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Chapter Text

The sky above Hogsmeade hadn’t been blue in years. Not truly. Just a choking ceiling of black smoke and cinders, sagging low like decay in a forgotten grave. Ash fell like snow, slow and mocking, and the air reeked of burnt wood, scorched  flesh, and something deeper, older, something that didn’t just sting the nose, but settled into the soul.

Resignation. Not the quiet kind that comes with surrender, but the rotting kind that festers when hope dies screaming.

The village lay broken. Ruined rooftops yawned open like shattered teeth, chimneys crumbled into the dirt, and the cobbled streets ran slick with the filth of war. Soot, blood, bile. The village had once been alive. Now it was a carcass cooling in the dusk.

No one spoke when they arrived. What words were left?

James Potter hit the stones like a corpse dropped from height. His palms scraped raw, his lungs clawed at the filth in the air. Beside him, Peter Pettigrew landed in a graceless sprawl, wand limp in a hand that shook too much to be useful. His eyes darted like a cornered rat's.

The sound of their Apparition echoed sharp and hollow, like a bell tolling across a field of unmarked graves.

Then came another crack—louder, more violent. Sirius Black tore into the square in a rush of air and noise, half-wild and bleeding. His mouth dripped red while his eyes were rabid, crazed. A dog too long starved, too long chained. Behind him stumbled Remus Lupin, or what was left of him, staggering on a ruined leg. His face was a ruin, his breath ragged. He caught Sirius by the shoulder just before he could break into a run towards his imminent death.

Then, the girls arrived.

Lily Evans appeared with Mary Macdonald clutched tight, as if bracing against the next blow. Lily’s face was streaked with blood and dirt, and her hair looked burned. Mary’s eye was swollen nearly shut, her lip split, one hand twisted at an angle no hand should bend.

Behind them, Marlene, Emmeline, and Dorcas were dropped into the square, all silent and still. Not a tear among them. They had been emptied out days ago.

And then the others emerged with a loud crack.

Mulciber stumbled into view first, limping heavily, but still wearing the crooked smirk of a man too arrogant to die properly. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, and his ankle jutted out at an unnatural angle, but he held his head high—like pride could outrun pain.

Behind him followed Avery, soaked in blood and twitching with something too fast, too erratic to be called fear. His eyes gleamed, too wide, too bright, and his grin stretched across his face like a tear in fabric. A man grinning not in triumph, but in collapse. A man whose thoughts had already broken.

Evan Rosier moved like a ghost. Purple handprints ringed his throat, dark against the pale skin, and his gaze drifted through the air like it no longer remembered how to land. There was something hollow in his silence, as if whatever had been inside him had slipped out and forgotten to return.

Then came Barty Crouch Jr., a torn animal wrapped in shredded robes. His face was sliced open, but he grinned.

That smile didn’t belong to this world. It didn’t belong anywhere clean, or sane, or whole. It belonged to the kind of story whispered too late at night, the kind that keeps children awake. It knew things. It had seen too much. It had enjoyed it.

And then he saw Evan.

In an instant, Barty closed the distance between them. He crossed the broken square in a sprint, boots splashing through soot and blood, and grabbed Evan by the shoulders with the urgency of someone holding onto the last piece of reality he could still name. Only then did Evan blink, as though waking from a nightmare, and finally remembering he wasn't alone.

Severus Snape was last. He didn’t explode into the square like the others. He slid into it, silent as breath, folding into the broken gathering like a shadow returning to its host. His face was unreadable, but his body betrayed him. His posture was rigid. His steps, uneven. Every inch of him ached, even in silence.

They didn’t come as captors. 

They were survivors, like the rest of them. Slytherins who had danced too long on the knife’s edge, now bleeding for the same cause they'd once doubted. Fractured creatures that had once stood on opposite sides and now bled in the same dirt.

They were arranged like offerings, like meat laid out on stone, stripped of cause, stripped of belief. Their victory had been a lie. Their rebellion was slaughtered. The ground beneath them was cold and indifferent.

James stood first. Slowly. His joints cracked as he straightened, the sound brittle—like old wood warping in the cold. He didn’t groan. He didn’t sigh. Just rose slowly, as if the weight of the war was still pressing down on each vertebra. The others watched him with hollow eyes—the kind that had forgotten how to blink. The kind that had buried too much and survived too long.

No one asked what came next.

Because there was no next. No redemption waiting at the end of the road. No reckoning to balance the scales. Just more sky the color of ash, and breath that still burned when it entered the lungs. Survival was no longer an act of defiance. It was just inertia.

Then another crack split the square—louder, sharper, cruel.

It didn’t sound like Apparition. It sounded like the world snapping a bone.

And then a body was hurled into the square like refuse spat from the mouth of the war itself. He didn’t fall. He was dropped—knees first onto stone with a sound that wasn’t human. A sharp, wet crunch, followed by a raw, strangled gasp torn from a throat too ruined to scream properly. It was the sound an animal makes when death finally finds it.

He didn’t rise. His shoulders curled inward, not in fear, but in collapse, bones folding under the weight of too much. One hand trembled beneath him, elbow locked and quivering, the other scraped uselessly across the stone, fingers torn open to the bone.

His hair was a matted snarl of gore and dirt, plastered to his skull in tangled clumps. His skin was corpse-pale, tinged with the sickly blue of cold and blood loss. Starved not just of food or rest, but of self. Of identity. Of name.

His clothes, if they could still be called that, hung in tatters. His ribs jutted out like blades beneath bruised skin, every breath carving him deeper. His wrists told the story of his capture: deep, purpling bruises in the shape of hands. Not restraints. Hands.

Whoever he was, he hadn’t gone quietly.

That truth was written in the faces of those who brought him. One captor clutched at a torn ear, blood leaking in thin trails down his neck. Another cradled an arm so deeply gouged the bone might have shown through. A third dragged one foot behind him, limping with a shattered knee and a bite mark to the hand.

Whoever this boy was, had made them bleed. He had fought like a creature with nothing left to lose, and nothing left to fear.

He pushed himself from the dirt and rose, straightening his back in an attempt to gather what was left of his dignity. His lips were split and bruised, but his eyes—his eyes—

They were Regulus’.

Still that deep, unnatural green. Still, that stare sharp enough to gut a God. He lifted his face through the blood and bile, through the ruin and wreckage, and found them—the others—watching across the square.

And there was nothing soft in him.

No trace of youth. No trace of the boy they had once seen in hallways and common rooms and Quidditch stands. What stared back at them wasn’t a boy at all. It was something reforged in fire. Something that had walked through death and come back.

James Potter forgot how to breathe.

Sirius didn’t. He inhaled, sharp and feral, and the sound he made was more animal than human. In a blur of motion, he tore forward with a scream that scraped the bones of every living thing still standing:

“YOU TRAITOROUS FUCK—!”

He flew at Regulus like a man possessed, blind with grief, blind with fury, blind with five years of mourning turned suddenly, violently inside out.

Remus caught him just in time. His arms wrapped around Sirius’s chest like chains forged out of desperation, not strength. But it wasn’t enough.

Sirius thrashed. He bucked and clawed and howled, grief erupting out of him in a torrent too large for his body to contain. 

“YOU!”

The square trembled under the violence in his voice.

“You lied to us!”

It wasn’t just fury, but what five years of lies did to a person. Five years of questions unanswered. A thousand reasons to hate, all condensed into the face of his brother.

Regulus didn’t flinch. He looked at him like he was just another stranger.

“Let me go, Moony!” Sirius hissed through his teeth, “I’ll fucking tear him apart!”

Remus held tighter, arms shaking, jaw clenched. He didn’t speak softly. There was no room left for softness.

“You’ll die if you try.”

And that stopped Sirius more than the grip. His chest heaved. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. A hundred things tried to claw their way out and died on the back of his tongue.

He stared at Regulus, trembling, boiling over, staring not at the boy he’d known but at the corpse of the man he’d once mourned.

And still, Regulus said nothing. 

His silence was a scream in reverse. A thunderous, soul-crushing absence that echoed louder than Sirius’s cries. Blood dripped steadily from his fingers. His fingernails were shattered, his knuckles scraped raw. His body had survived, but his soul? Gone.

From the rubble, Barty and Evan reached him. They didn’t speak, didn’t ask, didn’t plead. They only steadied him as he swayed, two shadows bracing the third before he could fall.

Above them, the sky darkened to a bruised purple, clouds sagging like torn flesh over a butcher’s slab. 

The village around them was nothing but shadows and crows.

James stepped forward once, and only once.

Regulus looked at him. Met his gaze without fear. Without apology. Without defense.

No hatred. No pride. No plea.

Just that look. Tired, ruined, already gone.

Once, James Potter had burned like the sun—brilliant, golden, and blinding. Now, he stood in the wreckage of that fire, all warmth extinguished. Cold cinders drifting in a windless world.

Around them, the others stood like statues, trapped between what they used to be and what they could never become.

The war was over.

But the nightmare—

The nightmare had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Part I – The Labours

If someone had asked Regulus five years ago, back when he was still holed up in Hogwarts and his biggest fear was his mother’s wand, where he saw himself in the future, he would’ve said something ridiculous. Auror. Unspeakable. Ministry badge gleaming, fat paychecks. A life that made sense.

If someone had asked him five years ago, back when he bunked with three other boys in the dungeons, where he saw himself in the future, he would’ve said a huge, airy flat. Something that did not resemble at all the mausoleum that Grimmauld Palace was.

If someone asked him today where he sees himself in five years, he’d say hopefully alive.

Because there were no interviews. No salaries. No airy manors. No bright future waiting just beyond the castle walls. Only perfect lies and the ruins they left behind.

No late night drinking sessions with friends. Most of them were dead anyway. Died so early, so brutally, that half his memories were a mangled wreckage now. He couldn’t tell anymore where one ended and the next began.

They say memories warp over time, but nobody told him they could rot.

He used to dream about a house with a greenhouse and tall windows, with spells to keep the light shining even through the blackest winters. Anything to escape the cold green gloom of the dungeons or the terrors of his house.

He got the open skies he wished for, just not the way he imagined. Now, there was nothing but mud under his body, blood soaking into his clothes, and cold wind carving into his skin. One tends to get used to it eventually.

Despite the mask he was forced to keep around his family, he used to believe Voldemort would lose. That the Order would win. That good would triumph, because that’s how the stories go.

They lied.

Dumbledore died. Then McGonagall. Then the Aurors, dropping one after another like gutted flies.

They didn’t just kill them — they paraded them. Hauled their bodies into the courtyard like trophies. Turned death into a carnival.

The day they dragged Moody in, Lily fainted. Even Sirius gagged. Regulus just stood there, memorizing each twisted face the way he used to memorize potion ingredients. Cold and precise.

He used to think war was something they could survive.

He used to think there was a life waiting for all of them on the other side.

He used to believe in faith. In luck. In destiny.

Turned out, all those things were just fairy tales they told themselves to survive the night.

And in this place, in this graveyard they started calling home, fairy tales were worth less than dirt.

Hogwarts wasn’t a school anymore. It was a slaughterhouse.

The dungeons weren’t dormitories, but cages for rebels waiting to die.

The outskirts of the castle were hunting grounds.

The Forbidden Forest was just another playground for Death Eaters to feed their bloodlust.

The Quidditch pitch, once full of cheers and good memories, now ran red with new horrors — tributes, duels, bloodsport for the highest bidder.

Hogsmeade became their cage.

A crumbling village where the roofs sagged under rot and ash, where every house, every abandoned shop, was crammed with the last scraps of what was once Hogwarts' future. A shantytown of former students, broken families, and half-starved survivors, herded together like livestock waiting for the next slaughter.

They fetched for themselves in the ruins, living off rabbits and squirrels, even deer if they were lucky enough, setting crude traps in the snow-choked woods, skinning them with shaking hands. Some learned to tan hides, some boiled bones for tools.

They built fires in broken hearths, smoked meat in chimneys long choked with soot, and traded scraps of leather or strips of jerky like they were galleons.

The old house rivalries still bled through, even now, even here. Slytherin purebloods sat highest on the carcass of their so-called society. Those who had once refused the Mark, but had been offered "second chances." They were the privileged ones. Sometimes, they were allowed to march back to the castle and feast with the Death Eaters in the Great Hall, returning bloated and smug.

Next came purebloods from the other Houses, their family trees serving as shields.

Then the half-bloods, their fates balancing on the prestige of whichever parent’s bloodline the Death Eaters deemed worthy that day.

And at the bottom, the Muggle-borns.

Despised. Hunted. Bought and sold through whispered promises or desperate alliances. Most of them survived only by forging ties to someone slightly higher on the food chain.

It was survival stripped to the marrow. No comforts, no magic for warmth or mending, only the brutal grind of existence.

Like living in the Dark Ages again, only worse.

They were still allowed their wands, a cruel joke more than a mercy because magic was strictly rationed: spells for survival only, or for 'protection' — their version of it. Even a disarming charm like Expelliarmus was considered a threat, an act of rebellion punishable by death.

So, naturally, they stopped relying on spells.

They learned how to fight with their hands, with daggers fashioned from scrap iron and bone, with whatever violence they could summon from the hollowed places inside themselves.

Steel didn’t require a wand.

Steel didn’t care about blood purity.

Chapter Text

The Marauders had taken over the ruins of Honeydukes thanks to James and the perks of his pureblood name. Sirius was considered a blood traitor, which, in their language, was translated as lower than a Muggle-born. The shop was big enough for each of them to carve out a bedroom, and rumour has it the old cellar had a tunnel connected to Hogwarts.

Lily and the rest of the girls had taken the Magic Neep house, perched stubbornly at the far edge of the village. Clever girls, using the hidden greenhouse to grow what they couldn’t steal or trade.

Regulus took the former Tomes and Scrolls. The place was crooked and cold, half-collapsed in the back, and stank of mildew whenever it rained, but it was quiet. He knew he could’ve made a better use of his name and claim a better house, but he refused to live among the rest of the remaining Slytherins. It was enough that they’d taken the Three Broomsticks and turned it into a monument of desecration, a smug little castle in the centre of a broken town.

Living with Evan and Barty was easy. Evan kept mostly to himself, quiet and sharp-eyed, the kind of presence that didn’t demand space but filled it anyway. Barty was all twitching limbs and too-loud laughter, a mad spark always flickering just behind his eyes, but around Regulus, he softened. Not much. But enough. There was an understanding between the three of them, unspoken but solid: they were the ones who had peeled off from the wreckage. Survivors of the wrong kind. Too dark for the Order, yet too weak for Voldemort.

The Tomes and Scrolls house didn’t have warmth or light or laughter. But it had the illusion of freedom. No masks. No posturing. Just a shared knowledge of the things they’d done, and the even worse things they refused to do. They didn’t ask questions they weren’t ready to answer.

Regulus Black had been disinherited in his seventh year when he faked his death on a rainy November night and slipped away from the Grimmauld Palace. No body, no blood, just a torn cloak in the river and a random wand snapped clean in two. Everyone assumed the worst.

Voldemort’s inner circle called it cowardice.

Sirius called it karma.

The Prophet published a short obituary.

The Blacks didn’t hold a funeral. That silence was the only mourning he ever received.

But Regulus hadn’t disappeared out of fear. His vanishing act had never been about cowardice—it had been a calculated retreat, a descent into the shadows taken with grim, deliberate purpose.

He had always been a curious child, too perceptive for his own safety. And it was that same relentless curiosity that had drawn him, step by step, toward the decay beneath the Dark Lord’s carefully constructed veneer. He had seen too much too early: the rituals spoken in dead tongues, the hushed meetings behind closed doors, the stains of magic that felt wrong. Things Voldemort hid even from his most trusted.

Horcruxes.

The word had only been spoken once—accidentally, in passing. A slip from a mouth that should have known better. But it lodged in his brain like a splinter. It clung to the edges of his thoughts, whispering through his dreams until he could no longer ignore it.

Naturally, he began to look. Not openly, never recklessly—he was a Black, after all. He knew how to move in silence. He combed through forbidden sections of the Hogwarts library, turned dusty pages in his family's private collection, and decoded the superstitions woven into the tapestry of Black blood magic. Each answer only fed the hunger for another, the image becoming clearer and more horrifying with every step.

He learned what Voldemort had done. What he had become.

But knowledge has its cost, and Voldemort did not forgive curiosity, especially not the kind that peeled back his carefully guarded secrets.

So when the first Horcrux was destroyed, and the Dark Lord felt it, Regulus felt the ripple of danger surge toward him.

He had to make a choice: to stay and be devoured, or disappear before the shadows reached him.

And so, with a clarity born not of panic, but of conviction, Regulus vanished.

The years that followed were agony. There was no contact with Sirius. Not that there ever truly had been. Whatever scraps of brotherhood they might’ve shared in childhood had long since crumbled into ash. Now, even that distant thread had been severed entirely. No letters. No memories. Just a hollow space where something human should have lived.

Regulus drifted through the years like a ghost bound to a purpose no one could see. No connection to anything except the cold trail of fragmented magic and half-buried truths. He bribed goblins, bled into runes that hadn’t been touched since the Founders, and chased ghosts through half-collapsed buildings. He chased rumors whispered by dying seers and travelled in the bones of old magic, the kind buried under countless wards.

When he stole the first Horcrux, he didn’t even know that that was the object that he has been looking for. It looked so normal, a simple, golden locket, scuffed around the edges. But it pulsed. Not with magic, but with… something else. Something watching. It whispered in languages no mouth should speak.

When he managed to finally destroy it with fiendfyre, the black smoke gave it away.

He almost burned himself to death in the process. And still, he pressed forward.

If there was one, there had to be others. Voldemort would never entrust eternity to a single artifact. No, the man they followed—the man they feared—would have layered his immortality like a fortress. Like a curse. Killing him would never be as easy as a wand to the chest. Not while fragments of him were still festering in corners of the world, like rot in the beams of a house that still stood.

Until every piece of that fractured soul was ripped from the earth and burned, the war was nothing but a stage play.

So Regulus kept hunting.

Relentless. Starving for progress. Hollowed out by years of chasing threads that frayed the moment he touched them. The world blurred into train stations and portkeys, salt-stained clothes and blood-streaked hands. He followed dead languages through forgotten tombs, bartered secrets from the dying, and kept pushing because he had to. No one else would. No one else could.

It was after Albania, after weeks spent crawling through black marshes and tomb-cursed ruins, that he got the tip. A coded message, passed down through old Order channels, traced to someone who hadn’t spoken his name aloud in years. Something about stashed relics and manuscripts—possibly dark artifacts—hidden in the lower catacombs near Heidelberg. He should’ve seen the trap for what it was. It was too clean. Too precise.

But exhaustion makes even the clever careless.

On his way back, he cut north through the Highlands and stopped in a glen near Loch Ericht—a place he’d used before. Remote. Forgotten. An old stone croft hidden between pine and mist, shielded by old wards. It had always been safe. Until it wasn’t.

He hadn’t known that the snatchers had moved this far north. Locals, mostly. Once neutral, but now quietly aligned with the Death Eaters—their loyalties swaying with the tide of power. They must’ve seen him Apparate in, recognized him from someone’s cursed registry. The Black heir who’d vanished.

By the time the first hour had passed, they had already sent word.

He didn’t even have time to remove his coat, let alone reach for his wand.

They came out of nowhere, all masked and cloaked. Five of them, maybe six, his memory was mangled.

There were no questions, no orders, no demands for surrender.

Just spells.

Sharp. Precise. Cruel.

The first curse snapped his shoulder back. The second ripped the air from his lungs. He reached for his wand—too late. A Disarming Charm struck him across the ribs, sent him crashing into the croft wall with a crunch he didn’t register until later.

But he didn’t go down easy.

Regulus fought. Not with grace. Not like a duelist. But like an animal.

He sank his teeth into someone’s arm and didn’t let go until he tasted blood. He raked his nails across another’s face, deep enough to peel skin. When one of them grabbed him from behind, he twisted and tore—tore—until something wet and round and cartilage-thick came away in his palm. He didn’t know what it was until he heard the screaming.

An ear.

It wasn’t enough.

They bound him, beat him to a pulp, and dropped him into Hogsmeade.

When Walburga found out that he was alive, she begged Voldemort to spare him. Pleaded, even, something she had never done for Sirius. The younger Regulus might have found it touching—a sign that his mother cared, despite everything. But this Regulus had refined his hatred for her into an art form.

Walburga told the Dark Lord that Regulus had been misled, influenced by his traitorous brother, poisoned by the false heroics of Gryffindors and idealists. She insisted he could be saved. That he was still loyal to the cause. That he would correct his course. She had always been like this—fixated on her younger son, carefully shaping him into the perfect Black. And Regulus played the role she gave him... all while biding his time.

Voldemort, ever the tactician, saw the opportunity for what it was. A chance to appear merciful. To show the world, and especially his followers, that he was not only a ruthless leader, but a generous one. One who could recognize potential in even the poor, confused mind of a wayward child. That no mistake was too great if one returned to his feet and bowed deeply enough.

So, Regulus was spared.

Not forgiven. Not trusted. But spared.

He was thrown into the ruins of Hogsmeade not as a traitor or a rebel, but as a penitent pureblood, granted “mercy” by Voldemort’s lieutenants. The story was spun neatly: a misguided youth, a scared boy who ran from the burden of the Black name but came crawling back once he understood its weight. A cautionary tale with a polished ending. They even announced it in the main square, just to make sure the information got through.

Then, she disappeared. No word, no letter, nothing.

Yet Regulus knew that silence intimately. It was her favorite weapon.

She had never needed to raise her voice to control him. That wasn’t her way. Walburga Black was a master of stillness. A single glance could curdle joy. A pause too long after a sentence could make a child rethink everything he thought he knew. She did not command love—she constructed dependence, twisting it until affection became obedience, and obedience became identity.

When he cried as a boy, she did not console—she went quiet, and let him beg for her attention. When he succeeded, she praised the family name, never the boy who bore it. And when he questioned anything—anything—she said nothing at all. Just looked at him like he was a crack in a priceless mirror.

He was only here because it suited her narrative: that the obedient Black son would always return. That the bloodline was unbreakable. That Sirius was a shameful blight, a blemish to be scorched off, and Regulus… Regulus was the one who could be rewritten.

A good son.

Her last, loyal investment.

Regulus Black had become living proof that even lies, when repeated with enough precision, enough conviction, could masquerade as loyalty.

His every bow, every ritualized phrase of obedience, every calculated silence had been another thread in the illusion he’d woven around himself. An illusion sharp enough to draw blood when touched. Because the only way to dismantle Voldemort’s empire from within was to become invisible inside it.

And if he played his role well enough—if he bowed just deep enough, killed just precisely enough, if he wore his last name like armor instead of a curse—then maybe, just maybe, the fractures he had already carved into the Dark Lord’s foundations would one day split wide enough for someone else to bury the blade deep.

He never asked for redemption.

Regulus didn’t need forgiveness. Didn’t need survival. He just needed one clean strike, one opening, and the world could end a different way.

Only two people knew the full weight of what he was carrying. 

Barty and Evan. Just them, two boys who had slipped through the cracks of Voldemort’s machine and landed bloody and breathing beside Regulus. He told them everything the night before the cave. No lies. No theatrics. Just the bare truth, raw as a wound. About the Horcrux. About the water. About what he planned to do.

They didn’t try to stop him.

They just listened.

And when the cave turned out worse than even he’d imagined—when the poison hit his bloodstream like fire and the Inferi began to rise from the water with dead eyes and frozen hands, they came for him. Not as saviors. As brothers. They ripped him out before the water could pull him under.

And now, all these years later, the three of them shared a single roof again. A house stripped of pretense. 

Regulus and Barty handled the hunting.

It was almost funny, in a grim, bitter sort of way, how wrong everyone had been about Regulus Black. Gentle-mouthed Regulus. The boy who flinched when voices were raised. Who once bit back tears when a house elf was punished. Who used to press his palms over his ears when their mother’s screams echoed through Grimmauld Place.

But war didn’t care about softness. War reshaped people. War melted away whatever gentleness might’ve once existed and left only what could survive the heat.

Regulus didn’t just survive it—he sharpened inside it.

Where Barty burned like a wildfire, laughing too loudly, moving too fast, his wand a twitch away from chaos, Regulus was the cold after the flame. Precise. Unshakeable. Controlled down to the breath.

He killed without flourish, without rage, without hesitation. Like subtraction. Step by step, clean and final. He didn’t make speeches. He didn’t gloat. The last thing most people ever saw of him was the moment before they ceased to be.

It unsettled even Barty sometimes, but he never walked away. Not once. He never questioned him. If Regulus needed information, Barty got it. If they needed bodies to disappear without a trace, Barty handled it.

Evan, meanwhile, was the gravity holding the house, and maybe them, together.

He was the one who brewed the potions, who scavenged furniture from the ruins, and patched the roof with leftover shingles and took almost all the turns just for them to catch a few hours of sleep. He handled the bartering for food, medicine, or intel, with that low voice and those steady eyes that made people underestimate him.

He didn’t ask why they came home soaked in blood. He just handed them a clean shirt and stitched them back together.

It was a quiet job, but not a small one.

He was the reason they had something to come back to at all.

Sometimes, when the trail went cold or the wards around Hogwarts weakened, Regulus would slip past the perimeter, ghost through the tunnels, twist through the shadows, and steal things. Bottled phoenix tears. A half-burned grimoire from the Restricted Section. Different vials of potions.

Sometimes, when the loot was generous, Regulus would do something that still startled him every time:

He’d stop by Lily’s house.

He never knocked. Never lingered.

Just left a bundle of supplies on the back stoop, wrapped in cloth, carefully labelled, always wordless. A flask of Blood-Replenishing Potion. A bag of dried dittany leaves. A vial of unicorn marrow. Once, a stack of parchment torn from a forgotten book titled The Ethics of Wandless Magic in Combat.

At first, it unsettled them. The girls didn’t know what to make of it. Marlene found the first package and was ready to track him down and drag him into the street for answers. Mary was suspicious. And Lily, sharp, tired, and too smart for her own good, was already halfway convinced it was a trap.

But it was Dorcas who broke the silence, as she so often did, flat-voiced, and with eyes too old for her age.

“If Regulus Black wanted us dead,” she said, “we’d already be rotting in a ditch somewhere with our mouths full of worms.”

The next time the bundle appeared, they left a note in return, tucked into the wrappings, scrawled in Lily’s careful script:

You’re welcome here.

Despite the note, they never saw him when he came, but the supplies kept coming, and the back door stayed unlocked. Just in case, one day, he stopped running long enough to walk through it.

In contrast, his relationship with the Marauders was… complicated.

Sirius hated him. Despised him from the bottom of his heart, with the kind of rage that only came from once having loved someone. Not the cold, distant contempt Sirius reserved for Death Eaters or Slytherins or other ghosts of his past. No, this was personal. Visceral.

Sirius didn’t just despise him. He wanted him broken. Gone. Ground down to dust and scattered to the wind.

If Sirius hadn’t been stopped that day, he would’ve ripped Regulus’ heart out with his bare hands and left it to rot in the street. There was no forgiveness between them. No truce. Just the scorched remains of a family neither of them had really survived.

And the worst part?

Regulus didn’t blame him.

He had let Sirius believe he was dead. Hadn’t written. Hadn’t explained. Hadn’t done anything except disappear like a ghost into the margins of the war and stay there. He let his brother carry the weight of that grief without ever offering to share it.

And maybe that was unforgivable.

Sometimes, late at night, when the house was too quiet and Barty’s breathing slowed down, Regulus found himself wondering whether Sirius had cried. Whether he’d broken something. Whether he’d gone quiet or furious or both when he found out his baby brother was gone.

But if he had mourned, if he had grieved, it only made the betrayal cut deeper.

And Regulus knew that Sirius would never forgive him for it.

Remus, though—Remus had always been kind.

Too kind, sometimes. Quiet in a way that saw too much, spoke too little. He’d been kind even when he shouldn’t have been.

Regulus found him three years ago, gasping for air in the frozen, blood-soaked woods after Greyback’s pack had shredded him alive, tearing flesh from bone and leaving him to bleed out in the snow. His blood pooled around him, staining the white ground like spilled ink on fragile parchment. Regulus didn’t think twice. With trembling hands slick with blood and snow, he hauled him from the biting cold and took him to his cottage. He stitched torn skin and shattered muscle together with raw, trembling magic fuelled by desperation, not even caring if it would scar or not.

Regulus didn’t sleep for three nights.

He sat at Remus’ side, eyes burning, wand in hand, ready to act at the first hitch of breath. Terrified that Remus would choke on his own blood and die quietly in the dark while no one was watching. That he’d survive everything only to slip away because Regulus hadn’t done enough.

When Remus finally woke, fevered, shaking, and confused, Regulus made him swear that he hadn’t seen him, and that Regulus Black was still dead.

And Remus had kept that promise.

He never breathed a word. Not even when Sirius hurled venom at Regulus, branding him a spineless traitor straight to his face.

Sometimes, when they crossed paths, Remus would give him that look, heavy with quiet knowledge and unspoken gratitude. Eyes that said: I remember what you did.

When it was just the two of them, they would talk or simply share the silence.

Peter seemed to harbour a particular fear of Regulus, though, to be honest, that wasn’t entirely unexpected. After all, Peter was a man who seemed to fear nearly everything and everyone he encountered, his anxiety casting long shadows over even the simplest interactions.

This underlying nervousness made it difficult to pinpoint whether Regulus inspired something unique in him or if he was just another source of his usual unease.

Regardless, Peter had found something like stability in the quiet company of Emmeline Vance.

They shared a small, timeworn house perched at the outermost edge of Hogsmeade, half-swallowed by brambles and creeping ivy. It wasn’t much, but it stood. The sort of place where the wind always felt a little louder, the nights a little longer, but also safer. Removed. A few streets too far from the main roads, and just secluded enough to make it feel like the war was happening elsewhere.

Peter rarely ventured far from it anymore. When he wasn’t needed, he was home. Organizing shelves, or counting food rations like they might vanish in the night.

And Emmeline never said a word about his fear. She didn’t name it. Didn’t shame it. She simply let him exist beside her without asking him to be more than he was capable of being. In return, he stood a little straighter around her. Remembered how to breathe when the nightmares crept in.

And finally, there was James.

James was a different story altogether. A story Regulus didn’t know how to stop rereading, no matter how many times he swore he was done with it.

There were moments when Regulus could almost convince himself that James hated him. That there was nothing but bitterness there. Maybe it was the Slytherin thing. Maybe it was the Sirius thing. Merlin knew Sirius had a talent for turning people against each other, like it was a bloody art form. Maybe it was just easier, safer, to believe that James Potter wanted nothing more than for Regulus Black to disappear again and stay gone this time.

He’d seen James the day they dragged him into Hogsmeade. Saw him through the blood and grime and humiliation of it all. Their eyes had locked across the square, and everything else had dropped away—noise, movement, pain. Just a heartbeat of raw, stunned recognition.

Shock, yes.

Recognition, yes.

But not just that.

There had been something else—something deeper, sharper, more unbearable.

James had taken a step forward.

Just one.

But it wasn’t the step that haunted Regulus.

It was the instinct behind it. The way James had moved before he could stop himself, like some forgotten part of him had leapt ahead of reason. Like, for that one terrible moment, he had wanted to go to him.

Regulus never forgot that. Never stopped turning it over in his mind like a cursed coin.

And what came after only made it worse. Because when the shouting stopped and Sirius stormed off in that way of his, James would sometimes linger. Hover in the doorway like he hadn’t meant to stay but couldn't quite make himself leave. He’d say something low, almost absent-minded, something that skimmed the surface of civility. Sometimes it even veered toward… kindness.

And that was unbearable.

Because Regulus didn’t know what to do with that. With James’ restraint. With the softness that crept in when it shouldn’t. With the way his voice lost its edges around him, like he couldn’t help it. Like he was trying to figure Regulus out rather than write him off.

It made Regulus furious.

Because James wasn’t supposed to see him.

He wasn’t supposed to glance at him like he was a puzzle worth solving, or worse—like he was someone who could be forgiven.

He didn’t want the forgiveness. He didn’t want the chance. He didn’t want hope because hope was a poison he couldn’t afford. And every time James looked at him like that, with the faintest trace of something human behind his eyes, Regulus wanted to break something. To grab James by the collar and shout: Don’t be kind to me. Be cruel. Hate me. That’s easier.

But James didn’t give him cruelty. Not really. Not the kind Regulus thought he deserved.

Instead, he gave him silence. He gave him glances that lingered too long. He gave him mercy—quiet, reluctant, unspoken, but real.

Kindness from Remus, yes—he’d earned that by saving his life once. But kindness from James Potter?

Regulus didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t know how to hold it without bleeding.

Because the truth, the horrible, unbearable truth, was this:

James Potter still looked at him like he mattered. Like he wasn’t too far gone. Like he hadn’t burned all his bridges to ash and ground the embers underfoot.

And that—that was more dangerous than any curse Regulus had ever faced.

Chapter Text

“Reggie,” Remus greeted him with a soft smile from the battered old couch, setting his book down in his lap. “It’s been a while.”

“Hey,” Regulus said, pulling the door shut behind him with a low creak. He stamped the snow from his boots onto the worn rug, watching the slush melt into the faded pattern of swirling ivy. “All by yourself?”

“Yeah,” Remus nodded. “Prongs spotted a herd of deer up north the other morning. He and Padfoot went to track them. With a little luck, maybe they’ll catch something.”

Regulus’ eyes moved across the room as he shrugged off his coat. It was warm inside — a steady warmth that soaked into the bones. The place was modest. Small, maybe three rooms at most. But it was lived-in, in the most intimate way. A teapot rested on the hearth, half full. There was a blanket draped unevenly over the back of the couch, and a pair of reading glasses abandoned on the side table. A bookshelf stood half-leaning in the corner, packed so tightly the volumes bulged outward.

A few dried herbs hung above the fireplace, their stems bound with string and careful knots. A plant, something leafy and stubborn, curled on the windowsill, thriving in a cracked ceramic pot that had clearly been mended more than once. The whole room spoke of care. Of patience. Of someone who made the best of little and never complained about it.

Regulus couldn’t help it as he let out a soft, amused breath through his nose.

“What?” Remus asked, tilting his head with that perpetual, quiet curiosity.

Regulus shook his head faintly, still studying the space. “It’s just… It made me laugh, that’s all.”

“What did?”

“You,” Regulus said, walking over to hang his coat by the door. “You remind me of Evan sometimes.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, his smile returning. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Definitely.” Regulus huffed and glanced at the plant, then at the careful stitching in the curtain hems, the stack of notes clipped neatly on the table. “This place… It’s so clearly yours. Like everything here exists because you’ve willed it to keep standing. And somehow it does.”

That was what always startled him about Remus. Not his magic, or his intelligence, or even his relentless ability to survive, but how gentle he was in a world that had given him nothing but sharp edges.

And it made sense, suddenly, why he liked being near him. Why someone as brittle and guarded as him had softened around this quiet, sharp-eyed man with the wolf in his blood.

Regulus let himself ease down into the armchair by the fireplace, the cushions sagged just enough to be comforting, and leaned his head back with a tired sigh.

“You keep this place together,” he murmured.

Remus didn’t answer immediately. Just watched him for a moment, eyes thoughtful and a little sad.

“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” he said finally. “If you can’t fix people, you fix the space around them. Make it easier to breathe. Easier to rest.”

Regulus let the silence stretch between them, the crackle of the hearth filling it with warmth.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice soft as he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Shadows from the fire flickered across the old wood beams like ghosts. After a beat, he let his gaze fall to the book in Remus’ lap. “What are you reading?”

Remus gave a small wave of his hand, brushing it off. “Just a bunch of Muggle stories. Nothing extraordinary.”

“Humour me,” Regulus said, his lips curling into a rare, genuine smile — small and crooked, but real.

Remus hesitated, then tilted the cover slightly so the spine caught the firelight.

“Greek myths.”

Regulus raised his brows, interested. “Homer or Hesiod?”

That caught Remus off guard. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise beneath the lines of exhaustion.

“Homer,” he said finally.

Regulus nodded, satisfied. “Good choice.”

He leaned back, the leather creaking softly beneath him as he turned his gaze toward the fire. The logs hissed as a knot burst open with a quiet pop, sending a small halo of sparks upward into the chimney.

“You surprise me,” Remus said, still watching him. “Didn’t know Greek mythology was part of the Black family curriculum.”

“It wasn’t.” Regulus’ voice was distant, laced with something like fondness, though dulled, like a memory softened by time. “I used to steal Uncle Alphard’s books when I was little. He adored Muggle literature. Kept shelves full of it in a room no one else ever went into. I used to sneak in when no one was looking, grab whatever I could carry, and hide them under my bed.”

Remus blinked, then laughed, not mocking, just surprised. “That… alright, I did not expect that.”

Regulus glanced at him, the smile still ghosting at the corners of his mouth. “He also taught me how to pick locks and drink wine before I could shave. The rest of the family was less fond of him, as you can imagine.”

“I liked Alphard,” Remus said quietly. “Only met him once, in the fourth year, I think. He brought Sirius to the station and gave me a chocolate bar the size of my face.”

Regulus let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh or just a sigh. The kind of noise that lived somewhere between memory and exhaustion. It was hard to tell sometimes, or to name all the things that he felt.

He looked back toward the fire, where the flames had dimmed to a softer glow now, licking quietly at the logs. And just like that, the stillness fractured, and his mind stirred.

Thoughts rising like smoke — thick, clinging, impossible to push back.

He absolutely loathed when this happened.

When everything went too quiet outside, and the noise inside his head flooded in like a tide he couldn’t hold back. Swirling, looping, spinning the same thoughts over and over and over again until they scraped raw against his ribs. Every mistake. Every failure. Every face he couldn’t save. The locket. The cave. The weight of secrets he still hadn’t spoken aloud. The way James had looked at him the other night, sharp and unreadable. The tremor in Sirius’ voice when he’d screamed at him to leave.

The silence made it all louder.

“Reggie,” Remus murmured, voice low and careful, “are you alright?”

Regulus’ throat bobbed, but he didn’t look up from the fire.

“I don’t know how to answer to that questions anymore, Moony.”

The way he said it, flat, tired, without defence, pulled the air a little tighter between them.

There was a pause, and Regulus knew that if he looked at the other man, he would see pity in his eyes. He could survive being hated. But pity made him feel transparent.

He exhaled, the breath low and quiet, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat, taking out a small vial. He leaned forward and set it carefully on the splintered table between them with a faint clink that broke the silence like a bell.

“Changed the ratios a little. Should be more potent now.”

Remus blinked down at it, caught off guard. He picked it up, turned it slowly between his hands, inspecting the shimmer of the liquid inside.

“How did you—?”

“I don’t trade my secrets that easily, unfortunately,” Regulus winked, trying to push away all his thoughts and slide his usual mask back on. “I'll drop by tomorrow evening, see if the tweaks worked. You're heading to the forest, right?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, almost wincing. “But... since they are checking the traps today, he…”

“Ah.” Regulus’ smile faltered, just a fraction. His jaw tightened. “Right. Anyway, let me know if it works. Evan nearly skinned me alive for tampering with the ingredients. Merlin bless Barty for distracting him; otherwise, he might have shoved a pestle down my throat.”

Remus chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “Evan’s worse than Madam Pomfrey ever was.”

“More dramatic, too. And twice as petty.” Regulus pulled his jacket on and reached for his gloves, slipping them on with practiced ease. “You’re welcome to stop at our place tomorrow. Evan keeps pestering me with questions about your dosing schedules. Thinks your lycanthropy is some kind of bloody puzzle box.”

“He’s not wrong,” Remus muttered. “It never reacts the same way twice.”

Regulus released a low, exhausted hum of agreement before rising slowly to his feet, fingers deftly adjusting the collar of his coat. Across from him, Remus shifted slightly, preparing to push himself up from the couch, but froze mid-motion as his eyes darted sharply toward the entrance, instinct kicking in before thought could catch up.

The door slammed open with a violent crack, the sound echoing through the room like a shot. A blast of icy air rushed in, carrying with it the sharp, acrid stench of soaked leather and something colder, more primal, that seemed to cling to the shadows beyond the threshold.

Remus snapped upright as if an invisible wire had jerked him into action, muscles tense and spine rigid, eyes locked on the doorway with a look that flickered between recognition and dread.

“Mooooony,” came Sirius' singsong voice, sharp and jarring against the heavy air, "I'm home! Prongs was bloody right! We caught the scent of the herd and—"

His whole body froze—no theatricality now, just a raw, instinctive stillness. The amusement on his face cracked and vanished. What remained was something brittle and sharp.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sirius spat, the warmth gone from his voice entirely, replaced with something low and simmering. Dangerous. His gaze locked on Regulus like a predator spotting something it thought it had killed long ago.

“Padfoot—” Remus started quickly, stepping between them almost on reflex. His hands lifted halfway, a silent appeal, not just for calm but for understanding. “He just—he’s not here to cause anything. Just listen for a second.”

But Sirius didn’t even glance at him. He wasn’t hearing Remus anymore. His eyes, hard and unflinching, stayed fixed on his brother—on the shadow of childhood betrayal, of shared blood turned to poison.

“Your den of vipers is down the street,” he snapped, his voice rising with every syllable, every buried wound bubbling to the surface. “Why don’t you crawl back to whatever shithole they dragged you out of?”

“Sirius!” James’ voice cut in sharply from the threshold, the heavy tread of his boots following a beat later. He appeared in the doorway, frowning as his eyes darted between them. “Is this really necessary?”

Regulus crossed his arms slowly, forcing the movement into something controlled—something cold. The anger boiled just beneath the surface of his carefully neutral expression, but his voice, when it came, was razor-sharp in its calm.

“I don’t have time for your shit, Sirius,” he said, each word deliberate and clipped. “I came to speak with Remus, not you. If that bruises your delicate, performative sense of loyalty, by all means, throw another of your tantrums. But kindly fuck off while you do it.”

Sirius didn’t flinch at the insult, but something behind his eyes darkened—something deep and festering. When he spoke, it came out low and venomous, the kind of voice that came from years of hatred coiled like a snake in his gut.

“You don’t have the right to be in this house,” he hissed. “Not here. Not around them. Not around him.”

Regulus let out a slow breath through his nose, like he was trying not to laugh, but his smile was all teeth.

“I walk where I’m invited,” he said with quiet satisfaction. “Which is more than you can say, half the time.”

The words landed hard. Like a slap to the face from someone who knew exactly where to aim.

Sirius recoiled half a step, not physically, but in the flash of hurt that twisted his features before rage surged back to the front. His face contorted, caught between fury and the ache of something older—something unhealed. He looked, for just a heartbeat, like a boy again: betrayed and burning, backed into a corner by someone who knew him too well.

His hand twitched, his whole body wound tight like he might swing.

Regulus met his fury head-on, chin lifted high.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” Sirius growled, his voice low and vibrating with barely-contained violence. It wasn’t a shout, but rather the kind of threat spoken by someone on the verge of losing control entirely.

His brother cocked his head, folding his arms tighter across his chest. The amusement curling at the edge of his mouth was deliberate, a lit match to his already burning temper.

“Funny,” he said, his voice sweet as poisoned honey. “Last I checked, this was Potter’s house. You’re just squatting in it.”

James shifted awkwardly behind him, but didn’t step in.

Sirius' jaw clenched so hard, Regulus could hear his teeth grinding.

“Don’t you dare,” he said, voice breaking into a vicious whisper, “act like you’re the same as us.”

And that was it. The wound at the heart of it all. Sirius didn’t just hate Regulus—he resented that they came from the same blood. That no matter how far he ran, no matter how loudly he declared his rebellion, that darkness still shadowed his reflection.

Regulus stepped forward, reckless, defiant—eyes never leaving his brother’s.

“You’re right,” he said lightly. “You’ve also got the pure Black blood to keep you warm at night. Too bad that at the end of the day, you’re still considered a blood traitor, which, in their book, is worse than being a Muggle.”

Sirius' hand twitched.

Regulus saw it and smiled.

That only made it worse.

“You’re a fucking snake,” Sirius said, voice raw. “You don’t belong here. You never did.”

“And yet,” his brother said with a mocking glance around the battered, freezing room, “here I am.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of breathing and the low creak of the floorboards under Remus’ shifting weight.

Finally, James stepped forward. His face was tight, jaw clenched, his patience visibly fraying

“Alright, enough,” he snapped. “Regulus helped Moony. That’s more than some people did.”

Sirius didn’t move

Didn’t even blink.

His fury was a living thing now, feral and heavy in the room, crackling like a storm about to break.

“You think playing apothecary makes up for what you are?” Sirius said, voice low and sharp-edged, each word flung like a knife. “You think stirring potions and acting useful buys you a seat at the table again? You think it makes you family?”

Regulus stared at him, the fire burning steadily behind his ribs now, feeding on everything they had ever been — brothers in name, strangers in practice, and something much worse in truth.

“No,” he said, voice soft and deadly calm. “But it makes me useful. Which is more than I can say for you these days.”

Sirius’ expression twisted, slow and involuntary, like the pain had reached down into something long buried, something raw and unhealed that still bled when touched. For a moment, he looked almost startled. As if Regulus had managed to hit something real, something he thought he’d locked away for good.

Remus moved before either of them could do anything else. He stepped between them with a sharpness that was all muscle memory by now, palms up and out like a man trying to defuse a cursed object.

“Enough,” he snapped, his eyes flicking from Sirius to Regulus. “Both of you.”

His voice didn’t waver, but it carried the weight of exhaustion. The kind born from years of watching people tear themselves to pieces and still trying to hold them together.

Regulus exhaled slowly through his nose. His face settled back into something unreadable, composed. The flicker of heat behind his eyes didn’t go out, but it dulled, tamped down with practiced ease.

“I was leaving anyway,” he said coolly, like it was a simple matter of scheduling, like the room hadn’t just been set on fire and doused again. He gave Sirius a small, deliberate nod. “Nice chat, brother. You never disappoint.”

But when his gaze slid to Remus, something shifted. The edge softened, just for a moment. There was a flicker of something quieter in his eyes, not regret, exactly, but recognition. Maybe even apology, if you knew how to look for it.

“Let me know tomorrow,” he said, voice low and meant for Remus alone. “Alright?”

Then he was gone.

He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t glance back. Just brushed past them and into the cold, letting the door shut behind him with a soft, resolute thud.

Outside, the air bit hard, wet and bitter, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone and something colder beneath it. The chill punched the breath from his lungs on the first inhale, but he didn’t stop.

Night was bleeding fast across the village, turning the half-ruined rooftops into jagged black teeth against the dull grey sky.

Regulus tugged his coat tighter around himself and started toward his house, boots crunching over the frozen, filthy snow. Most of the village was boarded up or half-collapsed, only thin curls of smoke betraying which houses were still stubbornly occupied. The streets were mostly empty now — smart people didn’t linger after dark. Not with patrols lurking, hunting for excuses to “make examples” of anyone who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

He kept his head down, pace quickening out of habit rather than fear, his breath clouding the air in front of him as he neared the crooked bend by the old post office, the one with its roof half-caved in and the door swinging on a single hinge.

That was when he saw a flicker of motion at the mouth of a side alley.

He stopped on instinct, every muscle coiling in a heartbeat, hand twitching toward the dagger tucked beneath his coat before recognition caught up with reflex.

Barty and Evan.

They paused when they saw him, shoulders stiffening, the stillness of hunted animals caught in sudden light.

Regulus exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed from his limbs as he shook his head.

“Make sure you get back before dark,” he said, his voice calm but edged with warning, the words blooming into mist between them. “Dolohov and Yaxley are sweeping the village tonight. They're bored. And that’s when they get cruel.”

Barty rolled his eyes as he tugged a glove over cold-reddened fingers, his usual bravado slipping effortlessly into place. “We’re not idiots, Reggie.”

“Debatable,” Regulus muttered, folding his arms across his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly.

Evan looked toward him then, his expression as unreadable as ever — sharp eyes beneath a fringe of pale hair, one brow arching with quiet amusement. “It’s just a walk.”

Regulus tilted his head, one brow lifting in return, the sarcasm slipping into his voice like a blade through silk. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Walks?” He cast a glance between them. “You don’t have to sneak out like desperate teenagers to shag in the woods. We have perfectly acceptable floors. Even a mattress or two, if you’re feeling decadent.”

Evan’s ears turned the faintest shade of pink, though the rest of his face remained a studied mask of disinterest. Barty, on the other hand, barked a laugh, sharp and short, like it had startled even him.

“We’re not going out to shag,” Barty said, still grinning.

“Sure, you’re not.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m not in the mood to scrape what’s left of you off the pavement when Dolohov catches you fumbling behind a tree,” Regulus replied, turning his back to them and starting toward the house. The humour vanished from his voice all at once, replaced by something clipped, brittle, and cold. “He gutted two novices last week. They weren’t even doing anything. Just standing in the wrong corridor at the wrong time.”

That sobered the air.

Barty hesitated for a breath, his grin faltering at the edges, uncertain. “We’ll be back before dark,” he said at last, quieter now.

Regulus didn’t slow. Didn’t look back. “See that you are.”

Behind him, the two boys exchanged a look, brief and unreadable, before vanishing down the street, their shadows swallowed by the approaching dark as they moved toward the treeline at the edge of the village.

The wind had already picked up by the time Regulus closed the door behind him. He didn’t bother lighting the lamps. There was no need. He knew this place by feel. Out there, Hogsmeade shivered like a wounded animal — too broken to fight, too stubborn to die.

Regulus shrugged off his cloak, the fabric stiff with frost along the edges, and hung it on the rusted hook by the doorway. His gloves followed, damp with melted snow. Then, without ceremony, he unbuckled the twin sheaths beneath his coat, one from the inside of his boot, the other from his shoulder, and set the curved daggers gently on the table beside the fireplace.

He couldn’t remember when was the last time he actually relied on a wand. Magic was too loud. Too traceable. Too... expected.

But a good blade didn’t need incantations. Didn’t misfire when your hands shook or your concentration snapped. A knife worked in silence. Up close, exactly where it mattered.

And he had learned a long time ago that quiet kills better than anything.

The building around him groaned under its own weight as the wind scraped along the roof. Once, Tomes and Scrolls had been a quaint little shop tucked into the corner of the village, all crammed shelves and drifting dust motes. Now it was barely standing. Half the ceiling had caved in before Evan found it — the second floor had collapsed entirely, burying the old inventory in a mess of wood, glass, and ruined paper.

But Evan had rebuilt it. Slowly. Patiently. The back wall was reinforced with salvaged bricks and protective wards layered so carefully they looked like spiderwebs. What had once been the stockroom was now a narrow kitchen with a water bucket charmed not to freeze. The shelves, those that hadn’t collapsed, were lined with what little remained: chipped jars of dried herbs, empty potion flasks, a row of scavenged tea tins labelled in Evan’s neat, elegant writing.

Two beds sat on opposite sides of what had once been the reading corner. The frames were old metal, dented and mismatched, transfigured from display tables in the first days, before the ban on magic. The mattresses were thin, the blankets scratchy, but they were warm. Evan had made sure of that.

Regulus moved to the hearth and knelt, prodding at the dying embers with the end of a fire iron. There wasn’t much wood left, but it was enough for tonight.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, and opened the cabinet beside the hearth. Empty.

No bread, no roots, not even the last strip of salted meat they’d bartered last week. The traps might’ve caught something if the wards hadn’t scared the animals off, or if Barty hadn’t already checked them and they were empty. Regardless, Regulus knew with a sinking certainty that he would have to venture further, deeper into the shadowed heart of the forest by dawn. He placed some traps that he deliberately kept secret from Barty and Evan because he didn’t want to burden them with false hope or the weight of expectations.

If these traps, too, came up empty, there would be no other choice but to raid Hogwarts again.

The very thought churned a cold dread deep in Regulus’s gut—a gnawing, relentless weight that tightened around his chest like iron bands. Hogwarts was no longer the sanctuary it once had been; now, with werewolves patrolling its corridors like ravenous, scent-driven hounds, every step inside felt like walking through a minefield. The wards had grown more cunning, more vigilant, their silent magic twisting and weaving with a keen intelligence that made evading them a perilous game of cat and mouse. And then there were the portraits, once silent witnesses, now whispering secrets, their voices carrying warnings and threats that chilled the blood and made Regulus’s skin crawl.

Still, despite the icy grip of fear tightening in his chest, Regulus’s mind returned again and again to Barty and Evan. Hunger gnawed at their bodies even if they refused to show it. He would do anything for them, even if it meant slipping through the castle’s defences once more, risking everything. He had done it dozens of times before, and nearly every time, he had emerged unscathed. But each success felt like a fragile thread stretched thinner and thinner, threatening to snap with every cautious step he took. Yet, as terrifying as the thought was, the alternative was unthinkable.

He dragged a chair to the table and sat, staring out into the fading light of the fireplace. Outside, the night pressed close, thick and impenetrable, as if the darkness itself sought to suffocate the fragile warmth still lingering inside.

There was nothing left to do. Nothing but wait and watch the last traces of light slip away.

He reached over to the table and slid one of the daggers closer, fingers brushing the worn leather hilt. He dragged his finger over the side of the blade and watched the cut oozing blood.

The knock wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make Regulus freeze mid-motion, his finger still hovering around the dagger.

No one ever knocked on their door, and the Death Eaters didn’t bother with such pleasantries.

He rose silently from the chair, fingers tightening around the blade’s hilt. The village outside had almost gone dark, and even the wind had quieted, leaving the old bookshop cloaked in a dense, unsettling hush.

Another knock. Firmer this time.

Regulus approached the door cautiously, pressing his ear to the wood. He didn’t sense any magic, not the sharp, humming kind that usually preceded trouble anyway. No movement beyond it either, just stillness.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open just a fraction. Just enough for him to peer outside.

And there he was.

James Potter was standing on the threshold with his coat open, hair damp from melting snow, his breath visible in the cold air. His glasses were slightly askew.

Regulus blinked once, slowly.

“What the fuck are you doing here at this hour, Potter? Do you have a death wish?” he hissed

James shifted his weight, jaw tensing. He looked over his shoulder at the empty street, then back again at Regulus.

“Can I—” he motioned with his chin, and Regulus pursed his lips and stepped aside without a word. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something deeper. Or maybe he simply didn’t need Death Eaters to snoop around his house while his friends were out there shagging their brains off. Naturally, he found this excuse better. Regulus Black didn’t indulge his curiosities.

James entered like a man walking into enemy territory. His eyes swept the room immediately, noting the sparse furnishings, the twin beds, the worn edges of everything. His gaze lingered for a beat too long on the daggers laid out on the table near the fireplace.

Regulus shut the door behind him, locking it with a dull click.

“You’ve got three minutes before I throw you back out into the snow, Potter. Make it good.”

James looked at the ceiling, craning his neck. “Didn’t know this place was still standing.”

“Guess we’re all full of surprises,” Regulus moved past him. “Who would’ve thought?”

“You sleeping here?” he eyed curiously the two beds, his brows furrowing slightly as he tried to solve an impossible riddle.

“No,” Regulus drawled. “I sleep in the chimney. Evan and Barty take turns roasting me on a spit.”

James gave a short, tired laugh and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Still a mouthy little bastard, then.”

Regulus’s expression stayed perfectly deadpan.

“Was that your opening line, or are we going to get to the part where you tell me why you’re here near the curfew? I don’t think my wonderful brother will appreciate me showing up with his best friends in pieces.”

James rolled his tongue on the inside of his cheek. “You should talk to Sirius.”

At that, Regulus clenched his jaw. The firelight threw long shadows across his face, accentuating the hollowness beneath his cheekbones and the bruise-coloured smudges under his eyes.

“No,” Regulus said, his voice cold, brittle. “Get out.”

“Regulus—”

“I said, get out. Your three minutes expired.”

James didn’t move, only raised his hands slowly in a peacekeeping gesture, and took a cautious step forward.

“Just... listen for a second, alright? He’s not doing well. You disappearing like that, faking your death, vanishing without so much as a bloody note—he hasn’t forgiven you. He might never, but you can’t keep acting like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t hurt him.”

For a moment, the silence between them stretched into something fragile, dangerous. Then Regulus turned his face away, jaw rigid.

“Go home, Potter,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

“I’m not here to make you feel guilty,” James went on, more softly now. “I’m here because he won’t ask. Because he can’t. But someone has to say it. He needed you, Reg. And you were just… gone.”

Regulus laughed, dry and low. “Please. Do you really think I would believe that my brother, the one who fucking abandoned me, actually gave a shit about my presumed death?”

James didn’t answer.

“My point exactly. So, don’t come here and play the peacekeeper, Potter. You’re not neutral. You never were.”

“I’m not here for that.”

“Then why are you here?”

James exhaled slowly, eyes locked on him.

“Something’s different about you. Since you came back, I mean. You’re not— I don’t know. You’re not the same.”

Regulus scoffed and moved back toward the table, collecting one of the blades and inspecting the edge with bored precision.

“You never knew me. Don’t act like you’re qualified to notice the difference.”

There was a pause before James answered, and even though Regulus wasn’t watching, he could feel it: the sting of recognition, the slight falter in breath, the barely-there shift in stance.

“You were Sirius’ brother,” James said at last, quiet but certain. “You were quiet. Brilliant. A little cold, maybe—”

“Stop romanticizing me,” Regulus cut in sharply. “Whatever you imagined, it wasn’t real. You never looked at me twice unless Sirius was ranting about how I was the next great evil.”

James’s voice dropped, gentler now.

“That’s not true.”

Regulus drove the knife into the table with a sharp, deliberate motion, the blade sinking into the wood as if it offered no more resistance than soft fruit. His voice was low, bitterly edged.

“Isn’t it?”

James didn’t flinch. He just looked at him in the way that always made Regulus feel like he’d been split open and left on display. It wasn’t just annoying. It was infuriating.

Because James Potter, golden boy, Gryffindor prince, Sirius' shadow, wasn’t supposed to see him. Not like this. Not past the sharp words and colder armour. Not into whatever cracked thing was still clawing at the inside of Regulus’ ribs, begging not to be witnessed.

“I remember you,” James said, quieter still. “In the Great Hall. Always sitting just a little straighter than everyone else. Always listening. Always watching like you were three moves ahead of the rest of us. You hated attention, but you never missed anything. You knew things before they happened, like you were already living through the aftermath.”

Regulus looked away. His jaw tightened, muscle ticking beneath pale skin. He swallowed hard against the sudden heat in his throat, resenting how easily James could still pull pieces of him into the light, even after all these years.

James stepped forward again, slower this time. “Whatever you’re doing now, the silence, the way you vanish for days, it’s not for nothing. I just want to know. Why?”

Regulus let out a quiet, humourless huff, tilting his head as if considering whether James was serious or just stupid.

“You keep tabs on me now?” he said, voice clipped and sharp, but not quite cold enough to hide the tension coiled underneath.

James didn’t rise to the bait. His eyes stayed on him, steady and perceptive. He saw him having the same expression during Quidditch matches.

“No one has to. You disappear, and things happen. People talk. Traps are reset in patterns only someone trained would use. You show up again, thinner, quieter, sometimes even bleeding through your shirt like it’s fucking normal, and the trades start again around town.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You don’t,” James admitted. “But I’m asking anyway.”

Regulus was silent for a beat, watching the flames. “And if I told you it is none of your fucking business?”

James shrugged. “Then I’d say that’s a shit answer.”

Regulus looked back at him slowly, eyes hard.

“I’m not telling you anything, so you can take your little list of questions and shove it.”

James studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep asking another time.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Potter. The answer will be the same.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a wrapped parcel, roughly the size of a book — thick brown paper tied with fraying string, already stained slightly at the corners.

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “What is that?”

James held it out, casually. “Deer meat. Freshly cut.”

“I don’t need charity.”

James huffed a small breath, somewhere between amusement and irritation. “It’s not charity. Consider it a returning gift.”

“What for?”

“The wolfsbane.” James met his gaze directly. “I know it’s from you.”

Regulus looked at him then, sharp and guarded. “I never signed the bottle.”

“You didn’t need to.” James stepped forward and set the package on the edge of the table near the daggers. “Your presence in our house today was confirmation enough.”

Regulus said nothing for a long moment.

“What are you going to tell Sirius? He probably weighed every ounce of meat already.”

James shrugged. “That would be my problem, sparrow.”

Regulus froze. His entire body stilled as if the word had struck something deeper than he'd like to admit.

“…What did you just call me?”

James didn’t flinch. His voice was quiet. Steady.

“Sparrow,” James said, almost to himself at first. “It suits you.”

Regulus stared at him, face unreadable.

James didn’t look away. Didn’t soften. He just offered the faintest smile, not unkind, but knowing, worn around the edges.

“Borrowed one of Moony’s Muggle books. Sparrows mean loyalty. Even when it hurts. Even when it costs more than it should.” His gaze flicked across Regulus’ face, as if memorising the places the words were landing. “You always look like you’ve got your wings folded so tight you’ve forgotten they were ever meant to open. Like you never really believed they were yours.”

Regulus stared at him. No smile. No sarcasm. Just a sudden silence so dense it made the air feel heavy.

“Get out,” he said.

James raised his eyebrows slightly. “I didn’t—”

“Get. Out.”

The final word was colder than anything that had come before — not a shout, but something sharp and final, like ice cracking beneath a boot.

James lingered only a second longer, eyes searching Regulus’ face for something he wouldn’t find, then he pulled open the door and disappeared into the night.

Regulus stood in the middle of the room, the silence pressing in around him, broken only by the quiet crackling of the dying fire. He looked at the parcel of meat on the table, then turned away from it like it burned.

James pulled his collar higher as boots crunched against the snow-packed street and froze when he saw two shadows approaching from the edge of the square, side by side, half-draped in wool and exhaustion.

Evan stopped first, posture tight. Watchful. His sharp gaze flicked immediately toward the house, then to James, then to the tension still clinging to his shoulders.

Barty, on the other hand, just grinned like a hound that had already sniffed where the blood was spilled.

“Well, well,” Barty drawled, voice lazy and too loud in the quiet. “Evening, Potter. What brings your pompous ass all the way to our doorstep? Went in to poke the bear? Or just feeling sentimental?”

James started walking again and offered a short, dry laugh over his shoulder. “Just dropping off a bone. Figured your little guard dog inside might need something to gnaw on.”

Barty let out a sharp, delighted bark of laughter as James disappeared into the dark.

Evan didn’t smile. His eyes were still locked on the front door, his jaw tight.

They stepped inside together and saw Regulus by the table, arms braced on the wood, staring at the package like it had started whispering to him.

Barty’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Why was James bloody Potter leaving our house?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

Evan began to pull off his gloves carefully, watching both of them from the corner of his eye.

“Well, this is new,” Barty continued, unbothered. “Should we expect tea and biscuits next? Or are you just trading secrets for nostalgia now?”

Regulus’ shoulders tensed, but still he said nothing.

Evan stepped in gently. “Barty—”

But Barty was already circling the table, eyes catching on the parcel James had left behind. He leaned in, sniffed dramatically, and raised both brows.

“Is that meat?” he said. “Holy shit—did you suck him off or something?”

Regulus’ head snapped up, his voice cutting through the air like a lash.

“Read the fucking room and fuck off, Crouch.”

Silence dropped like a stone between them.

Barty grinned, unfazed, clearly delighted by how deeply he’d struck.

“Touched a nerve,” he sing-songed, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it over the nearest chair. “I’m just saying, if there’s more where that came from, I’m happy to keep my mouth shut. Or open. Whatever works for him. Sorry, love,” he winked at Evan, “survival requests sacrifices.”

