Chapter Text
JAMES POTTER
It started, as most bad weeks did, with a Quidditch match that didn’t go right.
The November sky hung low over the pitch, heavy with cloud and the smell of rain. James Potter was already soaked through, his hair plastered against his forehead, but he still wore that grin — the one that had always been his armour. The crowd was cheering, the Gryffindor scarlet waving madly from the stands, and yet his chest felt… off. Too tight.
“Blimey, Potter, that was a beautiful save,” Sirius yelled over the wind, hovering near the goalposts.
James flashed him a grin that was half reflex. “Course it was, Pads. You doubted me?”
But his hand trembled when he reached for the Quaffle again. He told himself it was the cold. It wasn’t. He’d been trembling more and more lately, though no one seemed to notice — or maybe they didn’t want to.
He made the final save, and Gryffindor won by ten points. The roar that followed should’ve lifted him, the way it used to. Instead, it buzzed in his ears until it felt like static. He laughed too loudly, threw an arm around Remus and Peter, and led the victory chants all the way back to the common room.
By the time the fire had burned low, though, his smile felt stretched thin. Sirius was off making a show of balancing a butterbeer bottle on his nose; Peter was half-asleep, muttering about homework; Remus was watching James too closely — as he sometimes did — but said nothing.
James excused himself with a joke about needing a shower, then slipped out before anyone could see the exhaustion flicker through the cracks.
He didn’t go to the showers. He went wandering.
The castle at night was a maze of shadows and secrets, and he knew every inch of it. Tonight, though, it felt less like home and more like a hollow chest. The portraits whispered as he passed — “Out again, Potter?” — and he waved lazily, trying to seem unbothered.
He ended up by the Astronomy Tower. The wind was sharp there, tugging at his robes. From below, the lake shimmered silver. It should have been peaceful.
He dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “Get it together.”
It wasn’t one thing, exactly. Just… everything. The pressure to keep being the laughing, unstoppable James Potter — captain, prankster, the boy everyone loved. He’d built that image himself, and now it felt like a cage. Every time he slowed down, the silence pressed too close.
“Potter.”
The voice made him jump.
He turned — and there, half-hidden by the shadows, stood Regulus Black.
Of course. Only a Slytherin would appear out of nowhere at midnight, looking like he belonged to the darkness.
“Merlin’s pants, Black, you trying to scare me to death?” James managed, steadying his breath.
Regulus’s face was unreadable, but his tone was clipped. “You shouldn’t be up here.”
“Neither should you.”
A pause. Then Regulus stepped closer, the torchlight catching the edge of his profile. He looked tired too, though he’d never admit it.
James tilted his head. “Spying for your dear old brother?”
Something flashed in Regulus’s eyes — anger, maybe, or pain. “I don’t make a habit of spying on people who can’t keep their own masks straight.”
James blinked. “What?”
Regulus’s mouth curved, but not kindly. “You smile like it’s a spell you’re trying to keep from breaking.”
The words hit harder than they should have. James opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Regulus looked away first. “Forget it.”
Before James could think, he said quietly, “Maybe I don’t want to.”
Regulus froze. For a moment, neither moved — just two boys from rival Houses, caught in a silence that wasn’t entirely hostile. Then footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Regulus pulled his hood up.
“Go back to your tower, Potter.”
He vanished into the dark before James could reply.
James stood there long after, heart racing, wondering how Regulus bloody Black — of all people — had seen what none of his friends had.
REGULUS BLACK
Regulus had learned, by fifteen, how to move through Hogwarts without being seen. It was a useful trick, born of necessity. The Slytherin common room was full of eyes — sharp, judging, loyal to the family name before the person who bore it. He had long ago decided that the safest way to survive was to give them nothing they could use.
So he moved quietly, kept his face calm, and let people believe what they wanted.
It worked most days.
Tonight, though, James Potter’s voice kept echoing in his head. Maybe I don’t want to forget it.
It wasn’t the words so much as the sound — the small break in the middle of Potter’s usual golden-boy confidence. Regulus had expected a smirk, or a retort about House rivalry. Not that soft, uncertain tone. He didn’t know what to do with it.
When he slipped back into the Slytherin dormitory, Barty was still awake, perched cross-legged on his bed with a book open. The glow of his wand made his eyes too bright.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Barty said lightly. Regulus started to unbutton his robe. “Just Potter. He was out after curfew.” Barty’s grin sharpened. “Did you hex him?” “No.” Regulus hesitated. “He looked… tired.”
That earned him a raised brow. “Potter? The one who thinks detentions are a sport?” Regulus shrugged, pretending indifference, but Barty’s stare lingered. Crouch was always too observant; he saw people the way a curse saw weakness.
