Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A star dims beneath its predecessor 

Regulus awoke slouched in the passenger seat, his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass of the car window as scenery blurred past in a dull gray smear. The skies overhead were a heavy, uninspiring shade of ash, clouds thick and low, casting a flatness over the night and everything they passed. 

What little light filtered through only served to make the landscape look more washed out, as though even the moon had grown tired. The further they drove from London, the more Regulus felt it. That slow, dragging pull in his chest — as if he were being physically unstitched from something important, some invisible thread tethering him to everything familiar.

He hated it.

London might have been suffocating and cold and cruel, but it was his. Or at least, some of it had been. The manor with its uneven floorboards, the shadowy corners of his room where his belongings collected in organized piles, the buzz of traffic that never really stopped,  all of it had burrowed into his skin like roots. 

And now he was being yanked out by the stem and carted off to the outskirts of York, of all places. He scoffed under his breath. York. Just saying it made him feel older than he wanted to be.

From behind the wheel, Sirius leaned slightly toward him, one hand steady on the steering column. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “If it helps, I’m really proud of you. I really think this’ll be good for you.”

Regulus didn’t answer at first. He swallowed hard and kept his gaze fixed out the window, as if pretending not to hear might protect him from the sincerity in Sirius’s tone. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. 

He wanted to scoff. To roll his eyes. To pretend it didn’t hurt like hell. 

But every part of him; his chest, his throat, his trembling fingers, itched to turn back time. To unmake the night. To crawl back into his bed and pull the covers over his head like he was ten years old again, pretending monsters weren’t real. 

Pretending she wasn’t one of them.

He itched to yell. At Walburga. At himself. At the quiet house he’d slipped out of like a ghost. He wanted to scream for every lie wrapped in velvet, for every moment he thought maybe this time, for every whisper of love that came with a knife pressed just under his ribs.

But he didn’t scream.

He sat in Sirius’s car, silent and shivering in the passenger seat, the leather too cold beneath him, the air too thick. The world outside was dark, only the headlights cutting through the road ahead like a promise he wasn’t sure he believed in yet.

Sirius hadn’t said much. He hadn’t needed to. When Regulus had sent the text: 

Please pick me up

Sirius hadn’t asked a single question. He just came.

There hadn’t been a plan. There wasn’t time for one. Regulus had slipped out the door barefoot, shoes in hand, his pulse hammering in his throat, bags in hand. The hallway had creaked too loudly. The lock had clicked too sharp. Every step toward the waiting car had felt like a dare.

Now, in the safety of Sirius’s beat-up old thing, the silence was heavier than he expected.

It had felt like the only option at the time. Still did, mostly.

“Yeah,” he finally muttered, the word flat and unconvincing even to his own ears.

A silence settled between them, heavy and awkward, like a third passenger in the car. Regulus picked at a frayed thread on the sleeve of his jumper, biting back the guilt that swelled in his chest. Sirius didn’t deserve that. He was trying. He always tried.

“Are we staying with your friend then?” Regulus asked, mostly to fill the quiet.

Sirius shook his head, reaching up to push a hand through his long, dark hair. “Nah. James lives with his parents. Their place is tight. Too many people, not enough walls. But they own an apartment complex just down the road from there. Been in the family forever. Old thing, kind of regal-looking. They were going to live in it once, and I think they did at one point, but it ended up being too massive for just Effie, Monty, and James. So they moved into a smaller place nearby and started renting out flats at The Lion’s Palace.”

Regulus blinked. “The Lion’s Palace?” he repeated, brows raised in a way that was just shy of incredulous. “That’s... a choice.”

Sirius snorted. “You’ll have to ask Effie about it. She’s got a flair for the dramatic. Though,” he added, glancing sideways at his brother with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “we’re not exactly shining examples of tasteful naming ourselves, are we?”

Regulus let himself smile, just barely, and shook his head, gaze drifting back out to the road stretching ahead. Trees blurred past, skeletal and bare with the first chills of winter, branches like claws against the gray sky. 

“How have you been paying for all this?” Regulus asked after a long stretch of silence, his voice quieter than it had been before. He kept his eyes on the road ahead for a moment longer, watching the white lines flash past like a metronome, before slowly turning to glance at Sirius. 

His expression was unreadable, but there was a tension to it. Like he wanted to understand something but didn’t quite know how to ask.

Sirius didn’t respond right away. He drummed his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, thoughtful, then shrugged with a crooked smile that tried to come off as casual but didn’t quite hide the effort beneath it. “Effie said she doesn’t mind letting us stay for free, at least until we figure things out. Get on our feet. Or—well, I do, I guess,” He cast a quick glance at Regulus, checking his reaction, then returned his focus to the road. “I offered her some of Alphard’s money, just to be fair, but she wouldn’t take it. Said it was a family place, and family needed it more than rent did.”

There was something tender in the way Sirius said family , like it was a fragile word he didn’t use often. Regulus didn’t comment on it.

He gave a small nod instead, thoughtful, then twisted in his seat just enough to glance behind him. His suitcase, a scuffed green thing with one broken zipper, sat awkwardly under a seatbelt like it, too, needed to be strapped in for safety. Beneath his feet, his old duffel bag bumped slightly with every curve of the road, the overstuffed fabric pressing against his shoes. 

That was everything. 

Everything he had left of his life in London, reduced to two bags and a handful of secrets. His throat felt tight.

He opened his mouth, not entirely sure what he meant to say, maybe thank you , maybe sorry , maybe something else entirely, but Sirius cut in before he could speak.

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, the words sharp and certain in a way that left no room for argument. “You don’t owe anyone that. Least of all me.”

Regulus frowned slightly, unsettled by how easily Sirius seemed to read him. But Sirius just pressed on, voice gentler now, softer around the edges. “I never apologized when I left, so you absolutely don’t have to. It’s not a weakness, Reg. It’s just... survival.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

“And anyway,” Sirius added, his tone brightening just enough to signal a shift, “you’re finally going to meet Remus.”

That got a reaction. 

Regulus raised one elegant eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Bookstore man?” he asked dryly, a thread of amusement weaving through the words.

Sirius gave a mock-sigh, eyes still on the road, but his smile was all too real. “The love of my life,” he said with theatrical sincerity, placing a hand over his chest as if making a solemn vow. “He smells like parchment and pine, and he reads poetry in the bath. You’ll love him.”

Regulus snorted, shaking his head, but the warmth in his brother’s voice lingered. It was the first time all day something had felt the tiniest bit like hope.

Then, after a beat, he glanced sideways. “And he’s… alright with me staying there? With you two?”

Sirius’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel, but only for a second. He glanced over, softer now. “Yeah, Reg. He’s the first and only person I told last night, apart from James, before I headed out. Honestly. I think he was almost more worried than I was. He knows I’ve been asking if we should go ahead and paint over the room for you for whenever you come over.”

Regulus raised a brow again. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“Oh, we didn’t,” Sirius said. Then added, a little quieter, “But only because we couldn’t agree on a color. And to let you pick, of course.”

There was a beat of silence, just the hum of the car and the road stretching out ahead.

“Okay,” Regulus said finally, almost under his breath.

And he meant it. Not just the okay of acknowledgment, but the kind that meant maybe—just maybe—he could let himself believe this might not be a disaster.

Just maybe, it could be something like safety. Something like starting over.

And up ahead, just visible beyond a sharp curve in the road, a weathered iron gate loomed into view. The first glimpse of The Lion’s Palace.

The iron gate creaked as the car rolled through, tall and ornate in a way that felt both regal and vaguely unsettling. The kind of thing that might have once belonged to a grand estate, before time and weather wore it down. Two lions flanked the entrance, stone-carved and majestic, though the years had dulled their edges. 

Moss crept up their haunches, and cracks spidered across their faces like old scars. One was missing part of its lower jaw, the other had a hollow where its eye should’ve been. Still, they stood guard, proud and watchful, as if daring anyone to cross without permission.

Beyond the gate, a narrow drive curled gently uphill, lined with old trees whose bare branches tangled together like fingers, casting long shadows across the gravel. The road wasn’t long, but it felt it. Maybe because of the silence, or the way the building slowly revealed itself piece by piece between the trunks.

And then, there it was.

The Lion’s Palace.

It stood at the top of the slope, a looming structure of weathered brick and dark ivy, like something pulled out of a half-remembered dream. Tall windows stretched across its façade, some of them cracked, others glowing faintly with warm light. Along one side, a series of narrow wooden staircases clung to the building like ribs, winding their way from one floor to the next. They looked rusted but sturdy. The kind of structure added later, not with grace, but with necessity. Functional paths for those brave enough to climb them in the rain or cold.

The roof was steep and a dark brown, dotted with chimneys and sharp gables that gave the whole place a crooked sort of charm, like it had grown tired of standing up straight after so many years and decided it had earned the right to lean a little. The building breathed with age and memory, old bones wrapped in vines and iron. It didn’t invite so much as tolerate its visitors, watching with tired eyes as they came and went.

It wasn’t exactly beautiful, not in the traditional sense. But it was striking. Strange. A little haunted, maybe. The kind of building that looked like it had secrets tucked between the bricks.

Regulus stared out the window, momentarily forgetting to breathe. “That’s it?” he asked, voice low.

