Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If you don’t know the kind of person I am

and I don’t know the kind of person you are

a pattern that others made may prevail in the world

and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,

a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break

sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood

storming out to play through the broken dike—”

A Ritual to Read to Each Other, William E. Stafford

Regulus Black stands under the archway of the main entrance of Grimmauld Place, his mother by his side.

“I expect to hear about your grades soon,” Walburga reminds him. Her face seems harsher in the shadows cast by the towering silhouette of the house.

“You will, Mother,” Regulus agrees, feeling like a child under her scrutiny, his luggage awkwardly abandoned at his feet.

“And do not forget to call for the security escort if you plan to leave campus. No exceptions.”

Regulus should offer verbal confirmation but can only nod. He is more than familiar with these terms; they were thoroughly discussed as soon as he chose to attend Hogwarts University. As the politician she is, Walburga crushed Regulus throughout the negotiations. He considers himself lucky enough to have avoided a full-time security detail; being followed by heavily conspicuous government guards would have certainly put a damper on his so-called normal university experience.

Walburga seems satisfied by his tacit acquiescence. Regulus knows better than to hope for a hug, but he is still disappointed when his mother doesn’t touch him at all. The only weight on his skin is cast by her gaze, as sterling and sharp as a blade.

“Do not disappoint me,” she says at last, more of a dismissal than a farewell.

This is what Regulus gets after a lifetime of obedience.

Do not disappoint me.

He recalls another late summer day, a twisted reflection of this very moment. Regulus had stood by his mother as she saw Sirius off. Make me proud, she’d said, then. He wonders if Sirius’s failure has lowered her expectations or if this is the best she has ever expected of Regulus.

Do not disappoint me.

“I won’t, Mother,” Regulus says, swallowing the hurt that blossoms in his chest. “I promise.”

Walburga offers him a curt nod. Further dismissal. Regulus hastily gathers his expensive luggage and carries it down the marble steps until the driver takes it from his hands. He looks up at his mother one last time, but she has already disappeared into the house.

·:★:·

The private student flat smells like floral disinfectant underlined with persistent cigarette ash.

Regulus stands by the doorway for a moment, his shoes just shy of the threshold, taking it all in. The pictures his mother’s assistant showed him did the place little justice. It’s much larger than he expected: a clean, modern layout meant for five students, though it will only house two.

A matter of security, Walburga had informed him.

“A controlled environment is better for your safety,” she’d said, with a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Controlled.

“Are you just going to stand there looking conflicted, or are you coming in?” Barty’s voice drifts from somewhere deeper in the flat. A blast of music quickly follows it; the sort of angry poseur punk that endeavors to irritate whatever ghost of parental authority dares to linger in the walls.

As Regulus steps inside, he wonders just how predictable he is if Barty knew what he was doing without even looking. The door shuts behind him with a quiet thud, and it feels more like the sealing of a tomb than his one shot at freedom. He rolls his suitcase across the sleek wood floor, passing the minimalist kitchen and the large open-plan living area dominated by a sprawling brown leather sofa that already looks like it’s been jumped on.

“Don’t get too excited,” Barty says, appearing from the hallway. His hair is as unruly as ever, his grin sharp and bright. “The place might look like an interior designer’s wet dream right now, but give it a week, and it’ll be full of life and empty liquor bottles. I have a case of whiskey in my room.”

Despite himself, Regulus smiles. “Are you assuming I’ll drink?” he quips.

“Are you assuming I’ll need your help to drain the bottles?” Barty retorts. “You can stick to the blood of Jesus if you want.”

Regulus just shakes his head, but his smile widens. Barty always talks like this — loud and bold and blasphemous — as if he’s on a mission to desecrate every space he enters. However, beneath all that, lies something steady and soothingly familiar. They’ve been inseparable for most of their lives, best friends throughout their entire stay at posh boarding schools. It’s been only two weeks since they saw each other, but Regulus has missed him.

Barty flops down on the couch like he owns the place. To be fair, he sort of does until their lease is up. “You took your time getting here,” he comments, looking up at Regulus with one leg hooked over the armrest.

He shrugs and moves toward the hallway. “My mother insisted on one last security briefing. She thinks I’ll be assassinated between classes.”

Barty scoffs. “Father has the same idea. He’ll have, like, a dozen undercover agents hanging around the building while I’m in class.” He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why he bothered — a bit of martyrdom could only help the reelection campaign, right?”

Regulus doesn’t answer. He hates that Barty can talk about his own death with such humorous nonchalance. Regulus might not be worried about his own safety, but he is glad that Barty has official security. The Crouch name rings louder than Black. Prime Minister trumps Deputy Prime Minister, after all.

At the silence, Barty cranes his neck to look at Regulus. “Hey, I was kidding,” he says, voice softer. “No one is being assassinated. You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I know,” Regulus replies, embarrassed by this overreaction. He jiggles the handle on his luggage. “I’ll drop this in my room. Give me a moment.”

The corridor feels a little too long. He pushes open the first door and finds the space beyond already claimed by Barty’s clutter. The next door he tries is definitely his. His things were delivered ahead of time, boxes stacked neatly in one corner, the bed already made with monogrammed linens, which Regulus is sure were his mother’s idea.

Everything is in place. Everything is clean.

A blank slate.

He carefully places his luggage next to the bed and lingers by the window, staring out across the complex. From here, Regulus can see the other row of student flats, a neat mirror of their own. The sound of running steps calls his attention to the courtyard below. It’s a student returning from a jog: a tall boy with the messiest hair Regulus has ever seen. Shirtless.

Regulus turns away from the window.

“Come on,” Barty calls from the living room. “I found a questionable pizza place that dares deliver to this bourgeois fortress. Let’s eat some greasy shit. You can unpack after you’ve had your first taste of real freedom.”

“Real freedom,” Regulus echoes quietly, the words foreign in his mouth.

When he returns to the living space, Barty is already on his phone, adding a ridiculous number of toppings to their order. Regulus sits down across from him, perching on the edge of the couch with poise he can never quite shed.

“Don’t look so grim,” Barty says as he finishes the order. “I know they expect us to keep our heads down and smile for the press, but this is uni. We’re meant to fuck shit up. It’s part of the experience.”

Oh, to be as optimistic as Barty. Regulus sighs. “You say that like it’s easy.”

Barty shrugs. “For me? It is.”

Regulus lets out a dry laugh. “Of course it is. You thrive on chaos.”

“And you need some.” Barty leans forward, all elbows and mischief. “You’ve spent your whole life being perfect, and what has it gotten you?”

“Access to this flat, for one,” Regulus replies, gesturing around them.

“Exactly! So now that you’ve won the gilded cage, maybe try climbing out of it.”

Regulus doesn’t know how to answer. He’s always envied Barty’s courage, how he meanders through the rules like they are mere annoyances in his path. Regulus has never been able to do the same. Not without hearing her voice in his head, all those speeches about the distinction between good and bad, about the choice between eternal peace or torment.

He shifts uncomfortably, aware of the cross still tucked under his shirt. He hasn’t properly prayed in months, but he still wears it as armor. Or a monument of guilt.

They descend into easier topics while Barty scrolls through Netflix in search of a movie that will please them both. It is a nearly impossible task, and the doorbell rings before they reach a decision.

Barty springs up. “Pizza,” he announces, already halfway to the door. “This is the start of your downfall, Reggie. Savor it.”

Regulus winces at the nickname but lets it pass. He watches as Barty chats with the delivery boy as if they’ve known each other for decades. His friend has the kind of magnetic charm that effortlessly draws people in. Regulus has always been happy to hide on the outskirts of his orbit. He’s good at it, too. Regulus had a lot of practice with Sirius.

The pizza box lands on the glass coffee table with a concerning flapping sound. Regulus peeks beneath the cheap cardboard like something might jump out and bite him.

“We’re going to be okay here,” Barty says, throwing himself on the couch once more. He reaches for a slice without bothering with plates or napkins. “We’ve got time. We’ve got each other. We’ve got… whatever the hell this is.” He pokes at one of the toppings on their pizza. “We don’t have to be our parents. Not here.”

Regulus wants to believe him. He wants to believe that a new flat, a new school, and a new city can somehow change the truth of who he is, or at least quiet the voice that points out his every wrongdoing. He doesn’t. Can’t.

However, Regulus has his best friend, questionable fast food, and years of academic excellence to help him in his classes. He hopes it will be enough.

·:★:·

The flat is quiet when Regulus wakes. Outside the window, the world is already bright; the sun seems reluctant to allow summer to bleed into autumn. He spends a few minutes fidgeting with the cross around his neck and staring at the ceiling, empty of the glow-in-the-dark stars that gleamed above him back at Grimmauld Place. Regulus doesn’t miss them as much as he misses the memories of balancing on Sirius’s shoulders as he tried to assemble both of their constellations in his personal sky.

When he finally drags himself out of bed, Regulus wonders if Sirius would pick up if he called. Probably not.

Years of sharing a dorm at school taught him that Barty is a heavy sleeper, but Regulus still tries to be as quiet as possible while showering and dressing, if only out of habit. He makes no sound above the familiar rhythm of the snores drifting from the room down the hall.

His Walburga-approved first-day outfit has been hanging inside the small closet since he unpacked, and he is somewhat glad that he won’t spend half his morning obsessing over what to wear. Regulus even likes it: a pair of dark slacks and a jumper in muted green. His shirt is ironed crisp beneath it, and he adjusts the collar three times in the mirror before deciding it looks presentable enough.

Do not disappoint me.

Regulus doesn’t bother with breakfast. He rarely does when he’s alone. Considering Barty has no early classes this semester (he declared they were a tool of institutional oppression and a borderline violation of the Geneva Convention), Regulus supposes this will be a regular occurrence in his new routine.

Once the clock ticks into an acceptable time to leave for class, Regulus stands by the door for a moment, gathering the courage to slip out of the flat. The air in the corridor smells faintly of floor polish and fresh coffee drifting from another unit. He locks up, already running through the map of the campus in his head.

It’s just class, Regulus tells himself, you can do it.

As if a greater force is eager to prove him wrong, the door across the hall swings open.

Regulus freezes.

The boy who steps out looks indigent in his beat-up trainers, hoodie, and gym shorts that really shouldn’t count as legal coverage. It’s especially preposterous when contrasted with Regulus’s polished, professional outfit. His wire-framed glasses are crooked on his nose, and his hair is damp from a recent shower, dark curls clinging to his forehead in undefined loops. He looks both half-awake and annoyingly radiant.

Regulus recognizes him immediately.

The jogger.

The one who insists on running shirtless twice a day right under Regulus’s window, showing off the golden expanse of his muscles, glistening with sweat. Regulus has only managed to endure his existence by closing the curtains and avoiding prolonged exposure to such indecency.

“You must be one of the neighbors,” the boy says, far too cheerfully for such an early hour. “Morning!”

“Morning,” Regulus replies with a short nod; enough to be polite but far from welcoming. 

They reach the lift at the same time. Regulus presses the button and stares at the numbers, willing them to descend faster. He doesn’t look at his neighbor, but he can still feel his presence; it is loud even in silence.

“I’m James, by the way,” the boy says after a beat. “James Potter. Flat 4B.”

Regulus offers another reluctant nod. “Regulus Black,” he says, bracing for the spark of familiarity, the questions. Black? Like Walburga Black? That bitch in the government?

Fortunately, James latches onto his first name instead. “Regulus, huh? That sounds so regal, like a Roman general or a Bond villain or— Oh, I know! An intergalactic overlord!”

“It’s a star,” Regulus says, if only to stop the rambling.

“Oh, that’s even cooler,” James tells him, sounding annoyingly sincere. “There’s nothing cool with my name. It’s boring.”

You have the apostle and the King James Bible, Regulus thinks. He doesn’t voice it. “It is not boring,” he says instead, keeping his tone as disinterested as possible without sounding rude. James doesn’t need the incentive. “It’s a classic.”

“A classic.” James snorts. “It’s boring, but I don’t mind it. I already have enough excitement with a middle name like Fleamont.”

Regulus stares at him, blinking. “Fleamont?”

“It was my dad’s name, though he went by Monty.” James chuckles. “It’s weird, but I like it. It’s a nice conversation starter; it even got you to finally look me in the eyes.”

Despite himself, Regulus snorts something almost like a laugh. James grins wider, far too pleased with himself.

The lift finally arrives. They step in, and Regulus edges toward the corner farthest from James’s ample… energy.

James slings his backpack over his shoulder as he presses the ground floor button. Regulus tries not to stare at the collection of multicolored pins adorning it, including a bi pride flag.

“So, where are you headed?” James asks.

“Class.”

James lifts an eyebrow as if Regulus’s lack of cooperation is amusing. “No shit. I meant, like, what building?”

“H,” Regulus replies readily. He has his entire schedule already memorized.

“Oh! Same! Are you taking Introduction to Ethics, perchance?”

They have the same class; this is just his luck. Regulus hesitates, searching for a way out until he realizes there isn’t one. “Yes,” he admits at last.

“Perfect!” James beams, lighting up further, which Regulus would not have believed possible. “We can walk together.”

Regulus barely restrains a sigh. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to. First days are less weird when you’ve got a familiar face.” James leans against the metal wall of the lift, arms crossed and biceps bulging. “And I feel like we’re already more than acquainted with how much I’ve seen you watch me from your window.”

Regulus chokes on his own spit. “What?! I do not watch you!” he protests, entirely appalled. “It’s not my fault I can’t look out my window without being confronted with…” He gestures vaguely towards James.

“I don’t mind if you watch.” James gives him a lazy, lopsided smile. “It’d be a shame if no one appreciated the view.”

Regulus blinks, unsure if it’s arrogance or humor. Either way, it’s entirely inappropriate. “Do you say these things to everyone you just met?”

James tilts his head. “Only the pretty ones who look like they want to crawl out of their skin when I speak.”

Regulus turns back to the lift doors. “Maybe you should take that as a sign to shut up.”

“I’m not very good at that,” James says with irksome nonchalance.

Mercifully, the doors slide open, and Regulus steps out quickly, hoping to end the conversation with distance. James is not deterred and effortlessly keeps pace with him with his ridiculously long legs.

They descend the front steps side by side. Regulus inhales the crisp morning air and hopes they will be able to walk in silence. He isn’t so lucky. James soon continues the conversation as if he’s been waiting all night to talk to someone, and Regulus wonders if his flat mates are already sick of his chatter.

“So, what’s your major?” James casually asks as if he hasn’t just accused Regulus of bloody ogling him.

“Political Philosophy,” Regulus replies, cursing the manners that have been drilled into him from a young age. He is physically incapable of ignoring a question.

James hums. “Like Political Science?”

“No, it’s more… theoretical. No current geopolitics or campaign analysis. We focus on thinkers, ideologies, revolutions.”

“Sounds intense.” James whistles. “Do you all just sit around quoting Machiavelli all the time?”

“Not yet,” Regulus deadpans. “Maybe next semester.”

James laughs, then says, “I’m majoring in Sociology.”

It is not a question, so Regulus doesn’t answer. He is glad when they finally make it into the lecture building with its old stone walls and arched windows.

“You don’t really talk much, huh?” James asks, absentmindedly pulling on his hoodie strings. 

“Not if I can help it.”

James raises both brows. “You’re like the opposite of a labradoodle.”

Regulus’s steps falter. “I… What?”

“You know. Quiet. Neat. Labradoodles are, like, all heart and drool and chaos. You’re more like… I dunno, a greyhound.”

Regulus opens his mouth, closes it, and eventually settles on, “That’s a weirdly specific metaphor.”

“Thank you,” James says, though Regulus definitely did not mean it as a compliment.

He doesn’t say anything after that, and fortunately neither does James. Regulus focuses on maneuvering through the small crowd in the corridor, students gathering in clusters, holding phones and coffees and printed syllabi.

The volume rises as they push through the doors, all the voices echoing in the cavernous space. James trails after him like an unwanted beam of sunlight seeping through a crack in the blinds. Regulus slows his pace, searching for— Ah, right there. While the first row is mostly empty, the second one is packed, and Regulus settles into a seat between two already occupied chairs.

James doesn’t look offended by the evasion maneuver. He only smiles down at him. “I’m more of a back row kind of guy,” James says. “I’ll see you around, Regulus.”

No, you won’t, Regulus thinks, his ears still ringing from all the chatter. Not if I can help it.

·:★:·

Regulus does, in fact, see James around.

They only share one class, but James always seems to be in the same building as Regulus, even when they attend different lectures. Not to mention, they always eat in the same cafeteria at similar times. Regulus can’t step out of his flat without bumping into the messy-haired menace at least twice.

(His curtains are now perennially closed to avoid seeing James without leaving the flat.)

As the first week of classes comes to an end, Regulus wonders if James is following him, but quickly dismisses the thought as paranoia instilled by all the security briefings he was forced to attend. It’s not like James has sought him out after that first day; their interactions are limited to fleeting greetings or awkward waving whenever they see each other in the corridors. Regulus hasn’t made any other acquaintances to compare and surmises it must be a case of the Baader-Meinhof effect. James keeps catching his attention like a newly learned word, and that’s why it feels like he’s everywhere.

Weird neighbor aside, university turns out to be just as Regulus expected.

He excels in all his classes. Regulus was always built for structure, thriving amid long essays and theory-heavy lectures that reward silence and attentiveness. He sits near the front and divides himself between listening and taking notes. His only shortcoming shows itself when public speaking, which is quite ironic for someone studying politics. Regulus only participates in class discussions when called upon, which unfortunately happens frequently because every single professor knows his name.

Regulus is aware that all the faculty received word ahead of his — and Barty’s — arrival at the university. Probably even had one of those meetings that could have been an e-mail to discuss the same security protocols that Regulus knows by heart. This hasn’t endeared anyone to him, so Regulus keeps his head low and focuses on achieving academic excellence in hopes of proving that he is worth all the trouble. He does his readings, submits everything early, and not once acts like the entitled nepo baby everyone expects him to be.

As weeks pass and assignments are graded, Regulus cements his place at the top of the class. He gains the respect of his professors but not his peers.

He doesn’t make any friends.

Regulus is not openly hated or ignored, people are just… wary of him. He supposes his last name and oddly formal clothes are part of it, the rest being blamed on his reclusive personality. The way his classmates regard him reminds Regulus of being a prefect back at school, someone not to be crossed but also not befriended.

He doesn’t mind. Regulus was never suited for an exciting social life, and Barty makes up for his déficit in human interaction by speaking enough for three people. His best friend insists on oversharing about all the drinking and partying and shagging he’s been doing. (Along with his impeccable grades because Barty has to be annoying like that.)

Regulus spends most of his free time either studying or reading. Barty still tries to convince him to attend at least one of the myriad of parties that seem to occur on campus at all times. Regulus always declines, but Barty insists that he will one day say yes, that he is one well-timed identity crisis away from being a rebel. It’s all in good fun because, despite his badgering, Barty is the one person who never expects Regulus to be something he isn’t.

Barty isn’t all about partying either. In his quest for independence, he’s learning how to feed himself. They spend most school nights in the flat, talking or watching films while they eat the surprisingly good dishes Barty concocts. Regulus is always glad to be spared from bland cafeteria food or overly greasy takeout.

Overall, Regulus is happy enough with his university experience.

At least until his Intro to Ethics professor bursts his bubble on an otherwise innocuous Monday morning lecture.

“I decided to do a little tweaking on our program,” Professor Flitwick says with a too-cheerful smile, “and your next assignment shall be completed in pairs!”

Regulus goes still.

Pairs. God help him. This is a disaster.

Why did Flitwick have to change this now? Regulus already had three topics outlined for this assignment. He was excited about it.

Despite the initial groans of protest, most students are already shifting in their seats, eyes gravitating toward friends or acquaintances. Regulus doesn’t move. He doesn’t know anyone in this class.

Well, anyone but James.

“Partner up with whoever’s beside you,” Flitwick adds, which causes another wave of groans.

Regulus reluctantly turns to the girl beside him. She’s tall and wiry, with jet-black hair and far too much eyeliner for such an early hour. She looks like someone who knows how to throw a punch, and Regulus absentmindedly thinks that Sirius would have liked her.

“Guess that’s us,” she says noncommittally. “I’m Emmeline Vance.”

“Regulus Black,” he replies, resigned.

“Do you have a topic?” Emmeline asks, straight to the point. Regulus appreciates it.

He allows her to take her pick among his outlines, and they proceed to divide the work. They decide deadlines, formatting, and even citation style without a single disagreement. It’s seamless.

Regulus thinks maybe, just maybe, it’ll be fine.

When class ends, Regulus packs up quickly. “See you Wednesday,” he says politely before joining the throngs of students slipping into the corridor. Regulus keeps a brisk pace. He wants to make it to the library before his favorite table is taken.

It takes him almost a minute to realize Emmeline is following him.

“Hey,” she calls out, catching up with him just before the stairwell.

Regulus turns, confused and cautious. “Yes?”

Emmeline crosses her arms. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this,” she starts, voice harder than before. “But I can’t stay quiet in face of such bullshit.”

Regulus blinks. “I— Pardon?”

“I just don’t know how you can sit in a bloody Ethics class and pretend you’re not a hypocrite,” she says, gesturing at him with one hand.

His breath stutters. “I don’t know what you mean,” Regulus manages to reply once he finds his voice.

“Oh, come on, Black,” Emmeline scoffs. “You are a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them. Didn’t you see the debate yesterday? The— the atrocities your mother said?”

“I don’t—” Regulus swallows, trying to push through the lump in his throat. “I am not responsible for what my mother says.”

“Maybe not,” Emmeline tells him, “but you haven’t exactly gone out of your way to disagree with her, have you? Not in the press. Not in class. Nothing. And that silence? That’s quite loud.”

He feels his stomach twist. Regulus hasn’t seen the debate in question, but he knows that he doesn’t agree with whatever hateful words his mother spilled.

He doesn’t.

Does he?

It doesn’t matter either way because… What is he supposed to say? That he disavows the most important person in his life?

Do not disappoint me.

Regulus opens his mouth. No words come out.

“You can write all the sanctimonious essays you want, but they won’t make you a good person,” Emmeline continues, slinging her bag higher over her shoulder. “Not when you are complicit with fucking hate speech.”

Regulus flinches.

“Goodbye,” she says, derisively sweet, “see you Wednesday.”

He stands there, hands clenched at his sides, unsure what to do with the sharp shame carving itself under his ribs because…

“She’s right, isn’t she?”

At first, Regulus thinks the words are an echo of his own thoughts, but they are soon followed by a cacophony of agreements. He then notices the small crowd of students that has formed near the staircase, staring at him like a particularly pathetic zoo exhibit.

Regulus wants to disappear. He wants to be back in his room, with the curtains drawn and the world locked outside. Better yet, he wants to be back at Grimmauld Place, hidden under his covers while his brother tells him it will be all right.

What he wants doesn’t matter. He is trapped in this corridor, limbs numb, and throat closing in.

“Hey, Regulus,” a familiar, loud voice says. Regulus turns around and finds James parting the crowd like the Red Sea. His tone is light, but his eyes are trained on Regulus with clear intention. “Let’s get going to the library. We need to work on our Methods assignment, remember?”

Regulus can’t bring himself to reply, but that doesn’t stop James from wrapping an arm around his shoulders and dragging him away from the onlookers. He lets himself be guided, lacking the mental wherewithal to do anything other than put one foot in front of the other.

James doesn’t let go of him until they make it to the back of the building, entirely out of sight. Only then does Regulus feel like he can breathe again.

After giving him a minute to recompose himself, James asks, “You okay?”

Regulus nods too quickly to be convincing, and James sighs.

“Regulus—”

“I’m fine,” he says quietly. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” James replies.

Regulus hates that this is the time James chooses to be succinct. He has no idea what enough means and can’t muster the energy to ask. He stays silent, and a large, calloused hand finds its way to his shoulder. Regulus flinches away from it.

“Come on,” James says, pulling his hand back. “Let’s go to the library.”

Regulus doesn’t argue.

The library is quieter than usual because few students are lucky enough to have a free period on Monday mornings. Still, James insists they take one of the small study rooms tucked in the corner of the second floor for privacy.

James doesn’t speak beyond asking Regulus if he’d like to further open the blinds to let more of the soft, natural light stream through the window. Once they’re settled, he pulls a large textbook from his bag, opens it flat on the desk, and starts highlighting and annotating with methodical focus. James hums something tuneless and barely audible under his breath — Regulus doesn’t know if it’s meant to comfort or distract. It does a bit of both.

Regulus unzips his bag slowly, mostly because he can’t stand the idea of being openly idle. He flips through his folder and selects the notes he’d taken at Ethics class before everything went downhill. His hand moves on instinct, underlining sentences and circling dates, but the information slides through his mind like water through a sieve.

His head is too full of Emmeline’s words, of the crowd, of how long it took him to notice they were watching.

Complicit.

The word rings loudest. Regulus can’t escape it. It clings to the inside of his lungs like smoke.

Sirius had used it, too.

Regulus pushes the memory away.

His focus drifts toward his classmate instead, and either James doesn’t notice the eyes on him, or he doesn’t care. He doesn’t look up or speak, disproving his previous claims that he’s not very good at staying quiet. Regulus observes how his brow furrows in concentration and decides he likes James better this way. It’s oddly soothing to see James bite his lip and squint at the page as if it personally offended him.

Regulus doesn’t know how much time passes, only that the silence stretches long enough for his panic to dull, not entirely gone but downgraded to his usual brand of tightly managed anxiety.

At some point, James glances at his watch. “Let’s get some lunch,” he says, already putting his books away.

Regulus feels odd about his casual tone, like it’s a given that they’ll stay together. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, as the idea of leaving this little secluded haven reignites his panic.

“I think I’ll stay,” Regulus says. He straightens his posture and stares down at his notes in an attempt to seem busy. “Study a bit more.”

“Regulus,” James sighs. “You haven’t read a word in two hours. Besides, your stomach is growling nonstop.”

As if on cue, his insides twist and grumble in demand for food. They must be going at it for a while now, and Regulus is embarrassed that James noticed when he didn’t.

“Fine,” Regulus begrudgingly relents, slipping his notes back into the folder just to avoid looking at James.

They walk to the closest cafeteria, and Regulus learns that James’s silence is only reserved for the sanctitude of libraries. His chatter is constant, though different from their first interaction. James doesn’t try to engage Regulus in conversation; he simply spills random anecdotes at his feet. He talks about the stray cat that lives near their building and his quest to befriend it on his jogs, then shows Regulus several pictures of the fluffy critter. James also complains about his unruly flat mates, which makes Regulus glad he only has Barty to contend with.

At first, Regulus only nods at the appropriate moments to be polite, but James soon manages to coax a smile or two out of him. It’s almost enough to hush the sharp voice of paranoia insisting that everyone in the cafeteria is watching him, whispering behind their paper cups. His humiliating altercation with Vance must have made its rounds through the gossip mill, right?

The thought makes him queasy as he picks at his sad cheese sandwich, eating just enough to be able to take his midday pill with it. It’s better to focus on James and his ongoing diatribe about his flat mates.

“…and they somehow got rid of the couch in favor of a ping-pong table.” James sighs in consternation. “I’m honestly too old for their shit.”

Regulus tilts his head, and the thought that has sat in the back of his head for a while now unwittingly escapes through his lips. “You do look too old to be a first-year.”

James stops short. “Wow. Rude.”

“I—” Regulus sputters, blood rising to his cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, don’t mind an old man like me,” James interrupts, heavily leaning onto his wounded act. “I’ll just go update my will and sign up for life insurance. Who knows how long I have left?”

“I meant it as an observation,” Regulus says, still burning with embarrassment despite the humorous glint in James’s eyes. “Not an insult.”

“I know,” James tells him. He offers a gentle smile to put Regulus out of his misery, but it only flusters him further. “You’re right, anyway. I didn’t really see the appeal of uni, so I decided to— Er, take a couple of gap years. My mum wasn’t thrilled about it.”

Regulus nods slowly. “That makes sense.”

“Yes,” James hums thoughtfully. “If only I had known she was trying to spare me from being bullied as a geriatric frosh.”

Regulus rolls his eyes at him. “Shut up, Potter.”

“Told ya, I’m not very good at that,” James reminds him. “How about you? No gap year?”

As if his mother would ever allow that. “Came here right out of Sixth Form.”

“I’m not surprised, considering how much of a swot you are,” James teases.

Regulus has no time to defend himself before James launches into another story, this one about the flat mate who thinks socks are disposable, one-use items.

When they’re done with their food, James tosses both their trays. He doesn’t ask where Regulus is headed next; he must have noticed their schedules are strangely aligned.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your class.” 

Regulus stops just outside the cafeteria doors. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” James replies easily. “But I want to.”

“You’ve already done enough.”

“No, I haven’t,” James argues, “not while you’re still doing that thing with your eyebrows that makes you look like a kicked puppy.”

Regulus glares at him, but he can’t quite manage to add any vitriol to it.

“Don’t give me that attitude. I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“We’re friends now?” Regulus asks, brows raised.

“Sure,” James says. “Unless you want to call me your emotional support elderly neighbor. I’ll answer to either.”

Regulus huffs a quiet but genuine laugh. “I’m really fine, though,” he says after a beat. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

James offers only a tight-lipped smile to that and starts their trek toward the humanities wing. It’s not far, just across the quad and past the old brick building with the clock tower. James doesn’t begin another conversation, for which Regulus is grateful. They fall into a comfortable rhythm, steps aligned without trying.

When they reach his classroom, Regulus slows his pace. “This is me,” he says unnecessarily.

James nods.

Regulus hesitates. The words stick to his throat for a moment, but he forces them out. “Thanks,” he says finally, “for getting me out of there.”

James smiles, just a tiny curve of his mouth. “Any time.”

Regulus nods and disappears inside.

·:★:·

The following couple of days are spent much the same way, namely with James acting as an annoyingly tall and loquacious shadow.

He doesn’t disrupt Regulus’s life, per se, he just… inserts himself into the cracks of it. James was already everywhere Regulus looked, and now he’s everywhere but closer. They walk from class building to class building, study at the library, and eat lunch at the cafeteria. Fortunately, James seems attuned to Regulus’s tolerance for chatter and sometimes just sits nearby, scrolling through his phone with one foot bouncing in a rhythm no one else hears.

Regulus is… unused to it. The attention. The casual care.

He lets it happen.

Or rather, Regulus stops trying to resist it, and it takes embarrassingly little time for him to find himself anticipating James’s presence.

Despite what James says, they’re not exactly friends. Regulus doesn’t feel at ease around him. For all of James’s warmth and ceaseless charm, Regulus can’t shake the strange, restless flutter in his belly whenever he’s near. It’s not fear or discomfort, but it’s… remarkably close.

He doesn’t know what to name it.

Maybe that’s why, when Regulus arrives at the flat on Wednesday evening, he’s grateful for the distraction of someone else’s emotions, even if they’re negative.

Barty is fuming.

Regulus knows it the second he opens the door. Beneath the smell of roasted garlic, the air simmers with energy, a storm cloud about to crack thunder.

“Welcome home,” Barty calls from the kitchen, voice tight. “Hope you like spaghetti alla nerano. I made enough for an army.”

“It smells delicious,” Regulus says, carefully hanging his coat and bag on the rack by the door. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Barty moves to stare at Regulus over the counter, eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Regulus blinks, confused. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Barty asks, grabbing a couple of plates straight from the dishwasher. “About what happened with that condescending, self-righteous bitch?”

Oh, that, Regulus thinks forlornly.

“Her name is Emmeline,” he says, moving to help Barty set the table, if only to keep his hands occupied.

“I don’t give a shit about her name! She ambushed you in the middle of a corridor and called you a fascist in front of half your class! Who does she think she is? She doesn’t fucking know you!”

“I— I didn’t want to talk about it,” Regulus mutters. “It wouldn’t do any good. It’s done.”

“It’s not done,” Barty snaps, stepping closer to him. “There’s a fucking video, Regulus.”

Regulus’s blood goes cold. “What?”

“Some guy from the mechanical engineering cohort showed it to me like it was a bloody meme.” Barty gestures wildly with the serving spoon in his hand. “I made him delete it, but if it reached the STEM side of campus, it must be everywhere.”

Regulus sways, ever so slightly, and grips the back of the nearest chair for purchase.

A video.

He can’t breathe.

Barty watches him for a beat, and his voice softens. “Hey. Sit down, okay? Eat something.”

Regulus means to nod but can’t move. He stands there, rooted in place, heart pounding in his throat.

God doesn’t spare him a moment to gather his bearings. A loud, shrill sound echoes through the silence, making him flinch.

His phone is ringing.

Regulus doesn’t need to look at the screen. The ringtone is specific and impossible to ignore. Never mind that this call has been scheduled for a week now.

“I have to take this,” he says, voice rough. Barty doesn’t stop him as he slips away to his room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

He answers the call on the third ring. “Hello, Mother.”

Walburga’s voice is as icy as ever. “Regulus. How are your classes?”

“Fine,” Regulus replies automatically. “I submitted a couple more assignments and had a pop quiz this week. I’ll update the spreadsheet with my grades as soon as I hear back from my professors.”

“Very well,” she says.

Regulus can’t find anything else to say, and silence lingers. He can picture his mother on the other side of the line, sitting in her office, smelling his fear like a bloodhound.

“What is wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing. I’m just tired,” he tells her and hopes that it’ll be enough.

It’s not. Her voice sharpens. “Regulus,” Walburga says his name like a reprimand. He feels it like an ache in his teeth. “What is it?”

Regulus hesitates.

He could lie, could say he overslept and is upset about being late for class. Regulus might have if it weren’t for the video. He knows better than to expect it to stay hidden from his mother.

