulder.

And then he collapsed.

Not fully. Not loudly. But the way he leaned into her, the way his face pressed into the hollow of her collarbone — it was a kind of surrender that only came when someone forgot how to hold themselves up.
She shifted to wrap both arms around him — as much as she could with Draco still curled against her — and rocked them both.

Like they were children. Like they were hers. Because in that moment, they were.

“I know,” he whispered, cracking open. “But it felt like the truth.”
Draco stirred then. Still trembling, still buried against her — but one hand reached out blindly, searching.

For him.

Regulus looked down, breath catching. He reached too. Their hands met in the middle — small fingers clinging to his, as if even in the terror, Draco knew him.

He held on. Tight.

The room was dim and hushed, thick with the kind of silence that follows only after something has been torn apart.
The kind of silence you don’t trust yet.

Regulus still trembled faintly beneath the sweat-damp shirt clinging to his back. The sheets were half-kicked away, his legs tangled, muscles stiff from the panic that had surged through him only minutes before.

But Draco was there.

Curled tightly into his chest, arms locked around his middle, breath still shaky with the remnants of crying. He hadn’t let go since the moment Regulus had reached for him, and now he was pressed in close, forehead tucked against his neck, murmuring every so often in a broken whisper- “Papa, Papa, I’m here… I’m here…”

Regulus tightened his hold in response, one hand splayed across Draco’s small back, the other cradling the back of his head like something precious and breakable. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The weight in his throat was too thick, the heat behind his eyes too raw.

Draco sniffled softly and shifted, tucking a foot under Regulus’s thigh, making himself smaller, more attached. “Dad… don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to,” Regulus whispered, voice hoarse and barely more than breath.

“You scared me.”

“I scared myself,” he admitted. Draco didn’t respond this time. Just held on tighter. His small hands were curled into the fabric of Regulus’s shirt, his cheek sticky from dried tears. They lay there like that for a long time. Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

"Alright-" Narcissa looked at the two of them — at him, pale and shivering, wrapped around the child who had replaced his heart — and spoke low-
“We’ll need to start getting things together tomorrow.”

Regulus didn’t lift his head. He just nodded, slowly, where he lay. “I know.”
It was time to go home. The real one.

She lingered a moment longer. Then, with a breath. “You should try to sleep a little more.”

“I will,” he murmured. "I'm sorry. I woke you up."

"Don't even try" She knew. She simply nodded once, and slipped away into the hallway like a shadow folding back into the dark. "Everything is crushing you, honey." Regulus nodded closing his eyes. Yeah. Everything was going down.

Draco stirred again in his arms, shifting up enough to press a warm cheek against Regulus’s. “Don’t leave,” he mumbled.

“I’m not going anywhere, kiddo” Regulus said.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” The words sat between them, warm and fragile.
And Regulus, eyes stinging, said, “I know.”
And held him through the rest of the night, as the storm finally passed.

Morning came grey. Not the clean light of peace, but the dull, metallic hue of exhaustion. Regulus blinked awake slowly. The room was still dim, but the weight in the air had shifted. Lighter now. Or at least… less heavy. The sheets clung to his skin, cold with sweat, and his limbs felt like they’d been pinned under stone.

Draco was curled up beside him, small body breathing evenly, rabbit tucked beneath his chin. His face was still blotched from crying — but peaceful now. Safe.

Regulus slid out of bed without waking him.

He moved on instinct. Quiet. Mechanical. Feet bare against the hallway floor, he padded to the kitchen, fingers brushing the wall once to keep his balance. The ache in his knee had returned — dull and steady, like it had burrowed into the bone during the night and made a home there.

He didn’t turn on the main light. Just the under-cabinet lamp over the stove, casting the kitchen in a low yellow glow.

The silence was strange.

Not soothing. Not hostile.

Just fragile.

He filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and leaned against the counter, arms crossed tightly over his chest as the flame whispered beneath the metal. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t really looking at anything.

The dream was still with him.

Flickers of it clung like soot to the inside of his mind — the fire, the voices, the laughter. The way his name had been spoken like a leash. The feel of not having a voice. Of watching everyone he loved die while he smiled like a puppet.

His breath caught. His jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his hair. It came away damp. The kettle hadn’t even begun to hum when a shape appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Regulus jumped.

His hand snapped to the edge of the counter like a lifeline, eyes wide, breath caught mid-inhale— It was James. Standing there. Silent. Barefoot. In a loose t-shirt and joggers. Hair unbrushed, face still soft with sleep.

He didn’t speak.

And for a moment — a long, uncertain beat — neither did Regulus.

The kitchen felt small. Like they’d been dropped into it from too great a height. Like the ground might still be shifting underfoot.
Then Regulus exhaled. Quietly. Sat down at the table with both hands wrapped around an empty mug.

James stepped further in. Slowly. Like approaching a skittish animal.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice low.

Regulus didn’t look up. “You didn’t.” A pause. Then, with less conviction- “Not really.”

The kettle began to hiss, slowly, and James moved to silence it before the whistle could rise. He poured water into the French press without asking, added coffee, stirred. All his movements were gentle. Practiced. Like he’d done this a thousand times in kitchens that didn’t belong to him.

Regulus didn’t say anything. Just watched the shadows under his eyes.

James glanced over his shoulder. “Rough night?”

Regulus snorted. Soft. Humorless. “I screamed so loud I nearly gave Draco a heart attack.”

James hesitated, then reached for another mug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Regulus didn’t answer. His fingers tapped once against the rim of the cup, like weighing the question in Morse code. Finally, very quietly- “Not yet. Or not again. I don't feel like it.”

James nodded once, respectful. Poured the coffee. Pushed one mug across the table. Sat. And for a while — there was only silence. Steam curled between them. The quiet kind of morning where the sun stayed hidden and the world didn’t ask anything of you just yet.

Regulus looked down at the mug, then up at James.
And for the first time that day, he exhaled without shaking.
The coffee helped. Not because it was strong — Regulus had forgotten to grind it properly, and it tasted like bitter water — but because it was warm. Because it anchored his hands. Because James was still there.

They sat in the kitchen in silence for a while, the kind of stillness that didn’t ask to be broken. James stretched eventually, spine cracking, and reached for the sugar bowl. “We’re out of milk. Again.”

Regulus grunted. “I know.”

“I’ll go later. Want anything? Need anything? Tomorrow you're going back, maybe you need something for the house.”

Regulus shrugged. “Whatever’s cheap.”

James gave him a pointed look. “Helpful, thank you.”

“You asked.”

James shook his head, half-smiling, and stirred his coffee in lazy circles. “You always like it this bitter?”

“I stopped caring what it tasted like years ago.” Regulus took another sip, face impassive. "But no- I mean- it came out wrong this morning sorry-"

“That explains so much.”

Regulus huffed — not quite a laugh, but close enough.
They fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that came after too many hard conversations. They’d said too much the night before, and not enough. But there was no urgency now. Just steam and shadows and the slow hum of a house that hadn’t quite woken up.

James cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to take Harry to Lily’s today.”

Regulus nodded. “Right.”

James turned the mug between his palms. “I was thinking… I could ask her about everything.” Regulus didn’t look up. James kept going. “The legal side. The company. The papers Lucius signed — if there’s anything shady. If Riddle ever left a trail. Anything she can dig up.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened. “And what, exactly, would she do with that?”

“She’s brilliant,” James said simply. “And terrifying. If something’s off, she’ll find it.”

“No.” Regulus looked at him then, eyes sharp but tired. “She has a life. A child. A job. And Riddle isn’t just some tax evader — he’s dangerous. This isn’t something you just research in your free time.”

James held his gaze. “I wasn’t going to tell her. Not everything. Not at first. I’d ask if she’d look into it, give her the basics — and the risk. If she said no, I’d drop it. But if she said yes—” He paused. Let it sit between them.
“If she said yes, then we’d have someone brilliant on our side.”

Regulus looked down at his mug. His hands were steady now, but his chest felt tight again. “She won’t say no,” he said eventually. “Not to you. And you know that.”

“That’s her choice, not yours,” James said gently. “You’ve been choosing for everyone, Reg. Protecting people from things they might’ve been willing to face.”
Regulus didn’t speak. James leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let me ask her. Just ask. That’s all I’m saying.”

Regulus exhaled. The kind that sounded like surrender. “Fine.” A pause. “Ask her if this makes you feel better.” James gave a small nod. Not triumphant — just grateful. He reached for the sugar again and stirred his cup once more.