Evan shot him a look. “Barty.”

Regulus muttered under his breath, something low and cold as he grabbed the parcel, shoved it into the small cupboard near the hearth, and closed the door with enough force to rattle the cups.

Evan gave Barty one last warning glance, one that said enough without needing to say anything at all. Barty held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning, but backed off toward the hearth, muttering something under his breath about “bloody touchy nobles.”

Evan turned back to Regulus, gaze steady and quiet. He didn’t push with force. Just stood there, hands relaxed at his sides, voice low.

“You want to talk about it?”

Regulus didn’t answer.

He didn’t even look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the cupboard door like he could will the deer meat into something else. Something less kind.

Barty shifted in the background, pulling off his boots, shaking snow onto the floor without a care. The fire crackled low. The wind pressed against the window like it wanted in.

Evan didn’t ask again. He just stayed nearby, quietly filling the space like he always did, present but not demanding.

Then finally, after what felt like minutes but might’ve only been one long breath, Regulus straightened, shoulders squaring as if he'd recalibrated himself.

“I’m taking the round tonight,” he said.

His voice was cold. Clean. Professional.

Barty looked up from where he was unlacing his boots. “What? Why? You took it last night.”

“I’m aware,” Regulus said flatly.

Evan shifted slightly. “You don’t have to, Reggie. I can take it.”

“I said I’m taking it.”

Something in his tone shut down the argument before it could start.

Barty scoffed and flopped down into one of the beds. “Suit yourself. I, for one, enjoy sleeping while I still can.”

Regulus didn’t respond. He moved toward the corner where the chair sat. The blanket he usually kept there for warmth was already draped across the arm, folded with a precision that spoke more to habit than comfort. 

Evan reached for the kettle, filled it with water, and set it over the fire without a word.

“You haven’t slept properly in three days,” Evan said from the hearth, voice calm but firm. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Bullshit,” Barty muttered, stretching like a cat. “You just like brooding in silence while the rest of us try to have dreams that aren’t soaked in blood.”

Regulus ignored them both. He pulled the heavy wool cloak from the back of the chair and dropped it across the seat, padding the backrest, preparing it like he had a dozen nights before. It wasn’t about comfort. It never was.

The night watch wasn’t a patrol. There was nowhere to go. It meant sitting by the front window, wrapped in cold and silence, eyes locked on the dark street, listening for movement. For a footstep. For the whistle of a hex. It meant being the one to wake the others if the world decided to end again at two in the morning.

It meant waiting.

“You don’t always have to stay awake when it hurts.” Evan's voice dropped, low and quiet.

Regulus didn’t look at him. He unfolded the blanket and settled into the chair.

“I know,” he said.

And then he went still, his eyes already watching the empty street.

Chapter Text

Sirius had found himself thinking more than once about how it might feel to kill his brother.

Not in the way people joke when they’re angry, not some passing flare of fury tossed off in a fit of sarcasm or frustration. No, Sirius didn’t have that kind of rage. His was the kind that settled deep in the marrow, slow-burning and corrosive, twisting itself into something far more dangerous. What came to him wasn’t abstract—it was vivid. Tangible. Whole scenes, so detailed they felt like memories, except they weren’t.

He saw it clearly: the blade, the moment, the look in Regulus’s eyes.

He imagined plunging a knife into his brother’s gut. He thought about how the skin would give first, stretching before it split, and how Regulus might suck in a breath, or make a sound low and guttural. A grunt. Maybe a hiss of disbelief. Maybe even silence, like he was above giving Sirius the satisfaction.

He imagined doing it slowly. Not out of sadism, at least, that’s what he told himself, but because it had to mean something. Every slice, every push of the blade, had weight. A catalogue of betrayals, of words left unsaid, of the years they spent circling each other like ghosts in the same castle. He pictured carving through the ribs, one by one, pressing hard enough to feel the muscle give way. His rage demanded precision. Each strike deliberate. Each one personal.

He imagined slitting Regulus’s throat. The way the blood would pulse out in thick, steaming ribbons, staining the snow like spilled wine. He imagined the way Regulus would twitch, that final resistance as his body tried, instinctively, to live, clutching at the wound, eyes wide with shock, the way all dying things gasped when warmth fled. He imagined leaving him there, face down in the snow, splayed open like a gutted animal, discarded and meaningless.

But the one he came back to, the image that never really left, the one that haunted him in the quiet hours between waking and sleep, was simpler.

His hands.

Just his hands.

Fingers closing around Regulus’s delicate throat. Thumbs pressing into the soft hollow just beneath the jaw. No wand. No spells. No weapons. Just touch. Just skin on skin. He imagined the way Regulus would struggle, maybe even claw at him, and how Sirius would hold on anyway. Just raw strength and years of buried hurt. A mercy and a punishment, all at once.

And what terrified him more than the thought itself, more than the blood, the violence, the betrayal, was how calm he felt when he thought about it. How quiet the rage became when he pictured the end of it. How peaceful.

It felt… right, in a way that nothing else did.

Because it would be personal.

Because it would be deserved.

He didn’t want to kill him from across a battlefield. He didn’t want to curse him into dust. No. That wasn’t enough. That was mercy.

But even as he thought about it, even as the hunger for violence pressed sharp against the back of his teeth, there was something else inside him, too. Something fouler. Something far more dangerous.

Grief.

Old, rotting, relentless grief.

It sat in him like poison, thick and putrid, and he hated himself for carrying it.

He hated that sometimes, late at night when everything was quiet, he still heard Regulus’ laugh the way it used to be. Soft, a little breathless, too rare to be real. He hated that he remembered the way Regulus used to sit beside him on the stairs when they were boys, knees pulled up to his chest, asking him questions about the stars and looking at Sirius like he had all the answers.

He hated that he'd mourned him.

Cried for him.

Held the weight of his death like lead in his chest for years.

And now Regulus was alive. Walking and breathing and existing like he hadn’t torn a hole through Sirius and left him to bleed quietly in the wreckage.

No explanation. No apology. Just walked back into their lives like his disappearance hadn’t shattered Sirius into pieces. Like it hadn’t nearly destroyed what was left of him.

After the Prophet's announcement, he started fighting with Remus almost every day, for reasons so small and stupid they couldn’t be real. A wrong look. A wrong word. A cup left half-full. A coat hung too close to the door. Everything made Sirius feel like he was drowning, and Remus was always there, standing still, calm, not grieving the right way.

And Sirius resented him for it.

So, he lashed out again and again, cutting Remus down with words because it was easier than admitting he was hurting. Easier than saying, I don’t know how to live with this weight in my chest. Easier than confessing that Regulus’s disappearance had split something inside him down the middle.

At first, Remus had stood there and taken it, patient in that way Sirius had once loved him for, quiet, enduring, steady, but eventually, even that began to erode. His eyes started to dull, as if watching Sirius rot from the inside was wearing him thin. As if he no longer believed he could save the person standing in front of him.

And James…

James had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

No shouting. No yelling back. No slamming doors. Just silence, cold and final. Sirius didn’t even notice at first, so caught up in his own grief that it didn’t register when James’ flame dulled. Until one morning when he woke up and James was gone.

No note. No explanation. Just… absence.

They found out later that he had gone looking for Regulus’s body. Walked alone into a Death Eater-held territory, following half-whispered rumours and the desperate, irrational hope that maybe there’d be something left to bury. Something to give them closure. To make Sirius’ ache mean something.

He found a pack of ferals instead and nearly died for a corpse that never existed.

It was Moody who brought him back. Carried him bleeding, through the snow. James didn’t talk for days after that.

And Sirius had watched it happen.

Watched his best friend vanish beneath guilt, watched his Moony flinch when he raised his voice, watched everything they'd worked so hard to protect slipping further and further away.

And all of it—every fracture, every scar—traced back to one boy’s absence. To the space he left behind.

To the fact that Sirius had loved him, even when he didn’t want to. Still did, maybe, in the worst, darkest corners of his heart. And there was no place to put that now, no clean ending, no funeral, no grave. Just a brother standing in front of him again, very much alive, with blood on his hands and no apology in his mouth.

So yes, Sirius wanted to kill him.

He wanted to hurt him. Because if he didn’t let the fury devour him whole, if he didn’t throw himself headfirst into the fire of it, all that would be left was the grief.

And Sirius Black didn’t survive grief.

Grief hollowed. Grief made him small. Made him silent.

But rage? Rage kept his heart beating. Rage gave him shape. Kept him alive.

And the worst part, the thing that curdled in his stomach like spoiled milk, was that none of it, not a single ounce of his fury, had anything to do with the war when he saw Regulus today.

It was because his baby brother had been sitting on his couch.

In his house.

Talking to his Moony.

Like he belonged there.

Sirius clenched his jaw so tight it ached. Like he hadn’t vanished off the face of the earth and come back like a curse. Like the last five years hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t shattered the people Sirius loved most and scattered the pieces so far across the battlefield they’d never find their way back.

Regulus had looked comfortable.

And Remus had looked at him like that meant something.

Sirius clenched his jaw so tightly it felt like something might snap. His teeth ached. His whole body buzzed like it was trying to crawl out of itself.

Regulus had always been good at pretending, better than any of them. He could lie without blinking. He could weaponize silence. With the tilt of his head and the calm of his voice. And the way Remus looked at him now, like there was something worth saving in him, made Sirius sick.

He wanted to tear the whole moment apart. Shatter it. Burn it.

And he almost did. He almost crossed the room and grabbed Regulus by the collar and dragged him out into the street, screaming until the whole village woke to see the Black brothers killing each other like dogs.

He wanted to remind everyone, and most of all, Regulus, that this was his life. His people. His home.

But Remus caught his eye, and he didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, calm, grounded, and patient. So he didn’t move.

He stood there, every muscle in his body screaming to destroy, and watched his little brother walk out of the house with his shoulders squared like he hadn’t just poisoned the air by stepping into it.

What gnawed at Sirius was also James.

Because James' eyes lingered on the door long after it shut. Like he was still watching. Like he wanted to follow.

And that made Sirius’ skin crawl because Sirius Black had never learned how to share.

Not love.

Not loyalty.

And most definitely, not them.

Lately, there was something in James…something off. Not loud. Not obvious. James had never been one for subtlety, but this? This was quiet. Observant. Watchful in a way that made Sirius anxious.

He saw it in the way James’s eyes tracked Regulus across the village square. Just a flicker, just a second too long, but Sirius saw it. Heard it in the pauses between words, the breaths James held for no reason, the way he asked about Regulus like he wasn’t asking anything at all. Phrased so carefully, like the truth was a door he was afraid to open too fast.

Why the fuck was James so focused on him?

He'd confronted him about it more than once. Cornered him in the kitchen, behind the old pantry, outside by the traps, and every fucking time, James had said the same infuriating thing:

"You’re overreacting, Pads. Give him a break."

Sirius had nearly laughed in his face. A break? After what Regulus had done? After the silence, the lies, the years of pretending to be dead while the rest of them bled through a war?

“You don’t know him,” Sirius had snapped once, pacing like a caged animal. “You think you do because he says things with that calm, deadpan little voice and pretends he's useful. But you didn’t grow up with him. You didn’t watch him become this.”

But what exactly was “this”? A shadow? A ghost in human skin? Something clever enough to survive while everyone else was dying?

James hadn’t flinched. Just stood there with his arms crossed, jaw set. Steady in that maddening way only James Potter could be.

“I know you, Sirius. And I know when you’re looking for reasons to hurt someone.”

That had shut him up because a small, ugly part of Sirius wasn’t sure he was wrong.

Still, he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t stand the way James sometimes looked at Regulus, like he was trying to understand him. Like he was searching for the cracks in all that cold marble.

As if something in Regulus deserved to be salvaged.

And Sirius wanted to scream because he knew that his little brother was not made of stone or marble.

He was made of razors — polished, quiet, beautiful, and dangerous. Sharp enough to cut you to the bone while you admired the shine.

And Sirius wasn’t going to sit there and watch his best friend bleed for him again.

Regulus was barely out the door when Sirius turned, eyes narrowing. The cold hadn’t even finished seeping out of the room before he was already on edge.

“What’s that?” he barked, jerking his chin toward the small glass vial glinting on the table.

Remus followed his gaze, then moved to pick it up, calm and casual. He slipped it into his pocket with practiced ease.

“Wolfsbane.”

Sirius stiffened like he’d been slapped. “Give it here.”

Remus looked at him, puzzled, one brow twitching upward. “What?”

“I said give it here,” Sirius repeated, stepping forward now, voice a low snarl. “You can’t possibly think you’re taking that.”

Remus’ face didn’t change, but he shifted back a step, already bracing for the blow. He’d seen the start of this before, seen it simmer under Sirius’s skin like poison, just waiting for the right excuse to rise. “Sirius, don’t.”

“You don’t know what’s in it,” Sirius hissed. “You think that’s just wolfsbane? What if it’s laced with poison? Or a blood-binding? Or a fucking hex that eats you from the inside out and we don’t see it until it’s too late?”

“Sirius,” Remus said again, quieter this time, jaw tight. “You’re being paranoid.”

“No, I’m being careful,” Sirius snapped, rounding on him. “There’s a difference.”

He turned sharply toward James, frantic now, searching his face for backup, for that old flash of protective fire James had always carried like a torch for them all. “Prongs. Come on. Say something.”

But James didn’t say anything. He just stood there, arms folded, the way he did when he didn’t want to choose sides because he already had.

“Padfoot…” he said gently, “It’s just a potion.”

That was it.

That soft tone, that gentle, cautious mercy in James’ voice, cracked something in Sirius wide open.

“WHY the fuck are you trusting him?” Sirius exploded, voice echoing off the walls like a curse. “Why the fuck are both of you acting like this is normal?”

“Sirius—” Remus tried, raising a hand, but Sirius pushed forward.

“No,” he barked, stepping forward, face flushed with fury. “You don’t get to talk right now. He’s not one of us. He never was. Don’t you remember what it was like? Every time we saw the Dark Mark, every time a mission went to hell, I wondered. I thought, ‘Maybe it was him. Maybe he turned us in.’ I thought he was dead. I carried that. I mourned that.”

His voice cracked, just barely. He didn’t let it show.

“And now he just shows up, slipping potions like some fucking messiah, and you thank him?”

Remus exhaled, slow, through his nose. But his expression shifted. There was something heavier there now. A bone-deep exhaustion. He didn’t look angry. He looked like someone who’d spent months preparing for this exact conversation and still hadn’t built a shield strong enough for it.

“He’s been dropping that potion off every full moon, Sirius,” Remus said quietly. “Since winter started. Before that, it was Mandrake leaves and Hellebore syrup to keep the fevers down. How do you think I managed?”

Sirius looked stunned. His mouth opened, then closed.

“Lily and the girls—” he tried, his voice catching on the familiar names, desperate to make it make sense.

“No,” Remus interrupted gently but firmly. “They stopped brewing it months ago. Not enough supplies. It’s been him. Every time.”

Sirius turned away like he’d been burned. His whole body tensed, his jaw grinding audibly as he paced, fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to punch a wall.

“Don’t do this,” he said, voice low. “Don’t make me the crazy one for not forgetting what he’s done.”

“No one’s asking you to forget,” James said softly, finally stepping in. “But maybe… maybe we can try to see what he’s doing now. Not what he was.”

“He doesn’t get redemption,” Sirius hissed.

“He’s not asking for it,” Remus replied.

Sirius turned back to both of them, eyes red-rimmed with fury and something far more fragile.

“You don’t know him,” he spat, jabbing a finger at Remus’s chest. “You think you do because he speaks gently and hands you fucking medicine like some penitent priest, but that’s not who he is... He is dangerous, and the second he gets what he wants, he will cut your throat in your sleep!”

Remus’s mouth opened, but closed again, eyes narrowed, lips tight. He looked like he wanted to say a hundred things, but didn’t trust even one of them to land.

“You think I’m mad,” Sirius said, shaking his head. His voice dropped, low and cracked and unraveling. “You both think I’m some raving lunatic with too much grief in his head.”

“Sirius…” Remus tried.

“Don’t.” Sirius’s voice was shaking now, and something was breaking underneath it—something not even anger could hold together anymore. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Not you.” He shook his head again.

“You don’t understand! What if he’s playing the long game? What if we trust him and he tears everything down again?”

There was silence.

Then Remus spoke, voice quiet but certain. “What if he doesn’t?”

The room was heavy with silence. Thick. Suffocating.

“I’m going to the shack,” Sirius muttered, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door. “See you there.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The door slammed behind him with a gust of cold air, the sound echoing briefly before silence settled over the room.

James didn’t move. He stood frozen in place, staring at the door like it might open again, like maybe Sirius would come back in and laugh it off, say something irreverent, pretend the fury hadn’t bled through every word.

But he didn’t.

And after a long moment, James exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw like he was trying to scrub the tension right off his skin. His eyes were tired. Not just in the way people get from lack of sleep, but in the way they get when sleep hasn’t helped for months.

Remus still hadn’t moved. His arms were crossed loosely, eyes tracking James. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was watching closely now, like he always did when someone was hurting and trying not to show it. He’d gotten good at reading past the surface.

James finally turned toward him. “He’s going to explode eventually,” he said, voice low and flat. “I just hope it’s not in the middle of the village.”

Remus let out a dry sound, halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “He already is. Just in smaller, more concentrated doses.”

James gave a tight nod. Then his gaze drifted toward the window, catching on the faint frost clinging to the corners of the glass. For a moment, he looked far away. Like he was watching someone who wasn’t there anymore.

“I think I’m gonna go check on him,” James said, grabbing his coat from the chair back. “He looked like hell.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “He always looks like that.”

“Yeah,” James admitted, voice softer now.. “But tonight… I don’t know. Something’s off. He left too quietly, even for him.”

Remus didn’t stop him, but there was something in his demeanour that made him frown at his friend.

James paused halfway to the door. “I’ll take some of the meat with me,” he added. “We’ve got enough. He probably hasn’t eaten.”

“Yeah,” Remus said softly. “No worries.”

James hesitated then, hand on the door, jaw working like there was more he wanted to say and wasn’t sure how.

“Moony…” James said suddenly, his voice uncertain, like it didn’t belong to him.

Remus lifted his head. “Yeah?”

James turned halfway back, his eyes searching Remus’ face in the dim light. “You did meet him, didn’t you? Back then. Before he came back.”

Remus stilled. The question landed in his chest like a stone. His breath hitched.

“When we all thought he was dead,” James added.

For a long moment, Remus didn’t answer. His face froze the way it always did when truth collided with memory. Something in his throat caught, and his whole body went quiet.

“James…” he said at last, the name stretched thin. “I… I promised.”

James didn’t look surprised. He just nodded, once, slowly, like he was confirming something he’d suspected for a while. He didn’t ask anything else, but his mouth pressed into a line and his shoulders dropped, just slightly, like something unspoken had just gotten heavier.

He turned toward the door again. But just before he touched the handle, Remus’s voice stopped him.

“Prongs?”

James paused, turning halfway back. “Yeah?”

Remus’s gaze was sharp now—sharper than before. Not cruel, not angry. Just tired. And knowing. The kind of knowing that made it hard for James to lie without sounding like a coward.

“Why do you care so much?”

James blinked. “What?”

“About Regulus,” Remus said, quieter this time. “Why do you care what happens to him? Why do you keep going after him, checking on him, defending him when Sirius loses it?”

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded like someone who had run out of space to pretend not to notice.

“He’s not your friend. He’s not even your responsibility. So… why?”

James looked at him for a long moment, silent.

Then he offered the answer he always did, the one that didn’t cost anything.

“He’s just Padfoot’s brother,” he said lightly, shrugging as if that settled it. “What else?”

But Remus didn’t buy it. Didn’t even blink. He just tilted his head slightly, watching James the way he used to watch broken magical creatures in the forest, patiently, like he was waiting for the truth to rise on its own.

“You don’t believe that,” he said quietly. Not a question, but a fact.

James held his gaze for a second too long, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue, then stopped himself. The silence between them stretched thin.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” James muttered, turning back to the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Remus’s voice was soft as snow. “Take care of yourself.”

James turned back, and for the first time that night, he smiled. A small, tired thing, but real.

“You too, Moony.”

And then he was gone.

Chapter Text

There were many things James Potter hated.

First and foremost, he hated what the world had become.

He hated the way Hogsmeade looked now. Once, this village had been full of sound. Of laughter, of children rushing out of shops with sticky hands and flushed cheeks, of Honeydukes and Zonko’s and the clink of butterbeer glasses in the Three Broomsticks. Now it was just rubble. Ruined signs creaking in the wind. A street that looked like it belonged to ghosts more than the living.

James tried not to look at it too long when he walked through. Tried to pretend, for the others' sake, that it was just a bad winter. That the snow and ruin would melt eventually, and spring would bring something better. But he knew. Deep down, in the place where he stored the names of the dead, he knew it would never go back to what it was.

He hated how Hogwarts loomed above it all like a mausoleum instead of a school, tall and grey and watchful, as though the castle itself had been hollowed out and was waiting to collapse under the weight of history. Every time he looked up at it, something in his chest turned cold. It no longer felt like home. It felt like a place where memories went to die.

Worse still, James hated what magic had become.

Magic used to sing through his bones. It had once been joy itself — alive and reckless, something he could dance with, something that glowed at the edges of every day. He used to duel for fun. To transfigure objects just to make Sirius laugh. He used to throw spells like sparks and chase light for the thrill of it. But now, every incantation felt like a blade.

Magic had become a burden. A battlefield. A tool for survival, nothing more.

And James was tired of surviving.

But he never said that out loud.

Because James Potter, Prongs, the loud one, the confident one, the glue of their little universe, had a role to play. He wore his easy grin like armour. Told bad jokes. Ruffled hair that didn’t need ruffling. He was still the first one to break the tension with a smirk and a “well, at least we didn’t die today, so that’s a win, yeah?”

He was the one who carried on like he believed they were going to win this thing. Like the Order was still a living thing and not a slow, bleeding body. He was good at the performance.

But beneath the charm, beneath the practiced wit and boyish shoulder slaps, he was fraying.

Quietly. Relentlessly.

There were cracks in him now, spreading deeper with each month that passed. Sometimes he heard himself laugh and didn’t recognize the sound. Sometimes he said something brave and noble and thought, Who the fuck am I talking to? Who am I trying to convince?

James Potter sometimes missed the boy he used to be. The boy who had believed the world could be fixed if you just fought hard enough. Who believed good would win because good deserved to. But that boy had been buried under rubble long ago. And the James who remained in the aftermath was still digging through the remains, trying to pretend he didn’t know it.

So he grinned. He cracked jokes. He patched Sirius up when he came back bloody and shaking. He checked on Regulus, because someone had to. He kept talking like hope was a thing they still had a grip on.

James Potter hated watching his friends unravel.

He hated watching Sirius break apart piece by piece — not in dramatic, cataclysmic ways, but in slow fractures that spread under the surface. Sirius was angry now in a way that felt different. Not loud and wild like in school, not the mischief-fuelled rage that always passed. This was something colder. Sharper. Barbed and bloodthirsty, stitched together with grief and exhaustion and something James didn’t want to name, because if he did, he wasn’t sure he could still reach him.

Remus, on the other hand, wasn’t breaking. Not visibly anyway.

Moony was dissolving. Quietly. Systematically. Not in fire, but in silence. James saw it in the way he stood a little farther back than he used to, in how he never raised his voice anymore, how his gaze seemed fixed on something always a little too far away. He never asked for help. Never complained. But James recognised the weight dragging at his spine, the stillness in his expression that came from carrying too much for too long.

And then there was Lily.

Lily, still brilliant and fierce, walked through hell every day with her head held high, still managing to keep the others upright. She found the right words when no one else could. She kept giving and giving, and no one remembered to ask her if she had anything left. And that broke him too, in a quieter, more personal way.

But what hurt more, what lingered, was how the war had taken everything from him.

They had loved each other once. Fiercely. Desperately. It had been a thing of fire and gravity, a collision they both surrendered to without hesitation. James had been so sure, so certain, that what they had could withstand anything.

But after Hogwarts, after the celebrations dulled and the battles started piling up, their love, that bright, burning thing that had once made everything seem possible, began to flicker.

It didn’t fall apart all at once. There was no great betrayal, no explosive fight, no slammed doors or screamed accusations. It ended the way so many things did during wartime: quietly, without fanfare. It faded like an old photograph left in the sun — edges curled, colours dulled, but the ghost of what had been was still visible if you looked close enough.

They stopped laughing together. Stopped reaching for each other in the dark. It was subtle — missed glances, conversations left unfinished, questions asked without looking up. Until one day, James realized he couldn’t remember the last time she had touched him just to touch him. Or the last time he’d told her something he hadn’t already rehearsed in his head.

The war devoured love like that.

It took and took and took, until all that was left between them was exhaustion and duty. They became two people living in the same house, fighting the same war, sleeping in the same bed, but waking up on opposite sides of something neither of them could name.

Roommates. Partners, perhaps, in the logistical sense, but not lovers. Not anymore.

And sometimes, in the quiet hours before dawn when his mind wouldn’t let him rest, James asked himself whether it had ever truly been love in the first place or just the wild infatuation of two bright, desperate teenagers clinging to something beautiful in a world that was already beginning to fall apart.

Because if it had been real, why hadn’t it endured?

Why hadn’t it withstood the storm like Sirius and Remus had? Their love, though often strained, had survived. It bent, but never broke. Why hadn’t it held like Peter and Emmeline’s?

Why had they fallen?

James never voiced the question. Not to Lily. Not to anyone. Because asking might tear open wounds neither of them had the strength to close again.

Instead, he smiled. Played the role. Made breakfast. Gave her space. Told himself that maybe love could still come back if he waited long enough. If he was good enough. If he kept being the James Potter everyone needed him to be.

But it sat with him all the same, lodged behind his ribs like a splinter he couldn’t dig out, humming like guilt, low and constant.

Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.

The thought never came gently. It crashed, uninvited and merciless, in the moments between battles, in the hollow silences after others had gone to bed. It haunted him not as a question but a condemnation.

Maybe he hadn’t been the kind of man worth staying for. Maybe he hadn’t fought the right way, hadn’t loved the right way, hadn’t been enough — not for Lily, not for Sirius, not for Remus, not for anyone.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to be someone’s home.

Maybe he was just built to burn for the sake of others, to throw himself between danger and those he loved and hope it counted for something.

And even that, lately, felt like a role he was failing at too.

Through it all, James felt utterly, pathetically powerless. And that, more than anything, made him want to scream. He had been raised to be more than this — raised on stories of bravery and purpose and light, told again and again that people like him, people with conviction and courage, could change the world.

But the world didn’t care.

The world took and took and left scars in its place. And somewhere along the way, he’d lost control of the story he was meant to be living. He had lost control of himself.

The boy he used to be had become a ghost in his own skin.

And this, perhaps, was the most poisonous truth of all: he hated himself.

He hated the mirror. Hated the man who stared back at him, with eyes too dark, too tired, too hollow to pass for anything human anymore. Eyes rimmed with sleepless nights and silent grief. Eyes that belonged to someone older than twenty-three, someone who had seen too much and still believed it wasn’t enough.

He hated the weakness he saw there. The fear. The questions he couldn’t ask out loud.

Because the war hadn’t just changed him. It had eroded him. Bit by bit, it had stripped him of the boy he’d once been, until all that was left was this jagged echo of James Potter. Still laughing, still loud when it mattered, still brave on the outside, but crumbling inside.

No one saw it because he hid it well. He wore his recklessness like armour, deflected with jokes, spoke in clipped bursts of false optimism, but inside, the truth had taken root: James didn’t believe that version of himself anymore.

The nightmares had started halfway through the war, and they’d only worsened in the months since.

He never talked about them, but they clung to him like a second skin.

In them, he was always alone. The sky was always red, and everyone he loved was already dead. Sirius’ body in pieces. Remus torn apart. Lily — God, Lily — staring at him with hollow eyes, lips parted like she was about to say something.

And he was covered in their blood.

Always.

Drenched in it. Hands shaking. Breathing heavy. Looking down at himself and seeing nothing but failure written in crimson.

Sometimes, he woke up mid-scream, teeth clenched, nails biting into his palms so hard they bled. Other times, he couldn’t even scream. Just lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, too afraid to sleep again, too numb to cry.

He once promised himself he would be more. That he’d fight smarter. Be the one who held the line. He made vows to the universe that he’d protect them all, even if it killed him.

But how could he do that if he couldn’t even save himself?

When Regulus Black was thrown into the village square like a broken doll, bleeding into the dirt, something cracked in him. He had already been breaking, but that was the moment the last part of him, the part that still believed he could manage this, snapped.

The image lodged itself in a different part of him. One that pulsed quieter. Deeper.

He couldn’t say when exactly he started watching Regulus. Couldn’t pinpoint the moment his eyes began to linger too long. It crept in like fog under a door, uninvited, and unnoticed until it was everywhere.

At first, it had been distrust. Regulus was a risk, a symbol of everything James had learned not to trust. The Slytherin prince with too many secrets and too little warmth, who moved like he didn’t want to be seen. The little brother who almost destroyed his best friend.

Then it became curiosity. It was like watching a flame from across the room. You told yourself you were just making sure it didn’t spread. Just being cautious. But your feet never moved. Your gaze never strayed. And slowly, you started stepping closer, drawn to the warmth even though you knew you would get burned.

Was it because Regulus was Sirius’ brother? A desperate, unconscious attempt to understand the piece of Sirius no one else could touch?

Was it because James had been taught to look for light in dark places, and Regulus was a cathedral full of shadows, half-collapsed but still standing?

Or was it something else?

Something quieter. Something hungrier. More dangerous. A need he didn’t have the strength to name. A question he never let finish forming, because if he did, he might not be able to walk back from it.

James never let himself explore the question. Never allowed the thought to stretch beyond that line. He didn’t deserve to wonder.

He hated himself too much to afford that kind of softness.

So he stayed still. He watched. He burned. He hated. And he never, ever let himself wonder.

Because the moment he gave that thought a name, it would be real. And real things broke. Real things bled. Real things were lost, and James Potter had lost enough.

James woke up with a throbbing head. The kind that reminded him of the sleepless nights back when things were simpler. When they’d sneak under the Cloak, skirting Filch’s muttering and Mrs. Norris’s cursed tail, and lose themselves in the hidden corners of Hogsmeade, drinking themselves stupid on firewhiskey and laughing like there was no war looming over them.

But now, there was nothing that could explain the pounding at the back of his skull, or the cotton-thick feeling in his mouth.

The house was cold again, the fire long since burned. He forced himself to sit up on the battered mattress, and the room swayed slightly around him.

There was a loneliness in mornings like this, heavy and clinging. The kind that wrapped around the ribs like barbed wire, too tight to rip away.

Most days, he could shove it down. He was good at that. He’d learned to weaponize movement: if he was busy, he wasn’t drowning. If he was fighting, he wasn’t breaking. If he was loud, they wouldn’t hear the cracks. His entire life had become a carefully layered performance — still the bold, smiling James Potter on the outside, even as the man underneath him faded.

James rubbed his temples and swung his legs off the mattress, the boots hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. The light through the window was barely that — a watery smear across the warped wooden floorboards. It didn’t warm anything.

He ran a hand down his face, trying to shake off another night of half-dreams and half-rest, when his mind refused to settle even when his body had begged for stillness. He could barely remember what he dreamt anymore, only that there were always shadows, and always blood.

He stood slowly, muscles stiff, joints sore, and reached for his coat. As he stepped into the hallway, something made him pause. The house was quiet, still wrapped in that early morning hush, and the door to Sirius and Remus’ room was pulled just slightly ajar.

He hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering above the wood, then pushed it open a few inches and peered inside.

The bed was a tangle of blankets and limbs, Sirius curled protectively around Remus, one arm slung low across his waist, foreheads nearly touching. There was something magnetic about the way their bodies pulled toward each other, even in sleep, like no matter what the war took from them, it couldn’t steal that gravitational force. That need to stay close.

James stared, throat tight.

Remus’ face was relaxed, finally free from the quiet torment that had etched itself into every expression he wore awake. Sirius looked more like himself than James had seen in weeks — still coiled with tension, yes, but less haunted.

They were safe. Whole. Breathing.

Still here.

He watched them for a few seconds longer, silent and unmoving, his hand still braced on the doorframe. He didn’t want to wake them up or break the fragile peace they’d managed to find in this moment. Part of him envied it. Part of him felt like an intruder just for witnessing it.

He closed the door softly, careful not to let it creak, and leaned back against the hallway wall. He let himself stay there with his eyes closed, breathing slowly, trying to keep the ache from rising too high in his throat. Then he straightened, pulled on his scarf, and moved toward the kitchen.

He needed to head out soon.

Lily was expecting him, or at the very least, counting on someone to check whether the traps near the ridge had been triggered overnight. They couldn’t afford to miss a day, not with supplies running thin and mouths still needing to be fed.

It was easier, somehow, to focus on food and maps and route rotations. Easier than thinking too long about what it meant to stand outside someone else’s door and feel like a stranger to your own life.

By the time James reached Lily’s house, the cold had seeped into his bones. The Magic Neep looked quiet from the outside, but thin wisps of smoke curled from the chimney, and the faint scent of damp herbs and earth clung to the air.

James raised his hand and knocked once. The door creaked open a few seconds later, and there she was. Lily Evans stood in the doorway, her hair braided messily over one shoulder, an apron dusted with soil tied around her waist. The moment she saw him, her face softened.

“You look like hell,” she said bluntly, but with no real heat.

He gave a humourless smile. “Nice to see you too, Lils.”

She stepped aside, letting him in. The warmth of the house hit James like a wall, rich with the smells of fresh bread and brewing potions. He took off his scarf and followed her into the kitchen, where Marlene was crouched by the fireplace, feeding the flames with dry wood.

“Mary is in the greenhouse,” Lily said over her shoulder, setting a kettle over the fire. “She should be back soon.”

He perched on the edge of one of the chairs, stretching his hands toward the flames, trying to will the feeling back into his fingers.

“No worries. Did you manage to check the traps?”

She shook her head. “Dorcas isn’t feeling well. She was still asleep when I checked an hour ago.”

James looked over at Marlene. His brow furrowed.

“Did something happen?”

Marlene didn’t meet his eyes right away. She tossed another log into the fire. 

“Just a cold,” she said. “Not the end of the world. We’ve got a bit of Pepperup Potion left, and that’ll do for now. Lily, maybe add the ingredients to the list? Reggie might be able to scrounge something.”

James stilled.

He blinked once. Then again. Slowly.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it lowered. 

Lily didn’t look up from the cauldron. She kept stirring, her movements suddenly too measured.

“Reggie said he might head back to the castle,” she said evenly. “He told us to write him a list. Said he’d do what he could.”

James didn’t answer. Not immediately. His gaze dropped to the floorboards. He exhaled slowly, jaw clenched tight, a tension that lived just below the surface, cracking through his expression like fault lines.

Marlene glanced between them, clearly picking up on something but choosing not to comment.

“…He told you?” James finally said. He wasn’t looking at either of them now. “That he is going to the castle again?”

Lily’s stirring slowed. And then stopped.

It took her a beat too long to respond. “I thought— I assumed you knew.”

Something flickered behind James’ eyes. A strange kind of ache, the sort that came when you realized the ground had shifted under you without warning and everyone else had already adapted to the new landscape.

“No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

The silence that followed was thick. Uneasy.

Lily set the spoon down gently beside the cauldron. “James—”

“It’s fine,” he cut in, too quickly. Too tightly. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter. Of course, it did. It mattered that Regulus had been crawling back into that graveyard of a castle and that James was only just finding out from a passing comment like it was something normal.

He hated how much it bothered him. How much space it took up in his chest, this sharp-edged worry he hadn’t given permission to grow.

His mouth opened like he might say something, but nothing came out for a second.

Lily glanced up, and there it was again, the thing he didn’t want her to see.

Concern.

Not a strategic concern. Not the kind you carried for an asset or an informant or a reluctant ally.

Personal concern.

She didn’t say anything. Just watched him from across the room.

James’ eyes were still on the fire, brows furrowed, mouth set in a tight line like he was trying to work something out in his head and hated where it was leading him.

“I’ll check the traps,” he said, reaching for his scarf. “Be back before lunch.”

The path toward the forest had once been an animal trail, narrow and half-swallowed by bramble. The kind of thing you’d miss entirely if you didn’t already know it was there.

Now, after months of careful use, the snow along the trail was ground flat. Earth was packed down where ice had melted and refrozen a dozen times. Tracks overlapped each other in faded layers: boots, paws, the iron drag of crates, once even the dark, rust-brown smear of blood that hadn’t fully washed away. Faint now, but not gone.

James followed the path in silence.

The trees in this part of the wood were skeletal, stripped bare by the winter wind. Their branches reached like fingers, black and brittle against the grey sky, tangled together in a way that always made James feel like he was being watched. To his right, a shallow stream ran through a dip in the terrain, frozen solid. The ice was cracked down the center, spiderwebbed like a shattered window, as though something had fallen into it and tried to crawl back out. 

Eventually, the trees thickened, closing around him like a cage. This was where the traps began. Subtle and well-hidden. James passed a snare disguised beneath a layer of dry leaves, a barely visible net suspended between two pine trunks, and a pressure trigger beneath a crooked rock. They weren’t meant for people, but he’d seen what happened when someone careless wandered through without looking. Avery once almost caught his leg in a bear trap.

James crouched over one of the traps, frowning as his fingers brushed the disturbed snow. The mechanism had been triggered, but the bait was untouched. No blood, no fur, no drag marks. Whatever had set it off had slipped free.

He leaned in, intending to reset it, gloved fingers already moving to rearm it, when something cold pressed the side of his throat.

Not cold like snow. Cold like metal.

James froze, muscles locking, breath catching sharp in his throat. His heart stuttered once, then began pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

“Care to explain,” came a voice, smooth, low, edged in familiar frost, “why you’re hovering over my trap, Potter?”

James didn’t have to look to know who it was. He would recognise that voice anywhere. That careful, bored lilt. Like everything Regulus Black said was equal parts challenge and mockery.

James raised his hands slowly, the picture of dramatic surrender, and in one breath, he twisted, grabbing the wrist holding the knife, dragging it forward and over his shoulder with practiced ease. The world blurred for a heartbeat, snow and branches rushing past, and then Regulus hit the ground with a muted thud, flat on his back, a faint grunt punched out of him as air escaped his lungs.

The knife landed nearby, half-buried in the snow.

James didn’t hesitate and followed through smoothly, straddling Regulus’ hips with the kind of speed that spoke of too many drills and too many years in this godforsaken war. His own blade was out in a flash, pressed firm against the pale column of Regulus’ throat.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Their breaths misted between them, curling together in the frozen air.

James smirked as he leaned in.

“Need to work on your reflexes, sparrow,” he murmured, voice a low drawl. “You’re getting slow.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. He simply arched a single brow, cool and unreadable, even flat on his back with a blade at his throat.

“Do I now?” he said, tone clipped, unimpressed.

There was a flicker of movement — so subtle that James barely noticed it.

Until he felt it.

A second blade pressed lightly into his ribs, just below the final curve of bone. James glanced down to see a long, narrow hunting knife resting against his coat, held with terrifying steadiness in Regulus’ left hand.

He blinked, then let out a soft huff of laughter. “That’s not very sporting.”

“Neither was throwing me into the snow,” Regulus replied calmly. “But here we are.”

James glanced down, then back up at Regulus’ face. Strands of his hair falling across one cheek, sticking slightly to the corner of his mouth where the snow had started to melt. His breath came in slow, measured pulls, fogging the space between them.

His eyes, green and sharp and endlessly distant, were locked on James. Watching him. Always watching, like he was trying to dissect the motive behind every twitch of his expression.

It unnerved James more than the knife.

“Before I take a better look at your liver,” Regulus said calmly, “why were you hovering over my trap?”

He sat back slightly, loosening his grip, and pulled his blade away from Regulus’ throat.

“Something triggered it,” James said, gesturing loosely toward the trap. “Didn’t catch anything, but the mechanism was sprung. I was just resetting it. No need to get all—”

He waved vaguely, knife still in hand.

“Icky.”

Regulus blinked. “Icky?”

James grinned. “You know. Possessive. Stabby.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but it came half a second too late. The corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward in something perilously close to amusement. Not quite a smile, but the idea of one. A thought he didn’t want to admit having.

James nudged his chin toward the knife still resting under his ribs. “Now, will you be a good boy and do the same?”

He didn’t mean for his voice to drop like that — low, smooth, edged with something that wasn’t quite mocking. He definitely didn’t mean to let his eyes flick down to Regulus’ mouth as he said it.

But they did.

And Regulus caught it.

His gaze sharpened, a breath too still, a fraction too long. The air between them suddenly felt too tight for the space they occupied — thin and tense and buzzing like a live wire. And for the briefest moment, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, colour bloomed across the tops of Regulus’ cheeks. Not much. Just the faintest flush, rising a little too high on his cheekbones to be from the cold alone.

James held very still, eyes on him, half-curious and half-something-else. Watching to see if Regulus would acknowledge it. Speak. Move.

He didn’t, but his fingers shifted.

Without a word, Regulus let the blade fall away, returning it to the sheath at his thigh in one fluid motion. Like nothing had happened. Like James hadn’t just breathed something dangerous into the space between them and waited to see if Regulus would let it catch fire.

James lingered a moment longer, just watching him. He stood slowly, brushing the snow off his knees, trying not to notice the way his heart was still hammering in his chest.

He looked down at Regulus, whose eyes were cast to the side, lashes dark against pink skin, jaw set like he was rebuilding a wall brick by brick.

“What are you doing out here alone?” James asked, trying for casual, though his voice was still too rough, too warm. He offered a hand without thinking, open, steady, the leather glove creaking slightly at the knuckles.

Regulus didn’t take it.

He stood on his own, brushing snow from his coat with methodical precision. As if James’ breath hadn’t ghosted across his cheek, just inches from his mouth.

“What I always do,” Regulus said simply, not looking at him. “Making sure my friends don’t starve.”

James tilted his head, eyes still tracking him.

“Not very Slytherin of you,” he said, half-smile curling at the edge of his mouth, but quieter this time.

Regulus looked up at that, and something passed between them. Something heavy and full of years they hadn’t shared. Wars they hadn’t fought together. Bloodlines, guilt, disappointment. Things they both carried in different ways. Different coats for the same winter.

“You have no idea what Slytherin means, Potter.” Regulus smiled, cold and sharp and very tired.

Maybe not, but he knew how Regulus looked in the snow, wind-touched and unguarded and just human enough that it hurt. He knew how he looked when his mask slipped just enough to show a sliver of the person underneath. Just enough to make James want to reach out and make the rest of it fall away.

They fell into step after that, weaving between the trees in a rhythm that was almost easy, almost normal. Snow crunched underfoot, brittle branches cracked overhead, and the quiet of the woods stretched around them like a held breath. Regulus moved with practiced efficiency, steps precise, eyes flicking from trap to tree line and back again. James trailed half a pace behind, the silence growing heavier the longer he let it sit.

Finally, James broke it.

“Lily told me,” he said, voice light, “that you are going to raid the castle again.”

Regulus didn’t react. He crouched beside a half-buried stone and reached behind it with gloved fingers. When he came back up, there was a limp rabbit in his grip, frozen stiff, legs rigid. 

“Evans should learn to keep her mouth shut,” he said simply, slipping the rabbit into the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder like it was nothing more than firewood.

“She talks because she cares,” James said, brushing snow off a branch as they moved forward again.

“Dangerous habit,” Regulus muttered, tightening the flap on his bag with a soft snap. 

“When?” James asked, straightening as they moved deeper into the trees.

“When what?” Regulus didn’t look at him, eyes fixed ahead.

“When are you going?” James repeated, quieter this time.

That made Regulus stop. He turned slowly, snow whispering around his boots as he shifted to face James. There was a flicker of irritation in his eyes, but underneath that was something else. Weariness, maybe. 

“You’re not coming,” he said flatly.

James tilted his head, feigning casual. “Didn’t say I was.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “You don’t ask questions unless you’ve already got some idiotic plan forming in that Gryffindor head of yours.”

“Debatable,” James said, crouching beside another trap. This one had caught a squirrel, its tiny body curled awkwardly, eyes glassy.

“Scrawny little things,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose as he picked it up by the tail, and dropped it into the basket slung at his hip. 

Regulus watched him for a moment, expression unreadable.

“You’re not coming,” he said again. Quieter this time. “It’s not your job.”

James stood, brushing his hands together. “Neither is this,” he said, lifting the basket slightly, “but here I am.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He turned away and started walking again.

James followed, not letting it drop. “You go alone every time.”

“Because I’m good at it.”

“That’s not the point.”

Regulus stopped again. His jaw tightened.

“You don’t fucking know what the point is.”

James held his gaze. “Then tell me.”

Silence.

For a moment, the forest felt too loud — the wind whistling between the trees, the creak of branches above them, the soft ticking sound of something dripping in the distance.

Finally, Regulus exhaled.

“If I take someone with me and they die, that’s on me,” he said. “Do you get that, Potter? If someone bleeds out in that castle while I’m standing there, that’s not war anymore. That’s my burden. My failure.”

James blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice.

“I can be careful,” he said, softer now.

“No,” Regulus said. “You can be stupidly brave. There’s a difference.”

That quieted them both. They stood still for a long moment, breath misting in the cold, and for once, the banter dissolved into something rawer. James looked down at his basket and exhaled, slow and controlled, but the words came anyway, low and honest, before he could pull them back.

“It’s not fair,” he said finally. “You shouldn’t have to carry that alone.”

Regulus' head turned just slightly, the edge of his cheekbone catching the light.

“Nothing is fair in this world anymore, Potter,” he said. His voice was different now, not tired or cruel. Just cold. Final. A lock clicking into place. “Get used to it.”

It was the kind of answer James expected from him, but for some reason, it stuck under his skin like a thorn too deep to dig out.

They didn’t speak after that, not for a while. The snow fell softer now, fat flakes drifting between the trees. They kept walking, deeper into the woods, where the trees grew close and the sky disappeared behind twisted branches.

James let the silence stretch, let the quiet settle into his bones, but he kept watching.

He watched the way Regulus checked each and every trap with careful hands, eyes scanning the snow with the precision of someone who had done this too many times. He didn’t just glance, he read the landscape. Not just for signs of prey, but for any disturbance, any danger. He reset the traps with mechanical patience, never wasting movement, never speaking unless necessary.

There was a strange reverence to it. A ritual in the way Regulus moved. Even when the traps worked, when the animals were dead and their bodies stiff with cold, Regulus was careful. Not gentle, exactly, but precise. A whispered apology in a language James didn’t recognize. Like this wasn’t about death, but about control — about holding on to one small piece of himself in a world that kept taking.

It was at the fourth trap when he suddenly stopped.

James noticed the shift immediately. The tension in Regulus’ back and the stillness in his stance. He moved forward, curious, only to see the shape huddled in the snow.

“What is it—?”

Then he saw it. Curled awkwardly in the shallow drift where the trap had sprung, limbs folded in a tangle of long legs and shimmering hide, was something that didn’t belong in this kind of scene. 

“Oh shit,” James breathed. “That’ll bring us some—”

“We’re not getting him back,” Regulus said sharply. The edge in his voice sliced through the air.

James blinked. “What?”

Regulus didn’t look away from the trap.

“James,” he said, and the use of his name stopped him short. It was the first time Regulus had ever said his name. Not Potter. Not some snide sneer. Just James. And it made something shift under his skin. “I said no.”

He looked at Regulus, then at the mooncalf tangled weakly in the trap.

Its eyes, too large, too round, stared up at them, soft and glassy with confusion. The grey hide shimmered faintly, the skin catching stray light like something made of starlight, not blood and bone. Its body trembled faintly, but not from fear or pain.

It just looked... lost. Like it didn’t understand what being trapped meant.

“Reggie,” James said carefully, “think about it. A mooncalf’s hide and blood… that’s enough to feed everyone for a month. Trade it in, and we’re good until spring.”

“I don’t care,” Regulus said, stepping between James and the animal with a finality that brooked no argument. He looked taller, somehow. Firmer. “They’re harmless. They don’t even know how to defend themselves for fucks sake.”

James sighed, a cloud of white escaping his lips into the cold. “I’m not saying we hurt it. We could just—”

“James,” Regulus said again, softer this time. “Look at him.”

The mooncalf was still. Its flank shivered with every inhale, the trap cord stretched tight against its narrow chest. But its eyes never left them. There was no anger. No desperation. Just trust. Quiet, terrible trust. It didn’t understand. It didn’t fight.

Regulus crouched beside it, hands moving slowly, murmuring something under his breath. The mooncalf’s breathing slowed almost immediately as Regulus’ fingers brushed against its skin, working to free the cord without jerking, without force.

“We’re not becoming them,” Regulus said, voice steady. “Not for food. Not for survival. That’s where it starts. You take the easy path once, and suddenly it’s not a line you’re crossing. It’s a habit. A choice you keep making until you can’t remember why it ever felt wrong.”

James watched him in silence. This wasn’t the Regulus Black he thought he knew. This wasn’t the cold boy who vanished without a trace. This wasn’t the quiet, evil Slytherin Sirius tried to picture for years. This was someone else entirely. Someone stubborn, principled in a way that mattered more now than ever, someone who still saw lines in the dirt and refused to cross them even when starving.

And James felt that shift again, low in his chest, like something unfolding without his permission.

He crouched beside him, shoulder brushing against Regulus’ arm and together, they worked the mooncalf free. Its limbs were shaky, but it didn’t bolt. It just blinked at them, once, as if offering something close to gratitude, then bounded off into the trees, vanishing like it had never been there at all.

They stayed kneeling there for a few breaths longer, both staring at the place where it had disappeared. The forest was still again, wrapped in its heavy silence.

“You know,” James said finally, glancing sideways at him, “Sirius would call us both idiots right now.”

“Yeah,” Regulus muttered, standing slowly. “Well. Sirius can choke on his own bloody cynicism.”

James let out a short, surprised laugh and stood too, brushing the snow from his knees, and reached down to retrieve the sack of rabbits and squirrels.

Whatever this was between them was starting to stretch between lines neither of them had drawn clearly enough to follow.

The village came into view slowly, first the outline of the old apothecary, then the sagging eaves of what used to be Brood and Peck. As they reached the edge of the path where it forked toward the scattered cottages, the wind picked up, whistling through the trees. James shifted the sack in his hand, the weight of it dragging awkwardly against his shoulder. He cleared his throat, casual but calculated.

“I’m gonna drop some at Lily’s,” he said, jerking his chin toward the narrow trail that cut through the trees, toward the girls’ cottage. 

Regulus didn’t stop walking, but his eyes flicked sideways. “Okay.”

James hesitated a beat, then threw out the question like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t been brewing in the back of his head for the last half hour.

“You wanna come?”

Regulus blinked once, then shook his head without hesitation. “No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” James asked, voice lighter than he felt. “I mean, I’m charming company, the weather’s crap, and Lily has tea that doesn’t taste like burnt moss. What’s not to love?”

Regulus stopped this time, turning to face him fully, arms folded tight against his chest. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes — not annoyance exactly, but not quite softness either. A middle ground James was learning to recognize.

“There’s no reason for me to be there,” Regulus said.

James stepped in front of him, not blocking the path, but enough to be unavoidable. “You have every reason to be there.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just stared at him with that level, steady gaze that made it feel like he was dissecting James from the inside out.

He didn’t like being pulled into things. Didn’t like being seen, not like that. And James knew it. But he also knew that if he let Regulus walk away now, the wall between them would grow again, and he wasn’t ready for that.

James tilted his head, trying for a grin. “Come on. Just five minutes. We drop the meat off, Lily calls me an arse, Marlene rolls her eyes, and you pretend to be bored out of your mind. Easy. Painless.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened. “Potter—”

James held up a hand. “James.”

Regulus frowned.

“My name. You said it earlier. Thought we could try making that a habit.”

Regulus exhaled through his nose, sharp and unimpressed. “Fine. James… I don’t do well in rooms full of people who barely tolerate me.”

“They don’t tolerate you,” James said. “They respect you.”

Regulus gave him a skeptical look. “That’s a generous interpretation of flinching when I walk in.”

James huffed, shifting the sack again, trying to keep the mood buoyant. “They flinch at everyone. Last week, Lily threatened to hex Remus because he sneezed too close to the cauldron. It’s nothing personal.”

Regulus arched a brow. “You’re a terrible liar.”

James grinned. “Yeah, but I’m a very persistent one.”

For a moment, Regulus didn’t move. The cold nipped at their cheeks, white mist curling between their breaths.

James tried again, this time quieter. “Look, I get it. You don’t owe anyone anything. You don’t have to be the social butterfly of the apocalypse. But you’ve been risking your neck for all of us. Keeping people alive. You show up, you don’t ask for thanks, you disappear. Maybe… maybe you could just not disappear this time. Just for a little while.”

Regulus looked away, jaw working, lips pressed into a hard line. James watched him carefully, unsure if he’d pushed too far, until Regulus sighed.

A long, weary sound, like something deflating inside him.

“Five minutes,” Regulus muttered.

James’s grin bloomed like sunlight on snow. “Knew you couldn’t resist my charm.”

Regulus didn’t even blink. “Who lied to you, Potter?”

James laughed. “So many people. But I had a hunch you would be the cruellest about it.”

Regulus sniffed. “I pride myself on consistency.”

James adjusted the sack, falling back into step beside him as they started down the path toward the village. The snow had lightened to a soft drift, swirling in the air.

“And yet you’re still walking beside me,” he said, nudging him lightly with an elbow.

 “I’m not beside you,” Regulus replied dryly. “I’m strategically within stabbing range in case you say something stupid again.”

James glanced sideways, lips twitching. “So… the usual, then.”

“Exactly.”

But he didn’t stop walking, and James didn’t stop smiling.

The moment Lily opened the door, the warm scent of herbs, woodsmoke, and something faintly sweet spilled out into the cold morning air.

Her eyes landed on James first, the usual spark of exasperated fondness lighting up her face, but then they shifted, flicking just past his shoulder. Her entire expression changed.

“Regulus!” she beamed, stepping forward, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “Finally!”

Regulus blinked, visibly taken aback. “I—”

But Lily didn’t give him the chance. She reached forward and nudged him, not hard, but firmly enough, over the threshold.

“Inside. Come on. Don’t just stand there collecting snow like a statue. You’ll freeze those sharp little bones.”

Regulus stumbled into the warmth, stiff and disoriented.

James, still lingering on the step, huffed dramatically. “What about me?”

Lily turned over her shoulder with a grin. “You’ll live.”

“I carried the bloody rabbits!” James whined. “He just insulted me for twenty solid minutes!”

“Which means he’s healthy,” she said airily, and closed the door almost entirely in his face.

He huffed, then opened it himself and stepped in behind them. Regulus was already standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, flanked by the heat of the hearth and Lily bustling around him like he was a stray cat that needed coaxing.

“Gloves off,” she said, already tugging them free before he could protest. “And you’re covered in snow, honestly—have you even seen a scarf before?”

“I—” Regulus started, bewildered.

“Hush. Let me work.”

She brushed snow from his coat with the brisk efficiency of someone who had done this before and didn’t plan to stop.

“You’ve lost weight again,” she muttered.

Regulus stiffened. “It’s winter. Everyone loses weight in winter.”

“Not like this,” she said sharply, then caught herself, softening. “You sleep at all this week?”

Regulus gave a sardonic half-shrug. “Define sleep.”

“That’s what I thought.”

From the hallway, a familiar voice mumbled groggily, “Who’s shouting like it’s a bloody party—?”

Dorcas appeared, bundled in two sweaters, her hair sticking up at odd angles. The moment her eyes landed on Regulus, she moved faster than James thought possible.

“Hello, stranger,” she grinned, voice rough with sleep, and wrapped her arms around him before he could flinch away.

Regulus stiffened; eyes wide. “I—Dorcas—what are you—?”

“Shut up,” she mumbled, holding tight. “I missed your miserable face.”

James, watching from the wall, raised an eyebrow. “Do I have to get stabbed or fake my death to get that much affection?”

Lily, still tending to the hearth, didn’t miss a beat. “No, you just have to repress every normal emotional instinct and be terrifyingly competent in a crisis.”

But James didn’t respond. Not right away. His eyes were still fixed on Regulus, stiff and startled in Dorcas’ arms, like he didn’t know what to do with warmth when it came from someone who meant it. The way his hands hovered awkwardly at her sides, not pushing her away, but not quite returning the gesture either.

And still, he didn’t move. He let her hold him.

How long, James wondered, has it been since someone touched him and didn’t want something in return?

Dorcas finally let go, stepping back without comment, and Regulus remained still, blinking slowly like he was rebooting.

What would it be like, he wondered, to touch him like that? To reach for Regulus Black and feel him lean in instead of lean away? To feel that sharp, guarded body relax, even a little, in the curve of someone else's chest. What would someone have to do to make him let go like that?

Would he ever be soft with him?

James swallowed hard, gaze falling to Regulus’ profile. There was a fragility there, buried beneath all the snide remarks and quiet competence. And seeing someone like Dorcas crack through it with something as simple as an embrace felt unfair.

That, more than anything, stuck with James.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until Lily appeared beside him and nudged him sharply in the ribs with her elbow.

“You’re staring.”

James jerked, startled. “What? No, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow so high it nearly hit her hairline. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one you used to get when you were about to convince me to break into Slughorn’s office and steal Amortentia.”

“That was one time.”

“And this is one very obvious crush,” she murmured under her breath.

James choked slightly. “What?”

Lily smirked, held up a mug. “Tea?”

He gulped, grateful for the deflection. “Yes. Please.”

She handed it over and leaned in just slightly, voice softer now. “Just don’t break your neck tripping over whatever this is, yeah?”

He didn’t answer. Just sipped the tea and tried not to look at Regulus again.

Failed miserably.

Because Regulus was still standing near the hearth, surrounded by warmth and noise and a kind of casual care that didn’t demand anything from him. And he still looked completely out of place. Like he didn’t know how to be in a room full of people who gave a damn about him.

James watched the way his shoulders tensed when Marlene wandered in and offered him a blanket, how he mumbled something awkward in return, eyes down, like it physically hurt to accept kindness. Like he hadn’t learned the language for it yet.

After almost one hour, Regulus eventually peeled himself away from the hearth, despite Lily’s protests. Dorcas had fallen back asleep on the sofa, arms curled around a pillow, her head in Marlene’s lap.

James watched Regulus rise and fold the blanket carefully.

“I’ll walk you back,” he said without thinking.

Regulus paused mid-motion, turning slightly with a flat look. “You do realize I’m not a child, right?”

James shrugged. “Yeah, but your mood’s heavier than a sack of bricks. I figured you could use someone to drag you the last few steps.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Touching. Really.”

Outside, snow drifted lazily from a gray sky, softening every edge of the ruined village. Their boots crunched side by side as they stepped through the slush, the silence hanging between them not exactly comfortable, but not tense either. Just full.

James shoved his hands into his pockets. “You stayed more than five minutes.”

“I know.”

“Hmm,” James hummed, “and when you think you didn’t want to come in the first place.”

Regulus glanced sideways at him. “Is this your awkward way of thanking me?”

“No,” James said, lips quirking. “This is my awkward way of pointing out that underneath all that brooding and sharp-tongued posturing, you’re alarmingly polite.”

Regulus snorted. “Don’t ruin it. I’m already regretting being civil.”

“Please. You were barely tolerable.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “You’re really bad at compliments, Potter.”

“Only when they’re aimed at people who keep threatening to gut me.”

“And yet you're still following me around like a lost Niffler.”

James smirked. “I prefer the term ‘emotionally concerned tracking companion,’ thanks.”

“Pathetic.”

“You say that, but you haven’t told me to piss off yet.”

They walked in silence for a few steps after that, the path between Lily’s and the square winding past broken fences and blackened lampposts. James glanced over, once, twice — caught himself doing it again.

Regulus slowed, then stopped altogether.

“What?”

James blinked. “What?”

“You keep looking at me.”

“No, I don’t.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “You do. Like I’m going to disappear if you blink.”

James looked away quickly. “That’s rich coming from the boy who faked his own death.”

Regulus’ expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes, old and deep and tired. “You think I did that for fun?”

James didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what to say. That he didn’t know what to believe anymore? That every day he saw Regulus alive, part of him was still stunned? That it felt like someone had rewritten a chapter he’d already mourned?

“I think I still don’t know what to believe,” James said quietly.

“Would that be easier?”

“What?” James frowned, obviously confused.

“If I was still dead. Would that be easier for you?”

“Don’t,” James said sharply, voice tight. “Don’t do that.”

Regulus held his gaze for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes.

“I’m still figuring you out,” James admitted, voice rougher now. “That’s all.”

“Don’t bother,” Regulus said, turning and starting to walk again. “I don’t want to be figured out.”

James stared after him, heart thudding. Then, after a beat, he murmured, “Too late.”

They walked again, slower now. The street turned near what used to be Honeydukes, its sign burned out, half hanging by one rusted chain. James kicked at a chunk of ice near the curb, and then he stopped short.

Regulus nearly bumped into him. “What now?

James didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed on the darkened window of the old sweet shop, from where Sirius was watching them.

Not glaring. Not even moving.

Just… watching.

Like a storm waiting to happen.

James stiffened, drawing his shoulders up. His breath caught somewhere in his chest.

Regulus followed his gaze, and the moment he saw Sirius, something closed off in him completely. Gone was the faint softness he'd carried since Lily had dragged him in by the collar. Gone was the spark of dry humour that had lived in the corners of his mouth. Gone was the boy who had, for just a heartbeat, let himself belong to something warm. His expression turned empty.

Like a mask slipping back into place after hanging loose too long.

Regulus stepped back half a pace, barely more than a movement, but to James, it felt like an entire world sliding out of reach.

“You should go,” Regulus said.

“What?”

Regulus didn’t look at him. Not fully. His eyes stayed pinned on the window. On the figure inside it. “You saw him. He’s going to be at your throat the moment you step inside.”

James exhaled, trying for lightness, but it came out too sharp at the edges. “And that’s new… how?”

“Just—go home, James,” Regulus exhaled.

James turned toward him. “What? No, come on—”

“I’ll take the long way,” Regulus added, more firmly this time. “I’m not interested in repeating last month’s disaster.”

“You didn’t even do anything last month—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Regulus shifted again, eyes flicking once toward James. “It never matters.”

James stepped forward, hand half-lifting, not to grab him, but to reach. Like if he could just close the distance between them fast enough, none of it would happen.

“Reg—”

But it was too late.

Regulus had already turned, already walking.

His coat flared slightly behind him, black against the white, and within seconds, he had slipped back into the ruins like he was never there.

Chapter Text

Usually, at this hour, the house would already be awake in that loud, half-feral rhythm that had become their own kind of twisted normal. The windows would be cracked open no matter how cold it was, bitter wind rushing through. Barty would be shouting, as usual, dramatic proclamations about frostbite and “his imminent toe loss,” yelling from the kitchen that he was going to kill Evan if he died of exposure. Evan, lounging on the windowsill, would roll his eyes and mutter something like “then die quietly” without moving an inch because he always insisted on “fresh air”.

This morning, the house was silent.

And that was the first thing that alarmed him.

Regulus stepped through the front gate with a frown already pulling at his mouth. His boots crunched across the frostbitten porch boards, each step echoing louder than it should. He didn’t bother knocking. He pushed the door open, and Evan was already there, pale as death, like he hadn’t moved from the spot all morning.