“There was—” Regulus clears his throat. Exhales. “—a misunderstanding. A student confronted me about your latest remarks. I didn’t start anything. I tried to de-escalate.”

Silence. Then,

“You tried to de-escalate.”

It is not a question, but he replies anyway. “Yes.”

“Was that your instinct?” Walburga demands. “To appease? To submit?”

“No,” Regulus says, a little too fast. “It wasn’t like that.”

Her tone sharpens further. “You should speak up for what we believe in, Regulus. You are not there to play meek. You are there to carry a legacy.”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Politics cannot be made with evasion,” she snaps. “Without defending our ideals.”

Regulus grips the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles ache. “I am sorry, Mother.”

“I have to go,” Walburga says, unwilling to acknowledge his pathetic apology. His heart cleaves in half: one grief and one relief. “Do not disappoint me.”

The call ends before he can say goodbye.

Regulus stares at the phone screen for a long time.

Do not disappoint me.

The words linger in his mind, though they are not the reason Regulus feels nauseous, not entirely. He can’t shake the way Walburga spoke of their values, their ideals.

Regulus thinks of Sirius, and his insides twist with unease.

He fidgets with his cross all through dinner. Barty doesn’t comment on it; he just sets down a full plate in front of Regulus and allows them to eat in silence for once.

Well, mostly.

They’re halfway through the meal when Barty looks up. “There’s a party tonight. Come with me?”

Regulus sighs. “Barty.”

“It’s by the greenhouses, so no confined spaces, and I heard the bio sciences crowd is rad.”

“I don’t—”

Barty cuts him off. “I know it’s not your scene, but I promise not to leave your side, and— You’re spiraling, Regulus. It might do you good to get some air.”

Regulus looks down at his practically untouched pasta.

The weight of his mother’s voice is still in his ears. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t eased. He can’t believe it, but Barty might have a good point.

“Fine,” Regulus relents. “I’ll go.”

Barty is stunned for a moment, then a victorious grin spreads across his face.

Regulus pushes a forkful of pasta around his plate and tells himself it’s just a uni party — how bad could it be?

The answer is — very bad.

The bio sciences crowd is chaotic and inexplicably obsessed with frogs and/or fungi. Regulus decides he’d rather stay clear of them entirely when he sees a guy wearing a shirt that says, Ask to see my mushroom! Barty does try to keep his promise, though. He sticks close to Regulus, a drink in hand, offering commentary about everyone in attendance, and desperately trying to get him to have fun.

“See? This is cool, right?” he says, nudging Regulus and wiggling his eyebrows.

“It’s loud,” Regulus replies.

“Nah, you just need another drink!”

Regulus opens his mouth to protest, but Barty is already off on his quest for more alcohol. He returns with another bottle of those suspicious vodka lime cocktails because Regulus wouldn’t touch a beer even if his life depended on it; the smell alone is enough to make him gag.

Barty unscrews the cap, and Regulus accepts it with reluctant fingers. The taste is just as odd as it was at the first sip, but the acid tang of fake lime is enough to make it bearable enough to drink.

He finishes it too quickly.

Another one is thrust into his hand. Barty grins, triumphant. “This is your baptism as a uni student! Make some bad decisions!”

Regulus gives him a withering look, but the edges of his vision are already blurring with intoxication. Even the open space feels too crowded. Someone brushes against his arm, and Regulus leans on Barty to get away from the stranger’s touch.

Barty is babbling about some gossip from the STEM side of the campus when a blonde boy approaches them. He introduces himself, but Regulus doesn’t quite catch his name — Ethan? Evan? — and is too embarrassed to ask for clarification.

The newcomer asks Barty about one of their shared classes, and they proceed to shit-talk their professor. Barty tries to include him in the conversation, going out of his way to provide context, but Regulus still feels like he’s interrupting. He stands there for as long as he can bear it, the vodka fizzing in his bloodstream, and embarrassment rising with every passing second.

Without really deciding to, Regulus blurts, “I’m gonna go find a loo.”

“Want me to come with you?” Barty asks.

At the same time, E-something says, “Sorry to break it to you, mate, but the loo is that.” He points at the tree line.

Regulus scowls. As if he would ever pee in the woods. He acknowledges only Barty. “I’m fine. You can stay. I’ll be right back.”

Barty doesn’t seem too convinced, but Regulus slips away before he can argue.

The greenhouse looms nearby, glass panes gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Regulus walks toward it, not as steady as he’d hoped but not as staggering as he’d feared. The air grows colder as he leaves the crowd behind, and he’s grateful for the sobering chill.

Regulus exhales.

His head is a mess. The vodka has pushed back his anxiety about his mother and that bloody video, but it only allowed… something else to take center stage.

He leans against the greenhouse and pulls out his phone.

James’s name is in his recent contacts. They’d traded numbers earlier that day, and so far, James has sent him three cat pictures and a meme that went right over his head. Regulus replied with a laughing emoji just to be polite.

Regulus stares at the screen now, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could text him. James would come if he invited him, right? He’s always so… social. They’re friendly enough that it wouldn’t be weird.

Would it?

He keeps staring at the screen, pixels blurring before his eyes, and wills the right words to write themselves. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t type.

Regulus wants to see James. Not out of chance or convenience this time. He just… wishes he were here.

He doesn’t know what to do with this thought.

Regulus leans his head back against the glass, trying not to spiral. His hand clenches around the phone, heat bleeding through the case, just as warm as the alcohol in his veins. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, James is standing right in front of him.

“Hey,” James says casually.

Regulus wonders if he did text him after all. Or perhaps summoned him with wishful thinking alone. He stares at James, waiting for the moonlit silhouette to disappear like a mirage. It doesn’t. When he realizes James is indeed real, Regulus means to return the greeting, but the vodka scrambles his thoughts.

“You really are everywhere,” he says instead.

James gives him a tight smile. “Am I?”

Regulus is still trying to formulate a coherent answer when James steps closer and ruins all his hard work. Heat gathers in his cheeks, which is stupid because James isn’t even that close. Not close enough to touch, just… close enough for Regulus to see the concern tucked in his hazel eyes, shining behind the lenses of his glasses.

“You okay?” James asks quietly.

Regulus looks at the ground, at the grass-stained toes of his shoes. “I’m drunk,” he confesses.

James hums like he anticipated this answer. “I can tell. How many did you have?”

“Three?” Regulus replies, though he didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.

“And how many do you usually have?”

“Zero.”

James chuckles. “That would explain why you’re such a lightweight.”

Regulus tries to glare at James but is distracted by the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He wonders if it would tickle against his fingertips and almost reaches out to find out. Fortunately, he stops himself just in time. Unfortunately, he does something almost as embarrassing instead.

“I wanted to text you,” Regulus admits, words as soft as they are clumsy.

James tilts his head, eyes widening slightly and breath hitching.

Oh, Regulus thinks, this is how you look when you’re surprised.

“Why didn’t you?” James asks after a beat.

Regulus shrugs. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t have,” James tells him. “I promise you wouldn’t have.”

There is such startling sincerity in his voice that Regulus feels that… something flutter in his stomach. He desperately hopes he is not about to throw up at James Potter’s feet.

“You’re nice,” Regulus says because it’s true.

James laughs but doesn’t quite meet Regulus’s eyes. “I try to be,” he says, “but I don’t think I’m half as nice as you think I am.”

Regulus wrinkles his nose, feeling almost offended. “Of course you are,” he argues, three days’ worth of suppressed thoughts tumbling down in his head. “You’re nice to me when… well, when you should hate me, really.”

“What?” James frowns. “Why would I hate you?”

They stand there for a moment. The music muffled by distance and the soft glitter of the greenhouse glass reminds Regulus of a bubble. He doesn’t want to burst it yet, so he takes his time studying James’s face, memorizing the slope of his nose and the softness of his cupid’s bow.

Then,

“Because of who I am.”

“Regulus—” James starts, but Regulus doesn’t let him finish.

“I mean, I’m her son,” he says, stressing the word as much as his inebriated tongue will allow. “I’ve seen your pin, and… you know everything she defends, everything she represents. It’s only right if… if you hate her back.”

James watches him for a few seconds, caught somewhere between sadness and anger. “I have… several issues with your mother’s politics. Of course, I do. I’m bi, and my grandparents were immigrants. I know she hates me, and… I guess I do hate her back, but…” He sighs. “You’re not your mother, Regulus.”

Walburga’s voice echoes in his head, telling him to stand up for their ideals.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

James does not respond right away.

He shifts his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets. The worst part is that James doesn’t seem unsure. This silence is entirely for Regulus’s benefit. James is giving him space — space to backtrack, to say he didn’t mean it.

Regulus says nothing.

“I don’t think you share her ideas,” James continues at last. “Not really.”

Regulus lets out a mirthless laugh that’s almost a scoff. “I’m her son.” And I love her.

“We don’t pick our parents, Regulus,” James insists. “Being her son doesn’t make you a bad person, not unless you allow it, not unless you believe what she says.”

Regulus thinks of Sirius and winces. The goddamn vodka makes everything feel closer to the surface, like his skin has gone thin. His mother’s voice rings in his ears again, sharp and cold and godlike.

Do not disappoint me.

“I don’t know what I believe,” Regulus admits, voice barely audible. He presses his palm against the cold frame of the greenhouse behind him, searching for an anchor. “I used to think I did, and it was so much easier. There was one right path, one set of rules. Given to me by my mother, my church, my God. They all told me what to do, how to act, what to want.” He exhales, shaky. “Then my brother left and everything got muddled and… lonely.”

Regulus didn’t really mean to say all that. He glances up at James, despite fearing the judgment he might face — for being weak-minded, for upholding the Black legacy, for drunkenly unloading an existential crisis on him.

James offers only patience.

“That’s just life, love,” he says gently. “It gets quite muddled and lonely at times.”

“And how do I fix it?” Regulus asks, pathetically earnest.

“If you find out, do let me know, yeah?” James chuckles. “Meanwhile, just try not to be so hard on yourself.”

Regulus wants to scoff and brush off the platitude disguised as advice. He would if his brother hadn’t told him the same thing, if only a little more dramatically. Just because she holds us to these impossible standards doesn’t mean we have to do the same, Sirius used to say. You can just breathe, Reggie. You don’t have to earn it. Regulus didn’t believe it then and doesn’t believe it now. He doesn’t know how to exist without guilt.

His little existential crisis is interrupted when James reaches up and absentmindedly brushes a stray curl away from Regulus’s forehead. All thoughts of his brother vanish. Regulus can only think — can only feel the slight brush of James’s skin against his. The odd fluttering inside him returns, more frantic this time, like a bird panicking against a closed glass window.

James breaks the silence at last. “Well,” he says as if he hasn’t just touched Regulus. “As an old man with much more experience, let me loop you in on a secret. Most people don’t have shit figured out. We’re all just acting like we do and trying to decode when — and with whom — it’s safe to stop.”

Regulus doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he doesn’t.

“If it helps,” James adds, stepping a little closer, “you can always stop acting with me.”

Regulus wants to say thank you, but the words knot in his chest. So instead, he shifts awkwardly, trying to deflect. “I should stop drinking,” he murmurs. “Vodka seems to turn me into a sentimental mess.”

James is kind enough to let him off the hook. “You’re not that bad. I cried for a good hour the first time I got pissed,” he says, then taps his index finger against his cheek, considering. “Though the night is young, and you might still shed a few tears. Guess we’ll see.”

“I take back what I said,” Regulus grumbles, though he’s fighting a smile. “You’re not nice at all.”

“Oh, come on, Reg, don’t be like that,” James says, laughter tucked away in the corners of his tone. “I’m being as nice as I can, but making fun of my drunken friends is just inevitable, especially when I’m stone-cold sober.”

Regulus means to ask why James hasn’t drunk at all, as inebriation seems to be the primary goal of this event. He doesn’t get the chance. James moves to lean against the greenhouse as well, standing shoulder to shoulder with Regulus. Or he would if he weren’t so bloody tall.

The fluttering returns, as frenetic as before. Regulus closes his eyes and leans back, banging his head against the glass a little too forcefully.

“Regulus?” James asks, concerned.

“I don’t—” Regulus starts, mightily wishing he could expel this cursed feeling without emptying out his stomach on the grass. “I don’t feel good.”

James instantly reaches for him, large hand splayed on his shoulder, fingers softly pressed into his skin. It’s too much, even through the layers of fabric. Regulus doesn’t pull away this time.

“Are you going to be sick?”

“I don’t think so,” Regulus replies, staring at the grass. “I just…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but James seems to read his mind.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks, ducking so he can catch Regulus’s eyes.

Regulus shakes his head. “I can— I can walk on my own.”

“I’m sure you can,” James says, “but I’d feel better walking with you.”

Refusal sits on the tip of Regulus’s tongue. It’s not even stubbornness. He knows it’s safer to allow James to walk him back to his flat, but… he doesn’t want to acknowledge how much he wants the company.

Just say no, Regulus tells himself.

Alas, the vodka wins.

“Okay,” he relents. “I just need to…”

Regulus pulls out his phone to text Barty and feels a nagging stab of guilt when he sees a couple of unread messages, sent almost ten minutes apart.

Barty

Hey, u ok?

Regulus? Where are you?

With unsteady fingers, he types out a reply.

Regulus

I’m fine. I’m going home.

The message goes from delivered to read in a fraction of a second.

Barty

What? Alone?

Drop your location

I’ll go with you

Regulus

No need. I’m with a friend.

Barty

What???

Who????

A friend friend

Or a friend who wants to shag you?

Regulus

I told you to make bad decisions

But you’re way too drunk for this

Regulus

Just a classmate.

He lives in the same complex.

I’ll text you when I arrive.

The brightness of the screen makes his eyes ache, so Regulus decides this is reassurance enough and pockets his phone. He blinks when he looks up at James, waiting for his vision to adjust. Regulus finds curious eyes trained on him.

“My flat mate,” he explains, though James hasn’t asked anything. “He brought me here, so I’m letting him know I’m leaving.”

“Ah,” James clicks his tongue. “I should have guessed you’d never attend something like this of your own volition.”

Regulus doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He steps away from the greenhouse, a little unsteady but not quite staggering. James offers no commentary or teasing; he just gently places a hand on the small of his back. Not pushing, not even leading, just… there.

The trapped bird inside him goes berserk, but Regulus ignores it. He starts his trek back home, allowing James’s soft touch to anchor him.

·:★:·

Regulus wakes with a pounding head. A mid-morning sunbeam slices through the blinds and lands directly on his face like divine punishment. He gags at the taste in his mouth; it feels like something died in it, probably his dignity.

His first coherent thought is, I’m never drinking again.

He drags himself out of bed with a low groan and all the grace of an extra in Dawn of the Dead. One squinting peek at his phone screen is enough to confirm his fears: Regulus slept through his alarm and missed his first class.

Honestly, who was the nincompoop that decided to throw a party on a Wednesday?

Guilt sprouts in his chest, the kind that knots in his ribs like a prayer unsaid. Regulus gathers enough energy to take a shower by focusing on the bright side. He attended a party and did not (publicly) humiliate himself. He didn’t throw up on James. He made it home safe.

Small mercies.

He washes up slowly and gets dressed even slower. His tangled thoughts about the previous night have continually fed his headache, so Regulus takes two ibuprofen and only emerges from his room when it’s time to leave.

As he’s tying his shoes by the door, Barty appears from the kitchen, eating cold pasta straight from the pot.

“Good morning,” Barty says with a wicked sort of brightness. “You look like shit.”

Regulus gives him a withering look. “Thanks.”

Barty hums. “You missed your first class.”

“I gathered.”

“Serves you right.” Barty crosses his arms, pan handle precariously hooked on his fingers. “You left the party without me.”

“I texted.”

“Not good enough,” Barty replies. “We went together, and you ditched me.”

“Barty,” Regulus sighs, standing. “You were with that guy — Ethan or whatever — and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Evan,” Barty corrects, forgoing his offended stance to eat another forkful of pasta. He’s barely finished chewing when he adds, “And if you didn’t want to hang out with him, you could’ve just said.”

“I just—” Regulus adjusts the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “You didn’t need me there. You can have much more fun with those people than with me.”

“Okay, rude.” Barty scowls. “First of all, my standards are higher than the mushroom-shirt people. Second, I’d have much more fun watching paint dry with you — my best friend — than being drunk and dumb with anyone else.”

Regulus feels a small pang in his chest. He knows that Barty doesn’t — can’t actually mean it, but it still makes him feel like a shitty friend in comparison. His mouth pulls into something reluctant, not quite a smile, but the shape of one.

“I’ll be back right after my afternoon classes,” he says, appeasing. “We can hang out and watch a movie.”

“Better be a good one,” Barty warns.

“I’ll let you pick,” Regulus replies, knowing he’s setting his future self up for misery in the form of an outrageous disrespect to the seventh art. “Also, no cooking for you tonight. We’re eating fancy takeout. My treat.”

That earns him a grin. “I want lobster.”

Regulus rolls his eyes and steps into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

James finds him once it’s time for lunch.

Regulus had spent the entirety of the unbearably long lecture oscillating between taking notes and trying not to freak out about this very moment. He knew they’d see each other — they always do — but this is the first time since the greenhouse and the soft way James had said, You can always stop acting with me.

Maybe it’s stupid, but Regulus had half-convinced himself that something had… shifted. That James would look at him differently after witnessing his maudlin word vomit. However, James seems normal when he appears beside Regulus. Or as normal as James Potter can be.

“Come on,” he says, voice light and unbothered. “Carbs await.”

Regulus blinks at him. “What?”

“Lunch,” James clarifies, already starting toward the stairway. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I am not about to faint,” Regulus mutters a bit petulantly.

“Well, you look like it,” James insists. He says it with a grin, a teasing edge that doesn’t press too hard and — more importantly — doesn’t allude to any embarrassing details of their last encounter.

James is acting entirely casual, and Regulus latches onto the cue to do the same.

They don’t go to the usual cafeteria. James leads him to the café near the east quad, the one with overpriced pastries and aggressively indie playlists. It’s a good call because Regulus probably could not stomach the questionable cafeteria food today. He orders a toastie, which he considers safe enough, and James insists he should get a bottle of water as well.

“If you want to convince me you won’t faint,” James tells him, “get hydrated.”

Regulus doesn’t rise to the bait. He just unscrews the cap and drinks half the bottle. James watches him smugly.

The rest of lunch passes without incident. They talk about the growing number of people on campus using scooters as transport, and then James complains about a reading that felt like academic waterboarding. Regulus laughs before he can stop himself.

As the minutes tick into an hour, Regulus convinces himself that all the… charged moments of their conversation by the greenhouse were in his head.

By the following week, Regulus has already accepted that they are now a duo. It’s comforting to know that James will be there whenever he leaves a lecture, and he’s also very convenient for reaching high shelves in the library.

They don’t touch again, at least not like they did that night. They brush shoulders while walking through packed corridors and knock their knees together while sitting at the same table, but it’s all entirely accidental. James doesn’t brush his hair away from his face or use that annoyingly large hand to anchor him.

Regulus doesn’t know why he notices it, as he never did with Barty, but he tells himself it’s just his usual overthinking.

It’s normal.

However, there is a moment — a small, stupid moment — when they are walking by the football pitch on their way back to their flats. It’s so fast that Regulus only realizes what happened after it’s done. As it happens, he only comprehends that James has an arm around his waist, spinning him back in a bizarre dance move. Then, a stray football zooms past them, right where Regulus would be without James’s intervention.

James releases his hold on Regulus to kick the ball back to its owners, yelling at them to be more careful.

Regulus stands there, frozen. He can still feel the imprint of James’s hand on his waist like a bell that’s still ringing long after it’s been struck.

He likes James’s company too much to think too hard about it.

·:★:·

The study room is silent except for the faint scratch of pen on paper. Regulus is quite focused on his performance of normalcy, so he’s startled when James speaks.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, looking up from his textbook.

Regulus blinks, pen still in hand. “What?”

James tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” he repeats.

“Nothing is wrong,” Regulus tells him.

“Liar,” James retorts, raising his eyebrows. “Something’s up.”

“I’m fine,” Regulus insists.

James just looks at him, and it’s a bit uncanny how quickly he manages to pierce through Regulus’s walls like a cannonball.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” Regulus asks, as miffed as he is resigned.

“You’re twitchy,” James explains, “and you get this very specific crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to look like you’re not spiraling.”

Regulus touches the spot on instinct. “I do not,” he grumbles.

James smirks, triumphant. “You do. So? What’s up with you today?”

His eyes drop to his notes, but Regulus doesn’t see the words. He can’t spare a thought about his essay outline and Rousseau’s view on inequality. It all fades away when confronted with the gray space behind his ribs.

It’s Sirius’s birthday.

Regulus doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to confess he’s been swallowing his tears the entire day because it’s his estranged brother’s birthday, and he’s too scared to call. Not even James can make this better.

“I’ve just been… stressed,” he lies, hopefully more convincingly this time. “Assignments and such.”

James narrows his eyes slightly, clearly wondering what Regulus isn’t telling him. “Is it the Ethics assignment?” he asks. “Is Vance giving you grief over working together?”

“No,” Regulus replies, glad to speak truthfully for once. “We’re done. All communication was mercifully conducted over e-mail.”

“Good,” James hums. “I think I know what your problem is, then. You need to stop studying.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me.” James leans back in his chair. Regulus waits for him to lose balance and topple over, but he doesn’t. “You need to relax. Do something fun. Take a break.”

Regulus gives him a long look. “The last time I tried the ‘normal uni experience,’ I ended up spiraling about my entire life and making a sad spectacle of myself.”

“Yeah, I was there. I remember,” James jokes, teasing but not mocking. “I don’t mean you should go to another party; that’s clearly not your scene. You need to do something you like.”

Regulus only stares at him.

James sighs and presses further, “So, what do you like?”

It’s a bit sad that Regulus can’t remember the last time someone asked him this.

“I like books,” he says lamely.

“I know, but that’s too study-adjacent,” James counters. “So, what else?”

“Films,” Regulus adds.

“Perfect,” James says, grinning like he just won the jackpot. “We’ll go to the pictures, then.”

“The… pictures?”

James nods. “Yeah. You know, popcorn, overpriced candy, the big screen. I’m sure you’ve been.”

Regulus hates how the words bring longing upon him. It’s been ages since he saw a film on a big screen, but…

“I can’t leave campus,” he says, voice dwindling. “Not without calling for a security escort.”

This is why Regulus hasn’t left campus beyond his grocery shop runs with Barty, when his friend’s security acts as his as well.

“Oh, right,” James says as if it’s something he should have already known, even though Regulus hasn’t mentioned it before. He leans forward again, eyes gaining a mischievous glint. “I could be your security.”

Regulus snorts. “You? You’re hardly qualified, Potter.”

“You’d be surprised,” James tells him and clears his throat. “I promise not to let anything happen to you. I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Regulus asks skeptically. “What is it?”

To his absolute horror, James starts to undress. He yanks his hoodie over his head, leaving his glasses crooked, his hair even more chaotic, and his shirt half-raised.

“Disguise,” James says conspiratorially as he tosses the heather-gray Hogwarts University hoodie at him.

Regulus, fortunately, manages to gather enough of his mental faculties to catch it. “What,” he asks but can’t bend his voice into a question. His throat is far too dry.

“Put that on,” James tells him, fortunately rightening his shirt and hiding his abs before rummaging through his backpack. He produces a Hogwarts cap to go with the hoodie. “And this.”

Regulus stares at the emblazoned cap. “You want me to go incognito in university merch?”

“It’s genius,” James says confidently.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re always in posh clothes, so no one will expect to see you in an oversized hoodie,” James explains. “Besides, you’re the son of the Deputy Prime Minister, not a pop diva. No one will be actively trying to recognize your face.”

Regulus looks from James to the hat and back again, the longing curling in his chest like a hook.

“Come on, Reg,” James begs with unfairly effective puppy eyes. “You’ll be okay, I promise. You need some air and unhealthy sugary drinks. You can pick the movie.”

It’s stupid. It’s absurd.

Regulus pulls off his cashmere jumper and puts on the hoodie.

As expected, it’s too big for him, hanging loosely around his shoulders and hips, the sleeves swallowing his hands. The soft fabric is still warm and smells like James: something fresh and comforting that makes the bird inside his stomach helplessly flap its wings.

Regulus adds the cap to the ensemble, tugging it low on his forehead.

He is sure he looks absolutely ridiculous, but the smile James offers makes up for it.

“All right,” Regulus says. “Let’s go to the pictures.”

“You won’t regret this,” James tells him, still beaming.

Regulus is quite sure he will regret it. Watching a film beside James Potter in a dark cinema while wearing the most laughable disguise possible… It’s a bad idea. Regulus is very aware of it; he just can’t bring himself to let that stop him.

 It’s still afternoon when they leave campus.

They have a quick pit stop at their building for James to grab another hoodie to fend off the November chill. When they make it to the parking lot, Regulus is surprised to see James heading toward a giant black SUV with heavily tinted windows. He never gave much thought to what kind of car James might drive, but if he had, Regulus would have expected something old, colorful, and full of character, not this war tank barely disguised as a luxury vehicle.

It’s a stupid assumption, he soon realizes. If James lives in the fanciest student building of an elite University, he must be quite rich. It’s just easy to overlook it because he doesn’t act like any of the many posh boys Regulus has met in his life.

Regulus slides into the passenger seat and fastens his seatbelt, stealing a glance at James as he adjusts the mirrors and checks over his shoulder like a novice driver.

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?”

“Well, I have a license,” James tells him noncommittally.

Regulus can’t help the nervous twitch of his heart; he’s grown a bit wary of cars because Barty is as much a menace behind the wheel as he is everywhere else. Regulus is relieved to realize James is only messing with him when the car slides out of the parking spot in a smooth, practiced movement.

The drive is short and mostly quiet. James doesn’t engage Regulus in conversation, probably aware that leaving campus without government-approved security is taking up all of his emotional bandwidth right now. Regulus sits with his hands folded in his lap and alternates between questioning every single one of his life decisions, counting the streets flashing past, and discreetly watching James drive. He looks golden in the late-afternoon light, merrily tapping his thumbs against the wheel and humming along to the radio.

Regulus doesn’t stare at his hands.

When they park next to the cinema, Regulus takes off the cap, as he’s sure wearing it indoors will defeat the purpose of remaining inconspicuous. He feels oddly exposed without the stupid thing and hunches his shoulder to retreat into the giant hoodie much like a turtle into a shell. Regulus discreetly inhales the soothing scent of the cotton to mollify his nerves.

Well, not so discreetly.

“There’s more where that came from,” James says, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You can get a sniff right from the source.”

Regulus sputters, cheeks burning. “What?”

“Don’t fret, Reg,” James tells him with barely restrained laughter. “I just meant I can tell you the name of my cologne if you want.”

“Shut up, Potter,” Regulus hisses and exits the car to flee this mortifying interaction.

Inside the cinema, James keeps his promise to let Regulus pick the movie.

Regulus scans the options. There’s the usual pile of noisy franchises, a couple of horror flicks, a rom-com with a terrible font choice, and…  a French drama. Regulus doesn’t know much about the plot, but he’s enjoyed all of the director’s previous works.

He’s sure James will hate it.

Regulus chooses one of the horror films. He’s seen enough of them with Barty to know he’ll enjoy watching the annoying and/or dumb characters die if nothing else.

James sees right through him as always. “Is that really what you want to watch?” he asks skeptically.

“Yes,” Regulus lies.

“Regulus.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Regulus tells him, “You won’t like what I want to watch.”

James gives him a stubborn look. “Try me.”

“You’ll be bored.”

“You don’t know that,” James insists. “Pick the one you want, Reg. Please.”

“Fine,” Regulus says, biting the inside of his cheek. “The French one.”

“Très bien,” James warbles in an atrocious accent.

James buys the tickets before he can stop him, so Regulus retaliates by insisting on paying for the giant pile of snacks James selects.

“This is excessive,” he says as they carry the haul to their screen.

“It’s strategic,” James counters. “What if the movie’s depressing and we need sugar therapy?”

“It’s a French drama,” Regulus says. “It’s almost certainly depressing.”

“Exactly.”

Not many people seem willing to spend their Friday evening with a forlorn French film, so the place is nearly empty. Regulus and James sit near the back, an entire row to themselves. There is not much time for chatter as the lights fade and the previews start, quickly followed by the movie. Regulus sinks into his lumpy red chair, made more comfortable by the softness of James’s hoodie. He tries to focus on the wide landscape shots and piano-heavy score.

Truly, he tries. James is just… much more interesting.

He is definitely not bored. James watches the film with the same liveliness that he does everything else. He’s not loud or disruptive. He’s expressive. James sighs when characters refuse to communicate, gasps when someone slams a door mid-confrontation, and huffs the softest of laughs during a particularly awkward moment between the leads. His presence is so vividly human, he feels everything so openly that Regulus can’t ignore him.

Regulus doesn’t want to.

This is stupid, he tells himself. Just watch the film.

To distract himself, Regulus decides to dig into the ginormous popcorn bucket. What he receives is further proof that God hates him when James reaches for it at the same time and their hands touch.

It is not the cinematic experience the movie industry would want you to believe. It’s quick and clumsy. Regulus retreats as soon as his brain registers what is happening, but he can still feel the ghost of calloused fingers on his. He glances up and finds James watching him with inscrutable eyes, though his lips are tilted into a soft smile as he nudges the bucket closer to Regulus, who takes a handful of popcorn and chews without tasting.

Regulus turns back to the screen, but James doesn’t.

Those bespectacled eyes linger on him for a minute. Regulus feels them like a physical weight. He wants to scream.

Finally,

A small movement rustles in his peripheral vision as James resumes his watching.

Regulus exhales a relieved breath.

As soon as the credits roll and the lights brighten, Regulus is out of his chair. He hastily leaves the cinema with James nigh on his heels.

Outside, the air is chillier as night has fully fallen now. Regulus lingers near the door to catch his breath, staring at the street where the cinema’s bright signs cast halos onto the pavement.

Regulus is so caught in his own turmoil that he doesn’t notice James’s uncharacteristic silence until he finally speaks.

“Mind if we stay out here for a minute so I can have a smoke?” James asks, voice tight.

Regulus is startled for several reasons. He focuses on only one. “You smoke?”

James doesn’t answer right away. He strides toward the alley abutting the building, already pulling a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter from deep within the pocket of his jeans. “Only when I’m nervous,” he says at last.

What are you nervous about?

The words catch in Regulus’s throat like dozens of tiny burs. He doesn’t dare voice them.

James slides the cigarette between his lips and lights it with a practiced flick.

Regulus steps around James, choosing a spot where the wind pushes the smoke in the opposite direction. He never liked the pungent, burnt smell of cigarettes.

Neither of them continues the conversation. Regulus leans against the exposed brick wall, crosses his arms, and tugs at the sleeves of the hoodie. His thoughts wander, though not toward his brother. His earlier crisis has been pushed aside for a fresher one. He thinks of James sitting next to him in the dark, experiencing every emotion conveyed on the screen, so beautifully unabashed about it.

Regulus is so distracted that he doesn’t notice when James finishes his cigarette, not until he calls his name. He looks up and finds James closer than he expected. They’re barely half a step apart now, James’s eyes fixed on Regulus like he’s trying to memorize every centimeter of his face.

The fluttering starts low in Regulus’s stomach.

It rises quickly, spreading through his chest and besieging his heart and lungs. Regulus can’t move — he can’t breathe.

James’s eyes flicker toward his mouth.

He’s going to kiss me, Regulus realizes. I’m about to kiss a boy.

The scornful voice inside his head revolts at the thought. It coalesces his mother’s sermons and a thousand recited scriptures into a shrill scream of, no, no, no!

A fragile, neglected spark of rebellion, which Regulus thought long extinguished, glows anew. Along with the goosebumps blossoming over his skin and the flutter in his chest, it screams, yes, yes, yes!

Regulus sways forward, ever so slightly. They are so, so close. If Regulus inches on the edge of his toes, he can—

James pulls away.

Clears his throat.

“We should go,” he says without meeting Regulus’s eyes.

“James—”

“It’s getting late,” he insists.

James doesn’t wait for Regulus to answer. He’s already moving towards where they left the car, barely making time to stuff the burnt-out cigarette butt into a nearby rubbish bin.

Guilt drips derision like venom inside Regulus’s chest, extinguishing the spark.

He is left unbearably hollow.

Chapter Text

Regulus spends the weekend rotting inside his own skin.

There is no other word for it. He is not sulking or even wallowing. Just rotting: slowly melting into a repulsive, amorphous mess like a plucked apple abandoned in the heat after just one bite.

He doesn’t leave the flat.

Regulus only steps out of his room when Barty shows up at his door with puppy dog eyes and tells him all about the food he so lovingly prepared for his favorite flat mate. It is an unabashed artifice to guilt-trip him into eating. Regulus lacks the energy to refuse, so he indulges his friend and eats the ungodly portions he is served.

Gluttony is inconsequential when compared to… everything else.

His phone remains eerily quiet.

James hasn’t texted.

Not once.

Not since that night.

It’s the longest they’ve gone without contact since James saved him from the crowd of onlookers and became a constant fixture in Regulus’s life. There are no pictures of the cat or the cool bugs James encounters on his jogs. There are no painfully unfunny or confusing memes. There is just… silence that makes Regulus rot faster.

He tries and fails not to repeatedly relive that cursed moment. The suspended breath between them when the gravity of James exceeded that of the Earth. Every time Regulus closes his eyes, he feels that same vertigo, as if he’s standing on the edge of something infinite and inconceivable, about to fall.

Then,

The vacuum of James’s absence.