Sirius pulled the car into a small gravel lot beside the building and cut the engine. “That’s it,” he confirmed, unbuckling his seatbelt. “We’ve got the third-floor flat on the left. Top windows. You’ll know it when you see it. Your bedroom’s got wallpaper with little lions on it, we figured we’d let you pick what to cover it up with.”

Regulus turned to him slowly. “You’re joking.”

“I would never joke about lions,” Sirius replied with mock offense. “It’s a theme. James’s mum got very into heraldic imagery for about a decade. Everything in this place is either lion-themed or falling apart. Sometimes both. She doesn’t mind people covering them up anymore,”

Regulus gave a skeptical hum and stepped out of the car. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and cold and full of damp northern air. He hunched slightly into his coat, grabbing his duffel and dragging the suitcase from the backseat with a soft grunt. 

The gravel crunched under his boots as he followed Sirius toward the front steps, which slanted ever so slightly to one side.

The third-floor flat was tucked into the left wing of the building, just like Sirius had said. Regulus could hear the soft creak of the old wood beneath their boots as they climbed, each step echoing up the stairwell. 

The lining on the third floor was lined with scuffed floorboards, but the air up here smelled different. Warmer somehow, tinged with lavender and something citrusy, like a candle burned recently and had just gone out.

Sirius stopped at a door painted a deep, moody blue. It looked newer than the others, recently repainted, maybe, or at least cared for. There was a hand-drawn “ Welcome, Reg ” sign taped to the middle of it in scratchy, whimsical handwriting. A tiny lion doodle in the corner wore a crown and a frown.

Regulus blinked. “Seriously?”

“Remus made it,” Sirius said, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. “He said first impressions are important.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Regulus wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Something dusty, cold, half-unpacked, maybe. Instead, he stepped into warmth.

The flat was small, but cozy. Lived-in in the best way. The main room opened directly from the door, a combination of sitting room and kitchen space. A soft golden light filtered in through gauzy curtains, casting everything in a gentle glow. 

The walls were covered in a warm, dusky red damask wallpaper, with shelves lining them with mismatched books, records, and framed photos that filled the space from floor to ceiling. A few of the pictures were crooked. 

One was of Sirius and James, grinning like idiots, arms slung around each other. Another showed Remus blurry mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled, a mug of something steaming in his hand. 

The couch was worn but covered in a patchwork quilt, clearly handmade, and a giant overstuffed armchair sat beneath the window with a blanket thrown haphazardly across the back. 

Regulus stepped forward slowly, glancing around as he toed off his boots. A kettle sat on the stove. Two mismatched mugs were still drying on the counter. A record spun softly in the corner, something old and low, classic rock. Perhaps The Beatles ? 

A potted plant trailed ivy down the side of a bookcase, clearly thriving. Regulus immediately knew Sirius was not in charge of it. 

The air smelled like lavender and clove and lemon, not overwhelming, just enough to feel like someone had tried.

He ran a hand over the back of the armchair, quiet for a moment. “This is… not what I expected.”

Sirius flopped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, stretching his arms across the cushions. “Yeah, well. Turns out domesticity isn’t so bad once you’ve got someone to share it with.” He paused. “And tea. And decent lighting.” He grinned. “You’ll see your room in a sec. I tried to make it comfortable. James helped hang the shelves. You can guess how that went.”

Regulus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Crooked?”

“Like the Tower of Pisa,” Sirius replied without shame, puffing his chest out a bit. “But heartfelt.”

That earned a tiny huff of a laugh from Regulus, which felt like more than he usually gave. His gaze flicked to the hallway ahead, then back to his brother. A quiet beat passed between them before he asked, voice softer now, “How long has it been ready?”

Sirius didn’t answer right away. His smile faded just slightly, replaced with something more thoughtful. “A while,” he said finally. “Since before you even said you were coming. Maybe since I moved in.”

Regulus looked at him, brow furrowed. “Were you waiting for me to run away?”

Sirius shrugged with one shoulder, like the question didn’t surprise him but still sat heavy. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you had a place here, too. In case... you ever needed it.”

There was something in his voice that didn’t need to be explained, an unspoken understanding that neither of them had to say aloud. Regulus dropped his gaze to the floor, his throat tight. 

No one had ever thought that far ahead for him before. Not like that. Not in a way that didn’t require him to earn it.

He nodded slowly. “Thanks,” he said, and meant it.

Sirius gave his shoulder a gentle nudge. “Come on, crooked shelves and all. Your bed has the softest blankets known to man.”

“And let me guess,” Regulus said as they started down the hall, “You picked them out because they were on sale?”

“Excuse you,” Sirius replied, mock-offended. “They were only mostly on sale.”

Regulus snorted and dropped his duffel beside the chair. The tension in his shoulders was still there, but it was lighter now, blurred at the edges. The place didn’t feel like a strange new world. It felt, oddly, like someone had prepared it for him . Like someone had been waiting.

Sirius probably had been waiting.

And for the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he had to run.

Just then, a voice called from the back hallway, warm and curious: “Is that him?”

Sirius straightened. “That’s your cue. Try not to fall in love, he’s already mine.”

Regulus gave him a flat look, but he didn’t move as the footsteps approached, slow and even. 

A moment later, Remus Lupin stepped into the room.

Remus was taller than Regulus expected, lean, with sharp cheekbones and a softness in his eyes that made the whole room feel a little less guarded. Though one steely look would certainly ice it over. 

His jumper was slightly oversized, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and there was a smear of ink across one knuckle like he’d been writing and hadn’t realized he’d touched his face. 

His hair was tousled and honey-brown, curling at the tips, and he carried a mug in one hand, steam curling lazily from it.

When he saw Regulus, he offered a smile. Not a grin, not a smirk, but something gentle and unassuming, like he understood what kind of moment this was.

“You must be Regulus,” he said, voice warm and calm, hints of a Welsh accent seeping throughout. “Welcome,”

Regulus blinked. It landed with a strange weight in his chest, unfamiliar and a little uncomfortable, like trying on a coat that didn’t quite fit yet but might, eventually.

He nodded, wary. “You’re Remus.”

Remus nodded too, stepping forward just enough to hold out the mug. “You look like someone who could use tea. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned. Sirius would’ve died ages ago if it were.”

“True,” Sirius called from the couch, sprawled dramatically like he was trying to embody the concept of leisure. “I am many things, but dead is not one of them.”

“Yet,” Remus morbidly added, not acknowledging the horrified look Sirius gave him. 

Regulus hesitated only a second before taking the mug. It was warm in his hands, and the scent of chamomile and lemon balm wafted up, calming, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet Remus’s for a moment. It was strange. Remus had this way of looking at people like he was listening, even when they weren’t speaking. It was both hot, intimidating, and comforting. 

“You’re taller than Sirius said,” Remus offered, almost like a peace offering. “And less scowly.”

“I’m exactly as scowly as necessary,” Regulus said without missing a beat.

That made Remus laugh. He nodded toward the hallway behind him. “I put clean sheets on your bed earlier this morning. And Sirius told me you like your books in alphabetical order, which is… troubling, but I’ll try.”

Sirius made a sound of mock betrayal, as if Remus let Regulus in on a secret. “He judged you for that, Reg. Mercilessly.”

Regulus raised a single eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching like it wanted to smile but hadn’t quite made up its mind. “I think i'm used to that,”

Remus’s gaze flickered, just briefly, to Sirius, then back to Regulus. His expression didn’t change, but something softened.

“Well,” he said, “there’s none of that here. Just tea, badly hung shelves, and now a teenager who hates everyone.”

Regulus glared at the comment. 

“See?” Remus added. “No notes.”

Regulus looked around again, letting the space settle over him. The worn books, the crooked photos, the scent of tea and candle wax and dust warmed by light. It didn’t feel like home. Not really. But it didn’t feel like exile, either.

It felt like something in between.

Regulus took a slow sip of the tea Remus had given him, letting the warmth settle in his chest. It wasn’t too sweet, not oversteeped. Calming, if he allowed it to be. He held the mug in both hands for a moment longer before glancing down at the bags by his feet.

“I’m going to bring my things to the room,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter than before. “If… that’s alright.”

Sirius huffed out a laugh and leaned back further into the couch, arms sprawled along the top like a king on a throne. “You’re sixteen, Reg,” he said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “You don’t need to ask permission to walk down a hallway. It’s the door on the right, the last one.”

Regulus gave a short nod, a half-mumbled thanks, and stood. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase with one hand and slung the duffel over his shoulder, retreating down the hallway with purpose, not quite fleeing, but not lingering either.

The hallway was narrow, dimly lit by a sconce that flickered faintly as he passed. The floor creaked beneath his steps, but the sound wasn’t unpleasant, it was familiar in that old-building way, like the house was alive and noticing him.

He reached the door and turned the knob with more hesitation than he’d admit. It swung open easily, and—

“Oh,” Regulus breathed, blinking once.

Sirius had not been exaggerating.

The wallpaper was absurd. Gold lions paraded across a deep red background, stylized and grinning, mid-roar or mid-pounce, some holding little painted swords or banners. It looked like something out of a medieval fever dream. Regal, ridiculous, and undeniably intentional.

But the rest of the room… the rest was quiet.

The bed was neatly made and tucked beneath a thick green quilt that looked soft enough to disappear into. The sheets beneath it were gray and simple, practical in a way Regulus could appreciate. The headboard was dark wood, slightly scuffed at the edges, like it had been dragged from a secondhand shop and lovingly revived. There were mismatched pillows too. One a little squashed, the others newer. One of them even had a stitched-on corner patch that Regulus suspected Sirius had tried to fix himself.