James had gone quiet again. Stirring a coffee that had long gone cold. His fingers tapped against the ceramic like they were waiting for permission to speak.
Regulus noticed it, of course. The fidgeting. The way James didn’t quite meet his eyes. It was rare, to see him like this — hesitant. James Potter wasn’t hesitant. He was brash, blunt, stupidly brave. But now—

“You’re brooding,” Regulus said, setting his mug down.

James blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are. You only stare at your cup like that when you’re trying to talk yourself out of something.”

James sighed through his nose. “It’s nothing.” Regulus raised an eyebrow.
“I mean—” James shifted in his seat. “I had this thought, just now. Stupid, really. Doesn’t matter.”

Regulus leaned forward a little. “You do realize you’re speaking to the king of stupid ideas?” That got the smallest smile. But James still hesitated.

“I just—” he scratched the back of his neck. “Sunday morning- for Remus- you know- His birthday I mean. Just brunch, decorations, whatever. Sirius will forget everything, obviously, so I thought… maybe I’d try to make it nice. With you.”
Regulus tilted his head, watching him.
“I was going to ask if you’d help. Only for a few hours. Nothing big. But it’s Sunday, and you’re probably taking on extra shifts, and you have a lot of issues right now, and it’s not important—so. Never mind. I told you it was silly.”

There was a silence. Sharp and clean. And then- “Don’t do that,” Regulus said quietly.

James blinked. “Do what?”

“Treat it like asking for something soft makes you an idiot.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did. You just called something sweet stupid. Because you were scared I’d say no.” Regulus stood slowly, walked to him with quiet steps.
“But I didn’t.” Yes, Regulus planned his Sunday, yes he was going to ask for a few more shifts, yes he was tight with everything, but this was James.
And James was asking him.
And maybe he could take off one damn morning to pass it with James, helping him for Remus' birthday. And more importantly he didn't want to make James feel as he has to walk on eggshells around him. He wanted normality. And he wanted that with James.

James looked up at him, uncertain. And Regulus… leaned down. Took James’s face in his hands, gentle and firm, like he meant to hold the thought in place. His thumbs brushed against the hinge of his jaw.
“You’re not stupid,” he said softly. “And asking me to help with something kind isn’t stupid. It’s beautiful. It’s so you, it makes my chest hurt.”

James’s hands came up instinctively, resting at Regulus’s waist — not pulling him closer, not yet, just… being there. Grounding.
And Regulus felt it. The warmth. The steady, sun-drenched hum of James that filled the coldest corners of him without even trying. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed that.
“James,” he whispered, “you’ve been nothing but steady. Kind. Brave. And maybe just a little annoying.”

James huffed, smiling.

Regulus pressed his forehead to his. “But you’re mine. And yes- maybe you're stupid most of the times, when you try to get yourself in situations that don't regard you, when you put yourself in danger, but you do everything you can for the people you love. And I lo- appreciate this version of you. And you asked me.” The momentary panic that Regulus felt when he was almost confessing to James that he loved him, disappeared when he looked in his eyes. Everything stoped for a second, even his breathing.

James’s fingers gripped his hips gently. Regulus tilted his head, his nose brushing along James’s cheek, and then — like the world had always been building to this quiet, ordinary miracle — he kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was slow. Sure. A blooming thing.

James kissed him back like he was scared to break the moment — like he was grateful for it. His hands moved up to Regulus’s back, warm and wide and grounding.
And Regulus let himself feel it. Let the heat wash through him. The shaking in his bones faded. The last trace of the nightmare dissolved. Because this — this was real.

James was real.

When they pulled apart, it was barely an inch.

James’s voice was low — reverent, almost breathless.
“So… is that a yes?”

Regulus let out a quiet sound that could’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so shaky.
He leaned in just a little, eyes still half-lidded, dazed from how fast everything had shifted — from darkness to this.

“It’s a yes, you absolute idiot,” he murmured, voice hoarse from everything it had been holding back.

James smiled. Wide and boyish and golden — that stupidly bright grin that could melt through concrete, and Regulus felt it in his ribs, in his knees, in the exhausted warmth curling at the base of his spine.

And for the first time in what felt like years,
Regulus smiled too.

Not forced. Not polite. Not guarded.
Just… real.

James didn’t move away.
His hands were still resting at Regulus’s waist — thumbs pressing gently at the edge of his sweater, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to let go.

His breath ghosted against Regulus’s cheek, and his voice came quiet, so quiet, like he didn’t want to scare the moment.

“I—can I kiss you again?” A pause. “I don’t know why I’m asking. I just… I’ve never felt this clear. Like someone actually wants me to feel things.”

Regulus blinked.

Something inside him cracked — gentle, not painful. Like a thaw.
He let out a soft, worn sound, somewhere between a sigh and a breathless laugh, and lifted both hands slowly, deliberately, to cup James’s face. His thumbs brushed lightly against the sharp lines of James’s cheekbones, and his fingers curled behind the ears, trembling slightly — he hadn’t realized how much.

“Yes,” he whispered. Then again, firmer. “Yes. Yes, James.”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He said it against James’s mouth instead, already leaning in, already there.

Because how could he say no?

Not with those eyes, that steady touch — grounding and unafraid.
Not with the way James had shown up. Again. And again.
Not with the way his presence had become a warmth that made the rest of the world less unbearable.

James kissed him again.
Slower this time. But deeper. More sure. More present.

Like he’d been waiting for it — not just wanting it, but holding space for it.
Like it meant something.

Regulus let himself feel it.
The press of James’s hands — firm, solid — sliding up from his hips to rest at the small of his back. The exhale James gave, low and content. The soft pressure of his mouth — not demanding, not rushed.

Just there.

Regulus’s fingers slid into his curls, thumb brushing just behind James’s ear, and for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like he was about to fall apart.

And then—

“OH. MY. GOD.”

The door slammed open with all the subtlety of an explosion.
Regulus and James tore apart instantly, like guilty schoolboys caught kissing in the broom closet.

Sirius Black stood in the doorway. Staring.

A paper bag dangling limply from one hand, his eyebrows so high they could’ve written their own operatic score.
“I leave you alone for one morning—one!—and this happens?” he said, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell did I just walk into? Is this some kind of emotional sex?”
Neither of them answered. James’s ears were turning pink. Regulus looked like he wanted the kitchen floor to swallow him whole.
Sirius blinked. Then raised the croissant bag. “I brought breakfast.” A pause. “Didn’t realize you were already having each other.”

James groaned. Regulus closed his eyes and muttered, “I’m going to strangle you with your own belt.”

“Not before I finish my pastry,” Sirius said cheerfully, sauntering in like he hadn’t just detonated a nuclear moment. Sirius took a dramatic bite of his croissant and looked between them. “So. Do we address the broom closet in the room, or do I just let the sexual tension suffocate me slowly?”

Regulus didn’t blink. “Please. You wouldn’t know tension if it hit you with a brick.”

James choked. Sirius grinned. “There it is,” Sirius said. “That Black family charm. I missed it so much.”

“You lived with me, you should be acquainted with it” Regulus replied flatly, brushing past him to grab a glass of water.

“Right, and yet somehow I still manage to be surprised when I find you making out with my best friend in the kitchen like this is some bloody rom-com—”

“Oh, please,” Regulus said, deadpan. “If this were a rom-com, I’d be in a Parisian bookstore wearing glasses I don’t need, and James would be a firefighter with a tragic backstory.”

James raised a hand. “I’m okay being a firefighter.”
Sirius snorted. Regulus drank his water like it was vodka, then leaned against the counter, arms folded. Cool. Collected. Unbothered.

At least on the surface. Because underneath, his stomach was twisting. His jaw was tense. He didn’t look at Sirius again right away, afraid of what he might find in his expression. Something disapproving. Something real.
Eventually, he spoke — more quietly, less sharp. “You’re not… upset?”

Sirius blinked. “Why would I be?”

Regulus hesitated. “Because it’s James. And I’m me. And we didn’t… say anything. I know you must be upset. James is your person.”

Sirius tilted his head, like he was actually considering it. Then: “Reg, I’ve known since the first time you two had a conversation that lasted longer than ten seconds and didn’t involve a curse word. I've seen it coming from miles. Remus talked me through it. So no- I'm not mad.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, but it’s the truth.”

Regulus frowned slightly. “I just… I don’t want this to come between anything. I know we didn’t talk about it, and I wasn’t sure—if you’d feel weird. Or—”

“Hey,” Sirius said, more gently now. “Why would I be upset that two people I love want to make each other slightly less miserable? And James is the perfect person for you, you're so convinced about having to do everything alone and James shows his affection by helping others, what's more fitting?”