Remembrance sends him down another loop in his spiral. Regulus curls in on himself, shame and guilt circling him like scavengers around a carrion. Because Regulus had leaned in. If James hadn’t pulled away…

He hates what it means. What it suggests. What it confirms.

What kind of boy leans in when another boy is close enough to kiss? What kind of boy thinks yes instead of no?

Regulus can’t even think the word. It’s not him.

It’s not.

Is it?

Boys like Regulus aren’t meant to want. Boys like him are meant to repress and repent when plagued with such sinful thoughts. He learned that in church, in whispered conversations after Sunday Mass, in the way his mother’s mouth would twist when she said the word unnatural.

That same sneering tone echoes in his head with a dozen other expletives: perversion, disgrace, abomination, disappointment!

It’s such a grotesque juxtaposition to the way James had said his name, prompting that exhilarating fluttering in his heart, because in that terrifying, beautiful moment, Regulus had thought that James was going to kiss him.

And then he didn’t.

Which means Regulus misread it. Made a fool of himself.

He covers his face with both hands and sinks further into his bed, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his fists like armor.

What was he thinking, anyway?

That James Potter — affable, considerate, painfully bright James Potter — would want someone like Regulus? Someone who flinches at his own reflection? Who can’t admit what he wants even to himself? Who can’t think the words gay or queer lest he throw up in a paroxysm of guilt and anxiety?

It’s laughable.

Worse, it’s humiliating.

Against his better judgment, Regulus considers calling Sirius. He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. Sirius wouldn’t pick up, and even if he did, Regulus wouldn’t know where to start.

How could he ask, What do you do when you feel like you’re rotting from the inside? What do you do when you want what you can never have?

It’s hopeless.

By Sunday evening, Barty’s patience depletes.

He pokes his head into Regulus’s room and outright asks, “Are you just going to stay there until you die?”

I’m already rotting, Regulus thinks.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh,” Barty sighs, clearly not expecting his goading to fail. “I— Can I help?”

“No,” Regulus mumbles, hiding his face in his sleeves. “But thank you.”

Barty stays silent for so long that Regulus thinks he’s left until he says, “You’re wearing that hoodie again.”

Regulus doesn’t reply.

He is not wearing the hoodie again as much as he’s wearing it still. Regulus hasn’t taken it off since Friday, which is as disgusting as it is pathetic.

It still smells like James, and Regulus hates how much comfort he takes in it. He hates that he’s wearing another boy’s clothes like a second skin and still covets more of him.

Regulus doesn’t know which is worse, all this wanting or the knowledge that he isn’t wanted back.

He doesn’t notice when Barty leaves the room at last.

·:★:·

Regulus is immaculate by the time he leaves the flat on Monday.

No sign remains of the boy who spent the weekend curled beneath a duvet with his phone face down and shame pecking at his liver. Regulus is as prim and polished as ever: freshly showered, cleanly shaved, curls expertly styled, and wearing his professional, well-pressed clothes.

He looks like himself. The version of himself the world expects. Demands.

If a part of him flinches at the reflection in the mirror, stomach turning at the sight… Well, that’s between Regulus and God.

He takes his time ascertaining that he has everything he needs in his bag, then methodically tying his shoes with double loops. This farcical normalcy helps a bit. Regulus almost forgets he’s still reeling from something that never happened, that he’s avoiding stepping out of the flat in fear of confronting those hazel eyes, of being trapped in them like a fly in amber.

When Regulus finally leaves the flat and finds his way to the lift, James is already there.

He looks painfully casual with his untamed hair and a jacket layered over his usual hoodie, lazily leaning against the opposite wall, one foot crossed over the other, phone in hand like he’s been waiting.

“Oh,” Regulus breathes before he can stop himself.

James smiles as he looks up, already pocketing his phone. “Morning. You’re late.”

Regulus only stares at him.

“Ready for some ethics?” James asks, pressing the button to call for the lift.

Regulus nods without thinking.

He doesn’t remember much about the descent in the lift or their walk toward the lecture hall. The whole world deliquesces in James’s presence, drenched in his cursory chit chat and dripping around them like an impressionist painting.

Regulus doesn’t understand.

He spent the entire weekend convinced he’d ruined everything; that James had seen the desire in his face and pulled away in revulsion; that he’d been kind enough not to spell it out but still left no room for doubt; that the silence that had followed meant something.

But now James is here, chatting like nothing happened.

Did Regulus imagine it? The tension? The way James had looked at him? The way he’d lingered too close and whispered his name like it was something worthwhile? The charged silence on the drive back? How James wouldn’t meet his eyes?

Regulus walks through campus on autopilot, allowing James to steer the conversation however he pleases. Every once in a while, he nods or offers a quiet hum, all the while trying not to drown in reality.

They go to class. They sit together. Regulus drops his pen. James ducks to grab and return it. Their hands don’t touch.

That’s when Regulus first notices it.

The absence.

Regulus doesn’t mean to be overly aware of it. He just is. They don’t trade casual touches, no playful nudges or accidental bump of shoulders or quick brush of shins under the table.

Not once.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

It matters because it’s intentional. James is deliberately mindful not to touch him, as if Regulus is brittle or perhaps dirty.

Hurt bubbles back in his lungs because if Regulus imagined it, if that moment hadn’t meant anything to James, then why is he doing this? Avoiding Regulus while pretending nothing is wrong?

It’s the pretending that causes Regulus to unravel at last, that obnoxiously polite and practiced normalcy that weighs just as much as the cross around his neck.

They convene in the library after their last lecture of the day, Intro to Political Theory for Regulus and… whatever it is for James, because he only ever talks about Intro to Ethics, which can’t be the only class he’s taking.

Regulus sits across from James, opens his books, and pretends to focus. However, with every minute that passes and they don’t touch, the silence grows louder.

His head fills with noise.

You’re disgusting. You made him uncomfortable, so of course, he pulled away.

He flips a page without reading it, chews on the inside of his cheek, and tries to breathe.

Across from him, James stretches and leans back in his chair. He says something, likely a joke, judging by the chortle that punctuates it. Regulus doesn’t hear any of it because James’s shirt and hoodie have risen with the movement, exposing a sliver of taut, golden skin peppered with dark hair leading down to—

James pulls down his shirt and straightens his posture. He looks at Regulus with terrifying blankness in his eyes.

Regulus shuts his book with a thud that echoes for too long in the lingering silence.

That startles James back into himself. He tilts his head, curious. “Done already?”

No, Regulus isn’t done with his studies for the day. He’s actually quite behind schedule because he spent his entire weekend obsessing over the boy in front of him.

“We have to talk,” Regulus says. The words take an immense toll on his already frayed nerves, but he supposes that the only thing worse than talking about this is not talking about this.

James hums with clearly feigned confusion. “Talk about what?”

A spark of irritation flares inside Regulus, and he derives as much strength from it as he can. “Last Friday,” he clarifies, voice uneven.

“Oh, about the movie?” James asks. “I don’t know how you thought I would be bored. It’s so good. I even looked up the director when I got home, and she—”

“James,” Regulus interrupts, shaking his head. “Not about the movie. About after the movie.”

“Well,” James drawls, adjusting his posture once again. He refuses to meet Regulus’s gaze. “We came home after the movie, so why would we talk about that? Do you still think I’m a bad driver?”

“James,” Regulus repeats quite pitifully. “Please. I just…”

I don’t understand, he means to say, though his fatally wounded pride manages to prevent it with its last breath.

James drops his act for a moment. He beholds Regulus with such a forlorn glint in his eyes… James is always so nice. Is he struggling to find a way to break his heart? To say, I’m flattered, but I’m not interested?

In the end, he says something worse,

“I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His tone is so bloody dismissive, it sends Regulus to his feet.

“I have somewhere to be,” he says, shoving his textbook into his bag. 

“You— Wait, what?” James blinks. “You didn’t mention—”

But Regulus is already walking out.

He doesn’t care where he is going; he just knows he can’t stay, not while James sits there, pretending nothing happened, pretending Regulus didn’t throw himself at his only uni friend like a deviant fool. It’s too humiliating.

Pathetically, Regulus wishes he were still wearing James’s hoodie, so he could hide his hands in his sleeves to conceal their shaking. He hastily pushes through the library doors as if he can outrun the ache.

·:★:·

Regulus actually manages to study that evening, and a fraction of his faith is restored by this miracle.

He locks himself in his room with his notes, his books, and his laptop, fueled by the growing spark of anger.

Anger is easier. Simpler.

Guilt and shame eat at his insides, burrowing through the gaping wound left by his longing.

But anger? Anger gives Regulus purpose. Because who the hell does James Fleamont Potter think he is to thwart his academic life? Regulus might not currently know a single thing for sure, but he knows he is not about to let anyone — boy or girl or both or neither — ruin his perfect grades.

With borderline fanatical focus, Regulus makes up for the lost time, crossing items from his to-do list one after the other. It is only when the last article is summarized and the last essay is outlined that he remembers to check the clock.

Regulus looks at the corner of his computer screen because he’s been avoiding his phone like the plague since James texted around dinnertime.

It’s just past three in the morning. The weight of all the hours spent sitting at his desk crashes over him at once, and he collapses against the back of his chair like a marionette whose strings were cut.

Regulus is just so tired — physically, mentally, emotionally — he feels like he’s been tired his whole life.

He uses his last shred of energy to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas, then buries himself under his covers.

Regulus futilely tries not to think about James, but his brain keeps reliving and nitpicking every single interaction they’ve ever had. He comes to the alarming conclusion that nothing about their friendship makes sense.

Is he playing me?

James doesn’t seem like the type. He’s just so… kind, thoughtful. The sort of person who remembers your coffee order and holds doors open for strangers.

At least, that’s how Regulus perceives him, but he isn’t the best judge of character, is he? He has always relied on other people to tell him who to trust, be that his mother, his brother, his priest, and even his father when Orion still frequented Grimmauld Place.

Regulus wishes he could talk to someone about it.

For a brief moment, he entertains the idea of slipping into Barty’s bed and sharing his feelings with his friend in the dark. They were wont to do it when they were kids, before their boarding school dormmates informed them it was gay.

Regulus would if the mere thought of saying the words out loud — I almost kissed James Potter — didn’t make him sick to his stomach. Besides, Barty would probably offer unhinged advice like, You should fuck his father, see if he tries to ignore that. While thematically consistent with Barty’s whole philosophy of revenge and mayhem, that is not what Regulus needs right now.

He stares at the ceiling of his bedroom, beige and so painfully devoid of glow-in-the-dark stars. Regulus can’t help but think about the only person in the world who could possibly understand what he’s going through.

His brother.

Sirius.

Regulus’s head rings with his mother’s voice, echoing like a herald of perdition in the corridors of Grimmauld Place. Your brother is a traitor, a sinner. He will never earn redemption. I pity him.

The memory brings tears to his eyes because a part of him had agreed with her then. Sirius left. Abandoned their family and all it stood for. It seemed like such a dastardly act. How could Sirius have relinquished them for…?

Regulus thinks he understands now; perhaps Sirius was only fleeing this insupportable, insurmountable guilt.

Before he can stop himself, Regulus grabs his phone off the nightstand. He ignores the notifications from James and opens his contacts.

There it is.

Sirius

It hovers like a ghost right at the top, a small star still labeling it as a favorite.

Regulus clicks the call button.

The line rings twice before reality sets in, and he recalls it’s the middle of the night. Sirius is probably asleep.

Regulus hangs up.

Shit.

Now there’s a missed call on Sirius’s phone, timestamped at half past three in the morning. If Sirius sees that when he wakes… that won’t go over well.

Regulus stares at the screen for a second, heartbeat climbing.

He’s going to think something’s wrong.

Which is sort of accurate because something is wrong, but not that kind of wrong — not the I’m hurt kind, just the I’m scared of who I am, and I want my big brother kind.

Sirius won’t know that, though. He will take one look at the missed call and interpret it as a code for emergency.

Regulus inhales a deep, stuttering breath and calls again.

He won’t speak to his brother, who likely has his phone set to Do Not Disturb. Regulus will just leave a brief voicemail to undo the damage.

The line rings and rings and rings.

Then,

“Hey, it’s Sirius. You know what to do.”

Regulus grows so still that he swears his heart stops beating. The sound of his brother’s voice, so warm and familiar, hits him like a punch in the sternum.

He hangs up before the beep.

Oh, and now he’s made it worse. Sirius will wake up to two missed calls and no context.

Regulus can’t breathe. He rises from his bed and paces the length of the room in hopes that the motion will push some air into his lungs. The phone sits abandoned among his sheets, darkened screen mocking him for his failures.

Maybe he should just text. Type in something simple like, Sorry, didn’t mean to call. Everything is fine. That would do it.

Except it wouldn’t.

If their roles were reversed, Regulus would not accept a text as reassurance of his brother’s well-being. He’d want — need to hear his voice just to be sure.

Sirius might not want anything to do with Regulus anymore, but he still cares that much.

Doesn’t he?

Regulus doesn’t hesitate lest he overthink himself into another dead end. He picks up the phone and hits the call button again.

Only half a ring, then,

“Gotcha,” Sirius says, voice thick with sleep and somehow conflating apprehension and triumph, as if Regulus’s intermittent calls were alarming but also a game of tag he’s just won. “Are you all right, Reggie?”

Regulus can’t bring himself to answer the question.

Because this is Sirius — his Sirius, his big brother — and they haven’t spoken in over a year. Not since the night when Regulus watched his mother and his brother battling each other like David and Goliath, unsure which one stood as the giant to be defeated. He so perfectly recalls the slam of the front door when Sirius left. The silence that followed engulfed the entire house like a cloud of smoke left by fire set to a bridge. It clotted his lungs and made his eyes water because Regulus knew all too well on which side he’d been left behind.

His hand twitches and his grip loosens. The phone slips through his fingers, falling to the floor with a dull thud. Regulus stares at it, benumbed.

Muffled from the distance, Sirius’s voice filters from the speaker, “Reggie, are you there? Are you okay?”

It takes him a second or two or twenty to scramble for the phone and press it back to his ear with trembling hands.

“I— Yes— Sorry, I—” Regulus stammers. The sentence dies in his throat because he has no idea what he is apologizing for. Calling? Dropping the phone? Being a horrible brother? All of the above?

It doesn’t matter. Sirius is soft and steady as he says, “It’s okay, Reggie. It’s okay.”

No judgment, no scolding, just a reassurance spoken in the same gentle, unshakable tone he used when they were kids and Regulus couldn’t sleep because of the demons hiding in the shadowed crevices of his room.

They float in silence. Sirius doesn’t push, only waits. Regulus finds his way back into his bed. He is sure he can’t do this — whatever this is — on his feet.

He curls in on himself, pressing the phone to his ear so hard that the shell of it hurts. Regulus opens his mouth, unsure if he is about to scream or cry or apologize again. In the end, he blurts, “I think I like someone.”

The words hang there, so ridiculously juvenile, more fitting to a passing of notes between school boys than a late-night call between estranged brothers.

A weighted but short pause, then Sirius asks, “It’s not a girl, is it?”

Regulus exhales a sharp, stunned breath that is almost a sob. His brain goes haywire, simultaneously relieved that he won’t have to bring it up himself and horrified that Sirius so easily surmised it. He shakes his head in instinctive denial before remembering Sirius can’t see him.

It doesn’t matter. His silence is telling enough.

“Okay,” Sirius says in a hushed breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m really glad you called me, Reggie. I’m proud of you.”

Regulus closes his eyes to chase away the tears gathering in his waterline because the affectionate, effortless acceptance in his brother’s tone… it cracks his chest right open, rib by rib.

“Do you want to tell me about them?” Sirius prompts after a beat.

“James,” Regulus says, heart thumping under his tongue. “His name is James.”

“Boring,” Sirius comments.

Regulus huffs a weak, vaguely offended noise. He wants to remind his brother that not everyone can date someone named after one of the founders of Rome, but Regulus can’t find the strength to be snarky. Not right now.

He doesn’t say anything, so Sirius prompts, “Come on, give me the details! What is he like? Where did you meet?”

Images of James flood his mind, dozens of iterations of those full lips that often curl in stupid, cocky smiles, of those hazel eyes that grow molten like gold in the right light, of the atrocious fashion choices that he somehow makes work. Regulus thinks of how James listens and understands him, even when all he offers is silence.

“He’s…” Regulus begins, searching for the right words to describe James Potter. He can’t quite do it, so he focuses on an easier question. “We met on my first day because he lives in the flat across from mine. I didn’t like him much in the beginning — thought he was annoying. Which he is, but he’s also so goddamn nice. He went out of his way to befriend me, even when most people think I’m a stuck-up prick. We spend all our time together, but he never seems to get sick of me. He talks a lot but always knows when I need silence. He always looks out for me. Protects me. Literally. He makes me feel safe.”

Regulus didn’t mean to say so much. He didn’t mean to allow so much longing to seep into his voice.

Sirius hums. “Damn, Reggie. Do you want a boyfriend or a bodyguard?”

This startles Regulus back into a mildly dignified state. “Sod off,” he mumbles.

“Okay, I’ll be serious now,” Sirius says, which prompts a little self-satisfied snort that entirely undermines his words.

Oh, God, how Regulus missed this idiot.

He groans into the phone. “You’re insufferable.”

“But you missed me,” Sirius teases. He always had an uncanny talent for reading Regulus’s mind. “Okay, I will be serious now. He sounds great, Reggie. I’m glad you’re already friends. It makes this much easier.”

Regulus almost bursts out laughing. As if anything about this could be easy.

“Now tell me,” Sirius continues, “did something happen to prompt this little gay panic that made you call at three in the morning?”

The word makes him flinch. Regulus exhales slowly, staring at the bare ceiling. He can’t bring himself to go straight into the quasi-kiss.

“Last Friday,” Regulus starts, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I was… sad. I wanted to call, but I was too scared you wouldn’t pick up.”

Sirius whines, the sound reminiscent of a wounded dog. “Regulus,” he breathes, no teasing humor left in his voice. “Of course, I would’ve picked up. You can always call me. Always. I told you that.”

Regulus closes his eyes, muting one sense as if it might help him deal with everything else. “I… I wasn’t sure if that still stood,” he confesses, and this is somehow harder than telling Sirius he might like a boy. “Not after so long.”

“It does,” Sirius declares, leaving no room for argument. “It will always stand. I don’t care about the reason or the hour or how long we’ve gone without speaking. You can always call me.”

“Okay,” Regulus whispers. “Okay.”

The words settle over them like motes of dust until Sirius steers them back to course. “So, what happened on my birthday?”

Regulus keeps his eyes closed, allowing his mind to wander back to that fateful day. He doesn’t think much about his words. Sirius won’t care if his tale is uncouthly told. Regulus tells his brother how James saw through his attempt at normalcy; how he promised to keep him safe outside of campus; how he let Regulus choose the film and paid for the tickets; how he was gorgeously more entertaining than the big screen; how he admitted he wanted a cigarette because he was nervous…

“When he finished his smoke, he was so close that I… I thought he was going to kiss me,” Regulus murmurs, too unsure to say the words in his full voice. “I wanted him to kiss me. I think I’ve wanted it for a while, but I didn’t let myself think about it until he was…” He shakes his head, fingers tightening around his phone. “We didn’t kiss. James pulled away when I leaned in. I tried to talk to him about it today, but he pretended nothing had happened, which was such bullshit. I might not know what happened, but I know something did.” 

Regulus half expects Sirius to curse James’s name in defense of his feelings, to say what a bastard or you can do better. Instead, Sirius only hums thoughtfully.

“Is he out?”

“What?” Regulus asks, confused. “Out of where? His flat? I don’t know, I don’t think so, it’s late and we have class—”

“No, Regulus,” Sirius says, amused, “out of the closet.”

“Oh.” His face heats with embarrassment. Regulus should have guessed that was what Sirius meant. “Yes, he is. He’s bi. I knew it from the start, he has a little pride flag on his backpack.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Sirius oddly sounds like he’s going through a checklist. “Is he in a relationship?”

That gives Regulus pause. He never considered that James might not be single and hates the sharp slash of jealousy across his skin. Is that why James pulled away? It makes some sense, as he doesn’t seem the type to cheat, but…

“I don’t think he is,” Regulus says at last, clinging to his own words for comfort. “James never stops talking. I know everything about him and his mum and their dog back in Cornwall and his annoying flat mates and what kind of muffins he likes for breakfast. He’s an open book. If he were in a relationship, I think he would’ve mentioned it. Right?”

“If he’s as decent as you say he is, then yes,” Sirius tells him. “So, are you out? To him, at least?”

“What? No!” Regulus sputters, indignation rising inside him in a visceral reaction. “I don’t— I’m not—”

“Regulus,” Sirius sighs, and Regulus can hear his brother’s pain stuck in the cracks of every syllable. Such profound sadness, it stuns him for a moment.

The call goes quiet, only their breaths echoing in tandem through the distance.

“Regulus,” Sirius repeats, even softer this time. “Do you hate me? For being gay?”

“You know the answer to that,” Regulus replies, as swift as he is evasive.

Sirius doesn’t let him off the hook. “Humor me.”

“No,” Regulus admits, voice barely audible. “Of course, I don’t hate you for being gay, Sirius. I could never hate you at all.”

I love you.

Sirius hums something akin to approval. “Now tell me, do you hate James for being bi?”

“No,” Regulus replies, feeling almost disturbed by the thought, though he can’t manage to elaborate on why.

“Then why would you hate yourself?”

Regulus’s throat tightens. “That’s not fair,” he says. “You know it’s not that simple.”

“I know, Reggie,” Sirius sighs. “I just… I don’t want you to feel like there’s something wrong with these feelings. With you. God knows I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispers.

“Don’t be,” Sirius tells him. “It’s not your fault. It’s hers.”

The stupid, ingrained urge to defend his mother rises in Regulus’s chest. He doesn’t say anything. He owes Sirius this much.

“Okay, back to your crush,” Sirius says, forcing them past the painful, awkward moment. “Have you two talked about this? About… deviating from Mother’s ideas?”

Regulus thinks back to the night by the greenhouse. “Yes. James said… James said I’m nothing like her. I told him not to be so sure. I’m still her son.”

“I think that’s your problem, then,” Sirius says, a pitying tone in his voice. “From what you’ve said, this guy is just as whipped for you as you are for him. He just knows you’re not… there yet. It would only hurt you both to rush into something. I think he’s trying to give you time to figure yourself out, even if he’s being a bit of an arsehole about it.”

That makes… an alarming amount of sense.

“And what do I do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sirius teases. “Figure yourself out. It’s the decent thing to do before you rope anyone else into it.”

Regulus is a bit impressed with his brother. “When did you get so wise?”

“Right now, I guess?” Sirius jokes.

A small, startled laugh escapes Regulus. God, how he wishes he could hug his brother. “Idiot.”

“You are the one asking me for advice,” Sirius reminds him. “That would make you an even bigger idiot, wouldn’t it?”

Regulus can’t even deny that. “I suppose.”

“Well, if you ever need any more idiot-to-idiot wisdom, I’m just a call away, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. I also meant it when I said I’m proud of you for reaching out. If you need anything, you can ask me. Advice, money, a place to stay. Anything. I tried to keep my distance because it would only get you in trouble if she found out I was contacting you, but…” Sirius exhales, his words growing almost frantic. “You don’t need her. I promise you don’t need her, Reggie, so please, don’t let her win on this. Don’t let her keep you from being happy. You don’t need her.”

Regulus isn’t so sure about that. Walburga is… complicated, but she is his mother. He needs her. He loves her.

This truth would only hurt Sirius, so Regulus refuses to share it. Instead, he says quietly, “Happy belated birthday, Sirius.”

Sirius knows what Regulus is doing. He was present through the development of all of his evasion maneuvers. Still, he accepts it, “Thank you, Reggie.”

Something about the way he says it sounds like I love you.

·:★:·

Figure yourself out.

Damn Sirius for giving such horrible advice.

Still, Regulus tries to figure himself out. He tries with the frantic, desperate focus he often wields to mold himself into the perfect son, to pray until the twisted edges of his soul smooth out, to study until his eyes itch, his hand cramps, and his head aches. This, too, feels like survival.

His feelings are foreign to him, a language he has never tried to learn. How is Regulus supposed to translate them? He is unused to their cadence, so how can he ever gather these crumbling pieces of meaning and make a whole? Make an answer?

Regulus has no idea, but he promised Sirius. Maybe he promised himself, too.

So, he tries.

The first step is small, almost laughably so when compared to the enormity of what he is trying to do.

Regulus forces himself to stop avoiding James’s texts.

It sounds easy enough.

It isn’t.

Regulus stares at his phone for longer than he cares to admit, thumb hovering over the message thread like a soldier about to pull the pin from a grenade. His pulse is deafening in his ears. It takes three attempts before he forces himself to open it.

The messages are heartbreakingly simple,

James

I'm sorry, Reg.

We can talk if you want.

Then, almost half an hour later,

James

Talk to me?

Please?

I’m so sorry I hurt you.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that floods him. It’s an insistent ache, as if the fluttering is trying to escape the cage of his ribs by tearing through all the soft tissue between them. Still, Regulus chases it, reading the messages again and again.

An apology. An offer. An orison.

He sits there, staring at the words until the screen goes dark again. Regulus can’t force himself to reply. He tells himself it’s because it’s the middle of the night and he’s already lost enough sleep, but the truth is simpler: he doesn’t know what to say.

Regulus puts his phone away and determines his next step. He will speak with James tomorrow, when he’s not so drained. It’s best to discuss this in person.

Tomorrow, he thinks, just as exhaustion pulls him into a fitful slumber.

The problem is that tomorrow does not unfold as Regulus expects.

He sees James, but only in fleeting glimpses that sting more than they sate. A flash of dark hair disappearing around the corner, a lonely figure in the library, a bespectacled face above the sea of students on the lunch line. Regulus waits for James to approach him, to try and apologize in person, but he never does.

The pessimistic side of Regulus fears James is avoiding him, but one shared look across the cafeteria is enough to prove otherwise.

James is as miserable as a dog left out in the rain. He’s hurt but hopeful in a stubborn way, still waiting to be allowed back inside. It makes Regulus want to shake him and hold him in equal measure.

Regulus knows he must be the one to seek James out since he’s too annoyingly respectful of boundaries to do it himself. He doesn’t, not yet. As much as Regulus misses James, he allows himself this time — time to breathe, to think, to feel, to figure himself out.

(Damn Sirius.)

It’s easier to do all this when James isn’t hovering in his peripheral vision, pulling his gaze like a magnet, cluttering his thoughts with smiles and jokes and unbearable possibility.

Regulus takes his time, locks himself in his room, paces around, lies on his back to stare at the ceiling, pours his stream of consciousness on paper, then dramatically burns it.

Nothing helps.

Some coursework might jump-start his brain, Regulus supposes. He settles down at his desk but only writes three words before it occurs to him that he’s going about this all wrong. No maieutic self-reflexion will provide the answers. Regulus needs something objective and peer-reviewed.

He opens his favorite scientific search engine in an anonymous tab, throat tightening around a phantom prayer, begging forgiveness for sins he hasn’t yet committed.

Regulus does his research, curating a selection of articles on queerness. He starts with the easiest part: biology and brain chemistry and socialization. A surprising number of species demonstrate homosexual behavior, he learns. It is quite interesting, and Regulus wishes he could limit his study to this, but alas, he is not a swan or a penguin.

God knows how much simpler things would be if he were.

Begrudgingly, Regulus moves on to his own species. He reads about repression and resilience, shame and survival, loneliness and love. Most of it makes him want to slam the laptop shut and throw it out the window.

He forces himself to read until he can’t take it anymore.

Regulus presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. He thinks about all the things he’s been taught, all the arbitrary rules imposed on him from birth, all the sermons and commandments and promises of fire and brimstone. He thinks about what it means to be good and what it means to be loved, about how those two things have never felt quite aligned.

He thinks about his mother’s imperious voice, layering condemnation into every syllable. He thinks about his brother’s retaliation, admirable even as it tore their family apart.

It’s easier to consider Sirius’s journey than his own. His brother is stronger, braver. Regulus is not meant to survive what Sirius did.

He’ll have to.

If Regulus decides to walk down this path, to trade virtue for sin, he’ll have to endure it, the admission that everything he was taught was wrong, the forsaking of his mother, the lingering waves of guilt that might never desist from drowning him.

All of it.

He inhales a deep breath and closes the tab.

·:★:·

A week passes, as torturous and unremitting as forty days in the desert.

Regulus calls Sirius twice to share his scientific findings and request more advice.

“Of course you went about this in the swottest way possible,” Sirius teases, but proceeds to diligently answer all of his questions.

It helps, and Regulus supposes he’s… closer to clarity, though far away still.

He knows he’s not ready yet, that he needs more time, that he wants more time. It would be well enough if his heart didn’t break every time he saw James Potter.

Regulus is unsure about so many things, but not about James. He hates to see the shadows under his eyes and the washed-out smile he offers when their gazes meet. Most of all, Regulus hates that he’s the reason. He can’t stand it.

He likes James too much to allow it to continue.

So, a week passes, and Regulus’s resolve breaks.

His hands are more eager than his brain when he reaches for his phone.

Regulus

Meet me by the lift?

Bring a coat.

He hits send before he can change his mind.

Regulus doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his phone buzzes in his hand, a sharp vibration that jolts him back into his body. He looks down to see the message flashing across the screen.

James

I’m on my way

Just like that. No hesitation at all.

Regulus stares at the words, and the fluttering sensation under his ribs bursts back to life in full force, battering against its confines. His fingers tighten around the phone, knuckles white with tension. He should move. He should get up. He’s the one who set this in motion, who reached out across the chasm between them.

And yet he lingers by the door, coat already on and pulse stumbling. It’s a little bit pathetic, the way Regulus needs a full minute to collect himself just to walk down the hall. He’s never done anything like this before. Never willingly cracked himself open and invited someone else to peruse the mess inside.

When Regulus finally makes it to the lift, James is already there, waiting with his coat slung over one arm and his other hand twitching restlessly at his side. He looks nervous, fidgety, his weight shifting from foot to foot like he is physically incapable of being still. At least until he spots Regulus. James stops then, all that restless energy collapsing inward.

Those goddamn hazel eyes stare at him, large and hopeful.

For one heart-stopping second, Regulus almost gives in to the foolish urge to close the space between them, to grab fistfuls of James’s stupid clothes and stupid hair and hang on for dear life.

Instead, Regulus steps up to the lift panel and presses the call button with more force than strictly necessary. It doesn’t take long for the doors to slide open, which is fortunate because the silence might just kill them otherwise.

The small space feels far too crowded, far too charged. James moves automatically toward the ground floor button, but Regulus stops him with a single quiet sentence, “We’re going to the roof.”

James glances sideways at him, confusion plainly written over his features, but doesn’t question it. He just presses the button for the highest floor, and the lift lurches smoothly into motion.

They ride up in silence, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, the faint metallic rattle of the cables filling the space between them. Regulus stares at their blurry reflections in the lift doors. He looks away when James moves to put on his coat. His hands twitch, desperate for something to anchor him, but Regulus shoves them deeper into his pockets instead.

Their journey spills into a narrow stairwell, the cold air seeping through the cracks around the heavy door at the top. Regulus leads the way, shoulders hunched against the chill. The rooftop is deserted and open, which is why Regulus chose it for this conversation. He has all the air he needs and an unobstructed view of the sky stretching above. Regulus has always felt at home under the stars.

It feels even safer than he expected.

Regulus wonders if it’s James’s presence that makes it so.

He inhales the cold, clean air. Beside him, James does the same.

Regulus tries to remember the stupid speech he spent the last few hours preparing, but the words refuse to form in his head, much less on his tongue.

In the end, it’s James who breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry, Regulus,” he says, voice low and rough and painfully earnest. “I’m sorry for… crossing a boundary I had no right to cross. I’m sorry for pretending I didn’t. I have no excuse but that I was being a coward.”

The words hang between them, almost visible in the crisp November air.

Regulus can only stare at James, at the faint crease of worry between his brows, at the bitten-red curve of his lips, at the sincere apology in his eyes.

“You were going to kiss me, then?” Regulus asks barely above a whisper.

James huffs a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, I was,” he confesses, so beautifully vulnerable in the starlight. “I wanted nothing more than to kiss you that night, Regulus.”

Gravity shifts, just as it did in the alley by the cinema. The world tips sideways, and Regulus can’t resist the pull.

The distance between them dwindles into nothing. Regulus reaches up, hands clumsy and sure all at once. He threads his fingers into James’s messy, soft curls and tugs him down into a kiss.

James gasps against his lips, a noise so endearingly startled, Regulus aches with it. He tastes of mint and warmth. His familiar scent floods Regulus’s lungs, and he can only frantically clutch at James, pouring all his fear and want and hope into the touch.

Regulus is kissing a boy.

Regulus is kissing James.

It’s perfect.

Until,

James whimpers a muffled, wounded noise. He turns his head to wrench their mouths apart, then steps back, leaving Regulus bereft and reeling. The desolate glint in James’s eyes replaces glee with dread inside Regulus’s chest.

No, he thinks. No. No. No. No.

Did Regulus misread the situation again? Did his wishful brain somehow twist James’s words? Did he ruin it?

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, breathless. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Another pained whimper interrupts his apology. James reaches out to cradle Regulus’s face between his palms, calloused fingers scratching his cheeks.

“Don’t,” James pleads, voice cracking halfway through the word. “Don’t you ever apologize for kissing me.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with this. He can only stay still as James leans in and presses a tender, almost reverent kiss to his cheek — an apology and a reassurance.

“I’m sorry,” James whispers, thumbs brushing over the sharp bones of Regulus’s jaw.