A tall window on the left wall filtered in the faint silver of the night, the glass fogging faintly at the corners like it had stories to tell. Beneath it, a narrow bench had been added, with a folded throw blanket tossed casually over one end and a cat-shaped pillow tucked against the other.

Opposite the bed stood a sturdy dresser, its drawers already half-filled with empty hangers to be used in the closet and a single lavender sachet tucked in the corner. Next to it, a desk had been pushed against the wall, a small reading lamp casting a soft pool of light across a stack of blank notebooks. A pen rested atop them—uncapped, already clicked into place, like someone had wanted to make sure Regulus had no excuse not to write something. 

There was even a smooth river stone beside the lamp, likely pocketed from some walk and placed there as decoration. Next to the river stone was a small clay star, poorly painted yellow. 

The bookshelf was empty but dust-free, and above it hung a framed constellation map. Not the flashy zodiac kind, but subtle, navy blue with delicate silver ink. At the bottom, scribbled in Sirius’s handwriting, were the words “ Leo is dull without Regulus”

The closet door was shut, but the room didn’t feel closed off. If anything, it felt… expectant. Like someone had built it in pieces, not all at once, but over time. Adding little things. Waiting. Hoping.

Regulus stood in the doorway a moment longer, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even his, really.

But it was something.

It felt like… an offering. A place that had been made for him—not to trap him or define him, but to welcome him. And that, more than anything, made it feel like home.

Regulus set his bags down gently by the dresser and stood still for a moment, letting it all sink in. The lion wallpaper was ridiculous, yes, and Sirius had clearly left his dramatic stamp all over the place. But it was more than just a room.

It was a space someone had prepared. Thought about. Made for him.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Regulus drew in a slow, measured breath as he sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight. It was firmer than he was used to, but not unpleasant. Solid, like something he could depend on if he let himself. 

The blanket was tucked tight, hospital-corner neat. As he shifted slightly, he caught the faint scent of lavender from the sachet and something sharply clean. Detergent, maybe, or fabric softener. It tugged at something in his memory.

Lavender. Of course. Sirius had always insisted on those little sachets,  stuffed them into drawers and pillowcases, always claiming it helped him sleep better, helped “reset the soul.” Regulus had rolled his eyes back then. Now, the scent was something else entirely. Comforting, against his will.

His hands rested on his knees for a moment, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers. The room around him was quiet, still. Outside, he could hear the distant murmur of a car passing and the occasional creak of floorboards from the rest of the flat, but nothing else.

He hated how much of him ached for the familiarity of his old bed, the one he'd left behind only the night before. That ridiculous, overlarge four-poster thing with its starched sheets and antique frame, tucked neatly into a room too big, too cold, and too quiet. He hadn't even liked it, not really. But it was familiar. It was his . Or had been.

He shifted again, almost absently, and reached into his back pocket to pull out his phone.

The screen blinked awake, casting a dim light across his face. Immediately, the low battery warning flashed — 10% . Typical. He hadn't even remembered to bring his charger. Still, it wasn’t the battery that made his stomach twist.

Beneath the time: notifications. Dozens of them.

15 missed calls from “Mother.”

28 unread messages from her.

30 from Narcissa.

3 from Orion.

The sight of it made something cold settle under his ribs. He stared at the screen, thumb hovering just above it, but he didn’t open any of the messages. He didn’t need to. He could already imagine what they said. The threats thinly veiled as concern. 

The accusations. 

The pleas. 

Narcissa’s increasingly frantic attempts to be the middle ground. Orion’s silence, broken just enough to offer three carefully curated, emotionally neutral sentences that didn’t say anything at all.

He should respond. Should let them know he was alive, that he hadn’t vanished into a ditch somewhere, that he hadn’t—

“We can get you a new phone number.”

The voice came from the doorway. Soft, but certain.

Regulus looked up quickly, startled. Sirius was standing there, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t look angry or smug. Just… steady. A little tired, maybe. Concern bleeding through in the way his eyes had softened.

Regulus blinked, phone still in hand. “I—what?”

Sirius gestured slightly toward the device. “The messages. The calls. You don’t have to keep seeing them, if you don’t want to. I mean it, we’ll go tomorrow. New SIM, new number, new start. They don’t have to follow you here.”

Regulus looked down again. The screen had gone black. Just his own reflection now, pale and faint in the glossy surface.

“I don’t know if I want a new start,” he murmured.

Sirius didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t push. Just waited.

“I just…” Regulus sighed. “I don’t know what I want.”

There was a pause, long and quiet. Then Sirius took a step into the room, not crossing the space but just close enough.

“That’s okay,” he said gently. “You don’t have to know yet.”

And something about that, the permission in it, made Regulus’s shoulders drop a fraction.

He didn’t say anything else. Neither did Sirius. The silence between them wasn’t heavy this time. It just… was.

Eventually, Sirius gave a small nod, his lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line, and turned back toward the hallway. “Let me know if you need anything. Je suis là,” he said softly. The French vowels rolled off his tongue with a kind of hesitant familiarity—worn down by time, dusty from disuse, but still rooted in him like something inherited. Like a memory etched into the muscle.

Then he was gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall until even their echo faded.

“Je suis là,” Regulus murmured, the words lingering in the air as he repeated them to himself. He tasted them like something delicate and half-forgotten, letting the weight of their meaning settle over him.

I’m here.

He sat still for a long while, the phone resting in his hand like it might dissolve if he moved. The low battery warning blinked faintly in the corner of the screen, pulsing like a second heartbeat—soft, insistent, and distant, just barely cutting through the quiet that had settled around him.

He didn’t turn it off. But he didn’t answer it either.

Regulus placed his phone face down on the bed, the screen still dark, and let out a soft sigh before moving toward the duffel bag at his feet. The zipper gave a quiet rasp as he tugged it open. 

Outside, the earliest hints of morning light had begun to press against the window, the pale blue dawn barely noticeable through the dusty window. He’d need to get curtains. 

Kneeling beside the bag, Regulus began to unpack what little he’d brought. A modest stack of neatly folded sweaters, a few button-ups in muted tones, two pairs of dark slacks. 

Tucked carefully beneath the soft folds of clothing, as if hidden deliberately, safeguarded from the shifting weight of the drive, was his binder. It lay there folded tight, the familiar stretch of fabric slightly worn from use, its edges curling faintly from time. Despite the wear, it remained solid. His.

Regulus reached for it slowly, fingertips brushing over the surface as if reacquainting himself with an old friend. He lifted it from the suitcase and set it gently on the bed, smoothing a palm across it once, twice, as though pressing the moment into stillness.

He glanced toward the bedroom door and quietly shut it, the latch clicking softly.

Peeling off his sweater with deliberate care, he felt the cooler air of the room settle briefly against his skin before he slipped into the binder, guiding it up over his ribs with the practiced familiarity of routine. It held him steady. Pulled him in and anchored him.

Afterward, he tugged the sweater back on, letting it fall naturally over the binder. He pressed his hands along the hem and shoulders, flattening out the fabric, smoothing away any creases. Any indication of transition.

For a moment, he just stood there, breathing into the stillness.

Then, with quiet resolve, Regulus stepped toward the door and cracked it open once again, letting in the low light of the hallway beyond.

“You travel light,” came a voice from the doorway a few minutes later. Not teasing, just observing.

Not much time to pack a lot when you leave in the dead of night. 

Regulus didn’t say that. 

That’d be rude. 

Regulus looked up to see Remus entering, a small, thoughtful smile on his face as he moved to sit beside him. The older man glanced at the suitcase and then, with a wordless glance for permission, unzipped it the rest of the way. 

Inside were two short stacks of books, carefully arranged to fit alongside a laptop and a few other essentials.

“We can all go out this weekend,” Remus said as he began to lift the books out one by one. “Pick up some more clothes, if you want. And you can grab a few books from the shop,  we’ve got more than enough.” He held up one of the novels with an arched brow. “Are these your favorites?”

Regulus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He had moved on to refolding the clothes he’d pulled from the duffel, placing them into the empty dresser drawers with the kind of methodical focus that came from needing something to do with his hands.

Remus turned his attention to the titles, handling each book with quiet reverence. There was A Happy Death , its worn spine evidence of multiple reads. Anna Karenina , predictably dog-eared. The Goldfinch , heavy in both weight and theme. The Iliad , a battered copy marked with tiny notes in the margins. And then, toward the bottom, something that made Remus pause.

“The Little Prince?” he asked, lifting the slim, familiar volume with gentle amusement. “Didn’t peg you as one for children’s literature.”

Regulus didn’t look up at first. He finished placing a shirt into the drawer before replying with a casual shrug. “I grew up on Le Petit Prince ,” he said, almost absently. “Sirius used to read it to me when I had nightmares.”

That, more than anything else, made Remus glance toward him again, a softened expression passing briefly over his face.

Regulus rose from the bed and crossed the room, opening the closet to assess the space. The doors creaked faintly on their hinges, revealing an empty bar for hanging clothes and a shelf up top that was currently bare. He scanned the interior, then frowned.

At the very bottom, nestled into the wall like a secret, was a small door.