James, still lingering near the kitchen island, tried to speak through a mouthful of croissant. “There are,” he said, swallowing, “several stages of Sirius Black concern.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Sirius muttered.

James smiled. “Stage one is Immediate Panic. Stage two is Dramatic Confrontation. Stage three is Passive-Aggressive Silences. Stage four is Bargaining With the Universe. And stage five—” He pointed at Sirius. “Is this. Croissants and judgment, sexual jokes.”

Regulus arched a brow. “So we’re safe?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Look. I’m technically not thrilled.” Regulus stiffened. But Sirius went on. “Because, yes, you’re both emotionally constipated and prone to martyrdom. But you’re also clearly obsessed with each other as my Moons always tell me. So what's wrong with that?”

James nodded, jaw working as if he had to chew through the words before he could let them out. “I wanted you to know, Pads. We weren’t keeping it a secret, Sirius. Just… figuring it out. There is something—” His eyes flicked sideways to Regulus, warm but nervous. “I mean, Regulus has a lot of problems right now, and I don’t want to— er—pressure him. So we’re… we’re going with the flow? I guess? I know it’s messy, but there’s already too much on our plate.”

Regulus grimaced, guilt cutting through the warmth of James’ words. He hated being that complicated, hated that his life was such a bloody nightmare that even James — James, who loved with the force of a sun, who wore his feelings like a banner for the whole world — had to hedge and soften and make excuses.

Sirius looked at both of them in silence for a moment, weighing, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. You’re right—” He jabbed a finger at them, voice firm even as his mouth twitched. “But if either of you makes the other cry, I’m invoking my right as brother and best friend to hex your kneecaps.”

Regulus raised his glass, a dry smile tugging at his mouth. “Fair.”

James grinned, relief breaking across his face. “Also fair.”

“Good.” Sirius leaned back against the counter, smugness restored, though his eyes still softened when they fell on Regulus. “Now someone give me coffee. I walked in on my brother’s actual love life, and frankly, I deserve caffeine. And therapy. Possibly in that order.”

James laughed, the sound breaking the last of the tension. Regulus ducked his head, hiding the ghost of a smile against the rim of his glass, but not fast enough to keep either of them from noticing.

The bar was loud — not with music or voices, but with fluorescent lights that buzzed like headaches and a tap that kept dripping no matter how many times Regulus tightened it. The kind of noise that clung to your spine and made everything feel just slightly off.

He was on his third round of glass polishing, shoulders sore, mind drifting, when Mulciber barged out of the storeroom. Coat still on. Mouth already twisted like he’d swallowed something sour. “Oi. Black.”

Regulus didn’t even flinch. Didn’t sigh. Just straightened his back slowly, the damp cloth still in his hand. His fingers ached. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
“What now?”

Mulciber slapped a crumpled inventory sheet down on the counter with theatrical disdain. “Did you clock the stock from last night?”

Regulus frowned, taking in the mess of barely legible notes. “No,” he said carefully. “I wasn’t here for close. Sophie handled the restock. I left before the delivery.”

“Well, Sophie’s out sick,” Mulciber snapped, tone already accusatory, “and someone forgot to sign off on the late keg drop. The brewery’s claiming they left four cases. We’ve got three.”

Regulus stared. “Right. And that has what, exactly, to do with me?”

Mulciber leaned in slightly, eyes sharp. “You’re the supervisor on file for last night’s shift.”

“I didn’t work the shift, I wasn't even here for God's sake!” Regulus replied, voice rising slightly despite himself. “You want me to account for something that happened when I wasn’t even in the bloody building?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mulciber said coldly. “Paperwork says you were the last person to touch the log. Brewery’s pissed. Management’s more pissed. So—congrats. It’s your fuck-up.”

Regulus blinked, once. Twice. “You’re joking. You must be.”

Mulciber tilted his head. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You must be joking. You’re telling me—seriously—that I’m getting blamed for something I didn’t even see happen? That I physically could not have done?”

“You’re getting docked half a shift’s pay. Effective immediately.” Mulciber’s smile was tight. “Management’s words, not mine. Or well— I guess I decided it, but it’s for my business’ sake, you know?”

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the back like he hadn’t just knocked the breath out of someone.

Regulus didn’t move.

Not for a second. Not for five.

Then the glass in his hand trembled. He didn’t even realize how hard he was gripping it until his fingers gave way. It slipped. Fell into the sink with a dull, hollow thud. He stared at it. Like if he looked long enough, it might explain something.

Of course.
Of course.

Of course this morning had been warm and gentle and too good to last.
All soft kitchens and quiet laughter and kisses like questions answered.
Of course now it was unraveling.

Of course it was. Half a shift, gone. And with it, the money he needed for that week’s groceries. For rent. For anything.

His jaw snapped tight, teeth grinding until it hurt. A hot spark shot through his chest, sharper than the ache of fatigue.

“Bastard,” he hissed under his breath. His hand curled into a fist against the counter, knuckles whitening. “You greedy, smug—fuck.” The word ripped out of him, low and raw. The kind of word you throw like a stone at a wall, knowing it won’t change a damn thing but needing to hear it break anyway.

Because it wasn’t fair. He broke his back for this place, every night, every shift, and still— still it was never enough. Always docked. Always cut down. Always him scraping by while Mulciber fattened himself on scraps Regulus had bled for.

He wanted to throw something. Smash the glass, tear into the shelves, leave the bar in pieces like it left him. His hand twitched, hovering over the sink, and only the thought of cleaning the mess later stopped him.

He gritted his teeth, swallowing the fury like it tasted of iron. His chest heaved, breath coming hard. He leaned forward, both hands braced on the counter, breathing through his nose. His body ached with exhaustion, and not just from the physical weight.

It never ends.

He gave everything he could, every damn day, and somehow it was always—
too little. Too slow. Too wrong.

He swallowed hard.

The optimism from the night before — that thing James had looked at him with, that quiet belief Sirius hadn’t said but had held in his eyes — it evaporated in seconds. Gone. Burned away like it had never been real.
“How the fuck am I supposed to do this,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the buzzing lights. He rubbed at his temple, at his eyes, at the place just above his heart where the pressure lived now. “How the fuck—” A breath. Sharp. Shaky.

At this point— At this point maybe he should just give in.

Let Riddle take him. Let himself disappear into something he no longer had the strength to resist. Say goodbye to Draco with whatever grace he had left, and—

He closed his eyes, his voice barely more than a breath: “Fucking hell.”

By the end of his shift, Regulus was nothing but ache and static. His shoulders throbbed from being held too tight, for too long. His jaw ached from clenching — not once, not twice, but constantly, like his body thought grinding his teeth could hold the rest together. His back hurt. His knee was acting up again — a slow, persistent throb behind the scarred joint. And there was a headache blooming like mold just behind his right eye: low, deep, and rhythmic, as if someone were knocking on the back of his skull.

His whole body felt off. Misaligned. Like something inside him had shifted sideways and refused to return to place.

The hours had blurred. He wasn’t sure what time it was anymore.
And not even the thought of James — warm and constant and grounding — could pull him back from where he was sinking.

Because what if James wasn’t there?

What if Draco wasn’t?

The dream had followed him all day. Clung to him like ash. The screaming. Draco's one, Narcissa's corpse, Sirius' pleads. The voice in the dark, the crowd clapping.
His own face, stretched into that terrible, perfect smile — while everything burned.

He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t outrun it.

There wasn’t time.

One month. Less, now. And Lily — brilliant as she was, relentless and clear-eyed and determined — was still just one person. And Lucius had buried his mess deep, under fake names and fake shell companies and favors traded in the kind of back rooms even lawyers didn’t walk into.

How long would it take? How long to find proof? Build a case? Move the pieces?
How long before Riddle knocked on the door himself?

Regulus dried another glass. Put it down.
Picked it up again and dried it a second time.
He didn’t notice until halfway through that he’d already done it.

He was slipping. The day dragged across his skin like broken glass. He didn’t know what he was walking toward anymore. Every step felt smaller. Every idea felt thinner.
Even thinking James’s name didn’t bring heat. Only longing. A memory of softness — hands on his back, lips on his cheek, the smell of his jumper — that felt further away by the hour.

Because Regulus didn’t have time left to hope. Not when the ticking clock was louder than his own heartbeat. The back of the bar had gone quiet now. The rush was over. Most of the staff had trickled out. Regulus had tucked himself behind the prep counter with the stir sticks and bar mats, restocking mindlessly, willing the minutes to pass.

His eyes burned. His knee pulsed. He didn’t know how long he’d been grinding his molars together — just that it hurt.