Then, he kisses him again.

There’s no hesitation this time, only searing, starved certainty when James’s mouth descends upon his.

Regulus returns the kiss, enthusiastic and euphoric and entirely confused. He has no idea what just happened, but he is too overwhelmed by the sensation of kissing James Potter to care about anything else.

When they finally pull apart, it’s not because of fear or shame. They simply need to breathe.

James keeps himself within reach, his forehead resting against Regulus’s. The whole world seems to follow them into stillness, narrowing down to the heated space between their bodies, the mingled clouds of their breaths, the indelible awareness that there’s no more denial to be had.

Carefully, James shifts to wrap his arms around Regulus, gathering him into an embrace. It’s not the overwhelming, desperate hold of their kiss. It’s gentler and somehow even more intimate.

The bitter, stubborn instinct of his guilt screams at Regulus to retreat, to slip away before their proximity permanently unearths what he spent a lifetime hiding even from himself. He doesn’t. Regulus focuses on the way James’s hand settles on the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his curls in slow, soothing motions until the guilt… fizzles out. This touch is closer to absolution than anything Regulus has ever experienced in a church. He leans into the embrace without quite meaning to, pressing his face into the thick fabric of James’s coat.

“You’ve been smoking,” Regulus whispers, unabashedly inhaling the scent of James, familiar comfort tainted by ash.

“I’ve been nervous,” James replies, tightening his hold. “I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

This impulsive promise pierces straight through Regulus’s chest. He can tell that James means it; that he’ll relinquish this habit for him; that he’s so casually implying they will do this again. Regulus closes his eyes and sinks further into James’s chest.

He lets James hold him.

He lets himself be held.

James isn’t in any hurry to release him. He just stands there, cradling the back of Regulus’s head, stroking mindless patterns over his scalp, and anchoring him to the earth. Time stretches, weightless and strange, until Regulus forgets the biting cold, the rooftop beneath his feet, and all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this. Nothing matters but the steadiness of James’s heartbeat against his own.

When James eases back, he doesn’t go far, allowing only enough distance for them to properly see each other. His gorgeous, gorgeous eyes are wide and bright behind the smudged and slightly fogged lenses of his glasses. He opens his mouth to say something, whether a pivotal confession or a trivial joke, Regulus never finds out. There is only a small, frustrated breath as James ducks his head, unprecedentedly unsure of himself. He looks unbearably young.

It’s enough to break through Regulus’s paralysis.

He refuses to let this moment collapse under the unspoken.

Regulus scrapes together what little courage he has left to force it past the mayhem in his chest.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he whispers.

James raises his head, gaze locking onto Regulus with painstaking attention, as if nothing else in the world could be more important than his words.

So, Regulus decides to make them count. He exhales and allows the confession to flood the silence.

“I’m trying. I swear I’m trying, but it’s going to take time. Probably a lot of time because I don’t…” His throat grows tight, and Regulus has to avert his eyes to find the strength to continue. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, or believe, or want. I’m trying to figure it out, but it’s… It’s slow and confusing, and it hurts. It hurts even worse than I thought it would.”

He bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, willing himself not to fall apart.

“But you…” Regulus forces himself to meet James’s eyes again. “You’re the only thing I’m sure about. I like you, James. I really like you. I know it’s not enough, and if you don’t want to…”

He trails off, and for a brief, forlorn moment, Regulus expects James to flinch away, to realize he is far too broken and lost to be worth the trouble. He braces himself for it, ready to flee as soon as rejection lands.

It never does.

“Oh, love,” James murmurs from deep within his chest. He reaches for Regulus again without hesitation, enveloping the narrow shoulders in his arms like he never intends to let go. He presses his lips to the top of Regulus’s head in a kiss so tender, so achingly affectionate, that Regulus has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden, overwhelming burn of tears.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s enough. I promise you, it’s enough. I’m not going anywhere, Regulus,” James says like it’s a vow. He sways them gently, soothing this insidious, invisible hurt, his touch steady even as his breath hitches. “You can take all the time you need. I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Regulus presses closer, trying to memorize the shape of James’s body against his and the safety it provides. His fear is slowly eclipsed by the unfamiliar, tentative hope threading itself into the raw spaces of his heart. He knows this is only the first step, but for tonight, Regulus believes that this freely given affection can be enough.

With a soft, reluctant breath, Regulus eases out of James’s arms just far enough to find his lips again. For the first time in his life, he allows himself to have exactly what he wants: to kiss James Potter until he forgets why he’s not supposed to.

That night, just before he goes to sleep, Regulus texts his brother.

Regulus

I have a boyfriend.

Sirius

FJMVESFJXOULFSVODVFGFLHJAFLOSLWFSNDKSWIJDSJ

THAT’S MY BOY

·:★:·

The days after Regulus’s first kiss with James are… complicated. They pass in a disorienting blur, jaggedly split into two contradictory halves.

When Regulus is with James, the world feels almost too perfect to be real, full of light and laughter and stolen touches. It’s a heady sort of bliss, the kind Regulus assumes one is meant to feel at the start of something new and lovely. This dreamlike existence might have felt brittle under the pressure of reality, but it never does. All Regulus needs to do is reach out his hand, and James is always there, full of warmth and patience and safety.

When Regulus is alone, however, the guilt returns with a vengeance, cold and hateful and tragic. He can’t stop himself from compulsively praying as he did as a child, fear of eternal damnation looming above his heart. The prongs of his crucifix used to feel soothing as they dug into his fisted hand, but now they only seem to stoke his shame as the ghost of James’s touch lingers in his aching palm. Regulus doesn’t say the words aloud, too afraid of what his voice might betray, but the rehearsed prayers echo like a litany in his head, a desperate negotiation with a God who has never spoken back.

When he confides in his brother about this dichotomy of euphoric days and punishing nights, Sirius doesn’t laugh at his brainwashed stupidity. He only says, “Keep figuring yourself out, Reggie. It gets better. I promise it gets better.”

Regulus, ever the overachiever, finds an easier method.

He simply won’t leave James’s side.

They are used to spending most of their time together, so it wouldn’t be difficult to stretch that into the evenings, right? The only issue is that James’s flat is full of lunatics, so they’d need to hang out at Regulus’s instead.

Which means telling Barty.

Barty, his best friend and flat mate. Barty, who wasn’t shy about his own experimentation in secondary school, when he spent a whole year dating nothing but rugby players and flirting with their art history teacher so shamelessly that Regulus thought he might combust from secondhand mortification. His interest in boys might have quickly fizzled out, but Barty has never said a single judgmental word about queer people. He won’t hate Regulus for this.

Right?

The greatest problem is that Regulus has no idea how to do it, how to come out to someone. Sirius had just guessed, and James… Well, James had been snogged to an inch of his life. Regulus has never outright said it. He’s not even sure he can.

Still, Barty has to be told.

Regulus doesn’t quite plan it. He tries to, of course, thinking about it for days in advance, working through hypothetical dialogues in the shower, while brushing his teeth, and especially in the quiet minutes before sleep when his thoughts become stigmata.

However, when it happens, it’s just another night. Regulus is helping Barty with dinner by dutifully chopping parsley and green onions because he is not allowed anywhere near the stove.

The rhythm is familiar, lulled by the soft melody playing from the speaker perched on the counter. (It was Regulus’s turn to pick the music.) While Barty finishes preparing the food, Regulus moves on to the table, setting the plates with more precision than is strictly necessary, aligning the cutlery, smoothing out the tablecloth, adjusting the angle of the water jug until it sits exactly perpendicular to the edge.

He is naïve enough to believe he’s being subtle.

But when Regulus returns to the kitchen to ask if Barty needs help draining the pasta, Barty gives him a look. “Okay, what’s up with you?” he asks.

If it were anyone but Barty, Regulus might have pretended to be fine. Instead, he admits, “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Oh, come on, Regulus, it’s me.” Barty dumps the pasta into a colander with a hiss of steam and zero elegance. “What’s up? Another professor thinks you plagiarized a Wikipedia article you wrote? Finally realized you’ve joined a cult? Spill.”

Regulus exhales, leans back against the counter, and repeats, “I don’t know how to say it.”

Barty shrugs. “Say it badly, then.”

Regulus stares at him. “What?”

“Spit it out however it comes,” Barty explains. “I know you well enough to translate.”

“I don’t…” Regulus exhales, then stares down at the polished surface of the counter like it might offer divine intervention.

Barty gives Regulus a moment by busying himself with finishing up their dinner, but when it’s clear no more words are coming, he prods. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says. “You could confess to murder right now, and I’d be chill about it.”

Confessing to murder might be easier than this, Regulus thinks, so maybe Barty is not too far off with the cult insinuation.

Regulus takes a deep breath and gathers all his courage to push out the words. “I don’t think I’m straight.”

There. It’s out. Pathetically vague because Regulus can’t manage anything more specific, but out there still.

Barty pauses mid-motion. “Oh.”

A single syllable. Not disgusted or derisive, but not immediately reassuring either. It lingers suspended between them. Regulus searches Barty’s expression for his thoughts and finds nothing conclusive. It doesn’t make sense because he can always read Barty…

Panic claws up his throat.

“I mean— James,” Regulus says, words rushing out in a frantic tumble. “You know James, right? I mean, I’ve mentioned him. He’s my only other friend here.” He’s rambling, but he can’t stop. “Except, well, he’s not just a friend anymore. I mean, we’re— we’re dating. That makes him my boyfriend? He might come around sometimes? I mean, to the flat? If that’s okay? Is that okay?”

His voice rises embarrassingly at the end, every sentence becoming more of a question than the last. Regulus wishes he could shut up and stop sounding like a nitwit.

He can’t. Not while Barty is just staring at him. Not blankly, with something that’s not quite anger but almost. Regulus shrinks under it, skin hot with embarrassment, stomach folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “Forget it. Forget what I said. I shouldn’t have— It’s okay if you don’t want— You don’t have to be okay with it, I mean, I hope you are, but if you’re not, I can— I mean, I’m not even sure if I—”

“Stop,” Barty says.

Regulus does.

Without another word, Barty steps forward and pulls him into a hug so fierce it knocks the breath out of him.

“Don’t apologize,” Barty mutters into his hair. “You fucking idiot. Of course, I’m okay with it. I love you. You’re my favorite person in the world, but I’d be okay with it even if you weren’t. I’m not straight either, remember?”

Regulus doesn’t mean to cry, but when Barty pulls back, there’s an unmistakable wetness on his cheeks. Neither of them acknowledges it.

“You said it was a phase,” Regulus whispers, not accusingly. Just softly. “When it was you, you said it was a phase.”

Barty scoffs. “Christ, Reggie. That was internalized homophobia, which I’m sure you’re familiar with. Of course, it wasn’t a phase. I just… I have my system.”

Regulus dries his cheeks, trying to be casual about it. “Your system?”

“My system,” Barty confirms. “Very complex. Consists mostly of girls now, but is definitely not straight.”

“I see.”

Barty snorts. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” Regulus admits. “I really don’t.”

Barty laughs, then slings an arm around his shoulder, tugs him in for another half-hug, and ruffles his hair until Regulus makes a sound of protest.

“He can come over,” Barty says, releasing him. “But fair warning, I’ll be the judge of whether or not this James guy is good enough for my best friend.”

Regulus huffs, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “You’ll have to get in line behind my brother.”

“Oh, I’m scarier than your brother,” Barty says with a wink, “and hotter.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I’m not touching that statement.”

“Coward.”

After that, they return to their dinner routine as if nothing world-altering has just been confessed. Perhaps it hasn’t, but Regulus still feels like standing on the aftermath of a seismic shift.

He wonders if, one day, talking about this will feel less…

Well, just less.

Maybe. Hopefully.

·:★:·

At first, integrating James into their rhythm is somewhat awkward.

Regulus never thought of his best friend as territorial, yet soon questions if that’s because Barty only ever had to share Regulus with Sirius. During James’s first visit to the flat, Barty remains civil — which in his case means merciless sarcasm rather than outright hostility — but there is something underneath his words that he’s holding back.

James handles it with grace, if only because he knows how much Barty means to Regulus. He takes every backhanded comment in stride, grins through the passive-aggressive jokes, and answers Barty’s protective interrogation with charming, infuriating honesty. James even washes the dishes after dinner without being asked. Regulus wonders whether this unshakable amiability will charm Barty or make him homicidal.

For the first few days, it seems like it might be the latter, but James doesn’t waver, and even Barty can’t help but warm up to him, though he certainly tries to resist it. Regulus sees his mollification in the way Barty quietly scoots over on the couch to give James room or occasionally leaves out an extra mug when making tea. It takes less than a week for the two of them to team up to bully Regulus throughout Uno games, or dramatically describe his favorite fig jam as smelling ‘like something that died near a lavender bush,’ which is unfair, truly.

The situation with Barty is not the only hiccup, though. Regulus loves being around James, craves it like oxygen for his lungs, but his presence in his home still makes Regulus anxious, over-aware of every glance, every touch, every shift in James’s expression. He’s never had this before, not just the relationship, but the allowing himself to be known.

It’s terrifying.

Still, all three of them adjust.

One evening, they all gather in the sitting room after dinner. Barty sits on the floor assembling a spreadsheet full of terrifying formulas that return even more terrifying numbers. (Fucking engineering majors.) James and Regulus curl up on the couch and watch a movie. It’s casual and friendly, with James making occasional quips and Barty pretending he’s not invested in the convoluted plot.

Regulus feels… happy.

Of course, that’s when his phone rings.

He doesn’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. The sound of that specific ringtone is enough to make his heart seize.

Walburga.

This cannot be good. She never calls outside of their scheduled check-ins because she doesn’t believe in such spontaneity.

With softly trembling hands, Regulus reaches for the phone. He stares at Mother flashing on the screen in blocky, unforgiving letters, then forces himself to pull away from James. He rises from the couch, murmuring something about taking the call privately.

Neither James nor Barty says anything as he disappears down the hall.

Regulus closes the door to his room behind him and just… stands there, phone still buzzing in his hand. For a long moment, he can’t bring himself to answer. Every part of him revolts at the thought of speaking to his mother when he was just intertwined with James, receiving soft kisses on his forehead every few minutes. He is all too aware of the path he’s walking and the inevitability of its destination.

Alas, she is his mother.

For now.

When he finally answers, his voice is far too steady for the way his heart is thudding. “Hello?”

“Regulus.” Her tone is clipped and perfectly controlled, as always. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with our communications team.”

There’s no preamble. There never is.

“Okay,” he says cautiously, already knowing this will not end well.

“They’ve brought something rather unpleasant to my attention, something that is hurting our campaign.”

Regulus doesn’t respond, frozen as a threatened prey animal.

“There’s a video being circulated,” Walburga continues. “A video of you and a hysterical liberal spewing some half-baked rhetoric about ethics.”

Regulus exhales slowly through his nose. Of course, it’s that video again.

“The optics are unacceptable,” she says, drawing out the word like a knife. “Do you have any idea how it looks, Regulus? My son — my only son — standing quietly while an entitled child insults everything we’re trying to build?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Regulus argues, though he knows it’s the wrong answer.

“No, darling, you didn’t,” she sighs. “You remained quiet when you should’ve stood up. When you should’ve defended what we believe in. What you believe in.”

Regulus closes his eyes.

“You’ve always been my sharpest boy,” his mother tells him, her voice lowering into something warmer, almost fond. “My thoughtful one. My clever one. You understand the importance of timing and silence. It was just a miscalculation, but it still needs to be addressed, so I need you to attend this weekend’s fundraiser. You’ll be photographed beside me, shake some important hands, and smile for the cameras. Just a reminder.”

A reminder. Regulus knows it’s meant for him as much as it is for the press. As if he ever forgets.

His throat feels like it’s closing in. “I can’t,” Regulus croaks. “I have a deadline.”

“Oh, darling, you think I would ask if it weren’t important? It’s just one night. That’s all I need from you. One night to show the world that the Black family remains united.”

He says nothing.

She pounces for the kill.

“You’ve always been my constant, Regulus. The one I could count on. The one who made me proud. I know things are… complicated now. I know how hard university can be. But you are the only one I have left, and I need you to do this. For me.”

It’s not real affection. Regulus has been surrounded by it lately, from James and Barty and Sirius. He can recognize the cloying, poisonous note in this mimicry. It doesn’t matter because she is telling the truth. Regulus is all she has left. He can do this one last thing for the woman who raised him, for the mother he loves still.

“I’ll go,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” she says, perfectly satisfied. “I’ll have a driver pick you up Saturday afternoon.”

Regulus imagines it, the claustrophobic drive to London with a destination that will only bring misery. Without James. His panic speaks for him before he can stop it. “May I bring a friend?”

There’s a pause. “Of course,” Walburga says smoothly. “Whatever makes you happy, darling.”

The call ends with the clinical click of disconnection.

Regulus doesn’t move for a long time, limbs numb and head buzzing. When it starts to become too pathetic, he forces himself to walk back to the sitting room.

James and Barty are quietly talking, the film paused in the background, even though Regulus did not ask them to wait.

Regulus clears his throat. “That was my mother.”

“We gathered,” Barty says, sitting up straighter. “What does the witch want now?”

“She asked me to go to one of her events this weekend,” Regulus explains, trying to keep his voice neutral. “A fundraiser.”

James shifts on the couch, uncomfortable. “What did you say?”

“I have to go,” he admits, ducking his head in shame. “It’s an appearance for damage control. The video with Emmeline is doing its rounds again, and Mother needs me to show… public support. A reminder to the press that one of her children is still... in alignment.”

He doesn’t say what he means by alignment. They all know.

Silence lingers as Regulus returns to his place on the couch, tucking himself under the arm James raises in invitation. It’s impressive how the fluttering can survive through the blizzard in his chest, springing to life as soon as they touch. God, Regulus really likes this boy.

“I asked her if I could bring a friend,” Regulus says against the soft cotton of James’s t-shirt. “Do you want to come with me?”

Every single muscle in James’s body grows rigid. Regulus expected some reluctance, but not this.

“You don’t have to,” Regulus adds quickly. “It’s a formal thing. We’d have to… keep our hands to ourselves. Obviously. Pretend to be just friends. Or not even that. You know, just forget it. You’ll hate it, and it’s not fair of me to ask you to be around those people. I just thought… I just thought it might be better with you there.”

“Regulus,” James sighs, eyes shining with a mournful emotion Regulus can’t quite name. He opens and closes his mouth twice before managing some words. “I want to make this easier for you, but…”

“You don’t have to. It’s okay. I promise.”

“No,” James argues, quiet but firm. “It’s not okay. Why would you do that to yourself, love?”

Regulus glances at him, startled by the question. “What?”

“It’s not healthy,” James says, voice low, struggling to find the right words. “That… that woman does not deserve you, Regulus. You don’t owe her anything.”

Barty snorts, startling Regulus once again; he almost forgot they weren’t alone.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Barty tells James. “You’ll never win that battle. Trust me, I tried for years. Old Wally might be a bitch, but Regulus would still fold himself into her suitcase if she asked nicely enough.”

Regulus flinches, though Barty doesn’t say it with malice. It’s just the truth.

“You don’t have to come,” Regulus says, his tone sharper than he means. “But I already promised her I would.”

James clenches his jaw as if he’s biting his tongue to keep from speaking. Something dark flickers across his expression. It’s not the judgment or even anger that Regulus expects. It’s something… much more complicated.

“If you’re going,” James says at last, “then so am I. You’re more important than… You’re more important.”

Regulus watches him closely, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”

James hesitates just for a second, but Regulus still feels the sting of it like a slap.

“Yeah, of course,” James says casually.

Something in his voice is off, though. It’s tight and strained. Regulus has the eerie sensation that it has nothing to do with the event itself. He fears this weekend might be more complicated than he anticipated.

·:★:·

The drive is heartbreakingly quiet.

They’re seated in the back of the government-issued car, all plush leather and polished chrome, everything just clinical enough to feel suffocating. Regulus sits on the left, James on the right, and a yawning chasm stretches between them. It’s more than just the distance. It’s the way neither of them dares to move or speak or even breathe too loudly.

Regulus wants to blame it on the driver up front. A man in a black suit who greeted Regulus by name and James with a sarcastic tilt of his eyebrow as he said, “Ah, the plus one.” It had the eerie cadence of an inside joke, though Regulus couldn’t think of a reason why James would know a member of Walburga’s security team.

They can’t risk anything in the man’s presence, no incriminating word or gesture.

Alas, Regulus is scared that this silence runs deeper than discretion.

He folds his hands in his lap, stiff and composed and brittle at the edges, keeping his gaze fixed out the window. The countryside rolls past, unfamiliar fields offering the sort of idyllic peace that Regulus has never felt.

James hasn’t said a word since they got in the car.

Not when the driver arrived, not when they settled into the back seat, not even when Regulus asked if he was warm enough in a fumbling attempt to make him more comfortable.

James just nodded and stared straight ahead.

And now Regulus sits and spirals into the nothingness of this silence.

He knew something was wrong from the moment James agreed to attend this stupid fundraiser. His boyfriend became quieter, not entirely distant but contained. James, who fidgets and laughs and spills words like sunlight, was suddenly… dimmed.

Regulus knows it’s his fault.

He’s guilt-tripped James into spending a night in a room full of bigoted snakes in suits. James, who has always been kind and brave and so unapologetically himself, has to pretend tonight. Has to sit beside a woman who wouldn’t look at him twice if she knew even half the truth.

Regulus wishes he could explain. He’s been trying for days, but the words refuse to come, all jumbled up in his head.

I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this either, but I love her. I love her, and I hate that I do. I hate that I need her approval like I need air. I hate that no matter how much I stray, part of me still wants to be her perfect son. I hate that I still hope she’ll see me, really see me, and not turn away. Because I still believe that in her own misguided way, she loves me back. Because she’s spent her life trying to save me from eternal torture, even if it meant inflicting some ephemeral pain herself. Because I think she believes that’s what she’s doing. And because I’m not ready to lose her, not yet.

Regulus says none of that. He refuses to make it worse, to disappoint James when he already looks like he’s bracing himself for something awful, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, eyes distant in a way that hurts more than Regulus anticipated.

He says nothing.

The car drives on, streetlamps casting long, cold shadows across their faces as they edge closer to the place Regulus swore that he could leave behind, but never really has.

By his mother’s side.

And James, his James, sits only centimeters away and feels impossibly distant.

The building is too bright. The large ballroom feels antithetically claustrophobic, the walls pressing in with every passing second, teeming with chatter and people who have never once questioned the error of their convictions. Regulus walks over the polished marble floors with the poise that’s been ingrained into him since childhood, but every step feels like a betrayal of himself, of James, of this delightful, delicate thing they’re building.

Walburga is waiting for him like a spider at the center of her gilded web. A dazzling predator made of midnight silk, pearl earrings, and a practiced, camera-ready smile. Her slender fingers wrap around his arm as she kisses his cheek, murmuring something he doesn’t hear.

Regulus hears the click of the cameras, though. They are loud enough to remind him he’s but a prop in her spectacle.

“My darling,” she says, louder now. “You look radiant.”

Regulus almost flinches at the flicker of pride in her eyes, how it burrows in the crevices of his chest like a divine endowment. If only she knew…

She pulls back with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and turns toward James. “And you must be Mr. Potter.”

Regulus’s brain stutters. He hasn’t introduced James yet.

Walburga offers James her hand, a deceivingly pleasant gesture. “When I heard you were the one accompanying my Regulus, I admit I was surprised.”

“Ma’am.” James takes her hand without missing a beat, his beautiful smile reduced to a tight, detached curve of his lips. “Thank you for having me. It’s an honor to be here.”

Before Regulus can fully process what just happened, Walburga moves on. She slips into the crowd, absorbed by her audience of donors and officials and carefully selected power players. As soon as she is out of sight, James drops his polite countenance.

Regulus turns to him, trying to steady his voice. “How did she know you?”

James doesn’t meet his eyes. “The video, maybe,” he says with a half-shrug. “I was in it too, remember? Getting you away from those people.”

It feels wrong. Not just the answer, but the way James says maybe, like he’s reciting a script that doesn’t quite fit his tongue.

Regulus frowns. “Still. She knew your name.”

“You’re her son. It’s not hard to run a background check on the company you keep.”

Regulus wants to press, but he can’t get another word out before Barty Crouch Sr. appears, all tailored smiles and political grease.

“Regulus,” he says, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re almost as tall as your brother now — and twice as presentable.” Barty Sr. laughs, like that’s not a dagger dressed as a compliment. “I was hoping you’d be here. Tell me — how is my son? Still chasing that middle-class nonsense?”

Regulus responds with something mild and violently noncommittal. It’s the only safe route.

As expected, the evening is a tedious, never-ending performance. Regulus shakes hands, poses for photos, listens to rhetoric, and compliments worded like traps. His cheeks ache from smiling. His back aches from standing straight. His soul aches from pretending. The champagne flute in his hand remains untouched until all the tiny bubbles fade.

He catches a glimpse of his father, mingling amongst the donors as is expected of him. Never mind that Orion and Walburga have been separated in everything but name for years now.

Regulus doesn’t approach him.

James hovers nearby, as promised, but his presence offers little comfort. Everything about him feels off. He speaks only when spoken to, his smiles subdued, his hands jammed deep into his pockets to keep from fidgeting every time he craves a cigarette.

Regulus doesn’t know how long it’s been when James touches his elbow, so tentative and featherlight it might as well have been imagined. “Come with me,” he murmurs.

They duck out of the main room and into one of the corridors branching off the side. James leads him to the men’s restroom, checks all the stalls in an absurdly thorough way, then locks the door behind them.

“James,” Regulus says, warily. “What’s going on?”

James doesn’t answer at first. He leans against the sink, runs a hand through his hair, freeing the rebellious strands from the layers of gel that have held them together throughout the evening. His face is so pale that Regulus wonders if he’s about to be sick.

He steps forward. “James?”

“We need to talk,” James says, turning toward him. His hands brace against the marble counter, knuckles white.

The words pierce through Regulus’s chest like icicles.

“What?”

“When we get back to Hogwarts. We need to talk.” His voice is low, urgent. Not angry. Just… serious.

“Are you—” Regulus begins, but the words catch in his throat. “Are you going to break up with me? Because I brought you here?”

James snaps his head up, startled. “What? No. No, Regulus, it’s not that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I agreed to come here.”

Regulus stares at him, unconvinced, unshed tears still prickling the bridge of his nose. “Then what is it?”

James hesitates. The silence stretches between them, taut and bound to hurt when it finally snaps.

“I need to tell you something — something I should have told you a while ago,” he says at last. “But I kept finding excuses to delay it, kept telling myself you didn’t need to know yet, that there was still time.”

This does not reassure Regulus in the least. “What is it?”

James steps forward, cups Regulus’s face, palm warm and dry against his cheek. “Not here, love. I promise I will explain everything, but when we’re safe and away from these people. This is just me making sure I don’t talk myself out of it again.”

Regulus wants to ask more, to demand an explanation, but is interrupted by a sudden tremor in the air.

He is already so flooded with anxiety-induced adrenaline that Regulus thinks he’s imagined it at first. Until he hears the first scream. It’s quickly followed by another, then a low, dull blast that echoes like thunder through the floor.

“What—” he begins.

James is already moving. No hesitation. No confusion.

He unlocks the door and quickly scans the corridor with a stiff, practiced movement of his neck.

“Come on,” James says, grabbing Regulus by the wrist and yanking him out of the restroom.

Why isn’t he surprised?

They don’t go back to the gala. They sprint in the opposite direction. The building’s emergency lights flash, red and eerie, and everything turns into panic. Security shouts from down the hall; Regulus can’t understand what they’re saying as James guides him, burrowing in service corridors and unlit passages like he knows the layout by heart. Every step feels like it’s happening outside of Regulus’s body. There’s more screaming behind them, followed by another explosion; it’s closer, enough to make the lights flicker and the walls vibrate.

Regulus stumbles and almost falls, but James doesn’t let him. In one clean movement, he scoops Regulus into his arms like it’s nothing, like he weighs less than the suit on his back.

“James— What— Put me down—”

“No,” James snaps. “Just hold on.”

Regulus obeys. Fingers digging into the fabric of James’s jacket, heart pounding so hard it hurts. He can’t believe James is holding him in a goddamn bridal carry. It might have been romantic if everything about this situation didn’t feel wrong, wrong, wrong. His breath catches in his throat as James runs down a corridor Regulus doesn’t recognize, a path he never knew existed. He tries to ask where they are going, but the words won’t come out.

James doesn’t stop until they reach a reinforced door. He slams his palm against a biometric panel that glows green beneath his hand. The door hisses open.

No key. No code. Just access.

What is happening?

When they’re finally inside the room, James gently lowers him to the ground, as if Regulus is fragile and must be handled with the utmost care. His legs feel numb, barely able to hold his weight. He grabs the nearest wall like a lifeline. Regulus averts his gaze from his boyfriend, studying the other people in the room instead: a small crowd of expensive suits and gowns, all wearing the same tight, frightened expression. He recognizes a few aides and MPs.

No Walburga. No Orion. Not yet.

Regulus looks back at James just as he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a small, black rectangle with a smooth surface and a blinking light.

Not a phone. A comm device.

James presses a button and speaks clearly into it, “RAB secured in Safe Room Three. Repeat, RAB secured in Safe Room Three.”

The moment the words leave James’s mouth, Regulus’s ears start ringing.

He stares at James. “What…” he starts, voice cracked like a heart. “What did you just say?”

James turns to face him. His expression is unreadable.

“Reg—”

“No,” Regulus breathes. “What the hell did you just say?”

James doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t matter. Regulus heard him loud and clear.

RAB.

He’s not Regulus. Not love.

RAB.

A string of letters. A code in a file. A mission. A secret.

James didn’t carry Regulus down here out of concern for his boyfriend. He delivered him like cargo. Because it’s his job.

Because it has always been his job.

And in that moment, surrounded by strangers, flashing red lights, and the echoes of distant sirens, Regulus feels the entire world vanish beneath his feet.

Chapter Text

Reality dissolves.

One moment, Regulus is paralyzed. The next, he is stumbling backward, away from James, away from the voice that doesn’t belong to the person he thought he knew. The shelter is a blur of concrete and flashing lights, bodies pressed together, murmurs rising in waves. Regulus pushes past them in desperate need to outrun the truth.

He makes it to the farthest corner and folds down, spine scraping the wall, knees pulled to his chest. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron. He presses his face into the space between his legs and grips the crucifix at his throat until the metal digs into his skin.

He doesn’t cry. He holds it in, as silent as he can be. The smallest of sounds might dissolve Regulus into a whisper of breath and bone.

James says his name, gentle, barely above the rush of blood in his ears.

Regulus doesn’t look up. He curls tighter into himself.

A small commotion breaks out once the others notice James’s professional posture and the comm device in his hand, recognizing him for what Regulus didn’t: not a civilian. The questions fall like hail as panic sands itself into entitlement, and they demand to know what is happening, where the other guests are, and if the emergency is already over.

James answers. Regulus doesn’t hear him.

He presses the crucifix to his lips and prays.

It only makes Regulus feel worse. He deserves this. He did it to himself. He knew it was wrong, and he did it anyway. He had thought he could have both. James and salvation. Love and grace. He had let himself believe it.

Stupid.

Regulus prays harder in a desperate attempt to drown his thoughts in a holy flood.

He lied to me. He manipulated me. He lied, he lied, he lied.

Worse,

I let him.

I wanted it.

Everything feels raw. He can’t tell if he’s freezing or burning. Shame and betrayal twist around each other in his throat, twin snakes battling for the honor of executing him. He clamps his teeth together and keeps praying, even when he’s not sure what he believes anymore. It’s the only thing left that feels remotely solid.

So, Regulus prays until the hallowed words dissolve into a plea.

Save me, save me, save me.

No one does.

Time passes, though not in minutes or hours. It ticks in the rhythm of whispered prayers and the raw throb of his heart. Regulus sits there, knees aching, crucifix biting into the meat of his palm, until he notices the weight of attention shifting toward him, a shadow blocking out the sterile overhead lights.

“Regulus.”

It’s his mother.

Her voice is quiet, gentle.

Regulus flinches before he looks up.

She kneels before him, her perfect mask undone. One side of her hair has collapsed from its updo, frizzy curls brushing her cheeks. A pearl earring is missing from her left ear, and someone has thrown a black men’s suit jacket over her shoulders, obscuring the sleek gown beneath. The lines around her eyes are softer than usual, carved from worry instead of judgment.

Walburga Black looks divinely human.

Regulus can’t stand the sight for too long. He blinks, looking past her, only to realize the shelter is nearly empty now. All the other guests are gone. It’s just his mother, her personal guards, and—

James.

Of course.

Regulus’s first instinct is to retreat further into himself, to shrink so small he will disappear entirely. He wonders if someone tried to speak to him and failed, if they had to call his mother because Regulus refused to leave that wall like a child throwing a tantrum on his first day of kindergarten.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter because Walburga doesn’t scold him for it, doesn’t raise her voice, doesn’t even fix him with a reprimanding stare. No, she only leans forward and gathers him into her arms.

And Regulus breaks.

It’s not a clean one. It’s loud and humiliating and unrelenting. All the cracks he’s collected in his short, pathetic life give in under the weight of the last straw. Regulus sobs into the expensive fabric of the jacket draped over her gown, and she lets him. Her arms are firm around him, hands moving in a familiar rhythm against his spine.

“I was so scared,” she whispers into his hair, voice trembling. “I didn’t know where you were. I thought— I thought maybe you—”

He cries harder.

“You’re safe now. That’s all that matters,” she murmurs, rocking him like she used to when he was a toddler, before he was too old for such displays. “You’re okay, Regulus. You’re okay.”