It was oddly shaped, reaching only about waist height. Perhaps just tall enough for a child, or someone sitting cross-legged, to crawl through. The same lion wallpaper covered it, though it looked slightly off here, the pattern not quite lining up, the edges frayed just enough to suggest it had been peeled back before. 

A slim keyhole sat at the center, also oddly marked — the paper there had been pierced around the lock, a rough circle that broke the otherwise seamless design.

“What’s this?” Regulus asked, crouching slightly to run his hand along the doorframe. The wood beneath the wallpaper was cool and slightly splintered beneath his fingers. It felt… wrong. Like it had been hidden on purpose.

Remus stood, having shelved the last of the books, and came over to peer down at it beside him. “Sirius found it when he first moved in,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “He thought it was weird, too. Peeled back the paper, carved out the full shape. Found a little brass key in the back of the closet. But when he opened it, there was nothing. Just a wall behind it.”

Regulus didn’t look away from the door. “So it doesn’t go anywhere?”

“Not that we could tell,” Remus replied with a shrug. “Sirius asked James, who asked his mum — Effie. Apparently she doesn’t like it being ‘bothered with.’ Whatever that means.”

“Hm.” Regulus stared at it a moment longer. The little door had an unsettling presence. Like it was waiting.

“Let me guess,” he said, rising to his feet and dusting his hands on his trousers. “Sirius kept the key anyway.”

Remus gave a small laugh. “Of course he did, though he lost it a week later.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked real annoyance, and stepped out of the closet with Remus, carefully pulling the door shut behind him. 

The latch clicked with a dull finality, but his gaze lingered for a moment on the seam in the wallpaper. That imperfect place where the pattern didn’t quite match, like a flaw in a mirror that couldn’t be unseen.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Remus offered as he crossed the room toward the hallway, his voice casual, light. “Want anything in particular?”

Regulus shook his head, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I’m not picky. I’ll eat whatever.” He glanced back toward the dresser, then the last half-open suitcase. “I’ve still got a bit of unpacking to finish anyway.”

Remus paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. His eyes flicked briefly to the suitcase, now almost entirely empty, lying open like a hollowed-out shell.

“You should go for a walk,” he said after a moment, tone deliberately breezy but undercut with something else. A gentle insistence. “Meet the neighbors. Look around a little. The woods are really lovely this time of year. Misty, but nice. Peaceful.”

Regulus frowned faintly, but before he could respond, Remus had already turned, disappearing down the hall with quiet, measured steps.

Regulus let out a breath and turned back to the room, surveying the aftermath of his rushed repacking. He moved with quiet efficiency, zipping up the now-empty duffel bag and suitcase and carrying them back across the room. 

He opened the closet again. Slower this time. And slid the luggage inside. Just as the doors creaked shut, his eyes caught again on the small, low door nestled at the bottom.

It sat there innocently enough. Still. Quiet. But Regulus couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching him, or worse, waiting .

He shut the closet with a quiet thud.

As he stepped out into the hallway, the flat felt different. Not unfriendly, but off in a way that made his skin crawl slightly beneath his clothes. He moved carefully, his footsteps muffled by the old wooden floors, and reached out to steady himself on the railing as he descended the short staircase that led toward the main living space.

Downstairs, Sirius and Remus were standing close by the stove, their voices hushed and low, flickering between murmured words and glances. 

Regulus kept his footsteps light and his expression unreadable as he entered the room, but something inside him tightened. The windows cast long shadows across the floor, and the smell of something sweet — maybe cinnamon — was just starting to fill the space. Comforting and quiet. 

Regulus stepped out the front door and immediately realized, too late, that he had never taken off his shoes. Mud speckled the worn mat beneath his feet, and he glanced down at the scuffed toes of his boots with a faint frown before quickly descending the stairs. 

The railing was cool beneath his fingers, and the old wood groaned softly beneath his steps.

The Lion’s Palace was quieter than he expected, like it was holding its breath.

To the left of the old building was what must’ve once been a vibrant garden. Now, in the slow decay of early winter, it looked like a memory of itself. The hedges were thinning, flowers curled into dry husks, and the once-bright marigolds and foxgloves stood faded, heads drooping toward the frosted soil. 

Regulus lingered at the edge for a moment, then turned away, heading instead toward the narrow forest path that disappeared just beyond the stone wall enclosing the property.

The paved trail was more worn than maintained, framed on both sides by tall, skeletal trees. The woods beyond pressed close, shadowy and silent, branches bare and tangled like reaching hands. A fine mist clung low to the ground, not enough to obscure, but enough to make the edges of the world feel uncertain.

Regulus began to walk.

His footsteps echoed faintly against the damp stone, a slow, careful rhythm that seemed almost too loud in the heavy quiet. Pale morning light filtered through the treetops in hazy shafts, catching on the remnants of dew and frost clinging to brittle leaves. 

Despite the cold, the air didn’t feel sharp, just still. Oppressively still. There were no birds, no rustle of movement, no wind. Just the sound of his breathing and the faint scuff of boots against path.

It should’ve been peaceful. But something about it, the silence that felt just a touch too complete, made his skin prickle.

It wasn’t until he felt his legs beginning to ache and his body settle reluctantly into the quiet that he heard it: a soft crack , like a twig snapping underfoot.

He froze.

Spinning quickly on his heel, he looked back down the path — but there was nothing. No movement. No person. Just empty woods and fading mist curling between the trees.

But at his feet, nestled between two damp patches of moss, sat a cat.

Black as soot, with sleek fur and bright eyes that blinked slowly up at him.

Regulus knelt down cautiously, the way one might approach a shrine or a sleeping creature that could just as easily disappear. The cat remained still, only flicking its tail once, lazily, before offering a soft chirrup of greeting.

Around its neck was a collar. Thin, well-kept. And Regulus gently reached to lift the small pendant that dangled from it.

Kreacher , it read in elegant engraving. No address. No number. Just the name.

“You don’t look like a stray,” Regulus murmured, letting the cat sniff his hand. When Kreacher leaned into the touch, Regulus reached up to scratch gently behind its ears. A purr rumbled up from its chest, soft and content, and Regulus smiled. A small, surprised thing that barely reached his eyes but lingered at the corners of his mouth.

For the first time all morning, something didn’t feel awful.

The woods were still eerie. Still humming with something that tugged at the edge of Regulus’s senses. But here, with the cat pressed warm and solid against his boots, something about it all started to settle. Just a bit.

Then—

“If you keep petting him like that, he’ll end up following you home.”

The voice startled him, warm and teasing, floating out from behind with such relaxed confidence that Regulus’s whole body tensed.

Kreacher let out an offended hiss and leapt back, darting behind Regulus’s legs like a toddler hiding behind a parent. Regulus spun on instinct, eyes sharp, heart doing a weird, fluttery kick in his chest that he absolutely hated.

The boy standing on the trail looked annoyingly like he belonged there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A little sweaty from what must have been a morning run, judging by the old trainers and trail-dusted sweatpants clinging to his legs. His shirt was damp at the collar, hair messily shoved back like it had lost a fight with the wind, and possibly a hairbrush. A few stubborn curls had fallen over his forehead, slightly trapped against foggy glasses. He was smiling.

Of course he was smiling.

It was kind of attractive. 

Regulus took him in all at once: James Potter.

He’d never met him in person, but Sirius had painted a vivid picture over the years, usually while loudly complaining about James’s existence and then, suspiciously, looping back around to praise him three minutes later. 

Loud. 

Friendly. 

Golden retriever energy, whatever that meant.

Still, Regulus hadn’t expected this.

This boy who looked like he’d grown up with the trees. Who looked like sweat and sunlight didn’t bother him. Who felt so at ease here that it made Regulus instinctively straighten his spine.

James raised a hand in lazy greeting. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Although to be fair, you do kind of look like a horror movie protagonist.”

“Which part?” Regulus asked coolly, brushing his coat off as he stood. “The part where I survive or the part where I die dramatically in the third act?”

James’s grin widened. “Too early to tell. Jury’s still out.”

Regulus tilted his head, glancing down at the cat, who had crept back out and was now sitting possessively at his feet again, tail flicking.

“Do you know who he belongs to?” he asked, keeping his tone light, aloof.

James stepped a little closer—carefully, watching the cat as though it might lunge. “Kreacher? Nah. He’s just kind of… here. Been around since we were kids. Some of the older tenants call him a ghost, but I think he’s more like a very picky roommate.”

Regulus raised a brow. “So he’s feral.”

“He’s discerning. There’s a difference.” James watched Kreacher sniff disdainfully in his direction. “He likes you though. That’s new. Usually he hisses at anyone who breathes in his direction.”

“That’s flattering,” Regulus deadpanned. “I’ve always wanted the approval of judgmental woodland creatures.”

James laughed. “Sirius said you were sarcastic.”

Regulus's mouth twitched. “And I’m sure you’re very normal.”

“I’m delightful,” James said without hesitation. “Ask literally anyone.”

Kreacher hissed as if in firm disagreement.

James held up his hands. “Okay, except him. Apparently.”

“My condolences,” Regulus offered dryly. “Rejection’s hard.”

James looked at Kreacher like he might try to win him over anyway. “My mamá’s allergic to cats, so he isn’t allowed to come home with me. I sneak him leftovers sometimes, but mostly he just ignores me unless I’ve got tuna.”

Kreacher narrowed his eyes in a way that looked suspiciously smug.

