Work Text:
Breakfast at Hogwarts had never looked more like a diplomatic incident.
The Great Hall had been transformed overnight from a school dining chamber into something halfway between a village fête, a Ministry reception, and the aftermath of a very enthusiastic explosion in a florist’s shop. Garlands of enchanted ivy curled along the walls. Banners in every house colour hung from the rafters, swaying in the false morning breeze beneath the charmed ceiling. The long house tables had been rearranged into wide, communal rows with enough gaps for guests to wander, children to fling themselves into waiting arms, and nervous parents to stare open-mouthed at the floating candles as if expecting one to drop into the porridge.
At the staff table, Dumbledore looked far too pleased with himself.
This, Petunia Evans had decided at once, was suspicious.
Nobody with a beard that long and robes that bright could possibly be trusted. He was standing at the front of the hall in plum velvet embroidered with gold stars, hands folded serenely as though he had not invited half the country into a school full of moving staircases, portraits that gossiped, ghosts that drifted through walls, and children who apparently thought turning teacups into rodents was a reasonable educational pursuit.
Family Day, the invitation had called it.
A day filled with activities, bonding, games, challenges, displays, meals, memories, and magical fun.
Petunia had read the letter three times at the kitchen table and felt her mouth go flat and sour.
Magical fun.
Of course.
Because it wasn’t enough that Lily got magic. It wasn’t enough that Lily got letters written in green ink and books bound in strange leather and wands from dusty little shops in secret streets. It wasn’t enough that Lily got to disappear every September to a castle, a real castle, with towers and feasts and cloaks and ghosts and lessons that sounded like fairy tales made rude by textbooks.
No, now Lily got an entire day to show it off.
And Petunia had to come.
“You ought to support your sister,” her mother had said brightly, brushing invisible lint off Petunia’s coat that morning.
“It’ll be lovely,” her father had said, as if lovely was a thing that could be ordered into existence by saying it firmly enough, acting as though he hadn’t noticed Petunia standing there in her plain coat with her hands clenched in the pockets.
Petunia had noticed everything.
She noticed the careful way her mother held Lily’s scarf, as if it were precious because it belonged to Lily. She noticed the way her father asked whether the castle would be cold, whether her professors were kind, whether her dormitory was comfortable, whether she needed anything. She noticed that nobody asked Petunia whether she was cold. Nobody asked how her school was. Nobody asked whether she needed anything.
That was the way of things.
Lily bloomed, and the whole house turned towards her.
Petunia stood in the shade and was expected to be grateful for not wilting.
Now, in the Great Hall, her parents had already abandoned her.
Not cruelly. That was the awful part. It would have been easier if they were cruel about it. It would have been cleaner, sharper, something Petunia could hold up in front of herself like evidence.
Instead, they simply forgot.
The moment they saw Lily at the Gryffindor table, they rushed forward with delighted little cries. Her mother lifted both hands to Lily’s face, cupping her cheeks, cooing over how healthy she looked, how grown up, how beautiful. Her father wrapped Lily in a bear hug and laughed when she squealed and told him he was crushing her ribs.
Petunia stopped behind them.
Nobody turned.
Lily was there, bright-haired and laughing, surrounded by Gryffindors and family members and noise. Sirius Black lounged nearby with James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and Remus Lupin, all of them half-watching the chaos with varying degrees of amusement. Mary Macdonald and Marlene McKinnon were being fussed over by relatives at the far side of the table. Alice Fortescue had her hands full with family members passing her pastries, while Frank Longbottom stood nearby looking mildly overwhelmed. Fabian Prewett and Gideon Prewett were impossible to miss, both red-haired and broad-grinning, swept into a knot of loud cousins and older relatives.
It looked warm.
It looked easy.
It looked like belonging.
Petunia looked down at her shoes.
They were scuffed.
Of course they were.
Everything here glittered in some way. Even the plates seemed better than normal plates, shining gold beneath towers of toast, bowls of fruit, silver jugs of pumpkin juice, and dishes of eggs that refilled themselves whenever anyone took too much. The ceiling above showed a pale blue sky streaked with delicate clouds, and every so often a small flock of enchanted paper birds fluttered overhead, carrying little cards printed with schedules for the day.
Family Trivia Challenge.
Three-Legged Wandless Race.
Magical Creature Guessing Tent.
House Picnic.
Parent-Student Obstacle Course.
Sibling Relay.
Petunia hated every single word.
She had not wanted to come. She had said so. She had said it plainly, standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed and her chin raised.
But her parents had looked disappointed.
Not angry. Not stern. Disappointed.
As if Petunia were making things difficult.
As if Petunia were selfish for not wanting to stand in Lily’s shadow on a day specially designed to make the shadow bigger.
So she had come.
And now she stood alone in a magical castle, ignored by her own parents, clutching a book against her chest like a shield.
It was only a paperback. A battered one from a charity shop in town, its corners softened from rereading. There was a crease in the spine and a tea stain on page eighty-seven. Petunia had brought it because she had known, somehow, that there would be waiting. Waiting while Lily showed off. Waiting while her parents beamed. Waiting while everyone remembered that Lily was special and Petunia was simply there.
She held the book tighter and looked around with narrowed eyes.
The Hall was too loud.
A woman near the Hufflepuff table had burst into tears because her son’s goblet filled itself with orange juice. A tiny boy visiting an older Ravenclaw sibling was trying to catch one of the floating candles with a napkin. At the Slytherin table, several severe-looking adults in fine robes sat like members of an aristocratic painting, while their children greeted them with various degrees of poise, embarrassment, and theatrical suffering.
Near the end of that table, a woman in midnight-blue robes was smoothing a hand through Sirius Black’s dark hair while he endured it with dramatic martyrdom. Beside her, a tall man with silver-threaded black hair leaned down to listen to something Sirius was saying, mouth twitching with quiet amusement. Another boy stood with them, much shorter than Sirius, almost delicate beside him, his black curls falling neatly around a pale, composed face. A bright blond streak cut through his fringe like a shard of moonlight caught in ink.
He looked like he had stepped out of one of Petunia’s books.
Not the cheerful ones from the school library, with boys who played football and asked girls to the cinema with sweaty hands.
No.
One of the older books.
The sort with manor houses and stormy lawns and proud young lords who wore black coats and said cutting things with perfect manners. The sort where someone was always standing at a window looking tragic and rich.
The boy’s mother touched his cheek as he bent towards her. His father adjusted the clasp of his cloak. Sirius, beside them, threw an arm around his shoulders for a second, squeezing him close with easy affection before being dragged into conversation by James Potter’s parents across the aisle.
Petunia looked away sharply.
Good for them.
How lovely.
How perfectly lovely for everyone.
She fixed her stare on the floor and willed herself into a shape so cold and pointed that nobody would dare speak to her.
It almost worked.
Then a voice beside her said, “Is that The Moonstone?”
Petunia jumped so violently she nearly dropped the book.
Her head snapped up. Her temper, already simmering, flared hot enough to burn.
“What do you—”
She stopped.