He isn’t. Regulus is not okay. He hasn’t been okay for as long as he can remember, though he has mightily tried to believe otherwise.

Still, her voice is sweet and soft. She tells him she searched every shelter for him, that she had to threaten someone to be let in, that she thought her heart would stop until she saw him.

“You’re my baby, my only baby,” his mother says. “You know that, don’t you?”

Regulus doesn’t answer.

When his breathing evens out, the humiliation of falling apart in her arms finally eclipses the pain. He straightens just enough to wipe his eyes and let her guide him to his feet. His legs tremble, and Regulus sways. James steps forward instinctively, the faintest movement, but doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t dare.

Walburga sees it.

Her expression shifts as she turns towards James. Only crumbs of softness remain, most of it replaced by her polished and precise public persona.

“Mr. Potter,” Walburga says in her politician’s voice. “I want to thank you. Your superiors were not wrong when they assured me you were the best man for this job.”

James absorbs the compliment with the same professional grace he’s worn all night, though Regulus notices the stiffness in his shoulders.

“There is no need to thank me, ma’am,” James tells her. “I’m just glad he’s safe. That’s all that matters to me.”

Something flickers in Walburga’s eyes, and Regulus chooses to focus on his mother rather than the deceitful conviction in James’s voice.

“I want to go home,” Regulus blurts, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

Walburga turns to him, surprised but gentle still. “Of course, my darling. I’ll have the staff prepare your room.”

“No.” Regulus shakes his head, voice firmer than he expected. The mere thought of Grimmauld Place turns his stomach. “I’ll go back to my flat. I think— I think I’ll feel better if things go back to normal.”

There’s a long pause. He can tell the exact moment his mother swallows her disagreement as the bitterest of pills.

“If that’s what you want,” Walburga tells him, then looks at James over her shoulder. “Make sure he gets home safely, Mr. Potter, and I expect more frequent updates moving forward. Every six hours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” James says, still painfully polite.

She doesn’t thank him again.

Regulus can’t look at either of them. The ache in his chest pulses anew.

He had asked to go home — stupid request, really — Regulus has no idea where that is.

·:★:·

The wind is sharp on the rooftop, but Regulus doesn’t feel its cut. He stands near the edge, eyes fixed on the horizon. Dawn is breaking in muted blues and purples and grays like the sky is nursing its own wound.

It’s fitting, somehow, to end it here. The same place it began.

Soft footsteps sound behind him. Regulus closes his eyes. He has always hated himself, but never as much as he despises the traitorous corner of his heart that sings for the soft touch on his arm. He employs every ounce of his resolve to pull away from James. It aches like tearing flesh.

They have yet to trade a single word. The car ride was entirely silent, with Regulus sitting alone in the back seat, and James in the front beside the other bodyguard. It was well enough because Regulus couldn’t bear to look at his face.

He has no choice but to look now.

“Regulus—” James begins, the name breaking around the edges.

“Why?” he asks.

Just the one word. Raw and hollow.

As always, James understands everything Regulus cannot bring himself to say aloud.

James exhales. He looks younger in the soft light of dawn.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, stepping forward. “My orders were to stay close, to blend in, but I…”

Regulus tilts his head, his expression unreadable, though his eyes burn with tears he wishes were only made of anger. “You flirted with me the first time we met.”

James flinches.

“You looked at me like I was the only person in the room, like you never wanted to look at anything else. You noticed things no one ever does. You kissed me. You said you weren’t going anywhere.”

His voice cracks. Regulus hates that it cracks.

“Why did you do that?” he demands. “Was it a joke? A game? See how long you could string along the repressed gay kid?”

Regulus doesn’t even hear himself say it. Gay. He won’t realize it until later, won’t remember the way the word left his mouth like it belonged there all along.

James hears it. He hears it, and he looks like he’s been struck. His eyes grow wide and glistening.

“No,” James breathes. “No. It wasn’t like that, Regulus. I promise it wasn’t like that at all.”

Regulus shakes his head once, as if trying to dislodge all the memories of James from his brain.

“Then what was it? Were you bored? Wanted a stroke to your ego?”

“No!” James says, voice rising with desperation. “I thought it’d be easier if I befriended you. I flirted because— because that’s what I do, all right? It’s instinct. I didn’t expect it to mean anything. I never expected—”

“What?” Regulus snaps. “Didn’t expect it to work?”

“Yes!” James cries. “Not just on you, but on me! I didn’t expect to fall for you.”

Regulus lets out a dry, mirthless laugh. It scrapes his throat raw. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

James takes another step closer. “You don’t get it. I tried to stay away after I realized what was happening. I tried to pull back, but I couldn’t. I had to stay near you. I had to keep you safe.”

“Because it’s your job?”

“No!” James insists, helplessly raising his hands. “Because it’s you. You are so, so beautiful and intelligent and funny in your own weird way. Once I got past the walls you built, I couldn’t— You are so lovely, Regulus. You have no idea how lovely you are.”

Regulus scoffs, but James doesn’t stop, as if his words might fix what he’s shattered.

“I tried to stay your friend. I tried so hard, but that just hurt you more, and I couldn’t— You looked like I’d betrayed you, and I knew I had. I knew I had. I should have told you, then, but I couldn’t bear to see your pain. All I wanted was to hold you, kiss you, make it all better.”

James sounds so sincere. Regulus feels sick to his stomach.

“You can stop pretending now,” he says, coldly.

“I wasn’t pretending,” James insists. “Not about that, not about you. I love you, Regulus.”

Regulus recoils like he’s been slapped. It’s the worst thing he’s ever heard. “You work for my mother,” he says, unsure of which one of them he’s trying to remind.

“I work for the government,” James counters. “Your mother just happens to be the one in power right now.”

Oh. Oh, that makes something in Regulus break wide open, flooding him with anger. He clings to it.

As always, anger is simpler.

“Is this what you want to do now?” Regulus spits out. “Quibble about technicalities?”

“No! It’s not—” James scrubs a hand over his face, crooking his glasses. “I’m trying to make you understand. I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have lied! You should have told me the truth! At any point.”

“I was going to,” James pleads. “I swear. That’s why I pulled you into that restroom. I needed to make sure I would follow through this time. I just needed— if I only had more time.”

Regulus is quiet for a moment. “You mean you were going to tell me after my life was threatened? Was I supposed to be so grateful that you did your job that I wouldn’t blink when you said, ‘By the way, I’ve been lying since day one’?”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” James croaks. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Regulus sighs a slow, measured breath. “It did. You can’t change that.”

“I just—” James runs a hand through his hair. He can’t stay still. “I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Why? You never had me,” Regulus says, and it lands like a death knell. “Not the real you. I don’t even know you.”

James staggers a step back, like he’s been punched. “You do. Everything else— everything else was true, Regulus.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“I just need you to listen,” James begs. “I know you have no reason to forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it. I just— please, believe me when I say it wasn’t a lie, not the part that matters. I wanted to tell you. I was going to. I made sure of that. I was going to tell you, love, if I just had time. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

Regulus inhales, and it rattles in his chest.

“You’re right,” he whispers, too tired to raise his voice. “I have no reason to forgive you.”

A tear runs down James’s beautiful face.

“And don’t call me love.”

James exhales a wounded noise, something between a sob and a breath.

“Regulus—”

“Leave.”

The word is quiet. As empty as it is final.

“Stay away from me,” Regulus continues, eyes returning to the horizon. “Security is not meant to be seen or heard.”

James hesitates. A moment when the wind itself holds its breath.

Regulus wonders if James is waiting for him to change his mind, to turn around, to say, Please stay.

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

The sound of retreating footsteps is followed by the metallic click of the rooftop door opening and shutting.

Then,

Silence.

The sun has just risen, bathing Regulus in its soft, golden light as he collapses to the floor for the second time in this hellish night.

He weeps.

Regulus isn’t alone for long. It feels like mere seconds have passed when the rooftop door creaks open again.

The sound makes his breath hitch.

He doesn’t look up, just folds tighter into himself. The footsteps are slow, measured, and hesitant in a way James has never been. Dread still crawls up Regulus’s spine, a new wave of nausea washing over him. Is this how James walks under the weight of wrongdoing?

Regulus hopes not. Even a stranger would be preferable right now. He doesn’t think he can bear another look, another word, another apology spun out of ersatz remorse.

“Reg?”

It’s Barty.

Thank God.

Regulus exhales, breath shuddering out of him, almost a sob. It’s not James. It’s not him. Relief pierces so sharply it aches.

“I— James woke me up,” Barty says, a bit breathless, like he ran part of the way up. His voice is hoarse with sleep, or worry, or both. “Said you were up here. Said you were shaken and needed me.”

Regulus closes his eyes. Of course, James did. Of course, he went and woke Barty, because he still thinks he gets to decide what Regulus needs.

“I didn’t know about the attack,” Barty adds, softer now. “You weren’t answering my texts. I thought you were still with your mother.”

There’s a pause, like Barty’s hoping Regulus will speak, or move, or meet his eyes. He doesn’t. He can’t. The air around him feels fragile, like it will disappear from his lungs if he’s not careful enough.

Barty takes a slow step closer. Then another. “I don’t know what happened there, and you don’t have to tell me now. Or at all, but…” He hesitates, the rest coming out in a whisper, “You’re scaring me a little, Reg. Come inside with me, please? You’re freezing.”

Regulus doesn’t answer, but his body tips minutely forward, as if his muscles remember what it means to say yes before his mind does. Barty kneels beside him and offers a hand. His palm is warm and steady, while Regulus’s is trembling and cold.

Barty feels real.

What is real is all that matters now.

They rise together, Regulus leaning on his friend more than he means to, legs stiff and aching. The walk down is quiet except for the echo of their steps, the stairwell still full of early morning chill.

The building is silent. The campus is sleeping. The world has no idea what’s just crumbled.

Inside their flat, everything is the same, mocking in its normalcy.

“Here,” Barty says gently, nudging open Regulus’s pajama drawer and pulling out a soft pair, his favorite. “You’ll feel better out of that suit.”

Regulus fumbles through the motions. The fabric is warm and worn at the sleeves. It used to belong to Sirius.

“You’re okay,” Barty says, sounding like he’s trying to convince them both. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Regulus sinks slowly onto the bed, curling in on himself. The duvet feels too heavy, or maybe he does. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t cry. Not anymore. He’s too exhausted, too drained.

Barty lingers in the doorway. “I’ll be here,” he says softly. “If you need anything, just call for me, yeah?”

Regulus doesn’t say thank you; he only focuses on breathing in and out and in again.

The door clicks gently shut.

In the bird-twittering quiet, Regulus stares at the starless ceiling.

·:★:·

The next few days are spent in bed. Regulus squeezes his eyes shut and burrows into his nest of covers for hours upon hours, letting himself drift. He doesn’t sleep. Sleep implies rest. This is more like an absence, like his body remains in the flat, but his self has slipped through the crack beneath the door long ago.

He stops eating. It starts with a missed breakfast after the rooftop, then lunch forgotten, then dinner pushed away, untouched. By the second day, even the thought of food makes his stomach turn. Everything tastes like ash. He sips water only when Barty presses a glass into his hands and waits.

Regulus doesn’t shower. He doesn’t change out of the pajamas Barty gave him that morning. His hair grows oily, curling limp around his ears and sticking to his temples. He smells himself once — sharp, sour, unclean — and still can’t summon the energy to do anything about it. The mirror in the bathroom becomes something to avoid.

The curtains in the flat stay drawn and the lights low. The air grows stale.

Sometimes, Regulus stares at the ceiling for hours, unmoving. Sometimes, he curls on his side with his face to the wall and lets his thoughts fog over into nothingness. Sometimes, he weeps, silent and dry-eyed, without ever really noticing.

The silence is immense. He is so, so tired.

He doesn’t pray.

He takes off his cross necklace.

It doesn’t make him any lighter.

He doesn’t think about his mother.

He doesn’t think about James.

Outside, the world continues. Lectures are held, essays are written, meals are eaten. Regulus sometimes listens to the scooters rolling in the courtyard below his closed window. He braces himself for the familiar sound of James’s running shoes when he goes on his jogs, but it never comes. Regulus doesn’t open his laptop. Doesn’t check his phone. The buzzing screen on the bedside table might as well belong to someone else.

He misses all his classes.

It’s Barty who notices first. When Monday passes with no sign of life from Regulus, he takes over his laptop with a decisive clack of keys. Regulus watches, barely turning his head, as Barty types out careful, strategic e-mails, full of impressive persuasion, just vague enough to earn sympathy.

Shaken by the attack. Reasonably distressed. Grateful for your understanding.

Barty goes as far as to lie to his own professors, sending them similar e-mails, claiming he was at the fundraiser as well. When Regulus croaks out a protest, Barty hushes him without looking up.

“You think I’m going to leave you alone like this?” he says. “Please.”

Regulus lets it go. He lets everything go. What’s the point of arguing when reality feels so far away? He can’t bring himself to get dressed, let alone care about the moral complexities of someone else’s white lies.

He pretends not to notice the careful way Barty watches him. Regulus only focuses on the small ember of affection amid the nothingness when Barty stocks the fridge with his favorites, sits by Regulus on the bed and plays his comfort films on his laptop, washes all the clothes in the hamper that never gets refilled, hums random songs just to fill the silence with something that isn’t misery.

Regulus might have told him to go away if he didn’t love Barty so stupidly much.

On the third day, when it’s starting to feel like this fog might never lift, Barty sets a mug of tea down beside him, leans against the headboard, and says casually,

“Do you want me to go get him?”

Regulus is tucked in tight, an arm over his eyes, bones aching with stillness. His stomach clenches at the question. “Get who?”

“James.”

He says it like it’s obvious, like Regulus hasn’t spent three days wishing he could unrecall everything about James Potter.

“I don’t know what’s taking him so long,” Barty continues. “Maybe he thinks you want space? Or maybe—” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Do you want me to bring him here?”

Regulus blinks at him. His heart lurches in his chest like a small creature startled from sleep. He knew he would have to tell Barty eventually, but…

He opens his mouth, tries to speak, tries again.

It takes several seconds to conjure the words. “He… He lied.”

Barty stills. “What?”

Regulus wants to shrink, to become smaller and smaller until he vanishes between the springs in his mattress, through the cracks on the floor, beneath the earth. He wants to say it without having to say it.

Alas, Barty deserves more than silence.

“He works for my mother,” Regulus whispers. “The whole time, he was working for her. It’s his job. Security. I was his assignment.”

Regulus is not crying, his eyes are dry, but his whole body is trembling, as if something inside him is cracked and leaking.

“He lied,” Regulus repeats.

Barty stares at him for a long, terrible second, terrifyingly still.

Then the fury hits like a thunderbolt.

He rises from the bed, pacing the room in a blur. His hands flex like they want something to break. “Fucking hell, Reg. Are you kidding me? That’s why you’re like this? That bastard— I will kill him. I will. I’ll cut his throat then put his head on a fucking pike.”

“No—”

“After everything, he—? I’ll kill him, Regulus, I will, he doesn’t get to do this, not to you—”

“Barty—”

“I swear to God, Regulus. Is he still on campus? You know what, it doesn’t matter, I’ll find him and end him either way.”

“Barty—”

“Who the fuck does he think he is? Like he can just come into your life and play pretend and make you— and then—”

“Barty.” Regulus’s voice cracks. “Please.”

It’s the please that does it.

That little word scraped raw from the throat of someone who rarely asks for anything.

Barty freezes mid-step.

“Please, just… just leave it.”

With a sigh, Barty turns, fists unclenching. His face is still flushed, but his mouth softens as he looks at Regulus, really looks at him. The sunken cheeks, the unwashed hair, the way he’s curled up like something kicked and bruised.

“Okay,” Barty says, unbelievably gentle after such an outburst. “Okay.”

He comes back to sit by Regulus’s feet, reaching out but not touching.

“I’ve got you,” Barty promises.

“I know.”

They don’t speak about it again. It’s as if James has never existed.

However, Barty’s protective instincts skyrocket after that. He orders his own security to pick up Regulus’s prescriptions when he realizes they’re overdue, forces him to drink healthy juice concoctions when he looks faint, tidies the flat with quiet, focused determination, as if cleaning the space might scrub the ache from Regulus’s chest.

Barty doesn’t push, not exactly, but he’s always there, this solid shape in Regulus’s periphery.

He notices, after a while, that Barty’s phone lights up constantly. Messages. Calls. Alerts. Each one ignored, screen dimming again and again. Regulus doesn’t have the energy to care at first, but soon something pitiful inside him begins to wonder.

What if it’s James?

What if he’s asking?

What if he’s trying?

Regulus hates himself for hoping, for even considering it, but one night, bundled on the couch with a blanket up to his chin, he murmurs, “Who keeps texting you?”

Barty’s hand twitches on the armrest. His expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes darkens. “It’s just Evan,” he says noncommittally.

Regulus doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but that answer feels strange all the same. Off. Like Barty isn’t telling him everything.

He is too tired to press, so he doesn’t.

Time passes. The world goes on. Regulus doesn’t.

He’s always had a tendency toward melancholy but used to be good at hiding it, at pretending his vision didn’t blur in grayscale and his chest didn’t ache with numbness. Regulus remembers sitting cross-legged in a dim child’s therapist’s office while a woman with kind eyes explained it to him. “High-functioning depression,” she’d said, “but depression still.”

Regulus didn’t go back after that because he didn’t need to. He had a problem, but one he could mask, could tuck behind top grades and dutiful prayers and daily pills. Regulus still slipped sometimes, scraped his metaphorical knees, and bled like he did after that day at the cinema, but he always got back on his feet and functioned.

Well, he’s not functioning now.

Not going to class. Not eating enough. Not showering unless Barty stands in the doorway and nags him into it. Not writing. Not reading. Just floating in a haze of grief and betrayal.

This is the other kind — the kind that drags you down and keeps you there,  that turns getting out of bed into scaling a cliff, that whispers there’s no point when your best friend asks if you want to go for a walk.

Barty watches it settle in, watches it take hold, and when it becomes clear it isn’t going away on its own this time, he says,

“All right. Time for the big guns.”

He disappears into his room to make a call, and when he returns, there’s a look in his eyes that Regulus doesn’t recognize.

Regulus doesn’t ask what that means.

He only finds out the next day when there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and Sirius Black stands on the other side.

·:★:·

The brownstone is smaller than Regulus expected.

A narrow sliver of a house on a quiet street, its brick façade softened by ivy and the passing years, paint flaking on the railing. The steps creak under their weight. A cat glares from the neighboring windowsill like it knows he doesn’t belong here.

It looks like a home.

Sirius unlocks the front door one-handed, the other gripping the handle of Regulus’s hastily-packed suitcase.

“Welcome to paradise,” Sirius says, pushing the door open. “Or hell, depending on how you feel about earth tones and obscure records.”

Regulus hesitates on the threshold, hands shoved into the long sleeves of the jumper Barty lent him for good luck. He feels impossibly self-conscious.

It’s warm, full of clutter, but not messy. The air smells like cinnamon and something faintly woodsy — a sandalwood candle burning on the windowsill. There are coats hung unevenly by the door, a dog-eared paperback left spine-up on the coffee table, and mismatched mugs on nearly every surface.

Regulus steps inside.

“This is it,” Sirius says, lifting his arms in a flourish. “Home sweet home. The carpet’s older than me, the plumbing’s emotional, and the couch sinks if you sit on the left side, but it’s ours.”

Regulus has never felt more out of place in his life.

There’s the thud of footsteps from the hallway, then an unfamiliar figure appears. Regulus has only ever seen Remus Lupin in photographs, mostly blurry candid shots. He is taller than Regulus expected, thinner too. He is Sirius’s age, but his dirty blonde hair is streaked with gray, and he has a worn, chipped wooden cane braced in his left hand. It makes him look oddly grandfatherly. This effect is only enhanced by his clothes: a fraying, oversized, brown jumper, paired with faded slacks that are a bit too short, leaving a sliver of his bony ankles exposed.

“You must be Regulus,” Remus says, voice like honey in tea. He smiles like they haven’t spent the past two years resenting each other from opposite ends of Sirius’s orbit. “It’s really good to finally meet you.”

Regulus wants to disappear.

He nods, not quite trusting his voice with anything more than a quiet, “Hi.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Remus closes the space between them, offering a warm smile and his hand for a greeting.

Regulus takes it, surprised by how firm the grip is, how sure. “Thanks,” he whispers.

“I made tea,” Remus adds. “Chamomile. I wasn’t sure if you— Well, it’s there if you want it.” He gestures toward the kitchen.

Regulus nods again. He can’t believe this is how he’s meeting the man Sirius insists is the other half of his soul, as a fragile, barely stitched together tatter of himself. It is almost as humiliating as reuniting with his brother while he was lying in bed, buried under his misery, and Barty fretting around them like a mother hen.

At least Regulus showered before coming here.

Sirius doesn’t give him time to stew.

“Right!” he announces, louder than necessary. “Come on, tour time. We’ll have tea in a bit, and you and Moony can talk about Nietzsche or whatever it is you swots enjoy.”

Remus rolls his eyes, smiling affectionately. “No philosophy talk today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Regulus follows Sirius down the hallway, feet heavy. The rooms are all narrow and uneven, full of shelves and soft lighting. Everything here has a practical purpose; nothing caters to appearances only. He tries not to linger next to the framed pictures lining the walls, but they catch his eye all the same. Sirius and Remus laughing together with wind-mussed hair, another of them on a picnic blanket with an old shepherd dog, a flash-saturated pub photo of Sirius flipping off the person behind the camera while Remus grins beside him.

There’s a picture of the two of them asleep on the sofa, tangled up in one another like roots. He has never seen Sirius so happy.

Regulus looks away before the weight of envy becomes unbearable in his chest.

“And here we have your quarters,” Sirius says, flinging open a door with mock pomp. “Your royal suite, also known as the guest bedroom.”

It’s mostly a home office, an entire wall of overstuffed bookshelves, a desk filled with scrawled handwritten notes, and a laptop covered in half-peeling stickers. In the corner, a pull-out couch is made up with fresh sheets and a soft knitted blanket. There’s even a glass of water and a tin of mints on the small end table, like a hotel touch.

Sirius gestures around the room like he’s truly unveiling a luxury suite. “Five-star accommodations. Views of the neighbor’s very vocal chihuahua and occasional nudity.”

Regulus forces a smile he doesn’t feel. “Looks… great.”

Sirius shifts, showing some nerves at last. “It’s not much, but it’s yours, for as long as you need.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to say. He hasn’t known what to say for days. He settles for a murmured, “Thank you.”

“Reggie…” Sirius starts, then falters. He sets the suitcase down gently. The silence stretches between them. “Do you want to stay here? I mean, in your room. You can rest if you want. From the drive.”

“I…” Regulus swallows. His throat feels raw. “It wasn’t a long drive.”

“I know.” Sirius steps back, his grin flickering. “Still.”

“Thank you,” Regulus repeats. “I think I will.”

Regulus sits. The worn couch dips beneath him, too soft and too clean. His sleeves hide the tremor in his fingers.

“Cool.” Sirius nods. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, quickly buried under a smile. “Cool, cool, cool. Well, you know where we are. Room is all yours. I’ll let you get settled.”

“Thank you.”

Sirius lingers at the door for a moment, eyes flicking toward him, then away.

“I’m really glad you are here, Reggie. We’re really glad you’re here,” Sirius says so genuinely, Regulus’s heart aches as it melts. “Just… have some sleep, yeah? We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

Sirius closes the door behind him with a quiet click before Regulus can thank him again like a demented parrot.

Regulus wonders how much Barty told Sirius.

Does his brother know that Regulus wasn’t anywhere near the bombs? That he hasn’t even processed that his life had been at risk? That he lost his grip on his sanity because of a boy? A beautiful boy who made Regulus question his beliefs while working for the person who instilled them in his heart?

Regulus turns in his makeshift bed and decides that he doesn’t care. Not right now. He can worry about it later.

All that matters is that he’s clean, he’s warm, and he’s not alone.

He’s not okay. But,

Regulus is with his brother. After so long, he is with his big brother.

This place might feel welcoming once Regulus overcomes how alien it is in its coziness. Sirius and Remus are trying so hard not to let it show that they’re worried, which somehow makes it better, but worse, but better still.

Regulus curls into himself on the couch and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. Surprisingly, he manages to fall asleep.

Of course, Regulus wakes to shouting in the living room.

He blinks up at the unfamiliar ceiling, groggy and disoriented, briefly caught in the grave between asleep and awake. The sunlight slanting through the half-closed blinds hasn’t moved much, still resting just beneath the windowsill in late morning glow. He must have slept for an hour or two, at most, but it’s the kind of sleep that leaves him more drained than before, like his brain sunk into tar.

The voices rise again, cutting through the fog.

They tangle and overlap. His brother’s loud, livid yells mixed with Remus’s quieter, pacifying tone, and—

Regulus closes his eyes, hoping for a second that it’s all a dream. A nightmare.

It isn’t.

James.

Just as loud as Sirius. Just as furious.

Regulus exhales through his nose and buries himself deeper into the blanket, hoping for a second that he might disappear into the folds of it. He could stay here. He wants to stay here and let Sirius handle it, let them shout until they lose their voices.

Then,

A loud crash: something breaking, either glass or porcelain.

Regulus flinches as he sits up.

His legs feel like lead when he swings them to the floor. The hallway feels longer than before, the lights dimmer. His socks are silent against the floor. His breath is loud in his ears.

When Regulus reaches the living room, the scene is exactly what he expected, but somehow worse.

Sirius stands closest to the hallway, wild-eyed and bristling. James is across the room, his jaw tight, his hands balled at his sides. One of the mugs Regulus noticed earlier lies in a pile of debris at his feet, presumably hurled by Sirius. The air between them crackles with fury, and somewhere in the middle, Remus is trying to keep them from combusting.

“This is my house!” Sirius roars, pointing an accusatory finger. “You don’t get to just show up uninvited like you have a right to—”

“I had to show up!” James takes a step forward, eyes blazing. “He left without saying a word. He was gone, and he did not answer my—”

“You think you’re entitled to answers?” Sirius snaps. “After what you did to him?”

“Please,” Remus interjects, voice still low but fraying at the edges. “You’re going to wake him—”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” James retorts, rounding on Sirius. “I made a mistake, and I tried to fix it—”

“Well, news flash, you don’t get a redo. You fucked up. Stay the hell away from him!”

“I’m not leaving until I see that he’s okay!”

“Then I’ll make you leave,” Sirius says, stepping forward again. “I swear to God, Potter, if you don’t walk out that door in the next five seconds, I’ll throw you out, unleash Crouch on your sorry arse, and let him chew you into pieces.”

James looks genuinely startled. “You wouldn’t.”

Sirius doesn’t blink. “Try me.”

James chokes on his breath, though not because of the threat. His eyes have just locked onto something behind Sirius’s shoulder.

Regulus.

Standing barefoot in the corridor, wrapped in his knitted blanket, pale and stunned.

The change in James is instant.

The fight bleeds out of him. His arms drop. His mouth opens, but no sound blooms. He takes a single step toward Regulus, relieved and almost desperate.

“Regu—”

He doesn’t get to finish the name.

Because Sirius punches him.

The hit lands squarely on James’s jaw, and he stumbles back, catching himself against the arm of the sofa with a grunt of pain.

“Sirius!” Remus exclaims, rushing forward, but Sirius is already winding up again.

This time, James’s training is sharper than his surprise. He ducks the second blow and straightens, chest heaving. “What the fuck, Black!”

He’s ready to retaliate, muscle memory kicking in from years of sparring, but he stops short when—

“Don’t you dare touch him.”

Regulus’s voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the mayhem like a gunshot.

James freezes mid-swing.

Sirius doesn’t and slams his fist into James’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him.

“Sirius, stop!” Regulus pleads, voice cracking and eyes glinting with unshed tears.

Everything halts as Sirius backs off at last. All three pairs of eyes turn to him, the only sound the ragged wheezing of James’s breath, the echoes of the punch still reverberating in his body.

Regulus stands in the archway like a threadbare ghost.

“Potter.” Regulus swallows. It doesn’t help the hoarseness in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

James straightens slowly, still clutching his side. The blooming bruise on his jaw is not the only wound displayed on his face. He looks miserable.

“I— I didn’t know where you went,” James tells him, voice scratchy from shouting. “I missed the notification that you were on the move.”

Regulus flinches at notification.

It makes so much sense.

James must have been tracking him.

That’s why he was everywhere.

Regulus has never felt so stupid in his life.

James keeps talking, like he can fix this with sheer force of will. “You weren’t answering your phone, and when I saw you were in another city, I panicked. I thought maybe you were— I didn’t know if you were safe. I got here as soon as I could. I had to see you, I had to know— Regulus, I’m so glad you’re okay—”

“Leave,” Regulus interrupts, flat and final.

James blinks. “What?”

“Leave and don’t come back.”

“I can’t do that,” James pleads. He takes a step forward, which Regulus matches in retreat. “Please, Regulus, I just— I need to make sure you’re safe. I—”

“If you ever cared about me,” Regulus says, shaking now, “if you ever gave a single fuck about me, you’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

James goes very still. His face crumples like he’s taken yet another punch. When he speaks, it’s almost too quiet to hear. “That’s not fair.”

Regulus laughs, low and full of venom. It reminds him of his mother.

“Fair? You want to talk to me about fair?” The first tear descends his cheek. “Fuck you, Potter. Leave.”

Regulus can almost see the moment something inside James shatters.

He nods once. Just once.

“Okay,” James says, quieter still. “If that is what you need from me. I’ll leave.”

He walks to the door slowly, as if his body weighs more than it should. His hand has barely touched the knob when—

“Potter.”

James turns. There’s hope in his eyes again, flickering and fragile.

Regulus crushes it.

“Don’t let my mother know I’m here,” he says coldly. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

James nods again. There’s nothing left in his expression but pain.

“I won’t. I promise.”

Then,

He leaves.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Sirius takes a careful step forward. “Reggie?”

“I’m fine,” Regulus replies, though he knows no one believes him, not even himself. “I’m going to my room.”

He turns toward the hallway, ready to disappear into the little office with the pull-out couch.

Regulus is almost at the threshold when he realizes just how rude he sounded. How ungrateful. He looks back at Sirius, blinking rapidly.

“If… if that’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says immediately, voice softening beyond belief. “Of course it’s okay, Reggie. You don’t have to ask. It’s your room.”

Regulus nods, looking away. “You should ice your hand,” he murmurs, then disappears inside, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a pitiful sort of armor.

·:★:·

Sirius allows him exactly one (1) day of peace.

Regulus should’ve known this would happen, that Barty didn’t call Sirius just to send Regulus to waste away somewhere else, that neither of them would simply watch as he spent the rest of his life wrapped in a blanket, too empty to cry or ask for help.

Still, he’s not prepared for the pushing to start at breakfast.

They’re sitting around the table, Sirius in pajama bottoms and a vintage tour tee with more holes than fabric, Remus in his usual slouchy knitwear. Regulus sits stiff-backed, sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, methodically tearing apart a piece of cornbread without eating.

“I think you should see a therapist,” Sirius says apropos of nothing.

Regulus lifts his head slowly.

He doesn’t respond, just looks at his brother, too tired to react.

Across from him, Remus drops his spoon inside his mug with a rattling clank. He rises and, without a word, turns on the tap to rinse out breakfast dishes. Regulus appreciates how Remus gives them privacy without leaving them alone.

Sirius clears his throat, drumming his fingers against the table. He always fidgets when he’s nervous.

“We found you one,” he continues. “She’s great. One of the best.”

Regulus says nothing.

“She teaches at Hogwarts,” Sirius presses on. “She doesn’t take on new patients anymore, but Remus called in a favor.”

Regulus can’t handle the hope in his brother’s face, so he looks down at his hands instead, at the crumbs clinging to his dry skin. His nails are a little too long; he presses them into the softness of his palm, leaving little red crescents in their wake.

“I didn’t actually call in a favor,” Remus offers over the sound of water, mercifully breaking the silence. “I just asked Dr. Pomfrey — she’s been my doctor since I was a kid — if her wife would consider seeing you.”

There’s a pause, a small space for Regulus to answer. He doesn’t.

“Dr. McGonagall agreed,” Remus tells him, and the name rings a distant bell. “She’s great — no nonsense but kind. I think you’ll like her.”

Sirius smiles, a little lopsided, a little worn. “Pomfrey has a soft spot for Remus,” he says, trying to inject some levity into the conversation, “and McGonagall has a soft spot for Pomfrey. Of course, she agreed.”

Regulus looks at the crumbs again, a fine trail of debris along his plate. The pads of his fingers are sticky. He should cut his nails. He should shower again. He should get dressed. He should do something. Anything.

He manages, barely above a whisper, “Do I have a choice?”

The sink shuts off. Silence falls.

Remus turns around, drying his hands on a tea towel. “Of course, you do,” he says, and there’s no edge to it, just unbearable softness.

“I’m not forcing you, Reggie,” Sirius adds. “I’d never do that, but… I’d really appreciate it if you gave it a shot. Just a couple of sessions, that’s all I ask.”

Regulus hates this.

He hates that Sirius is watching him as if he might break at any second. He hates that Remus, who is practically a stranger, is standing a few feet away, ready to catch the pieces.

Regulus feels stupid. Childish.

He can’t shake the guilt — the quiet, insidious parasite that crawls under his skin. The open, scared look on Sirius’s face turns the feeling into an unrelenting chant, You’re hurting him. You’re letting him down. Again. Again. Again.

Regulus can’t survive disappointing Sirius once more.

“Okay,” he whispers.

The single word rings more like surrender than consent.