“Thank Merlin,” Evan whispered, voice cracked from disuse. He rushed forward, hands half-reaching, half-shaking. “Where the fuck have you been? It’s noon, Regulus. Noon. You didn’t leave a note, you didn’t—what the fuck were you thinking?”

“I checked the traps,” Regulus muttered, brushing past him and dropping his bag onto the splintered table. The satchel hit with a dull, meaty thud.

Evan was on it in seconds, already unfastening the flap, hands moving too fast, too uncoordinated. He tugged out the bloodied rabbits like he needed something tangible, something real to hold, like if he could just count the bodies, tally up the meat, this might all still be normal.

“Where’s Barty?”

Evan froze.

Regulus went still, his eyes narrowing. “Evan.”

The boy had gone completely still, save for the twitch in his jaw. His lips parted. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out but a faint, broken breath.

“Evan.”

“You didn’t meet him?” he whispered.

Regulus’ stomach dropped like a stone into water. “Meet him where?”

Panic flickered across Evan’s face now. “He said—he said he was going to look for you. You were late. He said he’d cut through the old path. I thought you’d— I thought you’d run into each other—”

“Where, Evan?”

Evan looked like he might throw up. “The old well. He said the old well, but he didn’t say when. I didn’t think—I thought you’d meet—”

“Fuck.” The curse snapped through the room like a spell.

He crossed the kitchen in long, clipped strides, ignoring the way Evan flinched when the knife crate slammed open. He pulled free the serrated hunting blade, the one that never left the house unless they expected to carve through something unholy. His fingers moved quickly, efficiently, strapping the blade against his thigh, tugging his coat aside, sliding other daggers in the hidden sheath sewn into the lining.

“Don’t do this,” Evan said suddenly, stepping in his way. “Reggie—don’t go alone. Let me—”

“No. You need to stay here.”

Evan’s jaw clenched. “Reg, you can’t just—”

“I can. And I am.”

Regulus turned slightly, eyes locking with Evan’s now, that unnerving stillness in them. Something deeper and darker swam beneath the calm, and Evan knew that it was the kind of quiet that only exists when someone has already made peace with violence.

“You cut bandages. You boil water. You clear the table. If I come back with him bleeding, I don’t want to trip over your panic.”

Evan opened his mouth to argue again, but one look from Regulus stopped him. There was something in his eyes. Something that hadn’t been there in weeks — the edge of the boy who crawled out of a cave filled with corpses. Who’d slit a man’s throat in total silence and then scrubbed his hands raw to make it feel like he hadn’t.

Regulus turned back to the door.

“If anyone knocks and doesn’t say the passphrase,” he said, without looking back, “you bolt the fucking door. Don’t hesitate. Not even if it sounds like someone you know.”

Evan nodded silently, throat working around words he didn’t dare say.

The door slammed shut behind Regulus like a gunshot.

And then there was nothing. Just the sound of water beginning to boil. Just the bandages being ripped from old shirts. Just the fear rising like steam in Evan’s chest, that something in their already broken world was about to snap.

Outside, Regulus didn’t walk. He ran.

The cold was a blur. His breath tore from his lungs in ragged bursts, sharp enough to cut, every exhale a knife in his throat. His heart was a drumbeat against his ribs.

The old path had long since been abandoned for a reason. It had become enemy ground, a playground for Death Eaters and ferals, its twists and shadows thick with traps and worse. No one sane used it anymore.

He passed the skeletal remains of the Three Broomsticks, its windows boarded up, walls scorched black, a hollow monument to what they'd lost. Somewhere in the broken wood, something moved.

“Oi, Black,” a voice slithered out of the ruins. Drawled. Vile. Mulciber. No one else dripped venom like that. “What’s got your panties in a twist, sweetheart? Rushing to mommy dearest?”

Regulus didn’t stop. He didn’t even glance in his direction. Didn’t waste a breath on the walking corpse leering at him from the rubble.

Just kept moving, heart hammering, teeth clenched.

If Barty was hurt—

No.

If he was—

His legs moved faster. His lungs burned with each drag of air that didn’t feel like enough. Blood pounded in his ears. He tasted metal in the back of his throat.

He’s fine, he told himself.

He’s a nightmare, he’s like a fucking cockroach, he’s survived worse—

But Evan’s voice still echoed in his head, splintering. Fractured. “He said the well. I thought you’d cross paths.”

He could picture it too clearly.

Barty, alone.

Barty bleeding.

Barty cracking jokes with red leaking from his mouth.

His lungs burned. His calves screamed. Yet, he forced his body to move faster.

The forest whipped past him in streaks of grey and white, branches clawing at his coat and face as he tore down the half-buried trail. The snow here was thicker, except for a line of heavy, dragging footprints. He followed them instinctively, tracking with the precision of someone who'd spent years chasing blood.

The well came into view like a scar in the landscape. Old stone, cracked and blackened, swallowed by frost and time.

Regulus heard the voices before he saw them. He dropped low, slid down the final slope on instinct, boots crunching hard over packed snow and ice. His breath hitched, chest seizing as his eyes landed on the scene in front of him.

Barty was on the ground, propped up against the old stone wall. Blood soaked the side of his coat, his hand pressed hard to his ribs, the snow beneath him a growing patch of red. His mouth curled into a grin, even with his lip split and teeth stained crimson. A crooked, furious thing. Defiant. Teeth bared like a dying dog.

“Got cold feet, fucker?” he spat a thick clump of blood into the snow, glaring up at the figure towering over him. “You’ve been jerking yourself off to this moment for months, and you still can’t finish the job? Pathetic.”

The Death Eater above him didn’t laugh. Just raised his wand slowly, as if savouring the moment.

Regulus moved before thought could catch up.

The knife left his hand with a speed that shocked even him. It sliced through the air in a clean arc and landed with a crack. Steel into the skull. A sound like bone breaking underwater.

The man dropped like a sack of meat.

Barty’s head lolled sideways slightly, blinking up at him.

“Your aim never fucking disappoints,” he rasped, voice like gravel.

Regulus dropped to his knees in front of him, eyes sweeping him in seconds — chest, ribs, stomach, the wound, how deep, how much lost, how much left.

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Don’t even breathe unless you have to.”

Barty coughed a pained laugh. “Too bad. I had a monologue.”

“You can deliver it later. From a bed. Preferably while heavily drugged.”

“Bossy,” Barty mumbled, eyes fluttering.

Regulus ignored it. He was already pulling a healing vial from inside his coat with bloodstained fingers, the cork popping free in one motion. The smell was awful. He poured it anyway.

Barty hissed. Bucked.

“I said don’t move.”

“You’re such a—fuck,” Barty gritted through his teeth. “Sadist.”

“And you’re a fucking idiot,” Regulus hissed back, pressing down harder to stop the bleeding. “You didn’t wait. You didn’t even—fuck, Barty, what were you thinking?”

Barty didn’t answer. He just let his head fall back against the stone, a faint grin curling his mouth even as blood coated his chin.

“Thought you were dead,” he mumbled.

Regulus froze. Then his hand went back to the wound. “Not yet.”

“Yeah,” Barty said faintly. “Lucky me.”

When the bleeding slowed to a stubborn ooze, Regulus finally stood, blood drying like cracked varnish on his hands. He crossed to the corpse still slumped near the edge of the clearing, rolled it over with the heel of his boot, and frowned.

“You knew him?” Regulus asked, tilting his head.

Barty, still half-folded at the base of the wall like someone’s broken toy, spat a thick clot of blood toward the body.

“Yeah. That fucker dragged me and Evan out here when the camps were burning. Thought he was doing the Dark Lord a favour. Bit of a patriot.”

He shifted, grimacing. “Pretty sure I cut off one of his balls back then. Screamed like a pig. Very undignified. Think we can check it? Need to boost my ego.”

“Charming, and no” Regulus muttered, crouching beside the corpse. He grabbed the man’s leg and gave it a tug. “Come on. Help me throw him in.”

Barty blinked, eyebrows raised. “You’re seriously going to dump him in the well?”

Regulus didn’t look up. “What, you want to build him a fucking memorial?”

Barty gave a theatrical sigh. “I just think maybe we could’ve at least lit a candle. Said a few words. ‘Here lies one nutless bastard, may he rot in moldy water.’”

“In the well, Barty.”

With exaggerated effort and a very loud groan, Barty dragged himself upright and hobbled toward him, muttering the whole way. “Can’t believe I almost died, and now I’m doing corpse disposal. You really know how to spoil a man.”

“Help me, or I leave you here with him.”

“Oh, don’t threaten me with a threesome.”

Regulus gave him a sharp look, and Barty grinned through his split lip. Together, swearing and stumbling, they heaved the body over the stones. One arm was bent the wrong way. A boot left a streak of something dark where it caught on the stone.

With a final grunt, they dumped the corpse into the well.

There was no splash. Just a dull, sickening thunk, followed by silence.

Barty let out a wheezy, low grunt and leaned back against the stone, eyes fluttering. “You know, there are easier ways to get your morning exercises.”

Regulus didn’t answer. He turned, took two long strides, and glared down at him.

“You should learn to keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Barty blinked at him, then smirked. “Evan is not here, love. And if you keep glaring like this at me, I will not be held accountable for—

“Don’t finish that,” Regulus snapped. He grabbed Barty’s good arm and slung it over his shoulder, hooking his own arm around his waist. “The old path, Barty? Really? What were you hoping for? A scenic tour of every Death Eater’s favourite murder spot?”

Barty hissed through clenched teeth as they started to walk, the pressure jostling his ribs. “You always think of the worst-case scenario,” he grumbled. “I was just being prepared.”

“You were being reckless.”

“You taught me that,” Barty shot back, trying to smirk, though it faltered under the weight of pain. “Worst-case scenario first. Plan second. Remember?”

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. His jaw clenched and his grip tightened.

“That was supposed to mean you survive it,” he said quietly.

They moved slowly, their boots crunching over the old snow, their breath ragged and visible.

“You scared Evan,” Regulus added after a while. “He thought—”

“I know what he thought,” Barty muttered. “He’s always been a little too good at assuming the worst.”

Regulus didn’t argue.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Barty muttered, voice still hoarse but sharp with irritation. He didn’t bother hiding the edge in it as he glanced sideways at Regulus’ profile.

“I checked the traps.”

“All morning?” Barty raised a brow. “I woke up at seven and you were already gone.”

“You also need to arm the traps back,” Regulus replied coolly, eyes on the snow-covered path ahead. “That takes time.”

“Mmm, right,” Barty drawled, feigning thoughtfulness. “So I’m supposed to believe you were just wandering around the woods, completely unreachable, because the traps needed quality time?”

Regulus exhaled sharply through his nose. “They don’t arm themselves.”

“Aha.” Barty rolled his eyes with dramatic flair. “And I suppose Potter was kind enough to help you?”

Regulus stopped walking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Barty grinned, all teeth, despite the dried blood still flaking around his mouth. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence, Reggie. He’s been panting after you for months.”

“Drop it,” Regulus snapped, turning back toward the path with quickened steps. “There’s nothing between me and Potter.”

“Hah!” Barty let out a loud, rasping laugh that turned into a cough halfway through. “Okay, Black, have it your way. Denial looks good on you — very dignified.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

But Barty wasn’t finished.

“Honestly,” he continued, limping slightly as he caught up, “it’s impressive, really. The amount of eye contact you two manage without combusting. The tension? Practically a third presence in the room.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Does he know?” Barty pressed, smirk widening. “That you keep watching him when you think no one’s looking? That every time someone mentions his name, you pretend not to care a little too hard?”

Regulus stopped again, sharply enough to jostle them both.

“Do you want to get stabbed?”

Barty grinned. “Just saying. I nearly bled out today, let me have one joy.”

They started walking again, Regulus quickening his pace like he could outrun the conversation. Barty stumbled but didn’t let go.

“Just saying,” Barty said, more gently now. “Don’t wait too long. He’s already stupid enough to fancy you. Might as well let the man suffer properly.”

Regulus didn’t speak for a long time. The path stretched ahead of them like a gravelled wound. Crows shifted in the branches overhead.

Finally, Regulus murmured, “It’s not about waiting.”

Barty glanced at him.

“It’s about surviving long enough to make it matter.”

Barty let that hang in the air. Let it sit between them like an unsaid promise.

Then, with a soft groan and a shit-eating grin:

“Well, now I definitely need Evan to kiss me. That was depressing as hell.”

Regulus said nothing, but he didn’t tell him to shut up either and Barty took that as progress.

The door creaked open, and the moment Regulus stepped through with Barty slung across his shoulder, Evan was already storming across the room.

“Oh my God—Barty!” he rushed forward, eyes wide, taking in the blood-stained coat, the way Barty was leaning heavier than usual, the gash along his ribs bleeding again through the shirt. “What the fuck happened?!”

“Good to see you too, sweetheart” Barty muttered, slumping dramatically into the nearest chair. “Sorry, I didn’t send an owl.”

“Sit. Down.” Evan shoved a chair under him with more force than necessary, nearly toppling both of them over.

Regulus helped ease Barty into it, though he made sure to do it in the most unceremonious way possible.

“Don’t faint. I’m not catching you.”

“Romantic,” Barty wheezed, dramatically flopping backward. “I always dreamed of collapsing into your arms, Reg.”

Evan ignored them both. He spun toward the hearth, snatching the kettle off the stove and rummaging through their half-empty crate of healing supplies. His movements were clipped, but controlled. Regulus didn’t miss the slight tremble in his hands as he grabbed a bundle of cloth and unscrewed a bottle of Essence of Dittany.

“You’re bleeding like a goddamn idiot,” Evan snapped, already crouching beside the chair.

“I am an idiot,” Barty said proudly. “But I bled for a noble cause.”

“You got yourself nearly killed because you were being a reckless dick,” Regulus interjected, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall. “Stop whining, the blade didn’t even puncture anything vital.”

“Fuck off, Reggie,” Barty growled over his shoulder. “Come back when your bedside manner improves.”

Evan swatted his arm, not gently.

Barty winced, hissing. “Hey! What was that for?!”

“For scaring the shit out of me!” Evan barked. His hands trembled slightly as he poured hot water into a bowl, but his voice was solid now, all command and fury and care. “You said you were just checking the old well. You didn’t say you were going to wander into a fucking ambush!”

“I didn’t plan to get ambushed!” Barty protested, wincing as Evan yanked his coat off. “Tell that to the Death Eater I buried at the bottom of the well.”

“You what?” Evan’s head snapped toward Regulus like a whip.

“He’s not coming back,” Regulus said simply, unfazed. “Headfirst. Clean throw.”

Evan’s face went pale. “For fuck’s sake.”

Barty chuckled weakly, his grin crooked. “You should’ve seen it. Looked like a sack of meat tumbling into the void.”

“Stop smiling,” Evan hissed, dabbing the wound with a cloth. “You’re lucky it didn’t hit your lung.”

“Yeah, well,” Barty murmured, wincing as the cloth hit raw flesh, “we all need hobbies.”

“Bleeding out isn’t a hobby, Barty!”

Regulus gave a quiet scoff. “Could’ve fooled me. At this point, you do it better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Barty raised his middle finger without hesitation, then immediately winced when Evan pressed harder on his side.

“Fuck—gentle, Evan, please.”

Evan shot him a glare. “You want gentle? Get a new boyfriend. Me, for example, I would like one who doesn’t go looking for ways to get shanked every goddamn week.”

Barty’s smile turned stupid and fond, even as his eyelids drooped. “Aw. You do love me.”

Evan rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. He just worked silently, patching him up with the careful precision of someone who had done this too many times for people who wouldn’t stop running toward knives.

“Try not to die for one week,” Evan muttered under his breath, voice low but not unkind. “Just one. That’s all I ask.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list,” Barty mumbled, head tilting back lazily. “Right between ‘push Regulus' buttons’ and ‘fuck Evan senseless.’”

Across the room, Regulus said nothing for a long while. Just watched. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed.

But when Evan wasn’t looking, and Barty wasn’t posturing, he allowed himself one small breath of relief.

They had made it back.

Evan glanced up for a moment, catching Regulus’ eye. No words passed between them, but something did. A silent exchange. Worry. Frustration. Thanks. A kind of fierce, exhausted loyalty that none of them ever knew how to say properly.

Regulus nodded once. Evan looked away.

Barty, eyes half-closed now, smirked to himself like he’d seen the whole thing.

“Family bonding moment?” he drawled weakly. “Should I cry?”

“Shut up,” Regulus and Evan said in perfect, unplanned unison.

Barty laughed. Even through the pain.

The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting long shadows across the warped wooden floor. Outside, the wind howled low, threading through the cracks in the walls like a warning. Inside, the house was quiet again.

Barty had finally passed out on the bed, one arm flung above his head like a drunk aristocrat in a bad painting. Evan had tossed a blanket over him in exasperation somewhere between bandaging his ribs and threatening to slap him if he made another joke. One leg dangled off the side of the mattress, the bandages at his side already showing faint signs of seeping red again, but his breathing was steady. Deep. Untroubled. Uncharacteristically peaceful.

Evan sat at the table, hunched forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, forearms smeared faintly with dried blood. A tin mug of tea sat untouched on the table in front of him, steam long gone, warmth lost. His eyes weren’t on the cup.

He watched Regulus, who was sitting across the room in the corner, on a low stool by the shuttered window. He was sharpening a dagger, the motions precise, methodical. Back and forth. The whetstone rasped quietly with each stroke. The blade caught the dim firelight in flashes.

Eventually, Evan spoke.

“So,” he said softly, “the raid.”

Regulus didn’t lift his gaze. Just turned the blade and dragged the whetstone again, slower this time. “What about it?”

“You’re still going.”

“Of course, I’m still going.”

Evan leaned back slightly, studying him. “You didn't sleep. Your shoulder’s still stiff. You haven’t even stitched that graze on your neck properly.”

Regulus looked up then, eyes sharp and unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn’t amusement. “You sound like him.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Evan said, raising an eyebrow. “He’s an idiot. But he’s not wrong.”

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. He finished the stroke, then turned the blade once more and dragged it again, slower now. A kind of tension gathered behind his shoulders. After a moment, he slid the blade into its sheath with a quiet snick and sat back against the wall.

“Does James know?” Evan asked, not unkindly.

Regulus glanced toward the bed, to Barty’s still form, then back. His expression didn’t shift.

“No. And it should stay that way. Evans told him about the raids in general—he doesn’t need more details than that.”

“But—”

“No, Evan.” Regulus’ voice was sharp now, not raised, but edged. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. “Why are you and Barty so determined to fix something that doesn’t need fixing? There’s nothing happening with Potter.”

Evan studied him. “Because there is something. Even if you won’t admit it yet.”

“There’s not,” Regulus snapped. “He’s obsessed with me because of Sirius. It’s not that fucking complicated. Sirius was his everything, and I’m the broken leftover. He wants to fix their perfect little friendship and thinks that dragging me into it is the solution.”

He stood, abruptly, like the room had gotten too small.

Evan didn’t flinch. “That’s what you really think?”

Regulus paced once across the room, then stopped and faced the window. “He feels guilty. That’s all it is.”

Evan shook his head slowly, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You hear yourself, Reg? You’re acting like he’s some...well-meaning Gryffindor project. You think he’s out there breaking curfew, tracking your traps, carrying fresh meat through a warzone because he wants to relive some fantasy of Sirius? He knows you’re not your brother.”

Regulus didn’t answer.

Evan stood too, but slower. Quieter. He crossed the room and poured water from the kettle into the tin mug again. The silence stretched.

“You do this every time,” Evan said finally. “Push people away before they get the chance. Before you get the chance to need them. It’s your thing. Self-isolation disguised as nobility.”

Regulus snorted. “Don’t go poetic on me.”

“You want honesty?” Evan offered him the mug of tea. “Fine. You’ve been emotionally half-dead since you were fifteen, Regulus. You cling to your control like it’s the last thing that makes you real. You act like you don’t care if people die around you, but you care. You care more than half the people I’ve met. And when that care leaks through, it scares the shit out of you.”

Regulus stared at him. Then, after a beat, he took the mug but didn’t drink.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“You didn’t have to,” Evan said, folding his arms, voice quieter now. “I’ve known you since you were a twitchy little shit who flinched every time someone raised their voice. I’ve patched you up more times than I can count. And I’ll keep doing it, because you’re like a brother to me, Reg. Whether you like it or not.”

Regulus blinked at him, caught off guard.

It wasn’t often Evan said things like that. Not out loud. But when he did, they landed like thunder.

Regulus looked down at the mug, then back at Evan. “That’s a bad idea. I make a terrible little brother.”

“Yeah,” Evan said dryly, “but you’re my terrible little brother. Which means I get to boss you around, worry about you, and yell at you when you run headfirst into fire.”

There was a beat of stillness. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Regulus let himself exhale. Not in defeat. In something like reluctant gratitude.

He turned toward the door again and grabbed his coat. The motion was habitual, calculated, but his hand lingered a moment longer on the fabric.

“The sun’s coming up,” he murmured. “If I’m not back by dawn... You know what to do.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I’m not.”

Evan’s voice came again, hoarse. Quiet. “He’d come for you. Even if you didn’t ask.”

Regulus didn’t turn. He didn’t breathe for a second too long. His fingers flexed around the coat sleeve, knuckles pale.

“Then he’s more foolish than I thought.”

Evan didn’t argue. He just stepped closer, placing a steady hand on Regulus’ shoulder. It stayed there for a second.

“Make sure you return in one piece,” Evan said, voice low.

Regulus still didn’t turn. But he nodded. Just once.

Then he opened the door and stepped into the wind.

Chapter Text

Beyond the last stone house, where even the lanterns no longer reached and the earth turned wild again, the land stretched out. The hills rolled under a bruised, leaden sky, the clouds swollen with the threat of snow that hadn’t yet fallen. The wind cut low and sharp across the moor, tugging at the hem of Regulus’ coat, biting through the seams like it meant to peel him open.

Far in the distance, past the last treeline and the ink-black edge of the Forbidden Forest, the castle rose like a half-forgotten ruin. Its towers jutted up against the storm-choked horizon like shattered teeth, jagged and uneven, silhouetted in smudged greys and blacks. Once, it had been home. Now it looked like a carcass left behind by time, looming and hollow.

Regulus shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and began the slow ascent up the frozen slope. His boots crunched across brittle ground glazed with frost. The path was uneven, littered with roots and hidden patches of ice. His breath came out in thin clouds, but he barely noticed it anymore. Cold had become something his body knew.

There was a tunnel. One of the old ones. Not officially mapped. Not trusted. A relic from some war older than the one he was fighting now, half-forgotten even by those who once fought to keep its secret. Even the Death Eaters hadn’t bothered to clear it completely. They’d assumed it collapsed, or led nowhere important. That had been their mistake.

It started in the overgrown glen near what had once been the north tower, twisted deep beneath the stone foundations of the Quidditch pitch, and slithered beneath the castle, full of things better left buried. Filthy. Dangerous. Half-caved in places. But it still held.

He had used it more times than he liked to count.

When their potions had run dry, when Evan’s hands shook too badly to stir a cauldron without spilling, or when Barty stumbled in with wounds too deep, too ugly, too wrong for even Evan’s careful hands. When the only answer had been inside those ancient stone walls, in stolen vials and quiet thefts, in memories he had no business dredging up.

He reached the crumbling remnants of the pitch’s boundary wall, now almost entirely overtaken by weeds and frost. Dropping to one knee, Regulus swept his glove over the frozen stone, brushing away a fine layer of rime that sparkled briefly in the twilight. Beneath, hidden just under a mat of old roots, was the iron grate.

His fingers, half-numb from the cold, found the edges easily—muscle memory stronger than cold. He traced along the rusted frame until he found the latch, tucked just beneath a warped rung. A little flick. A click, low and tired. Then a groan—deep, wet, ancient.

The hatch opened just enough for him to slide through.

He ducked his head and slipped inside, boots landing on damp stone with a squelch. The darkness swallowed him whole, immediate and intimate.

The tunnel was narrower than he remembered. It yawned before him in a sickly curve, walls pressed close on either side, the ceiling low enough that he had to hunch slightly to pass. The stones were slick with moisture and something older—an oily residue of ancient spells and time-soured magic. Moss crept along the edges in veins of green-black. His breath fogged in front of him, clinging to the stone before dissipating like memory.

It stank of wet earth and mildew and things left too long in the dark. The deeper he went, the colder it became.

Not from the weather, but from something else. A chill that came from the castle itself, from the way the air changed when one neared the core of something ancient. Something watching.

Despite the rot and ruin, Hogwarts was still awake. Bound and broken, but not dead. Its magic pulsed low, distant but undeniable. A sleeping beast, curling in its own shadow.

At the fork, the tunnel split: one path curling off toward the long-abandoned kitchens, the other sloping downward into the deeper reaches of the undercroft. That second route led toward the lower potions storage rooms and the apothecary vaults, hidden chambers where rare ingredients had once been locked away beneath spellwork so old it whispered if you listened closely enough. Regulus paused only a moment, weighing the two paths. Then, without hesitation, he veered left towards the kitchens.

The air began to shift the deeper Regulus went. It thickened around him, slow and heavy, like even the air itself remembered what this place used to be. There was no light except for the faint, steady shimmer of his wand. No flickering candelabras overhead. No enchanted torches lining the walls. No echoes of teachers’ heels tapping on stone or the gentle groan of portraits stirring awake with drowsy complaints.

Only darkness and silence.

He moved close to the walls, gliding one hand along the cold stone, needing the contact. Needing to remind himself that he was still here. Still breathing.

The path to the kitchens had not changed. Somehow, impossibly, it remained etched into him—muscle memory from another life. He had walked this route barefoot in the dead of night, heart racing from curfew-breaking thrills. He had run it with Barty once, when they were too young to care about House lines or family names, laughing breathlessly as they dodged the castle staff. He had snuck down it alone, hungrier than he’d ever admit, stealing biscuits and pumpkin juice from tired-eyed house-elves who tutted but never stopped him because they knew that his family would never allow him have them.

For a moment, just a breath, he braced himself for something ridiculous. A house-elf popping into existence with shrill horror at his state, pressing warm scones into his arms, fussing over the dirt on his cloak, asking what Master Regulus was doing out of bed at this hour. His lips twitched despite himself.

But nothing stirred.

The room was still.

Gone were the smells of fresh hearth-bread and roasted squash. Gone were the cauldrons bubbling over with cider, the scent of cinnamon and clove hanging in the air like warmth itself. The long tables were abandoned, stained with time. The fireplace sat cold and unlit, soot-blackened and full of cobwebs.

But despite the dust and the silence, the shelves were still stocked. Preserves sat in neat rows, their labels faded but legible. Jars of strawberry, gooseberry, and thick-cut orange marmalade. Tins of soup, black treacle, beans, and fruit lined the lower shelves. Crates slumped in corners, stuffed with flour and lentils, rice and sugar, all tightly bound in parchment bags. And on the far wall, in the shadows beyond his light, strips of cured meat hung from rusted hooks—hardened, dark, but still edible.

It was eerie.

Like someone had prepared for the end and simply... vanished.

Not a feast, but enough to live. Enough to matter.

Regulus stepped further in, his movements measured and efficient. He didn’t let the memories grab hold, didn’t let his eyes linger too long on the long-forgotten teacups still stacked in rows or the faded list of House meal rotations scrawled in curling script near the hearth.

This wasn’t about nostalgia. That kind of softness had no place here.

This was about survival.

He pulled the pouch from his belt, an old thing, enchanted long ago with an undetectable expansion charm when Evan had insisted they needed backups for the backups, and filled it quickly.

His hands moved automatically, selecting what he knew they could stretch: dry bread, three tins of peaches, a jar of honey (he hesitated, then added a second), a block of hard cheese wrapped in waxed paper. Dried lentils, smoked meat, flour, tea leaves. A cracked jar of pickled onions. Two tins of sardines. Anything that would last longer than they dared to hope.

He worked without sound, without pause, his hands flickering across polished jars and long-forgotten tools. Each item he packed felt heavier than it should have, not in weight, but in meaning. As if this place had been waiting for someone—for him—to come back.

When the pouch was full, he cinched it shut, the leather drawstrings creaking softly under the strain. He slung it back over his shoulder, and only then did he let himself stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to look around the room again, letting the quiet press in. He wondered where it had all gone. Where the house-elves had fled. If they were even alive. If anyone besides him remembered the way this place had once glowed in the early morning, lit by the fire and the laughter of a hundred children waiting for toast.

His fingers curled tighter around the strap of the pouch. His jaw clenched.

Yet again, he moved on.

There was another path, narrow, steep, mostly forgotten, hidden behind a rotting tapestry that once depicted a banshee mid-scream. Most students had avoided it out of superstition. Whispers of hexed stone and vanishing footsteps were enough to deter even the bravest Gryffindors.

But not them.

Regulus had used it a dozen times, maybe more. And not alone.

He remembered slipping through here with Evan and Barty back in fifth year, all of them laughing too loud, whispering half-formed spells and clutching purloined maps. Slughorn never caught them, though he often looked like he suspected.

Now, the memory sat heavy in his ribs.

No laughter followed him now. No footsteps echoed behind. No sarcastic commentary. Just silence. Just Regulus, moving alone down ancient, uneven steps into colder, deeper dark.

At the bottom, the door to the potions stores still stood. They had sealed it with careless magic. Wards designed to keep students out, not him.

Years ago, they snuck in to steal essence of hellebore for a potion Barty was convinced would “unlock their utmost potential.” It hadn’t. But it had made Evan vomit purple for three hours. They’d all agreed it was a spectacular success.

He whispered a wandless Alohomora, his voice low and precise, and felt the tumblers click into release. The door creaked open.

Inside, the room was untouched.

Rows of ancient wooden shelves stood in rigid formation, stoic and severe. Bottles lined them like soldiers awaiting orders—dust-covered, some fogged with age, some still clear and sharp. Vials of pale fluid. Jars of dried herbs curled like sleeping insects. Shimmering powders. Suspended roots that looked almost like veins.

Regulus stepped forward like a thief entering a shrine, reverent in spite of himself. His fingers skimmed labels, his eyes moving fast.

—powdered bicorn horn

—asphodel root

—crushed bezoar

— essence of mandrake

— dried belladonna, still fragrant enough to bite at the nose.

He packed quickly, but carefully.

Only what was rare. What was needed. A few vials of salamander blood, strands of monkshood sealed in wax paper, the last scrapings of silverleaf tucked behind a broken bottle. He avoided the obvious poisons, mostly, but pocketed anything unlabelled or marked with wards.

Desperation didn’t leave room for caution. And in this world, the most dangerous thing was not having options.

He closed the bag, cinched the straps, and turned back to the door.

There was still one room left. One more relic buried beneath time and ruin that he had come to exhume — the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

It stood at the end of a long-forgotten corridor, the stone floor cracked and buckled beneath the weight of disuse and time. The door, once grand with polished handles and carved trim, now sagged pitifully on rusted hinges, hanging crooked like a soldier who could no longer hold his own weight. The wood was scorched, the corners splintered.

Regulus paused at the threshold, one hand hovering near the frame. The air inside was thick with dust, and something colder still — ghosts, though none visible. This was not a space filled with life anymore, only fragments of it.

Years ago, he had sat in these very seats.

Professor Merrythought had stood at the front then, calm and steady, wand in hand, her smile soft but sure as he coaxed a boggart from an old wardrobe and taught them, gently, how to laugh at fear.

He had faced it, even if it had turned into Sirius, bloodied and broken, eyes empty.

He’d told everyone afterward it had been a Dementor.

She had ruled with grace, and even the worst-behaved Slytherins had remembered her birthday.

This room had once been a crucible of strength. It had witnessed first spells, first duels, whispered plans scribbled on parchment and passed beneath desks.

This was the room where he'd first sparred with Barty. Where Evan had turned a Doxy into a smoke bomb mid-duel and cackled like a lunatic. Where Regulus had burned a hole in his sleeve with a Protego gone wrong, and Barty had patched it with a spell that made it smell like burnt cinnamon for weeks.

Regulus crossed to the back shelves, behind what had once been used for demonstrations. Dust coated everything. The warding chalk had long since faded, but the remnants remained, drawn circles, sigils, clawed marks where someone had once tested a hex too strong. Behind them, he found the stash he’d hoped would still be there. Vials filled with tar-thick liquid, powders darker than pitch, so opaque they seemed to drink in the light from his wand. Dried roots wrapped in old parchment, trembling faintly beneath their bindings as if the magic in them still remembered pain.

He took only what he could carry and stowed it away with quick, sure hands. Every minute he stayed was another risk.

And yet, even with the pouch at his side growing heavier, it wasn’t just the physical burden that slowed his steps.

It was this, this room, this past, that hung around his shoulders like a second cloak. The weight of what had once been. The memories that bled into the walls. The breath of ghosts not ready to be forgotten.

He turned without looking back.

But instead of retracing his path toward the tunnel, Regulus veered east, slipping past a half-collapsed hallway and out into what had once been the castle’s gardens. The air here was sharper, the wind thinner, as if even nature had learned to hold its breath around Hogwarts.

The greenhouses loomed ahead, twisted and broken silhouettes against the grey morning light. Their glass panels were cracked, webbed over with frost and years of dust. Inside, the plants that once bloomed strange and beautiful had either withered to brittle corpses or grown monstrous — fed on too much leftover magic, too much ruin.

He ducked low beneath a sagging arch of rusted pipe, careful not to catch his coat on the bramble that had forced its way out of a shattered pot. Greenhouse Three stood near the edge of the grounds, just past the broken sundial and the skeletal remains of what had once been a massive rose arch. It was hidden behind a low stone wall that had been split by a tree root now long dead, its trunk hollowed like a gaping mouth. Clinging vines, leafless and bleached by wind and time, curled over the entryway like the grasp of forgotten things.

This was where they used to sneak off during free periods. Where Regulus once watched Evan pretend to flirt with a Hufflepuff sixth-year just to gain access to restricted plant specimens. Where Barty had dared him to eat a sliver of poisoned lemongrass—“just a nibble, Reggie, come on, what’s life without a little thrill?”—and then spent the rest of the afternoon hallucinating flying badgers.

He stepped through the cracked door of Greenhouse Three. It groaned as it gave way, hinges rusted, glass crunching underfoot. The temperature dropped noticeably inside, the magic still clinging faintly to the air in uneven pockets, cold where it should be warm, still where it should stir.

Near the back wall, mostly hidden beneath a tangle of desiccated vines, lay what he’d come for.

A slab of stone, round and wide, framed by the remnants of an old containment ring. Frost glittered along its edge, half-obscuring the iron ring set flush into the centre. Roots had curled around it over time, weaving themselves into a knot of resistance.

But Regulus had found it once before, years ago, when he was chasing a rogue puffapod for Professor Sprout and had tripped over the stone trying to impress her with his “diligence.”

Now, he knelt and reached for the iron.

The slab groaned as he pulled, moss tearing free in wet strips, roots snapping like bones under strain. Cold, damp air surged up from below—rich with the scent of earth, old things, and something else. Something alive. Not breathing, but waiting.

A good sign.

He lowered himself carefully into the dark, landing on soft ground with a muted thud. His wand flared to life with a whispered Lumos, casting pale light over the dirt-packed walls and long rows of cracked planters, abandoned tools, and broken benches.

But in the far corner, nearly hidden, was what he had come for.

A patch of rare plants, still clinging to life in the shelter of old preservation charms. A mandrake, small and half-dead, its leaves twitching with faint awareness. Bundles of shrivelled valerian root, pale and fragrant. A squat bush with curling silver-blue leaves — Feverthorn, near-extinct now, known for its use in warding illness and strengthening restorative draughts.

And just beyond, a small wooden crate of seed jars, covered in dust but intact.

Regulus knelt, brushing earth away from the labels with the back of his hand:

— Bloodroot

— Mimbulus Mimbletonia

— Sneezewort

— Starpetal

The sort of plants Lily would know how to coax back into usefulness.

He whispered a preservation charm over the jars as he slipped them into his pouch. Then hesitated over one last jar, unmarked, filled with tiny black seeds that shimmered oddly, like they were drinking the very light from the wand itself.

He stared at them for a beat longer than necessary, then took them.

Because sometimes, the risk was the only thing you had left.

He rose slowly, dusted the soil from his knees, and climbed back up into the open air. The wind had picked up slightly, sharper now, as if sensing his return.

The castle loomed behind him, silhouetted against the ash-grey sky, massive and unfeeling. A corpse. A mausoleum.

Regulus didn’t look back.

He ducked under the broken stone fence, boots crunching through the brittle frost, cutting sharply back toward the tree line where the forest waited like an open mouth. Only when he slipped beneath the bare, reaching branches and the shadows wrapped around him and the muffled hush of the woods swallowed the wind, did he finally allow himself to breathe properly.

The cold no longer felt sharp against his skin, just necessary. Grounding.

He followed the worn footpaths he knew by instinct, winding back into the village through narrow, half-collapsed alleys that twisted like ribs between the skeletal remains of what Hogsmeade had once been. The stone walls were slick with old moss and soot, their crumbling edges brushing his shoulder as he kept close — as if proximity alone might shield him from the ache pressed deep into his spine and the weight of what he carried.

The afternoon light had dulled into something sluggish and grey, casting long, indistinct shadows across the uneven cobblestones. When he reached Lily’s door, he no longer hesitated. He lifted his hand and knocked — sharp, deliberate, two precise raps against the wood.

Then he waited.

The door creaked open a few heartbeats later, and Marlene was standing in the threshold with the fire behind her, painting her silhouette in gold and flicker. She was backlit, all warmth and cautious movement, and for a moment she didn’t speak. Just looked at him. Her eyes flicked over his face, his clothes, the set of his jaw, and something in her expression softened, something in her shoulders eased, just slightly.

She didn’t ask where he’d been. She just stepped back and opened the door wider, allowing the warmth and the light to spill out like welcome.

The warmth hit him like a soft blow, not uncomfortable, but disorienting in its contrast to the cold he'd just walked through.

Mary was curled up near the hearth on a threadbare rug, her knees drawn up, a chipped mug cradled between her hands. She looked up as he entered, blinking as though surfacing from sleep. Her eyes tracked him slowly, curiously, and though she said nothing, her gaze lingered, not with suspicion, but something heavier. Something like hope, held too long without being fed.

At the kitchen table, Lily sat hunched over a thick, battered Herbology tome, its spine cracked and its margins crowded with three distinct handwritings — hers, Severus’s, and another he didn’t recognize. She had a quill tucked behind one ear and a mug cooling by her elbow. Her brow was furrowed, fingers frozen mid-turn on the page.

At the table, Lily sat with a battered Herbology tome splayed open before her, its pages yellowed and annotated in three different handwritings. Her brow was furrowed, her fingers frozen mid-turn.

Regulus let the satchel slip from his shoulder. It hit the table with a dull, final thud, and three heads turned toward it in near-perfect unison. The room shifted with it.

He began unpacking without a word.

One item at a time.

Glass jars, each filled with seeds that shimmered faintly under the low light. Bundles of dried roots tied with twine and wrapped in layers of parchment. A squat container of preserved salamander blood, its surface catching the firelight like thick garnet. A few hunks of hard cheese. Two loaves of coarse bread wrapped in cloth.

The table transformed before their eyes,  from a battlefield of fatigue and paper into something that looked, almost absurdly, like hope.

Marlene stepped forward first.

Her breath hitched softly, and she reached for one of the vials, the one with pale starpetal seeds, with the same reverence one might offer a relic or a curse in stasis.

“Where in Merlin’s name did you find these?” she whispered. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the jar to the light, as if expecting it to vanish. “This species—this seed—it’s gone. Dead. Extinct in half the southern regions.”

Regulus arched a brow, leaning against the table’s edge with practiced ease, one arm slung across the satchel as though it were a casual prop, not a lifeline. The corner of his mouth curled into something faintly smug.

“One cannot simply reveal the secrets of their trade, McKinnon,” he said, tone bone-dry. “Wizard’s code.”

Marlene snorted, a brief exhale of breath more laughter than amusement, and carefully slid the vial into the pouch at her hip like it was a sacred object passed down through generations.

Mary edged closer as well, eyes fixed not on the magic, but the bread. She didn’t say anything, but the way she licked her lips and gripped her mug a little tighter spoke volumes. Hunger lived in this house like a fifth tenant. It didn’t always gnaw, but it never left.

Dorcas was nowhere in sight. Most probably, she was still asleep.

But Lily… Lily didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand still resting on the open book, her gaze locked on Regulus with a focus so intense it bordered on confrontation. Her expression didn’t shift but the lines around her eyes told their own story. Of late nights. Of worry. Of keeping everything running when the world refused to cooperate.

Her silence cut deeper than anything else.

“You’re risking too much again,” she said at last. Her voice was low, even, with no anger behind it — only exhaustion. A deep, marrow-deep fatigue that came from spending too many nights wondering if the people you cared about would make it back in one piece.

Regulus didn’t respond immediately. He looked down, brushing his thumb over the rim of an empty jar, then shrugged with studied nonchalance.

“It was quiet,” he said, attempting levity and failing. “Practically boring.”

No one laughed. Not even Mary.

Because everyone in the room had lived long enough to know what that meant. Quiet didn’t mean safe. Quiet meant something had already happened — or was about to.

“Regulus,” she said again, more firmly this time. “You’re one person. This—” she gestured to the pile on the table, to the life-saving supplies they all knew were worth more than gold now, “—this will get you killed.”

“I am careful,” he snapped, more defensively than he’d meant. “I know the castle better than anyone still alive.”

“That’s not the point,” Lily said, her voice sharpening, pulling tight like a string that had been stretched too far. She rose from her chair slowly, steadying herself on the edge of the table, the open book forgotten already. Her eyes were too bright in the dim room, catching the firelight just enough to shimmer. “We don’t need you to be clever. We need you to be alive.”

Her hands clenched at her sides, and for a moment, she looked like she might say something cruel just to make him understand. But then it softened.

“Sirius just got you back,” she continued, her words thick now, not angry, but something quieter. Something like fear. “We can’t—” She stopped herself, breath catching, then let the rest fall softer. “We can’t lose you again, Regulus.”

He stood still across from her, half-lit by the fire, shadows cutting across his face in clean, harsh lines. The weight of the satchel had been replaced by something heavier in his chest, and he could feel it settling behind his ribs like stone.

“Sirius doesn’t give a shit about me,” he said flatly.

Lily flinched. “It’s not—”

“Evans,” Regulus said her name with a quiet finality that silenced whatever words she had been about to offer. His voice was low, not harsh, but edged with the kind of truth that didn’t ask to be argued with. “Trust me. He doesn’t.”

There was a long pause, full of the kind of silence only shared between people who’ve both lost too much to argue over crumbs.

She looked at him like she wanted to say more. That he was wrong. That Sirius was angry, not indifferent. That there was still something salvageable between them. But Lily had never been one for fantasy, not when the facts were standing right in front of her, shoulders stiff with all the words he wouldn’t say.

“You should eat,” she said instead, quietly. Her voice had lost all its fight now, worn down to bone. “You look like you haven’t in days. I can make something quick—”

“I haven’t,” he admitted, lips quirking at the corner, tired. “But I can’t stay.”

“Why not?” she asked, almost pleading — not with desperation, but that old, persistent hope of hers that he had always found more terrifying than any threat.

But he was already pulling his coat from the back of the chair, already slipping his arms through the sleeves like armour.

“Someone has to make sure Barty doesn’t burn the house down,” he said, reaching for his gloves.

“Evan’s there.”

“That’s half the problem.”

She exhaled slowly, defeated.

He moved toward the door, and she followed, the soft pad of her socks barely audible behind him. When he opened it, the cold rushed in instantly, curling around his boots and fingers and cheeks like claws made of wind.

He paused in the doorway, not looking back.

“I’ll bring more supplies next time,” he said after a beat. “Something stronger for Dorcas. And the mandrake might make it if you put it in warm water tonight.”

Lily nodded slowly. “Be careful.”

He glanced at her then, just for a second.

And in that second, she saw the thing behind his eyes. The bone-deep exhaustion. The flicker of pain. The unspoken wish that he could be the kind of person who stayed.

But Regulus Black had always been better at leaving than staying.

“I always am,” he lied.

And then he was gone, swallowed once more by the snow, and the weight of everything he carried alone.

Regulus looked up toward the sky and realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn’t even noon. The clouds hung low and bruised, threatening snow, and the light that filtered through them was pale and uncertain. That meant Remus, at this hour, would probably be alone. Sirius and James were creatures of habit — mornings were spent combing the woods for whatever hadn’t frozen solid or disappeared entirely. Game, fallen herbs, salvage. Anything remotely edible. Sometimes they were gone for hours, and Regulus hoped — really hoped — that this was one of those mornings.

The village was still, the air brittle with cold. Regulus kept his head down, the rhythmic crunch of his boots the only sound. The weight of his satchel had started to dig into his shoulder, and his fingers were cold despite the gloves.

The house appeared through the fog, crooked, leaning slightly to the left like it was too tired to stand straight anymore, smoke curling lazily from the chimney in a line that barely held against the wind.

He stepped up to the door and knocked once, then he pushed it open, wincing at the way the hinges creaked like they were complaining about being disturbed.

He expected to see Remus alone, curled into the corner of the couch, sipping something warm from one of his chipped mugs — maybe wrapped in that faded tartan blanket he always claimed was terrible but never gave up. That was the image Regulus had carried with him the whole walk over.

But it wasn’t Remus who looked up.

It was James.

He blinked at him from the armchair nearest the fire, his glasses slightly fogged, hair sticking up in all directions like he’d only just dragged himself from sleep. One leg was slung lazily over the armrest, a plate balanced precariously on his lap. He looked utterly at ease until he registered who had just come through the door.

James sat bolt upright so fast the chair creaked beneath him, the plate sliding off his lap and landing with a soft clatter on the rug.

“Reggie?” James breathed, his voice almost a whisper. “What are you—?”

“I—uhm—” Regulus stammered, and instantly hated himself for it. The word lodged in his throat, clumsy and ill-fitting, and he bit down hard on the instinct to flinch. What the fuck was wrong with him?

The bag on his shoulder suddenly felt heavier.

Before he could force out another word, Remus walked out of the kitchen, calm and tired and holding a steaming mug between both hands. He took one look at Regulus and offered a small, soft smile, already laced with understanding.

“Morning, Reggie,” he said, as casually as if they'd just bumped into each other at a corner shop. His voice, rough with sleep, threaded through the room like balm. “Good catch today?” He nodded toward the satchel.

Regulus nodded, hand briefly patting the bag like he’d only now remembered it was there. “Yeah. Just… brought a few things over.”

His voice was low, clipped, already retreating.

“I thought you’d be alone,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t mean to—"

“Nonsense,” James cut in quickly, stepping forward. He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand brushing Regulus’ arm as he gently hauled him further inside. “You want tea? Coffee? Something to eat?”

His voice was bright, too bright. Like he was trying to make the moment feel normal. Like if he offered food and warmth fast enough, no one would notice the tremor in Regulus’ hands or the way he kept glancing toward the hallway.

But before Regulus could answer, before he could so much as inhale, the atmosphere shifted.

Thickened.

Another presence entered the room — slow, deliberate, and heavy as a coming storm.

Sirius.

He stood leaning against the doorway like he’d been there the whole time, arms folded tight across his chest, one bare foot braced against the frame. His hair was wild from sleep, knotted and falling into his eyes, and the expression on his face was somewhere between suspicion and disdain. He didn’t move.

He just watched.

His storm-grey eyes locked on Regulus, cold and unreadable.

“Thought we barred strays from walking in,” Sirius said at last, voice rough with sleep and venom, his eyes still fixed on his brother like he was something that had tracked dirt across the carpet.

Regulus didn’t flinch. “You should’ve locked the door, then.”

Sirius snorted, stepping off the doorframe with the deliberate slowness of someone choosing violence with every muscle in their body.

“Maybe we should start.”

“Sirius,” Remus said quietly, from behind them.

But Sirius didn’t stop. He prowled closer, barefoot steps whispering across the floorboards like ghosts. The light from the fire caught on the hollows of his face, casting sharp shadows under his cheekbones.

“You bring a present this time, little Reggie?” he asked, voice syrupy and sharp. “Trying to buy your way back into everyone’s good graces, is that it?”

Regulus’ hand dropped casually to the strap of his satchel.

“Food and medicine, mainly. But I can bring you a sharpener knife next time, if that’d speed things up.”

James stepped between them.

“Okay,” he said, voice calm but with that steel edge only Remus ever really respected. “That’s enough.”

“Funny,” Sirius muttered, jaw tight, “how quickly you start playing house again.”

“Sirius,” Remus warned again, stepping forward now. His voice wasn’t loud. “Stop.”

Sirius looked at him, something wild flaring in his expression for half a second, then looked away. Backed down.

“He doesn’t belong here,” Sirius muttered, almost to himself.

Regulus didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. That wasn’t a new wound. That one had scarred over a long time ago. He just turned to James, calm as ever.

“I won’t stay. I only came to drop some things.”

James opened his mouth to say something, but Regulus already started digging through the bag, putting different things on the table.

“The dried meat should hold at least a week,” he said, voice clipped, almost indifferent, as he pulled a wrapped parchment from inside. “Flour’s clean, the rice is dry. I found some honey, too. Need to warm it up a little as it crystallized.”

He reached again into the depths of the bag and retrieved a small, folded pouch.

“Remus,” he added, glancing up for a breath before returning to his task, “I found some tea. Peppermint by the smell.”

Remus blinked, visibly thrown. His hand had paused halfway to his mouth, still holding a limp piece of toast. His eyes lingered on Regulus’ face a second too long before flicking down to the pouch.

But Sirius wasn’t finished.

“Oh, how touching,” he said from the side of the room, voice rising like bile. “A little parcel for the poor. Maybe next time you’ll knit us mittens, yeah? Or maybe a bloody apology.”

Regulus didn’t even glance at him.

Instead, he drew out the heavier contents — vials wrapped in cloth, the shimmer of potion glass catching firelight. The air shifted. Something subtle and awful tightened across the room. He placed them gently on the table: gleaming, jewel-toned potions marked in Madam Pomfrey’s unmistakable, looping script.

Pepperup Potion. Skele-Gro. Blood Replenishment. Murtlap Essence. Fever reducers. Anti-inflammatories.

Small things. But vital. Lifesaving.

James was the first to move. The casual mask he’d been wearing drained from his face like melting wax. He stepped forward slowly, a tightness creeping across his brow that had nothing to do with irritation and everything to do with fear. Not loud, not obvious, but visceral.

Regulus pulled out a folded, thick-knit blanket, the kind Pomfrey kept at the foot of every bed in the Hospital Wing. James reached out without thinking and brushed his fingers against the wool.

“Regulus,” James breathed. “You’ve been at the castle?”

His voice was so quiet, Regulus almost missed it.

“Obviously,” he said simply, tossing a pack of cigarettes onto the pile as though it were nothing more than a footnote. “Did you think I found these in a clearing?”

And the moment he said it, he heard the shift in the room, like breath caught in everyone’s throat at once.

Regulus looked up and caught James' expression just before it shattered.

His face broke in stages — brows lifting, lips parting, eyes wide — and then it hardened, splintered, like glass under sudden pressure.

“What the fuck, Regulus?” James exploded.

His voice cracked through the room like a slap, raw and too loud. He took a step back so quickly that the rickety chair behind him toppled with a crash, skittering across the uneven floorboards.

Remus froze. James Potter never ever broke down or raised his voice.

Sirius, who had been pretending not to listen from his sulk by the window, turned sharply, his eyes narrowing in an instant.

The room seemed to contract, like the air itself was drawing inward.

“You’ve been sneaking into Hogwarts?” James shouted, furious. “Are you insane?”

“I got what we needed,” Regulus said, his voice flat, eyes meeting James’ without hesitation. “That’s all that matters.”

“No.” James’s voice was shaking now, rage giving way to something that sounded like fear. “What matters is you don’t get yourself killed crawling through a Death Eater-infested fortress for tea and fucking bandages!”

“Then who should?” Regulus snapped, his tone still even, but the edge was unmistakable now. “Remus? Sirius? You want to volunteer?”

James stared at him like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “We could’ve planned something. Gone together. You don’t just—”

“You think that castle lets more than one person through alive?” Regulus shot back, the volume of his voice still low but edged now, dangerous. “I’ve been doing this for months, James. You move fast, alone, or you don’t move at all.”

James looked like he was about to argue again, but Regulus didn’t give him the chance.

“You think there’s room for teamwork in that place?” He took a step forward. “You think I had the luxury of backup? You either go alone, or you don’t come back.”

“Then maybe don’t go at all!” James shouted, throwing up his hands. “You’re not— You’re not disposable, Regulus! You don’t get to throw yourself away like it means nothing!”

Regulus felt something sharp and treacherous twisting inside his chest.

He met James’ eyes and said, quietly, “You don’t get to decide what I’m worth.”

James flinched, and that’s when Sirius moved. He peeled away from the window slowly, like something waking up, scenting blood. His arms were still folded, but his shoulders were coiled tight, rage creeping into every line of him. His eyes slid between Regulus and James, dark and unreadable, until they finally locked on his brother.

“What’s he talking about?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “What did you do, Regulus?”

Regulus turned, lips pressed in a thin line.

“I got medicine,” he said coolly. “You’re welcome.”

Sirius’ nostrils flared. “You went back there? After everything—Do you want to die, is that it?” he snapped, stepping forward now. “Do you want to vanish again? Is that what this is about? Because if so—”

“Oh, brother,” Regulus cut in, his voice low, sharp as a dagger. “If I wanted to die, I would’ve come to you in the first place. Merlin knows how eager you are to finish the job.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was a vacuum. A sucking, breathless void.

James turned away like he’d heard something he wasn’t meant to. Remus closed his eyes and exhaled, bracing himself for what was coming.

And Sirius — Sirius froze. His mouth parted just slightly, but no sound came out. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went bone white.

“Say that again,” Sirius growled, stepping forward.

Regulus didn’t back down. He tilted his head slightly, like he was inspecting a wound he already knew was fatal.

And then he let out a huff and twisted the knife.

“Maybe I should’ve stayed dead afterall,” he said softly. “Your life would’ve been better.”

The punch landed hard and fast, cracking across Regulus’ cheekbone with a sound that echoed through the room like a dropped plate. Regulus staggered back, catching himself against the edge of the table as blood immediately poured from his nose, hot and vivid against his skin.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Regulus let out a sharp, breathless laugh, blood coating his upper lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his mouth like warpaint, and turned his gaze on James.

“Do you need more proof, Potter?” he rasped, scoffing. “Or is this enough?”

James looked horrified, stunned into silence. His face had gone pale, and he opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

Remus stormed across the room.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, looking at Sirius.

Sirius’ breath came fast, shallow, shoulders heaving.

“He—he asked for it! He always asks for it! Look at him—he doesn’t know how to stop pushing!”

“You don’t know how to stop hitting,” Remus snapped back, fury blazing through the calm he so often wrapped around himself. “You lash out first and pretend it’s someone else’s fault later.”

Regulus stared at Sirius for a long, cold second.

“You know,” he whispered, voice ragged and low, “you remind me of her sometimes. Our dear Mother.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Sirius flinched. Actually flinched, like he’d slapped him. His eyes locked onto his little brother’s — wide, stunned, and unmoored, like he’d struck some hidden, unspoken place deep in him that even he didn’t know existed.

“No,” he whispered. Not to Regulus. Not really. To the empty, echoing space inside him that had never healed. “No, I’m not her.”

But Regulus didn’t stop.

He stepped forward, blood still trickling from his nose, his voice rising with the weight of the unsaid, the things buried beneath years of silence and exile.

“No? Then what are you?” Regulus growled, voice rising with each word. “You think I’m a traitor because of what I did? You think I don’t deserve to stand in this room with you? What does that make you, Sirius?” His voice cracked open, raw and loud now. “You left me. You walked out of that house and never once looked back. You left me in there. With her. With him.”

James blinked, frozen mid-motion like he’d forgotten how to move. Remus looked down, jaw tight, like he couldn’t bear to watch what was coming next.

Regulus kept going, unstoppable now. A dam finally bursting.

“You've got the chance to run. You got to escape. And I stayed.” His voice was shaking now with unspent rage. “Do you know how many nights I had to crawl back to bed because I couldn’t feel my legs?”

Sirius opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Do you know how many times I passed out on the floor, Sirius? On the fucking floor, because they said I needed to learn discipline?”

His voice cracked from all the fury. Decades of it. Acid behind every syllable.

“You remember what she was like when she hated you,” Regulus spat. “You should’ve seen what she was like when she loved me.”

Remus made a sound — quiet, wounded — and turned his face away.

James was deathly still.

“They used Crucio on me,” Regulus hissed, breath hitching. “Over and over again because I was their last hope. Because I had to be better than you. Because you ran, and I stayed, and I owed them for it. Do you know what that feels like? To scream until your voice is gone and still not be good enough?”

Sirius was shaking now — whether in rage or guilt or shame, it was impossible to tell.

“And you—” Regulus’s voice was barely more than a growl, low and breaking. “You were happy when you left. You were free. You got out. And I bet you were relieved when I disappeared. I bet you were glad.”

“No,” Sirius choked. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

But Regulus didn’t stop.

“I wanted to die,” he said, and suddenly the room was made of glass. Fragile. Trembling. “I begged for it. Because at least if I were dead, the pain would stop.”

His voice collapsed on the last word, fractured like bone beneath pressure. It echoed through the room with unbearable weight, like the kind of thing you’re never meant to say aloud.

The fire snapped behind them.

And Sirius just stood there, trembling. Eyes glassy. Like the person in front of him, his little brother was someone he didn’t recognize. Someone he’d failed.

And Regulus, the younger brother, the ghost, the sacrificial lamb, wiped the last of the blood from his chin with shaking fingers, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He didn’t cry. He was past that.

“Enjoy the fucking potions,” he said coldly, not sparing a glance. And with that, he yanked the door open and nearly toppled over Peter, who was pale as death, his eyes wide and wild. He looked like he’d run all the way from hell itself.

“They’re here,” he rasped, voice shaking like a loose wire. “They’re here.”

For a second, no one moved. The silence was like a held breath, stretched too thin.

And then the windows exploded inward in a violent storm of shattered glass and howling wind. Blades of jagged crystal sliced through the room like thrown knives. The front wall shook, picture frames dropped like dead birds, and the air was instantly filled with the scent of ozone and smoke.

A flash of red light tore through the air, searing past James’ head and obliterating the doorframe behind him. The wood caught fire instantly.

Someone screamed — Peter, maybe, or just the wind shrieking through broken panes.

Then came the cracks. Dozens of them. Apparitions. From every direction. Like thunder slamming into the ground. Like the world coming undone.

“Down!” James bellowed, diving for the floor as a blast of blue-white magic tore overhead.

“Move, move, move!” Remus shouted, hauling Peter backward by the collar.

But Regulus was already gone.

He’d bolted before the first curse had finished whistling past James’s ear, running full tilt out the door, through the blinding wind and smoke, toward the crooked silhouette of his own house beyond the rise.

Chapter Text

Regulus tore through the frostbitten grass, boots slipping, lungs burning, a streak of blood still drying across his mouth. A red jet of light screamed past his shoulder. He ducked, kept running. A shadow moved in the trees — more of them, waiting.

He burst through the front door just as another distant explosion lit up the edge of the village.

Inside, Evan and Barty were waiting.

The fire in the hearth had long since burned down to coals, casting the room in low orange light. Both of them were already geared up, their coats fastened, wands holstered at their sides, blades strapped to their thighs with practiced precision.

Barty stood with a slight tilt to one side, still favouring his ribs, but steadier than he’d been in weeks. His mouth was set in that permanent scowl he wore when he was afraid and pretending not to be. His eyes, sharp and bloodshot, flicked immediately to Regulus as he entered, taking him in, assessing for injury, calculating a dozen backup plans before the door even clicked shut.

Evan, by contrast, was kneeling in front of Barty, fingers trembling as he tightened the laces on Barty’s gloves. The movement was meticulous, too focused, like he needed something, anything, to do with his hands or he’d fall apart.

When Regulus stepped inside, Evan didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in a heartbeat and wrapped his arms around Regulus, pulling him in tight. His breath hitched against Regulus’ shoulder. His whole frame shook. Regulus froze for half a second, then wrapped his arms around Evan in return, holding him with a quiet strength he didn’t have time to name.

“We’ll find each other,” Evan whispered, barely audible. “No matter what. We’ll find each other.”

Regulus squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment. The words punched through his ribs like a stake. He hadn’t realized how close he was to breaking until he felt Evan’s voice shake against his skin.

He opened his eyes again and, over Evan’s shoulder, he met Barty’s gaze.

There was no softness there — not in Barty. There had never really been. But something simmered in his eyes all the same: a kind of promise. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Regulus saw it in the way Barty stood a little taller now, pain or no pain. The way he positioned himself half between Evan and the door. The way his fingers hovered near his knife without shaking.

He would burn down the world before letting anyone touch Evan.

Regulus nodded once. Barty’s chin lifted slightly. Agreement. Understanding.

Then, gently, Regulus pressed a kiss to Evan’s hair.

“Everything is going to be fine, Ev,” he murmured, voice steady, even as the heat of the fire died and the world began to tremble at the seams.

Evan let out a ragged breath and nodded, barely.

But none of them truly believed that.

Outside, chaos had bloomed like fire.

The square yawned open before him, wide and waiting, like a gaping mouth ready to swallow them all whole. It had always felt too exposed here, too open to the wind and the sky and the violence they no longer bothered to hide. But now, it felt worse. Now, it felt like a grave. A hollow carved into the broken heart of what remained of the village.

Regulus stopped at the edge of the stonework, boots crunching over ice-glazed cobblestones, and watched as figures in black began to appear at the far corners. They didn’t rush. No, they never did. Their power was in silence and control. In inevitability.

The circle closed around them with terrifying elegance, cloaks flapping like torn wings in the wind, silver masks gleaming in what little morning light remained. Each mask caught the pale sky and fractured it, turning their faces into shifting, reflective nightmares. Carrion birds in human shape.

James stood at his left — tense, and ready for everything. On his right, Sirius stalked into place, face twisted into something between fury and disbelief. Behind him, Remus took a slow step forward, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a line that didn’t speak but said everything. Peter was still catching up, one hand braced to his ribs, wheezing as if he could somehow hold in his fear if he clutched tight enough.

Then the lead Death Eater stepped forward. He was tall and cloaked head to toe in black. The silver of his mask was more elaborate than the others. It was carved with ridges like bones, sharp angles like teeth. It gleamed cold in the light, inhuman and beautiful in the way that knives could be beautiful.

He didn’t draw a wand.

Instead, from inside his cloak, he produced a thick parchment scroll, rolled tight and sealed with a band of black wax. He snapped it open with a flick of his wrist, the sound ringing through the square like a whip crack.

When he spoke, his voice didn’t sound real. It was flattened, mechanical, like it had been scrubbed clean of identity. Still, every word landed like a blow.

“Avery.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, from the shadows, a gaunt figure emerged. Hood drawn low, face pale and unreadable. He walked slowly, boots crunching against the frosted ground, and no one moved to stop him. He reached the centre and took his place with the calm of a man stepping onto the gallows.

“Black.”

Sirius tensed beside him, stiffening like he’d been struck, and watched as his brother stepped forward. The world narrowed. He didn’t look back. Didn’t glance at James or Remus or anyone else. He joined Avery at the centre of the square, spine straight, head high.