The sound of the office door opening didn’t startle him. Not at first.

But the voice that followed did. “Well, well,” Mulciber drawled. “Look who’s still here.”

Regulus didn’t turn. Just kept sorting. Calm. Mechanical. “I’m working,” he said flatly.

Mulciber’s boots clicked on the tile as he stepped closer — too slow. Too deliberate.
“Always are, aren’t you?” he said, tone light. “Hard little worker bee. Must be why management loves you so much.” He paused, a smirk in his voice.
“Or maybe… it’s the other way around.”

Regulus exhaled slowly through his nose and looked up — not backing away, not even blinking. “I’m not in the mood, Mulciber.”

“Oh, come on,” Mulciber said, smile spreading like oil. “I’m trying to be nice.” He stepped in close. Too close. One hand landed on the counter, fingers brushing Regulus’s sleeve as if by accident — as if anything about Mulciber was ever accidental.
“Y’know,” he went on, voice lower now, “you could be making more. A lot more. Somewhere that pays in favors, not pennies.”

Regulus stilled. His whole body locked up. “Don’t touch me,” he said, voice sharp. Quiet. Lethal.

But Mulciber just smiled wider. Wolfish. “Oh, relax, sweetheart. It’s a compliment.”

“It’s harassment.”

“You’ve got that look,” Mulciber murmured. “That expensive face. Always so clean. Always so tired. Like you’re holding yourself together by string. Like you need someone to take the edge off.” His fingers slid a little higher on Regulus’s arm.
“I can help you, if you want me to.”

Regulus jerked back, hard, as if the contact had burned him. “Don’t. Ever—”

But Mulciber just laughed. Stepped back. Held his hands up like a man who thought the law was a joke. “Alright, alright,” he said, still grinning. “No need to get delicate on me.” He started to turn away — then added, casually- “You’re the one who signed up to clean other people’s shit for minimum wage. You want better? Ask the boss for a raise.” He winked.
“Oh. Right. I am the boss.”

And then he was gone. The door swung shut behind him like a punchline.
The click of it echoed through the bar like a shot.

Regulus didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His hand still tingled where Mulciber had touched it.
Not like a burn.
Not like pain.
Just… tainted. Like something had been left there.

The air felt heavier. The room felt smaller.
He swallowed once, hard, and curled his fingers into a fist. He wanted to scream.
Break something. Cry. Vomit. Tear at his clothes. Rip open his own chest and pull the weight out with his bare hands.

But he did none of those things. He reached for a stack of napkins — missed — and nearly knocked the entire container off the counter. His hand jerked back, too late, the edge of the box tipping dangerously before settling.

His hands were shaking. Again. He stared at them for a second. Pale. Unsteady. Untrustworthy. Then pressed both palms flat to the counter — hard — grounding himself in the cold, sticky laminate. He forced a breath in through his nose.

Then another.

It didn’t help.

Because he was so tired. Not just tired — stripped raw.
Because he was paid half of what he should have been, and now even less.
Because reporting it would do nothing — not with his name, not with his record, not with Riddle’s leash tightening every fucking day.
Because even the rules that were supposed to protect people didn’t cover people like him.

There was no room to move. No room to breathe.
Only the memory of that voice.
“You only react. Like a dog. Like a toy. Like a thing.”

And maybe Riddle was right. Maybe he’d always been right.

Maybe Regulus was really a lapdog.

Maybe if he just said yes, gave in, laid down quietly, everything else would fall into place. Maybe this — the cold, the weight, the hunger, the humiliation — was the normality he was destined for.

What could be worse than this?

His knuckles went white against the counter.
His jaw clenched until pain bloomed along his temple.
His chest hurt. Physically hurt. Like something was collapsing inward, rib by rib.
He had thought — stupidly, foolishly, naively — that James’s touch might hold back the tide. That warmth could be armor. That tenderness could be enough.

But warmth wasn’t armor. And the tide was rising.
“Despair,” Riddle had whispered once, with that goddamn smile.
And Regulus had nodded like he didn’t understand.

Now he did.

This wasn’t sadness. This wasn’t fear. It was rot.
And it was everywhere.
The back alley behind the bar stank of old grease and rain-soaked cigarette ash. The concrete was slick beneath his feet. The air was sharp with cold.
Regulus stumbled through the back door and let it slam shut behind him with a heavy clang. The sound made him flinch. His shoulder hit the wall. He stayed there.

He leaned back against the brick, rough and wet and grounding. His spine ached. His knee ached. His everything ached.

His phone was already in his hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d pulled it out. His fingers were white around it, knuckles taut, thumb hovering.

He thought of James.

James would answer with that ridiculous warmth in his voice.
He’d ask if Regulus was alright.
He’d say his name like it meant something gentle.
He’d come running, no questions asked.

And Regulus— Regulus couldn’t take that tonight.

He didn’t want kindness.
Didn’t want reassurances.
Didn’t want to be told it would be okay.

He wanted truth. He wanted someone who would look at him and not lie.

He needed Barty.

His thumb shook as it tapped the screen.

Ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Click.

“Reg?” Barty’s voice was rough, alert — not surprised, just immediately there. “It’s late. What happened?”

Regulus couldn’t speak at first. His breath hitched in his throat. His lungs stuttered. His mouth opened and nothing came out. He turned his face into the wall.
“I—fuck,” he whispered, so low it almost didn’t pass his lips. “B. I need you.”

A beat of silence. Not hesitation. Just recalibration.

Then, steady as steel- “Where are you?”

“The bar,” Regulus choked out. “I just got out. I— I can’t go home. I can’t—” His voice cracked, splintering around the words. “I can’t breathe. I can't- I-”

Another pause. Then- “I’m coming. Don’t move.”

Regulus nodded, as if Barty could see him. “Okay.” He could do that. He could wait for him to come. He could- he could- he could-

“I figured you didn’t call James.”

“I didn’t.”

“Want me to?”

“No,” Regulus said quickly. Then softer. “No. I don’t want—” He swallowed. His voice dropped. Raw and thick and frayed at the edges. “I don’t want soft. I want real. I need someone who won’t look at me like I’m breaking. Someone who won’t tell me I’m fine when I’m not.”

On the other end of the line, Barty’s voice was steady. Dark. Familiar. Sharp in the way Regulus needed. “Then you called the right bastard.”

Regulus let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh.
Or maybe a sob. Or maybe just something in between — something raw, something exhausted, something without shape.

“I think I’m losing it,” he whispered. His head tilted back against the wall, his voice threadbare. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Should I say yes? Should I just… accept it?” A breath, jagged, pulled through his teeth. “Everything would be finished. Gone. Simple. Why am I not accepting— it’s easier. Draco would be safe and I wouldn’t be here and I—”

There was a beat of silence on the other end. The kind Barty gave only when he was choosing his words with surgical care.

“You’re not losing it,” he said at last, voice low, steady as a blade. “And you’re not going to say yes. You’re not.”

A sharp edge crept into his tone. “If I have to, I’ll stop you myself. That fucking cunt is not making a meal out of you.”

Regulus let out a wet breath, almost a laugh, cracked at the edges. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Don’t,” Barty snapped, but softer than it sounded. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it smaller than it is.” A pause, tight with anger and fear both. Then, quieter: “You’re tired. You’re angry. You’re cornered. That’s not the same as giving up. You’re not choosing right now, Reg. You’re suffocating. That’s all. But you don’t need to say yes. Not now. Not ever. Not while I’m still breathing.”

Regulus gritted his teeth. “Mulciber touched me,” he said suddenly, the words brittle. “That fucker touched me. Looked at me like I was—like I was meant for it. And then he smiled like he’d won something.”

“Say no more,” Barty snapped, voice ice-cold. “I’ll deal with him later. God, I’ll fucking cave his face in so bad he won’t see a single fucking thing again.”

Regulus pressed his palm flat to his chest, over his ribs, like he could hold everything in. “I want out, Barty,” he said, the words hoarse, cracked open. “I want out so fucking bad I—” He gasped softly. “It feels like I’m going to split apart.”

“I know,” Barty said. “I know. Just hold on. Just stay with me a little longer.”

Regulus closed his eyes tight. The hand on his chest trembled. “You’ll stay on the phone?”

“’Course I will,” Barty said without hesitation. “What the hell do you think I am?”

“My best friend,” Regulus whispered. The words surprised even him.

“Damn right I am.”

So Regulus stood in the dark, spine pressed to brick, legs locked, breath uneven. Like if he moved even slightly, he’d fall apart entirely. He gripped the phone like it was a lifeline and listened to Barty breathe on the other end — steady, real, solid.