Regulus crouched again, letting the cat curl into his hand once more. “He’s clearly got taste.”

“Should I be worried you’re stealing my woodland nemesis?” James asked. “Because I feel like this is the start of some fairytale where the mysterious new boy shows up and all the animals like him better.”

Regulus looked up at him through his lashes. “So you’re the cursed prince?”

“More like the loveable yet tragic hero who doesn’t die.”

Regulus snorted, just barely. “We’ll see.”

James leaned a little on one leg, watching the two of them. “You know,” he said after a beat, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like that. All soft and cuddly.”

Regulus scratched Kreacher gently under the chin. “Maybe he’s just been waiting for someone who doesn’t smell like tuna and Axe body spray.”

James let out a loud, unbothered laugh. “Wow. Bold assumptions for someone who smells like antique bookstores and superiority.”

Regulus didn’t bother denying it. “Those are designer scents, actually.”

There was a pause then, a subtle shift. James’s voice softened a little. “I’m glad you came.”

Regulus looked up again, guarded now. “Big jump, tragic hero. You don’t know me.”

“Nope,” James said easily. “But Sirius does. And he’s been pacing around like someone was going to disappear any second, so… I think this matters.”

Regulus looked back down at the cat, fingers curling lightly in soft fur. “I wasn’t sure he’d show. Or if I even wanted him to.”

“He would’ve shown,” James said, confident like it wasn’t even a question. “Sirius might act like the world’s ending if he runs out of coffee, or worse, tea. But when it actually matters? He’s solid.”

Regulus let out a breath. “He drove through a thunderstorm to get me.”

“See? Knew it.”

Kreacher let out a low noise, something between a chirp and a warning, and turned his attention back to the forest—unmoving, staring.

Regulus followed his gaze. The mist wound between the trees like breath. “Does he always do that?”

“Stare at nothing like he’s seeing spirits? Yeah. Pretty often.” James squinted. “Weird little guy.”

Regulus rose to his feet slowly, brushing his hands off on his coat again. “Weird seems to be a running theme around here.”

“You get used to it,” James said, stepping toward the trail. “Or you don’t, and then you just become part of the weird.”

“I’m not sure that’s comforting.”

James tilted his head, grinning. “Come on. I’ll walk you down the rest of the trail. Or halfway, if Kreacher bites me.”

Regulus hesitated, glancing once more at the cat, who—naturally—rose and followed as soon as he took a step.

James glanced over. “Seriously? He’s following you?”

Regulus shrugged, tone light. “Told you. High standards.”

James huffed a laugh. “Well, congrats. You just became Chosen One of the Grumpy Forest Cat.”

Regulus smirked faintly, matching his pace. “It’s an honor.”

James bumped their shoulders as they walked. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” Regulus said.

They veered off the paved path after a few more minutes, James guiding them through a narrow break in the trees where the undergrowth parted like it had been walked through hundreds of times. 

The silence deepened here, thick and almost pressing, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. Kreacher trotted ahead now, tail lifted like a banner, clearly familiar with the way.

Regulus didn’t realize he’d been holding tension in his shoulders until he stepped into the clearing.

It was round—unnaturally so—perfect in shape and edged by a thin ring of mushrooms, pale and spotted and dusted with dew. The grass within was a brighter green, even now at the edge of winter, and the early morning light pooled into it as though drawn. Tiny blue flowers bloomed near the center, their petals still curled with sleep.

And directly beneath the heart of the clearing, framed by mossy stone, sat a circular wooden cover. It was nearly seamless with the earth, rotted in places, but the faint groove around its edge gave it away. It looked ancient, like it hadn’t been moved in years.

Regulus blinked, stepping just up to the edge. “Is that… a well?”

James’s voice came from just behind him, warm with familiarity. “Yeah. Creepy, right?”

He knelt beside it with a casual ease and tapped the molded wood with his knuckles. “Sirius and I found it when we were kids. Tried opening it once. Didn’t get far—it was too heavy. But when I looked through the crack with a flashlight, it just… went down. Forever.”

Regulus’s brows lifted, but he didn’t look away from the metal. “Forever?”

“Dropped a pebble. Never heard it land.” James glanced up at him, eyes glinting behind smudged lenses. “Sirius swore it was a portal to hell. I thought it was just a very dramatic drain.”

A breeze stirred through the trees, slipping under Regulus’s collar.

“You sure this isn’t how horror movies start?” he asked, tone dry, but the edge of unease was real.

James smiled, lopsided and unbothered. “Definitely. But the mushrooms are cute, right? That has to count for something.”

Regulus didn’t answer, but he did step forward. Carefully. Deliberately. Not touching a single mushroom as he crossed the threshold of the ring. It felt like the kind of space that demanded precision.

He lowered himself onto the grass, expression unreadable, though something about the way he moved—controlled, calculating—betrayed his curiosity.

The ground beneath him gave slightly, like something had been waiting.

“Aren’t you not supposed to do that?” James asked after a pause, arms folded now, weight shifted onto one hip.

“Do what?” Regulus replied, but the look he gave James said he knew exactly what he meant.

“Sit in a fairy ring. Bad luck. Time dilation. Supernatural abductions.” James raised his eyebrows. “You know, standard countryside hospitality.”

“You believe in that?”

James gave a shrug that somehow managed to be both self-deprecating and annoyingly confident. “Nah. But I’m also not the one sitting in it.”

Just beyond the mushrooms, Kreacher was perched like a statue, eyes unblinking, gaze fixed on Regulus. He didn’t move forward.

“He won’t step in,” Regulus murmured.

“Maybe he knows something we don’t.”

Regulus looked up at that, meeting James’s gaze. For a moment, something settled between them. Quiet. Not quite tension, but the kind of silence that held weight.

“Or maybe he just has taste,” Regulus said, dry as flint.

James laughed, eyes bright. “Bit harsh. I brought you here, didn’t I?”

Regulus tilted his head, just slightly. “Maybe your judgment’s worse than his.”

James grinned, quick and shameless. “Then why’d you follow me?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He sat there a moment longer, fingers ghosting through the grass, like testing it. The air inside the circle felt different. Lighter, but not in a comforting way. The kind of light that could lift you off the ground if you weren’t careful.

James sank down beside him without asking, his shoulder a comfortable distance away. “I haven’t walked with anyone here in a while,” he said, voice a little quieter.

Regulus glanced over. “Why me?”

James shrugged, but the answer was too casual. “Seemed like you’d appreciate it. You don’t seem like someone who gets freaked out by a few mushrooms.”

“You really don’t know me.”

“Nope,” James said, cheerful. “But I’m an optimist.”

Regulus gave him a long, considering look. “That must be exhausting.”

James leaned back on his hands, face tilted toward the patchy sky. “You get used to it.”

They sat in silence for a few beats. Kreacher let out a small meow from outside the ring, but didn’t move closer.

“I’ve never had a quiet start to a day,” Regulus said, not quite intending to speak aloud.

James didn’t look at him. “Maybe you’ll have more of them now.”

It sounded like a promise. Or at least a hope. Something softer than Regulus knew what to do with.

Eventually, he pushed to his feet. “Sirius is probably burning toast by now.”

James rose too, brushing grass off his joggers. “That’s his love language.”

Regulus stepped out of the ring without ceremony, but the instant his shoe left the circle, the air seemed to shift again. Just slightly. He glanced back once.

James noticed. “Feel different?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. “You were right,” he said instead. “That was weird.”

James brightened. “And yet, you stayed.”

Regulus side-eyed him. “I was testing a theory.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m not cursed yet.”

James made a show of looking him over. “Shame. Would’ve been a cool curse, though.”

Regulus gave a disbelieving snort, the sound very nearly a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Tragic hero,” James corrected with a grin. “You’re the brooding one. It’s only fair I balance the mood.”

They fell into step side by side as the trail wound back toward The Lion’s Palace. The sun was higher now, brushing the trees in gold. Regulus didn’t say anything, but James kept pace easily, his presence strangely companionable.

“You’re Sirius’s little brother,” James said after a while, as if confirming something to himself. “But you’re nothing like him.”

“Is that good or bad?”

James glanced over, eyes lingering just a second too long. “Still deciding.”

Regulus arched a brow.

James only smiled. “Leaning toward good.”

Kreacher trotted ahead of them like he knew the way. The chimney smoke of the Palace curled into the air, and the smell of something slightly burned drifted through the breeze.

As they neared the porch, James slowed. “So, are you going to survive another day in the madhouse?”

Regulus gave him a sidelong look. “Do I have a choice?”

James’s grin widened. “Nope.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and pushed the door open without another word, but James followed him in, expression bright and — just maybe — a little too pleased.

“Welcome to York,” he said again, quieter now. “I think it’s going to suit you.”

—-

After breakfast, the others dispersed; James with a promise to come by later, Remus retreating into his study with a mug of tea and a stack of receipts from the shop, and Sirius announcing grand plans to fix a leaky faucet upstairs (though Regulus suspected that meant lying on the bathroom floor swearing at it until Remus took pity on him).

Regulus lingered in the kitchen for a while, finishing his tea in slow sips. Kreacher had made himself comfortable in a patch of sunlight that stretched across the worn wood floor, his tail flicking lazily. Regulus noticed that Sirius and Remus didn’t mind Kreacher inside their apartment. He must’ve paid them visits before. 

 When Regulus stood, the cat’s head lifted, yellow eyes tracking his movements with something that almost resembled understanding.