“You too,” the Death Eater said lazily, gesturing toward Sirius without looking up. “Can’t separate you two. That’d just be cruel.”

Sirius hesitated a beat. His hands curled into fists.

“Oh, come on, Black. Afraid to stand next to your baby brother for once?” another Death Eater crooned. “Touching.”

Another chuckled lowly. 

Sirius stepped forward, slowly, defiantly, every line of his body rigid. He took his place beside Regulus, but his jaw was clenched tight enough to splinter.

“Crouch.”

Regulus’ heart pinched as Barty stepped out from the gathering behind him. His limp was subtle, but there. Still, his face was a mask of stone, his chin lifted in defiance. He took his place with all the grace of a king in exile.

“Evans.”

A sharp intake of breath— James.

His hand shot out instinctively, gripping Remus’ wrist with a strength that surprised them both. But before anyone could move, Lily emerged from the crowd.

Hair braided. Coat patched at the elbow. Face calm. She walked forward with a quiet, unwavering resolve, like she'd known this moment was coming for days. She joined the line without looking at anyone.

One of the Death Eaters whistled. “Well, well. Look at this one. Brave little mudblood.”

Another snorted. “Too pretty to bleed. Shame we’ll have to mess that up.”

“Lupin.”

Remus had gone still. His fingers were white where they gripped the sleeve of his coat. His mouth opened slightly, as if to protest. To question. But the Death Eaters were watching, and Remus understood the weight of inevitability better than most.

He swallowed hard, then stepped forward. Every motion stiff with resignation.

“McDonald. McKinnon. Meadows. Mulciber.”

The names came in quick succession. Familiar faces emerged from the edges of the crowd like ghosts rising from the ruins.

Dorcas emerged first, her wand already in her hand.

“Still playing soldier, are we?” a Death Eater drawled. “You always were a mouthy little bitch.”

Marlene stepped into the square like she’d been waiting for it. Eyes scanning the edges. Already calculating.

“Oh, I remember her,” one hissed. “The one who hexed Travers’s—well, never mind what. He still limps.”

Mary walked forward, pale and quiet.

“She doesn’t even talk. Maybe we should teach her how to scream.”

Mulciber joined them, confusion etched deep. He looked unsure which side he stood on as no one spoke to him. No one looked at him.

“Pettigrew.”

Peter let out a choked, strangled sound, part whimper, part sob. He looked around like someone might stop him. Save him. But no one did. So, he stumbled forward, arms drawn tight against his sides, head down like he could disappear inside himself if he just curled small enough.

“Good little rat,” someone purred. “Scurry, scurry.”

“Potter.”

James exhaled — a sound so broken it barely qualified as breath. When he reached Regulus, he stopped close. Closer than expected. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at him. But Regulus felt the heat of him there.

“Rosier.”

Regulus glanced toward the summoning, and a strange pang twisted inside him. Evan—soft Evan. How had he ended up here? How did someone so gentle belong in this brutal world? He didn’t deserve this. None of it. Not the violence. Not the blood. Not the war.

“Snape.”

Severus emerged from the far corner, cloak sweeping behind him, eyes shadowed and unreadable. He didn’t falter.

“Vance.”

Emmeline stepped forward last, her face as unreadable as stone. Her gaze swept the line as she joined, settling between Dorcas and Peter without a word.

And then there was silence.

The list was done. The square was full.

And then one of the Death Eaters laughed.

“Look at them,” he said, voice echoing off the stones. “The war’s last leftovers. The traitors. The cowards. The halfbloods. The whores.”

Another chuckled. “Should we let them fight? Or just start carving pieces off until they cry?”

The one in the ornate mask stepped forward again.

“No need to rush,” he said, voice like silk over razors. “They’ll break. They always do.”

The wind picked up.

The Death Eater with the scroll rolled it slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. The black wax seal cracked under his thumb with a quiet, final sound. He slid the parchment back inside his cloak as if sealing away a sentence already passed. Then he spoke, voice void of inflection, as though he were announcing the weather.

“By order of the Dark Lord, you are summoned to the castle.”

No explanation. No mercy.

A flick of his wand, and the others in black shifted, forming ranks on either side, leaving only one path open: the old road that wound north toward the looming shadow of Hogwarts on the horizon.

“Over my dead body” Regulus heard Sirius mutter, voice shaking,

Remus stood still beside him, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. “I think,” he said hoarsely, “that’s the idea.”

Peter let out a thin, reedy whimper that sounded more like a kettle about to boil than a human sound.

And somewhere deep in Regulus’ chest, something ancient and cold unfurled. Because he knew that this was the moment everything was going to break.

Then the Death Eater at the front lifted his wand, just slightly, and that was enough. A cruel reminder that there were worse things than walking forward.

James shifted first. He set his jaw, took one step. And then another. The line began to shuffle forward like something broken and resigned, their feet dragging against the dirt road that led north.

Sirius followed just behind, his posture stiff with the kind of rage that threatened to burn everything down. Every few paces, he muttered something under his breath — curses, threats, promises. Regulus didn’t catch all the words, but he felt them like sparks against his spine.

Remus walked with his head low, hands fisted in his pockets. Peter scuttled alongside him, pale as death, his eyes flicking nervously between the masked figures surrounding them.

The castle loomed in the distance, black against the grey sky. Closer with every reluctant step.

Sirius broke the silence.

“This is bullshit,” he snapped, his voice too loud in the quiet. “You know what this is, right? They’re lining us up. Like pigs. Like fucking livestock.”

James didn’t answer, but his hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Sirius kept going, voice edged sharp as glass. “I told you this would happen, Prongs. If you’d just listened to me from the start—”

“Not now, Sirius,” James ground out, his voice low but dangerous. “You really think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t see it?”

Sirius let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah? Because you’ve been so clear-headed lately. Too busy—” His eyes cut toward Regulus.

James stopped dead. His body turned so fast, Regulus barely had time to catch his breath.

“Shut up.” His voice was raw, trembling. “Shut the fuck up, Sirius.”

For a heartbeat, he thought Sirius might swing back. His hands curled like claws at his sides, and his face twisted, old grief and fresh fury colliding in his eyes.

Remus stepped between them, his palm flat against Sirius’s chest. “Stop it.” His voice was steel, quiet but cutting through the tension like a blade. “Both of you. You’re playing right into their hands.”

Peter whimpered behind them. “Please, please—just keep walking—”

The Death Eaters surrounding them shifted, and the tip of a wand sparked. A flash of green light arced into the sky — not at them, but close enough to make the ground shudder.

That was enough. James turned away, breathing hard through his nose, and started walking again. Sirius spat into the dirt, but followed.

The castle loomed closer now. Its spires clawing at the clouds, its windows dark like empty eyes. The road curved and narrowed, the stones slick underfoot as though even the ground resented them walking on it.

Barty muttered under his breath, close enough for Regulus to hear.

“This feels wrong. All of it. It’s too… neat.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his throat raw. “It’s a show.”

He glanced at him, his mouth tight. “Yeah. And we’re the actors.”

Ahead, the gates of Hogwarts loomed, thrown open wide like a mouth ready to swallow them whole.

They moved through the castle like ghosts.

The heavy doors creaked open before them, dragged wide by chained giants. The chill wrapped around Regulus’s skin as they stepped inside, and it was wrong. So wrong.

He remembered the first time he crossed this threshold like it was yesterday. Eleven years old, wide-eyed, heart hammering with excitement as he stared up at the enchanted ceiling, watching the stars glimmer above. Back then, he had been so sure Hogwarts was a fortress against the dark, a sanctuary. The place where you could start over, where you belonged.

But now… now it felt like a corpse. A hollow shell of something that once pulsed with life and warmth. The torches lining the walls flickered weakly, their light cold and pale, not golden. The familiar banners that once proudly displayed the house colours were gone, stripped away.

Barty and Evan walked beside him, Barty’s face drawn tight, and Regulus knew that he was seeing it too.

The corridor they used when they ran late for Charms. The alcove where Barty and Regulus once hexed Mulciber for calling them blood traitors. The tapestry that used to hide the passageway they snuck through at night to have a smoke.

All of it was still here, but dead.

They passed a cracked statue near the Great Hall doors, once a knight in shining armour, now broken at the waist, helmet lying forgotten at its feet.

Regulus’s fingers brushed against the stone wall as they turned the final corner. It was cold, unyielding. His throat felt tight.

He glanced at James. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched in his cheek. His eyes, usually so bright, were dull now. Like the castle had drained the colour from him.

The massive entrance to the Great Hall, once thrown open to laughter and feasts, now loomed like the gates of hell. The doors swung inward with a heavy, echoing bang that made Regulus flinch.

Inside, it was worse.

The Great Hall had been transformed into a mockery of itself. A perversion of everything it had once stood for.

Where once warmth and welcome had reigned, where laughter had echoed from stone walls and candles had floated like stars above the heads of schoolchildren, there was now only cold, ritualized cruelty. The air was thick with it. With smoke and dust and the metallic sting of magic long since turned putrid.

The four long house tables were gone. In their place stood rows of chairs draped in black velvet, arranged in precise, military order. The Death Eaters occupied them like judges presiding over an execution. Robes the colour of funeral cloth bled into one another until they formed a single, undulating mass. A black tide. A void given shape. 

The House banners were gone. In their place, a single massive flag loomed above the high table: black fabric embroidered with the Dark Mark.

Regulus’s stomach twisted as he scanned the faces — not hidden, but displayed openly now. There was no shame here. No need for secrecy. The victors didn’t wear disguises.

Bellatrix Lestrange sat near the front, draped in shadows like a queen of some charnel court. Her head was tipped back in laughter, sharp and sudden, a shriek of something half feral and half delighted. It rang across the chamber like a blade drawn from a sheath — a sound made not with joy, but hunger.

Her dark eyes caught sight of them, and her laughter deepened into something guttural and thick. She leaned forward, chin in hand, smiling wide enough to bare every tooth. Her lips curled back in a slow, slithering grin as she spotted Regulus, her eyes gleaming with feverish affection and something far more sinister.

“Well, well,” she purred, licking the edge of her teeth. “If it isn’t our little star.”

Next to her sat Rodolphus, still and sharp as a blade. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His fingers hovered above his wand — not nervously, not in anticipation, but with lazy inevitability. A predator waiting for the prey to twitch.

Further down, Narcissa sat with practiced poise, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Lucius Malfoy watched the approaching group with the dispassionate curiosity of a man observing animals about to be slaughtered. His pale hands rested on the head of his cane, one thumb absently stroking the serpent pommel. His lips twitched, but never quite became a smile.

And then Regulus saw him.

His father.

Orion Black sat in silence, his hands folded, his back straight as a spear. His eyes swept over the gathering with aristocratic disdain, pausing just long enough on Sirius to register disgust before looking away — a dismissal sharp enough to flay.

Sirius didn’t react. But Regulus saw the tension coil in his brother’s spine. He felt it in the air, a vibrating thread between them, pulled taut.

There was no sign of Walburga.

So the rumors were true. The old harpy was dead. No grand pronouncement. No black veil. Just... absence. Erased as if she’d never existed.

A bitter, ugly satisfaction twisted in his chest for half a second before it was swallowed whole by the weight of anticipation.

Regulus swallowed thickly and tore his eyes away from them.

They moved forward as one, their group pressed together by sheer instinct. Drawn like moths to the flame, unable to resist the summons. The ceiling above them still mirrored the sky, but it was black now. No stars. No moon. Just an endless, oppressive void.

It felt like Dumbledore had taken Hogwarts's last flicker of light with him when he died.

What remained was this… husk. A twisted echo of home.

Bellatrix cackled again, sharp and delighted, clapping her hands as though the entire scene had been staged for her personal entertainment.

“Oh, look at them!” she sang, rising to her feet, her arms flung wide in mock welcome. “All our little rebels. Come home at last. Aren’t they precious?”

The Death Eaters around her chuckled. The sound was low and wet and full of teeth.

One of them, a thickset man with a scar across his jaw, leaned sideways to leer at Mary Macdonald, his mask pushed up to reveal yellowing teeth.

“Didn’t know we were having ladies for supper tonight,” he drawled. “Best behaviour, boys.”

“Don’t bruise the pretty ones too early,” sneered another, nudging the man beside him as his eyes raked across Dorcas and Marlene. “No fun if they break too soon.”

Dorcas didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like she might bite through her tongue. Marlene, standing beside her, tilted her head back and stared them down, silent and unflinching. But her hands trembled at her sides.

Evan’s fingers brushed against Barty’s hand again, and this time, he gripped back. Hard.

He didn’t flinch.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped like a stone as a figure emerged from the shadows behind the high table.

Tall. Emaciated. Cloaked in black so deep it seemed to drink in the flickering torchlight, swallowing colour and sound alike. His face was a mask of death, pallid and waxen, like something that had never belonged to the living. Red eyes, bright as embers and just as merciless, scanned the hall with glacial disdain.

Voldemort paused behind the throne at the centre of the dais, a hand resting on its high back like a spider settling into its web. The silence throbbed. Breath caught. No one moved. No one dared.

He lifted one long, skeletal hand and motioned for them to come forward. The gesture was lazy, almost bored, but it sent a ripple through the Death Eaters that travelled outward like a wave of instinct. The audience tensed. Eyes sharpened. 

The crowd shifted uneasily. They had no choice but to obey. Their group, mud-streaked, clothes torn from running through the streets, faces hollowed by weeks of fear and hunger, shuffled forward in a broken line until they stood before him like prisoners at a sentencing.

Battered. Filthy. And silent.

Voldemort’s red eyes flickered over them, slow and deliberate as a thin smile curled his lipless mouth.

“My, my…” he murmured, head tilting slightly, birdlike. “Look at you.”

He took a step forward, his movement soundless, robes gliding across the floor as though he floated. The air grew colder with each pace.

"Scrawny little things… yet you survived the winter."

He drew the words out like silk, dangerous in their smoothness.

“For that alone…” he went on, his smile widening without warmth, “you should be rewarded.”

A ripple of cruel laughter traveled through the Death Eaters, rising like the hiss of snakes. Bellatrix laughed loudest, slamming a hand against the long table, her delight sharp as shrapnel.

James stiffened, but his head stayed down, his eyes fixed on the floor. Even Sirius, reckless, defiant Sirius, lowered his gaze when the Dark Lord’s attention passed over him, jaw clenched so hard Regulus could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. Remus looked ashen, his eyes shadowed with a thousand memories too grim to speak. Peter, already halfway gone, was shaking so violently his knees knocked together.

And then Voldemort’s gaze found Regulus’ and he stopped.

Lingering.

Evan’s breath hitched beside him, sharp and involuntary, and Regulus could feel his panic radiating like heat. But still, he held the Dark Lord’s gaze.

It was idiotic. It was suicidal. But it was all he had left — the shard of resistance still embedded in his spine.

And Voldemort noticed.

“Little Black,” he hissed, his voice soft and serpentine, every syllable stretching like a string drawn taut. His hand lashed out, fast as a striking snake, and seized his chin in long, skeletal fingers. Voldemort's fingers tightened painfully against it as he jerked his head further, forcing his eyes away from him as though he wanted to make it clear that even if he thought he could stand tall, he could snap that pride in an instant.

His thumb dug into the hinge of his jaw until his teeth ground together.

The hall was so quiet that Regulus could hear the faint crackle of the torches guttering high above.

“Still looking,” Voldemort murmured, tilting his head as if examining a piece of flawed crystal. “So bold. So upright.”

He gave Regulus’ jaw a slight twist, just enough to make the pain flash brighter.

“I remember,” the Dark Lord whispered, almost gently. “A clever boy. Precise. Watchful. Sharp like a sliver of glass.”

The compliment made Regulus’s stomach churn.

“You could’ve been great,” he said, “if you’d only understood your place.”

Behind him, the Death Eaters sat frozen. Even Bellatrix had gone still, her manic smile fixed in place like a painting. She watched with open, trembling reverence. As if witnessing a holy ritual.

“You had potential,” Voldemort continued, tone almost lazy now. “Far more than your brother, who chose the dog’s life.” He gave a slight sneer. “And far more than your… companions, whose usefulness ends where sentiment begins.”

Barty stiffened. Evan’s jaw tightened.

“But you,” Voldemort said, fingers tightening minutely, “you calculated. You waited. You studied. You understood what none of the others did: that power is not seized with noise. It is taken quietly.”

He released Regulus’ jaw slowly, letting his head fall forward like a dismissed puppet. The ache bloomed along his jawline, his tongue tasting copper. Still, he stood.

“And yet you ran,” Voldemort went on, circling him now like a lecturer admiring his student. “Hid in the dirt. Survived like a rat.”

He paused behind Regulus, voice lowering to a murmur meant for his ears alone.

“But rats are clever, aren’t they? They only survive because they know exactly when to run… and when to return.”

A chill ran down Regulus’ spine.

Voldemort moved back into view with terrifying speed, standing tall once more.

“I could kill you,” he said plainly. “I could snap your spine with a flick of my hand and hang your corpse from the gate.”

Regulus didn’t move.

“But where would the fun be in wasting such a brilliant mind?”

Murmurs rippled. Lucius Malfoy lifted his head, brows raised. Even Orion’s posture shifted, just slightly.

“I do not want your death,” Voldemort said, voice almost gentle now. “I want your obedience.”

His voice was almost gentle now — and it was that tone that sent the worst kind of shiver through Regulus’ chest.

“I will unmake your pride,” Voldemort said, quiet and calm. “And build you again in my name. That is your purpose now.”

And just like that, he turned his back and returned to his throne, robes trailing like smoke.

But Regulus stood frozen and lifted his gaze until his eyes found him.

His father.

The old man’s face was unreadable at first, carved into its usual mask of ancestral disdain. But then Regulus saw the flicker of pride.

It was so faint it could have been a trick of the light. But Regulus knew that look. He had starved for it once. As a boy. As a son.

He had bled and burned and obeyed for that flicker.

Something inside him twisted so violently he thought he might be sick. The back of his throat stung. He curled his fingers into his palms until his nails bit the skin.

This was what it took.

Not excellence. Not devotion. Not trying to fix the broken parts of their legacy.

It took survival in the face of degradation. It took becoming a tool.

He wanted to scream, or laugh, or lunge across the hall and drag that flicker out of Orion’s eyes with his bare hands. He wanted to carve his face until no one recognised him.

But he did none of that. Instead, he stared, and Orion met his gaze with something cool and content. As if to say, Finally. This is the son I raised.

Regulus turned away.

He would rather meet Voldemort’s gaze again than his father’s, because at least Voldemort had never pretended to love him.

Voldemort turned back to face them again, the folds of his robes whispering against the cold stone as he moved. His thin lips curled into what might have been called a smile, if one were generous enough to name something so utterly devoid of warmth, so inhuman in its absence of compassion, a smile. It was the barest tug of skin across bone, a mockery of human expression more suited to a corpse learning mimicry.

“You are stubborn things,” he said softly, the syllables dragging with measured weight. “I’ll grant you that. Stubborn enough to cling to life when it would be far simpler to just… die.”

A low murmur slithered through the Death Eaters seated at the long tables. Some sneered, amused. Others chuckled, low and mirthless. One or two simply watched with the cold eyes of predators, waiting.

“Survival, in my world…” Voldemort paused, his red gaze sweeping over the group with theatrical slowness, “is rewarded.”

From the far end of the hall, Bellatrix let out a high, sharp giggle, the sound sharp as broken glass. It ricocheted off the walls like a curse. She clapped her hands, her joy feral, unrestrained.

Voldemort moved with languid grace, lowering himself into the throne that loomed like a monument behind him. His wand dangled between two long fingers.

“My world,” he continued, voice soft, “does not coddle weakness. It does not tolerate cowardice. Those who live under my rule must prove they are worthy of the life they cling to so desperately.”

He said “life” the way one might say “scrap” or “parasite.”

His eyes flicked, one by one, over their group.

“You have been given a rare gift,” Voldemort said, drawing himself up slightly, his voice gaining volume, addressing the entire hall now. “An opportunity.”

The words dripped with false generosity, the kind offered before a knife.

“You will be tested,” he said, eyes glinting. “Trial after trial, until only the strong remain standing. The cowards…” he waved a careless hand “will be cast aside. The weak will fall.”

The hall fell deathly still.

“Think of it… as a game,” Voldemort said, letting the word stretch in the air like something obscene. “A resurrection of the old traditions. A Tournament…” a cruel smile “reborn, in my image.”

His tone was laced with cold amusement, and as the words left his lips, the Death Eaters erupted into malicious laughter. It rolled through the hall like thunder, ugly and gleeful. Someone pounded the table. Another whistled through their teeth.

Bellatrix practically vibrated with glee. “How perfect, my Lord!” she crooned, rising slightly from her seat.

Lucius offered a thin smile, one that didn’t touch his eyes — those stayed sharp, calculating, watching everything. His fingers drummed once against the table in silent rhythm. Narcissa, beside him, allowed herself a slight curl of the lips, though her eyes darted away just as quickly. As though even enjoying this display was something too dangerous to be caught doing openly.

Regulus’ stomach turned.

This wasn’t a game. It was a death sentence wrapped as a spectacle.

Voldemort’s voice lowered until it felt like it was wrapping around their throats.

“You will face these trials,” he said, tone suddenly intimate, “and you will do so together. You will fight. You will bleed. You will break. And if you survive…” a beat “you may earn the privilege of continuing to exist in my world.”

His grin widened, sharp as a blade.

“And where better to house such brave little champions… than in the tower that once claimed courage as its creed?”

He chuckled darkly, the sound scraping at Regulus’ nerves.

“You will all be confined to the former Gryffindor Tower. Locked away like the relics you are. A fitting place, don’t you think?”

His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, his mind racing and yet painfully clear at the same time.

Voldemort flicked his hand, as though already bored of their presence.

“You will be escorted to your quarters. The first trial begins tomorrow at sunset. Rest while you can.”

The Death Eaters erupted in jeering applause, their laughter bouncing off the stone walls like hammers.

Bellatrix whooped and threw her head back in delight. Lucius leaned toward Narcissa, murmuring something too quiet to hear. She nodded once, her face smooth, unreadable.

But Regulus couldn’t hear them anymore. His blood roared in his ears.

He forced himself to look around him and saw that their faces mirrored his own thoughts — disbelief, horror, but beneath it, that stubborn ember of defiance.

They could lock them in a tower. They could call them scrawny, broken, and weak.

But Regulus knew one thing with absolute certainty:

They’d survived the winter, and they’d survive this.

The heavy doors of Gryffindor Tower creaked open with a groan that echoed through the empty halls. They stepped inside, and the sight that greeted them made Regulus’ stomach twist. He had never been inside the Gryffindor common room before. Not once in all his years at Hogwarts. But in his mind, he’d imagined it vividly. Warmth. Colour. Laughter. A fire always crackling, boots drying by the hearth, red and gold banners waving gently above cluttered armchairs.

This… was not that.

The common room was cold now. Stripped bare of every banner, every tapestry that had once made it feel like home. The rich reds and golds were faded, dulled to an almost sickly brown in the dim light. The fireplace was cold stone. Even the portrait hole gaped open like a wound.

They all stood there for a long, breathless moment, taking it in.

Then, inevitably, the silence was shattered.

“Disgusting,” Mulciber sneered, his voice loud and nasal, an ugly sound that jarred against the hush like a wrench dropped on stone. “Smells like rot and piss.”

Avery made a noise of agreement, crinkling his nose as he stepped over the threshold like he expected the floor to bite him.

Snape’s face was an unreadable mask, but even he looked faintly repulsed, his lip curling as he cast a glance at the tattered remains of the house crest above the mantle.

Mulciber turned back to the group with a sneer, motioning toward the centre of the ruined room with his wand like a man directing livestock.

“This is where you lot grew up?” he asked mockingly. “Looks like a fucking zoo pen. No wonder you lot turned out the way you did. Raised in filth.”

Regulus felt something in his chest go very, very still.

It wasn’t heat. Not fire. It was the absence of it. The complete stilling of blood in his veins. The kind of cold that came from somewhere marrow-deep.

Mulciber didn’t see it.

He was still grinning as he turned fully to Regulus.

“Must be weird, yeah?” he added, smug. “Seeing what real power looks like now. Should reconsider licking boots again, Black.”

Regulus didn’t think as he moved.

He crossed the space between them like a shadow, his hand a blur as he shoved Mulciber hard into the crumbling stone wall. The thud echoed through the room, a choked curse escaping Mulciber’s throat, cut off the next second by the cool kiss of steel beneath his jaw.

Regulus’s dagger gleamed where it pressed against the vulnerable patch of skin just under the bone. His grip didn’t tremble. His wrist didn’t waver.

His voice, when it came, was a rasp.

“Say that again.”

Mulciber froze. The colour drained from his face. His grin fractured, crumbling in real time.

“Go on,” Regulus whispered, tone shaking not with rage, but with effort. With control. “Say it. I fucking dare you.”

Avery took a step forward, mouth already opening, but Barty moved in front of him, casual, smiling. He didn’t say a word, just stood there with a glint in his eye, like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks.

Snape took a half step back.

Mulciber said nothing. His eyes flicked between the dagger and Regulus’s face, and what he saw there rooted him to the spot.

Because Regulus was calm.

Too calm.

Dead calm.

“You think this is a game?” Regulus went on, his voice quieter now, but far more dangerous. His grip didn’t shake. “You think you can snarl and preen like some pureblood dog because you sat with them at the same table?”

He pushed the dagger just enough to nick the skin. A single drop of blood welled up, bright red.

“You were never brave enough to lead. Never sharp enough to rise. Just loud enough to follow orders and laugh at things you don’t understand.”

Mulciber swallowed, or tried to, the movement causing the blade to press deeper. His breath hitched.

Regulus didn’t let the dagger fall. He kept it there, the silver tip biting into the vulnerable flesh beneath Mulciber’s jaw. Regulus' breathing was steady, but his eyes burned with something off. Something deeper than rage — a flicker of delight in the control, in the silence of the room. Everyone was watching, but none of it mattered.

It was just him and the worm in front of him.

“If you ever come near me again,” Regulus said, quieter still, as though whispering directly into his ear, “or if I catch you looking at any of the girls here like you're thinking about pulling your usual filth—”

He leaned in, and Mulciber stiffened.

“Your head,” Regulus whispered, “will be the first to roll. I will pluck your eyes out and shove them in your mouth, then hang it in the courtyard. I swear it on my blood.”

The dagger pressed harder for emphasis. A single thread of blood slid down Mulciber’s throat and disappeared beneath his collar.

Then, worse than rage, worse than threat, Regulus smiled.

A small thing. Crooked and wrong.

Like a fracture along the edge of sanity.

“And Mulciber?” he added, barely louder than breath now. “Before you sleep at night…”

He tilted his head, grin widening just slightly, eyes gleaming with something unhinged.

“…you should always check under your bed. Just in case.”

For one awful moment, he held that smirk, dagger still kissing Mulciber’s throat. And then he stepped back. Smooth, controlled, as though nothing had happened. The blade vanished beneath his sleeve with practiced ease.

Mulciber collapsed against the wall with a gasp, one hand clutched to his neck like it could hold in the humiliation. His eyes didn’t follow Regulus this time.

Even Avery, usually the first to throw a retort, was silent, eyes darting nervously between the others like someone watching the edge of a cliff erode.

Regulus didn’t look back.

He moved to the dead hearth and stood with his back straight, eyes fixed on the cold stone.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Sirius let out a sharp breath and turned toward the stairs without waiting.

“Come on,” he muttered darkly. “We’re claiming our old room before one of those bastards puts their boots on my bed.”

James looked at Regulus, then followed his friend, Remus, closely behind.

"Charming reunion," Emmeline muttered under her breath. “Pete?”

Peter, pale and jittery, just nodded and grabbed her hand. They walked together, a small, uncertain unit, like children climbing stairs in a house that no longer felt like home.

Mulciber wiped the blood from his neck and sneered, but he kept his distance this time.

Avery looked uncomfortable. Snape said nothing, his dark gaze flickering from Barty to Regulus.

Regulus turned his gaze across the room, and there they were — Lily, Marlene, Mary, and Dorcas — huddled together near the base of the stairs.

Lily’s face was pale, her green eyes wide and glassy as if she were struggling to steady her breathing, one protective arm around Mary, who looked like she might crumble if anyone so much as brushed against her. Dorcas has her jaw clenched so tight, Regulus thought it might crack. She was holding Marlene behind her, as if ready to pounce if needed.

Mulciber threw them one more look over his shoulder, a lingering sneer curling his lip, before he finally stalked off toward the boys’ side of the tower. His heavy boots echoed against the old stones, every step a taunt.

“I’m taking the room across from you,” Regulus said at last, his voice like flint, low, even, sharp-edged. He stepped closer, just enough to draw a line in the air. “Evan and Barty will bunk in the room next to yours.”

Lily nodded, stiff and slow, her throat working around the motion. Her eyes didn’t leave his.

“Excuse me?” Mary’s voice cut through the room like a whip crack, high-pitched and tight with disbelief. She stepped forward, her eyes wide and dark. “That part of the tower is for girls only.”

The desperation in her voice wasn’t lost on anyone. It wasn’t about the rule — not really. It was about the last shred of structure left in a world that had become chaos. It was about safety. Privacy. The illusion that something still made sense.

Barty rolled his eyes.

“Oh, McDonald,” he said with a dramatic groan, pushing off the banister. “Yes, because Mulciber is definitely going to honour the sacred girls’ corridor and respect your bedtime boundaries. Maybe you should put up a little 'Do Not Enter' sign in glitter, see if that helps.”

Marlene's face went pale, her grip tightening on Mary’s arm.

Lily’s shoulders stiffened, and Regulus could see the shudder that passed through her — a ripple of silent terror she fought to swallow down.

“Fine,” she said, flatly, before Mary could bite back.

Mary whipped her head toward Lily, eyes blazing like she’d just betrayed her.

“Fine?!” she hissed, voice cracking. “You’re just going to—"

“We don’t have the luxury of safety, Mary.”

She said it flatly, without softening the blow, because they couldn’t afford comforting lies right now.

Regulus’ jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “You want to count on locked doors and old rules? Be my guest. But I’m not taking any chances with them.”

Mary's face twisted, the fight flickering in her eyes, but it died when Lily’s hand found hers.

“Reggie is right,” Lily whispered, her voice small. Her green eyes flicked toward the stairs Mulciber had disappeared up, and Regulus knew she was seeing every nightmare possibility laid out in her mind. “Here will be even worse than out there. At least out there, you can run. In here? We're trapped with them.”

Mary looked at Lily, then at Regulus, her throat bobbing as she swallowed back words she didn’t want to say. Finally, she gave a tight, jerking nod.

The surrender felt heavier than it should have.

Across the room, Evan shifted, as if sensing the growing discomfort, and stepped forward with a smile that was too soft for the space they were standing in.

“I know is not ideal,” he said gently, his voice calm and honey-warm, “but this is necessary. We’ve been living beside them for seven years, and trust me…” he let the smile fade just slightly, “they are vermin.”

Mary flinched almost imperceptibly.

“Oh, Evan,” Barty sighed dramatically, practically floating across the room with that grin he wore like a weapon. “You sweet, sweet thing.”

He slung an arm around Evan’s shoulder, planting a loud, deliberately obnoxious kiss on his cheek that made Evan groan and shove him half-heartedly away.

“Always the diplomat,” Barty continued, grinning widely. “So proper. So tragic.”

Regulus didn’t turn. He was standing by the tall windows, watching the grey sky bruise darker above the Forbidden Forest, arms folded, one shoulder pressed to the stone.

“Oi, Reggie,” Barty called out, voice lighter now, like the tension hadn’t just sunk into the walls. “You sure you want to bunk alone? Seems like a waste of your brooding potential.”

Regulus didn’t even blink.

“Third wheeling is not my thing,” he said coolly, gaze still fixed outside. “Besides, I’d rather share a room with a Blast-Ended Skrewt than listen to you two fuck like rabbits every night.”

That earned a half-laugh, half-sputter from Evan, who turned beet red. Barty grinned, entirely unbothered.

“Can’t make any promises, darling. You know what war does to us. Nothing like a good fight to set the mood.”

Regulus finally turned, slow and deliberate.

 “Just keep it quiet,” he said. “Or I’ll personally hex your bits off and hang them from the Astronomy Tower like wind chimes.”

There was a stunned silence. Then Barty threw his head back and laughed, sharp and delighted. “There’s the Reggie I missed.”

Regulus rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the wall.

"Come on,” he muttered, voice clipped. “Let’s claim our rooms before I change my mind and slit Mulciber's throat.”

Nobody asked if he was joking. No one really wanted to know.

They climbed the stairs quickly, the girls huddled close together, casting wary glances over their shoulders like they expected Mulciber or Avery to come slinking out of the shadows at any moment.

When they reached the landing, Barty gave a low whistle and nodded toward an empty dorm.

"We’re taking this one," he announced, already stepping inside like it was decided. Evan didn’t argue; he just ghosted in behind Barty, his face unreadable but his shoulders tense.

"Fine by me," Regulus muttered.

Regulus lingered for a moment in the hallway, watching as the girls disappeared into their room and the door clicked shut behind them. He could still hear their muffled voices, low, tight, the edge of fear not quite hidden beneath forced calm. He turned toward the door across from them. The hinges groaned as he pushed it open, the sound dragging through the silence like something wounded. The air inside was stale, thick with dust and the faint scent of mildew. The windows were cracked open just enough for the wind to whisper in, tugging at the tattered curtains like fingers brushing fabric in a dream.

There were four beds, scattered unevenly across the room. All of them were in different stages of decay. One had a frame rusted through in places, the mattress sunken and torn open like a gutted beast. Another was scorched along one edge, its wooden posts blackened and brittle. The third was missing half its slats, the mattress bowed and sagging, coiled springs peeking through the stuffing like ribs through broken skin.

The fourth was the least ruined.

Still warped, still filthy, but the frame held together. The mattress didn’t dip like a sinkhole. There were no visible burn marks, no bloodstains, no remnants of a fight. Just old dust and neglect.

Regulus moved toward it without thinking and sat slowly, testing the creak and groan of the frame beneath his weight. It held.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked floorboards beneath his boots.  He rubbed a hand over his face, gritty with sweat and dirt. Tomorrow they'd fight again. Or run. Or bleed. Or break. Or whatever the fuck the Universe was throwing at them.

The floor creaked at his left.

Lily stood in the threshold, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was holding herself together. Her hair was loose, frizzed from the damp, catching in the dim light like strands of fire. She didn’t step inside, just lingered at the edge of the room, a silhouette framed in shadow.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For stepping in earlier. With Mulciber.”

Regulus gave a small shrug, though the muscles in his shoulders ached. “Wasn’t exactly charity,” he muttered. “He was pissing me off.”

Still, she smiled. Tired, worn down to the quick, but real. “Doesn’t matter. You stepped in.”

A beat passed in silence, and then her eyes shifted—soft, uncertain. “You think the boys will be okay?”

Her voice was thin and frayed, like fabric worn threadbare.

“I think they’ll give Mulciber hell before they let him breathe wrong in their direction. Don’t worry about them. Sirius most probably sleeps with his knife under his pillow.”

A faint, fragile smile tugged at the corner of Lily’s mouth. But her eyes, too bright, glassy with unshed things, never softened.

Then, quieter still, she asked, “What about the full moons?” Her voice trembled around the edges. “What about Moony?”

Her gaze flicked toward the door, as if she could see through it—past the peeling wood and crumbling stone, past the makeshift common room, to the pack of Death Eaters that haunted it. Old enemies in stolen homes.

Regulus stood slowly. He didn’t approach her, but his voice came steady, sharp with promise.

“We’ll manage to get him out,” he said. “We’ll find a way.”

There was steel under the words, hard and unshaking. His tone brooked no argument. Not even from himself.

For a moment, she just stared at him, like she was seeing him clearly for the first time. Not a Black, not a Slytherin, not Sirius’ brother. Just a boy who had already lost too much and refused to lose more.

She nodded once, her throat working around the emotion that refused to rise. Then she stepped back, the door clicking gently shut behind her.

The tower was dead quiet by the time Regulus slipped out of the room. Most probably, everyone was in their room, discussing and dissecting how everything changed in such a short time.

He shut the door behind him carefully, his bare feet silent on the cold stone floor as he crossed the hall to where Barty and Evan had holed up.

He rapped his knuckles once, sharp and deliberate, because he had had enough of walking on them while doing absolutely unspeakable things.

The door creaked open within seconds, just an inch, just enough for Barty’s narrowed eyes to peek out. He looked like he hadn’t even tried to rest— hair disheveled, shirt wrinkled, but alert in the way that suggested he’d been pacing instead of sitting.

Evan was where Regulus knew he’d be, perched on the windowsill, curled in like a cat. He didn’t turn when Regulus entered, but his gaze lifted. Cool. Calm. Unreadable. But not surprised.

“We need to get rid of them,” Regulus said, his voice quiet but final.

Barty’s grin spread wide. “Fucking finally. What’s the grand plan?”

Regulus stepped further in.

“We pick them off in the trials. That’s our chance. If Voldemort wants a spectacle, we give him one.”

“Oh, this is going to be delicious.” Barty nearly purred, already in motion. He started pacing, fingers twitching like they were already building traps. “Accidents happen in dangerous games,” he said, sing-song, as if reciting a beloved poem. “So tragic. So unpredictable.”

“Avery goes first,” Regulus said, folding his arms. “He’s been ratting to the Death Eaters for months — spinning stories to save his own hide. No one will question it when he doesn’t walk out.”

“We make it grand,” Barty added, nodding eagerly. “Enough flair to entertain the Dark Lord.”

Evan finally spoke, his voice low and even. “And Mulciber?”

Regulus turned his eyes toward him, jaw tense. “Second round. He’s too loud. Too arrogant. Let him stew in it. Let him think he’s safe. We wait just long enough that paranoia cracks him.”

“Oh, you bastard,” Barty breathed, beaming. “That’s beautiful.”

Regulus ignored the comment. “We time it right, and we make sure it happens where it’s messy. Public. Let the others watch. Let them know. This ends with Mulciber choking on his own blood in front of everyone.”

Evan was silent again. But his mouth twisted — a faint echo of something dark and satisfied. That was the thing about Evan. He could be a soft, warm person, but turn into a bloody, manipulative sadist in a second.

That’s what made them work. Three edges of the same weapon.

Barty spun on his heel, hair flying messily around his face, energy practically crackling off of him. “Do we give anyone a heads-up? Lupin? Potter?” He said the last name like it tasted expensive, and he hated himself for liking it.

Regulus narrowed his eyes, voice flat. “They find out when they need to. If we tip our hand too early, we’re all corpses. They don’t know how to play this, Barty. They’re still clinging to some dusty idea of fairness and rules. Gryffindor delusions.”

Barty tilted his head, grinning like a madman. “Such a cynic, Reggie. Tragic, really. All that noble blood and not a single drop of feelings left.”

Regulus huffed. “Feelings get you killed.”

“Mm.” Barty leaned against the bedframe, arms crossed lazily, but there was a glint in his eye, something sharp and knowing. “Still. Shame. Would’ve loved for you to see Potter’s face when you sliced into Mulciber earlier. All flushed and twitchy. A little…conflicted.”

He gave a low whistle and fanned his face dramatically. “So very conflicted.”

Evan gave him a sharp glance, frowning.

Regulus gave him a look. “Don’t.”

But Barty only grinned wider. “I’m just saying…you really do know how to make a scene, darling. Knife to the throat, blood on your collar, the Potter boy looking like he’d just discovered a new religion. I am telling you, Reggie, that bloke has a thing or two for the knives.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled like someone reaching for patience that didn’t exist anymore. “I am not indulging this conversation. I’m going back to my room.”

He jabbed a finger at Barty. “You—don’t do anything stupid.”

“Me?” Barty gasped, hand to his heart. “Stupid? Never.”

“You’ve never done a single thing not stupid,” Evan muttered from the windowsill.

“And yet,” Barty said, bowing theatrically, “I survive.”

Regulus was already at the door, shaking his head, but not without the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Just something like an echo of who they used to be, before the world caught fire.

Chapter Text

By the time they reached the Great Hall for dinner, Regulus could feel the pressure winding itself through the cage of his ribs, a serpentine tension tightening with every step, coiling inward, as though the very air sought to crush him from within. The atmosphere here was different, suffocating in its density, imbued with a rancid kind of charge. Even the air was fouler, tinged with decay and dread. It was not merely the weight of magic that pressed down upon the stones; it was the weight of a thousand unspoken violations, of secrets steeped in blood and bound by silence. The space had been transformed, corrupted, reshaped into something theatrical.

At the far end of the hall, where once the professors had gathered, the table had become a monument to corruption. A grotesque feast had been laid out with almost surgical precision: platters of roasted meat glistening under enchanted light, loaves still steaming with melted butter, and goblets full of wine. It was meant to remind them, in every shining surface, of what they had once known, what they had once been allowed to taste. Now placed forever beyond their reach.

And then, there was their table. If one could call it that. It looked more like an accident than an arrangement. A gathering of broken benches and uneven crates. The bowls in the centre were tin, dented and rust-stained, the surface of the so-called soup inside shimmering with a thin, greasy film. Stray vegetable peels clung to the metal like the remains of something already digested. The bread was stale and mouldy. A pile of scraps. There was no mistake here. No oversight. Every detail had been curated with meticulous cruelty; an intentional message carved into the very arrangement of their humiliation: you are not equals. You are not even guests. You are owned.

Regulus said nothing as he stepped forward, his silence not born of fear but of calculation. He moved with Barty to one side, Evan to the other, the familiar choreography of their triangle carried out without need for words. Behind them, the girls followed: Lily’s face was pale, drawn tight like parchment stretched too thin, but her chin remained lifted in defiance. Dorcas's wand hand hovered at her side. The body remembers how to brace for impact, even when the mind is numb.

Regulus’s eyes moved constantly, not in panic, but with the methodical precision of someone cataloguing threats, assessing vectors, committing every angle of exposure to memory. He was not seeking comfort. He was seeking advantage—what few could be found in a place like this.

Mulciber loitered near one of the eastern pillars like a carrion bird waiting for the feast to begin, his weight slouched against the stone in calculated laziness, a cruel grin twisting his mouth into something feral. His fingers twitched intermittently, barely perceptible flinches toward his wand, as though the anticipation of violence was a pulse in his blood he could not quite still. Further in, half-shrouded by shadows cast from the high candelabra, Avery sat with his spine unnervingly straight, the fingers of one hand tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the base of the goblet nestled near his elbow. Regulus recognized that sound immediately; it was a kind of heartbeat, steady and low, and he had only ever heard it when Avery was on the edge of something he found thrilling.

They were not seated with them on the crates, of course. That much was predictable. The air around them was too sharp, too alert, too pointedly separate for it to be a coincidence. Word travelled fast in places like this, so it was no doubt that everybody already knew about what transpired between Mulciber and Regulus in the tower.

The Lestranges, unsurprisingly, had claimed their usual territory at the upper end of the table, sprawling as though they had inherited dominion. Rabastan, always the quieter shadow to his brother, cast a glance toward them that moved too slowly to be casual, rolling his wand between his fingers. Bellatrix was smirking, though the expression belonged more to a predator than a woman, wide and sharp and alight with the promise of something awful. Her fingers twitched, restless, like she was already rehearsing a hex in her mind, savouring its taste before she cast it.

And then there was the throne, or what had once been Dumbledore’s chair, now desecrated into something else entirely. Voldemort did not sit so much as possess the space, coiling himself into the wood and shadow like a god rendered in corpse-pale flesh. His fingers clutched the armrests with the elegance of talons, each digit a reminder that hands, too, could strangle as much as they could wield wands. His face was skeletal and sunken, more ruin than human. When his eyes began their slow, sweeping pass through the Great Hall, it was not vision, but an evaluation. Each person was a specimen. Each movement a variable. And when that gaze halted, however briefly, upon Regulus, it did not blink. It did not soften.

It lingered. Just for a breath. A fraction. A flicker of attention so sharp it could have drawn blood.

But it was enough.

Without a word, Regulus made his way to the jagged crate that passed for his place, shoulders drawing tighter with each step as though preparing for impact. He slid between Barty and Evan, their presence familiar.

Barty leaned in close, voice low and edged with a wry malice that never quite reached his eyes. “Nice of them to set the mood,” he murmured, eyeing the soup with a grimace. “Think they'll let us chew the bones if we ask sweetly?”

Regulus didn’t respond. He was no longer here, not fully, anyway. His mind had already moved four steps ahead, layering possibility over probability, spinning webs of consequence with mechanical precision. He catalogued entryways. Calculated lines of sight. Noted where each hostile body stood in relation to them. Which wand hands were shifting. Who was left-handed. Which faces were frozen too perfectly. Which smiles were held too long.

Beneath the table, Evan’s foot tapped twice.

A signal.

Regulus did not shift. Did not glance. But the message was absorbed, processed, and stored. Someone was moving. Someone worth watching. And in a room where truth was a liability, he trusted Evan’s silence far more than most men’s oaths.

Then, with the suddenness of a whisper slipping through a crypt, a faint tug brushed against the edge of his sleeve. So slight it could’ve been missed—except Regulus never missed anything.

“Young Master,” came the voice, dry and rasping like wind through brittle bones. “Master Orion wishes to see you.”

The voice stopped the world.

Regulus stilled mid-motion, and something old and cold curled around his spine, sinking its claws. He turned his head slowly, too slowly, toward the figure at his side.

Kreacher.

His breath caught.

The creature standing beside him looked like a parody of what Regulus remembered. The eyes were the same, pale and watery, but the rest had withered. His skin sagged off a gaunt frame, and where there had once been a prideful straightness to his spine, there was now a stoop that screamed of pain endured too long. One ear was torn, as if someone had yanked him by it too hard, and his hands trembled at his sides, long fingers gnarled and bruised. His tunic was filthy. Threadbare. And even from here, Regulus could see the faint shimmer of old blood dried beneath his jawline.

There was no one else who saw Kreacher anymore. Not as anything other than a tool, a nuisance, or a grotesque little servant to be disciplined and discarded.

But Regulus saw him. He always had.

A sickness swelled in his chest, hot and violent. His fingers clenched the fork so tightly his knuckles ached.

Not for Kreacher, never for Kreacher. He felt no pity for someone who would have spat in the face of pity. What he felt was infinitely more dangerous.

Hatred.

Pure, undiluted hatred.

For the people in this room who saw Kreacher’s bowed head and still asked for more. For the way his father’s name still held enough power to make that frail creature obey. For every bruise layered beneath that filthy tunic. For every command Kreacher had swallowed without protest, and every punishment he had endured with nothing but silence.

For the culture that had taught them that this was normal.

Regulus remembered how the hallway had been lined with the mounted heads of house-elves. They'd enchanted them to bow when you entered, so they could keep serving in death. His cousins had laughed about it, called it clever, quaint, traditional. Even Sirius had spat at the grotesque display.

Regulus had been seven. He hadn’t known how to name the feeling in his gut back then, but he knew it now.

It was revulsion.

There was something insidious about it, vile in a way even Death Eater magic couldn’t rival. To use something completely, utterly, and then display its corpse as decoration. That wasn’t just cruelty. That was consumption. That was devouring something’s soul and then making a trophy of its obedience.

And still, they'd dressed it in honor.

That was the Black legacy, wasn’t it? Wrap a noose in velvet and call it a bloodline.

Regulus had always known, on some wordless level, that house-elves were aware in a way his parents didn’t believe. Maybe not in the way wizards measured intelligence, but something more intimate, more ancient. They remembered. They watched. They understood. Their magic was wild and old and tangled with oaths stronger than any spellbook could replicate. And while his family saw them as disposable, Regulus had watched Kreacher bandage his cuts, hold his secrets. When Regulus fainted beside his bed after too many hours of Legilimency, it had been Kreacher who sat beside him without a word, who had not mocked him or scolded his weakness.

Kreacher was not less.

And yet he had been broken. By them. By this house. Maybe even by Regulus himself without realising.

Regulus’s jaw tightened until it ached.

The silence dragged between them, oppressive and sharp. Kreacher hadn’t raised his eyes once. He didn’t need to. The shame was already etched into his every line. And Regulus wanted to scream, not at Kreacher, but at the world that had carved that shame into him like it belonged there.

He gave a single, subtle nod and rose from the bench without a word, his plate still untouched. No one moved to stop him, but the weight of their gazes followed him with every step.

Across the table, Sirius looked up, his grey eyes meeting Regulus’s, and for the first time since this nightmare had begun, they were not filled with fire. There was no rage there, no searing hate, no jagged remnants of old battles fought in bedrooms and corridors. There was only the look of a man watching a thread of his past unravel in real time. His eyes flicked once to Kreacher, then back to his brother, and he said nothing.

Beside him, James moved to rise, his fork already abandoned, but Remus’s hand found his wrist and held it, steady, firm. A silent warning.

Regulus turned from them all without flinching and straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders back until his posture was perfect—a ghost of the old Pureblood training that had once been beaten into him until it became bone-deep instinct. His face shifted too, drawing inward, sealing off. The cold mask fell into place, smooth as marble, uncrackable. The same one he’d worn since the day he realized that in his world, survival was an art built on silence.

He followed Kreacher down the hall, each step ringing louder than the last in the hollow silence that had settled over the place. The whispers started almost immediately—soft, slicing things, nothing more than breath and venom, but they cut like blades nonetheless. Still, he kept his head high. If he was to be summoned like an obedient beast, dragged out before the court to kneel at the feet of a dying tyrant, then he would at least do so on his own terms.

Kreacher moved ahead in short, stumbling strides, shoulders drawn up tight around his ears, spine curled like he was trying to make himself disappear into the very stones. He looked wrong—so wrong—a creature of fierce loyalty worn down into a trembling outline. The tremors in his hands, the stiffness in his gait, the way he flinched each time a sconce flared too brightly or a door creaked too loudly… it all spoke of centuries of service distilled into one endless punishment.

And it broke something inside Regulus.

This was the creature who had cradled his head during fevers, who had pressed honeywater to his lips when he was too sick to stand. Who had whispered lullabies not found in any book, old words in the language of house-elves, soft and ancient and safe. He had sewn the hem of Regulus’s school robes so tightly they never tore, even when Regulus slid down the marble banisters for the thrill of it. He had cared when no one else in that house had.

And this was his reward.

This brittle, breaking thing, trudging like an old mule toward another order.

The sconces flickered weakly along the stone walls, casting long, warped shadows that danced like spectres behind them, and the wind beyond the stained glass whined low, mournful. The chamber Orion Black had claimed for himself wasn’t part of the main wing, of course. It had been set apart, tucked away in some forgotten corner of the castle like a wound kept hidden beneath ceremonial robes.

Kreacher reached for the handle and opened it with a hand that trembled so badly it took two tries. Then, without a word, he stepped aside. He bowed so deeply that his chin touched his chest. His ears drooped. The curve of his spine made something twist in Regulus’s gut—something primal and awful.

It wasn’t a bow anymore. It was a submission. So deep, so total, it bordered on the obscene.

Regulus clenched his jaw and crossed the threshold alone.

Orion stood near the fireplace, spine stiff, shoulders locked, a half-empty glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers as if it were part of him. He looked like a painting left too long in damp air—faded, cracked, and slowly rotting at the edges.

The moment Regulus entered, his father’s gaze snapped toward him—sharp, sunken, hollowed out by years of bitterness, disappointment, and obsessive control. That look had once frozen him mid-breath. Now it barely registered.

Regulus met it without flinching.

“You took your time,” Orion said coolly, voice like a blade slid across velvet. The words rolled from his tongue as if rehearsed.

Regulus didn’t answer. He didn’t bow, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He crossed the threshold with the slow, unhurried gait of someone who no longer cared to perform obedience, his gaze fixed not on the fire, nor the room, but directly, deliberately, on the man who had fashioned him in his own image, then cast him aside the moment he cracked the mold.

Orion turned to face him fully, a calculated motion.

“You’ve made quite the impression,” he said. “There are whispers, already. Mulciber’s afraid of you. Even the Lestranges are watching.” He said it like a compliment, like a badge of honour he could pin to Regulus’s chest and claim for himself.

Regulus cocked his head, gaze distant and glacial. “Is that supposed to impress me?” he asked, the words slow and surgical, meant to wound.

Orion’s laugh came low and bitter, like something curdled in his throat. “You’ve become so fucking arrogant.”

Regulus smiled—sharp and humourless. “I learned from the best.”

The silence that followed stretched long and taut, thick with years of unspoken accusations. Then, with the exaggerated weight of a man trying to seem calm, Orion placed his glass on the mantel. The clink echoed through the hollow room like a gunshot.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, voice dropping into something more insidious. “You don’t belong down in the dirt with them. You’re a Black. The heir of a sacred family. You weren’t built for cages and theatrics. You’re meant for legacy.”

Regulus’s lip curled, just slightly. “Is that what you call it now? Legacy? I call it rot with a crest stamped on it.”

Orion didn’t flinch. “Call it what you like. The world is changing, and it will not wait for your morality to catch up. You can either carve your place into it, or you can be forgotten like the rest of the bleeding-heart fools who clung to their virtue and died with nothing.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes, a slow, deliberate movement. “What do you want from me, Father?” he asked, the final word soaked in mockery, like venom on his tongue.

“I’m offering you redemption.”

Regulus laughed softly—bitter, incredulous. “I didn’t know I needed saving.”

“You were lost,” Orion said. “But you’ve found your place again. The Dark Lord sees that. He sees potential. You’re valuable. You’re the only one who’s ever had the discipline to carry the Black name properly. And he’s interested.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “Interested in what? My soul? My wand?”

“Your loyalty,” Orion said, stepping forward now, voice low and persuasive. “He knows what you can become. He knows what you already are. You come back to us. Take the Mark, willingly, not out of obligation, but purpose. And everything will fall into place. Your seat at the table. I can make it happen.”

Regulus watched, like a wolf watching a snake try to shed its skin. There was always a price. With Orion Black, there was always a price written in blood and silence.

 “What’s the cost of this generous offer?” Regulus asked. His voice was flat, dull as a rusted blade, but beneath the surface, it trembled with something dangerous.

Orion didn’t blink.

“Sirius.”

The name dropped like lead between them. The floor might as well have cracked.

“…What?”

Orion stepped closer.  

“Your brother is a stain. He has defiled the family name. He betrayed us, spat on his blood. He made his choice, and he chose shame. You want your place? Earn it. Kill him.”

Silence. Long and still, the kind of quiet that comes just before something cracks.

Then Regulus stepped forward, slow, poised, like a man descending into a grave of his own making.

“You think murdering Sirius would prove I’m yours?” he said, voice rising, serrated. “You think that killing the only person in this world who once made me feel like a person makes me loyal?”

“He was never your brother,” Orion snarled. “He was a mistake. He was a traitor. And he made you weak.”

Regulus laughed.

It was not a sound of mirth, but a bark of disbelief, tinged with something almost gleeful, like a man who finally embraced madness.

“No,” Regulus hissed, stepping closer, eyes burning now. “You and Mother made me weak. With your cowardice. Your pathetic obsession with dead names and blood purity. Your desperate scrambling for the power you were never brave enough to seize. You built a house out of bones and lies and expected us to kneel inside it.”

Orion went pale—stark and sickly under the flickering firelight.

“I stayed,” Regulus said, voice a crescendo now, shaking with fury barely held in check. “I fought. I bled. I sold pieces of myself for a name I didn’t fucking choose. And yes, Sirius left. I hated him for it, but at least he had the fucking spine to live.”

The blow came without magic—without warning.

The knife flashed in the dim firelight, a sudden streak of silver, and pain bloomed sharp across Regulus’ cheek, hot and blinding. He stumbled back a step, hand flying to his face, blood pouring between his fingers in thick, angry rivulets.

But he didn’t cry out.

Instead, he stood straighter. Slowly. Deliberately. Like something waking inside him. Something old and starved and sick of chains.

He pulled his hand away slowly, blood smeared down his palm, dripping down the line of his throat like war paint. His lip curled.

And then, with all the theatrical venom of a son who has decided his father is no longer a god, Regulus spat a mouthful of blood at Orion’s feet.

“Sirius has a better aim than you,” he said, voice a rasping growl. “Maybe next time, use your wand, you coward.”

Orion’s face twisted into something monstrous. His lip curled back, his nostrils flared, and in one fluid motion, his wand was in his hand, drawn like a blade.

“You wretched little—”

But Regulus was already moving forward, not away. Toward him.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” Regulus snarled, voice hoarse and shaking with fury. “Too used to hexing from a distance? That's what being a ‘head of the noble House of Black’ means now? Cutting your own son like a butcher and hiding behind blood oaths like a fucking coward?”

Orion’s jaw clenched.

“You want to talk about blood?” Regulus went on, voice rising into something almost hysterical, something wild and cracked and savage. “You want to talk about legacy? All this family ever did was consume itself. You fed on fear like wolves behind a locked room and then screamed betrayal when one of us tried to leave!”

He stepped closer again, heedless of the wand pointed at him.

“I hated this family,” he spat. “Every fucking second I spent under your roof was like drowning. And her—her—that shrieking banshee you married—do you know what the happiest moment of my life was?”

Orion’s grip on his wand tightened.

“It was knowing she was dead.” Regulus was nearly shouting now, trembling with fury, his teeth bared in a blood-slicked snarl. “I hope she died screaming. I hope she begged for help, and no one came. I hope her last breath was as bitter and vile as every word she ever spat into my ear.”

Orion’s face went dead.

His voice came low and poisonous.

 “Cruc—”

“Enough.”

The voice cut cleanly through the room, crisp and cold as ice cracking across a frozen lake. The spell never landed.

Narcissa stood in the doorway, her silhouette haloed in shadow, and her voice held no warmth, only authority sharp enough to bleed.

“He’s important,” she said, eyes flicking once to Orion with the cool disdain of someone addressing a rabid dog. “The Dark Lord has plans for him. And you know it.”

Orion’s chest rose and fell in great, furious heaves, his nostrils flaring with the barely restrained wrath of a creature too proud to back down, yet too broken to win. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, locked onto Regulus with a hatred so old it had calcified into instinct.

For a single breathless moment, Regulus thought the man might strike anyway. That he would abandon Voldemort’s orders, cast aside the leash of obedience, and give in to the pure, ancestral rage that had always simmered beneath his polished mask of control. That he would ignore the weight of consequence, ignore Narcissa’s voice, ignore everything but his ancient need to dominate what he had created and failed to understand.

But then, slowly, the tension in Orion’s arm dissolved and dipped the wand slightly.

“You’ll regret this,” Orion said at last, his voice a guttural thing scraped raw with fury and humiliation. “One day, when everything falls apart, you’ll remember this moment and wish you'd obeyed.”

His words came not as a threat, but as a curse, spat from behind clenched teeth.

Narcissa stepped in then, fully now, placing herself like a drawn line between them.

“You should leave,” she said, each syllable clipped and tight, her voice a silken noose around the moment’s throat.

Regulus said nothing. There was no need. Words were for those who still cared to explain themselves.

He turned without hesitation, blood still seeping in lazy rivulets from the gash across his cheek, fire still pulsing beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He did not look back.

By the time Regulus reached the top of the tower, the wound carved into his cheek was still weeping blood, the thick warmth of it trailing down his jaw and staining his clothes. He made no effort to wipe it away. He was used to bleed for the Black name.

The room was dimly lit, the fire in the grate reduced to a low, sullen glow that cast long, flickering shadows across the walls. The others were scattered about, claiming space: Sirius reclined on a battered sofa, the book on his chest forgotten, spine cracked and pages curling; Remus sat perched on the windowsill, his silhouette blurred by tendrils of smoke curling from the cigarette in his fingers; James paced in a tight, restless circuit, his shoulders drawn taut with worry.

Regulus hadn’t even crossed the threshold fully before all three of them froze, like predators catching the scent of blood on the wind.

“Regulus?” James was the first to speak, his voice quiet, unguarded, the single word suspended in the stillness of the room.

But Regulus didn’t stop, even if his traitorous heart clenched at his voice. He kept moving forward, past the fire, past the others, past the way Sirius suddenly sat up like a rope pulled tight — eyes wide and mouth parting with something dangerously close to concern.

He needed to pretend. Pretend none of them were real. Pretend it was another cut, another bruise, another punishment to be scrubbed clean in silence. Barty had peeled worse from his ribs without flinching.

“What did he do to you?” Sirius asked, the sound stripped of pride and heavy with something ragged and raw.

Regulus’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. Still, he did not break stride.

James stepped into his path, his hand rising in a hesitant, almost instinctual gesture, as though he meant to stop him, but Regulus froze, voice low and honed to a lethal edge.

“Don’t.”

The word landed like a curse. James stopped, his hand still half-raised, stunned by the sheer force of it.

“I just—” he stuttered.

“Reggie,” Sirius cut in, voice quiet, like he was trying to soothe a creature too close to the edge.

Regulus turned sharply, eyes glittering in the firelight, full of a rage too old to name.

“Reggie?” he repeated, the nickname twisting in his mouth like something foul. “Now I’m Reggie to you?”

Sirius froze, like someone had slapped him.

“We just want to—”

“What?” Regulus’s voice cracked open now, no longer sharp but wide and cavernous, a void in its own right. He turned fully to face him, fists clenched at his sides. “What exactly do you want, Sirius? What could you possibly want from me? Hm? A hug? A good cry about how hard it’s all been for you? Maybe a dramatic reunion so you can feel like a hero again?”

Sirius opened his mouth to respond, but said nothing.

Regulus advanced now, fists clenched tight at his sides. His voice trembled.

“Do you want forgiveness? Is that it?” Regulus snarled. “Do you want absolution for the way you ran away and left me with them? You want me to say it’s all fine now, that I understand? That I’m grateful you made it out?”

“I want to know what the fuck is going on!” Sirius snapped, stepping closer, his posture defensive and raw. “You show up covered in blood, acting like we’re the enemy, and won’t say a word about what just happened—what did he do to you?”

Regulus’s laugh was quiet — short and bitter, like a knife drawn quick across stone.

“Does it matter?” he hissed. “Would it ever matter, coming from me? I was always the casualty you could afford to ignore, wasn't I?”

Sirius flinched like the words had weight, and maybe they did.

“I was sixteen! I was a fucking kid trying not to get beaten into becoming something I hated! You don’t get to hold that over me like I had a choice.”

“And what the fuck do you think I was?” Regulus shouted, stepping forward now with a heat that burned through the walls he’d spent years building. “Do you think I got a pass because I stayed? “Do you think I was a grown man with a plan and a spine and all the answers? Do you think I got out by staying? Do you think I had a choice?”

That stopped him.

Sirius’s expression shifted, something uncertain flickering beneath the familiar arrogance, something old and frightened and real.

Regulus’s breath came fast now, shallow and sharp, but his voice didn’t shake. Not anymore.

“You left me in that house,” he said viciously. “With him. With her. With all of their twisted little games and expectations. You walked away, and in doing so, you made me their heir in every way that mattered. You think I wanted that? That I didn’t dream of following you out into the world and never looking back? But someone had to stay. Someone had to take the weight of the name. Someone had to suffer for it. They wanted me to take it! The Mark that was supposed to be yours, Sirius!”

“I didn’t know,” Sirius said, and there was no bite left in it now. Only guilt. “I didn’t know it would be you.”

Regulus didn’t soften.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t want to know.”

He didn’t wait for a response—what answer could possibly matter now, what explanation could dull the weight of what had already happened?