Until he heard footsteps approaching. Fast. Purposeful. Then a voice — low, familiar, grounding. “All right, Reg. I’m here. Let’s fix it.”
Barty found him out back, behind the bar, crouched on the concrete steps like something trying to disappear into itself. One hand braced against his knee. A cigarette between his fingers — not lit. Just clutched like a prayer.

Regulus looked up, eyes rimmed red, face pale in the alley light.

“Hey,” Barty said, slowing his approach. His voice was different now — not sarcastic, not harsh. Just… careful. “You look like shit.”

Regulus let out a sound, dry and bitter. Somewhere between a huff and a sigh.
“That’s been the theme of the day.”

Barty didn’t laugh. He just crouched, reached into his coat pocket, and handed over a protein bar. “Eat,” he said. “You didn’t have dinner, I’m guessing.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Didn’t ask. Eat.” Regulus looked at him for a second. Then down at the wrapper. His fingers shook as he tore it open. The first bite tasted like chalk, but it stayed down.

Barty sat beside him, shoulders loose, not touching — close enough to feel, not enough to crowd. They stayed like that for a few moments. The cold settling in. The buzz of a broken streetlamp overhead. Silence stretching, but not empty.
Then Barty tilted his head toward him. “And you didn’t call James because…? I think he would be better at this- consoling shit-”

Regulus didn’t answer at first. Just stared at the concrete under their feet.
“I didn’t want… sweetness,” he said eventually. “Didn’t want soft words. Didn’t want someone to tell me ‘you’re strong, you’ll get through this.’”
His voice was flat. Blunt. “It’s not going to be fine. I needed someone who wouldn’t lie to me.”

Barty nodded slowly. “You came to the right bastard, then.”

Regulus cracked a tiny smile. Barely there.

“I’ve been thinking,” Barty said, after a moment.

Regulus turned his head, giving him a side-glance. “That’s dangerous.”

“Shut up.” Barty elbowed him gently. “But yeah. I mean it. I’ve got something. An idea. It’s stupid. Possibly illegal. Probably dangerous. And maybe… maybe brilliant.”

Regulus blinked. Lifted his gaze. “Go on,” he said. Voice quiet. “Talk me through it.”
Regulus tilted his head, just barely, just enough to glance sideways at him.
His voice came dry. Quiet. “And please- tell me you’re not about to pitch a robbery.”

Barty smiled — not wide, not smug. Just a small tug at one corner of his mouth, like even he knew how ridiculous this sounded.
“Not a robbery,” he said. “A presentation.”

He waited. Expected Regulus to scoff. Roll his eyes. Say something.

But Regulus didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
He was too tired. Too wrung out.

So Barty went on, his voice softer now, threading the words with care.

“Look. I know a guy. Works logistics for one of the old families. The kind who still act like they’re royalty, even though their palaces are falling apart. They’re planning a gala. Big one. Very hush-hush. Very exclusive. The type with vintage champagne, string quartets, and old women draped in diamonds.”

Regulus frowned slightly, brows drawing in.
“What does that have to do with me?”

Barty licked his lips. Rubbed his palms together. He looked… hesitant. Not unsure about the plan, but about saying it out loud.
“Okay. So. Think clever, alright? There’s this gala. Charity-slash-auction-slash-society-cosplaying-as-stability kind of thing. All private. Invitation-only. And you’re not going as a guest.” He paused- “You’d be the presenter. Final item of the night.”

That made Regulus blink.
“What?”

“I mean—think about it,” Barty said, warming slightly. “You. On stage. Spotlight. The perfect finish. You walk the item out. Say a few words. Maybe smile. Maybe not. Just enough to make them believe it matters.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “I mean—I see your vision, Barty, I do. But… what exactly do I have to do?”

“There’s an object,” Barty said. “Rare. Valuable. Technically legal. It hasn’t changed hands publicly, but it’s been sitting in some vault for decades. They’re unveiling it for the first time, selling it off for some ‘worthy cause.’ You carry it on stage. Present it. Say a line or two. Walk off.”

Regulus stared at him. “You want me to go to a high-profile gathering and… be decorative.”

“Elegant,” Barty corrected gently. “They need elegant. Someone who can walk a straight line, hold a stare, and not flinch when a hundred eyes are watching. Someone who knows how to carry weight — without showing it.”

Regulus looked away, jaw tight. His fingers tapped against his knee. “And you thought of me.”

“I always think of you,” Barty said. And this time, it wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t even loaded. It was just… honest. Blunt. “But yeah,” he added, more careful now. “You’re perfect for this. I already made a few calls. I didn’t give your name, just your profile. They said yes. They want you.”

A pause.

“You’d have protection. You wouldn’t be alone. I’m handling the backend. Evan too, if needed. We’re not throwing you to the wolves, Reg. I swear.”

Regulus let out a breath. Long. Shaky.
“And Riddle?” he asked finally.

Barty’s jaw worked for a second. He looked away.
“I asked,” he said. “Didn’t get a straight answer. But it’s not his style — too public, too many eyes, too many cameras. He stays behind curtains. This is too exposed.”

“And if he’s there?”

Barty didn’t hesitate. “If he’s there,” he said, firm, “we pull out. You don’t walk. I don’t let you take a step. Full stop. No one risks anything.”

Regulus closed his eyes. The cigarette in his hand bent slightly under the pressure of his grip. “You’re asking me to trust this,” he murmured. “I trust you, Barty. With my whole fucking life. But them—those people—” His voice broke a little. Just on the edge.“Going into that room is like walking into the lion’s den with a bell around my neck.”

“I know,” Barty said. And he did. It was in his voice. His posture. “I know exactly who they are. I know where they come from. I know what they think they can buy. I hate that. And I hate what I’m asking you to do.”

He looked at Regulus directly.
“Because if anything goes wrong—”

“You’ll take the fall.”

Barty blinked.Then nodded. Once. “Of course I will. You think I’d still be sitting here if I wouldn’t?”

Regulus didn’t reply. Just looked at him — long, searching.

Barty sat up straighter, rubbed a hand over his mouth.
Then added, more softly now-
“Ten thousand. Five upfront. Five after. That’s real money, Reg. You do this, you’ll cut a full eight of what Riddle’s got on you.”

Regulus let his head drop back against the wall with a dull thud. “Fuuuuuck.”
The word left him like breath punched out of his lungs.

Ten thousand.

Ten thousand pounds. For two hours of gala.
It was obscene. It was unbelievable. It was a fucking miracle.

His brain buzzed, calculating.

Ten thousand.

Plus the five he already had stashed away — fifteen thousand.
With his monthly salary — two thousand five hundred — and the fact that James and Sirius will be cover groceries for weeks, he might actually be able to keep saving. Scraping together everything. A little at a time.

Two thousand five hundred. For eleven months.
Plus fifteen thousand.
That was forty-two thousand, five hundred.

Half. More than half of what he owed. His breath hitched.
If this went well…If he didn’t fuck it up… If he did it again. Four more times. Four times.
Just four fucking times.

Could he really…? Could it be done? Could he be free? Like this?

Regulus squeezed his eyes shut. Ten thousand. Two hours of pretending.
Too good to be true.

Always too good to be true.

His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. Like it had to pass through layers of fatigue before reaching his lips.
“I had warmth this morning,” he said. “James. The flat. The light in the kitchen. It was quiet. Soft. Like maybe it could last, just a little longer.”
He shook his head slowly. “Now it’s like… I can’t even remember what that felt like. Like someone scraped it out of me. Like I dreamed it, and this is what’s real.”

Barty inhaled sharply. “I know,” he said. His voice cracked, just slightly. “That’s why I’m giving you something real now. Something practical. No dreaming. No hoping. Just… doing. One step. One night. That’s all.”

Regulus swallowed. His throat felt raw. “And if it’s a mistake?” he asked. Barely louder than the wind.

Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.

“They’re not a mistake,” Barty said, without flinching. “The money’s real. The job is clean. You’d be supervised. No shady backrooms. No missing pieces. It’s just… presentation.” Regulus didn’t answer.
So Barty said, quieter now: “If it’s a mistake — then I made it. Not you.”

Regulus let the silence stretch. He needed it to. Let it wrap around him like fog, thick and heavy. He listened to it, like maybe it would give him an answer. But all he heard was the number.

Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.
Ten thousand.

Was he greedy? Was he being reckless?
Throwing himself into a fire for the illusion of safety?
Or was this the only rope left?
Was hope something he had to give up, or something he still deserved to reach for?

It felt too easy. And Regulus Black had learned — violently — that easy never meant safe. He tilted his head forward again. Eyes half-lidded. Heavy. “You’re sure?” he murmured.