“Don’t get sentimental, Black,” Barty murmured finally. “He’s a Gryffindor. They’re all made of drama.”
Regulus let the jab slide. “And you’re made of cynicism.”
Barty laughed under his breath, the sound like glass tapping. “Touché.”
Evan Rosier stirred in the next bed, half-asleep. “Merlin’s sake, keep it down,” he mumbled, rolling over. The room fell silent again except for the slow dripping of water from a pipe overhead.
Regulus lay back, staring at the canopy. He told himself it didn’t matter what Potter’s face had looked like in that moment, when his usual grin faltered. He told himself it wasn’t his concern if the golden boy was starting to crack.
He didn’t believe himself.
The next day, the castle buzzed with talk about the Gryffindor win. Potter was louder than ever at breakfast, recounting every play to anyone who’d listen. The Great Hall shimmered with late-autumn sunlight, and Regulus found his gaze drawn toward the Gryffindor table again and again despite himself.
Potter’s laughter filled the space easily. To everyone else, he looked as untouchable as always. Only Regulus noticed the way his fingers tightened around his goblet when he thought no one was watching.
“Honestly, Reg,” Evan said beside him, following his line of sight, “if you stare any harder you’ll set his hair on fire.” Regulus’s spoon clattered against his bowl. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Then what’s so interesting about Potter?” Evan pressed, voice low, amused. “Nothing.”
Barty leaned across the table, grin lazy. “Our Regulus is fascinated by Gryffindor royalty. Should we be jealous?”
Regulus rolled his eyes, but the heat rising to his cheeks betrayed him. “You’re both insufferable.”
Evan chuckled. “We try.”
They turned the conversation to something else — a new charm Barty wanted to test — but Regulus’s thoughts kept circling back to the look on Potter’s face in the moonlight. There had been exhaustion there, yes, but also something almost familiar. A kind of loneliness that didn’t belong to House or bloodline.
It was ridiculous. He had no reason to care.
And yet, when the evening rolled around and he saw Potter again in the courtyard — surrounded by friends, pretending the world was easy — he caught himself slowing down, just long enough to wonder what it would take for someone like that to stop pretending.
BARTY CROUCH JR.
Barty had always been good at watching people.
He’d learned early that information was power — and power was the only thing that kept him from disappearing beneath his father’s expectations.
So he noticed things.
Like how Regulus was distracted — and that distraction had a name and a very famous smile.
He lounged on one of the courtyard steps that evening, pretending to skim his Arithmancy notes. Regulus was beside him, posture straight, face neutral. A perfect heir of an ancient line. Evan stood a few feet away, talking to Mulciber about something undoubtedly vile. A typical Slytherin evening.
Then he appeared.
Potter.
Basking in the glow of praise from his Gryffindor fan club. Sirius Black slung an arm around his shoulders, ruffling his hair while Remus Lupin said something that made them both laugh. Peter Pettigrew trailed behind, short legs scrambling to keep up.
Barty watched Regulus — not Potter. The slight shift of his eyes. The tiny catch of breath. Interesting.
“You’re doing it again,” Barty said, voice quiet enough that only Regulus could hear. Regulus didn’t look at him. “Doing what?” “Staring like a bored prince longing for something shiny and forbidden.” Regulus’s jaw tightened. “Keep talking and you’ll find yourself cursed.” Barty only smirked. “Touchy.”
He leaned back, tilting his head as he studied Potter. The Gryffindor golden boy was animated as ever — but Barty saw beyond what the crowd saw. Saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the quick wipe of his palm against his robes as if drying sweat. Signs of nerves. Cracks in perfection.
It made Barty curious.
Potter wasn’t allowed to be anything less than adored. What happened when the adoration wasn’t enough?
As the Gryffindors passed by, Sirius shot a glare toward the Slytherins — especially the ones with the last name Black. Regulus glared back, cool and sharp.
Potter’s eyes flickered in their direction — and for a heartbeat, they landed on Regulus.
Barty didn’t miss the flicker of surprise on both faces. And something else. Something dangerous.
“Careful,” Barty murmured as the Gryffindors moved on. “If you start caring about him, it’ll destroy you.”
Regulus’s voice was ice. “I don’t care.”
“Mhmm.” Barty snapped his notebook closed. “I wonder which of us you think you’re convincing.”
Regulus stiffened, the conversation a little too close to truths he wouldn’t allow.
But Barty’s attention had already shifted back to Potter’s retreating figure.
Happy boy. Beloved boy. Cracking boy.
Barty tapped his wand rhythmically against the stone step. He knew how quickly something beautiful could unravel… and he loved watching the unraveling.