“He said there was a way out of the trials,” Regulus murmured, his voice quiet but taut, as if each word were dragging itself from somewhere deep and bitter and hollow, trembling at the edges. “He said that if I wanted my freedom, if I wanted to prove myself once and for all, all I had to do was kill you.”

Across the room, Sirius paled, the colour draining from his face so swiftly it looked as if something inside him had been unplugged. James stood motionless, lips parted in disbelief. Remus didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, didn’t so much as blink.

“So yes, Sirius,” Regulus went on, voice dropping lower, “I’m such a vile, twisted, pathetic little brother that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill you.”

Sirius flinched as if struck, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides, his expression stricken, fractured.

“He told you to—he actually asked you to—” Sirius began, his voice thin, breaking under the weight of it.

“You think he gifted me this charming little cut out of nostalgia?” Regulus snapped, jabbing a finger toward the gash along his cheek, blood still smeared and drying. “You think he just wanted to talk? He used that stupid Goblin-forged blade he inherited from Grandfather. The one Mother kept locked in the cabinet like it was sacred. I guess it was time to bleed for my name again.”

“You could’ve said yes,” Sirius whispered, almost too softly to hear, but not softly enough. Across the room, Remus turned sharply, his eyes blazing, but said nothing.

Regulus scoffed, the sound dry and hollow.

“I bet you would’ve taken the deal,” he said, bitterly. “You were always good at choosing yourself. But I didn’t. Because no matter how many unspeakable things I’ve done, how many compromises I’ve made just to survive long enough to see another morning, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t kill you.”

He turned then, as if the effort of looking his brother in the eye had become too much, his gaze dropping to the dying fire.

“When you left,” he said, the words slower now, as though each one carried the weight of years, of wounds that never healed clean, “I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I was better off without you, that I didn’t need you, that I didn’t even want to remember you.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“But standing there,” he said finally, “listening to him speak like I was a chess piece to be bartered or broken, I remembered things I shouldn’t have. I remembered you sneaking me sweets under the table when Mother wasn’t looking. I remembered you hiding Father’s cane after one of his moods, slipping it behind the old wardrobe. I remembered you sneaking into my bed when the storms got too loud and telling me those ridiculous stories you made up on the spot just to keep me from crying.”

He turned back to Sirius now, and the expression on his face was no longer cold, no longer angry. It was ruined.

“So, I said no,” Regulus continued, the words nearly breaking in his throat. “And for that, he cut me like I was nothing more than meat. And when I still didn’t kneel, he raised his wand. He would’ve tortured me for hours, probably. If Cissa hadn’t stepped in, he would’ve made sure I remembered what defiance costs.”

James looked like he wanted to throw something. His fists were clenched, shaking with restrained fury. Remus turned half away, one hand over his mouth like he might be sick.

Sirius stood frozen in place, wide-eyed and pale, staring at Regulus.

Regulus gave a breath that sounded almost like a laugh but wasn’t.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he said, softly. “How nothing really changes, no matter how much time passes. Still the same family, still the same rules. Still the same father with the same blade.”

“Regulus…” Sirius whispered, voice breaking around the word. He took a small step forward.

Regulus recoiled at it, his face twisting, his voice sharp and immediate, like a slap.

“Don’t you dare pity me. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to look at me like I’m the ghost of someone you forgot to bury. You gave up that right the second you walked out of that house and never once looked back.”

“I didn’t know they would turn you into this,” Sirius said, eyes wet now, voice trembling.

Regulus went still. He tilted his head.

“Into what, Sirius?” he asked softly. Dangerously. “Into what, exactly?”

Sirius swallowed.

Regulus took one slow, deliberate step forward. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Say it. Say what you see when you look at me. Say it out loud.”

Sirius opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Didn’t say a word.

Regulus smiled again, small and shattered.

“That’s what I thought.”

The door creaked open with a long, dragging groan, and it was Barty who emerged first, the edge of his silhouette sharp as a blade in the flickering firelight, his gaze sweeping the room like a madman.

“Reg—” he breathed, and the name came out like a half-swallowed curse, urgent and furious, before his eyes locked on the blood-slick gash slicing down Regulus’s cheek. “Fucking hell, what did he do to you?”

He crossed the room in three swift strides, his posture wound tight like a spell about to snap, fury etched into every muscle.

Behind him, Evan stepped through the threshold more slowly, more cautiously, as if sensing already that the air was brittle with something dangerous. He didn’t speak immediately; he rarely did when it mattered most, but his gaze roved over Regulus with silent precision, taking in every fracture, every wound, every telltale twitch of pain and restraint. The tremble in Regulus’s fingers didn’t escape him, nor did the subtle way his weight leaned ever so slightly to one side, like something inside had been knocked loose and barely reset.

“Reggie,” Evan said softly at last, and the way the name cracked on his tongue made something twist in the room. Regulus looked at him then, and there was something unguarded in his eyes. A flicker of something raw. Something young. Like the briefest glimpse of a boy who’d long ago stopped believing that kindness could be anything more than a trap.

“Come,” Evan murmured, stepping closer, his voice a balm over open wounds. He reached out and took Regulus’s hand with a gentleness so deliberate it was heartbreaking.

And Regulus didn’t resist. His fingers tightened around Evan’s without thought or ceremony, an instinctive, desperate kind of grasp, the kind that says please, don’t let me shatter. Not here.

“Oh, of course,” came Sirius’s voice, sharp as splinters, soaked in the old poison of wounds that never scabbed clean. “You’ll take their help. But me? I reach out, and you spit in my face. You pretend I’m not even standing here.”

Regulus stopped mid-step.

His spine straightened with a mechanical stillness, and he turned to face his brother with a slowness that was far more terrifying than rage. The silence stretched, heavy, electrified, and then, it snapped.

“They’ve been more of a family to me than you ever were!” Regulus shouted, the words exploding from his chest like a curse torn loose.

“You never wrote,” Sirius said, his voice shaking. “You never wrote me back. Not once. Not even when I begged.”

“I was being watched!” Regulus barked. “Every owl I send could’ve gotten someone killed! And you—you were off playing house with the Potters and pretending none of it was real anymore. I didn’t have that luxury, Sirius. I had a price. And I paid it.”

Sirius’s voice dropped, low and broken. “I thought about you every day.”

Regulus laughed. There was no joy in it. It was hollow, mocking.

“Yeah? Then where the fuck were you?”

Sirius stepped forward like he was going to close the gap. But Evan moved subtly, not threatening, not overt, just enough to remind him that the space belonged to someone else now. That Regulus was already spoken for.

Regulus didn’t move.

“If it weren’t for them, I’d be dead. I’d be rotting at the bottom of the fucking sea with my ribs caved in and saltwater in my lungs. You don’t know shit, Sirius. You have no fucking idea what I’ve had to survive, what I’ve had to endure, just to stay alive long enough to breathe another fucking day—what I had to do to—”

“Regulus.” Evan’s voice cut gently across his fury. A single word and it was enough.

Regulus blinked, jaw locked tight, his body trembling with restraint, and then he gave a single nod, curt and mechanical, and he let Evan guide him away without protest, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. The door closed behind them with a final-sounding click.

But Barty stayed behind.

He didn’t move right away. He stood there, at the centre of the storm Regulus had left in his wake, and when he turned, it was slow, deliberate, the controlled violence of someone who knew exactly how much power he held and wasn’t afraid to wield it.

His eyes found Sirius immediately.

“I’m not going to pretend for your sake,” he said, his voice low, calm, and dangerous in its precision. “I won’t sugarcoat a single fucking syllable for you, Black. Because frankly? I don’t care if you hate me. You’ve never mattered to me.”

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, lips parting with the beginning of a retort, but Barty cut him down with a single step forward and a flicker of something deadly behind his gaze.

“But Regulus?” Barty continued, voice dropping into something cold. “That’s where I draw the fucking line.”

He paused, the silence sharp.

“You don’t know what he’s been through. You don’t know how many nights Evan and I sat up in silence, taking shifts just to make sure he didn’t bleed out in a bathtub or throw himself off the Astronomy Tower. You don’t know how many times he came home with his ribs shattered, his hands trembling because he’d been holding his wand so tight all night, afraid that if he let go, he’d never pick it up again. And do you know why you don’t know?”

Barty tilted his head, lips curling in disgust.

“Because you never cared enough to ask. Because you wrote him off the second it became convenient. Just like the rest of your family. You left him behind and never looked back.”

Sirius’s chest rose and fell in a sharp, angry rhythm, but Barty wasn’t finished, not even close.

“You know what he said to me once? Right after you left him?” Barty murmured then, quieter now, like the words were something sacred he wasn’t sure he wanted to share. “He said, ‘If I die, will he care?’”

The silence in the room turned cavernous.

Across the room, James looked like he’d been struck

Sirius closed his eyes.

“He was a child,” Barty hissed. “And you let him bleed.”

“I thought I was helping,” Sirius whispered. “I thought if I left, I’d—”

“You left him,” Barty snapped. “And he never stopped waiting for you to come back.”

His voice dropped again, colder now.

“I don’t give a shit about your grudge, or your trauma, or how many daddy issues are still clawing at your spine. This isn’t about you. It hasn’t been about you for a long fucking time.”

Across the room, Remus stood stone-still, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

“I’ll say this once, and only once,” Barty finished, stepping close enough that Sirius could see the glimmer of threat in his eyes.

“Unless you’ve got something good and honest to say to Regulus that isn’t soaked in your own self-loathing, keep. Your. Fucking. Distance.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He turned and walked out, slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls rattled.

And then the only sound that remained was the crackling of the dying fire, the low moan of wind clawing at the windowpanes, and the shattered, uneven breathing of the people left behind, each of them holding pieces of a story none of them had ever truly understood.

Evan didn’t speak as he led Regulus down the dim corridor, his hand holding his, as if he feared that if he let go, even for the briefest breath, Regulus might fragment into something unrecognizable and irretrievable right there. His touch was steady, not restraining but anchoring, a quiet reminder that someone was still there, still holding on, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Regulus’s breath came shallow and quick, pulled from lungs that felt too tight, too full of fire and frost all at once. The rage still simmered low in his belly, molten and clinging, but now it had been swallowed partially by a creeping numbness that began at the fingertips and curled slowly inward.

They reached his room, and Evan pushed the door open with his shoulder, the old hinges groaning in protest. Evan said nothing as he ushered him inside, and when the door clicked softly shut behind them, the silence felt dense.

“I’m fine,” Regulus muttered without conviction, eyes fixed somewhere near the floorboards as Evan moved across the room to draw the lamp closer, the little flame inside shuddering in its glass.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Don’t do that.” Evan’s voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it. “Don’t lie to me like I’m one of them.”

Regulus turned his face away sharply, jaw clenching hard enough that his teeth ached. “I don’t need—”

“You’re bleeding,” Evan interrupted, a quiet reminder, not an accusation.

“I said I don’t need—”

But Evan was already moving, already reaching toward the cloth left folded neatly on the nearby table. He had the steady insistence of someone who had cleaned blood from his wounds before, someone who knew where the fractures ran even when they weren’t visible on the surface. He reached for Regulus’ chin and tilted his face toward the flickering light.

The gash along Regulus’s cheek looked worse now, angrier in the golden glow, red and swollen and still weeping in places. It was a deliberate thing, cruel in its precision, as though someone had carved it not merely to hurt but to mark.

“Let me clean it,” Evan said softly, his voice stripped of everything except tired devotion. He was already reaching for the cloth, already preparing the potion, already ready to do what needed doing.

“No.” The word came out harsher than Regulus intended, and his hand lashed out before thought could catch up with instinct, knocking Evan’s away. “Just—leave it. I’m not in the mood to be coddled.”

Evan froze.

The silence that followed was brittle, like a thread pulled too tight, seconds from snapping. His hand, still curled around the rag, went white at the knuckles, and for a breath, it looked like he might argue, might let the frustration and heartbreak spill out in the form of words sharpened by exhaustion.

But he didn’t.

He only inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, and took a single step back.

“You don’t want help,” he said, his voice low, level, painfully steady. “Fine. But don’t lie to yourself and pretend this doesn’t hurt. You’re not made of stone, Regulus.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t need one.

Regulus sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, bones feeling too brittle for his own skin, shoulders collapsing inward as though he were folding himself around some unseen wound. He dropped his elbows to his knees and buried his fingers in his hair, clutching at his scalp like he was trying to hold his thoughts inside before they shattered outward into something uncontainable.

He didn’t look up when he heard the door open.

He didn’t flinch when it clicked shut again behind Evan, gentle and final.

And when the silence came again, true and deep and full of all the things left unsaid, Regulus simply sat there, trying to breathe through the wreckage in his chest, the knot in his throat, and the quiet truth he could never quite outrun: that shutting himself away was easier than being seen.

Even by the ones who loved him.

Chapter Text

The door just slammed behind them with a hollow bang when Sirius started to pace the length of the dorm. James stood still, arms crossed over his chest, watching him with something between disappointment and exhaustion.

“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with him,” Sirius spat, turning sharply.

James didn’t respond right away. He kept his voice level, hands still. “Maybe he didn’t want an audience while trying not to fall apart.”

Sirius stopped mid-step, like he hadn’t expected an answer that didn’t come laced with sarcasm.

James went on, slow and calm. “You’re lashing out at him like he’s the enemy. He’s not, Sirius.”

Sirius scoffed, running a hand through his hair with a frustrated shake.

“He’s still your brother,” James said evenly. “Either you like it, or not.”

“That never meant anything in our house,” Sirius snapped, too fast, too reflexive. “It was just a word.”

James’ jaw flexed. “Maybe. But it means something to him. More than you realise.”

Sirius laughed bitterly. “You’re defending him now? After everything? After you nearly died because of him?”

“I ran into that ambush because I was reckless. Not because of Regulus. I’m just saying now isn’t the time to rip him to shreds because you’re too proud to admit that you still care.”

Sirius’ eyes snapped up, storm-dark and wild. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t stand there and act like you get it,” Sirius said, stepping forward. “You didn’t grow up in that house. You didn’t see what it did to him. To me. You didn’t watch our mother tear us apart for being too soft or our father knock the wind out of us just for breathing wrong. You didn’t have to leave him behind.”

James didn’t flinch. But his voice lost its calm.

“No,” James said, voice flat and quiet now. “But I watched it eat you alive. Every year. Every fucking night you woke up screaming his name and begged me not to tell anyone. I’ve seen you bleed for that house, Sirius, in ways I don’t think even you understand anymore.”

That stopped Sirius cold.

James took a step closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want to spook him. “You think I don’t see it every time you look at him like he’s someone you failed to save? You try to act like you don’t care, but you do, Sirius. And is eating you alive.”

“You don’t understand—,” Sirius said, but it came out hoarse, a lie trembling on the edge of belief.

James didn’t let up.

“You hate him because you hate yourself,” he said simply. “Because you left, and he stayed, and you can’t stand the fact that neither of you made it out whole.”

Sirius’ expression twisted, something close to hurt flickering across his face, and James hated himself for it.

“You think I don’t know that?” Sirius said, quieter now, but no less raw. His hands clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid, his voice breaking around the edges. “You think I don’t lie awake every night wondering if I left him for dead? If maybe, just maybe, I was the one who handed him over to them?”

James didn’t move. He didn’t speak. Because finally—finally—Sirius was saying the things he never let himself say. The things he buried beneath anger and arrogance and sharp, flippant words meant to deflect before anyone ever got too close to the truth.

“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I got out, he’d follow,” Sirius whispered, the edge of his voice cracking. “But he didn’t. He stayed. And I told myself that he chose them.”

“He didn’t,” James said softly.

Sirius looked at him, eyes burning with a guilt so heavy it had nowhere left to go.

“I know that now,” he said. “And that’s the worst fucking part. Because I still left him. I left him in that house. With them. And he paid for both of us. Every punishment, every curse meant for me, he took. And I just kept going like he didn’t exist.”

James’ mouth was tight, jaw flexing. He stepped closer, slowly, like one wrong word might shatter whatever thin thread was holding Sirius together.

“You were a kid,” James said gently. “You did what you thought was right.”

“Yeah, and I left him to drown,” Sirius spat, his voice suddenly venomous again, but this time the poison was self-directed.

James exhaled slowly, the firelight flickering behind him, casting long shadows on the walls. “You can’t keep punishing yourself for that.”

“I have to!” Sirius shouted, loud enough that James flinched. “Because if I don’t…if I forgive myself…then what the fuck was it all for? All those years of silence, all that hatred… What if I was just wrong?”

James’ throat tightened. He stepped closer still, until there was barely a breath of air between them.

“You weren’t wrong to save yourself,” he said, and his voice was low and firm and unbearably kind. “But you are wrong if you think Regulus doesn’t still need his brother.”

Sirius turned away, teeth gritted. “He hates me.”

“He was told to kill you and refused to do it. If that’s hate, it’s the strangest I’ve ever seen.”

Sirius’ laugh was sharp, broken. “You’re bloody poetic, you know that?”

“Sometimes,” James said, allowing a tired smile to crack through. “But I’m also right. You and I both know it.”

There was silence then, a heavy, sprawling silence that stretched like old scars. James watched his best friend’s profile, the way his eyes seemed to dull under the weight of years neither of them had ever spoken aloud.

They had been boys when this started. Boys with dreams and snide jokes and nothing but time ahead of them.

Now all they had were ghosts.

Sirius finally turned to him, and something in his face cracked open. “Do you think I ruined it?”

James blinked, startled by the crack in his voice. “Ruined what?”

“Us,” he said, quietly. “Me and him. Me and… all of it.”

James looked at him, and for once didn’t rush to answer. He just looked. At the lines around Sirius’ mouth, the dark circles under his eyes, the bitter twist in his smile that hadn’t been there when they were sixteen.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I think,” James said, “it’s not too late. Not unless you keep pretending you don’t care. Not unless you keep pushing him away.”

Sirius didn’t respond for a long moment. But then, just barely, he nodded.

“I am trying,” he said. “I just… I don’t know how to be his brother anymore.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe start with just being there.”

Sirius let out a hollow breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “You make it sound so fucking simple.”

“It’s not,” James admitted. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

Still, Sirius didn’t answer. His eyes flicked to the fire again, distant and unreadable, and James didn’t push.

And James felt it then — not just the ache in Sirius, but in himself too. The ache of all the people they couldn’t save. Of the time they couldn’t rewind. Of the children they used to be, thinking the world would wait until they were ready to carry it. He sighed, letting his hand fall from Sirius’ shoulder.

“I’m going to get some air,” he said, stepping back toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Sirius gave the barest nod. No words. No snide remark. Just a silence that somehow sounded like thank you.

The common room was completely empty.

James stepped forward, his boots dragging slightly over the worn rug, and dropped into the nearest armchair with a tired sort of gracelessness. His limbs sprawled out like he’d been hollowed from the inside, but his body wouldn’t stop moving — one leg bounced with anxious energy, tapping out some rhythm only he could hear.

It was ridiculous, really, how easily Regulus’ name burned in his chest.

Not Reggie. Not Black. Not the sharp-tongued brat he used to spar with in the corridors.

No. That name had shifted. It had bent under pressure, reshaped itself somewhere along the way, between blood-stained snow and breaths shared in silence behind enemy lines. Between unspoken pain and moments too delicate to survive the light of day.

James let his eyes drift shut, the breath easing from his lungs as his head lolled back against the worn cushion. There was no point fighting it anymore—the memory always found him eventually. And tonight, like a ghost too old for exorcism, it crept in again.

He remembered everything. Not just the sequence of events, but the feeling of them. The scent of magical residue in the air. The burn of adrenaline in his throat. The silence before the world fell apart when seconds stretched to hours in the space between two held breaths.

No one else knew what happened. Not Sirius, not Remus, not even Lily — and she could read him better than anyone. He’d never told them. Couldn’t. That night had become its own kind of secret. Something sacred. Something broken. Something sealed shut with blood and silence and a thousand things they never had the courage, or the luxury, to name.

It had belonged to just the two of them.

James and Regulus.

Sworn enemies. Reluctant allies.

It had been shortly after the Nottingham massacre — one of the darkest chapters in a war already heavy with blood. The kind of senseless violence that left even the survivors looking like ghosts, half-there and half-hollowed out. The Order had been unravelling at the edges then, barely holding itself together, trust eroding like paper in the rain. It was a time when people started looking twice at shadows — at allies, at friends, at themselves — as if even their own reflections might lie to them.

James had been sent out alone. Dumbledore had called it necessary — a quiet assignment, simple reconnaissance. No confrontation. No theatrics. Just observe, report, and return.

But plans like that were made for worlds that hadn’t gone mad.

James had known it was a trap the second he Apparated. He’d barely made it past the ruins of what used to be an apothecary before curses started tearing apart the air around him. It was instinct that threw him behind a collapsed wall. Not training. Not bravery. Just sheer, unrefined panic. Brick dust filled his lungs, the sharp tang of burning wood clung to his skin, and the world had narrowed to flashes of green and red lighting up the night.

He remembered thinking So this is it, then. This is how it ends. Not in glory. Not in some noble way. Just crumpled behind a wall, alone, bleeding, and forgotten.

And then, out of the chaos, he appeared.

Regulus.

Stepping through the smoke and flame like something conjured from the deepest corners of James’ memory. The black cloak, the hard-set jaw, the impossibly composed expression, all of it so sharply familiar that James’ mind couldn’t make sense of it at first.

For a single, frozen second, their eyes met, and James felt his world tilt sideways.

It wasn’t just recognition. It was a disruption.

Because the boy standing there wasn’t the cold-eyed Slytherin he’d known from Hogwarts’ days. Wasn’t the spoiled, sneering brother of Sirius who'd spent his youth lobbing cruel words like knives in the dark.

No. This Regulus was something else entirely.

There was still that Black arrogance in the angles of his posture, yes, but it had been warped, dulled into something heavier. A kind of haunted resolve that didn’t belong to boys their age. The boy who had once paraded himself like royalty was gone. In his place stood a soldier.

And James… didn’t know how to feel.

He barely registered the Death Eater lifting his wand behind him. Barely had time to reach for his own before Regulus moved. No hesitation. No words. Just a single, practiced flick of his wrist and an Avada Kedavra so quiet, so cold, it felt almost intimate.

The body dropped with a sickening finality, a dull thud that echoed in James’ bones.

The flash of green light had lit Regulus’ face in a way James would never forget. His skin had looked almost translucent, his green eyes glinting, like the last light of a dying star. His expression betrayed nothing, but his hand, steady and merciless, had sealed something in James that night.

And James… James felt everything all at once.

Relief.

Confusion.

Gratitude.

Something that might’ve been awe.

Something that might’ve been fear.

But above all, what lodged itself in James’ chest, and stayed there, was how achingly beautiful he looked.

Not in the soft, silly way James might’ve described someone in passing. No. This was something else. Something brutal and immediate. The kind of beauty that came wrapped in danger, lit from within by pain. Something you knew you couldn’t hold without bleeding.

Regulus had saved his life, and in doing so, cracked something open in James that he hadn’t known was there to be cracked.

“You saved me,” he had said, the words catching on his tongue, ragged and raw with disbelief. He had stared at Regulus like a fool — like a boy witnessing revelation, as if something sacred had split the sky open and reordered everything he thought he knew.

Regulus had turned toward him, face unreadable, voice flat. “Don’t flatter yourself, Potter.”

And yet, he hadn’t left.

That was the part James still thought about late at night, when the fire had burned low and the silence left no room to hide. Regulus hadn’t left. He had stood there in the dim light of the ruined alleyway, wand clenched in long, pale fingers, as if waiting for James to do something, say something, that might change the course of things.

And James had just… stared. At the sharpness of his jaw, the bruised shadows beneath his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell like breathing was an effort now. James had watched the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He had watched him, and not for the first time.

That was the truth of it — a truth James had buried so deep he’d convinced himself it never happened. But it had. It had.

He’d caught himself looking at Regulus since Hogwarts. Not often. Not openly. Never in ways that could be noticed, mocked, or questioned. But there had been moments. Stolen glances across the library. A second too long in the corridor outside Potions. The faint prickle at the back of his neck when Regulus passed by, that subtle shift in gravity when he entered the Great Hall. James had always told himself it was suspicion. Curiosity, maybe.

That sharp, restless ache of wanting to understand something that refused to be understood. Regulus had always felt like a language James didn’t speak but desperately wanted to. He hated the way his eyes betrayed him, always searching for Regulus in a crowd like some cruel reflex. Hated that Regulus’ silence always seemed louder than most people’s shouting. Hated that he cared so fiercely for someone who never once looked back.

He remembered one afternoon in seventh year, just before Christmas break. Regulus had been alone in the courtyard, snow falling soft and silent around him, a book half-forgotten in his lap like he’d meant to read but hadn’t gotten far. Something about the stillness of him, the quiet pull stopped James mid-step. And for one stupid, reckless second, he’d wanted to sit down beside him. To break the silence. To ask what he was reading, or ask him anything at all, really — anything just to hear him speak.

Because around Regulus, James always felt, in some strange way, like he was starving for something he couldn’t name. Like just brushing against his world might be enough to fill the hollowness clawing at his ribs.

Instead, he’d looked away. Laughed at something Sirius said. Pretended he hadn’t felt it. Pushed it down where it couldn’t make a fool of him.

But the war had stripped everything away. Masks, excuses, illusions of choice. And in that alley, with death pressing in and the air, James had spoken the words he never thought he’d say.

“Come with me,” James had said, voice low. A whisper offered like a lifeline. “You don’t have to go back.”

Regulus had laughed. It was a broken sound, sharp and brittle, halfway between a chuckle and a cry. His head shook slowly, a tired motion, like he’d lived a thousand lifetimes already and all ended the same.

“It’s too late for that, James,” he’d murmured, and in that moment, James had known the truth. Whatever line Regulus had crossed, he had done so willingly. Not without regret, but with acceptance.

And then, without another word, without a touch or even a farewell glance, he had disappeared into the shadows from which he came.

The next morning, the news came, and Regulus Black was dead. Just another name on a growing list of war’s casualties.

But James had never quite believed it. Not entirely.

They said he drowned. They said he’d disappeared. They said the Dark Lord had found out something and punished him accordingly.

James had felt the words like knives carving into bone.

He remembered Sirius breaking the news with a tight voice and blank eyes, all brittle and fury and haunted silence.

But James didn’t mourn.

He left.

He told them that he needed answers. That he owed it to Sirius to chase every whisper and shadow, to search the edges of the war for even the smallest proof that Regulus Black wasn’t truly gone. He swore it was loyalty. Brotherhood. That he just wanted his best friend whole again.

But it was a big, shameful lie.

Because James wasn’t running from Sirius’ grief. He was running from his own.

From the unbearable truth that there could have been something between him and Regulus—something fragile and flickering and entirely unspoken. Something that never made it into words because James had never dared to give it shape.

It hadn’t been love, at least not in any way James understood it at the time. It had been quieter than that. Stranger. A reverence he couldn’t explain, a gravity that pulled at him in moments when Regulus wasn't even looking. A softness in the spaces between their silence. Something holy and wrong and impossible all at once.

And that terrified him more than any Death Eater ever had.

Because he hadn’t known what to do with it. With him. With the sick feeling that he’d never gotten the chance to even try.

And now Regulus was back, and it was too much.

Too much to breathe around. Too much to look at without falling apart. Too much to admit that whatever fragile thread had once pulled them toward each other hadn’t snapped after all.

Frayed, yes. Splintered beyond recognition.

But still there. Still holding.

The thing with James was that he had always been a creature born of heat. Volatile and vivid, all wildfire emotion and reckless instinct, never one to hesitate when the world demanded feeling. He lived in the blaze and thrived in the burn. He wore his heart like a banner and wielded it like a weapon, never afraid to burn for what he loved. Never afraid to be scorched by it.

But whatever smouldering embers had once defined him seemed pale now, compared to the inferno Regulus Black had sparked in him.

And it had started again, terrifyingly and irrevocably, with a single glance.

That day in Hogsmeade, after five years of silence and lies and absence, when he caught sight of Regulus standing there, James knew that this was no longer the boy who had once trailed in Sirius’ wake. Perhaps, if he let himself be honest, it never had been. Not really.

The image seared itself into his mind, refusing to let go. Regulus, bloodied and bruised, but unbroken. Standing tall with that same unnerving stillness, eyes like flint — sharp, unreadable, ancient in a way that made James’ breath catch. Even wounded, there was something lethal in the grace of him. Beautiful and terrifying.

There had been a challenge in his gaze. Cold, feral, and laced with something James didn’t yet have the language for.

Stay away, his blood whispered.

Come closer, his bones replied.

And Merlin help him, James had wanted to surrender.

He remembered the forest. The way Regulus had pressed the blade to his throat with maddening precision, his breath skating across James’ skin, warm and deliberate. Proximity so close it bordered on profanity. Yet, neither of them pulled away. And James—fuck, James had felt it then, felt every molecule of himself tilt toward that blade as if drawn to it, to him, like metal to a magnet. Like he wanted to be cut open. A thrill had run through him then, sharp and electric, a wicked shiver that had nothing to do with fear.

He thought of the moment he’d had Regulus pinned beneath him, bodies taut with tension and something far more dangerous. He remembered the press of muscle, the bite of restraint, the exquisite torment of being so close. He wanted to feel that pulse beneath his fingers. Wanted to watch control slip from Regulus’ composure with the same reverence some men reserved for holy things.

But more than anything, James wanted to consume him.

Not gently. Not kindly. This had nothing to do with love songs or soft-spoken words in the dark

No.

He wanted devastation.

He wanted to tear Regulus open, bare every inch of him, crawl beneath his skin, and stay there. To ruin him in the most sacred sense. To hear his name break on Regulus’ tongue. To take up space in the marrow of him until there was nothing left untouched.

To become something Regulus couldn’t cleanse or forget, no matter how hard he tried.

He had never felt like this before, not even with Lily. What they’d shared had been golden, sunlit, soft around the edges. A love built on comfort and kindness, painted in warm, familiar strokes. Gentle. Safe. The kind you could carry into daylight without shame. The kind parents smiled at. The kind that wore white and spoke in promises.

But this? It was something far darker. Obsession didn’t cover it. Lust was too shallow.

There weren’t words sharp enough, wide enough, to hold what burned in him now.

He shouldn’t want it. He knew that. Every part of him screamed against it — and still, he did.

He wanted Regulus to think of him when no one else was around.

To whisper his name like it was the only thing he could remember.

And God help him, James wanted to be hurt by it.

James wanted to be undone by him.

Torn apart and remade, every jagged piece pressed into place by Regulus’ hands.

Wanted to be broken in ways that felt like devotion.

And maybe the most terrifying part of it all was that he knew it wasn’t one-sided. 

At first, he’d thought he was imagining it. That he’d read too much into a glance, a pause, a breath that caught the wrong way. That his own obsession had twisted everything into something it wasn’t. But he saw through the porcelain mask Regulus wore like armour—the practiced coldness, the careful restraint. He noticed the way those lashes fluttered when they locked eyes, the subtle hitch in his breath when James leaned too close, the tension in his jaw, like his body always betrayed him before his mind could lock it down.

Regulus could pretend. Could hide behind disdain, behind bitterness, behind that carefully constructed silence. But James saw the truth.

He saw the tremor. The hesitation. The way Regulus’ mouth parted like he wanted to say something, do something reckless, but couldn’t let himself tip over the edge.

It was real.

God, it was devastatingly real.

And James couldn’t fucking breathe.

Every time Regulus so much as moved, it felt like a knife twisting deeper in James’ gut. Every flick of his gaze, every sigh, every calculated stillness was unbearable. The hunger was ceaseless, chewing at him from the inside, a heat that had nowhere to go.

He wanted to kiss him with violence. Wanted to shove him against the nearest wall and taste the defiance in his mouth, drink down every cruel word until it melted into something softer, something James could claim.

He wanted to fall to his knees and beg. The thought hit him like a punch, wild and raw and terrifying in its honesty.

Beg for a touch. For permission. For mercy.

For him.

Somewhere in the darkest part of himself, James knew that this wasn’t just want. It was ruin. Something unholy and blistering. Something he’d kept locked for so long it had started to hurt. It clawed at his insides every day, hungry and relentless, leaving behind nothing but longing. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself to forget. It didn’t matter that he tried to exorcise it through silence or through duty.

He needed Regulus to touch him, not by accident, not in passing, not as some cruel slip of circumstance, but with intention. With hunger. With the kind of purpose that left no room for doubt. He needed to feel it, needed to be claimed by it, needed Regulus to reach for him like he was something wanted, something necessary. Not like an afterthought. Not like a mistake when their fingers brushed accidentally, only to flinch apart as though the contact burned.

James was so fucking tired of pretending.

Tired of acting like it didn’t devour him, day after day — gnawing through his ribs, setting fire to the softest parts of him. Like he didn’t feel his skin tighten with want every time Regulus walked into a room. Like he didn’t ache with a hunger so sharp it nearly made him sick. He was exhausted from carrying this want like an ever-bleeding wound.

And the truth was unbearable in its simplicity: he dreamed of Regulus’ mouth. He fantasized about it with the kind of vivid, feverish clarity that left him breathless in the early hours of the morning, heart pounding, body aching with unspent desire. He spent entire days haunted by the absence of knowledge—what did he taste like? How did he sound in the dark, when there were no lies left to tell, no masks left to wear? Would he moan his name, whisper it like confession, or like a sin?

He didn’t know, and not knowing was killing him.

And they were running out of time.

Because war didn’t care about longing. It didn’t care about possibilities. It didn’t pause for yearning, didn’t make space for clarity or courage or fucking hope. It could take everything in a single breath, without warning. Without apology. It could steal Regulus from him again, for good this time. And James would be left with nothing but a ghost and a memory and all the things he’d been too much of a coward to say.

He had let him go once.

He wouldn't survive making that mistake again.

So tonight, if Regulus looked at him with even a flicker of the same fire that James had carried for years like a brand scorched into his soul, he would break. Gladly. Willingly. He would fall to his knees and beg for anything Regulus was willing to give him.

He’d plead, if he had to.

He’d strip himself bare — body, heart, everything — and offer up his need like a weapon laid carefully at Regulus’s feet.

Because this wasn’t just an obsession. It wasn’t a crush or a phase or some passing infatuation, no matter how many times James had tried to cage it in reason or bury it beneath silence. No—this was something older, deeper. It was hope masquerading as hunger. It was longing that felt like pain. It was the terrible, beautiful ache of almost—of everything they might have been, everything they still could be, if only Regulus would reach back.

So James made a decision. Or rather, if he were honest, it was less a decision than a surrender. A quiet, inevitable yielding to the ache that had hollowed him out and made its home inside his chest. His body moved before his mind could catch up, driven not by logic, but by something deeper, his heart, perhaps, or the reckless ghost of longing that had haunted him for years.

He moved down the corridor in near silence, the dim glow of torches casting long shadows along the stone walls. He felt strangely alive—as if every nerve had come awake, as if his skin was tuned to some invisible frequency only Regulus could summon.

When he reached his door, he stopped.

It was just a door. Plain, unassuming. Weathered wood framed in iron, no different from a dozen others in this part of the castle.

And yet, to James, it felt monumental.

Like it was holding back a revelation. As though beyond it lay something holy and brutal and terrifying. Something that might finally answer the questions he hadn’t dared to speak aloud.

He stared at it like it might crack open the moment he breathed too loudly.

His hand trembled, only slightly, as he knocked once.

Just once.

The sound was soft, but not hesitant. There was a steadiness to it, a quiet resolve that belied the chaos unfurling inside his chest. He knew that if he let even a flicker of urgency escape into that knock, the fragile thread of this moment might dissolve. Might unravel before it even had a chance to begin.

Then came the silence.

A pause that stretched and pressed at his lungs.

He waited, motionless, caught in that aching stillness—until finally, the faintest sound reached him.

A creak of floorboards.

A shift, almost imperceptible, in the shadows beneath the door.

A murmur of presence that made every nerve in his body tighten.

And then it opened.

Not fully. Not all at once.

Just enough for James to see him.

Regulus.

He stood partially cloaked in shadow, the dim spill of light from the candle behind him giving his skin an ethereal, golden glow. His hair was damp, curling softly against his temples. A single drop of water clung to his jaw, catching the light before slipping down the line of his throat.

He looked unguarded in a way James had never quite seen before.

Those green eyes, clear and cold and impossibly deep, moved slowly over James’ face, lingering just long enough to sting. As though Regulus was trying to decipher why James Potter was standing at his door in the dead of night.

And James forgot everything.

He forgot what he was supposed to say. Forgot the rehearsed lines he’d gone over again and again in his head. Forgot how to breathe without feeling like he might break in half. It all vanished, swept away by the thunderous rush of being this close, of finally standing at the precipice he’d spent years dancing around like a coward.

He was fifteen again, caught in the first cruel tide of longing, all flushed cheeks, clenched fists, and wide, desperate eyes. He was full of too much want and not enough air. The words he had practiced curled up and died on his tongue. Because how could any of them suffice now?

How did you tell someone:

You live under my skin.

You’ve ruined me.

Please, God, let me stay ruined.

How did you say that without sounding mad?

His eyes flickered down at Regulus’ mouth, sharp and unsmiling. The way his hand curled loosely around the edge of the door, long fingers pale in the candlelight.

The small notch at the base of his throat where his pulse ticked visibly. James wanted to press his mouth there, against that pulse, just to feel it. Just to prove to himself that Regulus was real and not a ghost conjured by grief and guilt and need.

The silence stretched between them like a blade, delicate and deadly.

He licked his lips. Swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

“I—” he began, the sound little more than a breath, fragile and half-formed on his tongue. But it broke apart before it could find shape, collapsing in the tightness of his throat as the weight of Regulus’ gaze pinned him in place.

Regulus made no effort to open the door further, nor did he close it. He simply stood there in the narrow sliver of space.

“What do you want?” The words came quietly but sharp, brittle with something unnamed. A wall thrown up before James could cross the threshold.

James lifted his chin, forcing the words past the thundering pulse in his ears. “To see you.”

Regulus let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but there was no humour in it. It was dry, hollow, edged with disbelief.

“You’ve seen me,” he said, the syllables clipped and cool. “Now go.”

James didn’t budge. “No.”

Just one word, but it landed with the weight of a challenge.

Regulus’ eyes narrowed, lashes casting long shadows on his cheekbones. “Is this supposed to be some Gryffindor thing? Stubbornness as a personality trait?”

James met his gaze head-on, voice low and steady. “Actually, this is a me thing.”

A beat of silence followed in which neither of them moved. The corridor was heavy with the hush of the night pressing close around them. Beyond the stone walls, wind murmured like a warning, and the old castle creaked beneath its age.

And then, finally, without word or gesture, Regulus stepped back. James moved past him, slow and sure, brushing close enough to feel the static roll off Regulus’ skin. He felt him inhale, sharp and shallow. The sound made his stomach knot.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, the sound impossibly loud in the charged silence between them.

James turned to face him and saw that Regulus hadn’t moved far. He lingered near the door, arms crossed in that deceptively casual posture that screamed of tension. His spine was too straight. His hands too still. The candlelight caught on the edge of his profile—cheekbone, jawline, lips set just slightly too tight.

“Did you come to scold me, Potter?” he asked, the syllables smooth but defensive, a shield of sarcasm raised with precision.

“Oh, so we’re back to ‘Potter’ now?” he taunted, and Regulus narrowed his eyes. “But no,” James said, stepping closer, one pace and then another, until the air between them thinned. “I came because you’re being reckless. And it’s going to get you killed.”

That struck something because Regulus’ entire body reacted—the set of his jaw, the stiffening of his shoulders, the way his spine straightened as though on instinct, drawing himself up with sharp pride.

“I’m not a child,” he snapped, eyes glittering, chin tilted just enough to be defiant.

“I know,” James said, and the words came quicker than he meant them to. “Believe me, I know.”

And it hung there between them. The double meaning. The ache he hadn’t meant to reveal.

“You came here to end what Sirius started, then?” Regulus tilted his head, lips curling with that bitter, knowing smile James had started to despise. Not because it lacked charm, but because it always meant Regulus was preparing to bleed himself dry under his own blade.

“I’m starting to believe I’ve become everyone’s punching bag. What are you going to do, Potter? Lecture me for being a terrible little brother? Interrogate me about the things I’ve done? I’m sure you already have a mental list of—”

James took another step forward, voice low but unwavering.

“I want to know you.”

Regulus blinked. Froze.

 “The real you,” James went on, taking another step. “Not the mask. Not the boy trying to slit his own throat by proxy.”

Regulus’ eyes snapped to his, furious and sharp, and James could see it, the storm behind his gaze, the tremor beneath all that practiced stillness.

“You think you can fix me, Potter?” he snapped, voice full of venom. “Is that it? You’re going to pour enough goodness into me that I miraculously turn human again?”

James let out a sharp, bitter laugh, short and joyless. It hit the air like shattered glass. “No,” he said simply. “I don’t think you’re broken, Regulus.”

That silenced him, the retort dying on his tongue.

James stepped closer, gaze flicking across his face—first to his eyes, then to the angry cut along his jaw, half-dried and crusted at the edges. His voice dropped, low and rough, like it was scraped up from somewhere too honest. “You didn’t even bother to clean your cut.”

Regulus let out a sharp breath and rolled his eyes, too fast to be careless. “I don’t care,” he said, as if the dismissal could end the conversation entirely.

“I do,” James replied calmly, with a finality that cut deeper than any scolding.

Regulus’ carefully composed mask faltered, just long enough for James to catch the flicker of something raw in his eyes.

“Sit,” James said then, nodding toward the edge of the bed, the word spoken with more tenderness than command. But still, it held no room for argument.

Regulus frowned, his expression tightening in the way it always did when he sensed a challenge. “Excuse me?”

James didn’t bother repeating himself. He let silence do the talking and moved, brushing past him through the narrow slice of space between the bed and the wall. Their shoulders barely touched but it was enough to spark a line of fire down James’ spine. Enough to leave his skin singing from the contact, every nerve pulled taut like a bowstring.

He crossed to the small desk in the corner. There, untouched, sat a set of bandages and a dented tin of salve. James scooped them up with one hand and turned back around, the supplies suddenly feeling heavier than they should.

“I said, sit,” he repeated, this time, the last word holding an unmistakable weight. James wasn’t asking for obedience. He was asking for trust.

Regulus stared at him, lips parted around something unsaid. And then, like slow ink blooming in water, a flush crept up his throat. It painted across his skin with devastating effect—softening the sharpness, melting the ice.

His breath hitched. His shoulders tensed. But he sat.

Not slouched or folded, but regal and controlled, as if it was his decision. As if he was granting James permission to step closer.

The tension shifted again, coiling tighter now, thick as smoke. Every breath James took felt drawn from Regulus’ lungs. There was too little space between them. Too little air. Every breath felt shared, tangled.

James stepped forward and dropped to his knees, settling between Regulus’ legs in a single fluid motion that made the air quake. He adjusted the bandages in his grip, but the fabric felt suddenly too warm, his own breath too loud in his ears. Regulus sat still in front of him, their eyes level now, and James could feel him watching, could feel the tremble of anticipation ripple just beneath the surface of his skin.

He reached up slowly and cupped Regulus’ chin in one hand. His fingers curved with unexpected tenderness around the sharp angle of his jaw, tilting his face toward the flickering lamplight. The glow spilled across Regulus’ features—too beautiful, too breakable in this light—and James’ thumb skimmed softly along the edge of his cheekbone, where the bruising bloomed. Then, with delicate care, James dipped the cloth into the salve and pressed it against the gash.

Regulus flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“Hold still,” James murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His fingers steadied against Regulus’ skin, and Merlin, he could feel the tremor there, faint but undeniable. The shiver that ran just under the surface like a wire too tightly strung. James’ heart echoed it, thrumming like thunder.

“You really don’t care about pain, do you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, thicker. “You’d rather let the wound fester than admit you need help.”

Regulus’ eyes snapped to his, and there was fire there, sharp and defensive. “People don’t offer it without demanding something in return,” he said, each word biting and brittle. “You should know that by now.”

James stilled.

For a beat, he said nothing. Just looked at him. Then slowly, almost reverently, his fingers moved lower, trailing along the curve of Regulus’ jaw, then down the line of his throat. Barely a touch, just the backs of his knuckles skating over skin, but it felt possessive in a way he hadn’t meant it to be. Or maybe he had. Maybe he’d meant every second of it.

“I’m not people,” James said finally, his voice rough, a rasp of breath threaded with too much restraint. “You should know that by now.”

And between them, the air pulsed.

Regulus didn’t speak. His breath hitched. His pupils were blown wide now, eyes locked on James’ mouth.

And James, still kneeling between his knees, felt the moment tremble like a live wire in the dark, waiting to finally ignite.

“Then who are you?” Regulus whispered, and the quiet rasp of it landed in James’ chest like a blow. His knees nearly gave beneath him, not from shock but from the sheer gravity of hearing that voice shaped around something so open, so stripped bare.

James leaned in until the space between them all but vanished, until he could feel the heat of Regulus’ breath mingling with his own, warm and unsteady, brushing like silk over his lips. When he finally did speak, his voice was a slow drawl, deliberate and quiet, like he was offering a secret.

“Who do you want me to be, sparrow?”

The name cracked the air open. Regulus’ lashes fluttered down for the barest moment, his breath hitching, chest rising with a quiet stutter. James saw the way that name slipped past the defences, cracked something open behind his eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” Regulus said, barely managing the shape of the words. His voice cracked at the edges, brittle and thin. “Don’t…”

“Why not?” James asked softly, unwilling to pull away, unwilling to give back the distance that had finally, finally closed.

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “It makes me sound small.”

“No,” James murmured, dragging his thumb slowly along the sharp line of Regulus’ jaw, a caress edged with reverence. “It makes you sound like something wild. Elusive. Like something that was never meant to be caught, but still, Merlin, you can’t help yourself but want to try.”

Regulus’ breath left him in a slow exhale. His lips were parted, his expression somewhere between fury and want, like the two had always lived in the same breath, indistinguishable, impossible to untangle.

“You think this is a game?” Regulus’ voice came low, dangerous.

James didn’t flinch. Didn’t grin like he normally would, didn’t dangle a clever retort between them like bait. This wasn’t a game, and they both knew it.

“No,” he said simply, his gaze burning with something darker. “I think you’ve been waiting for someone who wasn’t playing.”

That landed like a weight between them. James saw the way his throat tightened, the way he swallowed hard, like the words had struck something buried deep and tightly wound—something fragile he didn’t want unearthed, let alone seen. James’ gaze dipped, fixated on the movement of Regulus’ throat, the skin there pale and unguarded. His breath caught with the sudden urge to press his mouth there, to bite, to claim whatever it was Regulus refused to name.

Instead, he leaned in again. Not to kiss—not quite. Just enough to let their lips ghost past each other, barely brushing in a whisper of contact. A warning. A promise.

“So,” James murmured, his eyes flicking down to Regulus’ lips before dragging back up to meet his gaze, “Who do you want me to be?”

Regulus didn’t answer. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His chest rose in uneven bursts, and it looked like it hurt to breathe. Like every breath cost him something he hadn’t meant to give away.

And James felt it. That pull. That terrible, beautiful edge between wanting and restraint.

When Regulus finally spoke, it came out broken and breathless.

“I want you to shut up.”

A slow, feral smile curled across James’ mouth.

“Then make me.”

The room seemed to contract around them, shrinking into this moment. Regulus didn’t close the distance. He just looked at him like he was dissecting James with his eyes, peeling him apart with every passing second, examining each piece with a terrifying kind of precision.

Then, painfully slowly, he raised one hand and touched the edge of James’ collar. Not forcefully. Barely a touch. Just enough to drag his fingers beneath the fabric, to tease the skin beneath, to test him. His nails traced lightly along the collarbone to the hollow of James’ throat, and James felt the world tilt with the contact.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Regulus murmured, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. His voice was soft, but there was something coiled beneath it, something dark and hungry.

James’ breath caught. “Don’t I?” he asked, voice rough around the edges. “You’ve been looking at me like this since that morning.”

Regulus’ lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. A flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. “Looking at you like what, exactly?”

 “Like you wanted to pin me down and tear me apart,” he said, voice thick with heat. “Or put a blade in my ribs. Or both.”

Regulus blinked slowly, like he hadn’t expected the honesty. Like James had tilted the board and upended the rules.

“And what if I did?” Regulus asked, calm, but his voice had dropped an octave, soft as silk. James could feel it coil low in his spine.

The air around them crackled like it had caught fire.

“Then I’d ask you to pick a spot.”

A soft, incredulous sound left Regulus’ mouth, half breath, half laugh.

“You’re reckless,” he whispered, gaze flicking to James’ lips again.

James tilted his head slightly, his smile all teeth. “You like that.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, but his voice betrayed him—thin, tremulous, cracking in places it had no business cracking. “I like control.”

“Oh, I know.” James’ voice dropped, thick with knowing. “You like to be the one holding the blade. The one who watches people squirm under it.”

And just like that, Regulus’ hand fisted in the back of James’ hair, sudden and merciless, and yanked his head back with a smooth, practiced motion that made James gasp. The sound was sharp, involuntary, his throat bared like an offering, neck stretched and vulnerable beneath the flickering lamplight.

Regulus leaned in close, his breath brushing against the skin he’d exposed. His voice came low and deadly, velvet draped over steel.

“I could slice your throat open right now,” Regulus said, voice low. “Leave you bleeding on the floor.”

James’ breath hitched, but it wasn’t fear that flared in his eyes. It was hunger. His pupils blown wide, his chest rising with uneven anticipation.

 “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” James rasped, a crooked, breathless smile flickering across his lips. He didn’t look afraid. He looked lit from within, devoured by it.

Regulus’ breath stuttered. Just slightly. Enough to give him away.

“You’re either the stupidest Gryffindor I’ve ever met,” he whispered, “or the most dangerous one.”

James smirked, unrelenting. “Can’t I be both?”

Regulus didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. But his jaw clenched, his fist in James’ hair tightened—slowly, deliberately, like he was resisting the urge to either shove him away or drag him closer.

James saw it—felt it—in the smallest betrayals of Regulus’ expression: the faint twitch in his jaw, the white-knuckled clench of his fist at his side, the almost imperceptible flick of his gaze down to his mouth before snapping back to meet his eyes, like he resented himself for the glance but couldn’t help repeating it. He stared at James like he was some volatile force of nature, wild, incomprehensible, and far too dangerous to stand this close to, and yet he made no move to step back.

 “You think I won’t break you in half?” Regulus murmured, his voice low, hoarse with restraint. It shook slightly, not from weakness, but from the sheer force of how much he didn’t want to want this, how much desire warred against denial.

James’ lips parted; his eyes dark with lust. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want,” he whispered, every syllable pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, slow and aching, like confession.

Regulus’ fingers gave a vicious tug, wrenching James’ head back, and a broken sound spilled from his lips, unbidden and wrecked, half-moan, half-prayer.

And Regulus froze.

His eyes locked on James’ mouth, and James could feel it: the moment all the tension between them snapped, not in retreat, but in surrender.

“You don’t get it,” Regulus whispered, so close now his words brushed James’ lips. “You don’t get it. I don’t know how to want someone without destroying them.”

James’ voice was a rasp, torn from his throat. “Maybe I don’t want to be wanted any other way.”

That was it. That shattered what little composure Regulus had left.

He surged forward like something starved and unrepentant, like a man who had held back too long and had finally stopped caring about the consequences. His mouth crashed against James’ with the fury of a dam breaking, no grace, no warning, just ruinous need given form.

There was nothing gentle about it.

Their teeth clashed, mouths dragged open with bruising urgency, hands groped and tangled and clawed. Regulus kissed like it was the only language he had left, like every moment of restraint he’d ever practiced had turned to dust the second James said that. And James kissed back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be torn apart by it, like being ruined by Regulus Black had always been inevitable, and he welcomed the end.

James gripped the hem of Regulus’ shirt, fists twisting in the fabric as he yanked him closer, as if the space between them had become unbearable, as if he might fall apart if they weren’t pressed flush against each other. Regulus didn’t resist, and he pulled, dragging James down, until he landed on the mattress with a thud.

James followed without hesitation, straddling his hips, knees bracketing him, hands caging him in like Regulus was something he couldn’t risk losing to the dark. Their mouths found each other again, fiercer now, but beneath the fury, there was something else—softer, aching. The edges began to fray. The tempo shifted.

There was want, yes. Fire. Hunger. But beneath that was longing. The kind that sits behind ribs and doesn’t speak unless forced. The kind that ached in the stillness between kisses. The kind that said I see you, when nothing else ever had.

James moaned into Regulus’ mouth, the sound ragged and raw, shameless in its desperation. God, he hadn’t known it could feel like this—like lightning threaded through his veins, like being opened from the inside out with every brush of lips and tongue and teeth.

Regulus tasted like something dangerous, something forbidden and dark and barely sweet—like secrets whispered under moonlight. James couldn’t get enough. He wanted all of him. The fury. The fear. The fight. The softness that was so deeply buried, it didn’t even have a name yet.

He pressed closer, grinding down, aligning their bodies until the heat between them felt like it could burn through skin. Every brush of contact sparked something deeper, something that refused to be quiet.

Regulus gasped into his mouth, sharp and startled, as if he hadn’t meant to give that away.

James kissed him like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Like he needed to learn the exact shape of Regulus’ mouth. The way he trembled when James bit down just a little too hard. The flicker of resistance in his jaw that softened the longer their mouths stayed fused.

He kissed him until Regulus stopped pretending that he didn’t want this.

With a growl of frustration, Regulus clawed at James’ shirt, yanking it free from his waistband with shaking fingers. His nails scraped over bare skin, and James hissed, the sound punched from his lungs, half-pain, half-pleasure, all need.

Regulus’ hands found his face next, cupping it violently, thumbs digging into James’ cheekbones like he had to keep him there. Like he needed proof this wasn’t another dream. Another cruel, private fantasy.

James gasped again, broken and open, pressing his forehead to Regulus’, their mouths still brushing in shallow, stuttering kisses.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he breathed, like it was the only truth he had left to give.

Regulus huffed a breathless laugh and threaded his fingers into James’ hair like he had every right to be there. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing either of them could do. The sound of him reverberated through James’ bones, igniting something fierce in his chest.

“Should I be sorry?” Regulus murmured. His voice was rough. Thick. Cracked wide open.

James pulled back just far enough to look at him, and what he saw nearly undid him: pupils blown wide, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. That glint of sharpness still burned in his eyes, but underneath it was something raw.

James crushed their mouths together again, slower now, drawing it out, indulgent and greedy with the press of lips and tongue and teeth. He dragged Regulus’ bottom lip between his own, sucking softly, then biting down just enough to taste the gasp it earned.  Their mouths moved like they’d done this a thousand times in another life, and this one had just been the long, aching road back.

James indulged in the feeling and let his mouth wander. Down the sharp angle of Regulus’ jaw, tracing the cut of his throat with the reverence of a man memorizing scripture. He pressed a kiss to the hollow there, then another lower down, mapping the ridges of collarbone, the delicate, perfect architecture of him. Regulus sighed beneath him, and James took every sound like a prize he hadn’t known he was desperate for.

He kissed him until Regulus’ hips arched up without warning, grinding against him in a way that turned James’ breath ragged. He groaned, barely holding the sound back, forehead pressing to Regulus’ chest like the world was spinning too fast beneath him.

“Fuck” Regulus hissed, his head pressed against the mattress, the column of his neck fully exposed as if begging to be tasted.

The heat between them had gone from sharp to scalding, unbearable in its urgency, the air thick and trembling around them. The room beyond faded entirely, and all that remained was this: Regulus beneath him, gasping. The shallow breaths they shared, the friction that made James feel like he was standing on the edge of something vast and irreversible.

He leaned down again, mouth brushing against the rapid pulse fluttering beneath Regulus’ skin. He whispered into the warmth of it, voice hoarse and trembling, “If we don’t stop now… I won’t be able to ever let you go.”

Regulus shivered beneath him, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t push him away. His hands moved instead, slipping down between them as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. The leather slid through the loops; his fingers were clumsy. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, his composure splintering with every second that passed.

James couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Then—fuck—Regulus’ knuckles brushed his bare stomach, and his body lit up like a struck match. He swore, low and filthy and uncontrollable, a sound punched from his lungs like sin itself. A flush rose hot and fast up his neck, his skin prickling, nerves set alight.

Regulus gasped right into his mouth as James rocked his hips against him, a desperate grind of want and hunger, and his head fell back against the mattress with a soft, choked cry that echoed far too loudly in the still air. It was the kind of sound that burned its way into the marrow of James’ bones.

“James—”

His name. Not a question, not a protest—just his name, spoken like it meant something unbearable.

“Say it again.” James panted against the curve of Regulus’ throat, his breath hot and uneven. “Please—"

Regulus’ lips brushed his ear, close enough to make James shudder. And he said it again, and again, and again. Whispered it like a curse and a prayer all at once, like it was the only thing tethering him to the world and he was scared to let go.

James felt the heat. The tension. The inevitability of everything.

He was crashing, burning, spiralling into something he didn’t have the words for. Regulus writhed beneath him; the fine bones of his wrists caught in James’ hands as he pinned them to the mattress above his head. They were delicate and pale, veins visible beneath translucent skin, and James couldn’t stop touching him.

Couldn’t stop feeling him.

He traced his thumbs over them, over the softness there, and it felt like worship.

Gods, he was already addicted.

To the shape of him. To every soft sound dragged from that perfect mouth. The way his lips parted around James’ name like it always belonged there. And this, this was nothing like it had been with Lily.

With Lily, it had been sweet. She’d kissed him like she meant it, and he’d kissed her back like he was learning how to be gentle. But there had been no ache beneath it. No drowning sense of if I don’t have you, I’ll come apart. She never set him on fire like this. She never left him gasping. Her touch had never felt like a brand.

But Regulus…he ignited him. Everything felt sharper. More desperate. More dangerous. He was starting to think he might go mad if Regulus ever pulled away. If he ever looked at him like this wasn’t real. He’d never felt this doomed and alive at the same time.

James moaned into his mouth again as Regulus rolled his hips beneath him, slow and sinuous and deadly. He sank his teeth into the slope of his collarbone, biting down just enough to bruise, and Regulus gasped, arching into him like he wanted to be devoured. Like he wanted to disappear inside the wreckage of it.

James gripped his wrists tighter, holding him down, and pressed their bodies flush together, lips dragging across his skin like he could taste the very soul of him.

He wanted to fall headfirst into the chaos of Regulus Black. Let it wreck him. Let it become everything.

“I couldn’t sleep,” James rasped, his voice barely more than a tremor between them, broken at the edges with honesty he hadn’t meant to spill. “Kept thinking about this. About you. Every fucking night, like some kind of madness I couldn't shake.”

Regulus twisted beneath him, not to escape but to reach, wriggling a hand free of James’ grip only to bury it in his hair again, pulling him up with a sound that was all need, breathless and wild. Their mouths collided, desperate and open, like it hurt to be apart for even a second longer. James tasted him with all the restraint of a man starved, each kiss deeper than the last, a clumsy prayer formed on tongues and teeth and gasping breaths.

Their bodies moved together in frantic rhythm, hips grinding, nerves frayed. There was nothing graceful in the way they clutched and collided. Just pure, frantic need. The kind that left bruises. The kind that ached days later. Regulus arched until his head tipped back into the mattress with a soft, broken whimper that punched the air from James’ lungs. And gods, James drank that sound, swallowed it whole like it was the only thing keeping him grounded as everything else dissolved into static.

His hands moved to his body, palms rough with old calluses trailing reverently across the soft skin of his stomach, then up, higher, tracing the outline of his ribs like a cartographer committing sacred terrain to memory. Regulus gasped, twitching beneath the touch, every line of him drawn tight with anticipation.

“Jamie,” he whispered again, voice trembling, breath catching on the syllables. “Please—”

James almost shattered right there. That voice. That nickname. Spoken like it meant everything. Like it was everything. It cracked him open from the inside, molten and soft, and for a single breathless heartbeat, he thought he might never be whole again if he never heard it again.

He pressed his forehead to Regulus’, the moment stretching long and golden and trembling between them, their noses brushing, breath tangling like threads knotted tight. His lips traced across Regulus’ cheek, along his jaw, over the soft edge of his mouth.

“Tell me what you want,” James murmured, his voice a threadbare whisper. “Anything. Just tell me and I’ll give it to you. Whatever it is.”

Regulus dragged James down and kissed him again—slow this time. Slower than anything they’d done. But no less consuming. No less feral. It was the kind of kiss that said I’ve waited forever for this, and I didn’t even know it.

“Everything,” Regulus whispered against his lips, and James shattered, drowning in it.

In the softness of Regulus’ lips. In the warm exhale of breath against his cheek. In the subtle tremble in the fingertips that clutched at his shoulders like they didn’t know how to let go.

James kissed him like an answer to a question neither of them had dared to ask.

Like he was trying to memorize every sigh, every quake, every impossibly soft place he hadn’t known Regulus could have.

His hands roamed again, slower now, reverent. They traced the line of Regulus’ waist, the dip of his spine, the soft hollow beneath his ribs. When his thumb brushed just beneath the curve there, Regulus sucked in a breath and arched against him, hips canting upward like he was helpless to the sensation.

“You’re shaking,” James whispered, his lips brushing the delicate shell of his ear. “Is that for me?”

Regulus made a sound, half-laugh, half-moan, turned his face into the curve of James’ neck, breath hot and ragged against his throat. He bit down lightly, a fleeting, stinging pressure that made James groan and grind down, lost in the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces long misplaced.

“I hate you,” Regulus breathed, but it came out wrecked, uneven, stripped of any conviction.

James laughed, breathless and disbelieving. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Regulus didn’t bother arguing.

Their legs tangled beneath the covers, an unspoken claim written in the curl of toes, the brush of knees, the subtle grind of hips as they sought friction, warmth, contact. Their hearts beat in tandem now, fast and frantic, the rhythm of surrender pulsing between them.

They kissed again, slow and aching and deep. The kind of kiss that tilts the world sideways and makes it impossible to walk straight afterward. The kind that brands itself into memory and lives in the hollows of your chest for years to come.

And James let himself tumble into the fire, into the feel of Regulus’ mouth and the smell of his skin and the echo of his name spoken like salvation.

Because for the first time in his life, James didn’t want to be saved.

He just wanted him.

They stood tangled in the bed, limbs draped over each other with the kind of ease that only came from repetition—like this had happened before and would happen again, like their bodies had already memorized the shape of comfort they made together. The room was still, wrapped in the quiet intimacy that always came in the moments after, when the world seemed to pause and take a breath around them.

James’ hand moved slowly, almost reverently, over the smooth expanse of Regulus’ back. His fingertips traced idle, unhurried patterns against warm skin, following the elegant lines of his spine, brushing gently over the slope of his shoulder blade and over the small scars littered across his skin like constellations, merging with the freckles. Beneath his palm, he could feel the quiet, steady rhythm of Regulus’ pulse. The rise and fall of his chest against James’ own was slow and even, like the tension had finally slipped from his bones and left behind something softer. Something real.

Neither of them spoke at first. The silence between them was not awkward or hesitant, but full and thick with unspoken words, shared breath, and a strange kind of peace that wrapped around James like a blanket.

James’ nose brushed lightly through Regulus’ tousled hair as he exhaled a slow breath, feeling the ache in his chest bloom a little fuller, a little brighter. And yet, despite the warmth of it, despite the way everything in him begged to stay here, he shifted slightly, already regretting the movement even before it was complete.

“I should get back,” he murmured, voice low and rough-edged, like it had been scraped raw by the moment. “Before they wake up and notice that I am missing.”