Ten thousand still echoing in his head like a hymn. Barty didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low. Honest. A little scared.
“Sure enough to be nervous,” he admitted. “Sure enough that I’d rather see you try this than keep sinking. You’ve been drowning in slow motion for months. I’m throwing you a line. Grab it.”

Regulus looked down at his hands — still trembling, not violently, but enough. Enough to make it feel real.

He held out the cigarette. Barty lit it for him, his fingers steady.
Regulus inhaled. Deep.
The smoke filled his lungs, scratched at the back of his throat, sat heavy in his chest.

He exhaled slowly. Then, quieter than before- “…Okay.” Barty nodded.

“Okay,” Barty echoed. "We can meet at mine these days, so I'll explain better, yeah?"

They didn’t look at each other. They just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, breathing the same cold air. Nothing was fixed. Nothing was safe. But something had shifted. And something had been decided.

The door closed softly behind him, but the sound still seemed too loud in the hush of the flat.

Regulus exhaled — slow, careful, like even air was something he had to ration. He shrugged off his coat, hung his keys on the hook with a mechanical flick of his fingers. He still smelled like the bar: smoke, sweat, spilled beer. And underneath that, the humiliation Mulciber had left smeared across his skin like filth. Barty’s words rang in his ears — sharp and cold and edged with desperate logic.

He hadn’t taken three steps before a voice reached him from the kitchen.

“Reg?”

James. Worried. Regulus shut his eyes for a beat. Then forced them open again, and curved his mouth into something that looked enough like a smile.
“Home,” he said.

James appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a hoodie too big for him and an expression too tight. “You’re late.”
Not a complaint. Just a fact, spoken in the tone of someone who’d waited too long and was trying not to show it.

“Long shift,” Regulus said, too casually. “Nothing special.”

James looked at him. Then raised an eyebrow. “You worked for Mulciber?”

Regulus hesitated. Just a second. Then nodded.

James sighed. He raked a hand through his hair like the thought physically hurt. “Okay,” he said. “Then I need to update the list.”

Regulus blinked. “What list?”

“Remember- our personal to-do list?” James said, tone light, mouth twitching. “You know — in no particular order: dismantle Tom Riddle’s entire bribery empire, find a legal way to get Lucius out of everyone’s lives, help you sort your shit with Sirius once and for all…”

“James…”

“…figure out what the hell this is between us — ideally without ruining it.” He looked at him then. Really looked. Regulus didn’t answer. But something behind his eyes softened. James took another step, cautious but certain, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to say the next part.
“And one more thing. Really important, that we forgot the first time.” He gave a lopsided grin, but his eyes stayed serious. “Kick Mulciber’s arse.”

"Yeah-" Regulus huffed — sharp, almost a laugh. The smile that followed wasn’t fake this time. “I like the addition.”

“I thought you might.” James reached out, brushed gently against Regulus’s side — nothing forceful, nothing heavy. Just a touch. Just warmth. Just a way to say you’re home without needing words.

Regulus didn’t move. But something uncoiled in him. His shoulders lowered, just a bit.
And the heat James always carried — like he had sunlight in his hands and didn’t know how to let go of it — seeped in through Regulus’s cracked, freezing skin.

Regulus shifted his weight, thumb grazing the edge of the counter. “I need to tell you something,” he said, voice quiet, cautious. “About- About today. Something came up. A proposal—” he paused, “it's kind of uhuh- good? I think- I hope- I'm not really sure but-”

James tilted his head, smile fading into something more serious. “Alright,” he said, already listening, already there.

Regulus drew in a breath— and then two voices exploded down the hall.

“PAPÀ!! James!!”

“DAD!! Reg!”

Draco came tearing into the room like a whirlwind, holding a bright, scratched game case over his head. “Effie found it!” he shouted. “The dancing game! Just Dance! She brought it back!”

Harry was right behind him, hopping with excitement. “You have to see it! Draco showed me—Regulus, you have to play!”

Draco tugged at his sleeve, wide-eyed and breathless. “You have to dance, papà! That’s the whole point! And it’s fun! And you’re good at it! I saw you dancing and your face was so serious—but your arms did this weird thing—” He flailed them wildly to demonstrate.

James laughed, leaning against the doorframe, and Regulus glanced at him with a half-mortified, half-resigned expression. James raised his brows, grinning. “They’ve clearly been preparing their case all day.”

Draco pulled harder. “Come on! We even set up the living room already!”

Regulus gave one last look toward James—there was something there, unsaid but heavy—and James caught it. Held it.
He raised a brow again. Later?
Regulus sighed, lips quirking just slightly. “Later,” he confirmed under his breath, even if it was a 'I'll tell you now or never' thing. “It can wait. It's not important.” Well it was. But Draco was more important, and today they didn't pass any time together so it didn't matter right now. Let's play to this- just dance?

As the kids dragged him away, James followed them into the living room with a lazy stretch, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You know,” he said casually, watching Draco bounce around the TV with manic energy, “I expect you to absolutely crash me.”

Regulus gave him a sidelong glance, dubious. “Crash you?”

James grinned. “Pulverize. Destroy. Obliterate me on the dance floor.”

“Is that what this game is?” Regulus asked, folding his arms. “A dance duel?”

Draco nodded furiously. “YES. And I pick you for my team!”

He shoved a Wii remote into Regulus’s hand, upside down.
“This goes in your right hand,” Harry corrected solemnly, picking up his own and slipping the strap over his wrist like a seasoned professional. “Otherwise it doesn’t track properly.”

Regulus frowned at the little rectangle of plastic, clearly suspicious. “This is ridiculous.”

“No,” James said, flopping onto the couch to yank off his socks. “This is revolutionary. And you’re going to love it.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“Oh, hush,” Draco said, tugging at Regulus’s arm. “You’re already dressed like a dance instructor-You’ll be amazing dad.”

Regulus blinked down at himself—tight black shirt, loose sweatpants, hair still a bit mussed from running his hands through it. "You just hushed me, Draco Lucius Malfoy?"

James coughed into his sleeve, clearly trying not to laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

“I hate all of you,” Regulus said flatly, slipping the strap around his wrist with long-suffering dignity.

“Oh my god,” Harry moaned. “Just pick the song!”

Draco scampered over to the remote and began flipping through songs. James leaned toward Regulus and said low, “He’s probably going to choose something ridiculous. Brace yourself.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes at the screen, then glanced at Draco. “You better not.”

Draco beamed innocently. “No promises!” And then the music started.

“Rasputin.”

James exploded into laughter. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Regulus sighed deeply. “I’m on a team with this child.”

“I’m right here,” Draco muttered, then held his remote up like a sword. “Alright, Team Cool People—get ready to win.”

“Excuse you,” James said, pulling Harry into position beside him. “Team Champions is here to take you down.”

“Champions of what?” Regulus drawled, mimicking the pose on the screen with an unimpressed expression. “Delusion?”

James smirked. “Confidence. And natural rhythm.”

“You’re about to get absolutely outdanced,” Draco added, punching the air with both fists. “Let’s go!”

The countdown flashed on the screen. Three. Two. One. And chaos began.
Draco launched into motion with startling precision, swinging his arms and kicking his legs in time with the cartoon dancer on screen. Harry followed, a little bouncy and a beat behind, grinning like mad. James looked wildly determined, mouthing the lyrics under his breath while flailing semi-rhythmically. Regulus—

Regulus started stiffly, like someone attempting yoga in a lightning storm.
“Left—no, right—” Draco hissed. “You have to mirror the screen!”

“I am mirroring it—”

“No, you’re not, you’re just moving randomly!” Regulus huffed and tried to correct his stance, but now the dancer on screen was spinning and windmilling his arms.

James barked a laugh. “Oh my god—Reg—Reg, what are you doing—?”

“I don’t know!” Regulus shouted, wildly out of sync. “Why is this game so obsessed with pelvis movement?!”

“It’s called Just Dance!” James crowed. “Embrace it!”
And to his credit, Regulus tried. He narrowed his eyes, reset his stance, and began mimicking the moves with alarming focus. His mouth was set in a thin line. His shoulders squared. And then he launched into the routine like it was a military campaign.

“Oh no,” James muttered, watching him hit five stars on a combo.

“OH YES,” Draco screamed, leaping in place. “WE’RE WINNING!”

“Absolutely not!” James doubled down, trying to spin and point at the same time, narrowly missing hitting Harry in the face. “We’re catching up!”

“You’re flailing!” Regulus called out, not even looking, completely in rhythm now, hips swinging and arm pointed to the ceiling like a disco god. “Harry is the only one doing anything right!”