The apartment was quiet, but not unpleasantly so. It was the kind of quiet where the floorboards creaked every now and then, and the radiator hissed gently in the corner like it had something to say. Regulus wandered from room to room, fingers brushing over book spines, windowsills, and picture frames that weren’t his.

The place had personality, mismatched and layered. A stack of dog-eared paperbacks sat beside the record player in the living room. A blue enamel lamp cast soft golden light in the hallway even though the sun was still up. There was a painting hung slightly crooked over the couch; something abstract and strange, all swirls of gold and red and blue. Sirius’s taste, clearly.

Eventually, Regulus ended up back in the bedroom, the door creaking softly as he pushed it open. The air inside was cooler, quieter, as if the room held its breath. He opened the window to let air seep in and out. 

He stepped inside, walking to the dresser and pulling open a drawer just to give himself something to do. Folded shirts. Neat. Empty space that still didn’t feel his.

Then his gaze slipped toward the closet.

It was closed, but something about the door felt… aware.

Regulus hesitated, the silence suddenly too loud.

He crossed the room slowly and pulled the closet door open. The small door was still there, nestled at the bottom like an afterthought. The wallpaper over it looked more frayed now than he remembered, the edges a bit more lifted. The shape of the keyhole seemed darker. Almost wet.

He crouched, not touching it, just staring.

It didn’t feel like a wall.

It felt like something that had been waiting to be seen.

He reached out a hand, just to brush the edges, maybe, to prove it was still just wood and old paper—but Kreacher made a low, guttural sound behind him. Not quite a hiss, not quite a growl. Regulus turned, startled.

The cat stood in the windowsill, tail stiff, eyes narrowed.

“You don’t want me near it either, huh?” Regulus said quietly, straightening.

Kreacher didn’t move.

Regulus backed away and shut the closet door with a click. It echoed far louder than it should’ve.

The sunlight was beginning to turn orange, slanting across the floor in long strips. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

Still, as he sat on the bed again and leaned back against the wall, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted. The apartment felt... different. Like there was something just beneath the surface of the wallpaper, listening.

And somewhere, behind that tiny door, something was still waiting.

Regulus was still sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to decide whether to brave the rest of the day or simply stay horizontal until nightfall, when a knock came at his door.

Two quick taps, then a pause.

“Sirius?” he called, already sliding off the mattress.

“Yeah,” came the muffled response. “I bring... a cursed object. Maybe. Kind of.”

Regulus opened the door slowly, brows furrowed. “That’s a way to start a conversation.”

Sirius stood in the hallway, tousled as always, holding something in his hands with the kind of careful reverence one might give to a small bomb. It was a plushie—clearly handmade, a little rough around the seams, but unmistakably a cat. Its fur was black velvet, its limbs long and limp, and its face was stitched into a crooked little frown. Two large, glossy black buttons were sewn where the eyes should be.

Regulus blinked. “That’s not cursed. That’s adorable.”

“It’s adorable in the way a haunted Victorian doll is adorable,” Sirius said flatly, handing it over with dramatic reluctance. “James found it in his mamá’s study. Just sitting on her desk. Said it reminded him of Kreacher, and that maybe it was weird, but maybe you’d like it.”

Regulus took the plush carefully, running his fingers over its ears. The fabric was soft. Worn. It did look a little like Kreacher, with its too-long limbs and vaguely judgmental posture. The button eyes caught the light strangely.

“You’re giving me a secondhand cat doll with unknown origins and button eyes, and I’m supposed to sleep in the same room as it?”

“Well, technically , you said it was adorable,” Sirius pointed out, stepping into the room and flopping onto the bed like he lived there. “James says it gave him ‘bad vibes,’ which I guess is his version of a psychic warning. I told him we’d burn it if it started whispering….” Sirius paused, his eyes growing in horror. “Or meowing.”

Regulus turned the plush over in his hands. There were no stitch lines on the plush or seams. No label. No tag. Just a soft, strange cat with a stitched frown and eyes like dark coins.

Kreacher—the real one—leapt up onto the dresser behind him and stared at the plush with eerie stillness. His tail swished once. Twice.

Sirius squinted at the real cat. “Is he... glaring?”

“He always glares,” Regulus replied, setting the plush gently on the pillow. “That’s just his face.”

“I still say it’s cursed,” Sirius muttered.

“You believe Remus’s toaster is haunted.”

“It is haunted. It only burns my toast. That’s personal.”

Regulus shook his head, unable to keep from smiling just a little. The plush looked less sinister now that it was seated. It didn’t move. It didn’t hum. It didn’t blink. Just stared with its mismatched buttons at the wall, one thread loose around its ear.

Sirius rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “You settling in okay?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the closet again, but only for a second.

“I think so,” he said at last.

Sirius nodded solemnly. “Let me know if that thing starts crawling around at night,” he added lightly, gesturing to the plushie. “Or if it tries to suffocate you in your sleep with its plush paws. Classic button-eye behavior.”

Regulus reached for a pillow and smacked him with it.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Sirius laughed, rolling off the bed and heading for the door. “Dinner in a couple hours. Remus is making stew. And probably bread, because he’s legally required to act like a 90-year-old British man from the countryside.”

When the door shut behind him, Regulus turned back to the plush cat. Kreacher still hadn’t moved. He placed the plush gently on the windowsill where the light could touch it, the button eyes catching the golden rays.

It was probably just a toy. Probably.

But still, he didn’t take his eyes off it for a long time.

Evening settled slowly, as it tended to in this part of Yorkshire. The sun dragged golden light across the windows like it was reluctant to leave, casting long shadows along the wooden floorboards of Regulus’s room. Outside, the trees rustled faintly, their bare branches scratching lightly at the wind, and the faintest hum of cooking drifted up from the kitchen: garlic, rosemary, something bubbling on the stove.

Regulus had changed into a sweater and socks and was now curled sideways on the bed with a book open in one hand. A Secret History . 

Something gentle. 

Well, maybe not gentle. 

But familiar. 

Safe.

The plush cat sat where he’d left it on the windowsill, button eyes gleaming faintly in the dimming light. Kreacher, the real one, had stretched himself into a crescent moon at the foot of the bed, tail flicking lazily every few minutes.

And yet Regulus couldn’t stop glancing toward the closet door.

It had been quiet. Ordinary. Still. But now, with night creeping in and the room slowly cooling, he could feel it again—that subtle wrongness . Like something sitting just beyond the edge of reason. Not dangerous exactly. But curious. Waiting.

He closed his book gently and sat up. Kreacher lifted his head, ears twitching.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Regulus muttered, sliding off the bed.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling open the closet door with a small creak. Inside, everything was as he’d left it; suitcase tucked against the wall, duffel bag zipped. But his eyes went straight to the little door at the base of the wall.

The light had dimmed too much to see clearly, but he could still make out the faint impression of the carved edges, the circular keyhole, and the way the wallpaper seemed more worn around its seams. The edges were... frayed . Like they’d been peeled back before. Like someone had opened it before Sirius. 

He crouched, brushing his fingers lightly over the edge.

Behind him, Kreacher made a low, questioning sound.

“It’s just a door,” Regulus said, more to himself than to the cat. His voice sounded thin in the quiet.

He pressed his ear gently to it. Nothing. No sound. No wind. No stirring. And yet, he couldn’t shake the idea that something behind it was aware of him. Not watching, not quite. But aware .

He pulled back. Sat cross-legged. Stared.

The plush cat still sat silently by the windowsill, head tilted slightly toward him now—or had it always been at that angle?

Regulus looked back at the little door. “You’re overthinking,” he whispered to himself.

The knob was gone, of course. There was no way to open it. Not without a key. And Sirius had said it was just a wall behind it. Just a weird trick of the architecture. Nothing more.

Still…

He stood, brushing dust from the knees of his pants and backing out of the closet slowly. Just before he shut the door again, he looked once more at the small shape of it—outlined perfectly, like it was meant to be noticed. Meant to be remembered.

He closed the closet and turned the lock.

Dinner would be ready soon. And he wasn’t going to let a stupid door keep him up.

But he left the light on when he left the room.

The apartment had settled into a soft, sleepy quiet after dinner. Sirius and Remus had gone to tidy up the kitchen, their footsteps fading down the hall. Regulus lingered near the window, watching the stars blink awake through the bare branches outside. The plush cat sat quietly on the windowsill, its button eyes catching the moonlight like tiny, dark mirrors.

The silence was comforting but fragile, stretched thin like the fragile skin of a bubble ready to pop.

Regulus yawned and rubbed at his eyes. He was about to head to bed when a sudden chill brushed down his spine. The kind of cold that had nothing to do with the temperature.

He glanced toward the closet door.

At first, it looked the same—the carved edges faintly visible in the dim light. But then, his breath caught.

The wallpaper around the door was shifting, almost imperceptibly, like a thin veil of smoke curling and twisting just beneath the surface. The edges of the door seemed to pulse, growing darker, as if breathing.

Regulus’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.

He took a hesitant step closer.

The little door was no longer quite so still.

A faint glow spilled from the crack beneath it, a soft blue, like moonlight seeping through cracks in reality.

He reached out a trembling hand, fingertips brushing the cool wallpaper. It rippled like water.

A whisper drifted from the other side, too faint to understand, but heavy with promise.