Still, relief instantly floods his brother. He exhales, and the tension in his shoulders loosens, though it doesn’t vanish.

“Thank you,” Sirius says, true gratitude coloring his tone. “It’ll be good for you, Reggie. You’ll see.”

Regulus swipes his napkin over his fingers, brushing away the crumbs.

They cling anyway.

·:★:·

Regulus doesn’t want to do this.

He knows it’s just a video call, a little window on his laptop, but it feels worse than if he were in the room with her. At least in person, he’d have the power of silence, of posture, of observing her choices in décor to avoid eye contact. Through a screen, there’s nowhere to hide, just a high-resolution image and the too-intimate echo of his own voice bouncing back at him.

The chime sounds, the screen flickers, and there she is.

Dr. Minerva McGonagall looks exactly like he expected and not at all like he imagined. Her screen is framed by a bookshelf and softly illuminated by a warm-lighted lamp. She wears a structured navy blouse, glasses perched low on her nose, and a quiet expression that’s neither stern nor sympathetic.

It’s better, somehow, that she’s not smiling.

“Good afternoon, Regulus,” she says, tone even. “I’m glad you made time for this.”

“I wouldn’t miss an appointment,” he mutters.

“That’s good,” she says, and it’s not patronizing, just factual. She looks at him like she’s meeting him exactly where he is, not where he’s supposed to be.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

A brittle silence lingers.

Regulus fidgets with the knitted blanket draped over his knees, wondering if she’s already psychoanalyzing him. He hopes she doesn’t see a lost cause. He even washed his hair for this.

Once he can no longer bear the pressure of his own heartbeat in his ears, Regulus blurts out, “How much did Sirius and Remus tell you?”

Oh, fuck, does he sound paranoid? Does she think he’s insane?

Dr. McGonagall doesn’t so much as blink. “Nothing specific. Only that you’ve been going through a difficult time and might benefit from professional support.”

He waits for more, for her to try and guess his problem, to throw labels at him.

She doesn’t.

“That’s it?” Regulus whispers.

“That’s it,” she confirms. “They care about you, but they respect your privacy. As do I.”

Regulus isn’t sure what to say to that. He grips the edge of the laptop harder than necessary, knuckles pale.

Dr. McGonagall leans slightly forward, folding her hands in front of her. “Do you need help, Regulus?”

Something recoils uncomfortably inside him, like he’s been caught. His first instinct is to lie or maybe turn off his wi-fi and pretend the call glitched. What stops him is the memory of Sirius’s face across the breakfast table, full of reluctant hope. He remembers the way Remus squeezed his shoulder on his way to the guest room today, saying, “Just talk to her. She’ll help.”

You promised.

Regulus offers a stiff, begrudging nod.

“Yes.”

“Good,” McGonagall replies without missing a beat. “It’s important that you acknowledge that. I am here to provide that help — not to blame, not to judge, to help. You just have to talk to me.”

Regulus nods again because he knows that. This is how therapy works.

Except he doesn’t talk, not really.

He answers her questions like they are numbered items printed on a test, with practiced, efficient responses that don’t invite follow-up. Regulus lists his symptoms: constant exhaustion, lack of appetite, difficulty leaving his bed. He doesn’t say why, doesn’t talk about James and the betrayal and the shame of falling for someone who spent the entirety of their ‘relationship’ under his mother’s thumb.

Regulus braces himself for Dr. McGonagall to demand more, to dig her well-manicured fingers into the meat of his ache, to pry open the wound in order to understand it.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she asks, “Why don’t you tell me about your friend, the one you live with? You said he helped?”

“Barty,” Regulus replies. His voice softens slightly, the smallest fracture in his armor. “He’s… We’ve known each other for over a decade now. He’s chaotic, but the best friend I’ve ever had.” He doesn’t say Barty is the only long-term friend he’s ever had. “He always helps me, even when I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s good,” she tells him, “having a support system is important.”

It is not a question, so he says nothing.

Fortunately, Dr. McGonagall doesn’t grow frustrated with his lack of cooperation.

“What about Sirius and Remus? You are staying with them, are you not? How has it been to reconnect with your brother and get to know your brother-in-law?”

Brother-in-law?

Is this just a turn of phrase, or are Remus and Sirius married?! Sirius is barely twenty-one!

With a small jolt of embarrassment, Regulus realizes he knows very little about the lives of the people who have so promptly taken him in. Remus spends most of his time typing on his laptop, and Sirius is out of the house half of the day, but he has no idea what they do. Regulus has been so entangled in himself that it didn’t occur to him to ask. Not even before the mess at the fundraiser, ever since he resumed contact with his brother, all they talk about is Regulus.

He is still reeling from the realization when their timer chimes.

Dr. McGonagall doesn’t call him out on his selfishness, she simply says, “How about you answer that on Friday? A little bit of homework.”

“Okay,” Regulus says. He can do homework.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Regulus. I look forward to helping you.”

She seems sincere, as though Regulus hasn’t spent forty-five minutes giving her scraps.

He feels a wash of relief when the call disconnects.

The next day, over cups of bitter, over-steeped tea at the kitchen counter, he asks Sirius. “What have you been doing? I mean, since you’ve dropped out of Hogwarts?”

Sirius lights up like a Christmas tree.

It only adds to the never-ending current of guilt running through Regulus’s veins.

“I’m apprenticing at a tattoo studio downtown,” he says, beaming. “I’m about halfway through the program. Still working on linework, but my mentor says I’ve got a good eye.”

Regulus stares at him. “You’re… tattooing people?”

Sirius preens. “Well, I’m not carving dragons into people’s spines just yet, but yeah. I’m mostly still working on fake skin, but Moony let me do a little crescent on his wrist last month. Nearly fainted.”

“You or Remus?”

“Both.”

Regulus is unprepared for the small peal of laughter that blossoms in his chest. It’s the first time he feels something close to amusement since… everything. He asks more questions and watches as Sirius speaks, all broad gestures and bright eyes. It’s the happiest he’s seen his brother in years. Maybe ever.

“Tattooing is connection,” Sirius says, almost reverent now. “Your art isn’t framed and hung to gather dust on a wall, barely looked at. It’s worn. It’s permanent. It’s chosen. I love it.”

His brother has always leaned towards the arts, though neither of their parents deemed it an appropriate hobby, much less a career. Regulus isn’t surprised that once he was free to pursue it, Sirius chose the most selfless of mediums, helping people be unapologetically themselves.

It’s fitting.

Regulus thinks about that long after the conversation ends.

He finds Remus in the backyard later that day, sitting on a folding chair with a book in one hand and his cane resting across his lap.

“You left Hogwarts, too?” Regulus asks without preamble.

Remus smiles softly, not at all surprised by the question. “Yeah, I transferred to a smaller program, that’s why we moved here. I’m still studying literature and philosophy, but it made sense to be somewhere more… private.”

He doesn’t say it was for Sirius. He doesn’t need to.

Regulus nods slowly. They both sacrificed a part of their lives for love, but not in a self-destructive way, not like throats slit on an altar, just adjustments, choices made together.

It’s the first time Regulus considers that maybe love doesn’t always ask you to lose yourself. Sometimes, it just encourages you to grow differently.

The second therapy session is easier. Regulus isn’t wound so tight when Dr. McGonagall appears on his screen. He has a question to answer this time, something he researched since they saw each other. Maybe the secret to therapy is just treating it as a graded class.

Dr. McGonagall is only mildly surprised when Regulus starts speaking without much prompting. He tells her all about what he’s learned about Sirius and Remus, about how they love what they do as much as they love each other, about how Remus helps Sirius through the lingering effects of his upbringing, about how Sirius cares for Remus when his lupus flares up.

“How did it feel to learn all that?” Dr. McGonagall asks.

Regulus has the odd urge to roll his eyes. That’s such a therapist question. Still, he ponders the answer.

“Weird,” he says at last. “They’ve been building a life together, and I didn’t even know. My brother seems happy, though. He made the right call when he left.”

“It’s good that you can see that. It’s difficult to acknowledge that the right choice for someone else might be the one that leaves us behind.”

His chest tightens. He doesn’t say, I know. Not because he can’t bring himself to admit it aloud, all right? He just… thinks it’s implied.

Dr. McGonagall tilts her head, studies him for a moment. Regulus has paid enough attention to know she is about to pivot the conversation away from a subject that makes him clam up.

He just doesn’t expect her to hit him with something worse.

“May we talk about your mother for a moment?”

The word mother reverberates against his sternum.

Regulus doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t look at Dr. McGonagall.

“Regulus,” she sighs, not frustrated, just patient. “I can’t help you if we don’t discuss the crux of what led you to seek treatment. I need you to talk to me.”

It’s quite pathetic that what spurs Regulus to answer is that he doesn’t want to disappoint Dr. McGonagall. He chooses to attribute it to her professorly aura, instead of how she reminds him of Walburga in her gentlest moments.

“It wasn’t her,” Regulus says, dragging his eyes back to the screen. “My mother wasn’t the reason I hit this… rough patch.”

It’s half a lie, half an understatement, and Regulus suspects Dr. McGonagall is aware of that.

Still, she indulges him.

“Oh?” she asks, brows raised. “Would you like to share the reason, then?”

Regulus inhales through his nose and exhales through his mouth.

He can do this.

James is an easier topic than his mother.

Somehow, this fact alone makes him want to laugh or cry or both.

“I met someone,” he tells her. “As soon as I started at Hogwarts, I met someone. A boy.”

Regulus meanders through his memories of James, forcing himself to see them as something… other. Detached. A story to be told.

He makes it all the way to their first kiss.

“It made me happy, being with him, but it wasn’t… simple. I didn’t know how to want something and not feel like I was betraying everything I was taught.”

“But you did want it.”

It is not a question. Still, he answers.

“Yes.”

Regulus is about to continue his sorry tale when she asks, “How do you feel about your queerness?”

He blinks. “I— What?”

“This realization is complicated for anyone,” she says, “but especially for those with the religious upbringing you’ve described. How do you feel about it? About this part of yourself?”

Regulus opens his mouth, then closes it again. He presses his lips together. His hands have balled into fists in the sleeves of his jumper.

“It’s fine,” he says finally, voice flat. “I’m fine.”

Dr. McGonagall doesn’t blink. “Do you think you’ve made peace with it?”

“I dated a boy,” Regulus replies defensively. “I had to make peace with it.”

Dr. McGonagall regards him with unprecedented softness. “Did you make peace with your relationship, Regulus, or did you make peace with yourself?”

He scoffs. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes,” she replies, gentle but firm. “There is.”

This answer wounds him more than any push for confession would have, because she’s right, and he knows it. Dating James didn’t silence the voice in his head insisting he’s an abomination destined for hell. The guilt didn’t vanish just because someone touched him like he was worth touching.

“You are heartbroken, Regulus,” Dr. McGonagall says. “I don’t need to hear about the end of your relationship to know that — it has ended, hasn’t it?”

Regulus nods, fidgeting with his blanket.

“We’ll get there. The specifics matter, but not as much as the deeper issues. It is common for queer people to hope that love will ‘fix them,’ that being chosen, desired by someone will rid them of their troubles. It helps, sometimes, but in truth, peace doesn’t come from being loved. It comes from learning that you are lovable, even when you are alone.”

Regulus swallows around a lump in his throat.

“I don’t feel very lovable,” he admits, voice rough.

“That’s not your fault,” she says softly. “It’s something that was done to you, but it’s not permanent.”

He looks away. “It feels permanent.”

“I know.” Dr. McGonagall lets the silence settle again before asking, “Regulus... are you queer?”

He looks down. Nods once.

“Can you say it?”

Regulus can’t.

“That’s okay,” she says, no trace of judgment in her tone. “That’s perfectly okay. These things take time. I can provide you with some resources that might help.”

The teacher’s pet inside him stirs. “I already researched it,” he tells her. “I read all these articles — scientific studies and think pieces about queerness and faith and trauma.”

Her brow lifts slightly, she seems almost amused by his hasty confession. “That sounds like a very scholarly approach.”

Regulus shrugs. “I wanted answers, this is how I get them.”

“Did anything resonate with you?”

“Yes,” he says, scouring his brain. “There was this one article about queer resilience and systems of moral control. It used this metaphor of—”

He stops himself short.

Dr. McGonagall tilts her head, a barely perceptive smile softening her stern lips. “Yes?”

“That was you,” Regulus says, stuck somewhere between mortified and starstruck. “I knew your name sounded familiar. I highlighted it.”

The timer chimes, saving Regulus from making more of a fool of himself.

“I am glad my work helped you, but for our next session, I’d like you to try a different approach. Think about it. Not solve or research it. Just sit with it. Think about what it means to be you.”

Regulus huffs. “That’s horrible homework.”

Her smile widens. “You should see what I assign my students.”

Once the call disconnects, Regulus sits there and stares at his reflection on the darkened screen.

·:★:·

Ironically, the first sign of Regulus’s improvement is anxiety.

It hits him in the middle of the night. He wakes up in cold sweat, the awareness shredding through his brain like talons.

I’ve missed two weeks of class.

Regulus employs all of his frayed self-control to keep from immediately calling Dr. McGonagall. He waits for an acceptable enough time to disturb her peace to beg for a note to send to his professors. She goes as far as to provide a medical recommendation for him to finish the semester from home.

Remus offers to help Regulus write the e-mails, which he accepts mostly to be polite, though he soon realizes it is a great decision. Remus has extensive experience in composing this type of message, and he is not scared to put the professors on the spot by CC-ing Dr. McGonagall, who is one of the most respected names in the entire university. It takes less than three hours for all of them to reply with agreements, a list of assignments Regulus missed, and all the material he’ll need going forward.

After this, Regulus falls into an odd routine. He does his coursework. He hangs out with Sirius and Remus. He texts Barty. He speaks with Dr. McGonagall twice a week. He takes the new medication she’s prescribed.

He doesn’t think about James.

He tries not to think about James.

About his disastrous hair, about his perpetually smudged glasses, about the warmth of his skin, about all the times he smiled with lies lodged beneath his teeth, about how Regulus misses him so much his bones feel hollow.

When Regulus tells Dr. McGonagall what transpired between them, the first thing she says is,

“I am so sorry, Regulus.”

The sympathy in her tone doesn’t sound like pity.

An inkling of affection attaches itself to the ample respect he carries for his therapist.

It doesn’t last.

“Do you feel betrayed by the deceit itself or by the fact that it was committed at your mother’s behest?”

Regulus resists the urge to slam the laptop shut.

“It would have hurt regardless of my mother’s involvement,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“I know that,” Dr. McGonagall says patiently, “but would it have triggered a depressive episode and the ‘permanent abandonment of your faith’ as you called the removal of the crucifix you’ve worn since you were a child?”

Forget affection. Regulus hates her.

“You won’t let me avoid talking about my mother anymore, will you?”

“No, I won’t, Regulus,” she tells him. “We cannot bandage a wound without touching it.”

Regulus sighs, defeated. “What do you want to know?”

When the session ends, his sobs are so violent, his whole body aches. Regulus barely makes it to the toilet before he’s retching into the cold porcelain, purging grief like poison.

·:★:·

The next sessions are spent much the same way.

It works.

He hates that it works.

The dejected numbness is still there, only it comes in waves instead of a never-ending flood. Regulus can breathe again.

He knows it won’t last, though.

Walburga has only tried to reach him once since the attack on the fundraiser. Everything was conducted through her assistant. The same obnoxiously sweet-spoken woman who’s been scheduling their calls since Regulus was fifteen. The message had come in the form of an e-mail and a follow-up text.

Dolores Umbridge

The Deputy Prime Minister would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience. Please share your availability.

Regulus stared at the message for a long time before replying.

Regulus

Swamped with coursework. I’ll reach out when things settle down.

He never did, and the assistant did not reach out again.

His mother has been busy with the last leg of the campaign, and Regulus supposes the reports James has been filing are enough to placate her.

He wonders how much James has made up and how much he’s extrapolated from the time they spent together.

Regulus doesn’t let himself dwell on it too much. He tries to enjoy this borrowed time.

Until Election Day arrives.

It’s a grim, wet day, carrying the kind of gray that soaks into his bones. He spends most of it on the couch, halfheartedly reading one of Remus’s paperbacks and drinking tea that goes cold too quickly.

His phone buzzes around noon.

It’s the assistant.

Dolores Umbridge

The Deputy Prime Minister requests your presence at tonight’s victory party. Your car will arrive at 6:00 PM sharp.

Regulus stares at the message. His mother must be rather confident in the results of the election to request — or rather, demand — Regulus to attend the party. He hasn’t checked the poll numbers lately, but he’s heard Crouch Senior’s popularity skyrocketed since the attack. Regulus supposes that Barty was right when he said a bit of martyrdom could only help the reelection campaign.

Never mind that, unlike the staff, no politician was severely injured.

He doesn’t reply to the text. He doesn’t have the energy to lie.

A minute later, his phone vibrates again. Regulus feels it rattling in his throat.

James

I can’t hold her back anymore

I’m sorry

I’m so sorry

His stupid, stupid heart cracks to reveal the faint hope that James is on his side, that he’s still protecting Regulus.

That James might still love him.

Regulus puts his phone down like it’s burned him.

The first call comes at 6:03 p.m.

Regulus doesn’t have to look at the screen to know who it is. He can hear his mother’s fury in the shrill vibrations of the ringtone. The driver must have reported his failure to show up. Regulus turns on Do Not Disturb.

The ringing stops. The guilt doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, just takes the plate of roasted vegetables Remus offers him and settles down to have dinner.

Neither Sirius nor Remus mentions the call, but they both glance worriedly at the untouched food on his plate. Sirius tries to distract him with a snarky retelling of some tattoo appointment gone horribly wrong. Regulus barely listens but manages a ghost of a smile that seems to satisfy his brother.

They settle down for a movie afterward, something old and absurd with awful special effects and a plot none of them really follow. Regulus doesn’t remember the title. He sits between his brother and his brother’s boyfriend on the battered old couch, his knitted blanket tossed over his lap.

Regulus feels like a small, frightened child begging for the safety of proximity.

He can’t stop thinking that if James can track him, so can the rest of his mother’s security. It’s only a matter of time.

Regulus barely sleeps. Every creak of the old plumbing or car passing outside jerks him awake. By the time dawn peeks through the curtains, he’s exhausted and wired all at once.

At least he’s already dressed when the doorbell rings.

His stomach twists. He feels sick.

After everything his brother did to escape their mother, Regulus brought her to his doorstep.

Regulus opens the door with shaking hands.

It’s not Walburga.

But it’s close enough.

Dolores Umbridge stands in the doorway, a saccharine smile stretched across her powdered face. Beside her is a man Regulus doesn’t recognize, but the suit and solid build are enough to denounce him as security.

“Good morning,” Umbridge says sweetly. “We’re here on behalf of the reelected Deputy Prime Minister.”

Regulus doesn’t respond. He watches the unfamiliar man instead.

“This is Frank Longbottom,” she continues. “Your new security detail.”

Regulus can’t stop himself from asking, “What happened to James?”

Umbridge’s smile turns poisonous. “Mr. Potter has been removed from this assignment.”

Removed.

Before Regulus can summon a response, footsteps echo behind him. He turns to find Sirius yawning, his hair a mess of tangled curls and his t-shirt inside out. He takes one look at Umbridge and scowls.

“Oh, Christ,” he mutters. “What the hell is this circus?”

“We’re here to speak with Mr. Black,” Umbridge says crisply.

Sirius crosses his arms. “Well, Mr. Black clearly doesn’t want to speak with you.”

She ignores the hostility and turns back to Regulus. “Your mother is gravely disappointed. Not only have you lied to her, but you’ve chosen to associate with the—” her eyes flick briefly to Sirius “—unworthy.”

Sirius barks a laugh. “Well, that’s rich, coming from a toad in pearls.”

Regulus almost smiles. Almost.

Umbridge only straightens her spine, undeterred. “The Deputy Prime Minister wants you to know that she is prepared to wait. She understands her darling boy is going through… a phase. She believes you’ll see reason soon.”

“And until then?” Regulus asks bitterly.

“Until then, Mr. Longbottom will be keeping watch to ensure your safety. He’s discreet. Thorough. Trustworthy.”

Sirius is already gesturing towards the door. “He can be all those things outside my house.”

Frank, to his credit, looks vaguely apologetic. “That’s fine. I can manage from the car. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Umbridge bristles, clearly unhappy with the lack of intimidation. She turns to leave with a sharp pivot. “Let us know when your little tantrum ends, Mr. Black,” she says over her shoulder. “Your mother will be waiting.”

Frank lingers for a moment. “Sorry about the whole... situation,” he says gently. “If you need anything, you can call me at any time.”

Regulus nods once, unable to speak past the tightness in his chest.

They’re gone a moment later.

Sirius glances at him, face softened with concern. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Regulus whispers. It’s the only truth he can manage.

Sirius nods, then slings an arm around his shoulders to steer him toward the kitchen. “That’s fine, Reggie. You don’t have to know. C’mon, let’s make some tea.”

Regulus focuses on the weight of his brother’s touch to deter the numbness permeating his chest.

“Don’t mind her,” Sirius tells him. “You don’t need her anymore. You have us.”

For a fleeting second, Regulus almost believes him.

·:★:·

Regulus tries to go about his life, ignoring the ever-present sense of foreboding, the echoes of the imperious, omnipresent voice that once ruled his entire world.

He wonders how long he has until Walburga comes for him. The reelection has bought him some time. She’s too busy basking in victory and influence to personally fetch him, but that won’t last forever.

Unless she meant what she said about waiting. Does she believe Regulus will come crawling back, penitent and polite? Is this faith the reason she hasn’t denounced him yet? Or is she trying to stave off the public humiliation of another deviant son?

Without her spare, there’ll be nothing left of the perfect family Walburga has used to build her empire.

Regulus can’t bear to think about it for long, so he doesn’t.

He distracts himself by diving headfirst into his coursework. Discipline has always been his armor, and he wears it tightly. His laptop becomes a permanent fixture on Sirius and Remus’s kitchen table, and his course syllabi are spread around it like battle plans. He submits every assignment early, attends lectures over video, takes immaculate notes, and reads more than is required. Just because he’s concluding the semester from the safety of exile doesn’t mean he’s going to slack off.

Regulus has standards.

His bi-weekly therapy sessions with Dr. McGonagall continue, and though he rarely admits it aloud, they rebuild the foundation of his sanity.

Outside of that, he spends most of his time haunting the corners of Sirius and Remus’s lives, an overstaying guest who is too loved to be asked to leave. Remus makes tea with honey and reads beside him without speaking. Sirius follows him around like an over-affectionate puppy.

Sometimes, happiness even sneaks up on him.

One evening, Regulus finds himself on the living room floor, a textbook open on the coffee table while Sirius lounges across the sofa, scrolling on his phone, feet in mismatched socks and draped over Remus’s lap. Remus is half-asleep, curled around himself like a cat. It’s painfully domestic.

Regulus closes his book and stares at his brother. “I have a question.”

Sirius hums without looking up. “Shoot.”

“Are you two married?”

“We’re kinda married.” Sirius shrugs, far too casual about it.

Regulus frowns. “How can you be kinda married?”

“Well,” Sirius says, stretching lazily, “it’s called a spite elopement.”

“You just made that up.”

“Did not.” Sirius drops the phone onto the couch with dramatic flair. “If you recall, Mother said she would personally see marriage equality reversed so that I could never ‘taint the institution.’ I avoided that by doing it as soon as possible.”

“So you…?”

“Remus and I went down to Brighton, got hitched, and I legally changed my name.”

“You changed your name?” Regulus asks, unsure how he feels about the idea.

“Yep.” Sirius pops the word. “I’m Sirius Lupin. Has a better ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“You changed your name,” Regulus repeats, still stunned.

Remus hums from the couch, voice groggy but affectionate. “I told him he didn’t have to. He insisted.”

Sirius shifts, face darkening slightly. “I didn’t want hers. I wanted to forget I was ever related to that homophobic hag.”

Regulus swallows, something heavy sitting low in his chest. He chooses to focus on practical matters. “So, you’re married, like, legally.”

“We are,” Remus confirms.

“But we still call each other boyfriends,” Sirius adds, with a crooked grin. “Feels more like us, you know? Besides, we’re saving the real wedding for later.”

“The real wedding?” Regulus echoes, brows raised.

“You know,” Sirius says, “with rings and vows and friends giving awkward speeches and dancing to bad music. The whole shebang.”

“We’re getting matching suits,” Remus mumbles dreamily.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Regulus mutters, trying not to smile.

Sirius grins wider. “Also, I can’t get properly married without my little brother as my best man, can I?”

Regulus feels embarrassingly teary-eyed. He clears his throat. “I am not planning your bachelor party.”

Sirius leans forward and ruffles his hair. “You’re stuck with all the best-man duties.”

Regulus lets out a soft, choked laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“But you love me.”

Regulus does.

·:★:·

Sirius might not consider himself properly married to Remus, but the Lupins are his family now.

This means spending Christmas with them.

Regulus doesn’t argue against it.

In truth, he barely registers the plans the first time Sirius brings them up. The final weeks of term consume him completely, a blur of deadlines, exams, and a frantic scramble to maintain his perfect grades. He focuses on citations instead of feelings, on word counts instead of memories, on measurable goals instead of the ever-steep climb of recovery.

And then it’s done.

Regulus expects to feel a measure of relief when the last essay of the semester is submitted, but he just feels… exhausted.

His circumstances don’t hit him until he’s in the car, watching the gray city dissolve into white-dusted countryside. He’s sat in the back seat with his knees drawn up as Sirius drums his fingers along the steering wheel and Remus hums quietly to a carol on the radio.

A black SUV follows at a distance.

Regulus is about to meet Remus’s parents.

He tries to imagine what Christmas is like in other households, which traditions they maintain, but he can only picture the holiday in Grimmauld Place.

The days leading up to it were crammed with careful planning, over-decorated garlands, and formal dinners. Regulus always endured it, holding his breath for Christmas Day. That was when his mother… softened. She would sit cross-legged by the tree, watching them tear through the wrapping paper of their gifts, take to the grand piano to play lively holiday tunes, then serve them dessert for lunch.

She doubled down after Orion left, then again when Sirius did. Regulus became her last audience, her last reason to perform.

He wonders if she will be alone this year.

Regulus blinks his tears away and looks out the window.

The Lupin house is already glowing when they pull into the driveway. It’s a squat little cottage tucked into the hills, its windows fogged with warmth, and a wreath crooked on the front door. It looks like something from a postcard: absurdly idyllic, almost unreal.

Hope Lupin opens the front door like she’s been waiting for them for years instead of hours. She pulls Sirius into a tight embrace, then tugs Remus down to kiss his cheek. Her whole face lights up when she spots Regulus, standing uncertain behind his brother like a child clinging to his parent’s coat.

“There you are!” she says brightly. “I was so happy when Sirius said you were coming!”

Before Regulus can so much as blink, she’s hugging him, too.

“Welcome, sweetheart,” Hope says, squeezing him tighter before pulling back. “Come on, let’s get you inside before you catch your death.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He lets himself be ushered into the house, where the air smells of cinnamon and cloves and roasting meat. He’s handed slippers and a scarf, both handmade. Hope bustles into the kitchen before he can thank her.

“She knitted those especially for you,” Remus murmurs, draping a guiding arm over his shoulders.

“What?” Regulus looks down at the yarn in his hands. “Why?”

Remus shrugs, smiling. “Because you are family.”

With clumsy fingers, Regulus wraps the scarf around his neck.

The Lupin cottage is nothing like Grimmauld Place. It reminds him of Sirius and Remus’s house with its stacks of books on every surface, a half-decorated tree blinking unevenly in the corner, and lively conversation echoing through the walls. Regulus wonders if it is intentional, if Remus purposefully built his space in the image of his childhood home.

Regulus wonders if this is why he feels instantly safe in it.

In the kitchen, they find Lyall Lupin. He offers a quieter welcome than his wife but is no less kind, bearing the same soft tone Regulus has come to expect from Remus.

The entire family just… adopts him as if his presence is not a burden or an inconvenience but something to be cherished.

After the meal, they sit by the hearth. Regulus nurses his hot cocoa between his hands and listens to Hope and Lyall as they share embarrassing stories about Remus’s childhood. Sirius has heard all of them before, but he still clings to the opportunity to pester his boyfriend, who hides his face in the crook of Sirius’s neck, ears pink.

Later that night, when Regulus is tucked into a cot in the Lupins’ study, wrapped in mismatched blankets and the scent of old books, he stares up at the ceiling and listens to the creak of footsteps, the low echoes of his brother’s laughter down the hall.

It should feel foreign, but it doesn’t.

Come Christmas morning, he doesn’t think about his mother.

Come Christmas morning, he barely thinks about his mother.

Chapter Text

Barty visits in the dead space between Christmas and New Year’s. Regulus hears him before he sees him, dragging a suitcase up the front steps, then ringing the doorbell like it owes him money.

Regulus opens the door, ready to greet his friend, but can’t get a single word out before Barty throws his arms around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Regulus clutches him back with equal force.

When they let go, Barty gives Regulus a critical once-over. “Well, you look a little less like shit,” he teases, though it is belied by the sheer relief in his voice.

Still, Regulus indulges him with an eye roll. “Charming as always, I see.”

“Only for you, darling,” Barty says with a wink.

Regulus motions him inside, trying to conceal his flare of nerves. Barty and Sirius have always operated on mutual disdain and a fragile truce. Regulus never managed to keep their volatile personalities from clashing, so he expects a myriad of snarky comments and veiled jabs to coalesce into tension.

It only takes a few minutes for Regulus to realize he has nothing to worry about. Turns out, all Barty and Sirius needed to get along was a common enemy, which James has so kindly provided.

By midday, they’re seated at the kitchen table sharing gossip like lifelong friends. Regulus sits between them and observes in quiet disbelief as Barty cycles through scandals like a one-man news channel and Sirius hangs on to his every word.

“—and you remember Carrow? The girl who wore vintage gloves to class because she claimed the public spaces on campus gave her hives? She’s been shagging one of the doctorate students all over the place.”

“Oh my God,” Sirius gasps, though Regulus is sure he doesn’t know who any of those people are.

Barty nods solemnly. “Caught them outside the loo, hope she doesn’t get any hives from that.”

Regulus finds himself laughing until his belly aches. He missed his best friend.

That night, Regulus insists that they share the pull-out couch in the guest room. “You’ll die on the living room couch,” he somberly tells Barty. “It’s a medieval torture device in disguise.”

They lie side by side in the dark, a tangle of limbs and static electricity under mismatched blankets. Regulus is just drifting off when he feels a nudge against his side.

“Reg?” Barty whispers. “Can we talk?”

Regulus groans. “You’ve been talking nonstop since you walked through the door. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“No. It’s important.”

The seriousness in Barty’s voice douses the remnants of sleep like cold water. Regulus shifts, blinking at the shadow of Barty beside him. “What is it?”

Barty hesitates. That alone is enough to make Regulus nervous. Barty never hesitates, not with him.

“You know you’re my favorite person in the world, right?” Barty asks at last.

Regulus squints at him. “Yeah…?”

Barty inhales deeply, then lets it all out in one rushed breath. “You’re my best friend, Regulus, but I also fell in love with you when we were fifteen.”

The silence that follows is heavy, pressing against Regulus’s chest until his lungs collapse. He opens his mouth to say something — anything — but Barty doesn’t allow him to catch his breath.

“I fell in love before that, to be honest, but that was when I found the words for it. I didn’t know what to do with the realization, so I dated boys like I was trying to shag the feeling out of me. A different face, different name every week, and I kept looking for you in all of them. I only stopped because it wasn’t fair — not to them, not to me, not to you.”

Regulus remains silent, words caught somewhere between his molars.

“So,” Barty continues, “I came up with my system: casual and meaningless and free of boys, then free of dark-haired girls as well because I—” He shakes his head, half-laughing. “It was quite pathetic, but I accepted I’d spend the rest of my life pining because you were never going to come out. I was sure of it until you threw me a curveball and got yourself a fucking boyfriend.”

“Barty,” Regulus whines, voice low and tight. “I love you, but—”

“Oh, shut up,” Barty huffs, nudging him again. “No need to sound all tortured about it. This isn’t a love confession. Well, it is, but not like that. I’m not trying to win you over or whatever. Just listen, yeah?”

Regulus blinks at the ceiling, eyes burning, and does as he’s told.

“I was angry when you came out. Not at you — never at you — but at him. Because fucking Potter did what I couldn’t. He got you to be brave enough to see yourself. I wanted to bash his fucking teeth in.” Barty exhales. “But then he started coming around, and when I saw how happy he made you, all that anger just disappeared.”

Barty shifts beside him, and Regulus forces himself to look at his friend.

“That was when I realized I was no longer in love with you. I know myself — I would’ve made a mess if I were. I would’ve tried to destroy it, even if it meant destroying us.”

I know, Regulus thinks, though he can’t bring himself to say it. I know you, too.

Silence stretches between them, not as awkward as he would have expected after such a confession. Their friendship is bigger than any unrequited crush could ever be.

“I—” Barty continues, hesitantly. “I think I might be in love with someone else.”

Regulus chews on his chapped bottom lip, trying and failing to contain his curiosity. “Who?”

“Evan.”

That catches Regulus off guard yet again. He frowns. “The blonde from the party?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought he was a bit of an arsehole.”

“He’s an engineering major,” Barty snickers. “Of course, he’s an arsehole.”

“Barty, you are an engineering major.”

“My point exactly.”

Regulus can’t stifle the laughter that sprouts low in his chest. This whole conversation is absurd.

Once he can finally find the words, he asks, “So, have you talked to him about it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you two together, then?”