The boy from the Slytherin table stood beside her.
Up close, he was even more unfair.
He was younger than her, or at least he looked it, though there was something ancient and watchful in his grey eyes. He was also shorter than her, which should have made him less intimidating, but somehow didn’t. His posture was too perfect. His robes looked expensive enough to pay for three months of groceries. His face was smooth and pale and severe, all sharp cheekbones and soft mouth and long lashes that made him seem pretty and handsome at once in a way Petunia found immediately irritating because it made her heart perform a stupid little stumble.
He glanced down at the book in her arms, then back at her face.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
His voice was quiet. Polite. Not warm exactly, but careful.
Petunia swallowed the angry thing she had been about to say.
“You didn’t,” she lied.
His eyes flicked briefly to where her fingers had tightened around the paperback.
“Of course.”
Petunia felt herself flush.
“I mean, you did, but only because people don’t normally sneak up on me in enormous castles.”
“That seems reasonable,” he said gravely. “Though in fairness, enormous castles do encourage dramatic entrances.”
Petunia stared at him.
His expression remained blank for half a second.
Then his mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
Almost.
Petunia hated that she noticed.
She drew the book closer. “What about it?”
“The Moonstone,” he said, nodding towards the cover. “Wilkie Collins. I’ve read it twice. I wondered what you thought of it.”
That threw her so thoroughly off balance that, for a moment, she simply blinked at him.
“What I thought of it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re…” Petunia looked him over before she could stop herself. “You go here.”
“I do.”
“To magic school.”
“Also true.”
“And you read normal books?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “I wasn’t aware they were illegal.”
Petunia pressed her lips together.
A laugh tried to come out.
She strangled it.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“No?”
“I mean…” She glanced around the hall with its floating candles and enchanted goblets and portraits waving from the walls. “I didn’t think people here cared about things like that.”
“Books?”
“Ordinary books.”
“There are very few ordinary books,” he said. “Only ordinary readers.”
Petunia stared again.
That was exactly the sort of sentence a boy in a book would say before offering someone his arm on a moonlit terrace.
She hated him a bit for it.
She liked him immediately.
“That sounds rehearsed,” she said.
“It isn’t.”
“It sounds like it is.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’ll try to sound less clever next time.”
“You think you’re clever?”
“No.” His almost-smile returned. “I know I am. There’s a difference.”
Petunia should have scoffed.
Instead, she made a sound dangerously close to a giggle.
She stiffened at once.
The boy either didn’t notice or was too well-bred to point it out.
He tilted his head. “Do you like it?”
“The book?”
“Yes.”
Petunia looked down at the worn cover. “It’s one of my favourites.”
“Why?”
Again, she waited for the trap.
There was always a trap.
At her school, if a boy asked about a book, it was usually so he could laugh about her reading too much. If a girl asked, it was often worse, because girls knew exactly where to stick the pin. At home, her mother would smile vaguely and say it was nice that Petunia had hobbies, then turn to Lily and ask about charms or potions or whatever impossible thing Lily was learning that week.
Nobody asked why and meant it.
But this boy did not look bored.
He stood beside her as though he had chosen to be there, fully and intentionally, as though the crowded hall and his elegant family and his friends in the corner were less interesting, at that moment, than Petunia Evans and her battered paperback.
“Well,” she said, wary. “I like that everyone thinks they understand what happened, but they’re all wrong in different ways.”
His eyes sharpened with interest.
Petunia felt it like sunlight touching the back of her neck.
“And I like that it’s about people making assumptions,” she continued, a little faster now. “People think they know someone because of what they look like, or where they’re from, or because of what they want to believe. But they don’t. They’re just stupid.”
“Most people are,” he said.
Petunia huffed.
This time, the laugh escaped.
The boy’s mouth softened properly, not into a grin, but into something close enough that Petunia’s stomach swooped in an appalling fashion.
“And you?” she asked, quickly, because she needed him to stop looking pleased with her before she did something humiliating, like blush harder. “Why did you read it twice?”
“I liked the structure,” he said. “Several accounts. Contradictions. A mystery that becomes less about the object and more about the people circling it. And I liked Franklin Blake less the second time, which was satisfying.”
Petunia’s eyes widened. “You didn’t like Franklin?”
“I found him careless.”
“He was trying.”
“People say that when they want credit for failing politely.”
Petunia’s mouth fell open.
Then she laughed properly.
It burst out of her before she could stop it, bright and sharp and startled. A few people nearby glanced over. Petunia immediately pressed her lips together, embarrassed, but the boy looked quietly triumphant, as though he had solved a puzzle.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She straightened slightly.
“Petunia Evans.”
His expression changed.
Not with mockery. Not with recognition of the ordinary, ugly little town she had come from. Not with the faint distaste she had expected from someone in robes that fine.
He seemed to consider it.
“Petunia,” he repeated.
Nobody at home said her name like that. At home it was Petunia when she was in trouble, Tuney when Lily wanted something, and you when everyone forgot she was in the room.
On his tongue, it sounded deliberate.
“It’s a flower,” she said, defensive by habit.
“Yes,” he said. “A very resilient one.”
Petunia blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Petunias tolerate difficult soil,” he said. “Heat, neglect, poor conditions. They’re not fragile.”
She stared at him.
Her throat felt suddenly narrow.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I garden,” he said, as if this explained everything.
“You garden?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
A faint line appeared between his brows. “Is that surprising?”
“You look like you have gardeners.”
“I do.”
“Then why would you garden?”
“Because I like knowing how things grow.”
Petunia had no idea what to say to that.
He seemed to realise he had unsettled her, because he inclined his head a fraction and added, “I’m Regulus Black.”
Petunia’s hand tightened on the book.
Black.
She knew that name.
Not properly, not in the way Lily knew magical names now, but enough. She had heard Lily mention Sirius Black in letters, had heard her parents repeat the name as if it were amusing, dramatic, one of Lily’s school characters in one of Lily’s school stories. Sirius Black, who was loud and rebellious and handsome, according to the way Lily’s voice changed when she told stories from school. Sirius Black, who rode on the edge of trouble with James Potter and Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin. Sirius Black, who was apparently impossible to ignore.
Petunia looked back at Regulus.
“You’re Sirius Black’s brother.”
“I am.”
“You don’t look very much like him.”
“I’m often told that as a compliment.”
A startled snort escaped her.
Regulus’s eyes glittered.
“Regulus is a strange name,” Petunia said, then immediately wished she hadn’t. “I mean—not bad strange. Just…”
“Star strange?” he supplied.
“Yes.”
“It’s the brightest star in the constellation Leo,” he said. “The name means little king. Or prince, depending on who is feeling dramatic at the time.”
Petunia stared at him.
Little king.
Of course.
Of course his name meant something like that.
The universe was not subtle. It had put a boy named Regulus Black in a black cloak in a magic castle and given him a pale severe face and a streak of blond in his hair and let him talk about books like he had been waiting all morning to find her.
“That suits you,” she said, then wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
Regulus tilted his head.
“Does it?”