Regulus stirred, eyelids fluttering open like petals unfurling slowly in the dawn light. His green eyes met James’, heavy with sleep and something softer, more vulnerable than James had ever seen in him before. There was no mask, no cold calculation, no poised deflection. Just him. Just Regulus, stripped bare of pretence and looking up at him like he wasn’t sure how to let him go.

He murmured something under his breath, the words quiet and almost swallowed.

James’ lips curled into a gentle smile, and he leaned down to press a kiss into the messy, dark curls at Regulus’ temple. The scent of him settled in James’ lungs. “What was that?” he asked softly.

Regulus tilted his head just enough to smirk up at him, lazy and beautiful and painfully human. “I said,” he drawled, voice hoarse with sleep, “if you leave without kissing me goodbye, I will curse you so hard your future children will limp.”

James snorted, despite himself. “Such a hopeless romantic,” he whispered, but his voice trembled with something bigger than laughter.

“You better not leave me waiting too long next time.”

The ache in James’ chest twisted tighter, but it was a good ache, the kind that made him want to smile and cry all at once. He didn’t realize how much it meant until that moment. That quiet admission, the hope tucked carefully between the words.

“Deal,” James said and sealed it with another kiss. Slow, careful, devastating.

They drifted back into silence, their bodies still folded together. James shifted just enough to tuck Regulus against his chest again, cradling him close, and let his fingers resume their slow, comforting journey along his spine.

And then, after a moment, Regulus broke the stillness again.

“No word to anybody.”

James chuckled, warm and quiet, and lifted his hand to brush a thumb along Regulus’ cheekbone. His skin was impossibly soft beneath his touch, and the way Regulus leaned into it made something inside him splinter. “My lips are sealed, love,” he whispered, voice threaded with something tender and infinite.

Regulus made a noncommittal hum, like he didn’t believe him, but didn’t really care either. He tilted his face up, into James’ palm, like a cat seeking warmth, and James’ heart damn near cracked open.

Regulus Black was beautiful. Not in the loud, ostentatious way people used to say Sirius was. No, this was something quieter, something more devastating. It was in the curl of his lashes against his cheek, the faint freckles scattered like stardust across the bridge of his nose, the pink of his mouth still swollen from kisses. It was the softness he tried to hide, the cautious way he let James hold him, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to be held like this.

James felt it in his bones that this was something precious. That he had been granted access to a part of Regulus no one else had ever seen, a part too tender for the world to touch. It made his chest swell with something wild and fragile and terribly, beautifully human.

He’d seen Regulus cold, furious, cutting. He’d seen the shield, the sharp wit, the ironclad control.

But this was new.

This was Regulus undone.

This was Regulus trusting him.

And James didn’t take that lightly.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss on Regulus’ forehead, slow and careful, as though the gesture alone might say everything he didn’t yet know how to voice. Then he cradled Regulus tighter, hand slipping into his hair again, stroking slowly through the strands. Regulus’ breathing evened out eventually, but he didn’t go back to sleep. He just lay there, still and pliant, curled into James like he’d been poured into the empty spaces of him.

And James? For the first time in a long, long time… he didn’t feel the need to run.

Maybe this wasn’t forever. Maybe they would burn too brightly and too fast, like stars do when their time has come.

But for now, with Regulus’ breath warm against his collarbone, it felt like enough.

And that was all James Potter had ever really wanted.

Chapter Text

Everyone was already gathered in the common room by the time Regulus stepped through the portrait frame, its heavy canvas swaying shut behind him with a muted thud that sounded too much like finality.

He paused just beyond the threshold, fingers still curled tightly around the edge of the stone arch, as he looked around him.

Everyone was here. Everyone but—

His breath caught in his throat.

James was missing.

His eyes swept the room again, slower this time. Dorcas and Marlene were gone too, but it was James his mind fixated on, his heart searching for in every empty seat, every breathless pause. He half-expected him to emerge from some darkened corner with that infuriating cocky smile, all messy hair and reckless warmth. But the silence stretched, and the ache in his chest sharpened.

There was no sign of him.

Just the others, slumped in exhaustion, red-rimmed eyes and bruised silence. The kind of silence that pressed down on the skin and crept into the bones.

A slow, yawning hollowness opened in his chest.

“What now?” Sirius’ voice cracked through the air like a whip, startling him back into the room. He was pacing near the fire, arms crossed over his chest like a barricade, jaw clenched tight. “Are we just going to sit here all day waiting for the world to end?”

Barty, who was perched on the windowsill, gave a careless shrug. A cigarette was dangling precariously between his lips, ash threatening to fall at any second. He didn’t look up as he ran his hunting knife along a whetstone in slow, deliberate strokes. The metallic rasp of blade against stone had been going for so long it had become part of the room’s oppressive atmosphere. Regulus knew he’d been doing this for a while. It was his own way of coping with stress.

“If you’re so bored, feel free to go wandering the corridors, Black,” Barty said without looking up, his tone drenched in disdainful amusement. “I’m sure a few Death Eaters would just love the chance to reacquaint themselves with you. A proper little reunion, don’t you think?”

Sirius glared at him but didn’t rise to the bait. His knuckles were white where they pressed into his biceps.

“He’s been at it for hours,” Mary murmured, leaning subtly toward Lily as if speaking too loudly might provoke something.

Lily didn’t reply. Her gaze was fixed somewhere far away, lips drawn thin, her hands twisted in the hem of her jumper.

“Brilliant observation, Macdonald. Truly, Gryffindor’s finest. Shall I award you ten points for your unparalleled vigilance?” Barty muttered, voice soaked in sarcasm as he raised the blade and turned it in the morning light. He scrunched his nose and returned to his job.

Regulus’ gaze drifted toward the quietest corner of the room, where Remus sat half-slumped in a tattered armchair. His head was bowed, hands folded loosely in his lap, his eyes shadowed and unfocused as though his mind was miles away.

“Remus,” Regulus said quietly.

The boy stirred, blinking slowly before lifting his head to meet Regulus’ gaze.

“Can I have a word?” Regulus asked.

There was a pause. Regulus felt the eyes of the room shift toward them—Sirius’ most of all, dark and wary and uncertain. For a moment, his brother’s face twisted, caught between confusion and a need to interject.

But Remus nodded before Sirius could speak.

“Yeah. Sure.” His voice was low, steady, though there was weariness in it too, like every word took effort.

Without another word, he rose from the chair and Regulus followed him toward the narrow corridor that led to the eastern wing of the tower—their wing. The others watched them go in silence, no one asking where they were headed or why.

“How’s your cut?” Remus asked, his voice low and casual, though not without a trace of concern. His steps echoed softly against the worn stone of the staircase as they made their way up the tower, the chill of the morning still clinging to the walls. He glanced back over his shoulder at Regulus, eyes narrowing slightly at the faint sheen of sweat glistening at his temple and the stiffness in his movements that he tried, but failed, to mask.

“Careful,” he added a moment later, lifting a hand to gesture toward a warped wooden plank about halfway up the next flight. “That step’s been loose since sixth year. Nearly sent me to the hospital wing twice.”

Regulus gave a barely-there nod and adjusted his stride, stepping over the faulty board with a practiced ease. “Thanks,” he murmured. “The cut’s fine. It stopped bleeding.”

Remus slowed slightly, letting his fingers graze the cold iron railing beside him.

“It’ll scar,” he said matter-of-factly, his tone quieter now, more thoughtful than warning. “You can clean it, seal it, charm it all you want. Still leaves a mark. Magic doesn’t tend to let you walk away clean.”

Regulus gave the barest of shrugs, like he’d long accepted that.

“Fine by me. Just another souvenir.” His voice was dry, more brittle than he meant it to be, but Remus didn’t press.

They reached the door at the top of the landing. Remus reached for the handle, then froze as it burst open from the other side with a suddenness that made both boys jolt. He stepped back out of instinct, nearly colliding with Regulus behind him.

James stood in the doorway, hair a storm-tossed mess, shirt twisted and barely buttoned, clinging to one shoulder as if thrown on mid-sprint. His eyes were wide, unfocused, almost a little too alert for someone who had just woken up.

“Moony!” he blurted, blinking rapidly like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually be there. “Shit—Why the hell didn’t you wake me?”

Remus blinked back, eyebrows lifting slowly. “You came back late,” he said, more measured. “You were tossing and turning all night. I figured you needed the extra sleep.”

He paused then, gaze narrowing. “James? You alright?”

It wasn’t just concern now—it was something quieter, sharper. A suspicion. Because something was off. It was in the way James’ breath caught halfway through the reply. The way his face flushed and his eyes slightly widened.

He turned, slowly, following James’ gaze until his own landed squarely on Regulus, who stood just behind him. Regulus, whose face now bore that exact same expression, as though something had cracked open inside him and he was doing everything in his power to keep it from showing. His spine had straightened subtly, posture too controlled, his features carefully neutral, but not nearly fast enough.

Remus looked back to James. Then again, this time slower, more deliberate, at Regulus, who had gone utterly still, like a statue caught mid-breath. It was all too poised. Too careful. Too intentional. The air between the three of them seemed to stretch tight, drawn like a string that could snap with the wrong word.

“Did you two have a fight?” Remus asked, his voice soft but pointed, laced with that kind of perceptiveness that came from knowing someone too well for their own comfort. He watched James closely, and the moment the question left his mouth, he saw it. An almost imperceptible flinch, a sudden flicker in James’ eyes like a shutter snapping against the light.

“What? No. No! Why would—? No.” He laughed, short and brittle, and rubbed the back of his neck like it might reset the moment. “We didn’t... I mean. No. I was just—uh—surprised to see Regulus. Here. In, um, this part of the tower. Obviously.”

His voice cracked near the end of the sentence, and Regulus, still silent behind Remus, exhaled sharply through his nose—just shy of an eye roll. His jaw worked, clenched briefly, then relaxed again. It was the kind of microexpression that screamed You absolute idiot without saying a word.

“Obviously,” Remus echoed, dry as salt.

James, clearly desperate to redirect the attention away from himself, added in a rush, “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Reggie wants to discuss something with me,” Remus replied. He was watching both of them now with the full weight of his attention.

“Oh. Right. Okay.” James blinked a few times, scratching the back of his neck in a nervous tic that always betrayed him. “Well. Then I’ll just—uh—leave you to… discuss.”

But before he could step aside, Regulus spoke.

“You can stay,” he said quietly, his voice low but composed, the kind of tone that suggested he had decided something internally and now there was no going back.

James turned back toward him slowly, unsure, like he hadn’t expected to hear his voice. Their eyes met, and this time, neither of them looked away. Something passed between them. Thick and impossible and unbearably quiet.

Remus’ frown deepened. His eyes moved from one boy to the other, seeing everything they were trying so poorly to hide.

“Prongs,” he said gently, almost a whisper. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

James blinked. Once. Twice.

Then that grin, too wide, too bright, spread across his face like a patch over a crack. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course. Totally fine.”

He stepped aside from the threshold, gesturing for them to come in. “Come on in. Don’t mind me.”

Regulus stepped into the boys’ dormitory and, for a moment, simply stood there, looking around him. The room had seen better days; the edges of the posters curled with age, some half-torn and hanging by a stubborn scrap of Spellotape, depicting Quidditch players mid-dive and Muggle band members frozen mid-scream. Dust clung to the corners and scuffed floorboards, but despite the slow decay of time and war, the space still pulsed faintly with the energy of the boys who had made it their own. It was chaotic, cluttered, and unmistakably lived in.

His eyes tracked across the room until they landed, inevitably, on James’ bed. And even if he hadn’t known whose it was, he’d have guessed in an instant. That entire section of the room was practically vibrating with his presence. It was chaos, but a curated kind—built from obsession and joy and an utter lack of self-consciousness. Cannons' jerseys draped haphazardly across the headboard like war banners. Posters enchanted to shout updates from the League if you got too close. Old stacks of Which Broomstick? magazines teetered on the edge of the nightstand like a monument to every whim and fantasy James had ever entertained about being a professional Chaser. A half-wrecked broom leaned against the wall next to it, clearly beloved and battered from years of use.

Regulus’ throat tightened unexpectedly, the ache sudden and sharp. A breath caught in his lungs like something broken.

He’d never had anything like this. Not even close.

His own room back at Grimmauld Place had been pristine. Untouched. A museum, not a bedroom. There were no posters. No badges. No clippings or scrawled notes or discarded jumpers. Only stern portraits of dead ancestors, their eyes following him with grim judgment, and heirlooms that hummed with cursed magic, the kind that whispered when the lights went out. Everything had a place and nothing was allowed to shift. The walls had always belonged to the house—to the family. Personalization had been forbidden, and rebellion was not tolerated.

He remembered watching Sirius try anyway. Watching him dare.

One summer, Sirius had enchanted a set of Muggle punk-rock band posters to hover above his bed, their slogans flickering in neon defiance. Some of them even screamed back when Kreacher tried to tear them down. They were loud, garish things. Sirius loved them. Regulus had loved them too, in secret.

He remembered the way their mother reacted when she found them. The screaming, so sharp it still rang in his ears when he closed his eyes. The crack of glass. The slam of doors. He remembered Sirius’ chin raised in open defiance, even when her fury descended like a storm cloud. And he remembered himself, barely twelve, begging her to stop. Pleading with her, trying to shift some of the blame onto his own narrow shoulders if it meant that the punishment might be softened.

It hadn’t been.

The posters were gone the next morning. Torn and burned and vanished like they’d never existed. Sirius hadn’t walked out of his room for three days after that.

“Reggie?”

Remus’ voice broke through the haze of memory like a whip.

He blinked hard and turned slightly, as though shaking something heavy off his shoulders. “Sorry,” he murmured, his tone distant. “Just… lost in thought.”

Then, more firmly, with intention behind his voice: “I need your map.”

There was a brief pause, enough to fill the room with a sudden tension. Remus furrowed his brow, exchanging a quick glance with James, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry?” Remus asked, blinking at him. “What map?”

Regulus tilted his head slightly, the faintest suggestion of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement, not quite. It was too cold for that. More like an expression reserved for when he knew he was being lied to.

“Remus,” he said, voice quieter now, but sharpened, as if honed by weeks of sleepless nights and hard decisions. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

There was a beat of silence, just long enough to feel loaded, before Remus finally spoke.

“There’s no map,” Remus tried again, too calm. Too fast. The lie clung awkwardly to the air, as if even the room itself didn’t believe it.

Regulus raised an eyebrow, his expression smooth, almost bored, but the gleam in his eyes was anything but.

“Oh, come on,” he drawled, stepping forward slowly, his hands loosely clasped behind his back as he stepped fully into the room, the echo of his footsteps soft on the worn wooden floor. “You lot really think I didn’t know? That I haven’t known since fifth year that you’ve had some sort of enchanted map stashed away, helping you sneak around the castle like little anarchists with a flair for the dramatic?”

His gaze was sharp. “I’m not an idiot, Remus. I saw the way you’d appear out of nowhere at just the right time, how you always knew when Filch was coming or when Slughorn was about to round the corner. I noticed how you all kept glancing at that bit of parchment you were always so quick to tuck away when someone approached. You’re clever, I’ll give you that, but not subtle.”

James’ jaw clenched, but he said nothing. The silence spoke volumes.

“So, let’s drop the act,” Regulus said, voice low and cutting. “You still have it, and I happen to need it.”

Remus hesitated, torn, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Why?” he asked finally, the word soft but edged with real worry. “Why do you want it?”

Regulus looked between them, his face unreadable, before replying simply, “I need to get into the armoury.”

That was enough to make Remus stiffen and James sit upright so suddenly that the bedsprings groaned.

“Why?” Remus asked again, this time more urgently, his voice tight with something that sounded like dread.

Regulus inhaled; jaw tight. “Because,” he said slowly, carefully, “if Voldemort doesn’t allow us to use our wands during this trial—” He paused, and his voice dropped to a low rasp. “Then we need something else. We can’t walk into that kind of hell empty-handed and—”

“No,” James cut in sharply, his voice rising with sudden, heated finality as he stepped forward, the air around him suddenly electric with fury.

“Absolutely not.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “We don’t have time to argue—”

“I’m not arguing,” James shot back, rising to his feet. His voice was low but fierce, vibrating with something deeper. “I’m simply stating a fact. You’re not going.”

Regulus’s jaw twitched. “I don’t need your permission.”

“Maybe not,” James said, stepping closer, “but you do need the map. And I’m not letting you get yourself killed over something this stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Regulus snapped, his voice rising now. “It’s necessary.”

“You don’t know what’s down there,” James hissed. “That place hasn’t been opened in years. Not since—”

“Since my darling father helped seal it during the first siege. Yes, I know,” Regulus interrupted coldly. “I’ve done my homework. I know what I’m walking into.””

“Then you should also know how bloody dangerous it is.”

Regulus’ mouth curled into something bitter.

“Dangerous is sitting on our asses doing nothing while we wait to be butchered in some rigged trial Voldemort thinks will prove his power. You can live with your conscience, Potter, but I’d like to live through the fucking week.”

James’ fists clenched at his sides, and his voice dropped to something hoarse.

“You’re not disposable, Regulus.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. “Our survival depends on it—”

“Don’t care,” James snapped, interrupting him again, his face flushed, his shoulders squared. “You don’t go there.”

Remus watched the exchange with a deepening frown, the tension between the two of them now so charged it practically crackled in the air. It wasn’t just about the map anymore—that much was obvious. There was something else beneath the surface. Something jagged and personal. It bled into every word they hurled at each other, soaked into every breath they took.

James stared at Regulus like he was daring him to flinch.

 “If you are so eager to go there, then I’ll come with you,” he said, voice low and tight, every syllable deliberate.

Regulus shook his head once, firmly. “No.”

The refusal hung heavy in the space between them, and then, without missing a beat, James stepped closer, his voice dropping to something colder, more restrained, but no less dangerous.

“Don’t be a bloody idiot.”

“And don’t pretend this is about the map,” he shot back, eyes blazing. “You just want someone to follow me around like a bloody shadow. You want to be able to watch me—like I’m some rabid thing that might self-destruct if left unsupervised.”

“I want someone to protect you, you arrogant bastard!” James snapped, louder than he meant to. “Because Merlin knows you never do it for yourself!”

Regulus faltered for half a second, just a flicker of hesitation. Just enough for James to see it—and pounce.

But when Regulus replied, his voice was quieter. More dangerous. “I don’t need a keeper, James. And I sure as hell don’t need you deciding when I’ve had enough war for one day.”

James laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Is that what this is about? Pride? You’d rather walk in blind and die on principle than admit you might need someone?”

Regulus took a step toward him, fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t get to pull the ‘protector’ act when the only thing you’re protecting is your own bloody conscience. You want to help? Then stop treating me like something fragile that’ll shatter if you stop hovering for five seconds.”

James took another breath, but it came out more like a gasp. “If you're so dead set on doing this alone, then fine. Good luck figuring out how the map works.”

Regulus blinked once, the meaning settling in. He didn’t respond immediately, and the silence that followed was thick with things left unsaid.

Then Remus, still hovering near the door, finally broke in. His voice was calm, but it cut like glass. “Enough.”

James and Regulus froze like they'd been caught stealing from Slughorn’s stash.

Remus stepped forward, eyes narrowing on Regulus. “You’re not going alone. Period.”

Regulus opened his mouth, clearly winding up for another rant, but Remus raised a hand—sharp, silent, and final. It stopped Regulus mid-sputter.

“If you want the map, you take James,” Remus said coolly. “Or you don’t go at all. Those are your options.”

Regulus stared at him, scandalized, like Remus had just said the most atrocious thing.

“You can’t be serious.”

Remus just raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Regulus snapped, voice rising an octave like a sulky child being told to eat his vegetables. “And I’m not dragging him along to slow me down.”

James scoffed loudly, clearly offended. “Oi—”

“You don’t even know how to use the map properly,” Remus cut in, ignoring James completely, speaking with that maddening, patient tone that only made Regulus’ eye twitch more violently.

“We can’t afford mistakes right now,” Remus continued, more gently now but no less firm. “Not when every pair of eyes in this castle is either watching you or waiting for you to slip. You’re a Black, Regulus. They don’t need a reason to hate you—they just need an excuse.”

Regulus flinched like the words hit something too raw. His mouth pressed into a thin, furious line.

He turned back around, shoulders tense, nostrils flaring.

“Fine,” he spat at last, each syllable clipped and brittle, like glass ground between his teeth. “Fifteen minutes. Common room. Bring the bloody map and your inflated sense of self-importance.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, angry thud.

Silence settled behind him. And in that silence, Remus turned toward James, only to find his friend utterly still, his arms loose at his sides, his shoulders slack with something that wasn’t quite relief. His eyes had not followed Regulus out of the room like Remus had expected they would. No, instead, James’ gaze had remained fixed on the now-empty space where Regulus had just stood. Fixed, unmoving, as though the air itself still held the ghost of him.

And there was something in that look, something unmistakably raw.

Remus watched him, how James didn’t blink, didn’t speak, didn’t move, how his brow furrowed just faintly, like the act of not reaching out had physically cost him something. Like his body was still holding back the impulse to go after him.

It was too much. Too loaded. Not just protectiveness. Not just concern.

Something fell into place.

A slow, cold understanding began to unfurl in Remus’ chest, not loud or dramatic, but quiet. Certain. It wrapped itself around the last few minutes like a thread pulled taut through fabric: the tension, the glances, the awkwardness at the doorway, the way he opposed instantly to the idea of Regulus going alone. The way Regulus almost went feral for suggesting going with James.

Remus’ eyes widened slightly as the pieces fell into place with chilling clarity, like a silent puzzle solving itself.

“James,” he said softly, almost more to himself than to him, “what did you do?”

James finally looked away from the door, and the guilt in his eyes was answer enough.

“Oh,” Remus breathed, his voice cracking around the single syllable. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He brought a hand up to his face, dragging it down over his mouth, eyes closing as if trying to physically shut the thought out of his head.

“Please—please tell me I’m wrong,” he groaned, more to the universe than to his friend. But the silence that followed was louder than any response..

Remus opened his eyes again. Slowly. Carefully. “You didn’t.”

The weight of his disbelief hung heavy between them.

James blinked, startled. “Moony—”

“No,” Remus said, shaking his head, already despairing. “No, don’t say it.”

He looked at Remus for a long, silent moment, then slowly sank back down onto the edge of his bed. His elbows found his knees again, his fingers curling into his palms, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough, quieter than usual. Unsteady.

“We…uh… slept together. Last night.”

Remus stared at him. Just stared.

His hand shot into the air, cutting James off before he could add anything else.

“No. Nope. Shut up. I don’t want details. I swear to Merlin, if you say anything else, I’m throwing myself out the bloody window.”

 James gave a dry, broken little laugh. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, my fucking God, you’re serious…” Remus muttered. “This isn’t just a crush, is it? It’s not some ‘oops, tripped and landed on Regulus Black’—” he cut off with a strangled noise. “Merlin. James.”

James let his head fall into his hands. “It wasn’t a mistake. I know how that sounds. But it wasn’t. It was… it was everything. It felt like it had been waiting to happen for years.”

Remus stared at him, not with judgment now, but with a dawning, exhausted disbelief. “You’ve felt this way? For how long?”

James hesitated. “I’ve had feelings for him for years. Since… fuck, I don’t even know when it started. Since before he disappeared, definitely. I saw him the day before he disappeared, and my feelings were...” he waved his hand “let’s say they hit me in the face.”

 Remus exhaled slowly, the air leaving him like the tension of a bow being released.

“Does Sirius know?” Remus asked, even though he already knew the answer.

James shook his head immediately. “No. Merlin, no. He doesn’t even suspect. I don’t even know how to tell him. I don’t know if I can.”

 Remus groaned into both hands.

“James, this is not some random bloke you snuck off to shag. It’s his little brother.”

“I know,” James said, and his voice cracked under the weight of it.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Remus said, pacing a tight circle like he had to physically move or he’d implode. “You’ve been best mates since you were eleven. He’s bled for you. He’d die for you. And you’ve gone and shagged the one person on earth he swore he’d never trust again.”

“What do you want me to say, Moony?” James said, almost helplessly. “That I regret it? Because I don’t. Not for a second. I care about him. Deeply. And it wasn’t just sex. It was—” he broke off, searching. “It felt like something that had been waiting for a long time to finally happen.”

Remus sat down beside him again with a dull thud, pressing his fingertips into his temples. “Oh my fucking God, you’re in love with him.”

James moved his hand through his hair, breathing hard like he’d just come in from a sprint. “I kept pretending that I didn’t see him for years just to keep things simple. But we’re in the middle of a war, and I wanted to…I wanted to have this in case I didn’t make it out.”

He could feel Remus’ face snapping at him, his eyes burning into his profile.

James shook his head, laughing once, bitter and breathless. “He’s prickly, and infuriating, and arrogant as hell sometimes, but there’s so much more under it, Moony. There’s like a whole other Universe there, and he allowed me to see it. To hold it in my hands. I don’t think anyone else got that part of him. Not even Sirius.”

James’ voice cracked a little. “I don’t want to lose Sirius. Merlin, Moony, he’s my brother. He’s always been my brother. And I’m scared that when he finds out, it won’t matter how careful we were, or how real it is with Reg—he’ll just see betrayal. And I can’t lose him. I can’t.”

Remus let the silence settle for a moment.

“You two need to get ahead of it. Sirius is already teetering on the edge these days. If he finds out like that—” he snapped his fingers, “—he’s going to take it personally. Like it’s some big betrayal.”

James blew out a long breath. “Yeah. I know.”

“I like seeing you happy, James. I do. Merlin knows you deserve it. But you also know how Padfoot gets. He doesn’t share well. And he really doesn’t like surprises.”

James made a frustrated noise, moving a palm over his face. “So, what? Sit him down and say, ‘Hey mate, just thought you should know I’ve been secretly shagging your estranged, morally ambiguous brother while you spiral into existential doom’?”

Remus blinked. “Yeah. Maybe soften the wording a bit.”

James shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk.

“He’s going to hate Reggie more than he already does,” he murmured.

“He’ll get over it. Eventually.”

James gave a bleak smile. “When did life get this fucking complicated?”

Remus snorted. “About five minutes after you decided to date a Black.”

Chapter Text

Anger wasn’t a word strong enough for what Regulus felt as he crossed the common room. It didn’t even come close.

He was incandescent—blazing with a fury so hot it hollowed him out. A walking furnace of rage, barely contained by the brittle veneer of self-control he’d spent years perfecting. His every movement crackled with restrained violence: shoulders rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white, jaw locked to the point of pain. He didn’t walk; he stormed, each step sharp and deliberate, as if the ground itself might split beneath him.

The moment he passed through the centre of the common room, conversation faltered like a wire cut mid-spark. A hush swept through the space like a silencing spell cast without a wand. Every eye turned to him, but no one dared say a word.

Sirius, sprawled across the couch with a book in one hand and that permanent scowl etched into his features, looked up sharply at the sudden stillness. His gaze met Regulus’ and his brows drew together, reading the storm behind his brother’s eyes instantly. He didn’t ask. He didn’t challenge. He simply stood, stiff-backed and tense, tossed the book aside, and stalked off toward the stairs—no doubt heading to Remus.

Barty remained perched on the windowsill, one leg folded beneath him like some lounging cat, his fingers drumming lazily on the wood. His eyes tracked Regulus’ march with calculated calm, then arched a brow at Evan, who only offered a small shrug in response.

When the door upstairs slammed with the force of a minor earthquake, the message was clear.

Barty sighed and pushed himself off the ledge, already dragging a hand through his hair.

“That’s our cue,” he muttered, his voice low with long-suffering resignation. “For fuck’s sake, can I have ten minutes of peace in this shithole?”

He walked past the suddenly still cluster of girls, ignoring the way their gazes followed him.

“You coming?” he asked, barely glancing over his shoulder.

“Nah,” Evan replied, settling deeper into the armchair, his head tipped back, arms sprawled like he had all the time in the world. “You’re the one who manages that part of him better.”

“Wanker,” Barty said under his breath—but there was no venom behind it. Only weary fondness.

Evan only smirked, sending him a kiss that Barty pretended not to catch.

He took the familiar staircase two steps at a time, not even thinking as he turned left down the narrow corridor toward Regulus’ room. He could hear things hitting the walls before he even got there—sharp thuds, the scrape of books across the floor, something shattering.

He sighed and pushed the door open without knocking. Regulus might have wanted space, but that had never applied to him.

Inside, the room was a chaos of thrown objects and boiling silence. Barty closed the door behind him quietly and leaned against it.

Moments like this were rare. Regulus didn’t unravel easily. He didn’t shout or weep or throw tantrums like others did. He simply folded himself inward, became brittle and distant, sharp enough to cut without raising his voice. That was the Regulus most people knew. But Barty… Barty had known him for too long to be fooled.

He saw it now—the way Regulus’ hands twitched, the way his shoulders twitched with each ragged breath. He wasn’t fine. He was combusting. Quietly. Beautifully. Terrifyingly.

They’d been friends since the first bloody train ride to Hogwarts, since Barty had made some dry, barbed remark about house-elf labor and Regulus, without missing a beat, had corrected him—politely, of course, but with just enough bite to spark something. A spark that turned into a conversation, and that conversation—circling through bloodlines, magical theory, and a mutual disdain for most of their peers—had lasted the entire journey.

By the time the train screeched to a stop at Hogsmeade Station, they had something that neither of them would ever fully be able to name. Not exactly friendship, but something more brittle, more volatile.

And from that moment on, they'd stuck. Not seamlessly—never seamlessly. They fought often, sometimes loudly, sometimes with stony silences and slammed doors. But the fights were never final. The anger always cooled; the silences always broke. They found their way back to each other like magnets, even when they hated themselves for it.

Because Barty had understood something about Regulus early on: that beneath the pristine robes and measured tones and perfect manners was a boy drowning in expectations. Someone born into a life where love was conditional and silence was safer than honesty. Someone desperate to belong and terrified of what it might cost to be fully known.

And yeah, there had been that thing. The thing they never talked about. The summer before seventh year, hot and heavy and unbearably tense. It had started with a fight, of course. Barty had said something flippant about the Dark Mark, about Regulus’ ever-deepening loyalty to the cause, and Regulus had snapped. It had been brutal, that argument. Words cut like knives, accusations flung like curses. Regulus, sharp-tongued and shaking with fury. Barty, all scorn and cracked laughter. It ended with Regulus grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shoving him against the wall, then kissing him hard enough to bruise.

That “one-time mistake” happened again. And again.

But even then, even in those breathless, tangled nights, there had been something off-kilter about it all. Something hollow.

Because they didn’t talk about it—not what it meant, not what they wanted, not even what it was. They touched more than they spoke, and when they did speak, it was rarely about anything that mattered. It was easier to get lost in each other’s mouths than it was to ask real questions. Safer to press Regulus down into the mattress than to ask if he was okay. They clung to each other like lifeboats, because neither of them knew how to swim.

They weren’t toxic in the way people usually mean. There were no screaming matches that ended in breakups. No manipulation or cruelty. It was quieter than that. Sadder. They just made each other more tired. More hollow. Every time they touched, it felt like they were trying to fill something that wouldn’t stay filled.

And still, they kept going back. Because loneliness was colder than regret. Because pretending to be wanted was easier than admitting they didn’t know how to be remembered.

It wasn’t a whirlwind. Nothing with Regulus ever was. He didn’t love like fire—he loved like gravity. He loved in the way he sat closer than necessary, but never touched. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. In the way he remembered everything—your favorite ink, the knot in your left shoulder, the way your hands shook after dueling.

To be honest, Barty never knew if Regulus ever loved him because Regulus never said the words. Not once. Not even when Barty was pressed against him in the dead of night, breathing him in like he was trying to memorize his soul. Not even when they lay in silence afterward, hearts beating quietly out of sync. There was desire, yes. Attachment. Fondness, maybe. But the pure, unfiltered kind of love—the reckless, desperate, consuming kind—Barty never saw it in him.

And maybe Regulus had loved him, in his own way. But it was a cold love. A love so laced with guilt and restraint that it became indistinguishable from fear.

Barty… Barty had wanted more. He never said it, of course—he didn’t do vulnerability. But somewhere between the long nights tangled in Regulus’ sheets and the quiet mornings with tea cooling between them, he started imagining a future where it lasted.

But even then, even at its gentlest, he knew it was doomed.

Because Regulus was already halfway claimed by something else.

By the Black name. By his mother’s voice echoing in every instinct. By the weight of legacy and duty that he wore like iron shackles. Even when they were alone, even when he was laughing—really laughing, the way he only ever did around Barty—there was a part of him that never quite unclenched. A part that was always listening for footsteps down the hall.

And when it ended, it didn’t explode. There were no tears, no cruel words. Just a shared silence. Just the quiet truth that it had to end.

There were no confessions. No apologies. Just a final night where neither of them spoke. Just Regulus' eyes, too tired to hide, too guarded to say stay.

When Barty told him about Evan months later, Regulus had smiled. Soft, faint but real. Not bitter, not jealous. Maybe proud. Maybe relieved. Like he was glad Barty had found someone who didn’t live with one foot in the grave

And now, when Barty looked at him, he didn’t see an ex. He didn’t see some unfinished business or some tragic, almost-love.

He saw a boy who never gave himself permission to be loved.

He saw someone he knew with his eyes closed and someone who never let himself be known with his eyes open.

And so when he saw him now—standing in the wreckage of his own rage, shoulders trembling, fists clenched at his sides like they were the only thing keeping him stitched together—Barty didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it.

He just crossed the room slowly and sat on the edge of the bed like he’d done it a hundred times before and leaned back on his hands, watching Regulus with eyes that saw too much.

“Tell me which idiot needs cursing,” Barty said, tone deliberately light, casually flipping a letter opener between his fingers like it was a wand. “And I’ll make it look like an accident. I just happened to finish sharpening all of my knives.”

Regulus didn’t laugh. Didn’t even turn around. But his shoulders did twitch, almost imperceptibly.

“Was it Sirius?” Barty continued, cocking his head. “The usual suspects? Someone new? I am starting to feel itchy, and I could use a distraction.”

Still no answer.

He leaned back on his palms. “You know, it’s terrifying how you keep all of this inside most of the time. I throw a fit over a lukewarm cup of tea. You, meanwhile, are seconds away from combusting and still manage to keep it all under lock and key.”

His voice softened. “You don’t have to, you know. Not with me.”

That did it.

Regulus finally turned, eyes storm-dark and glassy, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or break down. But it was Barty, and Barty knew which mask was real and which wasn’t. He always had.

“I’m so—” Regulus started, then cut himself off. He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

Barty raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “Is this about your little escapade last night?”

Regulus didn’t answer right away, his jaw tightening. When he finally spoke, it was clipped, almost mechanical. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Barty snorted. Loudly. “Right. Because you’re so subtle, especially in the way you looked around the room. You were practically glowing this morning. Like ‘I just got absolutely railed by a Gryffindor’ glowing.”

Regulus scowled, jaw tightening further.

“Oh, come on,” Barty drawled, flopping backward onto Regulus’ bed. “You really thought you’d sneak around, pull a midnight tryst, and I wouldn’t notice? I heard you last night, and trust me, I passed the period where I dreamt about you moaning or entertained vivid fantasies. That shit was real as fuck.”

Regulus blushed. Straight up, honest-to-Merlin blushed.

Barty sat up so fast it was almost theatrical. “Holy shit. You’re blushing. Regulus Black is—this is historic. I didn’t think you were physically capable of that anymore. I need to find a fucking Pensieve. I will put it right next to the time you cried over a wounded hedgehog in third year.”

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely did. But okay, fine, deflect all you want. I’ll still be right here making astute observations.” He paused, then grinned mischievously. “Well, well. So, he has some technique if he got you stealing Myrtle’s job. You go, Potter.”

Regulus buried his face in his hands with a muffled groan. “Merlin, please shut up.”

“Not a chance,” Barty said cheerfully. “Hey.” He nudged Regulus’ leg with his foot. “You alright, though?”

Regulus sighed, and though his cheeks were still tinged pink, his eyes were sharper now. More guarded.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I never imagined that we would ever be put in this…situation. He came last night to check on me, and it just… it got out of hand.”

Barty let the silence sit for a moment before he spoke again, quieter now. “You don’t usually let things get out of hand. That’s more my territory.”

“I know.” Regulus let out a breath that sounded far too close to tired. “That’s why it’s terrifying.”

Barty looked at him. Regulus Black, the boy born to burn for other people’s expectations, the boy with a spine made of steel and a heart wrapped in barbed wire. He’d loved him once, in the way seventeen-year-olds do, with too much intensity and too little timing. And even though they’d moved past it, even though Evan had filled a space in Barty that Regulus never could, there was still that tether between them. That understanding.

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Barty said lightly, “I don’t think Potter’s the kind to mess around lightly. He’s too Gryffindor. Too earnest. Probably agonised over it for weeks.”

Regulus gave a tiny, reluctant laugh. “Years, actually.”

“Excuse you??” Barty’s eyes widened. “Ok, that I did not expect.”

“Sirius is going to kill me,” he whispered. “He’s going to tear me apart.”

Barty didn’t make a joke this time. His voice came out flat, decisive. “He’ll have to go through me first.”

Regulus looked at him sharply.

“I mean it,” Barty said. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I don’t care how loud he gets or how dramatic he wants to be. You’re my friend. If he touches you, he answers to me.”

Regulus gave a soft huff. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “That’ll go over brilliantly.”

Barty didn’t smile. He just watched him. Carefully. Thoughtfully.

“What are you really afraid of, Reg?”

Regulus hesitated, then looked down at his hands, steady, pale, too fine for the weight they carried. His voice dropped low, quieter than before.

“I’m afraid I’ll get him killed.”

The words hung in the air like poison.

“I’m afraid they’ll see something I missed. A glance. A misstep. I’ve lived half my life around people who know how to read weakness like a map. And James, he’s not… he’s not trained for this. He doesn’t understand the way they watch. The way they wait.”

There was silence for a long beat.

“He’s a Gryffindor. They’re not supposed to be subtle,” Barty said gently.

Regulus’ mouth twisted. “That’s the problem.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, fingers catching in his hair. “The moment they start suspecting—Merlin, Barty, they’ll use him. They’ll hurt him just to hurt me.”

“So what?” Barty asked. “You think the solution is to push him away? Break his heart to save his life?”

“If it keeps him breathing,” Regulus said. “Then yes.”

“And what about you?” Barty asked. “What does it leave you with?”

Regulus looked away.

Barty sighed and leaned forward again, eyes dark and steady. “Listen. You’re not alone in this, alright? Not anymore.You don’t have to choose between surviving and feeling something, Reg. You deserve both. No one’s going to snitch. Not even Snape. The greasy little ferret wouldn’t dare lose the last two brain cells he has by pissing off both of us. Three with Evan.”

Regulus let out a slow breath, something loosening in his chest, though the fear still pulsed behind his ribs.

Barty looked at him a moment, eyes narrowing. “Still, what had you storming through the common room? I assume it wasn’t just internal guilt spiralling out of control. Though I must say, those are always a crowd-pleaser.”

Regulus hesitated, then looked up at him with that tired, guilt-ridden glint again. “I’m going to the armoury. With James.”

There was a full two seconds of silence before Barty blinked. “The armoury?”

Regulus nodded grimly. “I need to gather some weapons before tonight. Just in case they decide to level the playing field and take our wands out of the equation.”

“Right,” Barty said slowly. “And you decided to do that with one of the loudest Gryffindors to ever exist? You could’ve taken me. I’m charming, quiet, morally flexible—”

“I was initially planning to go alone,” Regulus interrupted, rubbing at his temple like the weight of everything was just starting to splinter his skull. “But I needed their bloody map. He almost made a scene in front of Remus, for fucks sake.”

Barty let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face. “Chivalry’s not dead, then. Just suicidal.”

“He's just stupid,” Regulus muttered darkly.

Barty snorted. “So let me see if I’ve got this right.” He lifted his hand and began to count off on his fingers. “You and Potter are going to sneak down to the restricted, highly-warded, definitely cursed section of the castle, unlock a vault of probably illegal weapons, not die, not get caught, avoid being mauled by an actual Death Eater patrol, not shag in some dusty, blood-soaked corridor filled with ancestral swords and unregistered spellfire—and make it back in time for the trial?”

He grinned like it was a perfectly reasonable plan.

“That,” he concluded, “sounds like a bloody masterpiece.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “You are deranged.”

Barty gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Possibly. Anyway,” he smirked in his direction, “want to tell me what exactly he did to make you look like that? Because I’ve got questions. And I’m very interested in details.”

“No, fuck off.”

Barty leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Was it soft? Was it angry? Did he call you pretty names or just bite your shoulder to shut you up?”

“Get. Out.”

“Oh, come on, Reg. I’ve earned this. I suffered through years of watching you pine while insisting you didn’t care. I even supported you when you lied to yourself and to me. I deserve a little payoff. A kiss-and-tell. Just a taste of the drama.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Out, Crouch.”

When Regulus returned to the common room, James was already waiting for him, a sheepish smile plastered on his face and the Marauder’s Map clutched awkwardly in one hand. Regulus’ eyes narrowed immediately, flicking down to the map, then back up at James. He looked like a first-year student about to be scolded for sneaking out after curfew.

“I don’t like this,” Sirius muttered from near the fireplace, arms crossed tightly across his chest. His eyes moved between them with barely concealed suspicion. “Whatever this is, I don’t trust it.”

“Good thing no one asked you anything,” Regulus snapped without looking at him. Sirius visibly bristled, his mouth twisting into something between a scowl and a warning.

James scratched the back of his neck, clearly wanting to sink into the floor.

“Anyone good with a specific type of weapon?” Regulus asked briskly, his voice sharp as he turned toward the group.

The girls exchanged uncertain glances. Marlene raised a skeptical eyebrow. Mary looked vaguely ill.

Dorcas was the one who raised her hand, her voice calm and sure. “Hatchet. I trained with one last summer.”

“Knife,” Remus added from where he was leaning against the bookshelf. “I can work with that.”

Regulus gave a curt nod. “Good. Let’s go.”

He turned and marched toward the exit, not sparing James another look. James followed anyway, trailing after him like a very guilty dog that had both eaten the biscuits and destroyed the couch.

The moment the portrait hole swung shut behind them and the silence of the corridor wrapped around them like a noose, Regulus stopped dead.

He turned so fast that James nearly ran into him.

“Alright,” Regulus said sharply, hand extended. “Show me the map.”

James blinked at him, then frowned. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Like you, you mean?” Regulus snapped, eyes flashing. “I asked you one thing, James. One fucking thing. And you did the exact opposite.”

James held up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, okay? I panicked. I don’t know how to lie, or—or bloody pretend that nothing happened!”

“That’s exactly what you have to do!” Regulus hissed, stepping closer, voice low and furious. “Do you even understand what’s at stake here? This isn’t some bloody romantic drama where someone walks away heartbroken and writes about it in a diary. This is war.”

“I know what’s at stake.”

“No, you don’t,” Regulus snapped. “You blushed, James. You stuttered. Like some teenager caught with his dick out in a bloody broom closet. You can’t act like this. You can’t be like this.”

James’ jaw tightened. “Well, sorry I’m not some perfect little spy who can shut off every fucking feeling like a light switch.”

Regulus blinked once, then again, like the air had been knocked out of him. He brushed the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, slowly, then looked away, jaw clenched tight.

“Oh, wow,” he said, softer now—almost to himself. His voice cracked faintly. “That was… yeah. I should’ve seen it coming.”

James took a step forward instinctively, hands half-raised like he could somehow catch the pieces of Regulus before they shattered.

“Reggie, I didn’t—” he exhaled shakily, eyes searching. “Shit. That came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Regulus laughed—sharp and humorless, bitter like poison.

“Of course, you did.” He turned to face him fully now, and something in his expression had gone raw. Stripped down. “That’s not fair, James. You knew exactly what you were walking into. You knew who I was. What this was. You chose this. You said you wanted me.”

“I do want you,” James shot back. “But I also want to keep you alive! And if pretending you don’t exist is the only way to do that, then fuck, forgive me for not being able to follow that rule.”

“Well, maybe you should learn!” Regulus’ voice cracked slightly. His hands were trembling. “Because if you can’t, they will use you. They’ll hurt you just to watch me fall.”

James took a shaky breath. “So what, Regulus? What are you saying? That we go back to pretending this is nothing? That I stop looking at you like I care? That I pretend I don’t?”

Regulus faltered for a moment. His shoulders dropped slightly, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “We’re doing what we can. That’s all we can do. But if you can't handle it—”

James stepped forward, closing the space between them. “Don’t,” he said, eyes locked on Regulus’. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

They stood there, chest to chest in the quiet corridor, hearts hammering, mouths tight with unsaid things. The silence that followed felt heavier than the shouting had.

“I am sorry, okay?” James said, finally, voice low and thick with sincerity. “I’ll be more careful. Look—” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of cloth. “Maybe you can forgive me faster.”

Regulus eyed it suspiciously. “What... is that? You brought me a rag?” His brows arched with disdain so sharp it could have cut the tension.

James just grinned and shook it out with a little theatrical flourish. “Not just any rag.” He threw it over his shoulders and vanished completely.

Regulus blinked. His breath hitched. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

James pulled the hood back and reappeared with a smirk. “Ta-da.”

Regulus stared, genuinely stunned. “How did you—where did you—Merlin’s soggy beard.” His voice rose with disbelief, but it was threaded with a kind of wonder too rare for his face.

“Family heirloom,” James said smugly. “You’re not the only one with fancy shit, sparrow.”

“This is…” Regulus looked genuinely shaken, but in a good way. His fingers reached out to touch the material, like he couldn’t believe it was real. “James, we can go everywhere with this. We can smuggle everything! Potions. Salves. Food. Anything I can get my hands on”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” James held up a hand. “No. We said just the armoury.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “No. You said that. I said we have to be prepared. That means potions and painkillers. Everything. Fuck knows what we’re about to walk into. We have to be ready.”

James hesitated. “I just don’t want to push our luck. What if someone catches on—?”

“James.” Regulus stepped in close, grabbing his face in both hands, eyes blazing. “If you even think about getting noble and self-sacrificing right now, I will knock you unconscious, steal that cloak, and leave you drooling in the common room like a stunned flobberworm.”

James’ mouth parted slightly, his breath caught between a laugh and a growl. “Promise me you’ll do that after we get the supplies.”

Regulus mouth parted in utter disbelief. “My fucking God, Barty was right.”

“What?” James blinked.

“Nothing,” Regulus muttered, ears tinged pink. “Show me the map. We don’t have much time left.”

James bit back a grin and unfolded the parchment. He tapped it with his wand. “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

The map shimmered to life beneath their fingers. Corridors and secret passages unfurled like veins across the paper, tiny names moving steadily along their paths. Regulus leaned closer, his expression shifting into focused calculation.

There’s Nott and Rabastan—East Wing, second floor. Far enough not to be a threat right now.” Regulus murmured.

James leaned closer, scanning. “Bellatrix and Narcissa are in the Defence classroom. Thank Merlin. Hopefully occupied.”

“That’s…impressive,” Regulus added after a moment, eyes tracing the intricate details. “Whose idea was this?”

“Moony’s,” James said, pride edging into his voice.

Regulus smiled faintly. “Of course. Remus always sees what the rest of you miss.”

James didn’t miss the soft admiration in his voice.

“What about the armoury?” he asked, tapping the dungeon sector.

Regulus pointed without hesitation. “There’s a narrow tunnel behind this tapestry on the fourth floor. Leads to service routes—crosses through the old wine cellars and comes out right near the armoury storage.”

James grinned. “Alright, so we go through the tapestry. Down the tunnel. Hit the armoury first.”

“Exactly. We grab what we can carry—don’t be stupid, we only take what we need. Then straight up to the hospital wing. I can take the wards down.”

“Wait—you can break hospital ward locks?” James asked, eyes wide. “How—”

Regulus smirked. “Do you really want to know how I learned that?”

James lifted his hands. “Right. Forget I asked.”

Regulus scanned the map again, then pointed to a blank square near the kitchen corridors. “This. This is our emergency fallback. The old Quarantine Room. No one uses it. There’s a service tunnel from the kitchens that ends there. It’s not on your map,” he clicked his tongue, “amateur mistake.”

James whistled. “Where the hell did you learn all this?”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to,” Regulus replied, folding the map slightly. “Now, here—” he tapped the map again. “When we pass this hall, you have to be completely under the cloak. Yaxley’s been hovering around that corridor every time I raided the castle.”

“Got it.”

“You’re not taking any chances, Jamie. I mean it. If it’s between you and the mission, you run.”

James scoffed. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to let you waltz around dungeons alone with Bellatrix floating around like a psychotic shadow.”

Regulus huffed. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet you’re still here,” James said, leaning just a little closer. “Which makes you just as bad.”

Regulus didn’t deny it. “Try not to trip on your own ego while we’re down there.”

“No promises.”

Regulus slipped under the cloak beside James. It was roomy enough in theory, but in practice, every step brought them closer than comfort allowed. Regulus’ arm brushed James’ side. His shoulder bumped James’ again as they turned sharply down a narrow corridor. Their boots, carefully placed, barely made a sound, but the thundering in James’ chest was harder to silence.

“Third corridor ahead,” Regulus whispered, voice so close it ghosted over the curve of James’ ear. “There’s a Death Eater posted near the Charms classroom. Name’s Bletchley. He paces every seven minutes. We wait until he passes west, then we slip behind the tapestry.”

James nodded stiffly, holding the Marauder’s Map up between them like it could somehow shield him from the sudden heat pooling behind his collar. He tilted the parchment toward Regulus and tried not to focus on how the other boy leaned in, their cheeks nearly brushing.

Sure enough, Bletchley’s dot moved slowly away from them, heading west just as Regulus predicted.

James nodded silently and angled the map to check the pacing dot marked Bletchley. Sure enough, it moved steadily away from them.

“Now,” Regulus breathed.

They moved in unison, the motion so close it felt rehearsed. James brushed the heavy tapestry aside with the back of his hand, fingers accidentally grazing Regulus’. The contact sparked down his arm like static. Regulus didn’t flinch—just ducked through the narrow space, all grace and calm—and James followed, awkward in comparison, trying not to think too hard about how Regulus’ shoulder was pressed firmly against his chest now in the tight alcove.

The stone wall behind them was cold, but all James could feel was heat—low in his stomach, climbing up the back of his neck. Regulus leaned slightly to peek through a slit in the tapestry, close enough that James could smell the faint trace of smoke and something sharp lingering on his clothes.

They waited. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two. Then the soft, sharp click of footsteps on flagstone echoed from the corridor. The Death Eater passed just on the other side of the wall, and James instinctively held his breath.

Once the footsteps faded, Regulus exhaled slowly. “Go.”

They moved again, slipping from the alcove and continuing down the hall. Most of the castle was dark now, but in places the sconces still burned, casting long shadows down the corridors. They kept to the edges, hearts pounding with every distant sound: a classroom door creaking, the soft, eerie hum of a spell cast in another part of the castle, the faint murmur of voices they couldn’t place.

James bumped Regulus again as they turned a corner. “Sorry.”

Regulus stopped short when they neared the grand staircase, and James smacked into him.

“Ow—bloody hell—warn me next time!”

“Shh!” Regulus snapped, spinning on instinct and slapping a hand over James’ mouth, pinning him against the stone archway.

James froze, wide-eyed.

Regulus didn’t notice at first—too focused on the Map, the two glowing dots labeled Mulciber and Goyle posted motionless at the base of the stairs like stone gargoyles.

But then something shifted, something in the way James’ eyes weren’t on the map, weren’t on the guards, weren’t even on the danger. They were on him.

Heavy-lidded. Dilated. Wanting.

Regulus felt it in a jolt, like a live wire skimming just beneath his skin. James was breathing harder now, lips slightly parted under Regulus’ hand. His gaze darkened with something feral. Something that pulled low in Regulus’ gut.

And then James licked his palm, and Regulus faltered, only for a second, but his composure slipped just enough for James to notice. He retracted his hand, eyes flicking from James’ mouth to his eyes again.

“We don’t have time for this, James,” Regulus murmured, his voice low and tight.

“You’re the one who pinned me to a wall,” he whispered back, voice hoarse.

“You ran into me,” Regulus said coolly, though it came out shakier than he meant it to.

James arched an eyebrow, defiance flickering under the lust. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed. 

And just like that, the tension cracked, but didn’t disappear. It settled thick in the air between them, smouldering like embers waiting for oxygen.

“There,” he cleared his throat and pointed to a narrow spiral stair tucked behind a forgotten statue on the fifth floor. “It connects to the wine cellars. It’s dusty, but it’s clear.”

James looked at him. “You sure?”

Regulus gave him a look. “Please. I’ve snuck into the kitchens more times than you’ve had detentions.”

“That’s not even remotely true,” James muttered, following him as they crept toward the stairs.

They climbed the side stairs quickly, quietly, every step a small act of treason. Once they reached the hidden door—half-covered by a rusted suit of armour—Regulus pushed it open with a groan. The staircase inside smelled of damp earth.

“Stay close,” Regulus said, ducking inside.

“I am literally breathing down your neck,” James deadpanned.

They descended into the cellars, the temperature dropping with every step. The corridor down here was damp and narrow. Regulus guided them without hesitation, twisting through the winding halls with the confidence of someone who had once been desperate to know every escape route the castle held.

Finally, they reached a thick wooden door sealed with dark iron runes.

“Armoury,” Regulus murmured, brushing his fingers over the lock. “Give me a second.”

James hovered behind him, watching the runes shift faintly under Regulus’ touch, and tried not to focus on how unfair it was for someone to look that graceful while committing several crimes.

Inside, shelves lined the walls—stacked with enchanted blades, throwing daggers, defensive trinkets, and even a battered suit of cursed armour in the corner.

“Take only what we need,” Regulus reminded him. “Anything cursed stays. And if you see anything that looks like it’s whispering, leave it the fuck alone.”

James, crouched near a shelf lined with helmets, looked up with a grin. “You’re hot when you’re bossy.”

Regulus didn’t even glance at him. “And you’re an idiot when you talk.”

“Still hot, though,” James added, plucking a gleaming dagger off the shelf before it hissed softly, the blade twitching. He immediately dropped it back into its slot. “Okay. That one’s whispering. Noted.”

“Congratulations,” Regulus said dryly. “You’ve finally developed pattern recognition. A true academic breakthrough.”

James smirked and leaned back against the shelf, watching Regulus appraise a throwing knife with an expression that was far too serious for someone wielding something so sharp.

“Seriously, though. The way you command a room and keep threatening me? Gets the blood flowing. Among other things.”

Regulus turned to him slowly, arching a perfect brow. “James, I could kill you in seven different ways with this dagger and make it look like an unfortunate accident.”

“That’s what makes it sexy,” James whispered, eyes wide with faux reverence.

“Oh my God.” Regulus shook his head and turned back to the shelf. “No wonder Remus is always two seconds away from flinging himself off a balcony. You’re unbearable.”

“And yet, here you are. Under a cloak with me. Plotting mischief. Picking out weapons. It’s practically a date.”

Regulus gave him a withering look. “A date? In a dusty, probably cursed basement full of knives and questionable relics? This is your idea of courtship?”

“Well, yeah,” James said easily. “Swords, sneaking around, deadly flirting—it’s basically foreplay.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You didn’t say that last night.”

Regulus groaned. “If I hex your mouth shut right now, I think the world would throw me a parade.”

James looked far too pleased with himself. “Only if you kiss me after. Plus, you definitely didn't complain about my mouth last night.”

Regulus smirked, finally letting himself glance sideways at James. “Tell me, does your flirting always include a potential felony? Or is that special treatment?”

“Only for the ones I’m desperately trying to impress,” James said, stepping a little closer. “And you, Regulus Black, are absolutely worth breaking into a castle’s restricted armoury for.”

“Oh, stop,” Regulus said, as he rolled his eyes. “Before I accidentally stab you with something sharp and regret nothing.”

“Fair warning, I might moan just to mess with you.”

“Do, and I’ll make sure the dagger actually slips.”

James bit his lip, eyes dropping to Regulus’ mouth. “Kinky.”

“You need help,” Regulus muttered, biting back a smile. He turned and pulled open a drawer, and began checking the balance of several blades. James grabbed a few throwing knives, testing their grip, then eyed a wand holster, weighing it in his palm. He stole a glance back at Regulus, who was still pretending not to notice the way James kept orbiting closer.

“We’ve got about ten minutes before that patrol circles back,” Regulus said, already moving to the next shelf.

“Copy that,” James replied, slipping a few items into the magically expanded bag they’d brought. “After this, hospital wing?”

“Straight there,” Regulus nodded. “And don’t look so proud of yourself, Potter. We’re still sneaking around under your rag cloak like idiots.”

James grinned. “Yeah, but clever idiots.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “We’ll see how clever you are when we have to smuggle out a dozen phials of Skele-Gro under your shirt.”

James tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You just want an excuse to touch me.”

Regulus didn’t answer at first—he just gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raised in unimpressed disapproval. Or maybe practiced disapproval, because there was definitely the hint of a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Still, he huffed and turned away to close the enchanted weapon case. “You’re relentless.”

“And you love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You didn’t tolerate it last night.”

Regulus froze.

His hand paused over the lock, shoulders tensing just the slightest bit, and when he turned his head, there was a very faint flush rising beneath the sharp line of his cheekbones.

He scoffed. “You are so full of yourself.”

James stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the grin on his face softening just a touch. He leaned in until Regulus could feel his breath brushing the sensitive skin just under his ear—warm and maddeningly deliberate.

“But you make the prettiest sounds when you forget to hate me,” James whispered, low and reverent.

Regulus inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he schooled his face back into its usual detached calm. Almost. His fingers clenched briefly at his sides, like he was resisting the urge to either hex James or push him against the closest wall. Possibly both.

“I will hex your tongue off,” he said, voice suspiciously husky.

James only chuckled, low and dark, and stepped in fully now, eliminating what little space was left between them. “Tempting,” he murmured, lips brushing so close to Regulus’ skin that it was more breath than voice, “but then how would I be able to do this—”

He pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of Regulus’ neck, slow and warm and maddeningly soft. Regulus let out a breath that caught in his throat and twisted midway—half-sigh, half-moan, wholly betrayed by his own body. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to smother it, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling like he might find patience carved into the stone.

But James wasn’t done.

He ghosted another kiss higher up, this time just under Regulus’ jaw—feather-light but loaded with suggestion. Then he let his nose nudge gently beneath Regulus’ ear, nipping the lobe once, barely grazing with teeth, just enough to make Regulus flinch, and not in a way that meant he wanted him to stop. He was holding himself still, and that more than anything lit James up like Christmas.

“Still want to hex me?” James whispered, dragging his tongue over the column of Regulus’ neck. He made a soft, involuntary noise, and James took it as permission. One hand rose, not quite touching, but hovering dangerously close. His fingers skimmed along the line of Regulus’ ribs, through the thin fabric of his shirt, never quite making contact, just a whisper of motion, just enough to tease.

“You’re trembling,” James breathed, smug and reverent all at once.

“I am not,” Regulus gritted out, though the lie was paper-thin. His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned his face away like he could hide the heat crawling up his neck. His ears were flushed, a deep shade of red that James found entirely endearing.

James moved again, slow and smug, mouth brushing just beside his temple now. “You are. Just a little. It’s adorable.”

“If you don’t shut up—”

“You’ll hex me. I know.” James grinned, teeth flashing. “But maybe wait ‘til after I get you panting again.”

Regulus let out a sound like a growl when James’ fingers finally touched him, just to pull away with a grin that could only be described as filthy.

“I think our ten minutes passed, love,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want the Death Eaters to catch us here.”

Regulus turned away abruptly, ears scarlet, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like insufferable bastard as he snatched the bag off the floor.

James followed with that smug, satisfied strut of someone who’d won a small, private war.

Under the cloak once more, the only sound between them for a few seconds was their quiet footsteps echoing in the corridor—until Regulus whispered without looking at him, “If you ever pull that shit again when we’re trying to avoid being killed, I’ll kill you myself.”

James smirked. “Noted. But you didn’t say don’t do it again.”

Regulus elbowed him in the ribs and silently continued to walk through the corridors. As they rounded another corner, they came to a halt as two voices echoed through the corridor ahead.

They pressed into the shadows of an alcove, holding their breath.

“…told me about your little altercation,” Lucius Malfoy drawled, his tone clipped and self-satisfied, like someone recounting gossip over brandy.

Orion Black stood opposite him, arms folded behind his back, every inch the composed patriarch, but his eyes were hard.

“Your wife should know her place,” Orion said flatly, like he was commenting on the weather. “She speaks too freely these days.”

James stiffened beside Regulus, muscles coiling like springs. Regulus didn't need to look at him to feel it—he could practically hear the grinding of James’ teeth.

Lucius made a soft, smug hum. “You’ll forgive my curiosity, of course. I noticed your son is becoming… unruly. Headstrong.”

“He is irrelevant,” Orion replied. “I offered him a way out and he refused it.”

“You don’t worry what might happen at the trial?”

“I expect something to happen,” Orion said, and there was no emotion in his voice—just cold arithmetic. “He’s weak. If he dies in the crossfire, it’s one less problem for me.”

James made a strangled noise low in his throat—quiet, but trembling with rage.

Regulus’ hand shot out and caught his, gripping tight.

No, he mouthed, shaking his head.

James turned to him, eyes burning. Regulus just stared, face pale but calm, composed in that sharp, self-made way that James had grown to recognize: the same armour he wore every time someone tried to tear him down.

Regulus squeezed his hand once, firmly.

They waited in tense silence as the conversation moved on, the men’s voices drifting down the corridor and finally vanishing into one of the side chambers.

Only when they were sure they were alone again did Regulus tug lightly on James’ sleeve and start walking once more, wordless.

The silence between them stretched for a moment before James finally broke it, his voice barely a whisper.

“I swear, Reg, if I ever see him lay a hand on you—”

“You won’t,” Regulus said sharply, but then, softer, “Because I won’t let him.”

James’ hand found his again under the cloak, and this time, Regulus didn’t pull away.

They moved quickly now, ducking into side passages, navigating by the shifting names on the map still clutched in James’ free hand. When the entrance to the hospital wing finally came into view, James exhaled deeply.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Regulus was quiet for a beat. Then, in a voice so low James almost missed it: “I stopped expecting anything from him years ago. I’d rather focus on surviving.”

James gave his hand a squeeze. “Then let’s survive, yeah? Steal some potions. Make a dramatic escape. Maybe a kiss or two in between.”

Regulus gave him a sidelong look. “And you call me dramatic.”

They slipped into the infirmary without another word, shadows swallowing them whole.

James slipped through the door first, and Regulus followed closely behind, heading straight for Madam Pomfrey’s storage cabinets. With careful precision, they began their silent raid.

“Essence of Dittany,” Regulus muttered, snatching two vials and holding them up to the faint light. “Take the rest of these. We’ll need them for burns.”

James nodded and added them to their bag. “Blood-Replenishing?”

“Top shelf. No, the dark red ones—don’t mix those up with the Dreamless Sleep. We don’t need anyone unconscious for a week.”

James chuckled, sorting vials as Regulus flitted from cabinet to cabinet like a shadow. He moved with practiced ease, his fingers quick and sure, his mind calculating exactly what they’d need and what they could carry.

“Take as much Murtlap Essence as you can find.”