“No — or rather not yet,” Barty tells him. “Evan refused to get involved with me until I figured out my feelings for you. This is me doing that, I suppose. I’m putting it all out there so I can move on and shit.”

“Oh.” Regulus is quiet for a moment, heart twisted in so many directions he can’t begin to untangle it. “Good,” he whispers at last. “That’s good.”

Barty kicks him again. “Stop sounding like that, you idiot. I’m moving on from the stupid crush, not from you. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me forever.”

Relief washes over Regulus. “Good,” he repeats, more sincerely now. “Because you’re stuck with me, too.”

·:★:·

Regulus isn’t sure how he let Barty talk him into attending a party.

Again.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s sitting in the corner of a packed pub disguised as a party venue — or a party venue disguised as a pub, Regulus is not quite sure. The dim lights flash and flicker, and the questionable music insistently thuds under the cacophony of conversation and clinking glasses. Every breath he takes is stifling with perfume, sweat, and beer.

This is the first time he’s been anywhere remotely public since… since his episode. He doesn’t count Christmas with the Lupins because that had been warm and safe and deeply familial. This isn’t any of those things.

Regulus had nearly called Dr. McGonagall about it, thumb hovering over her contact in his phone as his nerves twisted into knots. He stopped himself in time because she is currently somewhere in the Caribbean on a long-overdue vacation with her wife. She had insisted he could call at any time, but Regulus refuses to be that needy.

He’s just here to ‘officially’ meet Evan Rosier on ‘neutral ground’ as Barty put it, as if they were discussing a foreign diplomat and not a first-year engineering student with a devil-may-care grin and uncannily perfect cheekbones.

“Come on,” Barty says. “Evan’s here.”

He tugs on Regulus’s hand just as he starts to plot an escape, and they make a beeline for the other boy.

“It’s time,” Barty fake-whispers. “Be nice.”

Regulus shoots him a withering look. “I’m always nice.”

“You’re not,” Barty replies, “but that’s part of your charm.”

They find Evan leaning against the edge of the pool table, a half-drunk cocktail in one hand and a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. He looks just the same as Regulus remembers: blonde-haired and too self-assured for his liking.

“Regulus Black in the flesh,” Evan says when he spots him. “I almost can’t believe my eyes.”

“You say that like I’m some sort of cryptid,” Regulus replies dryly. He hasn’t yet decided if this guy is worthy of Barty.

Evan shrugs. “You might as well be. Barty talks about you all the time, but I’ve only caught a glimpse of you fleeing a party like Bigfoot on a hiking trail.”

“You might witness it again tonight,” Regulus deadpans.

Evan snorts. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Barty looks far too pleased with their friendly (ish) interaction. He decides to celebrate it with a round of shots. “Peace offering,” he declares.

They clink glasses and drink. Regulus almost throws up.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, gagging.

“A party!” Barty replies and orders another round.

“You’re insane,” Evan says with a fond smile.

Regulus snickers. “I can agree with that.”

“See?” Barty chirps. “You’re getting along.”

Evan raises his drink in a mock toast. “To tolerance.”

“To low expectations,” Regulus says, but he is almost — almost — smiling.

They share another round. Then another. Regulus lets the alcohol hit his bloodstream just enough to blur the sharpest edges of his nerves and convince him that Evan is less of an arsehole than he remembers.

Regulus is almost having fun by the time the evening unravels.

It starts with Barty growing a bit too handsy with Evan, who instinctively leans closer.

“I missed you, Bee,” Evan says right under Barty’s ear, then kisses the goosebumps that form on his skin.

Yeah, Regulus does not want to witness that.

He finishes his current drink and slips away. Regulus feels… odd. It runs deeper than the alcohol. He wonders if he’s jealous, but that’s not quite it.

I wish James were here, his traitorous brain elucidates. I wish he would kiss me like that.

Regulus runs a hand over his face, trying to sober up a bit. He will not spend his New Year crying over a boy.

What he doesn’t expect is to spot said boy sitting at a table by the corner, nursing a cup of water and ice, and watching him with those soft, soft eyes.

James is here.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw. He takes one eager step forward before he remembers.

He’s furious with him.

Regulus turns on his heel, forcing himself not to look again. He considers going back to Barty, but the image of his friend half-wrapped around Evan, looking happier than he has in weeks, stops him in his tracks. He’s already intruded on that once; he won’t do it again.

Barty deserves better than to be stuck cleaning up his messes.

Regulus doesn’t know what to do. He stands in the middle of the packed room until he’s saved by some divine — or perhaps demonic — intervention.

“Hey, beautiful,” someone says.

He startles, blinking up at the stranger who’s suddenly in his personal space. The guy is tall, broad-shouldered, with light brown skin, dark hair, and an easy smile. He almost resembles James, though he lacks the sharpness around the jaw and the cocky way of standing.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the stranger asks, raising an eyebrow.

Regulus latches onto him like a lifeline. “You can buy me several,” he replies smoothly, never mind that this is an open bar party.

He lets himself be guided, senses overwhelmed by the swelling noise of laughter and the relentless thud of bass. Regulus presses a smile to his face and tells himself it’s fine.

This is fine.

“I’m Benjy,” the guy says, offering him something vaguely citrusy in a tall glass.

“Archie,” Regulus replies, unsure why he withholds the truth. Though it’s not quite a lie if the moniker is derived from his middle name, is it?

Benjy isn’t subtle about his intentions. He leans in when he talks and punctuates every joke with a glance at Regulus’s mouth. Perhaps it should be flattering, but it’s only exhausting. Regulus plays along, too drunk to do anything other than smile and nod and pretend.

They’ve barely settled into their second round when the music changes, increasing in volume and pace. It overruns his heartbeat, and Regulus flinches at the sensation.

“They’re just trying to hype us up for midnight,” Benjy says, a little condescendingly. “Wanna dance?”

Regulus shrugs. “Sure.”

Benjy settles a hand on his lower back to push him forward. Regulus stumbles, the crowd closing around them in a blur of flashing lights and flailing limbs. Regulus tries to find a rhythm, brain scrambling for all of the ballroom dance lessons he suffered through as a child. It doesn’t help. There is no structure to this, no rules. He feels lost.

His partner doesn’t seem to mind, happy enough to guide Regulus’s hips with firm hands, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Regulus allows his head to fall back, closing his eyes, trying to focus on the music, pretending his skin isn’t stretched too tight over his bones, and ignoring the weight of the hazel eyes in a dark corner of the room.

He startles when something wet brushes against his throat.

His eyes fly open. It takes Regulus a second too long to realize what is happening. Benjy is licking him like a bloody stamp, tongue dragging across his skin, followed by teeth nipping just under his jaw.

It’s gross. It’s invasive. It’s wrong.

Regulus’s stomach turns. He tells himself to just roll with it. People do this all the time at parties. It’s casual. It’s normal.

Isn’t it?

Something recoils inside him, revolting at the idea of being touched by someone other than—

“That’s enough.”

The voice cuts through the music like a whip. It’s so familiar, Regulus aches with it.

Benjy is yanked backward, his hands pulled from Regulus’s hips with startling force.

“Who the fuck are you?” Benjy demands, trying to regain his balance.

James doesn’t even spare him a glance. His entire focus is on Regulus, gaze wide and worried.

“Come on, Reg,” he says, voice low, coaxing. “You need water. Maybe some air.”

The music continues to pound. The lights continue to spin. People continue to dance.

However, for Regulus Black, the world has narrowed down to James Potter’s hand hovering between them, awaiting permission to touch.

God help him, Regulus wants to take it.

He does.

His fingers snake around James’s outstretched hand, tracing the lines of his palm. The first contact is enough for the fluttering to resurrect in his chest, rising against his better judgment and battering the walls Regulus struggled to rebuild since all the lies were unveiled.

James is warm. Steady. Familiar.

There you are, the fluttering beats in glee. I missed you.

Regulus wishes he could bash the feeling with a stick.

James weaves their fingers together with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Benjy calls for Archie, but Regulus can’t hear him as James gently leads him away from the dancing crowd, thumb caressing the back of his hand like he can’t help himself.

They pause by the bar just long enough for James to swipe a bottle of water from a tray. Regulus barely registers it, too caught up in the anchoring touch as they navigate their way toward the glowing red letters of the emergency exit. It swings open with a clang and spits them out into the side alley.

The air is brutally cold, immediately sinking through Regulus’s shirt and shocking the haze out of his mind.

Before Regulus can so much as shiver, James pulls off his jacket and wraps it around his shoulders. The smell is so comforting, Regulus wants to drown in it or scream or both.

James unscrews the water bottle and holds it out with an uncharacteristically bashful nod. “Drink,” he says, “you’ll feel better.”

Regulus scowls but drinks anyway. The first few gulps feel like swallowing gravel, but it gets progressively easier. The cold water is sobering, chilling his insides and grounding him more than he wants to be grounded.

Once the bottle is half-drained, James fishes a crinkly packet from his pocket, a bright purple boiled sweet wrapped in clear cellophane. “You can use some glucose in your bloodstream,” he explains.

“Do you just carry candy around now?” Regulus grumbles, though he accepts it as well. The sugar melts on his tongue and sticks to his teeth in a burst of artificial grape.

“It helps when I’m craving a cigarette.”

Regulus pushes the candy around in his mouth. He refuses to ask.

He won’t ask.

“You quit smoking?” he asks.

James shrugs. “You didn’t like the smell.”

Regulus wants to sink his teeth into James and tear. He settles for changing the subject.

“How did you know I was here?” he rasps. “Are you still tracking me?”

James has the decency to flinch. “Not through official means.”

Regulus narrows his eyes.

“Barty forgot to remove me from his Instagram followers,” James adds, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “It wasn’t difficult to spot the name of this place in the background of one of his many stories.”

Regulus mutters something under his breath, a half-hissed string of consonants even he can’t understand. He drinks the rest of the water, washing away the sweetness from his mouth. Once the bottle is depleted, he passes it back to James without a word.

James tosses it into a nearby bin with ridiculous accuracy. It even lands in the right slot for recycling.

Regulus closes his eyes and inhales a stuttering breath. He fucking hates this man with his bulging biceps and dashing dexterity.

“Better?” James asks. He fidgets with his jacket to wrap it tighter around Regulus, coaxing his arms into the oversized sleeves. “Want another sweet?”

Regulus opens his eyes only to glare at him. “What are you doing here, Potter?” he snaps.

James is unbothered by the bite in his tone. “I needed to see you,” he says simply. “You made me promise not to come to your brother’s house again, so this felt like my only chance to talk to you.”

“What even is there to say?” Regulus huffs a bitter laugh. “You deceived me. I was dumb enough to fall for it. It’s done. I’m over it.”

He hates the way his voice shakes at the end.

James looks at him, really looks, and something twists in his expression. It’s not quite heartbreak but almost. He takes a small step closer, crowding Regulus’s senses.

“Are you?” James whispers, and the soft question lands like a blow. “Because I just watched you try to use a cheap version of me as a distraction.”

That’s all it takes. The alcohol in his veins ignites, setting fire to the frustration, the ache, the longing he’s tried so hard to annihilate.

“Fuck you,” Regulus snarls, and surges forward.

He kisses James.

It’s not soft, nothing like the breathless, hopeful touches they used to melt into. It’s all teeth and fury and need. Regulus presses their mouths together like he can erase every shred of pain if he kisses James hard enough.

“Regulus,” James breathes against his lips, reeling back, though he doesn’t push him away. “You’re drunk—”

“Shut up,” Regulus hisses.

He grabs James by the collar of his shirt. Regulus shoves him back, using James’s own body weight against him to reverse their positions.

James grunts from the impact of his spine against the brick wall. His eyes widen, and whatever restraint he had left dissolves. He kisses back with the desperation of a man starved. James clutches at his hips, one hand sliding up the back of his shirt, warm against bare skin. He bites at Regulus’s lip, sucks the sting away, and groans low in his throat when Regulus claws at his shirt like he wants to tear it open.

Their teeth clash. James’s glasses dig into their skin. Their noses bump.

It’s not pretty.

It’s not gentle.

But it’s real.

It’s real.

The thought crashes over Regulus, as dizzying and violent as the lack of oxygen. Regulus moans into the kiss, and the sound shapes itself into James’s name.

James fists a hand in Regulus’s hair and tugs until he gasps, exposing his throat. He sinks his teeth into the curve of Regulus’s jaw, then sucks soft open-mouthed kisses over the bite. His mouth trails down to the spot left hollow by Benjy’s touch until it’s overflowing with his own.

He is jealous, Regulus realizes. James is jealous.

The fluttering wreaks havoc inside him until nothing matters but the lips on his skin, the hands on his waist, possessive and reverent all at once. It’s maddening.

They kiss like they’re trying to rewrite the past.

Then,

Muffled voices filter through the wall, chanting in unison.

Five!

Four!

Three!

Two!

One!

A firework explodes overhead, painting the alley in bursts of gold and crimson. The crowd inside the pub erupts in cheers — whooping, laughing, and singing off-key.

James pulls back, panting. His cheeks are flushed, lips swollen. He looks at Regulus like he might never look away again.

“Happy New Year, love,” James whispers, his breath misting in the frigid air.

Regulus stares at him. His chest is heaving. His fingers are still tangled in James’s collar.

The cold air seeps into his lungs, taking root.

“I told you not to call me that.”

His voice cracks at the end, along with James’s heart.

Regulus steps back, pulling away from the addictive touch. He sheds the jacket around his shoulder and pushes it against James’s chest, who grabs it out of muscle memory alone.

“Don’t follow me,” Regulus says.

He disappears back into the noise and lights of the party before James can say another word.

·:★:·

[01:13, 01/01] James

Hi, Reg

Can we talk?

A real conversation?

When you’re sober?

Please?

[03:47, 01/01] James

Did you make it home alright?

Text me anything

Just so I can know you’re safe

Please

[04:26, 01/01] James

Never mind

I texted Frank

He threatened to block me for waking him up

So you must be safe

[13:31, 01/01] James

I’ll stop bothering you

Whenever you want to talk

I’ll be here

I love you [This message was deleted]

I’m sorry

·:★:·

“I kissed James on New Year’s Eve.”

Regulus doesn’t bother with a greeting. The words are out before the tinny notification for the connected call has finished chiming.

“Good afternoon to you as well, Regulus,” Dr. McGonagall replies evenly, her tone slightly amused though not judgmental.

Her hair is swept back into its usual low chignon, and she looks almost the same as before the break, except her skin is noticeably tanner, the lingering Caribbean sunshine warming her complexion. The sight of her face calms him down enough to be bashful about his lack of manners.

“Sorry,” Regulus mumbles. “Good afternoon, Dr. McGonagall.”

She waves his apology away. “It’s fine. I know you must be anxious to talk about it. Go on.”

Regulus does.

He tells her about the party, about Evan being less of a prick than he remembered, about the music pounding too loud and the drinks going down too fast. Regulus stutters slightly as he talks about the boy who licked his throat like an untrained animal, and how wrong everything felt until James showed up and made it better by touching him like he mattered. He describes the alley and how James took care of him, giving him his jacket, water, and sugar. By the time he makes it to the kiss and its aftermath, Regulus can’t keep the tears from his eyes.

Dr. McGonagall listens in silence. When he’s finished, she lets a few seconds pass before she asks quietly, “And how did that make you feel? Hurting James like that?”

Regulus stiffens. His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the knitted blanket that’s quickly becoming a comfort object for him.

“He hurt me first,” he argues defensively.

“I know,” she replies. “But that’s not what I asked.”

He looks away from the camera. The silence stretches long enough that he starts to feel childish sitting there in his brother’s guest room, trying not to cry in front of the only adult Regulus has ever trusted to be kind to him when he’s not breaking his back to appear perfect.

“Can I use foul language?” he mutters.

“Whatever you need to express your feelings.”

Regulus inhales deeply. “It felt really fucking shitty.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Dr. McGonagall says, “That’s because you’re not a cruel person, Regulus. You do not derive pleasure from the suffering of others.”

He doesn’t agree with that. Regulus is a Black, carefully whittled from Walburga and Orion. Cruelty runs in his blood. He knows Dr. McGonagall would disagree, so he doesn’t voice this thought.

Instead, he says, “What else was I supposed to do? Forgive him?”

His tone is meant to be sarcastic and dismissive, but it cracks halfway through, and what comes out sounds more like a plea.

Dr. McGonagall doesn’t smile, but her expression softens. “Is that what you want?” she asks. “To forgive him?”

Regulus hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Should I?”

She shakes her head slowly. “That’s not something I can answer for you, Regulus. Forgiveness is a delicate, personal process. I can only help by sharing my only rule for it: forgiveness must never be a betrayal of yourself.”

Regulus stares at the screen. Her words are too calm for how violently they shake something loose inside him. He presses his knuckles against his mouth for a moment before whispering, “Can we talk about something else, please?”

Dr. McGonagall studies him for a moment, then nods. “Of course,” she concedes. “How are you feeling about returning to campus next week?”

After the session ends, Regulus stares at the black screen with those words rattling in his brain.

Forgiveness must never be a betrayal of yourself.

He doesn’t know if he can follow this rule because it feels like a betrayal either way.

If he forgives James, Regulus betrays the bruised, unavenged half of his heart.

If he doesn’t forgive James, Regulus betrays the half that still longs for their love.

Maybe it’s about which betrayal he can learn to live with.

Regulus genuinely doesn’t know the answer to that yet.

Not today.

But maybe soon.

·:★:·

Regulus

I’m back on campus.

We can talk.

James

Meet me in the courtyard in three hours?

Regulus

Okay.

Regulus is already waiting when James arrives. The afternoon light is pale and watery, barely bleeding through the overcast sky. Regulus has pulled his coat tight around him, the wool scarf Hope gifted him looped three times around his neck, but he still shivers.

James appears from the other side of the courtyard. He’s not tackily disguised as a student anymore, no Hogwarts merch in sight. Instead, he wears a practical wool coat and jeans. Regulus notices his curls are longer than before, but he’s closely shaven.

He’s also, absurdly, carrying a picnic basket.

Regulus stares at it as if a viper is about to strike from the wicker confines. “It’s January,” he says in lieu of a greeting.

“Very observant.” James flashes him a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Do you want to have a picnic? In this weather?”

James shrugs. “I have a plan,” he says cryptically.

Regulus wants to scoff, to walk away, to ask what sort of plan involves freezing to death on a damp lawn. He can’t bring himself to do any of it because the way James phrases it reminds him of the day they went to the cinema. Regulus falls into step beside James, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets so they don’t do something stupid like reach out.

They walk in silence, and Regulus is glad for the chance to acclimate to James’s presence before their talk. The air between them feels thick enough to be cut with a knife, full of lingering betrayal and the memory of their last kiss.

The campus is mostly empty, and the few students they see don’t pay them any attention. Regulus keeps glancing back, though, his eyes flicking to the edges of their path like he’s expecting someone to appear at any moment.

“Frank’s not coming,” James says quietly. “I convinced him to give us a bit of privacy. I had to beg and blackmail, so please don’t get him fired for it. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me.”

Regulus exhales through his nose. The air clouds between them. “It’s fine,” he mutters after a pause. “I know I’m safe.”

With you, he doesn’t say, though the words still haunt the sentence, as true as ever.

He’s so focused on his spiraling thoughts that it takes a moment to realize where they’re headed. The familiarity of the path hits Regulus like a blow to the lungs.

His steps falter. “The greenhouse?”

James glances at him, then nods, reaching into his coat. “Figured we’d want somewhere warm. Quiet.” He produces a key and wiggles it between two gloved fingers. “You’re not the only one who can charm professors.”

Regulus frowns, confused. “How—?”

“I had a lot of free time while you were in class without me. Made some friends on campus.” James offers a sheepish, boyish smile. “Dr. Sprout — the head of the Botany Department — is a softie. I told her I’m trying to win back the love of my life. She was all too happy to help.”

Regulus refuses to acknowledge what James just so nonchalantly announced. “You convinced someone to just… lend you the keys to the greenhouse?”

James smirks. “What can I say? I’m pretty persuasive.”

Regulus can’t argue with that, so he only watches as James unlocks the place, then pulls the door open with a flourish. He beckons Regulus inside like some ridiculous gentleman from a bygone era.

He lingers on the threshold, the warmth and humidity spilling out in soft waves. It smells of soil and wet leaves and something faintly floral. Regulus can’t help but remember the night they spent outside this place, when James found him drunk and alone, then walked him home.

Because it was his job.

Reluctantly, Regulus steps inside.

He doesn’t say a word as James moves around, setting up the contents of the picnic basket like it’s an oblation. It includes a small container of cut fruit, a few sandwiches, two thermoses, and a jar of fig jam.

Regulus stares at it in silence.

It’s his favorite brand. The expensive, organic, and almost impossible to find delicacy that James abhors. Regulus hates how his chest tightens because of bloody fig jam.

He sits down slowly, picking the farthest edge of the blanket, knees drawn up like he might decide to flee at any moment. There’s at least a meter of space between them, and Regulus doesn’t think it’s enough.

James doesn’t comment on the distance. He only watches Regulus for a moment, then leans forward and extends his hand in greeting.

“Hi,” James says amiably. “I’m James Fleamont Potter.”

Regulus frowns. He looks from James’s hand to his face, then back again. “What are you doing?”

James maintains his offer, unshaken. “Introducing myself.”

“Why?”

“Because you said you don’t know me,” James replies, anguish barely veiled behind his determination. “I figured that if I want to fix that, I should start from the beginning.”

Regulus stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “That’s not how this works.”

James straightens his posture, stubbornness swiping over his muscles. “Why not?”

“Because…” Regulus trails off, shaking his head. “Because that’s absurd.”

“Maybe,” James shrugs, “but we’ve been through absurd things before. Or do you think falling desperately in love while undercover is normal?”

Regulus flinches like he’s been slapped. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” James asks, more seriously now. “Because you don’t believe me? Or because you do?”

Regulus doesn’t know the answer, so he says nothing. He looks down at his knees and picks at a loose thread in his trouser leg, throat burning. Why did he text James? He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be.

James lets his hand fall at last. He sighs and busies himself with one of the sandwiches, spreading fig jam over the soft cheese with almost obsessive precision, then pressing the bread together like he’s building something fragile, something important.

It’s strange to witness this version of James, tense and subdued. Regulus accepts the sandwich when it’s offered, even though his stomach is a jumble of knots and won’t allow a single bite.

James exhales slowly. “You said we could talk,” he says, barely above a whisper, eyes still on the sandwich in Regulus’s hands. “But if you can’t, if it’s still too much… Would you be willing to listen? Please?”

Regulus nods once, almost imperceptibly.

James’s shoulders dip in relief, and he shifts where he’s sitting, folding his legs under him. He stares off into the glass panels of the greenhouse, watching the frost clouding up the corners, his expression far away.

“I wanted to be an MI5 agent when I was a kid,” he begins. “Had a proper little hero complex because my dad was in service, and I thought it was the coolest job in the world, that he was out there saving the world or something, full of secrets and cool gadgets.” James huffs a breath that is too far on the wrong side of amusement to be a laugh. “I used to tell everyone that when I grew up, I’d save the queen from pirates and aliens.”

Regulus stays still. This isn’t at all what he expected from this conversation. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“The dream sort of faded when I hit my teens,” James continues. “I got caught up in football, girls, boys, school — you know, normal stuff. Until one day, I came home, and the house was too quiet. Mum was crying, two strangers were sitting in our living room, and everything was wrong.”

He swallows hard. “Dad died in service. They told us that he was brave, that it was quick, and that it meant something. After that… I couldn’t think of anything else. I wanted to feel close to him again. I thought the only way was to follow in his footsteps.

“My mum hated it. She had already lost him, and the idea of losing me the same way…” James shakes his head. “But I was too determined, too stubborn to listen. I signed up for the training program as soon as I was legally allowed to, and I loved it. Our commander was Agent Moody, an old friend of my dad’s. They were together when he… Moody had to retire from fieldwork because of the injuries he sustained that day.

“A mean bastard that one, but he pushed me hard, and I pushed back harder. I wanted to be the best, so I became it. I thought — I hoped that if Moody was proud of me, maybe my dad would be, too.”

Regulus fights the urge to pull James into his arms and hold on as tightly as he can. Instead, he just listens.

“When the position opened up — protection detail for a young, high-profile civilian, someone who needed to be shadowed discreetly — Moody said I was perfect for it. Talented, reliable, and capable of blending in at uni. I graduated early for it, for you. I was excited about it. I thought I was more than ready to take on a mission.” James chuckles mirthlessly. “Alas, all that training was meaningless. No athletic drill or written test could have prepared me for falling in love with you.”

Oh, and there is that word again. Regulus wishes James would stop using it, and yet he wants to record how his voice curls around the soft syllable so he can replay it on a loop.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” James says. “God knows I tried to avoid it, but the more I got to know you… I finally understood why it’s called falling. It was as inevitable as gravity. I wanted to be near you all the time, not because of duty, just because of you. I wanted to hold on and never let go. You made me the happiest I’d been in years, and not even my guilt could counter it.”

James exhales, looking at Regulus with those beguiling hazel eyes. The fluttering in his chest revolts against the distance between them. Regulus squeezes his fingers around the poor sandwich he forgot he was still holding.

“Then you found out the truth before I could tell you. You looked at me like I was rotten, and I felt like it. I knew I’d hurt you. I knew I didn’t deserve to keep fighting for your forgiveness, so when you asked me to keep your mother off your back, it gave me some purpose. I poured all my energy into it and tried to convince myself that I was still protecting you.

“When your mother discovered I’d been purposefully misleading in my reports, my superiors threatened a disciplinary hearing. I didn’t even care. I just quit right then and there. I would have quit before if I hadn’t been helping you. The job had lost its meaning for a long time. It didn’t matter.”

James smiles sadly, eyes locked on Regulus’s face.

“You were the only thing that mattered, Regulus. You are the only thing that matters.”

Regulus swallows thickly. He wants to say something — anything — but the words won’t come.

“Once I had no more reports to write and no job to frequent. I went back home. I tried to distract myself, but I almost went mad with how much I missed you. It didn’t help that my mum was entirely disappointed in me because of what I did to you. She didn’t raise a liar — neither did my dad. I stayed there until I couldn’t stand to be idle anymore. I had to do something, to talk to you, even if it was for the last time. It was stupid of me to try that at a party, somewhere you were so out of your element. It should have always been something quiet like this.”

James runs his hands through his hair, further rumpling it. “I don’t want this to be our last conversation, Regulus, but I can’t bear to keep hurting you. I’ll leave you alone if you ask, so please, please don’t ask if you don’t mean it.”

The idea of never speaking to James again slides through his heart like a knife. Regulus breathes through the pain, trying to collect his thoughts.

“It’s been months,” he says at last. “We’ve been apart for longer than we were together. Why haven’t you just… moved on?”

James seems so sincere, it twists the knife. “I love you,” he says. “I can’t stop being yours just because you won’t have me. And it doesn’t even matter because I don’t want to stop. Yours might be the best thing I’ve ever been, love.”

The stupid endearment cracks something open in Regulus. He clutches the sandwich tighter, then deposits it over a napkin before he makes more of a mess.

“I know you hate me,” James continues as if Regulus isn’t on the verge of a meltdown from the sheer stress of holding back from him. “I know I deserve it, but I would never forgive myself if you only met a version of me that was built on lies. I had to share all the parts that I edited or omitted during our time together. Everything else was true, so now you can at least hate the real me.”

“I don’t,” Regulus whispers.

James sucks in a breath. “What?” he asks, toeing the line between fearful and hopeful.

Regulus inhales through his nose, trying to keep the pressure in his chest from blooming too wild, too fast. “I don’t hate you,” he says, more firmly this time. “I tried to, but I can’t.”

James stares at him, eyes wide and shining with disbelief. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just breathes as if waiting for Regulus to retract the statement.

Regulus’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch him.

Forgiveness must never be a betrayal of yourself.

Right now, holding himself back feels like a betrayal.

Regulus hesitates, then finally, finally, finally caves in and reaches out. His fingers brush over James’s knuckles and curl gently around his hand.

James startles like he’s been struck by lightning, but recovers quickly. He returns the touch, enlacing their fingers as if it’s instinctual, as if he’s been aching to do so for months.

“I’m not ready to… go back to what we were,” Regulus admits in a small voice.

“I know,” James says without hesitation. “That’s okay.”

Regulus nods. “I still… I miss you. I miss talking to you.”

James’s expression shatters and reforms all at once. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, it’s like the sun has returned to his face.

“Okay,” he breathes. “We can talk. We can talk as much or as little as you want.”

Regulus glances down at the half-smushed sandwich between them. The fig jam glistens under the greenhouse lights, and the absurdity of this whole situation somehow makes it easier to breathe.

Talk.

Such a simple thing, but it feels revolutionary when they do it.

Regulus asks mundane questions at first, the kind that’s weightless on his tongue but still means something. He asks about how James was at school, if he was the annoying popular athlete cliché (yes), what books he’s been reading (sad romance novels), and if his labradoodle is still wreaking havoc on his mother’s garden (yes).

They eat the picnic, eventually. Regulus nibbles on the edges of his sandwich, and James acts like that alone is a personal victory. It reminds him of the countless hours they used to spend together, and it’s not as painful as Regulus expects it to be.

Twilight descends and refracts through the glass ceiling, glowing with dusky pinks and purples, turning the world outside into a watercolor painting. They lie back together on the picnic blanket to watch it. Regulus lets himself sink into the moment. Their fingers remain laced, his cold ones cradled in James’s ever-warm grasp.

Regulus sighs when darkness settles. “It’s late,” he says reluctantly. “I should go back before Barty worries.”

James turns his head. “Okay,” he says softly, squeezing Regulus’s hand once. “I should probably return the keys to Dr. Sprout anyway. Don’t want to lose greenhouse privileges — I’m emotionally attached now.”

They pack up in silence. Regulus brushes breadcrumbs from the blanket, and James folds it meticulously. They walk through campus side by side, making their way to the car park next to their Regulus’s building.

Regulus pauses when they reach James’s car. He stares at the beat-up red sedan, rust nibbling at the corners, the paint dulled by time.

“This isn’t the SUV,” he says without meaning to.

“What?” James asks, then belatedly processes what he said. “Oh, yeah. That was MI5’s. This is my dad’s old car. I’ve been working on restoring it — thought it was time it saw the road again.”

It looks exactly like the type of car Regulus expected James to drive. Something in his chest aches at the thought.

He folds his hands tightly into his sleeves. They stand there, suspended in a bubble of awkward stillness, unsure how to say goodbye.

James scuffs his shoe against the pavement. “Can I text you?” he asks, tentative.

Regulus nods, and James beams like he’s been handed the holiest of blessings. He leans in slowly, allowing Regulus enough time to pull away if he wants. Regulus doesn’t, and James presses his lips to his forehead.

It’s so achingly careful that it nearly doesn’t register until it’s over.

“James?” Regulus whispers. The cold air rushes into his lungs as he draws in a shuddering breath.

“Hmm?” James hums, absentmindedly fixing Regulus’s scarf, tucking it securely around his neck. “What is it, Reg?”

“I…” Another deep breath. “Please, don’t break my heart again.”

This plea catches James entirely off guard. His hands halt their fussing. James blinks, eyes wide, lips parting around a quiet, breathless, “Oh.”

“I’m trying to forgive you. I want to forgive you, but I can’t survive this a second time. So, please…” Regulus trails off, heart caught in his throat.

“I won’t hurt you again, love,” James tells him, sincerity burning in the hazel of his eyes. He catches Regulus’s face between the warmth of his palms. “No more lies. No more secrets. Not ever. I promise.”

His eyes flutter shut as Regulus revels in the touch and the feeling trickling down his sternum. He hopes this flicker of relief isn’t naïveté, or worse, stupidity.

“Okay,” Regulus sighs. “I believe you.”

He opens his eyes and finds James watching him with unbearable fondness.

“Thank you,” James says, soft as snowfall, running his thumbs across the winter blush on Regulus’s cheeks.

The words linger in the crisp air, overwhelming in their simplicity. Regulus doesn’t know how to reply to them. He’s already pushed far past the limits of his tolerance for vulnerability.

James notices it. He always notices.

With a blinding smile, James lightens the moment. “Just be warned,” he says, “if anyone ever plans a surprise party for you, they better not tell me — I’ll ruin it by immediately telling you about it.”

Regulus huffs, a reluctant laugh escaping his tear-clogged throat. “Idiot,” he mutters.

Before he can second-guess it, Regulus reaches forward and pulls James into a hug. He presses his face into the scratchy fabric of his coat and breathes in the scent he knows too well. He just missed him so much.

James instantly melts into it and wraps his arms around Regulus like a fortress. One hand cradles the back of Regulus’s head, and the other tightens around his waist, anchoring him.

“Text me when you get home?” Regulus asks against James’s chest.

“I will,” James promises, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

When Regulus pulls away, his lungs feel lighter, like he’s breathing clean air after months of smog.

·:★:·

The new semester begins without much fanfare. Regulus, creature of habit that he is, falls right into it.

Academically, the first few weeks mirror the previous term, but his professors’ expectations soon take a turn. The coursework now demands more than perfectly cited research and regurgitated arguments. They ask for critical engagement and personal insight, hoping their students will outgrow their classrooms and think.

Regulus bristles at first. Who the hell cares what he thinks? Surely Judith Butler or Peter Singer has something more valuable to say than a sheltered adolescent. He still adapts, partly because he must, and partly because he appreciates being challenged.

He’s survived far worse than difficult coursework, after all.