“Thank you!” Harry shouted proudly. The chorus hit again, and all four of them spun into motion, limbs flying, feet stomping, laughter echoing through the room.

When the song ended, the score flashed up.

Team Cool People: 11,429
Team Champions: 10,921

“YES!” Draco exploded into cheers, tackling Regulus’s leg. “WE WON!”

“I’m not surprised,” Regulus said, breathless, one hand on his hip. “I’m incredibly talented.”

James, panting, flopped onto the floor. “You’re insufferable.”

“Your words mean nothing,” Regulus said, tossing the remote onto the couch. “Not after that flailing performance.”

“Flailing?! I had swagger.”

“You nearly hit Harry in the face.”

Harry nodded seriously. “You really did.”

James groaned into his hands. “Traitors, all of you.”

Draco threw himself onto the couch and stretched like a cat. “Again?”

Regulus blinked. “Again?”

“Oh no,” James mumbled from the carpet. “We’ve created monsters.”
But Regulus was already smiling. He reached down and offered James a hand, warm and still slightly trembling from laughter. James took it.
“Again?” Draco begged, bouncing on the couch. “Please, please, please! I’ll even let you pick the next song!”

James, sprawled dramatically on the carpet, groaned. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not,” Regulus said coolly, nudging him with a toe. “You just don’t have stamina.”

James narrowed his eyes. “I will destroy you this time.”

“That’s the spirit,” Regulus replied with a smirk, tossing him the second remote.

Draco was already flipping through the playlist. “This one! Timber! It has lassoing.”

“Oh Merlin,” Regulus muttered. “Why is that a selling point?”

“You’ll see,” Draco said ominously.

The music blared and once again, chaos resumed.

James attempted to lasso with his entire upper body, whipping his invisible rope around like a man in a rodeo fever dream. Harry jumped in time with the beat, giggling so hard he was gasping for air. Draco executed a surprisingly accurate twirl, dragging Regulus with him—who followed with reluctant grace, arms stiff, jaw tight, but feet somehow always on the beat.

“You’re good at this!” Harry yelled.

“Unfortunately,” Regulus replied through clenched teeth.

And that’s when the door creaked open. Narcissa entered with her usual effortless poise, dressed in pale cashmere and heels inside the house. Her gaze swept across the room—at the bright, ridiculous cartoon dancers on the screen, at the children shrieking with laughter, at James sweating through his t-shirt trying to body-roll, and finally at Regulus, mid-pelvic-thrust with Draco waving a remote in the air beside him.

She blinked once. Then tilted her head.
“Well,” she said dryly, “I see the revolution is going well.”

Regulus froze. “Oh fantastic.”

James doubled over laughing. “Hello to you too, Narcissa.”

“Is this some kind of punishment?” she asked, stepping daintily out of her shoes as if dance energy might be contagious. “Or have you all completely lost your minds?”

“Bit of both,” Regulus muttered, trying to catch his breath.

“I love this song,” Draco added, spinning around.

“Oh, I can tell, darling” Narcissa said. “You’re very… committed.”

Harry waved her over. “You should try it!”

Narcissa raised a single, sculpted eyebrow. “I would rather die.”

Regulus choked on a laugh. “Come on, cousin. Join us. You used to dance in that horrifying ballet class, remember?”

“That was grace, darling. Art. This—” she gestured vaguely at James’s latest attempt at a body wave—“is some kind of convulsion.”

“I take offense to that,” James said, flopping onto the armrest of the couch. “This is raw talent.”

“This is a cry for help.”

“Oh my god,” Draco groaned. “Aunt Cissy, just pick a song!”

“No, no,” Narcissa said, slipping onto the couch and crossing her legs elegantly. “I’m here to observe. Like a biologist watching animals try to learn fire.”

“Thank you for your support,” Regulus said flatly.

She sipped from a water bottle that no one saw her bring in. “It’s inspiring, truly. One day, the Ministry will hand out awards for Most Dignified Suffering. You’ll win in a landslide.”

James leaned close to Regulus and whispered, “I love her.”

“Of course you do,” Regulus muttered. “You’re emotionally unstable.”

“I have great taste.”

“I’ll vomit.”

“Do it on Mulciber.” That made Regulus laugh—really laugh, the sound slipping out of him before he could stop it.

Draco picked the next song. “Okay! This time, me and Harry versus you two! Prepare to lose!”

“Oh, it’s on,” James said, standing and stretching with exaggerated bravado. “Narcissa, take notes. You’re about to witness greatness.”

“I’m going to witness something,” Narcissa said. “I’m just not sure which degree of tragic it’ll be.” And then the next round began—with wilder moves, louder laughter, and Narcissa offering sarcastic commentary like a royal judge at a ballroom competition:

“Harry, you’re the only one who looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“James, please stop whatever it is you’re doing with your elbows.”

“Regulus, you look like someone cursed your dignity.” And for once, Regulus didn’t mind. Not the music, not the sweat, not even being laughed at. Because there was something warm here—something precious.

“Last round!” Draco declared, flushed and glowing. “Just you two. Final boss level.”

Harry pumped his fist. “Uncle Regulus versus James!”

James blinked, surprised. “What—just us?”

Regulus crossed his arms, tilting his head. “I don’t think I agreed to that.”

Draco looked at him with wide, devastated eyes. “But you have to dad! Come on! Pretty please?”

“You can’t back out,” Harry added, bouncing in place. “You’re both the best! This is like—like a show!”

James leaned in with a lazy grin. “What’s the matter, Black? Scared to lose?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m just not in the habit of humiliating people in front of children.”

“Oh-ho,” James said, smirking. “Talk like that and I have to win.”

“You can certainly try.” The children were practically vibrating as they scrolled through the playlist, whispering furiously between themselves.

“Oh no,” Regulus murmured as the opening beats of “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha blasted through the speakers.

“Oh yes,” James said, already rolling his shoulders. “This is my era.”

“You were fourteen and drunk on Fanta.”

“I was powerful.” The match began. James stood with exaggerated confidence, one eyebrow raised, arms loose and cocky. Regulus straightened slowly, remote gripped with dangerous precision.

The first few steps were deceptively simple. James moved with enthusiastic chaos—stumbling but somehow hitting just enough of the gesture markers for the Wii to go “Perfect!” over and over.

Regulus, on the other hand, was a vision of precision: arms smooth, angles sharp, posture impeccable. He looked like the choreographer had climbed out of the screen and possessed him.

And still—

“Okay!” the Wii chirped at him.

“Okay?!” Regulus snapped, missing a beat. “That was textbook!”

James cackled mid-shoulder roll. “Maybe you should try being worse at this.”

“I will not lower myself to the whims of a cartoon judgment system.”

“Tell it to your score.”

Harry and Draco were screaming, absolutely losing their minds as the two adults battled in rhythm.
“You’re just flailing!” Regulus hissed, executing a perfect spin that scored a “Good” at best.

“And yet!” James puffed, slapping his hips in time. “Perfect!”

“I hate this game.”

“You love this game.”

They bumped shoulders—James on purpose, Regulus not moving an inch.

Then came the freestyle section. Regulus broke into a fluid combination of moves so smooth it looked intentional—even though the Wii didn’t recognize half of it. James, meanwhile, half-squatted, flapped his arms, and launched into what could only be described as interpretive stomping.

The game loved it.

“YOU’RE CHEATING!” Regulus shouted, exasperated.

“I’m winning,” James corrected, gasping between laughter.

The final score came up—James barely ahead, by the skin of a ridiculous Wii-flailing margin. The kids erupted into cheers, throwing themselves onto the couch, limbs everywhere.

Regulus stared at the score, aghast. “This is an injustice.”

James, flushed and sweaty, leaned close and said, smug, “You’re cute when you lose.”

Regulus turned toward him, deadpan. “You’re cute when you shut up.”

James grinned wider. “Wanna dance again?”

Regulus’s lips twitched. “Later,” he said. “When the audience has gone to bed.”

And behind them, Narcissa raised her bottle of sparkling water like a toast.
“Truly, the house of Black has never looked more deranged.”

Chapter Text

The streets felt thinner now, narrower somehow — like the buildings had inched closer together while they’d been away. Regulus walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, steps slow and measured, matching the boy beside him without saying a word.

Draco kicked at a stone on the pavement, hands tucked into the sleeves of his jumper, hood drawn up even though the sky was clear. His mouth was set in a line that didn’t quite suit him, too tense for a face so young. He hadn’t said much since they’d left James’ flat — just a soft “Okay” when Regulus had said it was time to go home.