As James opened another drawer and started stuffing gauze and burn paste into the pack, Regulus paused in front of a locked case behind Madam Pomfrey’s desk. He whispered a charm, the click faint but clear. Inside, nestled among dark green velvet, sat a tiny vial—black glass, sealed with wax, labelled in elegant, almost reverent script:

Basilisk Venom.

His breath hitched for the barest moment. Carefully, deliberately, he slipped it into the inner lining of his cloak. He didn’t glance at James, who was too busy weighing whether it was worth trying to sneak a half-full bottle of Skele-Gro that looked like it might leak. He didn’t need questions right now. Not about this.

“Hey,” James said suddenly, standing up and stretching his back with a groan. “Remember when you were hit by that Quaffle during the finals?”

Regulus didn’t even look up from where he was re-tying a bundle of bandages. “You mean when you sent the Quaffle in my direction?”

James blinked, grinning. “I mean… You were in the way! I wasn’t aiming at you, exactly—”

“Oh, right,” Regulus deadpanned, turning slowly. “I was in the way. Of the Quaffle you threw. Directly at my head.”

“Well, irrelevant details.” James waved a hand dismissively, his grin shameless.

“Irrelevant?” Regulus scoffed. “Irrelevant? I was hospitalised for two days!”

“You got more sleep than anyone during N.E.W.T. prep,” James countered. “And more mince pie, too.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “That was… wait—” His gaze sharpened. “How do you know about that?”

James shrugged, caught between smugness and bashful guilt. “I felt bad. So… yeah. I asked my mum to bake some and told Pomfrey it was from the kitchens.”

Regulus blinked at him, genuinely thrown. “You bribed the matron with Euphemia Potter’s mince pies? That’s low, even for you.”

“Hey, she loved them,” James smirked. “Said they were the only reason she didn’t hex me into the next Quidditch season.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Regulus muttered, turning back toward the shelves.

James grinned and stepped closer, brushing his fingers against Regulus’ wrist. “You liked the pie, though. I saw you sneaking thirds.”

Regulus, already rummaging through a lower drawer, paused. “I was injured.”

“And healing beautifully.”

Regulus’ ears turned pink. “If you’re going to flirt, at least do it while grabbing the disinfectant, you menace.”

James snickered, but obeyed. “You wound me, Black.”

“Only if I’m lucky.”

As they packed the last of the phials and tucked the bag shut, Regulus finally looked at James again—slightly flushed, but hiding it well.

“They were excellent,” Regulus whispered, almost like a confession. “Mother never allowed us sweets. Said they were for common children with no self-control.” He huffed a dry laugh. “Sirius used to sneak some when we were little. Hid chocolate frogs in the lining of his robes when he came home for Christmas.”

James’ grin faltered, his chest tightening at the image of the two Black brothers—smaller, quieter, still trying to carve out pieces of comfort from under the iron grip of Walburga’s rule.

Regulus gave a tight smile, though his eyes lingered on the dusty shelf in front of him like he was seeing something far away. “He used to pretend we were Aurors on missions. Called it Operation Sweet Tooth. Told me the chocolate frogs were enchanted—said if I saved enough, they’d come alive and eat Mother.”

James snorted before he could stop himself. “Please tell me you believed him.”

“I was ten.” Regulus shrugged, but his voice held the trace of a smile. “And desperate to believe something.”

There was a beat of quiet between them as the past settled over the space like mist. James reached out, fingers brushing the back of Regulus’ hand, brief but steady.

“Well,” he said softly, “you’ve come a long way from saving frogs.”

Regulus met his gaze. “Now I’m saving idiots who forget to grab healing salves.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not having fun,” James teased, stepping just a little closer. “You get to boss me around and hoard potions.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Careful, Potter. That mouth’s going to get you in trouble.”

“Promise?” James whispered, voice low and dangerous. His breath ghosted against Regulus’ cheek.

Regulus’ heart stuttered. His composure wavered, just slightly.

“…Let’s get out of here before you say something even dumber,” he muttered, spinning on his heel—but not fast enough to hide the pink blooming at the tips of his ears.

Behind him, James smirked like a man entirely too pleased with himself.

“Lead the way, love.”

The corridor ahead was too quiet, but James felt the change before he saw anything. Regulus’ hand tensed around his arm, his steps faltering mid-stride beneath the cloak.

They rounded the corner slowly, only to stop dead.

Antonin Dolohov was standing in the middle of the hallway like he had been waiting for something… or someone. The flickering torchlight cast long, grotesque shadows over his face, catching on the jagged scar that tore through his jaw. His wand was already out, loosely gripped in his fingers, but the way his eyes flicked around the corridor, sharp and searching, made it clear: he wasn’t relaxed.

He was hunting.

Regulus instinctively shifted in front of James, a silent command, and took a step back into the shadows, drawing James with him by the wrist. The map was folded hastily between them, clenched in James’ fist. Neither of them dared breathe too loudly.

But Dolohov’s head snapped in their direction, and James’ heart stopped.

There hadn’t been a sound. Not a footstep, not even a whisper. But Dolohov’s eyes had locked onto the space they occupied like a predator scenting prey. His head tilted slightly, and his nostrils flared. Then, almost too softly to hear, he spoke.

“I can smell you.”

Regulus’ heart thundered in his chest.

Shit.

The voice was low, guttural, laced with something dark and old—something inhuman. He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Little rats… crawling through the walls.”

He couldn’t tell if the man saw a flicker under the cloak, or if it was instinct, but his wand was now pointed directly at them.

James flinched behind him, but didn’t speak.

In one swift, practiced motion, Regulus reached for the sheath strapped to his thigh and unsheathed his knife, pressing the blade flat against his side as he slipped his arm behind James and shoved him back. The movement was silent but urgent, sharp with a message that screamed: Get behind me. Now.

James hesitated for half a second, then obeyed.

Regulus steadied his grip, jaw locked so tight it ached, eyes fixed on Dolohov. He could feel James’ breath behind him—too fast, too hot against the back of his neck. If Dolohov cast a wide spell, even a Revealment Charm, the cloak wouldn’t be enough. They’d be dead. James would be dead, and it would be his fault.

His jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He could feel James’ breath on the back of his neck—too fast, too loud.

Dolohov stepped forward. The torchlight shifted.

Regulus held the knife tighter, heart slamming in his throat.

Not him. Take me, not him.

Dolohov stopped again, and his eyes narrowed. He raised his wand.

Regulus nearly lunged.

But before the spell could leave his lips, a loud crack echoed from another hallway, and Dolohov snapped his head toward the sound like a hound catching a scent, eyes narrowing. Then without a word, he turned and stalked down the hall, robes snapping behind him.

James didn’t breathe for a full five seconds. Neither did Regulus.

Then, finally, slowly, Regulus lowered the knife. His hand was shaking.

“Fuck,” James whispered, voice so low it was barely audible.

Regulus didn’t answer. He seized James by the front of his robes, fingers twisting in the fabric, and yanked him sideways so fast it nearly knocked the wind out of both of them. They disappeared behind a dusty, moth-eaten tapestry that hung crooked off the wall, the cloth shuddering as it fell back into place behind them. The alcove was narrow, choked with cobwebs and stone dust, the air heavy and damp with silence.

Regulus shoved James back against the wall, harder than he meant to, but he didn’t stop. His chest was heaving, eyes wide and glassy, wild with too many thoughts crashing too quickly to contain. His heart hadn’t slowed. His blade was still in his hand. His whole body vibrated like it couldn’t decide whether to collapse or explode.

“You don’t speak,” he hissed, the words broken into shards by his ragged breath. “Not when someone like him is that close. You don’t—” he gestured wildly, his voice catching. “You don’t breathe loud. You don’t blink. You don’t exist.”

James blinked anyway, stunned. “I didn’t. I—I didn’t do anything.”

“You should’ve stayed in the fucking tower,” Regulus snapped, too fast, too sharp. The edge in his voice wasn’t just anger; it was terror stretched thin, crackling through every syllable. “I told you to stay. What if he had seen us, James? What if he had cast Revelio? Or worse? He would’ve killed you. Do you understand that? No words, no warnings. You’d be dead.”

His hand still gripped the knife like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality, knuckles pale, wrist taut with tension. The blade caught a sliver of torchlight slipping through the folds of tapestry, just enough to gleam like something sinister. James stared at him, not at the knife, but at him, at the way Regulus stood braced like he was still preparing for impact. His face was flushed and flickering with too many emotions, too fast: fury, horror, disbelief, something fragile that looked like guilt curling under it all.

James saw it. Saw all of it, and something in his chest ached.

Gently, so gently it was almost reverent, he reached up and curled his fingers around Regulus’ wrist, warm skin meeting clammy, ice-cold panic. With slow, deliberate pressure, he eased the blade down, coaxing it away from his side, from whatever storm was still tearing through Regulus’ mind.

“I’m okay,” he said quietly, voice soft like velvet, like a hand brushing over bruised skin. “We’re okay.”

But Regulus didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His breath came fast and shallow, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles with a weight on his back. His eyes were locked onto James’ like he was trying to memorize every detail before something ripped him away. He looked like he was still there—in the hallway, in the heat of it, seeing Dolohov’s wand rise again and again in his mind.

James stepped closer, slow and sure, closing the last inches between them until their chests brushed, and Regulus’ composure shuddered visibly at the seams.

“Nothing happened,” James murmured, voice pitched just above a whisper, close enough now that his breath warmed the shell of Regulus’ ear. “You were ready to gut a Death Eater barehanded. Can’t lie… bit of a turn-on.”

A soft, strangled sound escaped Regulus, half a laugh, half something more feral, unsteady, and sharp at the edges. His eyes squeezed shut, and for one impossible moment, he looked like he might break entirely.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling, no real fire behind the words, just exhaustion and fear and that hollow sort of relief that always comes a second too late.

James leaned in, mouth brushing beneath Regulus’ jaw, a kiss as light as breath pressed into skin still burning with adrenaline. His hand stayed on Regulus’ wrist, grounding him.

“I’m here,” he whispered over his skin. Softer this time. Almost like a promise.

Regulus grabbed James by the collar with both hands, fists trembling as they twisted in the fabric, and then he kissed him. Hard.

It wasn’t gentle. There was no softness in it, no hesitation. Just heat and teeth and fury and breathless, crushing relief, all of it pouring out of him in a torrent he couldn’t contain. Just want, and need, and you’re alive crashing together in the bruising press of his mouth.

James made a startled, strangled sound, but Regulus didn’t care; he didn’t hear. His blood was a roar in his ears, a tide that drowned out everything but the taste of James’ mouth and the heat of his skin. He let go of the collar only to bury both hands in his hair, yanking, clutching, clawing him closer as though James might dissolve into smoke if he didn’t hold tight enough.

James gasped against him, and Regulus took the opportunity to bite down on his lip—not enough to draw blood, but close. Close enough that James groaned, low and wrecked, and Regulus swallowed it like oxygen.

The shaking in Regulus’ hands hadn’t stopped, and it wasn’t adrenaline anymore. It was fear. Rage. Possession.

Mine, something in him screamed. Mineminemine.

When James’ arms circled his waist, trying to slow the momentum, Regulus shoved him hard into the wall behind them, the tapestry rustling violently as stone met spine. James cursed, breathless, not protesting. Just there, letting Regulus use his mouth like a lifeline and a weapon all at once.

He finally tore away with a gasp, lips red and kiss-bruised, pupils blown wide. But even then, he didn’t let go. His hands stayed in James’ hair, gripping tight at the roots, holding his head in place.

James barely managed a breath. “Is this your version of ‘thank you for not dying’?”

Regulus’ eyes were wild, his chest heaving. “If you speak,” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracked like something was breaking loose inside him, “I will stab you with the same knife I almost used on Dolohov.”

And James, the absolute bastard, grinned. “Is it weird that I find that hot?”

“Deeply,” Regulus muttered, but his voice cracked on the word, hoarse and frayed.

James leaned in again, slower this time. He whispered something wildly indecent against Regulus’ ear—low and sinful, his breath warm on skin still flushed from fear. Regulus’ eyes glinted with mischief, his hands trailing deliberately over James’ chest, fingertips pressing lightly but with unmistakable intent. He wasn’t searching for reassurance anymore; he was claiming space, making sure James felt every inch of it. His touch was maddening in its restraint, tracing the path of James’ collarbone, then down his chest, fingertips gliding over fabric with just enough pressure to leave him aching for more.

James’ breath caught in his throat.

Regulus’ hands moved lower, slower, pausing here and there like he was memorizing him by feel alone. His gaze never left James’ face, watching, calculating, and just a little cruel in how much control he still held despite the wreckage of panic and adrenaline still pulsing in both their veins.

James tried to shift, but before he could move an inch, Regulus’ hand moved, fast and fluid, and his fingers curled around James’ throat—not hard, not punishing, but firm, a silent command that rooted James in place. The touch was warm, thumb brushing idly over the curve of his jaw, as if memorizing the way his heart felt under his fingers. James’ eyes widened, a sharp inhale rattling through him as Regulus’ other hand began to move—slowly, with a deliberateness that felt perilously close to sin.

It trailed down his chest again, knuckles grazing through the fabric, pausing just above the waistband of his trousers. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that James’ lungs forgot how to work properly.

Regulus’ finger traced along the waistband of James’ trousers, just barely dipping under the fabric—only to pull away, slow and deliberate. James’ fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, but Regulus slapped his hand away.

“Let me touch you,” James whispered, the words slipping out raw and urgent, his lips brushing against Regulus’ with the kind of plea that stripped him bare. “Please.”

Regulus stared at him—hard. Hungry. Haunted. His jaw clenched as he bit down on his lower lip, like he was physically holding something back, something sharp and volatile and close to breaking. His entire body was tense, like one wrong move and he'd snap—not away from James, but into him. Devour him. Destroy him.

“Consider this your punishment,” Regulus said at last, his voice low and thick, tinged with dangerous amusement. “For what you pulled in the armoury.”

He leaned in closer, breath ghosting against James’ mouth, and added, “Hands off, James.”

The sound of his name like that, so precise, so quiet, so Regulus, sent something spiralling through James’ chest. A smirk tried to tug at the corner of his lips, but Regulus’ hand tightened just a fraction at his throat, a reminder, not a threat. Just enough to say you’re mine.

He wasn’t pinning James down, not really, but rather holding him there, present, exposed, seen. The heat in his eyes was molten.

The wall at James’ back was cold, almost painfully so, but Regulus’ body pressed in close, warm and unrelenting. The contrast made every nerve in James’ skin buzz, made him too aware of the steady weight of Regulus’ touch and the unbearable space between what they were doing and what they both wanted.

“Aren’t you a beautiful mess,” Regulus murmured, voice barely above a breath, rough and velvet-edged, something dangerous laced through it. His eyes dragged slowly over James’ face, lingering on the flush in his cheeks, the parted lips, the unfocused, pleading look in his eyes. It wasn’t triumph in Regulus’ expression. It was hunger. Controlled, careful, but barely.

His hand traced a path back down James’ torso, slow enough to burn, and when his fingers finally brushed against bare skin beneath the shirt, it was with the lightest pressure—so soft it ached. James shivered, chest rising in a stuttering breath, and then Regulus pulled away, just enough to break contact. Just enough to starve him of it.

James let out a sound halfway between a breath and a curse, eyes snapping open in protest. His voice came low, urgent, needy.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, looking up like he could pull Regulus back with his gaze alone. “Please… just a little longer.”

Regulus’ fingers ghosted up to his jaw again, feather-light. “You always beg so pretty,” he murmured.

And then his mouth found James’ again. It started slow, but the moment James responded, leaning in with a broken gasp and a tremor in his grip, the dam gave way. The kiss deepened like it had been waiting for a crack to split open. Tongues met in slow, searing sweeps, a collision that pulled a low, helpless moan from James’ throat.

Regulus loosed his hold of James, and his fingers slid beneath Regulus’ shirt, feeling warm skin, the tremble in his muscles, the slight curve of his ribs. He held on tight, as if anchoring them both, as if letting go would mean falling into something they couldn’t climb out of. Regulus’ hands moved down his back, mapping out the shape of him, fingers digging in his skin.

A low, barely contained growl vibrated in Regulus’ chest when he nipped at James’ bottom lip and felt him melt into the kiss. It was a sound that felt almost involuntary, like the sound of something cracking just beneath the surface.

Their bodies pressed closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, breaths mingling and gasping as the heat between them became suffocating in the best possible way. James gripped the back of Regulus’ neck like it might vanish if he didn’t hold it tight enough. Every touch, every kiss, burned hotter than the last.

And yet, beneath the hunger, beneath the fire, there was that urgency again. That whispered reminder that this moment wasn’t promised. That it was stolen, fragile, held together by silence and shadows.

James broke the kiss only long enough to look at him. Regulus’ face was flushed, his hair slightly dishevelled, lips swollen and glistening with spit, pupils blown wide. Beautiful, James thought, wildly, reverently. So fucking beautiful.

“Don’t stop,” James whispered again, breath catching in his throat.

Regulus’ lips parted in a slow, wicked smile—mischief and ache and want etched into every line of him. And then he kissed him again, harder this time. Fierce. Intimate. Not to dominate, but to claim, to feel, to remember.

And James let him. Because being claimed by Regulus Black didn’t feel like giving up. It felt like belonging. Like finally being seen, bare and blood-warm and wanted.

Regulus stepped back all at once, the loss of contact as jarring as a slap. James let out a low, frustrated sound, breath catching, body still strung tight with need. He reached out instinctively, chasing the heat that had just been there, but Regulus was already moving, already slipping from his grasp.

He paused just out of reach, eyes gleaming, a slow, wicked grin curling at the corners of his mouth as he took in the sight of James: flushed, panting, dazed. Clothes rumpled, hair a mess from Regulus’ fingers, lips red and swollen from too much kissing. Regulus drank in the sight like it was fine wine.

“What did you say earlier?” Regulus asked, voice smooth and dangerous, laced with mock thoughtfulness. “Something about my ten minutes being up?” He tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… I suppose that makes it your turn now.”

James blinked, confused for a second, still drunk off the taste of him. “Wait—what?”

But Regulus just stepped closer again, hands light and teasing as they skimmed over James’ chest—palms flat against his shirt, tracing down, down, until James’ hips jerked forward with a low, involuntary groan.

His fingers hovered at the waistband of James’ trousers. Dipped just beneath, heat curling there like a promise with teeth… and then stopped. Just there. Skin to skin, but barely. Close enough to make James’ knees go weak, not close enough to offer relief.

James shuddered, breathing hard. “Regulus,” he warned, voice rough and shaking with restraint. “If you don’t—”

Regulus cut him off with a slow, smug hum. “You wanted me to take the lead,” he said simply, dark eyes glinting. “You said please, remember?”

And then he leaned in and kissed the corner of James’ mouth. It was the most devastating kiss James had ever known, not because it was heated, but because it wasn’t. Because it was gentle while his whole body was unravelling. Because Regulus could destroy him, and was choosing instead to make him beg for it.

His hand didn’t move. Just stayed right where it was, cruelly still, a single breath away from wrecking him completely.

James trembled under the weight of it, head falling back against the wall with a quiet thud, eyes squeezed shut. “You are evil,” he hissed.

Regulus laughed, low and unrepentant. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

And just when James thought he’d finally break, when he was sure Regulus would give in and do something, the bastard pulled his hand away completely.

James gasped, practically whining at the loss, hips bucking uselessly against empty air. “No—Regulus—what the fuck—”

But Regulus was already reaching for the edge of the cloak, grabbing the fabric with a casual flick of his wrist.

“I think we’re done here,” he said breezily, clearly enjoying every second of James’ stunned outrage. He pushed the moth-eaten tapestry aside and stepped out into the corridor like he hadn’t just lit James up from the inside and left him burning.

“Regulus— don’t you fucking dare—” James growled from behind him, voice breaking around the edges.

Regulus turned back just once, walking backward now, a smirk ghosting across his lips as he disappeared under the cloak. “Cool off, Potter,” he said with a wink. “You’ve got a mission to focus on.”

And then he was gone, leaving James behind—hot, hard, half-wrecked, and thoroughly ruined.

James stood there for several long seconds, fists clenched, jaw tight, trying to get a grip on himself, on anything, and failing spectacularly.

He had barely taken two steps out from behind the tapestry, still muttering murderously under his breath, when Regulus’ hand grabbed him and dragged him under the cloak.

Chapter Text

 They reached the portrait hole at the end of the corridor, and Regulus came to a sharp halt. Without warning, he pivoted on his heel and jabbed a pointed finger directly into the centre of James’ chest with enough force to make him stagger a step back.

“Behave,” he hissed, voice low but firm.

James blinked, taken aback and clearly offended, brows lifting as he recoiled with exaggerated indignation. “Me?” he gasped, hands flinging out in theatrical protest, his voice rising in mock agony. “You’re accusing me of misconduct? You were the one who saw fit to molest me in a public corridor!”

Regulus rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Big baby,” he muttered, brushing past him toward the entrance. “Complaining already?”

"You left me half-hard, panting, and dishevelled beneath a moth-eaten tapestry!” James hissed after him, trailing him like an outraged ghost. “And now I’m the problem?”

“I dragged you under the cloak, saved both our arses, and stopped you from having a spectacularly ill-timed orgasm. We both know how loud you can get,” Regulus shot back coolly over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

James gasped, scandalised.

“Oh, thank you, Saint Regulus, saviour of wayward Gryffindors everywhere.”

Regulus’ lips twitched, just barely, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re welcome,” he said primly, brushing past him as if nothing had happened.

James clutched his chest theatrically. “My virtue—”

“Still intact. Regrettably.” Regulus shot him a dark, pointed look.

James caught up to him with a huff. “Regrettably? Excuse you, I am a prize.”

“A prized headache, maybe.”

James clicked his tongue. “You act like you’re immune to the Potter charm.”

Regulus didn’t slow his stride. “Please. I’ve seen flobberworms with more compelling mating displays.”

James scoffed, mock-offended. “That’s rich, coming from someone who actually became putty in my hands the moment I kissed your neck.”

Regulus visibly stiffened. “I did not.”

“You made a sound,” James sing-songed, smirking. “It was very breathy.”

“I choked.”

“On desire,” James added helpfully, practically skipping beside him now.

“At this point, I think you just like the sound of your own voice.”

“I like the sound of your voice,” James replied smoothly. “Especially when you say my name. Or swear at me. Or moan when I—”

“Potter,” Regulus warned, clearly flustered now.

James grinned, absolutely delighted. “There it is. That little waver in your voice. I live for that.”

Regulus opened his mouth for a retort, eyes narrowing—but the second they stepped over the threshold into the Gryffindor common room, the energy changed.

The atmosphere, which had moments ago been charged with bickering and flirtation, thickened like smoke. Warm firelight flickered across stony walls, but the room felt far from welcoming. Tension clung to the air like static. Every head turned in perfect unison, a dozen sets of eyes narrowing with silent scrutiny.

Remus stood near the hearth, stiff and unmoving, arms folded tightly across his chest. His jaw was clenched hard enough that the muscles twitched beneath his skin, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with a slow, deliberate precision—the universal sign of a man barely resisting the urge to scream. He looked like he’d been standing there a long time, stewing in anxious silence.

Marlene sat perched on the arm of a chair beside him, brow arched, expression unreadable. Dorcas was leaning against the windowsill with her wand still in hand, and Barty—

Barty was sprawled lazily in an armchair like some smug cat, arms flung over the sides, one leg draped haphazardly over the other. He looked like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged there. His grin was a touch too wide, a bit too wild, the kind that suggested amusement with just the slightest hint of madness. He looked positively delighted, like the whole thing was the best show he'd seen all week.

Regulus, for once, didn’t freeze. Instead, he calmly lifted his elbow and drove it hard into James’ side.

James let out a startled noise, more grunt than word, and blinked rapidly like he’d just snapped out of a daze. Then, with a visible effort, he straightened his spine, smoothed his expression, and raised the satchel in one hand like a prize.

“We’re back!” he announced, far too brightly, his tone bordering on manic cheer. “And look—we didn’t die!”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Remus let out a long, slow breath through his nose, dragging his hand down his face with the air of someone on the verge of giving up entirely. “Merlin’s hairy arse,” he said, voice dangerously low. “You took your damn time.”

“I second that,” said Marlene dryly, glancing between the two of them. “Did you get it?”

Regulus held back a sigh and nodded, his fingers still brushing the satchel before James could wave it around again.

“We found everything.”

Before anyone could respond, Barty opened his mouth with a wolfish grin. “Did you also—ow!”

Evan slapped him sharply on the back of the head before he could finish the sentence. “Shut. Up.”

Without another word, Regulus crossed the room, stopping at the old table near the centre. With one sweeping motion of his arm, he sent its contents flying, the objects crashing to the floor in a chaotic clatter. The noise echoed off the stone walls like a warning bell.

He set the satchel down with quiet finality and began unpacking it methodically, each movement sharp and deliberate. One by one, he laid out the contents in grim, clinical order:

Three gleaming hatchets. Six daggers. A collection of holsters in varying sizes. Throwing knives, black-handled and wickedly sharp. Vials of thick, dark potions—labelled in cramped, spidery handwriting. Bandages. Salves. Coagulants. Antidotes.

“Knives. Potions. Everything’s here.” Regulus said quietly, arranging everything so it faced outward, easy to grab.

He glanced up at the others, who stood frozen in a tense semi-circle around the table, faces grim, eyes flickering over the weapons like they weren’t quite real.

“Pick whatever you want,” Regulus instructed, voice low but unshakably steady. “Make sure you hide them well.”

Marlene moved first—silent and sure. She picked up a curved dagger with an ivory hilt and slid it into the leather sheath on her boot.

Barty followed, whistling low under his breath as he lifted one of the throwing knives and tested its weight with surprising familiarity. “Lovely craftsmanship,” he murmured.

Dorcas picked a hatchet and a vial of black liquid, pocketing both without a word.

Sirius stepped forward, hands uncharacteristically steady, and selected a hunting knife with a leather-wrapped hilt. He didn’t meet Regulus’ eye.

Remus took longer. His hand hovered over the table before he finally selected a dagger and two slim vials. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscle near his temple pulsed visibly.

James lingered at the end of the table, eyes darting from weapon to weapon. He looked less sure, less ready. Regulus saw it and, without a word, nudged a small dagger toward him. Clean. Balanced. Practical.

“This one,” he said simply.

James hesitated only a moment longer before taking it, fingers curling around the hilt.

Regulus watched the way his hand settled into place, then stepped closer. “It suits your grip,” he said, his tone calm but deliberate. “You tend to hold a little loose around the pinky—barely noticeable, but enough that something heavier would tilt forward on the downswing.”

James blinked, looking down at his hand. “I—how do you even notice that?”

Regulus gave a faint shrug, as if it were obvious. “You hold your wand the same way. It's not wrong, just… yours. This blade’s weight compensates for it. It'll stay balanced even if your focus slips.”

There was a beat of silence, James’ eyes still on the dagger.

“You’ve really been paying attention,” he said, quieter now.

Regulus didn’t look at him. “Someone has to.”

At the far end of the room, Emmeline stood motionless, eyes wide, hands clenched at her sides. She didn’t move.

 “If the first trial takes place in the Forbidden Forest,” Regulus began, eyes flicking to each of them in turn, “you’ll need to listen carefully. No loud noises. No talking unless it’s necessary.”

The room stilled. Even Barty, who rarely took anything seriously, had sobered.

Regulus let his gaze sweep over them, sharp and unreadable.

“You hear something hiss, you hide.” His tone was cold steel. “Acromantulas can’t see well. Their eyesight is poor, but their hearing? Every branch you step on, every shallow breath, they hear it. They feel it. And once one of them knows where you are, the rest will come, especially if you stumble across a Matriarch. They’re fast, so don’t run unless you have to and try to move towards running water. Stay low. Stay still.”

He looked directly at Sirius. “And stay calm.”

Sirius scowled, opening his mouth to retort, but Regulus cut him off with a look.

“What about centaurs?” Marlene asked.

Regulus’ jaw tensed. “Stay away from them. They don’t like humans. Especially not students stumbling around with weapons. They’re proud, and they don’t care about your House or your blood status. If they see you, bow your head in submission and back away. Don’t speak to them. Don’t even look at them too long. If you insult them, intentionally or not, they won’t hesitate.”

“Right,” Marlene muttered, glancing at the blade she’d chosen like it wouldn’t be enough.

Sirius tapped the hilt of his dagger against his thigh. “Giants? Trolls?”

Regulus snorted softly. “Stupid. Loud. Easy to avoid if you’re paying attention. Trolls are like overgrown toddlers—slow to turn, sensitive to sound. Don’t draw their attention. Giants—same deal, only with worse tempers and a longer reach.”

He let that settle for a moment before continuing, “Don’t drink from still water. No lakes, no deep ponds, no stagnant pools. Especially not the ones that look clean. There’s a reason they’re untouched.”

James frowned. “Why not?”

Regulus gave him a look. “Because things live in them. Naiads, for one. Spirits of the water. They look harmless, beautiful even. Human, mostly. They’ll smile at you, sing to you, reach for you like they’re drowning. But they’re not. They will get into your head and twist everything the moment you step too close to their pond.”

“Lovely,” Dorcas muttered.

“Running water is safest,” Regulus went on. “Streams, especially shallow ones. Anything you can see the bottom of. Don’t trust what you can’t see.”

“And dryads?” Remus asked quietly.

Regulus hesitated—just for a second.

“Rare. But they’re territorial too. Tree spirits. They don’t like fire. Don’t like metal. They’re quiet, and they blend in. You’ll know you’ve stepped into one of their groves because everything will go still. No birds. No wind. Not even insects. If that happens, stop moving. Apologise and leave. Out loud. With respect.”

“Apologise?” Barty asked, eyes alight with amusement.

Regulus looked at him coolly. “Yes. Dryads don’t forget insults, and they can rot your insides without laying a hand on you. So yes—apologise.”

The grin vanished.

“And if you hear laughter,” Regulus added, voice darker now, “but you don’t see anyone? Keep walking. Don’t answer it. Don’t follow it. Naiads lure. Dryads warn. Boggarts play.”

“Boggarts?” Lily asked, brows lifting.

“They won’t always show up like they do in class,” Regulus said. “In the Forest, they’re harder to recognize. Trickier. They don’t always take the form of your worst fear. Sometimes they wear faces you trust. Voices you know. They’ll whisper things. Try to separate you. Confuse you. If you feel disoriented, suddenly alone when you weren’t a moment ago, test what’s around you. Ask a question only someone real would know the answer to.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the fire seemed to have dimmed.

“When night falls,” he continued, “do not sleep on open ground.”

“Where then?” Dorcas asked, her tone steady but wary.

“Up. If you can’t find shelter, climb. Sleep in the trees. Make hammocks. Just don’t sleep where something can grab you.”

A tense silence followed that. The table between them was still littered with weapons, the metal gleaming dully under the low light.

“There are werewolf packs,” Regulus said after a moment, almost too casually. His gaze flicked once to Remus, then away again. “Not many. And it’s not the full moon, so they won’t shift. But they’ll be able to smell you.”

He finally looked at Remus again. Their eyes met.

“They’ll sense you, most likely.”

Remus didn’t flinch. “And what should I do about that?”

“Stay downwind. If you meet them, don’t challenge them. Don’t run. If you catch their smell, you move in the opposite direction. Don’t run. That’s prey behaviour.”

James’ face had gone a shade paler. “That’s what we’re walking into?”

Regulus raised a single brow, as if the question were painfully naïve. “That,” he said calmly, “is the Forest on a good day. You’ll know when it stops being kind.”

“How do you know all this?” Emmeline asked quietly. She hadn’t moved from her place beside the table, one hand resting on the edge, knuckles white. Her eyes were fixed on the weapons, but her question was for him alone. “How do you know what to do?”

The question hovered, brittle and bare, cutting through the silence like glass. Everyone turned toward him.

Regulus didn’t blink.

“Did you think I spent years in a manor?” he asked, voice dropping an octave. “Reading books by the fire? Practicing duels in a ballroom?”

He looked at her then, gaze flat and unreadable.

“I survived. That’s how I know.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in still water. Ripples of realization spread across the room. There was something in the way he stood, the set of his jaw, the way he didn’t flinch from their scrutiny. He wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t asking for approval. He was telling the truth, and that truth wasn’t the kind they’d learned in books or classrooms.

He had been in the Forest before. He had seen what waited out there.

Regulus stepped closer to the table and dragged a fingertip through the thin film of dust that coated its surface. With slow, deliberate movements, he drew crude shapes and an arrow pointing north, carving the direction like a scar into the woodgrain beneath.

“Whatever happens,” he said, his voice quieter now, more focused, “you keep moving this way. North. The Forest thins the farther you go. There’s a complex of caves there. Natural shelter. You won’t find them on any of the school’s maps.”

“And if we get separated?” Remus asked.

“That’s where we regroup. The entrance is hidden behind a thicket of thorns and a row of standing stones. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“You make it sound like you’ve been there,” James said.

Regulus just looked at him, lips curling ever so slightly. “Maybe I have.”

Another silence fell.

Outside, the wind howled low through the cracks in the windows, like the forest was already calling them.

Regulus stepped back from the table. His hands rested lightly on the edge for a moment, fingers curled like claws bracing against weight unseen. Then he straightened, and when he spoke, his voice cut through the room with purpose.

“Memorize your surroundings. Not landmarks—those move in the Forest. Memorize texture. Terrain. The way moss grows on the north side of trees. You don’t want to walk in circles.”

Sirius was staring at him now, not with defiance, but with something approaching unfamiliar respect. He hadn’t realized. None of them had.

“Hide your weapons well,” Regulus continued. “In your boots, your sleeves, your waistband.”

Remus shifted slightly, the dagger he’d taken resting heavily at his hip. “And sleep?”

“In shifts,” Regulus said. “If you find each other, if you’re lucky enough to group up, one always stays awake. Even if you’re exhausted. Especially if you’re exhausted.”

He let the silence stretch for a breath, then added, “And if you’re going to panic…”

His eyes swept over them—Marlene’s clenched jaw, Remus’ steady but pale face, Dorcas’s unreadable expression, Sirius’ tense shoulders, Barty’s now-absent smirk, Emmeline’s white-knuckled grip, James’ wary silence.

“…do it now,” he said softly, but without mercy. “While nothing’s trying to kill you.”

They stared at him.

No one moved.

No one laughed.

No one scoffed.

Regulus didn’t ask for their fear. But somehow, in this moment, he had their trust.

He wasn’t just the strange, sharp Slytherin boy anymore. He wasn’t Sirius Black’s inconvenient shadow. He wasn’t the outcast, or the mystery, or the reluctant ally brought in through necessity.

He was the one with a plan.

The one with knowledge no one else had.

The one who had survived.

And suddenly, that meant something very different.

The light danced over the sharp glint of metal as Regulus inspected the blade in his hand, short, sleek, and wickedly curved. A row of identical knives lay in a meticulous line across the bed beside him, each one cleaned, sharpened, and set in perfect symmetry.

Evan sat near the window, legs crossed at the ankle, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. Barty, by contrast, looked like he was seconds away from bursting into flame. He hadn’t sat still since they entered. He paced with tight, looping strides like a wolf in too small a cage too small, boots scuffing against the stone floor with each turn. His eyes glittered with that barely-contained energy he got whenever something chaotic was about to happen.

“Ah, isn’t this like in the good old times?” Barty laughed, voice pitched high with that manic edge he always carried when he was too close to the edge of something dangerous. “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it. The blood. The thrill. That rush right before a curse hits and you can’t tell if it’s yours or theirs?”

Regulus didn’t look up. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, checking for burrs.

“Don’t indulge him,” Evan said dryly, pointing a long, pale finger at Barty without looking. “You feed it, and it gets worse. Like a dog with a taste for meat.”

“I don’t particularly miss it,” Regulus spoke calmly, still not glancing up

“Oh, bullshit,” Barty snickered, flopping backwards onto the arm of Regulus’ armchair. “I’ve seen the way you work. You don’t just do violence. You breathe it. You’re like me, Reg. You just hide it better.”

Regulus finally looked up, eyes cool and unreadable. “The difference between us is that I know when to stop.”

Barty’s grin widened, feral and unrepentant. “Do you? Because if I recall correctly, last time, it was your blade in that bastard’s throat before I even got mine out.”

“That was a necessity,” Regulus said evenly. “Not pleasure.”

“Sure,” Barty said, sing-songing the word like a child mocking a lecture. “Whatever helps you sleep, darling.”

Evan exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, watching it spiral above his head. “I hate to be the only adult in the room, but you two do realise we’re not out there yet, right? Maybe save the sadomasochistic nostalgia for after we survive the trial?”

“You're no fun, Rosier,” Barty muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave Regulus.

“And you’re going to get stabbed in your sleep one of these days,” Evan replied serenely.

Regulus didn’t rise to it. He returned his attention to the knives, slotting one back into its sheath with a practiced hand. “Bloodlust doesn’t keep you alive. Precision does. Timing. Discipline.”

“Control,” Evan added, tapping ash into a cracked saucer on the sill.

“Exactly.” Regulus nodded, glancing toward him.

Barty groaned and let his head fall back over the chair. “You two are so boring sometimes. Where’s your fire? Where’s the joy of watching someone fold under you, screaming your name—”

“Are we still talking about killing, or has this veered into one of your deeply concerning fantasies again?”

Barty didn’t miss a beat. He grinned, teeth flashing. “Why not both?”

Evan stood without ceremony. “That’s it. I'm getting back to my room.”

Before Regulus could respond with what was likely a scathing retort, or perhaps a knife to the thigh, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Barty sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and flung it open with the kind of enthusiasm that should have been deeply alarming to everyone involved.

“Oh, Potter,” he said brightly, leaning against the doorframe. “Did you overhear our very professional, extremely well-adjusted conversation and decide to step in?”

James blinked. He stared at Barty, then at the room behind him, brows furrowing in that very Gryffindor way of his that suggested he was about three seconds from making a poor decision.

“Your… what? No. Why would I—?”

“Well,” Barty began, waggling his eyebrows, “we were just talking about folding and screa—”

“Time to go.” Evan’s voice cut in like a guillotine, flat and final. He reached past James, grabbed Barty by the collar with all the grace of someone dragging a misbehaving dog off a couch, and started hauling him backwards.

“Hi James, bye James,” Evan said in one breath. “Barty, move your fucking ass inside.”

“Oi, Potter!” Barty called out over his shoulder, twisting with unnatural flexibility. “Make sure to—!”

The door slammed shut with a thud so loud it made the frame tremble. Barty’s voice on the other side continued for a few muffled seconds before being cut off completely.

James stood frozen for a moment, blinking like he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t accidentally wandered into the wrong reality. He slowly turned to face Regulus, who was now pinching the bridge of his nose so tightly it looked like he was trying to physically push the memory of Barty out of his brain.

“What,” James asked eventually, “the fuck was that?”

Regulus didn’t even lift his head. “Don’t ask.”

James looked at the door again. “Was he trying to flirt with me or… recruit me into some kind of questionable orgy?”

“Yes,” Regulus said flatly.

James snorted. “You’ve got lovely friends, by the way.”

“Believe me,” Regulus muttered, “they came with the trauma package. No returns. I checked.”

James wandered further into the room, eyeing the abandoned knives and rolled maps with casual interest. “Do they always talk about murder and kinks in the same breath?”

“Only when sober,” Regulus said darkly.

James raised an eyebrow, glancing once more at the door. “Merlin. And here I thought Gryffindors were the chaotic ones.”

“Debatable,” Regulus said as he returned to checking the edge of a blade

James stepped closer, the grin slowly fading from his lips as he watched Regulus a moment longer. The dim light caught the hard line of Regulus’ jaw, the curve of his brow pulled in tension. He was gripping the knife too tightly again, blade turning ever so slightly in his hand as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. He looked… fractured. Composed, still—but only just. Like a mask beginning to crack.

James knew that look. He’d worn it too many times after battles, after funerals, after waking up from dreams soaked in blood and memory.

“Hey,” James said softly, stepping fully into his space. “Love, look at me.”

Regulus didn’t, not at first. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere over James’ shoulder, guarded and sharp like he was afraid of what might be written on James’ face.

So James reached up slowly and cupped Regulus’ chin with careful fingers, guiding his gaze back to him. His touch was light, deliberate, and full of something unspoken. His other hand came up to gently wrap around Regulus’ wrist, coaxing the knife downward.

He let it fall, and James’ thumb brushed along his jaw, rough and careful.

“There you are,” he whispered, breath barely audible. “Hi.”

Regulus blinked. Once. Twice. His lips parted and stayed like that, as if forming a word he couldn’t quite say. And then, finally, it came.

“Hi,” he said, voice hoarse and barely there.

James smiled, soft and lopsided, like he’d just found something valuable buried in the rubble of a collapsing world. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed close enough for Regulus to breathe in the steadiness of him.

“I know it’s a lot,” James murmured after a moment, eyes searching his face. “You’re doing everything—leading, thinking ahead, watching everyone else like you’re afraid we’ll fall apart the second you blink.”

“You included,” Regulus said quietly, eyes dark and unreadable. “Especially you.”

James huffed a gentle breath of laughter. “Thought so.”

He hesitated, brushing his thumb along the bone just beneath Regulus’ eye. “Just… let someone take care of you too. Even if it’s just for a second.”

Regulus’ breath hitched. He looked away quickly, like the idea itself was dangerous. “I’m not used to— That’s not how this works.”

“With me, it can be,” James said softly.

That made Regulus falter. For a moment, something unguarded flickered in his eyes. He glanced at James’ hand still cradling his face, then back up.

“You really are the most inconvenient person I’ve ever met,” he muttered, but the words came with a reluctant, almost fond smile.

James leaned forward until their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. “Right back at you.”

For a little while, they just stayed like that—still, quiet, held together by silence and proximity.

Then Regulus shifted. Slowly. Carefully. Like a bird unused to landing somewhere safe. He pressed his forehead lightly to James’ shoulder, resting there. His fingers curled in the fabric of James’ shirt like he wasn’t sure he’d ever let go again.

“If we get separated—” James began.

Regulus stiffened. He straightened, already shaking his head. “No.”

James blinked. “No?”

Regulus pressed a palm to his chest. “You go to the caves. Like I said. You get everyone there. You wait. I’ll find you. Not the other way around.”

James reached up and took both of Regulus’ hands in his own, grounding him. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“This isn’t some Gryffindor stunt,” Regulus snapped. “It’s not the bloody Astronomy Tower, it’s the Forest. There are things out there that don't care if you’re brave. They'll rip you apart for breathing too loud.”

“I’ve been in the Forest before.”

“Not like this,” Regulus hissed. “You can't just wander around like you own the damn place.”

“Well…” James hesitated, then shrugged with a small, sheepish grin. “I am an Animagus.” 

Regulus stared at him. “You're a what?”

“A stag. Been one for years.”

“You’re joking.”

James gave a sheepish laugh, the kind he used when he knew he was being ridiculous and brave at the same time. “It’s a long story. But… why do you think we all have those nicknames? Wormtail. Padfoot. Prongs. We used to sneak out every full moon for Moony.”

Regulus stared at him like he’d just announced he could sprout wings and fly.

“Prongs,” he repeated softly, almost dazed. “Salazar’s bloody ghost, that’s so stupid.” But he laughed, sharp and fond.

“Let me guess—Sirius is a black dog?”

James’ grin widened. “How did you—?”

“He wanted a dog for years,” Regulus said, and for the first time, his voice was light. “Pestered Mother almost every day. Swore up and down that if he ever had a dog, he’d call it Grim and train it to hate nobles.”

They both laughed, the sound half-suffocated by the weight pressing down on them, but it was real.

Then the air shifted again. The laughter faded as Regulus looked back at him. “James… You don’t get to play hero. Not this time.”

“I’m not playing anything.” James’ voice dropped. “But I’m not leaving you behind either. Not if I can help it.”

Regulus exhaled sharply and looked away. “You always say that like it’s simple.”

“It is,” James insisted. “It’s terrifying. But it’s simple.”

There was a pause, full of things they didn’t have the time or safety to say.

“If something happens to me,” Regulus said quietly, “I want you to go north anyway. Even if you’re alone. Even if I’m—” he choked on the word and didn’t finish it. “You keep going. You make it out.”

“No,” James said firmly. “We make it out.”

“I’m serious—”

“So am I,” James said, reaching out to cup Regulus’ face again, gentle but firm. “We survive. Together. That’s a promise.”

Regulus’ breath hitched. He stared at James like he was something stupid and wonderful, something doomed to die shining. “You always make these promises like you can keep them.”

“I will,” James said, pressing his forehead to Regulus’. “I’ll fight the whole Forest until I get you back.”

Regulus gave a sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. His hands gripped the front of James’ shirt again, holding tight.

James took his hand and held it tightly. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it back. We survive. Together.”

Regulus’ jaw clenched. His throat moved like he was swallowing glass. Then he exhaled a shaky breath and nodded once.

“We survive,” he whispered. “Together.”

And James leaned forward and kissed him, not rushed or hungry, but slow and deliberate. A promise. Something to return to.

By sunset, the cold had sharpened into something cruel. Every breath Regulus took scraped raw down his throat, splintering into his lungs.

They were marched down from the tower in perfect, silent lines—deliberate and tight, no speaking, no glancing behind. Anyone who faltered was met with a swift blow to the ribs or the back of the head. The Death Eaters flanked both sides of the procession, their black cloaks whispering against the ground like funeral drapes. They moved like carrion birds circling the already-dying, heads tilted, waiting for the moment their feast would begin.

Even Barty didn’t speak. His usual grin, sharp and half-mad, had dissolved into something stiller—cold-eyed, jaw locked, pulse visible at his temple. He wasn’t smirking anymore. He was calculating.

They reached the Quidditch Pitch just as the last trace of light bled from the sky. What had once been a field of cheers and golden laughter was now a coliseum of bones. The wooden stands had been reinforced with rusted iron, and they groaned under the weight of cloaked figures packed shoulder to shoulder, Death Eaters leering down from above. Their silver masks caught the last dying light, each one glinting like a skull polished for display. Hundreds of them. Silent at first.

Then they began to scream.

It was primal—worse than battle, worse than grief. They shrieked and bellowed like animals, a chorus of hunger and anticipation. Some banged their wands against the railings, others clapped their hands in eerie unison. A few laughed, long and loud and mad, like this was a celebration. A festival of blood.

A mockery of sport.

Regulus’ stomach turned, but he didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. The noise crashed over them, a wave of anticipation and cruelty. This was no test. This was a spectacle.

In the centre of the pitch, where the goalposts once stood, a jagged stone dais had been raised, like some ancient altar pulled from the grave of a god long dead. And there, above it all, stood the Dark Lord himself.

Voldemort raised one pale, skeletal hand, and the crowd went still in an instant. Cut off mid-roar like a throat slit mid-scream. The silence was violent. It rang in the bones.

“Welcome,” he said, and the pitch seemed to bow beneath the weight of it. “Tonight, we begin the trials. A culling… a hunt. A game, perhaps—if one is generous.”

He smiled then. A thin, lipless thing. More teeth than warmth.

“Only the strong will survive. Only the worthy shall ascend in my new world. The rest… will serve their purpose in death.”

James shifted beside Regulus, tension drawn like a bowstring. His fingers brushed Regulus’ hand—brief, hidden—but Regulus felt the tremor. Not fear, exactly. Something deeper. A recognition of the abyss they were about to step into.

Voldemort’s gaze swept across the gathered group—slow, clinical, curious. He looked at them like a child inspecting insects before deciding which to pull the wings from first.

“Each of you will enter the Forest at staggered intervals. You will not know where your enemies are… but rest assured, they will be hunting you.”

“The trial will end in one of two ways,” Voldemort continued, voice still soft. “You will survive alone, proving yourself superior… or you will deliver the head of another to this dais as tribute.”

A pause.

Then the crowd erupted. Screaming, howling, shrieking with delight. Some stamped their feet like savage children at a puppet show, others lit sparks into the air with their wands in celebration. One man roared with laughter so hard he fell from his seat. No one helped him up.

This wasn’t a mission. This wasn’t war.

This was theatre.

Voldemort waited until the cacophony burned itself out again, then lifted his hand for silence.

“No magical transportation,” he said, tone sharper now. “No Portkeys. No Apparating. You will be given a blade and a single torch. No wands.” His eyes found Regulus in the crowd, then James. He smiled—something knowing, something cruel. “Magic has its place. But instinct… instinct is more honest.”

He let that settle in the air like poison.

“Fight, flee, hunt, kill.” He spread his arms like a priest inviting his congregation to prayer. “The strong will rise. The rest…” He paused. “Will entertain us.”

A soft chuckle rippled from his throat. But it wasn’t amusement. It was indulgence.

The crowd of Death Eaters roared like a starving beast finally let loose. The sound was a tidal wave of howls, shrieks, and maniacal laughter—inhuman, frenzied, hungry. Some of them were already on their feet, masks glinting, robes whipping as they surged down the stands. There was no signal. No countdown. No mercy.

Regulus saw hands twitching, fists clenched not to cast spells but to claim. 

Then it began.

A hand shot out of the darkness, rough and gloved, and ripped Peter Pettigrew backwards with such force it looked like his bones snapped. He let out a high, choked scream that cut off mid-breath. His feet left the ground. His wand clattered uselessly. And then—crack. Gone. A thread cut.

Emmeline shrieked his name, a raw, guttural sound, half panic and half denial, but no one was listening.

Another lunge—Dorcas. She twisted hard, snarling, her fist catching someone in the jaw, but there were three of them. She disappeared into the tangle of bodies. A flash of dark cloth. A hiss of laughter. A scream that pitched into silence. Crack. Gone.

Regulus stood frozen, the world fracturing around him like shattered glass. Movement everywhere—disjointed, surreal. Jerky silhouettes flickering between torchlight and shadow. The pitch had dissolved into chaos. People ran, but it wasn’t clear where to. There was nowhere to go. The darkness swallowed whole.

Another body—Evan—grabbed. Regulus saw the exact second he realized it was too late. His mouth opened to shout, his arm jerked up as if to fight, and then—crack. He was not there anymore. Just space where he’d stood. The air roared with magic and screams.

Regulus’ stomach turned to lead. He barely registered Barty lunging into the fray, mad-eyed, teeth bared like a cornered animal. He shoved someone hard enough that they hit the ground, then dove after where Evan had vanished—too slow. A masked figure stepped from the smoke, seized him by the collar, and yanked. Barty went rigid mid-lunge, his feet kicking air, and then—crack. The pitch swallowed him, too.

Regulus stood in the eye of it.

The world was burning down around him, and all he could do was watch.

Screams overlapped now—high and shrill, deep and broken, some laced with laughter that didn’t belong to the ones being taken. Someone shouted a name behind him, but it didn’t sound real, not anymore. The pitch was dissolving, the lines between enemy and victim blurred by firelight and terror.

A Death Eater to his right pulled someone down by their hair. Severus? He didn't even scream—just looked surprised. Then he was gone. The crack of Disapparition was so close it burst like a gunshot in Regulus’ skull.

He turned, spinning in place now, trying to track too many things at once. He was breathing too fast. Not enough air. Not enough control.

And then—James.

He was running. Dodging a lurching figure that reached for his cloak, shoving another aside with a shoulder check so hard it sent the man sprawling. James’ eyes locked on Regulus like a lifeline, like a lighthouse in the storm.

And Regulus moved. He didn’t think. His body just obeyed. He took a step forward. Then another. His hand stretched out instinctively, his heart thundering so loud it felt like it echoed through his spine.

Grabgrabgrabgrab—

James’ mouth moved. He was shouting something, maybe his name, but the words were lost in the maelstrom.

Regulus stretched further, fingers outstretched, the space between them narrowing so much he could almost feel the warmth of his skin—

And then iron fingers clamped down on his arm and pulled him back. 

“No—” he choked, twisting violently, trying to reach forward.

James’ face twisted in horror. He surged another step, his own hand flying toward him, but it was too late.

The pull was instant. Crushing. The world folded inward. Regulus’ stomach flipped, his ribs constricted like they were being crushed in a fist. His vision blackened at the edges. Wind roared in his ears.

The last thing he saw was James’ face—open, terrified, reaching for him—before the world snapped.

And he was gone.

Chapter Text

Regulus hit the forest floor hard.

His knees slammed into the frozen earth, the impact reverberating up through his spine. The cold bit through his robes instantly, sharp and merciless, and the breath was wrenched from his lungs. Gone was the chaos of the pitch—the screaming, the magic, the wild hunger of the crowd. Here, the silence was thick, suffocating. Oppressive in its stillness.

The trees loomed above, twisted and skeletal against a sky gone black, their branches clawing at the air like fingers ready to close around his throat.

He sucked in a gasp, forcing his limbs to move, to respond, and shoved himself upright on shaking arms. His dagger was already halfway out of its sheath before his brain caught up.

The Death Eater who had dragged him stood only a few paces away, breathing hard through the silver mask. Motionless. Watching.

Then, with a sharp, impatient tug, the mask came off.

“Fucking hell, Regulus,” Rabastan Lestrange hissed, raking a hand through his hair. “You fucking idiot, I told you to be careful!”

Regulus froze mid-breath.

“Rabastan?” His voice cracked. His mind reeled. “What are you—what the fuck are you doing here? You were supposed to be—”

“Rummaging through scraps in Albania? Sipping wine in Vienna with the rest of the cowards?” Rabastan barked a humorless laugh. “Pick one.”

“No,” Regulus said, still not moving. His breath clouded the air, harsh and uneven. “You—you were supposed to be stationed at the Border Tunnels. With Rodolphus. You weren’t supposed to—”

“Clearly, I wasn’t,” Rabastan snapped. “You think Rodolphus doesn’t know how to shuffle assignments? He’s had his boot up my arse for weeks. I barely slipped away long enough to find you, and now you’re here pulling suicide stunts and raiding the fucking medical ward while Dolohov was on shift? Have you finally gone mental?”

“I had no other choice,” Regulus spat, voice low. He pushed himself from the ground, brushing off pine needles with shaking hands.

“You could’ve told me!” Rabastan barked. “You could’ve written something, left a code? A list, blood on the fucking wall—anything!”

Regulus laughed sharply, and it was not kind.

“Oh, sure. Let me schedule that in between breakfast with Rodolphus breathing down your neck and my delightful cousin watching your every move like she’s ready to gut you for blinking wrong. Or maybe you’d prefer a nice fireside chat over tea in the common room?”

Rabastan’s jaw clenched. He closed his eyes briefly, as though forcing down a scream. “You’re lucky I was nearby. Again.”

Regulus blinked, the pieces shifting into place. “That was you?”

“No,” Rabastan sneered, “it was the Bloody Baron. Of course, it was me.” His voice cracked. “You and your Gryffindor lover left the armoury door unlocked. That room is supposed to be shielded seven ways from Sunday, and you left it wide open. Anyone with half a functional brain would’ve known it was one of you. I had to reroute Nott, stall Travers, and feed Bellatrix some bullshit story about one of the new recruits.”

Regulus stepped back, guilt flickering behind his eyes, but it didn’t last.

“I didn’t know who to trust.”

“Don’t—” Rabastan pointed a finger at him, eyes blazing. “Don’t insult me like that. I’ve bled for this. For you. I’ve covered your tracks more times than I can count, and all you ever do is look at me like you expect a knife in your back.”

There was a long, brittle silence between them. Rabastan exhaled through his nose and turned slightly, scanning the trees.

“Look,” he said, lower now, “I don’t have much time. Selwyn took your brother near the North Bog entrance. Muldoon dropped Lupin somewhere east, probably near the split-off trail. Didn’t want to make it obvious. The others—” he shook his head. “—were grabbed by anyone who could cast fast enough. I didn’t recognize half the fuckers in the stands. He brought in outsiders. Not even proper Death Eaters.”

Regulus’ heart pounded harder. “And James?”

Rabastan’s face twitched. “Didn’t see. He was still on the pitch when I grabbed you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Regulus growled. “Did you see him taken? Did anyone grab him?”

“I don’t know,” Rabastan said, voice clipped. “Sometimes they keep the pretty ones for the end. Makes for a better show.”

Regulus flinched like he’d been struck.

Rabastan’s mouth tightened. “…Sorry,” he muttered. “That was…harsh.”

“You think?” Regulus whispered, eyes unfocused now, staring through the trees like they’d open up and give him answers. “He’s not ready for this. Not like—” He cut himself off.

“None of us is ready,” Rabastan said. “They don’t want us ready. They want us broken. Rumour has it Voldemort riled up the werewolves again. Loosened the leash. Could just be something charming Bellatrix vomited to hear herself talk, but… just in case, watch the tree lines.”

Regulus didn’t respond at first. He stared past Rabastan, into the dark. The forest smelled like damp bark and rot. Everything in his body was tight.

Rabastan moved closer.

“Reg,” he said softly, his anger cooled but not gone. “You’re not going to make it through this if you keep playing lone martyr.”

Regulus let out a short, bitter laugh through his nose. “I don’t have the luxury of being anything else.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” Regulus turned his head slowly, finally meeting his eyes. “You think this is about choice? You think I get to decide when or how to burn?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t flinch. “People are dying, Rabastan. I don't get to be careful anymore.”

Rabastan’s eyes flickered, something pained flashing across his face before he smoothed it away. “You think I don’t know that?” he asked quietly. “You think I haven’t watched people I care about vanish into this machine and come out the other side as monsters or corpses?”

He stepped in closer.

“You are not a weapon,” Rabastan said firmly. “You’re not some lost cause waiting to fall for a world that already threw you away. I know what they taught you, what your mother drilled into your head, but they were wrong. You’re more than what you can sacrifice.”

Regulus looked away.

“…Be careful,” he said, finally. “We’re not all out to kill you. Some of us are just trying to keep you alive.”

Then he pulled the mask back over his face, turned, and Apparated, leaving Regulus alone again.

Regulus stood still long after Rabastan vanished.

The world around him had no sound, no movement, just the rhythmic thud of his heart in his ears. The cold bit at his face, but he didn’t notice it. Not really. He was already far away.

It all started with Marunweem.

A village that most people couldn’t point to on a map. A place half-swallowed by the sea and fog. He’d ended up there months after faking his death, wand always half-raised, sleep coming in short bursts. Marunweem had been a temporary hideaway, the kind of place he could disappear into without questions, just another bitter-faced boy who saw too much during the war.

And then Rabastan walked into the pub.

Regulus had recognized him instantly. That was the thing about the Lestranges — they moved like they owned the place. Rabastan looked leaner, sharper, haunted around the eyes. But he was still unmistakably himself. Same predatory grace. Same expression that looked carved from stone. Regulus’ chair scraped across the floor with a squeal of old wood. His dagger was in his hand before the man had reached the bar.

He almost killed him, right there between the beer-soaked floorboards and a roaring fireplace.

And Rabastan? He hadn’t even flinched. Just raised both hands, palms up, and said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Reggie boy. If I wanted to turn you in, you’d already be dead.”

Regulus had stared him down for nearly a full minute, chest heaving, blade twitching, before he backed off.

It had taken days, weeks, even, before Regulus believed him.

Because at first, it sounded like bait. Classic Lestrange games. Sympathy wrapped in venom. But then Rabastan started talking, and he didn’t stop.

He talked about the war. The camps. The disappearances no one bothered to document. He rattled off hideouts like he was reciting recipes: one beneath the ruins of a chapel outside Inverness, another beneath an old prison-ship off the coast. He gave Regulus maps with the corners burnt. Lists of Death Eaters, divided into those who liked pain and those who preferred profit. Who hoarded women. Who sold children. Names that made Regulus flinch, even though he’d grown up sharing the same dinner tables.

And then, slowly, Rabastan began to share fragments of something more.

Not in full. Rabastan never gave anything in full.

He told him a story with no clear beginning, and even less hope of an ending.

It was about a girl. A Muggle-born. Quiet and quick-witted. Dangerous in the way that made Rabastan laugh. He said she talked too much and didn’t flinch when she met his eyes. He said she insulted his wandwork and beat him at chess, and once stole his cigarettes out of sheer spite.

He never told Regulus her name.

Maybe because saying it out loud would make it real, or because it already hurt too much.

What he did say, quietly, with that bitter curve to his mouth, was that Voldemort made a lesson of her. Killed her in front of an entire room and made Rabastan watch.

Something in Rabastan cracked that night. Something he’d spent years holding together with spite and loyalty and family name. The break wasn’t clean. It didn’t turn him into a rebel or a saviour. It just made him quiet. More dangerous.

Regulus hadn’t trusted him completely. Not then. Not now, even. But there was something in Rabastan’s eyes, something worn and hateful and haunted. A man who stayed in the dark not because he believed in it, but because he couldn’t find the door anymore.

When Regulus was brought to Hogsmeade, Rabastan left his ancestral manor and moved into the castle. Officially, he said it was to be closer to the Dark Lord. Unofficially, he made sure Regulus didn’t end up on a pyre in the courtyard.

Regulus never asked him to do it. He never had to.

The places Regulus raided were always just lightly guarded. The patrols just late. The passwords just leaked into the right hands. And every time, Rabastan was nowhere to be seen, but his fingerprints were all over it.

He never stayed. Never lingered. Never asked for gratitude.

He didn’t know why Rabastan still gave a damn. Maybe it was that both of them had come to the same conclusion a long time ago:

The Dark Lord had no loyalty. Only uses. And once you were used up, you were nothing.

Rabastan wasn’t the only one who decided to operate from the shadows.

Cassiopeia Selwyn was a Death Eater of pureblood lineage and unshakable poise. A well-known member of Voldemort’s inner circle for years. Maybe the most important one. She moved like a knife through court politics, all cold smiles and silk-lined lies. Even Walburga had once lowered her voice when mentioning her, and that said everything.

She was older, thirty-seven, maybe thirty-eight, but her eyes had the brittle sharpness of someone twice that. She never had to raise her voice because even the most savage of Voldemort’s followers shut up when Selwyn spoke.

No one really knew when she turned. And if anyone suspected anything, they kept quiet. Cassiopeia Selwyn had a way of making people disappear—politely, permanently, and without leaving blood on the carpet.

Regulus only figured it out by accident. He watched the Order finishing a raid in Yorkshire, barely escaping alive with one of the prisoners. Usually, the Order does not leave behind their men, but with the place swarming with Death Eaters, they apparated away. Regulus, instead of leaving, decided to look around for anything helpful. He could make himself invisible when he wanted to.

He’d found the envelope under one of the rebels’ cloaks when he peeled it off. No name. Just coordinates.

An abandoned chapel hidden in the hills of Derbyshire. From the outside, it looked like a reliquary, just another holy place left to rot.

But inside?

Half a dozen barely-breathing captives. Chained to the stone floor like livestock. And a thick, leather-bound ledger tucked in the altar drawer, covered in blood and binding spells. Inside were names. Rows and rows of names, categorized by magical potency, blood status, and organ viability.

A harvest list, by the looks of it.

For dark rituals. Body augmentation. Extraction. Regulus had seen dark before, but this... this was systematic. Industrial.

It had Selwyn’s seal on it.

He’d confronted her days later, certain it was a trap. 

“It was my family’s chapel,” she had said, standing under a stained glass window while rain screamed against the panes. “I used to go there when I was seven. I buried my cat under the walnut outside. His name was Achilles.”

She sipped her wine like it was blood and said, “He killed my mother in front of me, you know. He told me she was weak. That she cried too much. That she asked too many questions. She begged him to spare me, so he slit her throat and smiled while she bled out on the drawing room rug.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Then he looked at me and said, ‘Now you’ll be strong.’ And he pushed me into the middle of the Death Eaters like a dog he was training.”