“A bit.”
“Because I’m short?”
Petunia flushed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
“I did not.”
“You looked down.”
“You are standing lower than my eye line.”
“That is generally what short means.”
Petunia pressed the book over her smile.
Regulus looked pleased again.
“Petunia suits you,” he said.
She lowered the book slowly.
“It does?”
“Yes.”
“Because I tolerate difficult soil?”
“Yes,” he said, and there was something so calm and sincere in it that the words landed differently this time. “And because it sounds prettier than people probably let it.”
Petunia stopped breathing for a second.
Across the hall, Lily laughed at something. Their mother’s voice rose in fond delight. Their father clapped his hands once, proud and cheerful, as if Lily had done something spectacular by existing in front of him.
Petunia’s face went hot, but this time it was not entirely because of anger.
Regulus followed her glance.
His expression did not soften in the obvious way. He did not make a pitying face. He did not say poor you. Petunia would have hated that. Instead, his gaze moved from Lily to the Evans parents, then back to Petunia, assessing and quiet.
“Your family?” he asked.
“My parents,” Petunia said. “And Lily.”
“She’s your sister.”
“Yes.”
“The Gryffindor.”
Petunia’s mouth tightened. “Of course you know her.”
“I know of her,” Regulus corrected. “We don’t move in the same circles.”
“No,” Petunia said, unable to stop herself. “I suppose she moves in very special circles.”
Regulus said nothing.
Petunia hated that too. It made space. It made her want to fill it.
“She’s always been special,” she said, the words clipped. “Even before all this. Things happened around her. Flowers opened. Swings moved too high. She made teacups wobble once, and Mum said it was imagination, but I saw it. Then the letter came, and that was it. Lily got a castle.”
Regulus looked at her as though every word mattered.
Petunia glanced at him and then away.
“She gets this,” she said, quieter, looking up at the enchanted ceiling. “All of this. Lessons in charms and potions and stars and whatever else. Proper books. Proper teachers. A school that looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
She swallowed.
“I go to a secondary school in Cokeworth with cracked windows and awful lunches and boys who think burping is a personality. I try hard. I do. I study and I turn things in on time and I don’t make a fuss. But it doesn’t matter, because Lily can wave a stick and everyone claps.”
The bitterness came out too fast, too raw.
Petunia closed her mouth sharply.
She expected him to look disgusted. Or amused. Or worse, bored.
Regulus only said, “That sounds infuriating.”
Petunia looked at him.
“It is.”
“I would be furious.”
“You would?”
“Yes.”
“People usually say I’m jealous.”
“You are,” he said.
Petunia stiffened.
Regulus continued before she could snap at him. “That doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”
She froze again.
The hall seemed to blur at the edges.
“What?”
“People say jealousy like it cancels everything else,” he said. “As if wanting something means you’re not allowed to notice unfairness. It’s very convenient for the people who already have the thing.”
Petunia’s fingers loosened on the book.
No one had ever said that to her.
No one had ever come close.
“I’m not horrible,” she said, and hated how small it sounded.
“No,” Regulus said simply.
“I don’t want bad things to happen to her.”
“I didn’t assume you did.”
“I just…” Petunia looked at Lily, at her shining hair, at the way their mother was brushing a crumb from her cheek as though Lily were still six years old and precious beyond measure. “I just want something to be mine.”
Regulus was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “I understand that.”
Petunia turned back to him.
“You do?”
He glanced over his shoulder.
At the Slytherin end of the hall, his parents stood in conversation with another impeccably dressed couple, though their eyes kept returning to him in small, checking movements. Sirius had drifted closer to the Gryffindor crowd, all dramatic gestures and easy laughter, one arm slung around James Potter while Peter Pettigrew appeared to be miming some kind of catastrophe with a bread roll and Remus Lupin watched with resigned patience.
Regulus looked away from them all.
“My brother is very loud,” he said.
Petunia’s mouth quirked despite herself. “I noticed.”
“He fills a room without trying.”
“Yes.”
“People remember him quickly.”
Petunia studied his profile. “And you?”
“I am remembered differently,” Regulus said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His eyes slid back to her.
Petunia lifted her chin.
A pause.
Then he said, “Sometimes I am remembered after him.”
The honesty of it was quiet enough that Petunia almost missed the bruise underneath.
She did not.
“Oh,” she said.
Regulus’s expression remained composed.
“Our parents love us,” he said, not defensive, not uncertain, simply placing the fact carefully between them. “They try. They notice more than I give them credit for, probably. But Sirius has always been… Sirius.”
Petunia looked again.
Sirius Black had thrown his head back laughing. His mother was pretending not to be amused. His father was failing to hide a smile. James Potter was jabbing him in the ribs. Fabian and Gideon Prewett had somehow got involved from several seats away. Marlene McKinnon looked delighted by whatever trouble was brewing. Mary Macdonald had her hand over her mouth. Alice Fortescue appeared to be warning Frank Longbottom not to encourage it.
Even from across the room, Sirius made gravity bend.
“I know what you mean,” Petunia said.
Regulus nodded once.
“When he was sorted into Gryffindor, the entire family talked about it for months,” he said. “When I was sorted into Slytherin, everyone was relieved.”
“That sounds better.”
“In some ways.”
“But not all.”
“No.” His mouth tightened faintly. “Relief is quieter than surprise.”
Petunia stared at him.
That was it exactly.
The shape of it.
Lily was surprise. Wonder. Miracle.
Petunia was relief. Reliability. Good, sensible Petunia. Petunia who did not cause trouble. Petunia who did not need watching because she always got home on time, always packed her own bag, always knew where her shoes were, always did what she was supposed to do.
Relief was quieter than surprise.
“I hate that,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
They stood side by side in the Great Hall while the magical world roared and glittered around them.
For the first time since the invitation arrived, Petunia did not feel entirely alone inside it.
Regulus glanced at the book again. “Have you eaten?”
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
“I had toast before we left.”
“That isn’t breakfast.”
“It’s part of breakfast.”
“A poor fragment of one.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Then your mother is correct about at least one thing.”
Petunia gave him a look.
His face remained solemn.
“You’re very rude for someone so polite.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Oh, now that was rehearsed.”
“It was not.”
“You absolutely read that somewhere and waited for the chance.”
“I would never.”
“You would.”
“I might.”
Petunia laughed again, and this time she didn’t try to hide it.
Regulus looked towards the table. “There are pastries.”
“I can see that.”
“And fruit.”
“Yes.”
“And something that appears to be attempting to become a pudding.”
“Does food here always do that?”
“Only when encouraged.”
Petunia looked at a bowl in the centre of the nearest table. A heap of porridge inside was slowly rearranging itself into the shape of a rabbit.
She took half a step back.
Regulus followed her gaze. “That’s harmless.”
“It moved.”
“Most things do, eventually.”
“Not porridge.”
“Yours doesn’t?”
“No.”
“That’s bleak.”
Petunia covered her mouth, but the giggle escaped through her fingers.
Regulus looked towards the Gryffindor table again. “Would you rather not sit with them?”