Home.

Regulus wasn’t sure what that meant anymore.

The air smelled different here — less like wood and apple cake and more like rusted pipes and damp leaves. Familiar, yes, but not comforting. Their block came into view at the end of the street, squat and faded, wedged between a dry cleaner’s and a shuttered laundromat.

They stopped just before the steps.

Draco looked up at the building. He didn’t say anything, but Regulus could feel the stiffness in his small shoulders. Like he was bracing.
“Want me to go in first?” Regulus asked gently.

Draco shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did. It mattered to both of them. Regulus pressed his lips together and walked up the steps, letting the key turn slowly in the lock. The door gave a low groan as it opened — not broken, just tired. He waited for Draco to follow before pushing it all the way open.

The hallway smelled of plaster dust and something slightly sour. The light was too white, the kind they used in hospitals, flat and unforgiving. Their shoes echoed too loudly against the cleaned floors. It looked— wrong. Like someone had taken a brush and painted over their lives with a dull coat of beige.

Draco’s breath hitched behind him.
Regulus didn’t turn around. Not yet.

The hallway narrowed as they stepped inside, the walls closing in around them with every step. Regulus could smell it first — the clinging scent of old damp, of something left too long under a leak. Not rot, not quite, but mildew blooming unseen in the cracks. The paint on the walls, once a soft, forgettable eggshell, had turned grey around the edges, bubbled and peeled in long, curling strips. In some places, it was gone entirely — exposing the plaster underneath like a wound that had been picked open.

The silence was louder inside. No muffled voices from the neighbors. No hum of distant traffic. Just the echo of their footsteps over a floor that didn’t feel like theirs anymore.

Regulus didn’t say anything.

He stepped further in, toward the kitchen, hand trailing briefly along the wall before recoiling from the stick of it — damp. Fucking damp. When he reached the counter, he noticed the stove had been pulled out just slightly, and left crooked. The knobs were loose, one missing entirely, and there was a faint burn mark near the edge. The fridge was humming too loudly, uneven in pitch, like it was struggling to stay alive. The cupboards were closed, but the veneer on the doors was chipped, a long crack splitting through one of them like a scar.

His throat tightened. He didn’t want to open them. He already knew what he’d find — maybe their mugs were still there, but mismatched now. Maybe Draco’s plastic bowls had been shoved out of order, or worse, taken.

He moved to the living room. It felt smaller, as if it had folded in on itself.

The floor was the first thing he noticed — scuffed, battered, warped in places. The cheap laminate had peeled up along one edge near the window, and there were shoe prints in what looked like dried plaster dust, like the workers hadn’t even tried to avoid stomping through their space.

And then the couch.

It was still there. Technically.

But someone had dragged it across the floor, and now it sat askew, one leg missing, a book shoved hastily beneath to prop it up. The cushions had been moved, the seams slightly torn at the corners, and there was a faint but undeniable stain across the middle, like someone had spilled tea — or worse — and never bothered to clean it up. Regulus remembered sleeping there. Night after night, curled too tightly on one end so Draco wouldn’t see him shivering.

It looked uninhabitable now.

No, it looked uncared for. That was worse.

And then there was Draco. His soft steps came to a sudden halt behind him, and Regulus turned just in time to see it happen — the exact second it all landed. The silence, the decay, the violation of their space. The wide eyes narrowing, the way Draco’s lip began to tremble before he clamped his mouth shut in fury.

“I don’t wanna stay here!” Draco shouted suddenly, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t like it!”

Regulus didn’t move.

Draco stomped one foot, as though the force of it could undo what they were seeing. “It’s gross! And it smells like old towels and the floor’s broken, and my bed won’t be there anymore and I don’t want to sleep here and I don’t wanna be here!”

He threw the little drawstring bag he was carrying onto the couch — or rather, at it. It bounced off one of the crooked cushions and fell with a dull thump to the floor. Draco’s arms crossed tightly over his chest and he glared, tearful and flushed, at nothing in particular.

“I hate this place! I hate it!” His voice echoed off the warped walls and cracked ceiling and bounced back twice as loud.

Regulus breathed in slowly. "Draco-"

Draco’s fists curled into the sleeves of his jumper now, tugging them over his hands like he wanted to disappear inside them. His face was flushed and blotchy, his voice getting higher and wetter with every word.
“I don’t get it!” he wailed. “Why do we have to stay here? We could just go back to James’ house! He wants us there, he said we could stay! And James's already cooking for us anyway, so he knows, right? He knows we’re there!”

He sniffled loudly, voice pitching up in a dramatic wail.

“And he has the good house! He has all the good stuff! The couch is soft and the floor doesn’t make my socks wet and the TV is huge! And all the games work and nothing smells bad! Why do we have to be here when his house is so much better?”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly.

He felt that. Felt it like a kick to the ribs.

He crouched down slowly, lowering himself until he was eye-level with Draco, one hand resting carefully on the uneven arm of the broken couch for balance. His voice, when it came, was steady — only just.
“Because this is our home, petit.”

The boy didn’t look convinced. His lower lip was quivering again, his arms crossed so tightly they trembled.

Regulus tried again. “This flat… this place — it’s ours. We chose it. You picked out the cereal bowls. Remember? You made me buy the pink ones because you said they looked like strawberry ice cream. You made me promise we’d keep them even if we moved somewhere fancier.”

Draco blinked, sullen and watery.

“And this,” Regulus continued, sweeping a hand gently across the wreck of the room, “this is where we had birthday pancakes last year. This is where you fell asleep on me watching that horrible cartoon about talking cats. This is where you read your first whole chapter book twice, because you liked it so much you didn’t want it to end.”

He could feel his voice thinning, his chest pulling tight.

“I know it’s a mess right now, baby. I know it smells weird and the couch looks like it lost a fight. But this was ours, before everything started falling apart. And we came back because we’re going to make it ours again. Alright, mon dragon?”

Draco didn’t speak. He just looked around — eyes darting over the warped floor, the walls that had lost their color, the furniture that wasn’t quite theirs anymore.
Then he whispered, “But it doesn’t feel like ours.”

Regulus nodded. “I know.” He reached out, brushing a hand over Draco’s pale curls, thumb resting for a second just behind his ear.
“It will again. I promise. Will you help me, Draco?”

There was a long pause. "Oui, papa." He whispered and Regulsu patted his head, smiling lightly.

Then Draco let out a soggy little sigh and climbed into Regulus’ lap without a word, arms tight around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. He didn’t cry again — not properly — but his hands clung to Regulus’ jumper like he wasn’t entirely convinced the room wouldn’t disappear if he let go.

Regulus held him there.

The smell of damp lingered. But he held on anyway. They stayed like that for a while — curled into each other on the ruined floor of their living room, as the late afternoon light slanted through the half-grimy windows and made the cracks in the walls stand out sharper than before.

Eventually, Draco shifted.

Not a lot — just enough to draw back a little, still clutching Regulus’ sleeve.

Regulus gave a small, tired smile. “Want to see if your books are still in one piece?”

Draco nodded.

They went room by room, step by cautious step, a soft and mostly silent inspection of their half-ruined kingdom. Regulus crouched down to retrieve fallen plush animals, rearranged crooked shelves, ran a hand across the dusty frame of Draco’s little desk as the boy darted ahead to check on his hidden Lego stash.

In the bedroom, he found the pile of clothes they’d left behind — Draco’s jumpers, socks, a few of the button-downs Barty had insisted made him look “devastatingly proper.” The drawer they’d once kept them in had swollen from damp and wouldn’t close properly anymore. Regulus knelt beside it, folding each item with deliberate care, his hands moving on autopilot even as his chest sank heavier with every pass.

He could hear Draco moving around the flat, calling out quietly when he found something he’d missed. His voice was steadier now, but it had the low hum of someone trying not to think too hard. Regulus understood that kind of quiet.

He was living it. When he stood, he tried on a smile and turned to find Draco standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his little face set in a frown.
“Do I have to sleep here tonight?” he asked warily. “It smells like socks.”

Regulus huffed a soft laugh. “You do, but I’ll leave the windows open and light two candles. One of them is the ‘cinnamon bakery’ one you like. Remember that?”

Draco squinted, still unconvinced. Regulus walked over slowly and placed the folded shirts on the edge of the crooked bed.
“Tell you what,” he said, keeping his voice light, hopeful — not too much, not too bright. “Tomorrow, after school, if you’re up for it… we can take a detour.”

Draco looked up at him. “To the park?”

Regulus shook his head. “To IKEA.”

That got a blink. “…Why?”