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Sirius had been vibrating since morning.
Regulus suspected that if he pressed a hand against his brother’s chest, he’d find a hummingbird in place of a heart.
“Come on,” Sirius had said, voice all conspiratorial grin. “You need to leave your cave.”
Regulus, who had been perfectly content with his book and his silence, had said no.
Then no again.
Then, somehow, found himself in a dimly lit comedy club, arms folded, surrounded by strangers who were already halfway drunk on anticipation.
The place smelled of beer, citrus, and that particular electricity that gathers right before a curtain lifts.
Sirius leaned over, his grin sharpened by the neon. “You’re going to love him.”
Regulus exhaled slowly. “I doubt that.”
And then the spotlight hit.
James Potter didn’t enter the stage so much as command it. He had that careless kind of charisma — the kind that made you believe he belonged anywhere he stepped. Curls haloed by light, denim jacket creased in all the right places, smile too big for the room.
“Good evening, London!” he called, and his voice slipped through the crowd like warm honey. “I hope you’re ready to laugh—otherwise this’ll just be a very long hour where I emotionally unravel in front of you.”
The room cracked with laughter.
Regulus didn’t.
He watched. Clinical. Detached. Like studying a painting he wasn’t sure he liked.
James worked the crowd like a seasoned magician: timing, rhythm, the easy slide from punchline to punchline. Sirius was practically convulsing with laughter beside him, clutching the table, wiping his eyes.
And then James saw him.
It was subtle at first — a half-second skip in his rhythm, a narrowing of his eyes. But Regulus felt it like a spotlight swiveling toward him.
James tilted his head, gaze locking onto Regulus like a puzzle demanding to be solved.
Then, right into the mic:
“You. Yeah, you. Third table. You’re not laughing.”
The audience roared — they thought it was part of the act. But James wasn’t joking. His tone had softened, curiosity bleeding through.
Regulus met his gaze and didn’t look away.
“Why aren’t you laughing?” James pressed, stepping forward like the stage itself wasn’t wide enough. “That was funny.”
Sirius whooped. Regulus considered sinking into the floor.
James paced slowly, circling his own jokes like a hawk. “Alright. Tough crowd. Challenge accepted.”
The next fifteen minutes bent around Regulus like the world had tilted. James abandoned his script — every joke, every improvisation, every absurd impersonation aimed squarely at him.
Puns. Silence.
Physical comedy. Silence.
French-accented Yelp reviews. Regulus sipped his water, unimpressed.
“You’re killing me, mate,” James finally muttered, lowering the mic as if forgetting the crowd existed. His voice was no longer performative — it was raw, earnest. “Everyone else is laughing. What’s wrong with you?”
Regulus let the silence stretch. Then, softly:
“Maybe you’re just not that funny.”
Gasps. Laughter. Sirius pounding the table.
James reeled back like he’d been shot in the ego. Then he grinned — not the showman’s grin, but something brighter. “Oh, it’s on.”
He jumped off the stage, walked right up to Regulus’s table, and pulled out a chair like this was a date he hadn’t been invited to.
“This,” he said, pointing at him, “is my Everest.”
Regulus tilted his head, eyes dark and sharp. “That’s a very sad Everest.”
“Oh, it’s tragic,” James agreed easily, leaning forward. His smile softened. “But imagine the glory if I make you laugh.”
He started again, right there at the table, spinning stories about homicidal pigeons, terrible dates, his mum’s disastrous attempts at modern slang. The crowd dissolved into chaos around them — background noise, secondary characters in a play that had narrowed to two.
And then, mid-story, without thinking, James said it.
“God, you’re really pretty when you look disappointed.”
It slipped out like breath. The crowd hushed as if the words had changed the air. Sirius choked on his drink. James froze, realizing what he’d said — cheeks flushing under the lights.
Regulus blinked. Once. Twice.
His mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there — the smallest fracture in the marble.
James lit up. “There it is! I saw that. A crack. He lives!”
The audience cheered like a collective exhale.
Regulus rolled his eyes, but the betrayal was already there — the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. The kind that wasn’t loud but lingered, refusing to be dismissed.
James shot to his feet, victorious. “Ladies and gentlemen, he smirked. Goodnight!”
Mic drop. Curtain.
And Regulus, traitorously, let out a quiet laugh when James disappeared backstage.
Sirius leaned in, smug. “You’re so screwed.”
Regulus didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the stage curtains — the place where James Potter had grinned like he’d just found his favorite puzzle.
“…Maybe,” he murmured.
James Potter wasn’t supposed to be standing in the hallway after the show.
Not in theory, anyway. Comedians usually disappeared into the night through a side door — hearts still thrumming with adrenaline, laughter still echoing faintly behind them. But James lingered in the doorway of the club, caught between stage-light and streetlight.
He looked less like a performer now and more like a boy who’d run too fast and didn’t know where to stop. Hair damp with heat, denim jacket creased, eyes bright in the dim.
Regulus spotted him as he pushed through the crowd. “You stayed,” he said, voice quiet, careful.
James shrugged, feigning ease and not quite pulling it off. “Figured Everest might walk by. Wanted to, you know, bask in my barely-a-smile triumph.”
Regulus gave him a look — cool, unimpressed, and yet... not sharp anymore. “You’re persistent.”
“I’m curious,” James corrected. “You looked like a challenge. And I like trying.”
Something in Regulus shifted at that — something small, like the first crack in winter ice. Not visible to most. But James saw it.
He stepped back, just enough to let the night breathe between them. “Anyway,” he said lightly, “I’ll be here next week too. Different set. Maybe I’ll actually get a laugh this time.”
Regulus tilted his head. “Maybe.”
James smiled — not the stage one. This one was quieter, like it belonged only to this hallway.
Regulus turned to leave, his coat catching a stray gust of wind. He didn’t look back, but he didn’t walk quickly either.
And James, still leaning in the doorway, watched him disappear into the city with the odd certainty that this wasn’t the end of the bit.
It was just the pause before the next punchline.