The question was gentle enough to let her refuse without shame.
Petunia’s eyes flicked to her parents. Her mother was now stroking Lily’s hair. Her father had taken one of Lily’s schoolbooks and was turning it over in awe while Lily explained something, hands animated, face glowing.
They had still not looked back.
“No,” Petunia said.
It came out sharper than she meant it to.
Regulus only nodded.
“Then sit with me.”
Petunia’s heart gave another ridiculous little leap.
“At the Slytherin table?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“Am I allowed?”
“You’re a guest.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“I’m a Black,” he said. “It usually does.”
Petunia stared at him.
The worst part was that he didn’t sound like he was bragging. He sounded faintly inconvenienced by reality.
She should have found it insufferable.
She did find it insufferable.
She also found it magnificent.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“Frequently.”
Regulus offered his hand.
Not his arm. Not yet. Just his hand, palm open, elegant and pale.
Petunia looked at it.
Then at him.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“People will stare.”
“They already do.”
That was true. A few students had begun glancing over, probably wondering why Regulus Black was speaking to Lily Evans’s Muggle sister. Petunia could feel the curiosity pricking against the side of her face.
Regulus’s hand did not move.
Petunia lifted her chin and placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers carefully.
Not tightly. Not possessively. Just securely, as though he knew how to hold something without making it feel trapped.
Oh, Petunia thought, slightly faint.
This was becoming a problem.
Regulus led her towards the Slytherin end of the nearest table. He did not rush. He moved through the crowd with the sort of ease that suggested people had always made space for him and he had always considered that normal. Petunia walked beside him, horribly aware of her coat, her shoes, the plainness of everything about her.
Then Regulus pulled out a chair for her.
Actually pulled it out.
Petunia stopped dead.
He looked at her. “Is something wrong?”
“You pulled out the chair.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So you can sit in it.”
“I know what chairs are for.”
His mouth twitched. “Then we’re making excellent progress.”
Petunia sat before she could giggle again.
Regulus pushed the chair in—not too far, not awkwardly, perfectly—and took the seat beside her.
It was outrageous.
It was absurd.
It was exactly like one of her books.
The noble young gentleman. The overlooked girl. The grand hall. The breakfast table gleaming beneath morning light. Any moment now, a governess would appear with a secret letter, or someone would announce a scandal, or Regulus would reveal he owned a horse named something tragic like Midnight Sovereign.
Petunia folded her hands in her lap and tried not to look delighted.
Regulus reached for a plate. “Toast?”
“I can get it.”
“I didn’t imply otherwise.”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Offering toast?”
“Being…” Petunia gestured vaguely at all of him. “Like that.”
Regulus looked down at himself.
“Like what?”
“Formal.”
“I am formal.”
“Why?”
“Raised that way.”
“So you’re like this all the time?”
“Mostly.”
“With everyone?”
“To varying degrees.”
Petunia narrowed her eyes. “And what degree am I getting?”
He considered her gravely.
“A high one.”
Petunia looked away so fast her neck nearly cracked.
Regulus calmly placed two slices of toast on her plate and added a small pot of jam beside it.
“What jam is that?” she asked, desperate to sound normal.
“Raspberry.”
“Does it do anything?”
“It tastes like raspberry.”
“At this school, that feels worth checking.”
“Very prudent.”
Petunia reached for the knife. Regulus handed it to her before her fingers touched it.
She stared at him.
He looked back.
“What?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I enjoy good manners.”
“No, you enjoy watching me react to them.”
“That may also be true.”
Petunia’s cheeks burned.
“You’re a menace.”
“I’ve been called worse by professionals.”
“What sort of professionals?”
“My brother.”
Petunia laughed into her toast.
Across the aisle, Sirius Black glanced over, smiling when he saw Regulus, then seemed to notice Petunia beside him. His eyebrows shot up. He did not say anything, but he gave Regulus a look so theatrical that even from a distance Petunia could interpret it as really, now?
Regulus ignored him with the serenity of someone who had spent a lifetime ignoring Sirius Black.
Petunia followed the glance. “He’s looking.”
“He does that.”
“Should you…?”
“No.”
“He’s your brother.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re just ignoring him?”
“It builds character.”
Petunia bit her lip.
Regulus poured pumpkin juice into her goblet.
She watched the orange liquid stream from the silver jug and tried to look less impressed than she felt.
“So,” he said, “you’re a Muggle.”
Petunia stiffened.
There it was.
The word Lily used sometimes, casually now. Muggle. A person without magic. A person outside. A person who could stand in the same room as wonder and never belong to it.
“Yes,” she said, cool again. “I am.”
Regulus’s eyes sharpened, but not unkindly.
“I’ve never properly spoken to one before.”
Petunia blinked.
“What, ever?”
“Not beyond shopkeepers in London, and even then my parents usually handled things.”
“You’ve never spoken to someone without magic?”
“No.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m beginning to suspect so.”
“You live in Britain.”
“I live in a very specific part of it.”
Petunia snorted. “A posh part?”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“Lying would be gauche.”
She laughed despite herself.
Regulus leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. “May I ask you questions?”
“About being Muggle?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like you’re studying me.”
“I suppose I am.”
Petunia should have bristled. Usually, she hated feeling examined.
But Regulus did not look at her like she was a curiosity in a jar. He looked at her like she was a book he had found in a hidden shelf, one he had not known existed and now wanted very badly to read properly.
“What sort of questions?” she asked.
“Any you’ll allow.”
“That’s vague.”
“I didn’t want to begin with a list and appear deranged.”
“You have a list?”
“Mentally.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s organised by category.”
Petunia put the toast down. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You made categories?”
“Technology, schooling, social customs, transport, domestic routines, entertainment, sport, clothing, idioms, food preservation—”
“Food preservation?”
“I’ve heard refrigerators hum.”
Petunia stared.
Regulus stared back with perfect seriousness.
Then Petunia burst out laughing so hard that a witch three seats away turned around.
Regulus looked faintly offended. “I don’t see what’s funny.”
“You’ve heard refrigerators hum,” Petunia repeated, helpless.
“Yes.”
“You sound like an explorer describing a jungle animal.”
“I am trying to be accurate.”
“It’s a fridge.”
“I know what it is.”
“Do you?”
“It keeps food cold.”
“And hums.”
“Apparently.”
Petunia laughed again, and this time Regulus gave in. His smile appeared properly, small but real, and it changed his whole face. The severity remained, but light slipped through it. He looked younger suddenly. Still polished, still beautiful in that aggravating way, but not untouchable.
Petunia felt something inside her preen.
She had made him smile.
Her.
Not Lily.
Not magic.
Petunia.
“What do you want to know first?” she asked, lifting her chin.
Regulus folded his hands neatly on the table. “School.”
Petunia made a face. “Mine’s awful.”
“That is information.”
“It’s not like this.”
“Few things are.”
“We don’t have houses. Or robes. Or ceilings that lie about the weather.”
“I wouldn’t say the ceiling lies. It interprets.”