Regulus rants about it to Remus during his weekly FaceTime calls with his brother and not-quite-brother-in-law. Sirius insisted on it when Regulus returned to Hogwarts because he refused to let him go now that they were close again. Regulus finds himself looking forward to their virtual time together, even if it’s about thirty percent academic commiseration, twenty percent talking over each other, and fifty percent arguing about whatever miscellaneous matter Sirius proposes, such as whether a hot dog counts as a sandwich and who would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse. Their communication also consists of random Ur ugly or This u? texts accompanied by some atrocious internet picture, which is sibling talk for, Hey, just thought about you.

It’s oddly comforting.

At the flat, Regulus finds himself third-wheeling Barty and Evan at least two nights a week, but it’s not nearly as excruciating as he thought it would be. It’s almost… nice. They aren’t half as disgusting together as Regulus and James were. There is no hand-holding or whispering with their foreheads pressed together. Mostly, they just bicker, constantly throwing dry quips or affectionate insults at each other. Regulus doesn’t quite understand their dynamic yet finds it nonetheless amusing.

However, he can’t help but be a little jealous.

Regardless of how full his schedule is or how distracted Regulus pretends to be, there’s a James-shaped ache in his chest that never ceases. He misses walking across campus with him. He misses their quiet, companionable study sessions. He even misses their shared suffering over the cafeteria’s aggressively beige meals.

He makes do with their current arrangement of virtual interaction.

In the beginning, James is always the one to text first, but Regulus quickly starts to take initiative. He shares little things about his days, like a snapshot of a crow perched outside the library, or a sarcastic complaint about the boy in one of his classes who thinks moral relativism is a scam.

James always responds within seconds, sometimes with whole paragraphs, sometimes with outrageous reaction images, and sometimes with voice notes that Regulus will never admit to replaying more than once. They make the fluttering in his chest beat wildly every single time.

He knows it’s not sustainable, but it’s something, and Regulus has learned to feast on crumbs when he’s starving.

Which is precisely why Dr. McGonagall decides to ruin everything.

“I’m concerned about your social development,” she says bluntly, midway through one of their now in-person sessions. She’s seated across from him, posture perfect, glasses perched on her nose. Her office is neat to the point of intimidation, books lined like soldiers, potted plants aggressively healthy. “University is not just about academic achievement, it’s about the shaping of young minds, and that includes socialization.”

Regulus narrows his eyes at her. “You’re not seriously going to tell me I need to make friends.”

“I am.”

“I have friends.”

“Friends who are not Barty.”

Regulus opens his mouth to protest.

“Or Evan.”

He huffs, slumping slightly into the armchair. He tries not to fold his arms like a petulant child, but it’s a near thing. “I’m very busy,” he mutters. “I’m not here to socialize. I’m here to get a degree from a respectable institution.”

“And I’m here to ensure you emerge from that degree with some emotional intelligence as well,” she says, voice cool and measured. “For your homework this week, I want you to join one extracurricular activity, attend it regularly, and initiate at least one conversation with a peer who is not already your best friend or your best friend’s boyfriend.”

Regulus stares at her. “I can’t just talk to people,” he says, flabbergasted.

Dr. McGonagall smiles, just a flicker of amusement. “Yes, you can. I believe in you.”

“Fine,” Regulus groans and lets his head fall back against the chair. “You’re ruthless.”

“That’s why I’m so good at what I do.”

He exhales slowly, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do I have to write a report?”

“Nothing so formal,” she says, more gently now. “Just tell me how it goes, that’s all.”

When the session ends, Regulus walks to his flat, already spiraling. As if on cue, his phone buzzes in his coat pocket.

James

A seagull just dive-bombed me for my granola bar

I nearly died

Hope ur day was less violent ♥

Regulus reads the messages three times, biting back a smile. He is still embarrassingly gone on this boy.

Regulus

Not really.

Dr. McGonagall is mean.

James

☹

What did she do this time?

Regulus

She said I should make friends.

James

HOW DARE SHE!!!!

(She’s right)

Regulus

I will block you.

James

☹

·:★:·

A few days later, Regulus finds himself in the heart of the Hogwarts student newspaper. He is instantly assaulted by harsh fluorescent lighting and the acrid scent of burnt coffee layered with printer ink. Desks are cluttered with stacks of paper and precariously placed laptops that threaten to tumble with every jostle from the overpopulated space. It instantly gives him a headache.

It’s quite counterintuitive for Regulus to join the university’s journalism crew instead of something quieter like the chess team. However, as he browsed the university’s website for available extracurriculars, the position of film reviewer had called to him. Regulus supposes he can watch his assignments and write about them entirely alone, then only speak to an editor through e-mail.

Regulus inhales a deep breath and scans the chaos in search of Amelia Bones, hoping she resembles her profile picture. It takes a long moment, mostly because she’s moving. Fast. She’s a blur of auburn hair with a clipboard.

“Amelia Bones?” Regulus calls, unsure if his voice will even carry over the din.

She pivots mid-step and grins at him. “That’s me! Regulus Black?”

He nods once.

“Cool. Walk with me. Try not to get trampled.”

Amelia sets off again. Regulus hurries after her, barely dodging a guy holding a tripod like a lance.

“Okay,” she says, not even looking at him as she flips through the clipboard. “Your writing samples? Very eloquent and a little scathing, which I appreciate. I’d follow you on Letterboxd.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

She laughs, loud and delighted, and shoots him a look over her shoulder. “Oh, you’re funny.”

Regulus stares. He did not mean that as a joke.

“The spot is yours,” she says. “No one wants to watch films anymore unless it’s a Marvel sequel. You’ll get your assignment every Monday, and you’ve got four days to submit your first draft to your editor. Got it?”

He nods mutely. This is already more social interaction than he signed up for.

“She’ll go over structure, make sure you follow our guidelines, that sort of thing,” Amelia continues. “Where is she? Oi! Vance! Come here!”

Regulus follows her gaze. His stomach drops.

Because, of course, it’s Emmeline Vance.

Her smile falters the moment she sees him. The easy, affable energy drains from her expression like water down a sink, leaving only cold neutrality in its wake.

Amelia doesn’t seem to notice the sudden shift in air pressure. “Em is amazing,” she tells Regulus, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll get you in shape for publishing. Anyway, I’ve gotta chase down Dearborn — he owes me a front-page photograph. Have fun, you two!”

She’s gone before Regulus can protest. He stands frozen, regretting every single one of his life choices.

Emmeline crosses her arms and stares at him with the same unreadable expression she’d worn the first time they spoke. Unfriendly but professional.

Regulus remembers all too well what came next: public humiliation.

His insides prickle with the memory.

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” she says, businesslike.

That is a bold-faced lie. The situation is intrinsically weird. Regulus doesn’t verbalize his disagreement, of course. He has more self-preservation than that.

Emmeline seems satisfied with his silence. “Follow me,” she orders.

They stop at a desk shoved into a corner. A strip of peeling tape is stuck to the metal placard with VANCE written in bold Sharpie. She yanks open one of the drawers, flips through a pile of folders, and hands one over with the delicacy of someone delivering a parking ticket.

“Inside is our formatting guide and past reviews you can use as a reference. We run one film column per week, so you’ll be published every Friday. If you miss one deadline, you get a warning. If you miss two, you’re out. We don’t have time to babysit anyone’s creative process.”

Regulus resists the urge to roll his eyes. As if he would ever miss a deadline. “Understood,” he says, voice even.

“The contents of the pieces are entirely up to you. Love it, hate it, call it mid — I don’t care as long as it’s well written. Also, the reviews are exclusive to our paper, so don’t post them on your Letterboxd.”

He blinks. What is this thing, and why does everyone keep mentioning it?

“I don’t even know what that is.”

Emmeline stares for a second, like she’s trying to determine if he’s being sarcastic. Then, an involuntary snort bursts out of her, too short to be called laughter, but it’s the closest thing to warmth he’s received so far.

“Good,” she says, mouth twitching. “You’re clean. Let’s keep it that way.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that, so he opens the folder to peek at the first few pages. Everything is laid out neatly, color-coded, and underlined. He approves.

“Any questions?” she asks.

“No,” he replies.

Emmeline nods. “Then you’re free to go.”

Regulus has barely taken one step when she speaks again.

“And Black? Remember, don’t make this weird.”

By the time February bleeds into March, Regulus has more or less found his footing while juggling his new journalistic responsibilities along with his coursework, meagre social life, therapy sessions, and long-distance relationship (?) with James.

Regulus was right when he assumed it would be solitary work. He mostly watches his assignments alone, though Barty and Evan sometimes weasel their way into keeping him company. His presence is only required at one weekly staff meeting, which is manageable enough until Emmeline suggests they go over her notes on his reviews in person afterwards.

Their interactions are tense, but less uncomfortable than he expected. They follow Emmeline’s rule of not making it weird, which means entirely ignoring what happened last term — the pair project, the scene in the corridor, and especially his subsequent meltdown.

Regulus would be lying if he said he did not resent her for all of it, but he appreciates her professionalism. They don’t have to like each other to work together.

Contention doesn’t arise until his third piece. His assignment is an odd Swiss teen drama about mermaids with queer, cannibalistic undertones, and Regulus ends up writing twice the required word count for his review. He couldn’t help but be enamoured with the tale, regardless of the convoluted plot and unrefined technical aspects.

Emmeline flips through the pages, unhurried, then places them facedown on the table. “Huh,” she says, caught somewhere between impressed and confused.

Regulus glances up from his own copy, brows furrowing. “What?”

She taps her pen against the paper. “This one’s more sensitive and… empathetic than I expected.”

Her tone is pointed, and the unspoken from you hangs in the air like smoke.

“Why?” Regulus asks, toeing the line between defensive and hostile.

Emmeline shrugs. “Because,” she says simply.

Regulus opens his mouth to respond, to ask if she still thinks of him as some cold, elitist, bigoted prick. His temper is staved off by his phone buzzing loudly on the table with five consecutive messages.

He doesn’t need to check to know who it is.

Emmeline lifts an eyebrow. “Do you need to get that?”

Regulus grabs the phone instead of answering.

James

I miss you ☹

Are you busy?

Ignoring me?

Did you die?

Answer quickly before I bother Frank

Regulus sighs and types a quick ‘busy’ before switching his phone to Do Not Disturb.

“Everything okay?” Emmeline asks.

“It’s nothing,” Regulus replies with ersatz nonchalance. “My boyfriend just gets clingy if I don’t reply fast enough.”

He doesn’t even know if James is his boyfriend again, but the term is easier than explaining the nuances of their post-heartbreak half-reconciliation. And if Regulus is being honest, he wants to see Emmeline’s reaction to it.

She blinks. Her posture stiffens slightly, and for the first time in their acquaintance, her composed expression falters. “Oh.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow, the picture of calm, even as his pulse ticks up. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Emmeline says quickly. “Of course not, that’s just… unexpected.”

He doesn’t reply, purposefully allowing the silence to grow uncomfortable.

“Well,” Emmeline continues, flipping back to the printout. “Let’s finish fast, then. Wouldn’t want to leave your boyfriend hanging.”

They go over the remaining notes. Emmeline is her usual direct self, circling a few paragraphs with a red pen and suggesting stronger or more concise wording. Regulus nods, scribbles some annotations, and agrees to submit his revised draft before the end of the week.

When they pack up their things and stand, she hesitates for a moment before speaking again. “Have a good evening, Black.”

Regulus is already walking away when he realizes that, for once, she might actually mean it.

Something shifts after that conversation. It’s subtle, and Regulus wonders if he is imagining things at first, but it soon becomes undeniable. Emmeline is still Emmeline, abrasively assertive, always in a rush, and allergic to unnecessary pleasantries. However, she doesn’t bristle quite so much when Regulus walks into the newsroom, watching him with curiosity instead of wariness.

She starts talking more. A dry comment about their mutual professor’s droning lectures, a derisive snort when someone misuses “there” and “they’re” in a headline draft, a muttered insult at the printer when it jams mid-page. It’s never friendly exactly, but it’s… friendlier.

Emmeline also starts testing him.

Regulus notices it for the first time when she mentions the administration’s crackdown on student protests, her tone light but her eyes cunning. She waits for his reaction, like she’s half-expecting him to parrot back one of his mother’s rehearsed arguments.

He doesn’t.

“Silencing dissent isn’t governance,” he says mildly, underlining a typo on a printout with his red pen. “It’s cowardice wrapped in dictatorship.”

Emmeline blinks at him like he’s just spoken Ancient Greek. “Huh.”

That happens a few more times.

She comments on the university’s inaction on affordable housing. He agrees it’s disgraceful. She criticizes a discriminatory policy change proposed by one of the student reps. He calls it misleading fear-mongering. It becomes a kind of game. Emmeline will toss out something deliberately ‘controversial,’ and Regulus will answer like a sapient human being, not a mouthpiece for the far right.

Eventually, she stops being surprised.

Then, one late afternoon tucked in the corner of the chaotic newsroom, Emmeline looks up from his latest draft. “Hey,” she says in an almost cautious tone.  “Can I say something?”

Regulus looks up from his notes. “You usually do.”

Emmeline exhales and looks down at the margins of his paper. Her voice comes out quieter than usual, like the words are stuck to her teeth. “I want to apologize for what happened last term, for putting you on the spot like that. I thought I was doing the right thing by calling out hypocrisy, and maybe I was, but that doesn’t mean it was fair.”

Regulus blinks at her. “I appreciate that,” he says at last. “Though maybe next time, try not to assume someone’s character is hereditary.”

Emmeline grimaces. “Noted.”

After that, she becomes quite the chatterbox, ranting about her professors, the ridiculous workload, and a group project she’s stuck doing entirely by herself. Emmeline only softens when she mentions her girlfriend. Her voice goes syrupy, and she gets heart-eyes as she tells him all about Mary, a divinely beautiful and remarkably talented fashion major, who Emmeline proudly announces is already interning for a famous couture brand.

Regulus would tease her if the whole thing weren’t oddly comforting. It reminds him of Sirius and how his brother turns into a mushy mess whenever he says Remus’s name.

It sneaks up on him, how easy it becomes to like her.

He tells James about Emmeline’s transformation in a long text, half complaint, half surprise.

James

Sounds like someone’s finally cracked your shell

Have I been replaced?

Regulus doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

He saves his real confession for someone else.

When Regulus takes his usual seat across from Dr. McGonagall the next day, he lifts his chin, exhales slowly, and says, “I think I made a friend.”

·:★:·

“Are you okay, love?” James asks in a murmur, as if Regulus is a dandelion that will scatter at the softest of blows.

Regulus exhales slowly. His breath fogs up the car window and disappears almost as quickly. “Yeah,” he replies, a little wheezing. “I just need a minute.”

James doesn’t press. He never does. “You can take all the time you need,” he says.

Regulus nods, though he knows that’s not true. Time is a luxury he doesn’t have.

They sit in the faded red sedan, tucked away in the shadows cast by the imposing silhouette of Grimmauld Place. The house looks like a mausoleum: cold, silent, and full of ghosts. Regulus stares at it like it might come alive and swallow him whole.

His mother isn’t home, but she soon will be.

Regulus knows she has already been notified of his presence. The security guards at the gates must have called her as soon as they waved him through.

Walburga has kept her promise. She’s been waiting — biding her time, playing the part of the grieving, betrayed mother praying for the return of her prodigal son. Regulus knows that showing up at her house, unannounced, will disrupt this balance beyond repair.

His hands clench into fists on his lap, nails pressing into his skin. It’s the only thing that keeps him from shaking. 

As always, James notices.

Without a word, James reaches across the console and opens his hand, palm up. Offering.

Regulus doesn’t hesitate to accept it, locking their fingers together. It anchors him, ousting the cold tendrils of dread threatening to consume him.

He closes his eyes for a moment and focuses on the safety of it.

This is why he asked James to accompany him.

“I do not advise you to take such an important step on your own,” Dr. McGonagall had told him during the many sessions they spent discussing the possibility of this day until it morphed into an inevitability. “You have a support system, Regulus. You are allowed to use it. You don’t have to be alone.”

Regulus had considered Sirius first, but that idea died as quickly as it was born. He could never be the reason his brother walked back into that house, not after what it cost him to leave it.

Barty would have agreed in a heartbeat, would’ve probably brought a lighter and some gasoline as well. Regulus appreciates his friend’s fiery brand of protectiveness, but he needs something calmer than arson for this.

Something safer.

He’s always felt safe with James. Even when he shouldn’t have.

“Okay,” Regulus says at last. “Okay. I’m ready.”

It’s a lie, but he doesn’t have enough time for it to become truth.

James squeezes his hand one last time before releasing it. They climb out of the car, the slam of their doors too loud in the morning stillness. It lingers as they approach the marble steps leading up to the towering front door. Regulus distinctly remembers the last time he stood there before leaving for Hogwarts.

Do not disappoint me, his mother had said.

Too late for that, he thinks bitterly.

James reaches for his hand again, warmer than the late spring breeze. It gives Regulus enough strength to place his foot on the first step.

The air inside the house is heavier than he remembers, or perhaps Regulus has just grown unaccustomed to its weight. The silence isn’t peaceful. It’s expectant and looming, the calm before the storm.

James matches his pace without crowding him. They walk past the grand staircase, and Regulus swears he can still hear the sharp click of his mother’s heels from years ago, chasing Sirius as he stomped down the steps carrying only a backpack and wrathful confidence. Walburga’s voice echoes in his ears, “You are being dramatic, Sirius! Stop this nonsense at once!”

Regulus flinches. James gently runs a thumb across the back of his hand.

By the time they reach the hallway to his room, Regulus feels like he’s peeled back to a younger version of himself: frightened, uncertain, and too aware of every sound he makes.

They stop at the tall, black-lacquered door. Regulus stares at the plaque unevenly screwed at the center.

Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of

Regulus Arcturus Black

The childishness of it makes his stomach twist. Regulus remembers crying the whole time as he carved the words after a fight with his brother, only to end the day playing together in the garden as if nothing had happened. His mother had chastised him for the holes on his door, so Regulus had left the sign up to hide them.

James raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin.

“Shut up,” Regulus mutters.

“I didn’t say anything,” James replies, all faux innocence.

Regulus huffs and rolls his eyes. “Let’s just do this.”

He turns the doorknob, facing away from James, mostly to hide the flush rising in his cheeks. The metal is cold but familiar beneath his palm.

“Does this mean,” James says as he follows him over the threshold, “that I now have the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black?”

Regulus gives him a flat look. “Keep testing your luck, Potter, and I’ll revoke it.”

James grins, unrepentant but clearly relieved that the tension hasn’t cracked Regulus completely. “Fair enough,” he says, scanning his surroundings. “This is your room, huh? It’s… nice.”

Regulus looks at this place where he spent most of his life and tries to see it through James’s eyes.

Everything is just as he left it. The bed is expertly made, a worn bible open on the abutting nightstand. The bookshelf is overflowing, tomes lined up according to the meticulous system he never once let anyone else touch. A few framed certificates hang above the desk, next to a shelf of academic trophies and medal plaques; achievements that had earned small, fleeting nods from Walburga.

The whole place feels like a shrine to obedience.

“It’s strange,” Regulus confesses. “It’s like walking into a movie set. I used to think this room belonged to me, but I don’t think I ever really lived here. I just… performed here.”

James doesn’t answer. He only raises their intertwined hands to place a kiss on Regulus’s knuckles.

It hurts to drop his hold, but Regulus can’t do what he came for one-handed.

He opens the closet first, full of starched shirts and hanging suits in muted shades of charcoal, navy, and off-white. Regulus brushes a hand over them but doesn’t pull a single one out. Instead, he raises himself to his tiptoes to reach the old suitcase on the shelf above.

It’s heavy even while empty, and Regulus notices how James fidgets behind him, eager to take the weight from his hands. He doesn’t. James must know this is something Regulus needs to do for himself.

Regulus starts with clothes he still likes: a couple of jumpers Sirius once gifted him for Christmas, soft t-shirts he used to sleep in, the comfortable trainers his mother forbade him from wearing once they became too scuffed. He folds and organizes deliberately, keeping his hands busy while his mind spins at a much harsher pace.

It gets harder when he moves to his desk drawers.

The top one is tidy, full of the expensive stationery he likes to hoard. Regulus can’t focus on that, his attention stolen by the clear case tucked in the corner. He pulls it out and rolls it around, watching as the rosary inside rattles with the movement. It’s a beautiful piece, made of marbled viridian beads and an ornate silver crucifix.

Regulus stares at it for a long time.

“She gifted me this for my First Communion,” he whispers, too choked by memories to use his full voice.

If he closes his eyes, Regulus can almost see the rare pride shining in his mother’s eyes. “This will keep you safe,” she’d told him. “It won’t let you forget your path.”

Walburga was right about half of it. Regulus never forgot, not when he kissed James on that rooftop, not when he prayed for forgiveness until his knees ached, not when he forsook the cross around his neck.

Not even now.

It didn’t keep him safe, though. It only kept him scared. Guilty.

Regulus isn’t dramatic about it. He doesn’t throw or scream or curse his mother’s name. He returns the rosary to the drawer and shuts it gently.

In the drawer below is his collection of prayer cards. He shuffles through them until he finds the only one he wants to keep. It’s old and faded, the lamination peeling at the corners.

“Saint Regulus,” he tells James as he tucks it inside the suitcase.

James hums. “I didn’t know there was a Saint Regulus.”

“Few people do,” Regulus says, a smile tugging at his lips. “His prayer cards are rare. Sirius had to bully a nun to get it for me.”

James chokes on unexpected laughter, and Regulus follows suit. It makes him feel lighter.

He rummages through the lower drawer for a tin box. Regulus knows exactly what is inside, but he opens it anyway. Beneath passed notes, dried flowers, and other mementos of his childhood sits a strip from a photo booth at the arcade. Barty and Regulus are barely twelve years old, all elbows and large front teeth, making silly faces at the camera.

In the last frame, Barty kissed his cheek.

Regulus never let anyone see it.

He extends it toward James, who smiles brightly at the string of images.

“You were adorable,” he says. “Well, you still are.”

Regulus glares at him through a faint blush. “Idiot.”

He adds the whole tin to his suitcase. There are some pieces of his past worth keeping.

Once he is done packing, Regulus looks around the room. It feels too empty for how little he’s chosen to take with him.

James watches him carefully. “You okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Regulus says. “But I think I’ll be.”

James reaches out to brush a stray curl from Regulus’s forehead. “Ready to go?”

Regulus doesn’t speak. He only hums, leaning into the touch.

Their moment is interrupted by the heels in the corridor, striking like a gavel in judgment.

Regulus stills, breath catching in his throat. “She’s here,” he whispers.

James lets his hand fall to Regulus’s shoulder. He squeezes gently. “You’ll be okay, love. You can do this.”

Regulus can’t. Fuck, he can’t.

“Hey,” James says, pulling Regulus closer, holding all the loose threads about to unravel. “You’re doing this for yourself and no one else. If you want to leave, we’ll leave. Just say the word, and I’ll get you out. I promise.”

With his heart beating under his tongue, Regulus manages to nod. He trusts James to keep his word.

Regulus can do this. He wants to do this. He needs to do this.

Dr. McGonagall has spent the past couple of months talking him through his trauma. It’s far, far from a done deal, but Regulus has improved, applying healthy coping mechanisms to deter this suffocating fear of his mother.

Regulus inhales a deep breath, counts to three, releases.

He turns toward the door just in time to see Walburga step inside the room, as regal as a queen entering her court.  She looks immaculate as always, hair coiled tight at the nape of her neck, makeup elegant, clothing pristine. Walburga glances at James, a quick flicker of something unreadable passing over her face. She dismisses him as soon as her gaze lands on Regulus like a spotlight. Her whole posture softens, and her stern lips stretch into a relieved smile.

“Regulus,” she breathes, stepping forward, hands outstretched as if to gather him into an embrace. “Darling, you’re here. I’ve missed you so—”

He steps back before she can touch him.

Her hands hover in the air for a moment before falling to her sides. Her painted smile wavers, a hairline crack in the mask of mother placed over the matriarch.

“Mother,” Regulus says. He means for it to sound cold, but it comes out brittle.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” she continues, pressing one hand to her chest like she’s trying to contain an overflowing, bleeding heart. “I prayed for this day, that you would come to your senses, that you’d come home.” Her eyes cut briefly to the stuffed suitcase on the bed. Her voice softens further, sweetened to cloying. “You’re here, darling. That’s all that matters. I’m so glad—”

“Stop,” Regulus says, voice minutely stronger. “Stop pretending. You didn’t miss me. You missed having someone on your leash.”

Her posture stiffens. The temperature in the room drops several degrees as her performance dies on her lips.

“You are being dramatic, Regulus,” she chastises. “Of course, I missed you. You’re my son. I love you. Don’t you know that?”

Anger flares inside him, and Regulus embraces it, allowing the feeling to fuel his words.

He scoffs. “Oh, I know,” Regulus says, bitterness swirling like acid on his tongue. “I used to think your love was conditional, then I thought it didn’t exist at all, but I’ve realized the truth is much worse.”

Walburga blinks, taken aback by such a display from her favorite puppet. “Oh? And what is that?” she demands.

“Your love is poison,” he snaps. “It destroys everything it touches. I spent my whole life dying from it.”

Walburga’s mouth tightens. “What is this nonsense, Regulus? Everything I’ve done was for your benefit. For your soul. The world is cruel and full of temptation — I was trying to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” Regulus repeats. “Safe from what? Myself?”

“From sin,” she hisses, eyes flashing. “I guided you. I gave you purpose, structure. You should thank me—”

“I should be free,” Regulus interrupts, cutting. “Free to feel, to be without fearing your God and your wrath.”

Walburga narrows her eyes. “My God?” Her voice drops to an icy whisper. “I will not allow you to renounce his name under my roof.”

“Funny,” Regulus says with a humorless laugh, “because that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“No,” she counters as if it’s that easy, as if she still controls him. “I will not see another one of my sons descend into a wretched path.”

“Well,” Regulus drawls, squaring his shoulder. “I’ve got bad news for you.”

Her nostrils flare. Walburga opens her mouth, but Regulus beats her to it.

“I’m gay, Mother.”

Walburga reels back as if slapped. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, much like a moribund fish, until she finds the words.

“What did you just say?”

“I’m gay,” Regulus repeats, firmer now. “So, congratulations — you’re two for two on deviant sons.”

Her face twists in fury, disbelief, scorn, though something else — something almost like heartbreak — shines behind her unforgiving eyes.

Regulus doesn’t divert his gaze. Not this time.

Walburga turns toward James, the curve of her lip hardening into something cruel. “Is this the reason for your little rebellion, then?” she asks. “Someone who only ever looked at you under my orders?”

The words are well-aimed, crafted to wound and rot the part of Regulus that she can’t control anymore. Regulus feels their ache, but it’s duller now, the laceration no longer fresh. He can breathe through it.

James shifts beside him. He takes a step forward, shoulders squared like a shield. Regulus stops him with a minute but deliberate shake of his head. Not yet.

Regulus straightens his spine. “Partly,” he says, voice carefully even. “Though having a boyfriend or not doesn’t change who I am.”

“Boyfriend?” Walburga echoes, incredulity turning her tone shrill. “You think he’s your boyfriend? He was assigned to you, Regulus! He is your security detail! Your bodyguard! Paid to follow your every move and report back to me.”

“He was my bodyguard. Past tense,” Regulus says plainly, refusing to rise to her theatrics. “He does not work for you anymore, and I forgave him for it.”

Her face pinches, eyes narrowing. “You forgave him?” she breathes, like the words are foreign, though her disbelief soon curdles into rage. “You forgive a stranger for deceiving you, but you withhold forgiveness from your own mother? From the woman who raised you?”

Forgiveness must never be a betrayal of yourself.

This would be. It would betray everything Regulus is trying to become.

“To be forgiven, you must first repent, Mother,” he replies coldly. “Have you forgotten that bit of scripture?”

Walburga’s nostrils flare. She looks like she might combust from the inside out. “I will not apologize for raising you right. For teaching you piousness, for showing you the path to salvation.”

Regulus laughs bitterly. “You didn’t raise me right. You raised me afraid. You didn’t teach me to be good — you taught me not to be at all.”

Her expression falters for a breath before hardening again. “You think this… lifestyle is better?” she spits, gesturing vaguely toward James. “You think this boy is going to save you? He lied to you. He used you.”

“No,” Regulus argues, low and sure. “You did.”

Her hand twitches at her side like she wants to slap him.

“Do you have any idea,” Walburga seethes, “how hard I fought for you? How I struggled to hold this family together when Sirius humiliated us? And now you— You’re no better, disgracing this house with a whore who was only ever with you for money.”

The room stills like it’s holding its breath.

James is in front of him before Regulus can even register his first step. He stares down at Walburga, fury radiating from his pores.

Regulus doesn’t restrain him this time

“You don’t get to say that,” James tells her, low and lethal. “I don’t give a single fuck what you have to say about me, but you don’t get to talk to Regulus like that. Maybe you can’t see it because all you ever did was make him feel unlovable, but I love him.”

Walburga can’t get a word in as James continues, unmoved.

“Regulus deserves better than you. Maybe he deserves better than me, too, but at least I know him — every single part of him — and I love him.”

James turns toward Regulus, who offers him a nod.

“We’re leaving,” James declares with finality, grabbing the suitcase from the bed. “I’d tell you to go to hell, but frankly, you’re headed there all on your own.”

He holds out his free hand to Regulus, who takes it without hesitation.

They turn toward the hallway. Walburga’s voice rises behind them, barking one final, desperate command.

“Don’t you dare walk out on me, Regulus! I birthed you!”

Regulus doesn’t look back. Not even once.

They’re well past the outskirts of London when the disbelief sets in.

Regulus stares out the passenger window, the spring fields blurring into streaks of green and gold. Grimmauld Place is miles behind them, his mother’s screams have faded from his ears, and the adrenaline is bleeding out of his system. He’s no longer trembling, but Regulus feels like something has come unstitched inside him, like the seams holding him together have frayed.

His suitcase is crammed in the back seat. The boy he loves is sitting right beside him. No leash constrains his neck.

What a bizarre concept.

James hasn’t said much since they passed the wrought-iron gates. He’s kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, giving Regulus the space to unravel at his own pace. However, when he glances sideways and sees the stunned, hollowed-out look on Regulus’s face, his protective instincts take over.

He eases the car onto the gravel shoulder of the quiet country road. The engine hums for a beat before James shuts it off. In its absence, the world feels very still.

“Reg,” James starts softly, turning in his seat. “How’re you doing?”

Regulus doesn’t respond right away. He’s still staring out the window, hands clasped in his lap, fingers white-knuckled. James reaches out, warm fingers cupping his jaw, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his cheek.

“Hey,” James continues, just above a whisper, coaxing him back to the present. “Can you look at me, love? Please?”

It takes a moment for Regulus to meet James’s eyes, blinking at him as if waking up from a trance. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words are swallowed by a strange, breathless laugh.

“We did that,” Regulus wheezes. “James. We did that.”

Air escapes his lungs in a short burst of manic glee — too much, too sudden, bubbling over with relief, shock, and something bordering on hysteria.

James laughs along, though it’s softer, unsure if this is a breakdown or a breakthrough. “You did that,” he amends. “You stood up to her, love. That was all you.”

“I stood up to her,” Regulus echoes, still laughing. “Holy shit. Holy shit. I stood up to her.”

Before James can say another word, Regulus fumbles to unclip his seatbelt and lunges across the center console. James catches him, holding him tight around the waist, anchoring him into his body.

Regulus kisses him.

It’s breathless and wet with tears that Regulus didn’t realize he was shedding, just messy enough to feel real. Regulus tangles his fingers in James’s curls, who raises one steadying hand to his jaw as their lips press together until the world falls away.

Their first kiss since the debacle in that snow-dusted alley. Their first kiss untainted by lies or rancor.

Desperation thaws into something gentler and reverent. When they pull apart, their foreheads rest together, noses brushing.

James’s voice is too quiet, too tentative for how hard his heart beats against Regulus’s chest.

“Did you mean it?” he asks. “What you said back there, about forgiving me? About… About being together again?”

Regulus draws back just enough to properly see those beautiful eyes, watching him through smudged glasses, full of hope and fear. With devastating softness, he leans in and kisses James again.

“Yes,” Regulus breathes into it. “I forgive you. If I had any doubts about where your loyalties lie, you just squash—”

James interrupts him with another kiss, like he needs to make the most of every second he’s being allowed to love Regulus again.

“You won’t regret it, love,” he murmurs against Regulus’s lips. “I promise.”

Regulus melts further into the broad chest beneath him, trying to contain the smile threatening to split his face.

“Don’t get too cocky,” he warns, watching James through damp lashes. “I was the easy part. You’ve still got Barty and Sirius to win back.”

James huffs a nervous laugh. “Anything for you, love,” he says. “I’ll even let Sirius punch me again.”

“No more punching,” Regulus declares. He refuses to allow that to be repeated. “From either of you.”

“Yes, sir,” James agrees, and Regulus can’t quite tell if the solemnity in his voice is jesting or not.

Regulus blushes, then squirms to return to his seat, the steering wheel digging into his back. James steals one more peck before helping Regulus out of his lap.

“Let’s go,” Regulus says, buckling up. “I can’t wait to tell Barty you told my mother she’s going to hell. That’s gotta earn you some forgiveness.”

“Hopefully.”

James restarts the engine, and as soon as they return to the road, his hand finds Regulus’s and squeezes tight.

Regulus settles into his seat, staring ahead. He just imploded his life, but the unending, unknown path feels like a promise.

For the first time in his life, Regulus feels entirely free.

“—And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,

a remote important region in all who talk:

though we could fool each other, we should consider—

lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.”

A Ritual to Read to Each Other, William E. Stafford