Regulus staggered back, blinking rapidly, his breath shallow. The plush cat’s button eyes caught the glow too, reflecting it back with a strange, knowing glimmer.

From down the hall, he heard Sirius call, “Regulus? You coming to help clean up?”

He swallowed hard, forcing a nod. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

As he turned away, the little door’s glow faded, the wallpaper smoothing back into place as if nothing had happened.

But Regulus knew better.

That door was alive.

Or he was hallucinating. 

Probably the hallucinating. 

Traumatized teenagers probably hallucinate a lot. 

He did try.

He ate. He brushed his teeth in the tiny tiled bathroom, changed into one of Sirius’s old oversized sweatshirts, and crawled into bed. The blankets still smelled like lavender and detergent, familiar and safe. The plush cat sat on the nightstand, its button eyes glinting faintly in the dark.

He shut off the lamp. The room dimmed to the soft blue glow of moonlight slipping between the blinds.

He closed his eyes.

But the silence wasn’t silent anymore.

He could hear it, the faintest creak of wood shifting. The smallest breath of air, like someone exhaling against the back of his neck. A whisper with no voice.

The closet.

He told himself not to look.

He rolled to his other side, dragging the blanket higher, burying half his face in the pillow.

But the closet was in his mind now, etched behind his eyelids like a photograph he hadn’t meant to take. The door with its soft pulse. The shape of it cut unnaturally from the wall. The way the wallpaper around it had shimmered like water, or something under water.

The glow.

The whisper.

He sat up.

The room was quiet again. Still. Like it was holding its breath.

He didn’t remember getting out of bed, but suddenly he was standing at the closet, barefoot on the cold wood floor, the night air biting at his skin through the fabric of the sweatshirt. His hand hovered over the closet door. His chest rose and fell, too fast. His pulse thudded in his throat.

He opened it.

The little door waited.

Perfectly still.

No glow now. No whisper.

But it didn’t feel dead. It felt… patient.

Like it knew he’d be back.

Regulus crouched. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers reached out and traced the edge of the carved doorframe. There was something warm about it, like it had been touched recently—even though it hadn’t moved in hours.

And on the floor, just beneath the door, half buried under the corner of a spare blanket, was a small brass key.

It hadn’t been there this morning.

Regulus’s fingers hovered above it.

He didn’t pick it up.

But he didn’t walk away either.

Behind him, the plush cat sat on the bed, button eyes watching.

Waiting.

Regulus reached down slowly, his fingers closing around the key as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly. It was cold. Strangely cold, as if it had been kept in snow, and heavier than he expected. The brass was tarnished with age, its curved lines ornate and delicate, wrapped in spirals that reminded him of iron gates in old London cemeteries. It looked Victorian, ancient and precise, as though it had been crafted with intent.

At the center, embedded with eerie precision, was a small, bronze button; stitched into the key itself as though it had always belonged there. He ran his thumb over it, feeling the four tiny thread holes beneath his skin. It was smooth, untouched by time, unlike the rest of the key.

Regulus held his breath as he fit it to the lock.

The key hesitated at first, meeting resistance in the old mechanism. Then, with a soft but final click, it slid inward; too easily, like it had been waiting for him.

He turned it slowly to the right.

The sound was quiet, just a gentle shift of metal and wood. And then, as if the door had never been sealed at all, the tiny panel creaked open.

Regulus blinked.

There was no wall behind it.

Where there should have been brick or plaster or empty space, there was instead a tunnel. A tunnel made of color.

Soft, living hues: green like moss and sea glass, blue like candle smoke and twilight, purple like bruises and wildflowers, swirled in soft spirals, forming a passage that twisted slowly. Endlessly inward. It pulsed faintly with its own strange light, the way jellyfish do in dark water.

It didn’t feel like it belonged in this world. It felt wrong , and yet… mesmerizing.

At the far end of the swirling corridor, impossibly distant but clearly visible, was another small door.

Regulus stared.

There was no sign of a wall now. No trace of plaster, no dead end.

Just the soft breath of the tunnel, as if it exhaled; welcoming, beckoning.

His skin prickled, and yet, he didn’t close the door.

He just crouched there, unmoving, the open portal before him, glowing quietly in the dark.

He should have closed the door.

Should have shut it, locked it again, shoved the key back beneath the blanket and gone back to bed like none of this had happened. Pretended it was a dream. Blamed the lavender. Or the weird vibes in this house. Or the plush cat now sitting with eerie stillness on his nightstand.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Regulus reached forward.

He placed his hands on the edge of the small doorway and leaned in, just slightly. Enough for the strange air to hit his face. It was warmer on the other side. Not oppressively so, but just enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

And it smelled faintly of something, like sugar and smoke. Like candlewax. Like a place too clean to be natural.

He swallowed, then crouched lower, one knee on the floor, then the other. He ducked his head and carefully pushed his suitcase aside to give himself room. The key was still in the lock.

Without letting himself think too long about it, Regulus crawled inside.

The tunnel gave a strange, pliant resistance beneath his palms and knees; neither soft nor hard, more like fabric stretched over air. The colors swirled faintly around him, casting shifting shadows across his skin. They seemed to move in time with his breath, like they were responding to him. Or watching.

He kept crawling.

It didn’t seem long—maybe only meters—but the space bent around him in a way that made it impossible to tell how far he’d gone. Time felt strange here. Stretched. Thinned. The colors deepened the farther in he went, from twilight tones to something more saturated and dreamlike.

When he reached the end, the second door was just as small as the first, with the same carved shape. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob.

There was no keyhole this time.

Just a round, brass handle.

Regulus pressed it down.

The door creaked open.

And he blinked as light spilled out; warm, golden light that didn’t belong to the cool palette of the tunnel. It was the kind of light that filled kitchens in cozy winter movies. It smelled like cinnamon and toast. Somewhere, a kettle was whistling. Music, soft and pleasant, like something played on an old record, was drifting faintly in the background. It was Edith Piaf, she’s always been his favorite. 

He stepped through the door and into—

Well.

It looked like The Lion’s Palace.

But it wasn’t.

Everything was… off.

It looked like the apartment.

But it wasn’t.

Everything felt subtly off, like a dream that had been polished until it gleamed—but only in all the wrong places. The corners of the room didn’t quite shadow the way they should, soft edges smudged like wet paint. The air smelled faintly of lavender and sugar, cloying and too sweet to be real.

Light spilled through the windows, warm and golden, but wrong. Frozen in that strange, suspended glow of eternal morning. A hush settled over everything, like the space was holding its breath.

The wallpaper was new. Too new. Gone was the peeling corner by the door he used to run his fingers over absently. Now, it was crisp and clean, a soft ivory pattern repeating in symmetrical loops across the wall. At first glance, it looked floral, maybe. But when Regulus turned his head, just slightly, the shapes seemed to shift. Curled lines slithered in and out of one another, like they were caught mid-motion.

For a second, he could have sworn they moved.

He blinked, stared, but the pattern stilled, innocent and unmoving. Just paper. Just shadows.

The floorboards didn’t creak beneath his steps, either. They were smooth and quiet, polished like they’d never been touched. No scratches. No scuff marks. No proof of life.

All the imperfections were gone.

It was a memory reimagined. Or maybe a fantasy. His, or someone else’s.

But the portrait on the wall stopped him cold.

A photo that hadn’t been there before.

It was of him . And yet, it wasn’t.

A younger version, maybe ten or eleven. His hair was short, not too far from the slightly longer waves he had now shaping the nape of his neck, but cropped the way he used to dream it could be, before anyone would let him. He was dressed in a neat jumper and collared shirt, casual but elegant. His smile was real. Not forced. His shoulders were relaxed. His whole face lit up like someone had just told him something kind.

He didn’t remember this moment. But it felt like something that could’ve happened. Should’ve happened.

He stepped closer, drawn toward it. A knot tugged in his chest.

And then, footsteps. Light, approaching.

And a voice, warm and syrupy-sweet, floated down the hall like it belonged there.

“There you are, Regulus. We’ve been waiting.”

Regulus froze.

Because no one said that name like that. Not her .

But he knew the voice.

It was unmistakable.

It sounded like Walburga.

But it couldn’t be. She wasn’t here. She couldn’t be.

Still, his breath caught in his throat as he turned, slowly, every instinct screaming at him not to.

And there she was.

Standing at the end of the hallway.

Her posture was softer than he remembered. Her hair, usually scraped into a tight bun like a crown of iron, now hung loose in waves around her shoulders. She wore a flowing black skirt and a crisp white blouse; nothing like the stiff robes or high collars she favored. She looked relaxed. Even gentle.

Except for her eyes.

Where her sharp grey eyes should’ve been were two gleaming black buttons , stitched perfectly into place. They shimmered in the golden light, catching the edges of the world like mirrors.

Doll-like. 

She smiled.

Not the tight, thin-lipped expression she used when she was displeased. But something warm. Motherly.

Regulus’s entire body went still.

Not because she looked strange, or even because of the buttons. But because of what she had said.

She had called him Regulus.

She had never used his name. His name. Not once. Not after he came out. Not after the yelling. Not after the silence that came after the yelling. Not after he packed a bag and left without so much as a note. To her, he had always been someone else, someone wrong.

She had said it so casually. So fondly .

Like it had always been true.

Like she had never screamed. Like she hadn’t spat his name back at him like it burned her throat.

This was a cruel cruel dream. 