“That’s worse.”
Regulus looked amused. “What do you have?”
“Uniforms. Bad ones. Grey skirts, blazers, ties. Classrooms that smell like damp and chalk. Teachers who shout more than they teach. A gym hall with peeling lines on the floor. A field that turns into mud the moment it rains.”
“And you still do well?”
Petunia paused.
“What?”
“You said earlier that you try hard,” he said. “Do you do well?”
She picked at the edge of her toast.
“Yes.”
“How well?”
Petunia hesitated.
“Top sets,” she said, trying for indifference. “Usually high marks. Especially English. And history. I’m good at composition. Teachers say I’m neat.”
“Neat?”
“Yes.”
“That seems like a dull compliment.”
“It is.”
“What should they say?”
Petunia looked at him.
Nobody had ever asked that either.
“I don’t know.”
“You must.”
“I…” She frowned at her plate. “That I’m disciplined, maybe. That I work hard. That I’m not just tidy. Tidy is what adults say when they can’t think of anything interesting.”
Regulus nodded.
“You’re disciplined,” he said. “And perceptive. And sharp.”
Petunia’s eyes flew to his.
He looked completely serious.
“You don’t know that.”
“I have evidence.”
“You’ve known me ten minutes.”
“Nine, perhaps.”
“That’s worse.”
“I’m efficient.”
Petunia’s smile pulled at her mouth before she could stop it.
“You are the strangest boy I’ve ever met.”
“I’m choosing to receive that as praise.”
“It might be.”
“Then thank you.”
She ate her toast to give herself something to do.
Regulus waited, then asked, “What do you do outside lessons?”
“Read.”
“I assumed.”
“Revise.”
“Also assumed.”
“Help at home.”
His gaze flicked over her face.
“And?”
Petunia lifted one shoulder. “Sports. Dance.”
Regulus went still with sudden interest. “Sports?”
That reaction pleased her so much she nearly sat up straighter.
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Netball mostly. Some athletics when they need people. And dance team.”
Regulus turned fully towards her.
Petunia could not help it.
She preened.
Only a little.
“What?” she asked.
“You compete?”
“Sometimes.”
“In both?”
“Yes.”
“What position?”
“In netball? Goal defence, usually. Sometimes wing defence.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Explain.”
There it was again.
Not perform. Not prove. Not justify.
Explain.
As if she knew something he didn’t.
As if that mattered.
Petunia leaned forward despite herself. “There are seven players. You can only move in certain areas depending on position. Goal defence marks the goal attack, tries to stop them shooting, intercepts passes, works the ball down court.”
Regulus’s eyes brightened. “There are area restrictions?”
“Yes.”
“And passing rules?”
“Yes. You can’t run with the ball. You pivot.”
“Interesting.”
Petunia blinked. “Interesting?”
“Very. It sounds strategic.”
“It is.”
“And unfairly dismissed?”
“Constantly,” Petunia said at once. “Boys act like it’s easy because it’s not football, but they wouldn’t last five minutes. It’s fast and you have to think and move and watch everyone. And if you’re defending properly, you can’t just wave your arms about. You have to read where someone wants the ball before they know they want it.”
Regulus leaned closer. “That’s exactly like Seeking.”
Petunia paused. “Quidditch?”
“Yes.”
“Lily mentioned that. You fly on brooms.”
“We do.”
“That’s mad.”
“It feels less mad when you’re doing it.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’m Slytherin’s Seeker,” he said. Not proudly exactly, but with a quiet, contained certainty. “The Seeker catches the Snitch. Small gold ball. Very fast. Ends the match. Usually wins it.”
Petunia frowned. “Usually?”
“If your team is far behind, it complicates things.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“It is.”
“You like it?”
“I love it.”
The words were simple. Clear. No polish, no cleverness.
Petunia liked that too.
Regulus looked briefly past her, somewhere beyond the hall. “It’s rules and instinct at once. There’s structure, but inside it everything is speed. You have to understand the pattern of the game while ignoring most of it. Everyone watches the Quaffle. The Bludgers. The scoring. The noise. But the Snitch is elsewhere, sometimes where nobody thinks to look.”
Petunia held her breath.
He sounded different talking about it. Still precise, still composed, but lit from beneath.
“And you find it?” she asked.
“I try.”
“Are you good?”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Yes.”
The blunt answer should have seemed arrogant.
It didn’t.
Petunia smiled slowly. “I’m good too.”
“At netball?”
“And dance.”
“What kind of dance?”
“School team mostly does whatever they tell us for competitions. Jazz sometimes. Contemporary if the teacher wants to seem cultured. Some ballroom basics last term, though the boys were hopeless.”
Regulus’s mouth twitched. “Tragic.”
“You’ve no idea. One of them counted aloud the entire time and still stepped on my foot.”
“Unforgivable.”
“Is that a spell?”
“Yes.”
Petunia froze.
Regulus’s expression remained perfectly mild.
She narrowed her eyes. “Was that a joke?”
“Yes.”
“You made a magic joke.”
“I did.”
“You’re getting very bold.”
“I was inspired.”
Petunia laughed again.
For a little while, they talked as though the Great Hall had shrunk around them.
He asked about trains that did not run by magic. She explained timetables, delays, ticket inspectors, and the strange misery of a crowded morning carriage. He asked about telephones, and she tried to describe the rotary one at a neighbour’s house without making it sound impressive, then found herself making it sound impressive anyway because Regulus listened as though wires and voices through walls were every bit as fascinating as charms.
He asked what supermarkets were like.
Petunia asked if he had seriously never been in one.
He admitted he had not.
She described aisles of tins, the cold section, the smell of floor polish, the way people inspected fruit, the terrible fluorescent lighting.
Regulus looked enthralled.
“You’re very easy to impress,” she said.
“I’m very difficult to impress,” he replied. “You’re simply succeeding.”
Petunia nearly dropped her goblet.
Then he asked about dance competitions, and everything inside her unfolded at once.
She told him about the school hall being too cold during rehearsals, about the teacher clapping counts until everyone wanted to scream, about sewing loose sequins back onto costumes, about hairspray, about cheap lipstick, about the thrill of getting a routine right all at the same time. She told him about the one time she had been placed in the centre for the final formation, and how her mother had said well done but Lily had accidentally turned the kitchen curtains blue that same evening, so the conversation had moved on before pudding.
Regulus’s expression went very still.
Petunia realised what she had said.
She looked down.
“I sound awful.”
“No,” he said.
“I do.”
“You sound tired.”
That was worse.
Petunia blinked hard, angry at herself.
Regulus shifted slightly, creating a barrier between her and the rest of the hall with nothing more than the angle of his body.
“Once,” he said, “I caught the Snitch in under four minutes.”
Petunia looked up.
“It was against Hufflepuff,” he continued. “Not a difficult match, perhaps, but still. Four minutes. My fastest catch. I landed and looked over at the stands, and my mother was clapping, and my father looked pleased. Then Sirius fell off a bench.”
Petunia’s lips parted.
“He what?”