It wasn’t compassion. It was curiosity — the kind that could eat someone alive.
JAMES POTTER
That night, the castle felt too full of sound.
Every door hinge creaked, every portrait whispered, every step echoed as if the stones themselves were awake.
James lay in bed, staring at the canopy above him while the snores of his roommates drifted around the room.
He told himself he should sleep; tomorrow was double Potions and a mountain of homework.
But his mind wouldn’t quiet.
Every laugh he’d faked today came back to him, thin and brittle. Every cheer from the match replayed until it sounded hollow. The image of Regulus Black’s cool stare pushed through it all like a splinter.
You smile like it’s a spell you’re trying to keep from breaking.
He’d meant to shrug that off, to joke about it, but the words wouldn’t leave.
Eventually he pushed the blankets aside and slipped from bed, padding barefoot across the floor. The dormitory window showed the moon hanging low over the lake, pale light spilling onto the floorboards.
James pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
He’d always thought of himself as unstoppable — not because he was, but because he’d convinced everyone else he was. Somewhere along the line, he’d started believing the story too.
Lately it felt like he was chasing a version of himself he couldn’t quite reach.
The common room was dark except for the dying embers in the fireplace. He sank into the old red armchair closest to the hearth. The silence should have been soothing; instead, it hummed.
He thought of his parents. Letters home filled with cheerful lies: Everything’s great. Captaincy’s brilliant. Sirius and I are planning another prank.
He never mentioned the nights like this, the ones where his chest felt tight for no reason.
“Potter?”
James looked up. Remus stood at the base of the stairs, pale in the firelight, a book still tucked under his arm.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Remus asked softly.
James gave a half-smile. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby.” Remus crossed the room, set his book on the table, and sat down opposite him. “You’ve been off lately.”
“Off?”
“Laughing louder. Talking faster. Like you’re trying to prove something.”
James opened his mouth, ready with a joke — and stopped. For once, he didn’t have the energy for it. “Maybe I am,” he said instead.
Remus studied him for a long time, eyes tired but kind. “You don’t have to keep everyone happy all the time, you know.”
James stared into the fire. “If I stop trying, everything falls apart.”
“That’s not how friendship works,” Remus said. Then, quieter: “At least it doesn’t have to be.”
James didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he believed it.
They sat in silence until the fire burned itself down to faint orange threads. When Remus finally went back upstairs, James stayed. He didn’t want to face the dark yet.
Somewhere beneath the rumble of the lake, the castle sighed — an old, familiar sound. He told himself he’d feel normal tomorrow. He always did.
Still, when sleep finally claimed him in the armchair, the last image in his mind wasn’t the Quidditch pitch or his friends laughing. It was Regulus Black standing in moonlight, seeing through every mask he had.
EVAN ROSIER
Evan was used to being the quiet one.
In Slytherin, quiet meant safety; it meant people forgot you were listening.
He’d built his reputation on small, careful smiles and the sort of charm that kept him out of the line of fire when tempers flared.
That night in the common room, he was half-listening to Barty talk circles around Regulus about a theoretical curse. The firelight threw green across the walls; the lake outside pressed dark against the windows.
Barty’s voice was light, too light. “You’re distracted again, Black.”
Regulus didn’t even look up from his notes. “I’m tired.”
“Of Potter?” Barty asked.
Regulus’s quill stopped mid-stroke.
Evan sighed, setting his book aside. “Both of you, shut up. You’ll wake the portraits.”
But when Regulus didn’t move, Evan leaned forward a little. “He’s a Gryffindor, Reg. They’re all sunshine until they burn out. Let him do it himself.”
Regulus’s gaze flickered toward him, a shadow under his lashes. “You think I’m worried about him?” “I think you notice him,” Evan said, calm as water.
Barty grinned, satisfied, but Evan didn’t join in. He’d seen this before—how fascination turned to care, how care turned to risk. And he cared about Regulus in the quiet way of people who never said such things out loud.
When Barty finally wandered off toward bed, Evan stayed behind. The common room fell still except for the faint ripple of water overhead.
“You know,” Evan said after a moment, “he probably notices you too.”
Regulus’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Potter.” Evan met his friend’s startled look. “He’s not as oblivious as he pretends. People like that notice everything—they just don’t know what to do with it.”
Regulus looked away, jaw set. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not,” Evan said softly. “But it might.”
He let it hang there. Regulus wouldn’t answer, not tonight.
When Evan finally went to his own bed, he paused by the window that faced the depths of the lake. Out there, the giant squid drifted like a ghost. Above, somewhere high in the castle, the Gryffindor tower glowed faintly through the mist.
He wondered what it would take for that glow to dim, and whether Regulus would be the one to notice first.