It twisted something in his chest.

Because part of him; some small, secret part that had stayed hungry for years, wanted to hear her say it like that. Needed it. And here she was, button-eyed and strange and not real , saying it with a softness he had only ever imagined.

“Come here,” she said gently, her arms opening wide. “You must be tired.”

And he was . His muscles ached. His eyes stung. His head felt full and heavy.

But still—

This wasn’t his mother.

And this wasn’t right.

But the worst part was how much he wanted to believe it was.

He stood frozen in the glow of this impossible apartment, heart pounding in his chest, unable to move. His gaze flicked to the buttons again, cold and glossy, and he swore, for just a second, he saw them twitch.

Like they were blinking.

Like they were watching .

Regulus didn’t move toward her, but he didn’t run either.

The air around him was still, as if the room itself were holding its breath. The silence pressed close, not oppressive but… expectant. Like the house, this version of it, was watching too, waiting to see what he would do.

The not-Walburga tilted her head, smile never wavering. “You don’t have to be afraid, darling. Everything is just how it should be now.”

Regulus’s fingers curled into his palms. That word. Darling. She used to say it like poison, like it meant something was wrong with him. Here, it dripped like honey.

He took a slow step forward.

She didn’t move.

He took another.

Just close enough to see that the buttons didn’t reflect his shape in them; just a smear of light, as though nothing real could be caught in them.

But her face… it looked right. Just a bit off, the way an oil painting might seem slightly alive if you stared long enough. But the smell of her perfume was the same. That soft lilac and lemon she used to wear on special days, before everything went cold between them.

“Where am I?” Regulus asked, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“You’re home,” she said simply. “Where else would you be?”

He swallowed hard.

“Come now,” she added, turning gracefully on her heel. “There’s tea in the kitchen. And your room is ready. Just how you left it. Better, even.”

She walked down the hallway, heels clicking gently on the floor; wood that didn’t creak.

Regulus stood there for a moment longer.

He could go back through the little door. Crawl into the real world. But outside there would be more texts from Walburga that didn’t call him Regulus. There would be unpacked boxes and a borrowed bed and that hollow silence that came in waves when Sirius wasn’t talking. There would be ghosts of the life he was trying to build; but nothing finished yet.

And here… there was lemon. Morning light. A mother who called him by his name.

He turned and followed her.

Just a little longer.

The kitchen was immaculate. Not the one from Sirius’s apartment, cluttered and lived-in, but something that looked like a magazine spread. A teapot already steamed gently on the stove. A plate of shortbread cookies sat on the table next to two cups of floral porcelain.

 A third place was already set, with his name— Regulus —written in curling script on a card.

He stared at it. For a second, his throat ached.

She moved like a hostess, pouring the tea with practiced grace. “Milk? Honey?”

He nodded mutely, and she smiled wider.

The tea was warm in his hands, the mug not quite real ceramic; lighter, somehow, like the memory of a mug instead of the thing itself.

“Where’s Sirius?” he asked softly.

“Who?” she asked in response, her voice gentle as she set her own cup down gently. “Regulus, dear, I do hope you have been resting lately.”

Regulus looked down at the liquid in his cup, dark and perfectly still. 

Sirius wasn’t here.

Was he okay?

Where was he?

“Why are you here?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded delicately. “Because I listen to you . You may not believe it yet, but I’ve been listening for a very long time.”

And then she reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind his ear in the way that made him almost flinch, leaving a trace of cold in its wake.

“You’ve been so lonely, haven’t you?”

His eyes burned.

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t press.

The sound of distant humming filtered in from the hallway, soft and familiar. A tune he’d heard once. Maybe a lullaby. Maybe something Sirius used to play on cassette when they were young.

This place was built from memories. Woven from them.

He took another sip of tea.

He would leave soon. He should leave soon.

But for now… he would stay.

Just a little longer.

He stayed at the table until the tea cooled in his hands, the cup no longer warming his palms. The not-Walburga— Other Walburga, as he was starting to think of her—didn’t speak unless he did. She simply sipped from her own teacup, never blinking, always smiling.

Eventually, the silence became too full, and Regulus stood.

“Can I… see the rest?” he asked, not even sure what he meant. The rest of the apartment? The rest of this illusion?

Other Walburga rose with fluid grace, as if she’d known the question before he asked it. “Of course, dear. It’s all yours, after all.”

The hallway extended longer than it had before. Subtle, but strange. Doors that hadn’t existed in the real Palace now lined the walls, tall and old-fashioned, with polished brass handles and frosted glass windows. He passed one that read Parlor in ornate script and another that said Reading Room .

He paused outside a third: Your Room.

The doorknob turned easily in his hand.

The room was almost exactly how he remembered it. Not the cramped, cold box from Grimmauld Place, but the version he used to wish for. The idealized one he built in his head on sleepless nights. Familiar, but softened. Cozy. As if someone had taken all his memories, filtered them through warmth, and carefully built a space just for him.

The walls were a dusky blue, not peeling like they had been back home, but fresh and perfectly painted. His favorite books lined the shelves in neat rows— A Happy Death , The Goldfinch , The Iliad , The Little Prince —all of them present, and all of them well-loved, their spines creased just the way he remembered. A soft window seat had been built into the wall beside a narrow arched window, the velvet cushion upholstered in deep green, the fabric sun-warmed. Outside, the forest shimmered under twilight, the trees unmoving, like a painted scene that pulsed with quiet life.

On the end of the bed, the black cat plush sat upright, stitched button-eyes catching the low light. Kreacher himself was nowhere to be seen.

But what really stopped Regulus cold was the photograph on the nightstand.

It was in a delicate silver frame, polished to a gleam. The photo showed him. Not as he was now, but maybe a little younger. Short-haired, clear-eyed, shoulders light and without worry. And behind him stood Walburga.

Not the one from this place with the soft voice and the black button eyes. No, this was the one from before , the real Walburga, her hair still swept up, her eyes sharp but calm, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She was smiling. Not coldly, not tensely, but with the gentle pride of a mother looking at her son.

Regulus couldn’t remember that photo ever being taken. He didn’t even know what moment it was supposed to depict.

But it made something twist in his stomach.

His voice was small when he spoke, barely more than a whisper. “I think I need to go home.”

He wasn’t even sure if he meant to say it out loud.

But the woman behind him heard. Of course she did.

She stood just beyond the edge of the room, half in shadow, and smiled when he turned to look at her. That smile. That soft, understanding expression, was wrong on her face. It didn’t belong there. His mother didn’t smile like that. Had never smiled like that at him.

“But you are home,” she said gently, the words honeyed and soothing, like she was correcting a child’s misunderstanding.

Regulus swallowed. His fingers brushed the edge of the bedspread, grounding himself.

“I meant... the other home,” he said, more carefully this time. “The world on the other side of the door.”

She watched him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to argue.

And then she simply nodded.

A slow, graceful tilt of the head. Not disappointed. Not angry.

Just knowing.

“Of course,” she said, voice as smooth as silk. “That’s always your choice.”

But something in her tone told him she didn’t think it would be the last time.

And the room; perfect, curated, full of love he’d never actually been given, felt just a little harder to walk away from.

Regulus lingered.

The room— his room, if he wanted it—was quiet and warm, everything perfectly in place. He felt the tug of it in his chest, the pull of comfort and quiet and curated care. That photograph on the nightstand wouldn’t stop catching the edge of his gaze. He kept flicking back to it like it might change. Like the smile on her face might twist. Or vanish.

But it didn’t.

She was still smiling behind him, patient as ever.

And yet…

His fingers tightened around the edge of the plush cat, soft and worn, its stitched eyes blank and unblinking. Something about the way it was placed, sitting upright, waiting, made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Regulus stood slowly, almost expecting resistance from the room itself. None came.

“I’ll walk you back,” the woman said, still with that syrupy calm. “It’s easy to get lost the first time.”

Regulus didn’t answer, just nodded once and crossed the room. The floor didn’t creak. The hallway smelled faintly of lemon and something else. Something sweet, cloying, like sugared fruit left too long in a bowl.

The tunnel was still glowing faintly when they reached the little door.

She didn’t speak again until he crouched down.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, her voice hovering just above a whisper. “I’ll be here. And I’ll have your room waiting.”

Regulus hesitated, just for a second. The glow from the tunnel flickered across the button eyes staring down at him.

He nodded once. “Okay.”

Then he crawled through.

The passage felt longer this time. Or maybe he was just more aware of it; the slow whirl of the strange colors, the muffled quiet like sound wrapped in cotton. The walls shimmered, breathing with something too close to life. Halfway through, he looked back.

The doorway at the far end was already gone. Swallowed.

So he kept going, the hush pressing in tighter.

When he emerged back into his room—the real one—it was dim and quiet, the light outside dipped into the next morning. As if it were a dream. The floorboards creaked beneath him. The walls looked duller than before.

And he had never been so relieved to hear a creak.

Regulus stood up, brushing dust off his knees. For a long moment, he simply stood there, breathing, slow and careful. Then he turned and reached for the small door to shut it.

But it didn’t close all the way.

Not quite.

He tried again. Still, it remained slightly ajar, no matter how hard he pushed.

Behind him, the plush cat sat perched on the bed. Its button eyes gleamed in the dim light.

Regulus swallowed and reached for the key on the floor by the door. .

But it was gone.

Only the faintest indent in the wood remained where it had been.