“Not badly. He was celebrating some ridiculous Gryffindor thing while pretending not to watch my match. But he made it dramatic.”
“He does seem the type.”
“The entire conversation afterwards was about Sirius falling off the bench.”
Petunia stared at him.
Regulus looked at his hands.
“I know they were proud,” he said. “I know they saw. But the story became Sirius. It often does.”
Petunia’s chest ached in an unfamiliar way.
“That’s rotten,” she said fiercely.
His eyes flicked up.
“It was a little funny,” he allowed.
“That doesn’t make it less rotten.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Not awkward silence. Something gentler. Something shared.
Petunia glanced across the hall.
Her parents were still with Lily. Lily was introducing them to someone now, gesturing towards the Gryffindor table. Petunia saw her mother laugh. Saw her father look amazed at something Lily said.
The old familiar anger returned, but it had changed texture. It no longer filled the whole room. It sat beside something else now.
Regulus followed her gaze again.
“Do you want them to notice you?” he asked.
Petunia gave him a sharp look. “Obviously.”
“I mean right now.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Right now, her parents would look over and see her sitting at the Slytherin table with a boy in fine black robes who treated her as if she were worth escorting, worth listening to, worth pouring juice for. They would ask questions. Lily would ask questions. Petunia would become part of Lily’s story again. Lily’s Muggle sister meets mysterious magical boy. Lily’s family has a moment. Lily, Lily, Lily.
Petunia looked back at Regulus.
“No,” she said, surprising herself. “Not yet.”
Regulus nodded once, as though this was exactly the answer he expected and respected.
The enchanted schedule cards fluttered overhead again. One landed near Regulus’s plate. He picked it up and read it.
“Activities begin soon,” he said.
Petunia’s stomach sank.
Of course.
The day.
The whole hideous day of being dragged around beside Lily, watching her shine.
“What first?” Petunia asked flatly.
“Family games on the grounds. The first organised event begins in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?”
“Yes.”
Petunia looked up.
Regulus looked at her.
The space between them brightened with possibility.
“Are guests allowed to walk around before then?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Without their families?”
His mouth curved.
“Yes.”
Petunia tried not to smile too quickly.
Regulus set the card down. “Would you like to see the castle?”
She sat very still.
“What?”
“The castle,” he said. “You said Lily gets a castle. She does. But she doesn’t own the view of it.”
Petunia’s throat tightened.
He stood and, with impossible smoothness, offered his hand again.
“I can give you a tour,” he said. “Only the safer parts, unless you have a reckless streak you’ve hidden from me.”
“I’m very sensible.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was a warning.”
“To me or the castle?”
“Both.”
His smile deepened.
Petunia stood, smoothing her skirt with one hand, trying not to seem too eager.
Regulus drew her chair back for her again.
“Stop that,” she said under her breath.
“Stop what?”
“Acting like a gentleman in a novel.”
“I’m not acting.”
“That’s worse.”
“For whom?”
“For my dignity.”
“I’ll endeavour to damage it tastefully.”
Petunia pressed her lips together, but the giggle came anyway, high and pleased and mortifying.
Regulus offered his arm this time.
His arm.
Petunia stared at it.
There was simply no justice in the world. None. It was entirely unreasonable that Lily got magic and Petunia got overlooked for years and then, on the very day designed to humiliate her, a short, severe, beautiful young lord with star-bright eyes and a rich boy’s manners appeared beside her and asked her opinion on Wilkie Collins.
This was exactly like one of her books.
Worse.
It was better, because it was happening to her.
Petunia placed her hand lightly on his arm.
Regulus glanced down at her fingers, then up at her face. “Ready?”
She lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
He led her from the table.
People stared now.
Petunia saw them noticing. Students. Parents. A few older siblings. A cluster of Slytherins. Someone at the Gryffindor table turned. Lily’s head lifted suddenly as if she had sensed a shift in the room, but Petunia did not look properly. Not yet. She saw only the edge of Lily’s red hair, the turn of her mother’s shoulder, the start of attention finally swinging too late in Petunia’s direction.
Regulus did not hurry.
That made it better.
He walked her down the aisle as if she were not someone being smuggled away from awkwardness, but someone being escorted because she ought to be escorted. Because her hand belonged on an arm and her steps deserved patience. Because the hall could stare if it liked.
At the doors, Petunia risked one glance back.
Her mother had noticed.
Her father too.
Lily stood between them, expression startled.
Sirius Black had turned fully now, eyebrows high, looking from Regulus to Petunia with open fascination. James Potter beside him seemed to be trying to work out whether this was gossip, danger, or entertainment. Peter Pettigrew looked as if Christmas had arrived early. Remus Lupin watched more quietly, eyes thoughtful. Mary Macdonald and Marlene McKinnon were whispering behind their hands. Alice Fortescue had gone still. Frank Longbottom had leaned slightly to see around someone. Fabian and Gideon Prewett wore matching expressions of delighted impending chaos.
Farther back, Barty Crouch Jr. looked like he might burst from the effort of not reacting aloud. Evan Rosier was smirking faintly. Pandora Rosier was no longer looking at whatever contraption she had brought to breakfast. Dorcas Meadowes had one eyebrow raised, sharp and assessing.
Petunia turned forward before any of them could become real enough to matter.
Regulus noticed.
“Too much?”
“No,” she said. “Just enough.”
The doors opened before them, and the entrance hall beyond was cooler, quieter, vast in a different way. Sunlight poured through high windows and struck the stone floor in long pale bars. The great marble staircase rose ahead, grand and impossible, with portraits lining the walls and suits of armour standing in patient rows.
Petunia stopped despite herself.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Regulus did not speak at once.
She appreciated that.
The Hall had been overwhelming because it was full of people watching Lily be magical. This was different. This was the castle itself. Stone and height and old light. The air smelled faintly of wax, dust, parchment, and something green she couldn’t name. Somewhere far above them, a door closed. A portrait muttered. The staircase shifted with a low groan, moving like something alive.
Petunia grabbed Regulus’s arm tighter.
His free hand came up, hovering near hers without quite covering it.
“They do that.”
“The stairs move,” she said.
“Yes.”
“While people are on them?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s horrifically unsafe.”
“Only if you’re inattentive.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No,” Regulus said. “But it is true.”
Petunia stared as the staircase locked into a new position.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
“It’s magnificent,” she admitted.
Regulus’s gaze flicked to her face. “Yes.”
Something in his tone made her look at him.
He was not looking at the staircase.
Petunia’s stomach performed another stupid little swoop.
She looked away quickly. “Where first?”
He seemed to take mercy on her. “The main corridors. Then perhaps the library entrance, if you’d like to see it. The moving staircases from a safe landing. The trophy room, possibly. The courtyard. Then I’ll escort you to the grounds before the activities begin.”
“Escort,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“You really do talk like that.”
“I warned you I was formal.”
“You did.”
“Would you prefer I stop?”
Petunia thought of boys at school saying move, Evans, or oi, horse-face, or laughing when she carried too many books. She thought of teachers saying tidy work, Petunia, with eyes already sliding past her. She thought of Lily’s world opening like a flower while Petunia stood outside the garden gate.
Then she looked at Regulus Black, who had asked her about her book and her school and her sport and her opinions as if every answer were worth keeping.
“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”
A quiet satisfaction settled over his face.
“Then come along, Miss Evans.”
Petunia nearly died on the spot.
Miss Evans.
Miss Evans.
Not Lily’s sister.
Not Tuney.
Not you.
Miss Evans, said like she was a lady in a story who might receive letters sealed with wax and walk through gardens at dusk and be chosen, distinctly, by someone with a title and a tragic name.
She followed him.
The first corridor seemed to stretch forever. Portraits turned as they passed, whispering behind painted hands. A plump knight in one frame bowed to Petunia, making her nearly trip. Regulus steadied her at once.
“Did he bow?” she hissed.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re with me.”
Petunia shot him a look. “Does everyone bow to you?”
“No.”
“Do some people bow to you?”
“Occasionally.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It would be rude not to return it.”
“You return bows?”
“When appropriate.”
“Show me.”
Regulus blinked. “What?”
“Show me.”
“In the corridor?”
“Yes.”
“That seems unnecessary.”
“I want to see.”
“You are very demanding.”
“I’ve been ignored all morning. I’m making up for it.”
Regulus looked at her for a moment.
Then he stepped back.
It was not a deep bow, not theatrical, not silly. Just a perfect formal inclination, one hand briefly at his middle, his dark head dipping, the blond streak in his fringe catching the corridor light.
Petunia forgot language.
Regulus straightened.
“Well?”
She stared at him, face burning.
“That was acceptable,” she managed.
“High praise.”
“I didn’t say high.”
“You implied it by turning red.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It’s a stone corridor in Scotland.”
“I’m wearing a coat.”
“Of course.”
He turned, and Petunia saw the smile he was trying to hide.
“You’re insufferable,” she said.
“I’ve heard.”
They continued walking.
Regulus showed her the hourglasses where house points glittered in gemstones. He explained the houses without making any of them sound heroic, which Petunia appreciated. Gryffindor sounded exhausting. Ravenclaw sounded competitive in a way that pretended to be intellectual. Hufflepuff sounded kinder than Petunia expected. Slytherin sounded complicated, though Regulus spoke of it with careful affection.
He pointed out a tapestry that concealed a shortcut, though he did not take it because “guests should not be introduced to architectural deceit too quickly.” He warned her not to trust any door that seemed too eager. He introduced her to a portrait of a woman in green who inspected Petunia’s coat, pronounced the cut “unambitious but honest,” and then asked Regulus whether his mother had approved the fall of his robes that morning.
Petunia clapped a hand over her mouth.
Regulus looked long-suffering.
“Portraits have no discretion,” he said.
“Good,” Petunia said. “That was wonderful.”
“Traitor.”
“I thought you liked honesty.”
“In moderation.”
They passed a window overlooking the grounds. The lawns rolled out below, impossibly green, sloping towards the lake where sunlight glittered like broken glass. Small figures moved across the grass, professors arranging tables and hoops and banners for the day’s activities. A cluster of visiting families had already spilled outside, children pointing towards the distant forest.
Petunia leaned close to the glass.
“That’s the lake?”
“Yes.”
“It’s huge.”
“There’s a squid.”
She turned slowly. “A what?”
“Giant squid.”
“In the school lake?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never asked.”
“How have you never asked?”
“It seemed established by the time I arrived.”
Petunia stared.
Regulus looked back.
Then both of them laughed, soft and sudden in the empty corridor.
At the library entrance, Petunia stopped again.
The doors were enormous.
Of course they were.
Everything in this castle was enormous except the boy escorting her through it, and even he seemed grand by force of will.
Regulus pushed one door open just enough for her to look in.
Rows and rows of shelves stretched beyond, vanishing into warm gloom. Ladders leaned against towering bookcases. Lamps glowed on long tables. The air smelled like paper and dust and ink, old and rich and deep.
Petunia’s hand tightened on his arm.
Regulus glanced at her. “Do you want to go in?”
“I’m allowed?”
“Yes, if you don’t touch anything restricted.”
“How would I know if it was restricted?”
“It may scream.”
She looked at him.
He looked innocent.
“You’re joking.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The library is temperamental.”
Petunia took one careful step inside.
The hush wrapped around her.
For a moment, she forgot to be angry. She forgot Lily, her parents, Cokeworth, cracked windows, ugly uniforms, the dull ache of never being the one people turned towards first. She thought only of books. More books than she had ever seen in one place. Books with brass clasps and faded spines and titles stamped in languages she did not know. Books that might open into worlds Lily understood and Petunia did not.
The thought hurt.
Then Regulus said, “The Muggle literature section is poor.”
Petunia turned. “There’s a Muggle literature section?”
“A small one.”
“Poor how?”
“Underdeveloped. Predictable selections. Too much Dickens, not enough nuance.”
Petunia’s eyes widened. “You’re judging a magic library for not having enough Muggle novels?”
“Yes.”
“That’s…”
“What?”
She smiled helplessly. “Wonderful.”
Regulus looked away first that time.
Petunia saw the faint colour in his cheeks and felt victorious.
They did not stay long. Regulus said he would not risk losing track of time in a library when he had promised to deliver her to the grounds for activities, and Petunia, who privately could have lost several years in there and considered it a fair exchange, allowed herself to be guided back out.
They climbed one safe flight of stairs and watched another move from a landing where Regulus assured her they were in no danger unless the castle took personal offence.
“Does it do that?” Petunia asked.
“Not often.”
“But sometimes.”
“Rarely.”
“That means yes.”
“It means don’t insult the stonework.”
Petunia looked around and said, very clearly, “Lovely stonework.”
A portrait nearby applauded.
Regulus shut his eyes briefly.
Petunia beamed.
In the trophy room, she expected Quidditch cups and found them, gleaming behind glass. Regulus pointed out school awards, house records, old plaques engraved with names that meant nothing to her and everything to the castle.
Then he showed her a small silver shield with his own name on it.
Petunia stepped closer.
Regulus Arcturus Black.
Slytherin Seeker.
Fastest Snitch Capture, Inter-House Match.
Four minutes and seventeen seconds.
Petunia turned to him slowly.
“You said under four minutes.”
Regulus looked at the plaque.
Then at her.
“I rounded down.”
“That is not rounding. That is lying.”
“It felt under four minutes.”
“You fraud.”
“It was emotionally under four minutes.”
Petunia laughed so loudly it echoed off the glass cases.
Regulus’s mouth curved.
“You should be proud of it,” she said.
“I am.”
“Good.”
He looked at the plaque again, and for one brief second something quiet and unguarded crossed his face.
Petunia recognised it.
The desire for someone to look and not look away.
So she looked.
She read his name again.
Regulus Arcturus Black.
“Arcturus too?” she asked.
“A family name.”
“Another star?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
“My family enjoys a theme.”
“Clearly.”
“Do you dislike it?”
“No,” Petunia said. “It’s beautiful.”
Regulus went very still.
Petunia realised, too late, that she had said it softly.
Not the name.
Not only the name.
His eyes met hers.
The trophy room seemed suddenly too quiet.
Then somewhere outside, a gong sounded, deep and resonant, rolling through the corridors.
Petunia jumped.
Regulus’s expression returned to composure, though his ears had gone slightly pink.
“Warning bell,” he said. “Activities begin in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh.”
“We should go down.”
“Yes.”
Neither of them moved for half a second.
Then Regulus offered his arm again.
Petunia took it.
They walked back more slowly than necessary.
Petunia knew it. Regulus knew it. Neither mentioned it.
By the time they reached the entrance hall, more families were drifting out towards the grounds. The castle had grown louder again, full of footsteps and chatter, siblings arguing, parents marvelling, students pretending not to be embarrassed by relatives who insisted on touching everything.
Near the Great Hall doors, Lily emerged into view.
Petunia’s steps faltered.
Her parents saw her at once.
Her mother’s face shifted through relief, confusion, and something like guilt. Her father looked from Petunia to Regulus, then down to Petunia’s hand on his arm. Lily stood between them, green eyes wide, her expression unreadable in a way Petunia was not used to seeing on her sister.
Petunia’s first instinct was to pull away.
To drop Regulus’s arm, flatten herself back into the proper shape, become sensible and plain and secondary before anyone could accuse her of trying to be otherwise.
Regulus’s arm remained steady beneath her hand.
He did not hold her there.
He simply gave her something solid.
Petunia lifted her chin.
Her mother opened her mouth, but no words came quickly enough.
Regulus bowed.
Not as he had in the corridor for Petunia’s amusement. This was smaller, smoother, directed at her parents with flawless formality.
“Mr and Mrs Evans,” he said, his voice quiet and clear. “Regulus Black. Your daughter has allowed me the pleasure of showing her a little of the castle.”
Petunia nearly forgot to breathe.
Your daughter.
Not Lily’s sister.
Her mother blinked.
Her father looked startled enough to drop his schedule card.
Lily’s eyes moved to Petunia’s face.
Petunia expected annoyance. Suspicion. Maybe hurt.
Instead, Lily looked uncertain, almost small.
That complicated things.
Petunia did not want them complicated.
She tightened her hand on Regulus’s sleeve by the smallest amount.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“We were just going to the grounds,” Petunia said, before anyone else could claim the moment. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “For the activities.”
Her mother’s gaze flicked over her face. “Petunia, darling, we wondered where you’d gone.”
Petunia stared at her.
The old answer rose to her tongue: I was right behind you.
She did not say it.
Not here.
Not with Regulus beside her.
“I was given a tour,” she said instead.
Her father cleared his throat. “That was kind of you, young man.”
Regulus inclined his head. “It was no trouble.”
Petunia almost laughed. Young man. As if Regulus were not standing there like a miniature duke prepared to negotiate a treaty.
Lily looked at him.
Regulus’s expression did not change.
Petunia could feel it then, the familiar pull of Lily’s world trying to reassert itself. Sirius’s brother. Hogwarts. Magic. Everyone connected to everyone except her.
But Regulus turned his head slightly towards Petunia, making the axis of the conversation shift with him.
“She has been explaining netball to me,” he said.
Lily blinked.
Their mother blinked harder.
Petunia’s father looked at Petunia. “Netball?”
“Yes,” Petunia said.
Her voice sharpened despite herself.
“I play goal defence.”
Her father’s brow furrowed. “Do you?”
The question struck harder than she expected.
Petunia’s mouth tightened.
Regulus spoke before the silence could sour.
“She described the position in some detail,” he said. “It sounds difficult. Highly strategic. I’d be interested to see a match, if one were ever available.”
Petunia stared at him.
Her mother looked at Petunia again, differently this time, as if trying to find the daughter she had misplaced somewhere between Lily’s letter and breakfast.
“You never said,” her mother murmured.
“I did,” Petunia replied.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Her mother’s face folded slightly.
Lily looked down.
Petunia looked away first, because if she kept looking she might feel too much, and feeling too much in public was messy.
Regulus gave the tiniest shift of his arm.
A question without words.
Are you all right?
Petunia inhaled.
Then she smiled.
Small. Sharp. Hers.
“We should go,” she said.
Her father nodded too quickly. “Yes. Of course. We’ll all—”
“I’ll walk with Regulus,” Petunia said.
Silence.
It was not defiance exactly.
It was not rebellion.
It was a door opening.
Her mother’s eyes moved to Regulus, then back to Petunia. “All right, darling.”
Darling.
Petunia almost flinched at it.
Regulus bowed again, and this time Petunia knew exactly how much of it was performance.
“Miss Evans,” he said, turning slightly, “shall we?”
Miss Evans.
In front of them.
Petunia’s spine went straight.
“We shall.”
They walked out into the morning.
Behind them, the castle murmured. Ahead, the grounds spread wide beneath the pale Scottish sun. Families gathered near coloured banners. Professors directed students into groups. Somewhere near the Gryffindor cluster, Sirius Black was still visibly staring, while James Potter seemed delighted by the drama of it all. Peter Pettigrew looked like he was storing the entire scene for later. Remus Lupin had one hand over his mouth, possibly hiding a smile. Mary Macdonald, Marlene McKinnon, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, Fabian Prewett, and Gideon Prewett were all woven into the lively chaos of relatives and housemates. Near the edge of the Slytherin group, Barty Crouch Jr., Evan Rosier, Pandora Rosier, and Dorcas Meadowes watched Regulus and Petunia with varying degrees of curiosity, amusement, and calculation.
Petunia barely cared.
For once, people were looking at her.
Not because Lily had done something magical.
Not because Petunia had made a scene.
Because she was walking across the grounds on the arm of Regulus Black, who had listened to her talk about books and school and dance and netball as though she were not the shadow beside someone else’s light, but a person standing in her own.
The grass was damp beneath her shoes.
The sky above was wide.
Regulus slowed as they reached the edge of the gathered families.
“Do you regret coming?” he asked quietly.
Petunia looked at the castle. At the towers. At the windows flashing gold. At Lily and her parents somewhere behind them, finally aware of the space Petunia had been occupying all along.
Then she looked at Regulus.
His face was composed again, but his eyes were careful.
Petunia smiled, and this time she did not hide a single inch of it.
“Not anymore.”
Regulus’s mouth softened.
“I’m glad.”
A whistle blew somewhere across the lawn. A professor called for families to begin gathering by house groups for the first challenge. The day surged forward around them, bright and loud and ridiculous.
Petunia did not move at once.
Neither did Regulus.
For a moment, before games and parents and siblings and magic could rush in and make demands, they stood together at the edge of everything.
The eldest daughter and the spare son.
The overlooked girl and the little king.
Not quite rescued.
Not quite understood by anyone else yet.
But seen.
And for that morning, in a castle that did not belong to her, Petunia Evans decided that would do very nicely indeed.