She downed the rest of her wine.

“I’ve been waiting to return the favor ever since.”

Cassiopeia Selwyn was a ghost in a velvet dress, feeding him scraps of intel, rerouting orders, selecting targets that had just the right amount of visibility. Enough to make a dent without exposing herself. Enough to let Regulus and Barty strike hard, vanish, and leave Voldemort’s loyalists bleeding in the dark.

Regulus trusted her as much as you could trust someone who had probably slit more throats than you’d ever spoken to.

But Selwyn had a goal. And that made her reliable.

Revenge was a powerful god.

Illyan Muldoon, on the other side, was different.

Mad, by most accounts. A pale, twitchy thing with long fingers stained green-black from years of potionwork. He stank of nightshade, Horklump juice, and whatever else he’d cooked down that week. He wore his Death Eater mask crooked, almost deliberately, and half the time it wasn’t even the right one. Regulus once saw him wearing a mask clearly carved for someone else, and Illyan just said, “Borrowed it,” and kept stirring a cauldron that smelled like scorched copper and something dead.

He never stayed in one place long.

The only thing steady about him was his obsession with alchemy. Real alchemy, the old kind. Transmutation. Philosophical poisons. Unstable brews that could melt steel or slow your heartbeat for twenty minutes without killing you. Alchemy that was not found in any book under Hogwarts’ roof—only in ruined grimoires whispered about in locked libraries in Eastern Europe.

Illyan didn’t believe in ethics or purity or even war. He believed in what worked.

He was the one who taught Regulus how to brew Wolfsbane properly. Not the Ministry-regulated pablum, but the real stuff.

Regulus had nearly blown off his face the first time. Illyan had just cackled and handed him a different stirring rod.

His betrayal had come quietly, but deep.

He’d been loyal once. Proud to be handpicked for the Dark Lord’s “internal refinement squad”, a fancy name for those who made the poisons, interrogation serums, and magical mutagens used in Voldemort’s darker projects.

Until one day, when he brewed a potion he wasn’t allowed to name and gave it to the Death Eaters. Something experimental that was meant to make the poor thing stronger.

They tested it on someone who turned out to be his nephew. 

Illyan watched the boy screaming. Saw his limbs bend backward and his magic surge so violently it shattered the walls of the lab. The boy convulsed for ten minutes before he finally stopped breathing. Illyan didn’t speak for two weeks.

Didn’t leave his lab either.

Just sat in the corner, arms wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth in silence.

Then, one night, he slipped out and left the castle.

No one stopped him. Maybe they assumed he was going to kill himself. Some probably hoped he would.

But he didn’t die. Instead, he started slipping formulas to Regulus or meeting him in the old ruins of an old fortress for practice. Sometimes in alleys, in graveyards, in sewers, in cellars, never where Regulus expected him.

He handed maps of subterranean paths used for smuggling magical creatures, artifacts, and stolen ingredients. At times, even sabotaged batches of potions that ended up in Death Eater hands, potions that made them hallucinate, forget, or lose control in battle.

One recruit tried to gouge out his own eyes after drinking Illyan’s latest blend. Another tried to confess to a murder that hadn’t happened. The Dark Lord ordered an inquiry.

Illyan just whistled tunelessly in the dungeon and said, “Maybe your batch went bad.”

He worked alone. Always. Didn't ask questions, didn't make demands. He simply handed Regulus a flask and said things like:

“This’ll give you twenty minutes of cold-blooded focus. No fear. No hesitation. Side effects include nosebleeds, trembling, and mild psychosis.”

Regulus used it anyway.

Illyan’s loyalties weren’t clean, but his hate was.

And it was enough.

The world snapped violently back into place, and James hit the ground so hard it rattled his teeth and drove every last breath from his lungs. He lay there for a moment, stunned, heart hammering in his chest, the lingering sting of side-along Apparition clinging to his bones like ice. His palms scraped against cold earth as he gasped for air, and before he could fully register the space around him, there was a sharp crack—the telltale sound of the Death Eater disappearing, gone before James could even turn his head.

The air hung heavy with damp, the scent of moss, decay, and something sour curling up his nostrils. He remained motionless, muscles coiled, his ears straining for any movement. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, every joint aching. Leaves clung to his jacket, wet and slick, and he brushed them off with shaking hands. Mist clung low to the ground, creeping and alive. The clearing where he’d been dropped was half-swallowed by mud, leaf pulp, and scattered bones—small ones, animal, he hoped.

But then something flickered at the edge of his mind.

Recognition.

And when the memory clicked into place, it punched the breath out of him all over again.

He laughed. Short. Startled. Disbelieving. It wasn’t a joyful sound. It was raw and frayed at the edges, the kind of sound that came from a place cracked wide open.

Of all the places they could have dumped him, this entire cursed forest sprawling like a wound across the earth, they had to choose this place?

He knew this clearing because he’d been here before.

Before the war, before blood and graveyards and betrayal began to define their days. Back when magic still felt like wonder, not war. When the world hadn’t collapsed in on itself like a dying star.

They had stumbled into this glade as boys. Stupid with freedom. Hearts full of mischief and possibility. He remembered Moony, ever the watchful one, going still first.

He hadn’t said a word.

Just stopped and stared.

And there it had stood.

A unicorn. Pale as starlight, still as breath. As if it had materialized out of myth, stepping into the world just for them.

But it hadn’t looked at them all. No, its gaze had gone straight to Remus, like it knew him, like it understood some part of him even James never fully had. The rest of them had watched, frozen in reverence, as the creature held Remus' gaze for a long, quiet moment, then disappeared between the trees without a sound.

James hadn’t thought of that night in years. Not properly. But standing here now, surrounded by echoes of the past, it returned with painful clarity.

The clearing looked smaller now. Darker. Like the forest had folded in on itself, pulling all the warmth from the earth and leaving behind only shadow. What had once felt sacred now felt cursed, like a haunted shell of memory.

And then the vision hit him.

Regulus.

His face, that face, just before the Death Eaters had started grabbing them like discarded objects.

James had seen a lot of things in the war and after. Blood. Death. Madness. But he had never seen Regulus look afraid like that.

He had reached for James. Fingers outstretched. Just shy of contact. Eyes wide, frantic. No mask of control. No practiced detachment. Just naked, visceral panic. And James remembered lunging forward in response, remembered shoving a Death Eater out of his way so hard he’d heard the man’s mask crack against the ground, but it was too late.

One flash of movement and Regulus was gone. Snatched. Stolen.

And James had been left standing alone.

He exhaled harshly and raked both hands through his hair, grounding himself before the panic could take root. The game had already begun. The hunt was on. Every second he wasted here meant someone else might be bleeding in the dark, or worse.

But James wasn’t helpless. He knew Regulus would go north, and if there was one thing James Potter could do in a cursed forest filled with death and silence, it was follow. It didn’t matter if it was foolish or suicidal. It didn’t matter if traps waited at every turn, or if the trees themselves tried to kill him.

Their paths would cross. They had to.

The forest was vast, yes, but not infinite.

And they had always been pulled to each other like magnets in the middle of a storm.

He moved quickly, feet crunching softly against the earth, eyes alert. There was no wand in his hand, no map, no plan. Just instinct and sheer purpose.

He passed trees that felt like old gods, towering and gnarled. He felt the forest watching him, ancient and waiting, but he didn’t slow.

And in his mind, the same thought looped, like a drumbeat, like a curse:

Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.

He would find Regulus.

And if anyone stood in his way, they’d find out just how dangerous James Potter could be with a knife and with nothing left to lose.

Barty knew he was crazy.

He didn’t flinch from the word. Didn’t sugarcoat it. It was a badge he wore proudly, stitched into every thread of his being. Madness clung to him like a sickness that had grown under his skin—festering, foul, inescapable. Most people pretended. Smiled and lied and called it “moods” or “passions.” Not Barty. He owned it. Dragged it behind him like a carcass, smeared in blood and bile.

When the Death Eater dropped him in the swamp like something spoiled, like offal scraped off a butcher’s floor, he made sure to take his pinkie finger with him. A little souvenir.

Now, he was knee-deep in mud in the middle of fucking nowhere. Not even in the Forest. Not even a respectable clearing. A Bog. Capital B. The kind that festered, that stank like a body rotting from the inside out. 

How dare they?

He didn’t scream. He laughed, high, thin, a laugh jagged as splinters in the throat, almost giddy in its sharpness. He laughed until it felt like something in his throat tore. Until his ribs ached and his head buzzed. Until it wasn’t funny anymore and never really had been.

Case in point: Barty Crouch Jr. was not entirely sane.

He stood still for a long time. Breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, like a body trying to flee without legs, like the air around him was thickening into a kind of drowning. The trees whispered, or maybe they jeered.

He could feel their eyes. Bark-slick and resin-wet, blinking slow, leering with a contempt he could feel in his spine. He laughed again, softer now. Not madder, just lonelier.

His hands trembled, not from fear, because Barty didn’t do fear, that was for weaker men, but from a kind of fury that had melted in the heat of his own brain. Rage dulled at the edges. Rage that didn’t roar but hissed and festered.

He scraped mud from under his nails, fascinated by the smears. Brown, red. Blood? Dirt? Did it matter?

He stared at his own fingers like they belonged to someone else.

The Death Eater’s finger he’d just cut off, was still lying somewhere in the muck. Maybe he should find it and pocket it. A good luck charm.

Merlin, Evan would’ve had a field day seeing him half feral like this. He would’ve flicked his cigarette, narrow-eyed and annoyed, muttering some cruel thing sharp enough to slice the air. He would've smacked Barty upside the head, not hard, not soft either, but lovely. Bored and perfect because Evan Rosier never needed theatrics.

Evan saw him. Not the facade. Not the performance. The ugly, cracked core of him. The sharp edges and neediness. The desperation and violence. And somehow, he didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to fix it—he just held it, like a weight only he knew how to carry.

He had been his compass. Not a soft one, not one that cared about redemption or sanity, but one that knew when Barty was drifting too far, too deep. He’d always pull him back. With a sneer, with a slap, with that terrifying ability to just exist without cracking. A steadying force.

But Evan was gone now, wasn’t he? And without him, the madness had teeth. It chewed through Barty, whispered sweet filth into his ear, told him the trees were watching, that the mud was gnawing at his ankles, that the sky itself was peeling. The world frayed without Evan—unraveled like stitches pulled too tight, then snapped. No one left to call him an idiot and mean it. No one to slap the dagger out of his hand or dig fingers into his jaw when Barty started to spiral, like it meant something, like he meant something. Without Evan, even the ghosts started wearing his face. It was cruel, how the mind clung to what it craved most.

“Look what I am without you, love,” he whispered hoarsely.

Because the thing was—Barty loved him. It wasn’t the kind of love people wrote poetry about, or the love he had imagined when he was seeing Regulus. It didn’t smell like flowers or sound like lullabies. It was something jagged, obsessive, feral. Something that lived under his tongue like a secret curse. He loved Evan in a way that hurt to hold inside, like fire in the palm, like swallowing knives. He would’ve flayed himself open if Evan asked.

And Evan—he never coddled him. Never pretended it wasn’t dark. That was what made it real.

With Regulus, Evan was careful. Gentle. Always just a little softer around the edges, voice lowered like he thought Regulus might break if he looked too hard at him.

But with Barty? He was something else entirely.

He was sharp. Possessive. Not tender, never tender, but his. All teeth and fire, cigarette smoke and fury. With Barty, Evan never played soft. He shoved, demanded, provoked. Dragged him back from the brink with clawed hands and a voice full of scorn. He bit before he bled. And it made Barty’s skin feel too tight, his heart too full. It meant everything.

It was an understatement to say he would turn the world upside down just to get at Evan.

Barty would burn it. He would laugh in the face of gods and swallow death whole if it meant Evan looked at him like that again, like he was something real, something dangerous and worth taming.

A snap cracked through the boggy stillness, and Barty went still instantly, every muscle locking into place as instinct took over. It came from just beyond a narrow rise in the mud, a jagged outcropping of stone and twisted root that barely passed for a cliff, but offered enough cover for someone stupid or suicidal to stand on. He dropped to a crouch, knife in hand, before he even thought about it.

His breath stuttered in his chest. The air was thick and wet, clinging to his lungs. Every nerve was vibrating, anticipation bleeding into something hungry.

"For fuck’s sake, fucking shit, from all of the places—"

That voice. The cadence, the lilt, the barely restrained rage buried under clipped consonants. That edge—Evan always had that edge when he was pissed, and now it wrapped around the words like barbed wire.

Barty’s heart didn’t beat. It crashed.

He stayed low, trembling. Not with fear, but disbelief. Madness. Hope. What if it was another hallucination? Wouldn't be the first time he'd heard Evan’s voice in the mud. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d conjured it just to feel something real.

But then footsteps, real ones this time, scraped down the ridge, boots slapping stone and muck, and Barty knew.

Somewhere in the marrow of him, he knew.

He surged up before he could talk himself out of it, blade still clutched tight, wildness spilling off him in waves.

And there he was.

Evan fucking Rosier.

Hair damp and curling at the edges, shirt half-untucked. His dagger was out but held low, shoulders tense, and jaw tight. When his eyes met Barty’s, storm-dark, sharp as razors, he didn’t look surprised. He looked furious.

“What the fuck,” Evan snapped, his voice louder now, sharp enough to slap. “Are you serious? Are you completely out of your fucking mind? Why are you in the fucking open like this?”

Barty blinked. A beat. Another. Then:

“Yes,” he rasped. To what? Barty didn't know.

That seemed to stun Evan for a second, just a flicker, but it passed quickly.

“Are you bleeding?” Evan hissed, stomping through the sludge toward him, grabbing his wrist.

Barty held it up with a crooked grin. “Not mine. I cut the Death Eater’s finger off. Souvenir.” He frowned, “It’s somewhere in the mud. I need to find it.”

Evan looked at him then and took in the grime and blood caked under his fingernails, the mad shine behind his eyes, the twitch in his fingers that wouldn’t stop. The smile that was too wide, too wrong. The way he was swaying just slightly, like something was tugging at his spine.

The cliff’s edge Barty was dancing on.

The madness, wrapping around him like a lover.

“Oh, Barty…” Evan muttered.

There was no venom in it. Just something pained and raw and sharp-edged with regret.           

One hand slid into Barty’s hair, and the other cupped his jaw. Barty barely had time to draw a breath before Evan kissed him.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t dominance.

It was a rescue.

Fierce and sudden and grounding. Like if Evan pressed hard enough, if he took enough of him back into his mouth, maybe he could pull Barty out of the dark again. Maybe he could shove the madness aside, even for just one moment, and remind Barty of his way back home.

Barty made a noise in the back of his throat, something desperate and keening, and grabbed fistfuls of Evan’s coat, clinging like gravity had gone sideways. He kissed back like a dying thing, like this was oxygen, like the bog would eat him whole if he let go.

Evan broke the kiss first, forehead resting against Barty’s, breath ragged.

“You cut off a man’s finger,” he muttered, somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Barty huffed a breath. “I like to think of it as a good luck charm.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Evan’s hand slipped from his jaw to his throat, thumb brushing the skin like he needed to feel the pulse for proof.

“You can’t do this alone.”

“I didn’t know where to find you.”

Evan closed his eyes, just for a moment, jaw clenching.

“If you go under again, Barty, if you let it take you, I won’t be able to pull you back next time.”

“You just did,” Barty said, voice small.

And Evan kissed him again.

Harder this time. Rough. Possessive. All fire and fury and unspoken don’t you ever do this again. The kind of kiss that tasted like a warning and a promise at once.

Barty let himself be kissed. Let himself feel it. Let himself be pulled back from the edge. Because if Evan was going to hold him together, even by the throat wth his teeth, he’d let him.

And Merlin, he’d burn the world to ash just to feel that mouth on his again.

The forest around Sirius blurred, then sharpened into grim clarity—the rough bark of trees, the dark, tangled undergrowth, the distant, haunting calls of creatures he didn’t want to know.

Before he could even catch his breath, the Death Eater who’d dropped spoke, voice cold and distant.

“Avoid the Acromantula nests,” they said, tone sharp like a whip. “They don’t take kindly to visitors.”

Sirius frowned, spinning toward the sound, mouth opening to demand what that meant, but it was already too late. The bastard was gone, vanished in the acrid smell of Apparition, leaving behind only a smear of sulphur and burnt ozone.

His heart thundered. Not just from the encounter, but from the silence that followed. Too silent.

Where was Moony?

The thought slammed into him like a curse. His chest tightened. Panic clawed up from his ribs, hot and fast, catching in his throat, like a living thing.

He remembered, too vividly, another time. Years ago.

He’d waited by the floo for nearly two hours past the arranged time, pacing like a madman in front of the fireplace, fists clenching every few minutes when the green flames didn’t ignite. It had been a simple mission. In and out. But Moony was late, and Sirius couldn’t stop imagining all the things that could go wrong. He’d told himself he was fine, that he was just being dramatic, that Moony had probably stayed behind to help someone or file some damn report. But when the clock hit the third hour, Sirius had found himself in the corner of the room, shaking, nails dug into his arm so deeply he left bruises there.

When Moony had finally arrived, looking tired and perfectly whole, Sirius hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t scolded. Hadn’t kissed him. Just stared—numb, brittle, his entire soul vibrating with too much terror and nowhere to put it.

That was the night James had pulled him aside and said, voice low and firm, “You’re getting too dependent on him, Pads. You’ve gotta be able to stand on your own if you’re going to survive this war.”

At the time, Sirius had laughed. Of course, he was dependent. Who the hell wasn’t in this madness? They all leaned on each other. That’s what love was. That’s what brotherhood was. That’s what they had to do, wasn’t it?

And now Sirius was alone again, spine prickling with the ghosts of that memory, and he finally understood what James had meant. This terror, this frantic, clawing helplessness, was dangerous.

Sirius ran a trembling hand through his hair, forcing the air in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Get it together, Black.

He was many things: clever, fast, reckless, loyal to the point of ruin, but he wasn’t built for this kind of combat. The raw, primal kind. No wands. No spells. He wasn’t like James, with that inherent sharpness in a duel, or like Remus, who moved with quiet, tactical precision. Sirius had flair. He had fire. But that didn’t mean survival.

He knew now, with painful clarity: If I don’t keep moving, I will die.

It was that simple. He couldn’t afford to freeze up every time Moony wasn’t at his side. Couldn’t afford to wait for someone to save him. No matter how many nights Remus had pulled him from the edge, no matter how many times James had caught him before he fell, Sirius knew the truth now.

They wouldn’t always be there. And the forest did not wait for the broken-hearted.

Drawing a breath that rattled like glass in his throat, Sirius straightened. Moony was out there somewhere looking for him. Maybe injured. Maybe not. But Sirius couldn’t stand here like a child lost at King’s Cross.

He needed to survive. And to do this, he started walking north.

The forest closed in around him, not merely as a collection of trees and tangled undergrowth, but as a living snare.

Regulus moved with meticulous grace, threading its way through, each step calculated and deliberate, his body attuned to the tension in the air, to the subtle tremors in the earth beneath his feet. He was silent, sharp, and perfectly aware of how precarious each moment was, how near he walked to the line where the stitch might snap and everything unravel. This forest was old. Not old in the way castles grew mossy or books gathered dust, but old in a way that suggested sentience—memory layered into bark and loam. It did not simply endure. It remembered.

And what it remembered most clearly, most deeply, was blood.

As Regulus pressed further north, deeper into the tangled heart of the wood, the familiar rules of landscape and orientation began to dissolve. The forest here had shed all pretence of being tameable or charted. There were no paths, no breaks in the canopy to offer stars or sky, only faint disturbances in the forest floor—whispers of movement traced in bent moss, shallow imprints in mud. None of them belonged to humans. Some prints were sharp and cloven, like hooves. Others bore long, raking claws. A few were shapes he could not name, and those were the ones that gave him pause, halting his breath as his fingers tightened around his dagger.

He crouched beneath the twisted limbs of a tree so ancient it leaned under its own weight, bark warped into curling whorls. Pressing his palms to the damp earth, he felt the slow throb of something pulsing below—an ancient magic that did not answer to spells or scripts, a raw and primal current that moved with its own will. This was not magic taught in books or practiced in duels. This was wild magic. Untamed. Watchful. It existed in the marrow of the place, older than any castle wall, older than even Salazar Slytherin’s resting bones.

He had grown up reading fractured tales of the Shadowed Wood, stories stitched together from wizarding superstition and the half-believed nightmares of Muggle folklore. The Forbidden Forest, with all its beasts and bans, was a child's garden compared to what surrounded him now. This was something else. Something outside the margins of any map. He stumbled upon a tree unlike the others, a towering sentinel that had been cleaved cleanly in two, not by axe or lightning, but from within, as though some unbearable pressure had forced it to split along a hidden fault. From its torn heart, sap bled thickly, slow and luminous, golden as honey but glinting with a strange iridescence. He circled it cautiously, unwilling to touch, or even to breathe too near.

And then, further ahead, he saw them.

The signs.

At first, they were nearly invisible. A delicate drift of pollen, suspended in air and glowing with a faint, unnatural blue. Leaves no larger than coins, curled into impossibly perfect spirals and arranged in deliberate, almost ceremonial patterns at the base of a pale tree. The air shifted, subtle but unmistakable—the temperature dropped by a single, telling degree, and the scent in the wind changed. It carried a sweetness now, sharp and cloying, something like crushed violets mixed with magic. It stung the inside of his nose.

Dryads.

His body froze. His breath caught mid-chest.

These were no gentle forest sprites from bedtime stories. These were the flicker-creatures. Elusive. Unstable. Beings of deep instinct and mood, capable of wild swings from curiosity to fury in a heartbeat. They were not evil, not in the sense wizards liked to label things, but they were old and they were territorial. Their presence was a warning written in scent and light. They didn’t make a sound. You didn’t see them unless they wanted you to, and if they turned their attention your way, there was very little you could do but hope they didn’t find you interesting enough.

Regulus lowered his gaze slightly, not submissive, but respectful. A calculated offering of reverence.

“I apologize,” he said quietly, voice low and clear, each syllable deliberately formed. “I didn’t know I was crossing into your territory. I’ll leave.”

And so, without another word, without so much as a backward glance, he began to retreat, each step placed with meticulous care, avoiding the snap of branches or the give of soft moss beneath foot. To run would be to trigger pursuit. Dryads were drawn to sudden motion, fascinated by it, the way a cat is with a wounded bird.

One of them flickered to his left, a tangle of vines twisted into the suggestion of a figure—neither male nor female, glowing faintly green, their “eyes” hollow and endless. A hum passed through the air. A frequency that thrummed behind the teeth, vibrating the bones in his jaw.

Regulus swallowed tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, as he crossed the last threshold of their territory. “For letting me walk away.”

The pressure slowly lifted, and Regulus allowed himself a breath.

Just one.

He never saw the blow coming.

A blur from the right slammed into him, the force knocking him off his feet, his back cracking against the forest floor with a bone-jarring thud. The impact drove the wind from his lungs. He didn’t even have time to gasp before another punch came down like a thunderclap.

Knuckles split flesh. His lip burst. His cheekbone crunched under the brutal arc of the blow. Copper flooded his mouth in a hot, metallic rush, tangling with the grit of moss and dirt. His head snapped sideways, vision skewing. The trees spun.

“You fucking coward!” Avery’s voice was a snarl, wet with rage, spittle flying with every word. “You think you can just walk away? Think you’re better than us now?”

The weight atop him shifted, Avery’s knees digging hard into his ribs, pinning him like a nailed insect. Another blow came, then another, and another, each one hotter, harder, bloodier than the last. The fists didn’t stop. They landed with sick, meaty smacks, each a red burst behind Regulus’ eyes.

He writhed, limbs jerking, and his fingers found the edge of his boot and pulled his dagger.

It slipped, and the blade clattered into the moss with a hollow sound.

Avery growled and slammed an elbow down hard into Regulus’ chest, then drove it into his throat. Air stopped. His back arched, a strangled sound clawing from his mouth as his lungs screamed for oxygen. His hands flew up, not with intent, but in panic. Pure animal panic. He clawed at Avery’s forearms, at his shirt, at anything, but Avery was solid. Bigger. Meaner. He was grinning now, teeth bared like an animal.

“Traitor. Filthy traitor. Always thought you were too delicate to get your hands dirty. Should’ve drowned you in the fucking Black Lake when I had the chance.”

Regulus’ vision blurred. Stars exploded across his vision.

The next punch nearly drove him into darkness.

But something in him refused to let go. Some thread of survival curled up from his spine and screamed move.

Avery’s fist reared back for another strike, but stopped, snapping his head to the side as a sound like a whip cracked through the clearing. Not loud—but sharp. Intentional.

He froze mid-punch and his brow twitched, eyes flicking downward—too late.

A thick vine, green and coiled like a serpent, snaked around his ankle and pulled.

Avery was ripped backwards off of Regulus like a ragdoll. His knees scraped across the ground, his shout strangled in his throat as the vine yanked him with unnatural strength into the trees. His body slammed into a trunk with a sickening crunch. Bark split. 

“What the fu—!”

But the forest swallowed his voice. The vine didn’t stop. More followed. Thin tendrils slithered through the moss and leaves, binding his arms, his legs, dragging him screaming into the dark.

The Dryads had sensed them, and whatever rules governed this part of the forest, Avery had just broken one.

Regulus gasped, breath rushing back like shattered glass. He gagged, spat blood, and forced himself to his knees. Pain radiated from every joint. His mouth pulsed with agony. His right eye was swelling shut.

Yet, he moved.

He shoved himself upright, legs shaking like newborn limbs, and staggered forward. No thought. No direction. Just away.

The forest was alive behind him. Movement. Flickers of light and shape. Avery’s curses turned into screams, then into nothing. Just the rustle of trees. The crack of wood. A silence that rang louder than violence.

Chapter Text

Regulus couldn’t tell how long he had been running.

Time had turned into something shapeless. It no longer moved in moments or minutes, but in sensations—raw, disjointed pieces of memory clinging to breath and blood. The relentless pounding in his ears marked the only rhythm, matching each ragged pull of air into his burning lungs. The world blurred more with every blink, the trees shifting into distorted shapes, the path ahead nothing more than shadow and blurred images.

The forest had become a maze of pain. Thorns tore at him like grasping fingers, snaring in his robes, raking across his arms with greedy insistence. Branches lashed his shoulders and tugged at his hair, the underbrush dragging at his legs, as though the forest itself wanted to claim him. He moved without thought now—his body caught in some feral autopilot, driven forward not by purpose but by instinct, by a primal need to escape.

Somewhere along the way, the sharp sting of his wounds had dulled, buried under deeper aches. A cold, spreading pain had settled into his bones, wrapping around his spine, his ribs, his shoulders. His face throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he had stopped registering it as an individual injury. The blood dripping steadily from his chin was just part of him now, seeping into the collar of his shirt, sticky against his neck. His breath came shallow and uneven, rattling in his chest. Every step jarred something inside him. He didn’t know if his ribs were cracked or just badly bruised, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t stop.

Then, suddenly, the forest broke open.

One moment, he was half-crawling beneath hanging roots, forcing himself through a wall of bramble and clawed ivy, and the next, he broke through and stumbled into stillness. The trees peeled back around him like a curtain, and he staggered into a clearing so abruptly it knocked the breath from his lungs all over again. His foot caught on a gnarled root hidden in the tall grass, and he nearly collapsed. He caught himself at the last second, one hand driving into the earth, his chest heaving.

It was quiet here.

Unnaturally so.

The oppressive noise of the forest—its shrieking insects, distant snarls, and rustling branches—had vanished. In its place was a hush, vast and weighty, like a held breath. Despite the lingering darkness, the clouds had thinned above the clearing, allowing slivers of moonlight to spill through. It washed everything in cold silver, casting long, soft shadows. The mist clung low to the ground, thickest where the grass rose in clumps, and it shifted slowly, curling around pale, wildflowers that glowed faintly in the moonlight like ghostly lanterns.

A river cut across the far side of the clearing, its surface slick with light. Moss-covered stones jutted from the banks like broken teeth, worn smooth by time. Regulus stared at them for a moment, his pulse still thundering. The place felt wrong, but he was so, so tired and everything hurt. He needed to stop a little and do something about his wounds, or he would collapse and bleed out like a fucking idiot in the middle of the forest.

He scanned the perimeter with sharp, frantic eyes. Every movement of the mist, every sway of the grass, sent a jolt through him. His gaze darted between trees, searching for any flicker of life, the glint of eyes in the dark, or the shimmer of magic wound too tightly in the air. But there was nothing. No scent of blood. No whisper of predator. No sense that he was being watched.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Regulus allowed his knees to give. He moved to the river’s edge and dropped heavily to the ground, his hands trembling as they reached for the water. The cold shocked him. A jolt of ice that seized his lungs and lit every nerve in his fingers. He gasped through clenched teeth, breath catching on the raw places in his throat, but he didn’t stop. He dunked his hands in again and again, scooping the water and splashing it over his face with increasing desperation.

Soon, it started to run red as blood washed from his skin in waves, trailing down his wrists and dripping into the current. The river carried it away without protest. His face throbbed beneath the chill, the swelling and bruising angry and immediate under his fingertips. But the cold numbed it—blunting the edges of the pain enough that he could think.

He touched his face gingerly, his fingertips tracing the swollen curve of his left cheek. The cut along his brow was jagged, likely needing stitches if he’d been anywhere near civilization. Blood still oozed from the split in his lip, and the entire right side of his face felt bloated, bruised to the bone. He winced when he brushed his nose—it hadn’t broken, but the cartilage protested.

Finally, his legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed backward onto one of the larger, flat stones near the riverbank. The cold surface bit into his spine through the thin fabric of his robes, and he groaned softly. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, stiff with effort. He let his head loll against the stone, the back of his skull pressing into its rough curve as he exhaled shakily.

“Fucking shit,” he whispered, the words half-slurred, more breath than voice.

His fingers trembled as he reached down to his left boot and felt for the hidden compartment stitched just beneath the cuff. From it, he pulled a vial of Murtlap essence. He uncorked it with his teeth, the stopper coming free with a soft pop, and swished the vial slowly to mix the layers. Then, carefully, he tipped it and let a few drops gather on his fingers. The scent was sharp and earthy, like something freshly dug from the ground.

Regulus dabbed it first along the gash above his eye. The liquid hissed faintly on contact, and the pain bloomed hot and immediate, like acid poured into an open wound. His body jerked in reaction, back arching instinctively away from the sting, but he didn’t cry out. He just clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He moved to the cut on his lip next, then to the worst wounds on his jaw and cheekbone, each time pausing just long enough for the pain to crest and ebb. The relief came slower than he wanted, but it came. A subtle cooling, a lessening of the throb beneath the skin, a faint sense of his body beginning to repair itself.

He closed his eyes again and drew in a slow breath.

Something whistled, and he jerked, almost dropping the vial into the grass. He stiffened, feeling his stomach drop as the sound of hooves echoed around him. It wasn’t loud, not at first. Just a shift of weight. Grass bending under steps. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt. The other hand braced against the stone, trying to push him upright without seeming like a threat. But before he could move more than a breath, an arrow thudded into the dirt beside his boot.

He froze.

Everything inside him locked into place. Breath caught. Muscles stiffened. The vial trembled in his hand.

From the shadows of the treeline, they emerged—six, no, seven figures. Towering. Silent. Half-man, half-horse. The centaurs moved with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to anything human. No sound of snapping twigs or rustling leaves. Just presence. Commanding, ancient, and absolute. They fanned out around him in a loose crescent.

Regulus swallowed. The taste of blood clung to the back of his throat, copper and iron and fear. His mind raced.

What did they see? A bleeding wizard crouched by a riverbank with a dagger and a pocketful of lies? A trespasser? A child playing war? A fool?

He could feel their eyes, not just seeing, but perceiving. Peeling back skin and name and bloodline, digging deeper. Like they were reading into the marrow of his bones.

If they chose violence, he wouldn’t last five seconds. He wouldn’t even make it to his feet.

He searched his memory, scrambling for protocol. What were the rules? Centaurs weren’t beasts. They weren’t even creatures in the way most wizards used the term. They were something older. Something harder to define. You didn’t speak unless spoken to. You never lied. You didn’t offer gold or bargains. You showed respect, but never flattery. And above all, you did not insult their intelligence.

Regulus let his fingers fall away from the dagger. Slowly. Deliberately.

One of them stepped forward. Taller than the rest, with deep brown skin and thick, braided hair that draped across a broad chest. His eyes burned like coals left in a hearth too long, smouldering with ancient thought. A longbow hung at his side, unstrung for now, but it wouldn't take more than a flick of his wrist to change that.

Regulus raised both hands, fingers spread, palms open. His voice came quiet, steady.

“I’m not here to hunt,” he said. “Or to trespass.”

“To step foot in a sacred glade is to trespass,” came a sharp voice to his right. Another centaur, younger perhaps, bow still drawn, the arrow aimed at his chest.

Regulus turned his head, slow and measured, until he could see the speaker’s flank—mottled grey.

“I’m trying to survive,” he said. “Same as anyone else.”

A scoff broke the stillness.

“Wizards survive by destroying what they find,” said a third, this one with copper-flanked sides and hair like wild flame. His eyes burned with contempt. “You burn. You break. And when nothing is left, you rename it and pretend it was always yours. Don’t insult us with your breathless lies.”

Fuck.

Regulus didn’t speak again. His jaw tightened. Blood dripped steadily from his chin into the grass. Around him, the ring of centaurs had closed in. Their bodies were taut, coiled like bowstrings drawn to the cheek. The kind of silence that fell wasn’t peaceful—it was sharp-edged, a breath before a storm. The kind that knew how to kill.

This was it. This was how it ended. Not in a blaze of glory. Not even with wands. Just grass beneath his knees, blood in his mouth, and a cold dread flooding his spine.

“Leave him.”

The voice cut through the rising tension like a blade.

A figure moved forward, the other centaurs shifting instinctively to make way. His equine half was the colour of scorched ash, mottled with darker streaks. His human torso bore the marks of age and knowledge—silver threaded through thick braids, his skin inked with dark blue constellations that curved across his chest and arms like old sky maps. Even the wind around him seemed to pause.

His eyes fixed on Regulus—dark, unblinking.

“Torvus,” one of the younger stallions said, barely suppressing the tension in his voice. A warning.

But Torvus didn’t look away. “This one is not here by choice. I can smell desperation on him.”

Regulus froze, throat tightening. The pain in his face flared again, grounding him.

Torvus stepped forward again. His presence alone was enough to hush the restless shifting of hooves and limbs. “What is your name?”

“Regulus Black.”

A ripple passed through the circle like wind stirring tall grass. Murmurs rose like uneasy insects. One centaur narrowed his eyes, tail twitching. Another made a low sound in his throat, almost a growl. Someone behind Torvus said darkly, “Of course.”

“I know your bloodline,” Torvus said slowly. “Your family name is etched into more curses than tombstones. The House of Black... bred for conquest. Poisoned by power. Tell me, Regulus Black, why are you here?”

“I’m trying to reach the caves near the northern ridge,” Regulus replied, voice low but clear.

Torvus studied him. “Many things hide in those caves. Few who enter return. Why would you go there?”

Regulus hesitated. His mouth was dry. Every word he spoke was a risk.

“There are people I need to find,” he said, slowly. “One of them is my—” He faltered. The word burned on his tongue. “They’re friends. We were dropped here. A test. Death Eaters’ amusement.”

The reaction was immediate.

“You lie!” barked a centaur with smoky flanks. “No servant of the Dark Lord comes here by accident.”

“He reeks of dark magic,” another added sharply. “I say we end him before he infects more of this forest.”

“Enough,” Torvus said, raising one hand.

The effect was instant. Not peace—but pause. A heartbeat held on the edge.

Torvus stepped closer. “You do not speak like one of the Dark Lord’s dogs,” he said, his voice probing, thoughtful. “But your skin hums with old magic. Your blood carries oaths. Who made them?”

Regulus swallowed. “Me.”

The centaur tilted his head, unreadable. “You carry shame like armour and lies like wounds.” He paused. “You are not innocent, Regulus Black.”

“I’ve never claimed to be,” Regulus said, meeting his gaze. “But I didn’t come here to die. I came to try and make something right.”

Torvus’s eyes narrowed. “Many have said those words before carving their names into history.”

A few centaurs shifted again, glancing at each other.

“What is it you think you’ll find in those caves?” Torvus pressed.

“Survivors,” Regulus said. “Maybe hope, if I’m lucky.”

“Hope is not a compass,” Torvus replied. “It can lead you in circles.”

“Still,” Regulus said, raising slowly from the ground, “it’s the only thing left that hasn’t tried to kill me today.”

A few of the centaurs snorted, one letting out a surprised puff of amusement.

Another muttered, “Brave fool.”

“He’ll be dead before dawn,” said another.

Torvus didn’t smile, but his expression softened by a hair’s breadth.

“There is a trail half-swallowed by the bog,” he said at last, voice quiet, reverent. “It won’t show on your maps. Your kind stopped listening to the land long ago, but the earth remembers what you forget. Follow the roots that grow against the sun. When you reach the place where the stones are stacked like crooked teeth, turn north. The caves are there, behind the ridge’s broken spine.”

Regulus nodded, bowing slightly out of instinct. “Thank you.”

He turned, muscles aching as he stepped toward the edge of the clearing, toward the dark line of trees beyond. But something caught in his throat—something unspoken, unbidden. He paused. The question rose before he could stop it.

“Have you seen another boy?” he asked, not turning back fully, his voice catching at the edges. “Tall. Messy hair. Round glasses. Too loud for his own good. Stubborn as hell.”

Torvus tilted his head, the silver in his braids catching the moonlight. “No.”

The word hit him harder than it should have. A single syllable, falling like a stone into still water. Regulus felt its weight settle in his chest, heavy and cold.

“Is he important to you, Regulus Black?” Torvus asked. His voice held no judgment, only a quiet, curious gravity.

Regulus didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch or shift his gaze. He only whispered—softly, reverently—as if the forest might try to take the truth from him if he spoke it too loud.

“The most.”

A long silence followed. The mist curled at his feet. The trees held their breath.

Torvus’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes, old and fathomless, grew distant, as if he were seeing something far beyond the clearing.

“If I happen to meet him,” the centaur said, finally, “I will point him in the right direction.”

Regulus gave a faint nod, his throat thick with something he couldn’t swallow down.

Torvus stepped back, deeper into the mist, his hooves silent against the moss. His voice, when it came again, was lower, almost to himself, as if he were reciting from memory rather than speaking to Regulus directly.

“Walk with care, Regulus Black. The forest remembers names long after bodies have vanished. It takes what you love most before it takes you.”

Regulus didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words clung to his ribs like frost.

But Torvus wasn’t finished. He turned again, just before vanishing into the trees, and his gaze flicked to the stars overhead.

“I read the sky before we crossed paths,” he said, softer now, almost a whisper. “And the signs were strange tonight. The sky was clouded, but one star burned brighter than it should have. Unnatural. Defiant.”

He paused, and when he looked at Regulus again, his gaze was piercing—almost sorrowful.

“The sun will rise again,” he said. “But even kings vanish before the dawn.”

There was something in the way he said it, something that twisted in Regulus’ chest. A quiet kind of prophecy. A truth wrapped in layers too thick to unwrap.

And then Torvus was gone.

The other centaurs moved in unison, and one by one, they slipped into the forest, vanishing into darkness.

Regulus lingered in the clearing a little longer than he meant to, letting the cool air soothe what aches still pulsed beneath his skin. He checked each wound with cautious fingers, making sure the worst were closed and the bleeding had stopped. Some of the deeper gashes still throbbed, raised and angry beneath the crust of blood and grime, but they held. His breathing no longer rasped, no longer tasted like iron in the back of his throat. That, at least, was a small victory.

He gathered what little he carried, his dagger, the half-empty vial of Murtlap essence, and the battered satchel that had somehow survived everything, and turned north, toward whatever waited beyond the edge of the trees. He didn’t move quickly. Every part of him ached in a way that felt cellular, deep-rooted. Speed wouldn’t help him now. This was a place that punished impatience.

The air shifted as he walked, growing denser, heavier, like wading into water too deep to see the bottom. There was no clear path—no trail of footprints, no hanging markers or slashes in bark to guide him. Only the roots, just as Torvus had said. They slithered along the forest floor like petrified serpents, curling in unnatural arcs against the light, pushing away from the sun. They stretched like veins beneath his boots, gnarled and wet, slick with moss and something darker. 

The forest changed around him.

First came the silence, not the peaceful kind, but something suffocating, thick, and unnatural. The wind died. Even the usual rustle of unseen creatures in the brush ceased. The trees thinned, pulling apart like wary strangers, their canopies no longer touching, their limbs bare and stretched skyward in a kind of brittle surrender. The air grew colder. Damp.

Beneath his feet, the ground began to change. The hard-packed soil softened into mulch, then gave way to a wet squelch with every step. Water welled in shallow depressions, pooling in still eyes that reflected a sky he couldn’t see. Each mirror of water shimmered faintly, as if it remembered stars no longer visible. When he moved, his reflection moved too—warped, wavering, hollow-eyed, and flickering at the edges. He didn’t look at it long. He knew better.

Some pools stirred when he passed, rippling at the edges. At one point, the water near a gnarled cypress churned violently before going perfectly still. Regulus gave it a wide berth, heart hammering, half-expecting to see teeth rise from the depths. Naiads, maybe. Kelpies. Things that liked the taste of human meat.

When he found the stacked stones, crooked and green with moss, he stopped. They rose in uneven layers like ancient teeth biting up from the earth, just as Torvus had described. The trees nearby leaned inward, their trunks sloping unnaturally, as if bent by time or some weight only they could feel. Thick lichen draped from every branch, veiling the space ahead like a threshold.

He turned north, as instructed, and stepped into the swamp.

It unfolded in stages. First, as damp ground that swallowed the heel of his boots, then into shallow pools rimmed with ghostly-white reeds. Bald cypresses rose from the water, their wide trunks flaring out at the base. Their roots curled upward in knobby knees that broke the surface, as though the trees were trying to breathe. Low-hanging willows trailed their branches along the water’s skin. Every now and then, he heard a splash in the distance. Sometimes the mist parted just enough to show the glint of eyes watching from the brush, but when he looked, they were already gone. The swamp was never truly still. Even when the water calmed, something pulsed beneath the surface.

He stumbled once, slipping on a root slick with something viscous. His hand sank into cold mud, and when he pulled it free, his palm was streaked with black water and something that smelled faintly metallic. He wiped it on his cloak, pushing forward.

The land grew darker the farther north he moved. The swamp narrowed into a series of mossy banks, threading between drowned trees and patches of grass that twitched even when untouched. At one point, he passed what looked like an altar, a flat stone, half-submerged, covered in spiral carvings. He didn’t stop. Didn’t want to know who had placed it there, or why.

The air shifted once again, this time turning heavy with mist. It rose around Regulus in a slow, deliberate crawl until it swallowed the trees, the trail, the very shape of the world.

He walked straight into it without hesitation. He lowered his gaze, eyes fixed on his boots. It was the only thing he could trust. He focused on the ground and on the way each step disturbed the mist, curling around his feet. His heartbeat filled the hollow space where the rest of the world should have been. One step. Another. 

Then came the whispers.

Soft at first. Incoherent. Barely more than the sound of breath against breath. But they grew. Not louder, but clearer. Too clear. They circled him from all sides, brushing against his ears with voices he thought he’d forgotten.

Regulus...

You left us...

You always turn away...

He stopped. The silence that followed the voices was somehow worse. It pressed in on him, tight and vast, like the air was holding its breath. Shapes flickered at the edge of his vision. Once, he swore he saw a hand reach through the mist, long-fingered and pale, stretching toward his face. He turned sharply, but nothing was there.

Another step.

Something moved beside him.

Not wind. Not an animal. Something tall. It glided rather than walked—its silhouette barely distinct against the swirling fog. He spun, trying to keep it in view, but it vanished again, absorbed into the wall of white. His pulse spiked.

“Who’s there?” he rasped.

No answer. Just the same stifling stillness.

And then, a voice.

Not one of the whispering ones. This was different. This voice called out from somewhere ahead—clear, raw, familiar.

“Regulus!”

He froze.

It wasn’t a trick. It couldn’t be. The sound rang down his spine like a bell.

“James?” he whispered.

He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, but the mist seemed to pulse in response, parting, just slightly, as though reluctant. He stepped forward, then again, forcing his body to move even as instinct screamed to run the other way.

"Reggie? Where are you?" the voice called again.

“JAMES?” Regulus raised his hands, waving them in front of him as if he was trying to chase away the fog.

The fog clung to him like cobwebs, dragging across his skin, making each step feel slower than the last. But he kept going, pulled now not by logic but by the sheer need to find the source of that voice.

And then, just when it seemed like the mist would never end, when the whiteness felt like it would swallow him whole, he finally stepped through.

It was sudden. Like slipping through a curtain. One moment, nothing but grey. The next, clarity.

The fog peeled back without warning, revealing the quiet hush of a forest clearing. Not bright, but visible. Trees emerged from the whiteness like old bones, ash and pine, narrow and tall, spaced just far enough apart to let shadows linger. The air was cold, and the quiet still held, but it no longer pressed against his skull. He could hear again—his breath, his heartbeat, the faint rustle of something moving behind the trees.

Then he saw it.

No more than twenty paces ahead, there was a figure. Standing with eerie stillness in the open space between two trees. At first, Regulus thought it might be some forest illusion, another trick of light and mist, but then it moved.

It turned.

Slowly.

The figure’s hair was tangled and tied back in uneven knots, matted with leaf litter and sweat. His clothes were torn, soaked in patches, dusted with mud and blood, like he’d crawled through the forest for days. His face was paler. The eyes were sharper than they’d ever been.

Not James, but Sirius.

Regulus stopped breathing. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but his body had gone utterly still—stripped of reaction.

“Hello, little Reggie,” Sirius whispered, voice quiet and low as a growl carried by the wind.

Chapter Text

Regulus didn’t respond. His gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, drawn to the glint of metal.

Sirius was holding his hunting knife in one hand. The kind made for gutting more than carving. Its edge was wet, gleaming in the half-light.

Regulus’ throat constricted. He swallowed hard and shifted back half a pace, boots sinking into soft, damp moss. His eyes flicked up to meet Sirius’, searching for something—recognition, safety, even anger. But there was nothing. Just that unsettling, hollow stillness.

Sirius tilted his head, the motion slow and deliberate, like a wolf sniffing prey.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, and his voice was too calm. Too casual. Like they were meeting at a train station instead of the heart of a cursed forest.

Regulus didn’t answer. His fingers hovered near the handle of his own knife, body tense, breath tight. Every instinct screamed at him to move, but his limbs felt nailed in place. There was no safe direction. Only forward, or into the mist that still whispered behind him.

“Still quiet,” Sirius went on, pacing now in slow arcs, circling Regulus in measured steps. “Always the quiet one. I used to think it was dignity. Now?” He shrugged. “Now I think maybe it’s fear.”

Regulus forced breath into his lungs. “Sirius.”

“Mm?” Sirius’ eyes flicked toward him. There was no spark behind them. No familiar glint of mischief or challenge. Just glassy detachment.

“What are you doing?” Regulus asked, softly, carefully, like one might speak to a sleepwalker on the edge of a roof.

Sirius glanced down at the knife in his hand as though he’d forgotten it was there. He twirled it once, slow, almost elegant, letting the dim light catch on the edge.

“What am I doing?” he echoed. Then he smiled, wide and crooked, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Surviving. Just like you.”

Regulus’ breath caught in his throat. There was something… wrong.

Horribly wrong.

He could tell by the look in his eyes. Sirius’ eyes were always full of life. Always glinting with something—laughter, rage, mischief, even when he was furious. Now? They were dull. Lifeless. He looked like he was under the Imperius curse, but there was no one who could’ve cast it.

Then the realization hit Regulus like ice water down his spine.

Naiads.

They were known to haunt the deeper riverbanks and fog-slick pools, spirits of water and madness. Not like dryads who were calm or cruel depending on the mood of the wood. Naiads crept into your mind and fogged it. Took what was there and desecrated it. They didn’t kill you, not at first. They just emptied you out.

Regulus’ heart began to race.

Sirius must’ve wandered too close. A glance into the wrong pond. A drink from the wrong eye of water. And now… whatever this thing was, had sunk its claws into his head.

He forced his voice to stay calm. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Good,” Sirius replied. “Because you’d lose anyway.”

He grinned again—too slow, too deliberate, a smile that stretched over his face like someone else had drawn it there.

He took another step forward. The knife gleamed in his hand.

Regulus stood his ground, even as something inside him screamed to run.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Regulus said. “I came to find you.”

Sirius blinked slowly, as if the words had to travel a great distance to reach him. Then he tilted his head again, unnervingly precise.

“You found me,” he murmured. “And I’ve been so... hungry.”

And then, Sirius lunged.

There was no warning, just a sudden blur of motion as he launched himself across the clearing with terrifying speed, blade aimed low. Regulus barely twisted out of the way in time, throwing himself behind a tree as bark exploded beside his ear, splinters slicing across his cheek.

“Sirius—don’t—!”

But Sirius was already moving again, feral and relentless, breath rasping like something torn. His eyes, those eyes Regulus used to know, were wild, glassy, not quite there, like something else had slipped behind them and bolted the door.

He came in fast, knife slashing. Regulus ducked, rolled, the blade skimming his shoulder, slicing cloth and skin. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but it barely registered. He hit the ground hard, back smacking against a root, and still didn’t draw his weapon.

He couldn’t. Not against him.

Sirius didn’t care. He slammed into Regulus again, one elbow pressed to his throat. The knife flashed again, grazing Regulus’ ribs, sharp enough to bleed, but not deep enough to kill.

“Fight back!” Sirius snarled, his voice raw, frayed, trembling with fury. “Come on, little Reggie, show me what Mother taught you!”

Regulus shoved hard, twisting his shoulder into Sirius’ chest. The impact knocked them both sideways. He stumbled to his feet, panting, hand clutched over his side where the blade had grazed him.

“I’m not fighting you,” he gasped. “You’re not well—this isn’t—this isn’t you.”

Sirius began to laugh. A high, brittle, empty sound. It scraped the air like glass dragged across stone.

“Of course, you’re not. Perfect Regulus. Always the gentle one. Always too fucking careful.”

He circled now, prowling with a predator’s grace, knife glinting in his grip. His boots made no sound against the wet moss. He could have been any forest beast. A thing made for hunting.

“Do you remember what she used to say about you?” Sirius hissed, voice almost conversational. “How you never made a fuss. How polite you were. ‘Regulus listens, Regulus understands.’” He sneered. “She said you were born with Black blood in your bones. I was just… a stain.”

“Sirius—”

“Shut up!” he roared, and lunged again.

Regulus barely dodged. The blade caught his sleeve and tore through the fabric, grazing his bicep. Sirius followed through with a shove that slammed him into the dirt.

“You know what I hated most about you?” he whispered, crouched above him, breath hot and uneven. “The way everyone loved you. Even when you failed. Even when you ran. She still loved you. Whispered your name like it was holy. And me?” He bared his teeth. “She couldn’t say mine without choking on it.”

Regulus’ hands came up, grasping Sirius’ wrist to keep the blade from finding anything vital.

“You don’t mean this. Whatever’s in your head—it’s not real.”

Sirius’ grip tightened. “No, little brother. This is the realest it’s ever been.”

Regulus twisted, finally managing to kick Sirius off and roll to his side. He scrambled upright, breath ragged, blood running hot and steady down his arm.

But Sirius didn’t stop. He came again, knife low, teeth bared, eyes wild. The edge caught Regulus’ cheek this time, opening a thin, stinging line.

“You think I didn’t see you?” Sirius spat, circling again. “All those times you watched from the shadows. You wanted what I had. You looked at Moony like you understood him. You don’t. You never did.”

Regulus’ heart pounded.

“You think I didn’t know why you were always at our house?”

Sirius charged again, eyes flashing.

“You wanted what I had. I could feel it. You always looked at Moony and James like you deserved them. Like I didn’t!”

“That’s not true!” Regulus shouted, ducking low.

“Isn’t it?” Sirius roared. “You wanted to be one of us so bad. You wanted James to see you, didn’t you? You wanted Moony to smile at you the way he smiled at me.”

Regulus’ heart pounded. His hand finally closed around his own knife. His brother’s face twisted in fury, or grief, it was impossible to tell.

“You don’t know how many times I wanted to hurt you,” Sirius growled, voice thick. “Whenever I saw you across the square. When you looked at my Moony like you knew the real him.”

Sirius lunged again, but this time, Regulus wasn’t quick enough. The blade bit into his forearm as he threw it up to block, steel scoring flesh. He staggered back, heart hammering. Blood ran warm down his skin, but he barely registered the pain because Sirius kept coming.

His brother moved like a creature possessed, muscles coiled too tight, eyes flat and dead. His expression didn’t belong on his face. Not Sirius. Not his Sirius.

“Sirius, stop—!”

But the words were wasted.

“You should have died that day!” Sirius snarled, slashing again. “You should have stayed dead, Regulus.”

The knife swung again.

Regulus dodged by inches, breath coming in ragged gulps. The fog churned around them. Somewhere behind the trees, the swamp pulsed with something ancient and watching.

“You think coming back makes you a hero?” he spat.

Regulus stumbled over a root, caught himself on a low branch, breath ragged. He still refused to draw his knife.

Sirius laughed—high, bitter, cracked down the middle.

“I saw how they looked at you afterward. Poor brave Regulus. Poor little survivor.” His voice twisted on the word, sharp with contempt. “But I remember.”

He circled around, forcing Regulus backward again.

“I remember when we were kids,” Sirius went on, pacing slowly now, deliberate. “You’d sit by Mother’s feet like some little prince, your hands folded, eyes down, and she’d stroke your hair like you were spun gold. Meanwhile, I got hexed for breathing wrong.”

Regulus’ throat worked, but no words came.

“I remember how you cried when Father raised his voice. And I got the belt,” Sirius snarled, “for setting a bad example.”

The knife slashed again, wild and low. Regulus flinched, pain lancing through his thigh as the tip tore through cloth and skin. He gasped, stumbling backward into the mud.

“You always got everything,” Sirius spat. “The good quills. The good bedroom. The good books. I was the stain they couldn’t scrub out, and you were their fucking star. Their obedient heir!”

“Sirius,” Regulus said, voice breaking, “this isn’t you. The Naiads—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Sirius roared, and he tackled Regulus again, knocking him hard into the dirt. The knife pressed to Regulus’ throat now, trembling with the unsteady rage behind it. Sirius loomed over him, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot and dead all at once.

Regulus could feel the tremor in his brother’s hand. His weight. The edge of the blade, just shy of ending everything.

One breath wrong, and it would be over.

Still, Regulus didn’t move to defend himself. Didn’t reach for the blade at his hip. It would be so easy—Sirius was open, vulnerable, off-balance. A single strike could end it.

He couldn’t. Even after all of it, the scorn, the abandonment, the way Sirius had left him to rot in that house with their parents, he couldn’t do it.

Sirius’ voice dropped, hoarse and jagged. “I hated you.”

The words hit like cold iron.

“I hated you every single time you looked at me like you didn’t understand why I left. Like you were disappointed in me. Like I’d failed you.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Sirius roared, the knife pressing harder, biting skin. His whole body shook. “You wanted me gone. Don’t you dare pretend you didn’t. You got everything once I was out of the picture. The inheritance. The praise. The quiet dinners where no one yelled anymore. You became the good son by default. Congratulations, Reggie. You fucking won.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and for a moment, just a moment, Sirius looked like he might cry. But he didn’t. He pressed the knife harder to Regulus’ throat—one wrong twitch and it would open him up.

“James pitied you, you know,” Sirius whispered, the words slow and cruel and deliberate. “So did Remus. You thought they liked you, that they chose you, but they didn’t. They tolerated you. Like some stray I dragged in. And all was because you were my little brother, Regulus. That was the only reason you were ever in the room.”

Regulus’ stomach twisted. His breath caught. He didn’t know if it was a lie or the truth anymore.

“You were always just Regulus Black, the shadow. The afterthought. Do you really think James wanted you there, acting like you belonged?” Sirius’ voice cracked on that word, belonged, and the twist of his mouth was venomous. “He told me once you reminded him of a kicked dog. Said he almost felt sorry for you.”

Regulus shook his head, but the motion was small, fragile. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” Sirius snapped, and it came out too fast, too desperate, like a dam breaking. “You just don’t want to hear it. You never did. You were so desperate to believe that they accepted you. That they forgave you for the things you’ve done. For the name you still wear. But they didn’t. They don’t. They let you in because of me. And even I couldn’t stand to be around you.”

Regulus flinched, as if slapped.

Sirius saw it. He savored it.

“You want to know the truth, little Reggie?” he whispered, voice low and trembling with something darker than rage.

Regulus said nothing. His chest barely moved.

He leaned closer. The knife didn’t move, but his mouth was inches from Regulus’ ear.

“When you died,” he hissed, “I was fucking glad.”

Regulus went still.

“I was glad,” Sirius repeated, almost reverent now. The knife hovered near Regulus’ jaw, not moving, just existing there. “Because it meant I never had to look at your smug little face again. Never had to listen to your voice trying so hard to sound like mine. Never had to watch you play pretend with the people I loved—trying to take what was mine and make it yours.”

He leaned in close, their foreheads nearly touching, breath ragged.

“You died,” Sirius said, voice hollow, “and I thought, finally. Peace. Silence. An end to all of it. But now... now here you are. Back again. Like some stubborn ghost that won’t fucking disappear.”

Each word felt like a lash. A wound deeper than the blade.

Regulus knew. He knew it was the Naiads. That their magic could twist the mind, dredge up every bitter thing, twist it, and give it voice. He could still smell the fog on Sirius’ clothes. Still see the shimmer in his eyes, the too-bright madness of enchantment.

But knowing didn’t stop the pain.

Because maybe… maybe some of it was true. Maybe not all of it was the spell. Maybe the venom had been brewing for years, waiting for a crack wide enough to pour through.

“You think Remus is kind,” Sirius whispered, like a confession or a curse. “But he pities you more than anyone. You think he listens because he cares? No. He listens because he can’t bear the thought of losing another broken thing. You’re a charity case, Reggie. Something to fix.”

“No,” he finally breathed, but the word barely reached the air. It sounded like a lie even to himself.

Sirius laughed—a sharp, ugly sound. “Oh, yes. And James? You could’ve bathed in fire for him, and he still wouldn’t have trusted you. He never will.”

“Stop it,” Regulus said, but his voice cracked.

“You were a replacement,” Sirius said.

Regulus wanted to scream, but no sound came.

He knew it was a lie. He knew.

But the seed had already been planted. And it grew fast, wild, insidious—twisting through every memory he held close. Every soft glance from James. Every laugh from Remus. Every fire-warmed morning where he thought he might have finally carved a place for himself. That maybe, just maybe, they saw him as more than Sirius’ shadow.

Sirius must’ve seen it, because he smiled—a grim, wolfish smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“There it is. There you are. Not the perfect little soldier. Not the martyr. Just the scared boy who always wondered if any of it was real. Maybe this is what you needed. Maybe you needed someone to finally say it.”

He leaned in, voice like poison honey.

“You’ll never be enough. No matter how many graves you dig for your guilt. No matter how many raids you lead or lives you risk. They’ll never choose you.”

“I’m sorry,” Regulus whispered.

Sirius froze.

That—that—made him pause.

The knife wavered. His breath caught. A hitch, subtle but sharp, like something inside him recoiled.

“I didn’t want to take anything from you. Not Remus. Not James. Not even Mother,” Regulus said, voice raw. “I never wanted that. I just… I wanted you to see me.”

Sirius’ face twitched. His lips parted, but no sound came. The knife in his hand quivered.

“Liar,” he rasped.

Regulus swallowed hard, feeling the weight of years pressing on his chest like stones.

The aching years in the Black household, buried under silence and cold glances.

The time he watched Sirius storm out of the manor and never return. Countless times, he wanted to chase after him, but he never dared to. Because the one time he tried, just once, Mother had found him creeping toward the front door, barefoot and wide-eyed, and she had punished him.

Crucio. Once. Then again and again, and again.

“Trying to run, too?” she had hissed. “Are you going to be a traitor like him?”

He was fifteen, and he had screamed until he couldn’t scream anymore. Until the pain blurred the lines of his body. Until the idea of running, of reaching for his brother, felt like a crime.

After that, Regulus stayed in his room.

But sometimes, in the dead of night, he would slip from his bed and tiptoe across the hall. He’d press his ear to the door of Sirius’ room, even after it had been stripped bare. Even after Sirius had gone for good. He would stand there, cold against the wood, pretending he could hear him inside.

He remembered lying awake for hours, staring up at the ceiling, pretending the silence was full of Sirius’ voice. Pretending that the muffled sound of arguments downstairs wasn’t happening. That his brother was still here. That maybe, Sirius had meant it when he used to pull him onto the roof to stargaze. When he used to ruffle his hair and call him “Reggie” like it wasn’t a curse.

He tried. Merlin, he tried—every birthday, every Christmas, every letter he never dared to send. Every time he answered one of Mother’s barbed questions with quiet obedience, hoping that if he played his role well enough, Sirius would come home. Would see that Regulus had done what he couldn’t—survived the Black name. Carried it.

All he ever wanted was to be seen by the person who mattered most. Not as the good son. Not as the heir. Just… as Regulus. As his brother.

And now, all of that, all the sleepless nights, all the prayers to stars Sirius used to name, all the broken pieces he’d tried to hold together with trembling hands, spilled from his voice, raw and unfiltered:

“I talked to the stars you named. I kept your books hidden under my bed. And every time Mother looked at me and saw you, I was proud. Because it meant maybe I hadn’t lost you completely.”

Sirius stared, face flickering with something unreadable. The mask cracked, but only a little. The madness held, but it hesitated.

“I answered all her questions the way I thought you would’ve wanted me to. I kept my head down. I played her game. I let her shape me into what she wanted because I thought—if I stay, if I keep the door open, maybe one day you’ll walk through it again.”

His breath shook, but he didn’t stop.

“Even after all of it, I still loved you. I still hoped that maybe, somehow, you’d know. That you’d feel it. That you’d miss me.”

He met Sirius’ eyes, and for once, his voice didn’t shake.

“I didn’t want to be you. I just wanted to have you. I wanted you to be my brother.”

For a moment, everything held still. The wind stopped. The trees seemed to draw breath. Even the Naiads’ lingering magic recoiled, as if unsure what to do with such naked truth.

Sirius blinked. Once. Then again, longer this time, slower, like his eyes couldn’t quite focus. Like something was coming undone inside him.

His grip loosened, and the knife slipped from his hand and landed beside them in the moss.

 “…Reggie?” he whispered, voice barely audible, cracked with disbelief—small in a way Regulus hadn’t heard since they were boys.

Sirius raised and staggered backward, looking down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. His face crumpled, not with rage, but something far more fragile—shame. 

“I—I didn’t…” he stammered. He backed up another step, then two, his boots scuffing against roots and soil. “What…?”

His eyes darted around the clearing, wild and disoriented, like he was seeing the forest for the first time.

“Where am I?” he rasped. “What did I…?”

And then his eyes found Regulus again, still on the ground, trembling, bleeding, but no longer flinching. Just watching him.

Sirius’ throat convulsed. He took another unsteady step back. “No,” he breathed. “No, no, no. That’s not—I didn’t—”

He shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the memory. As if that might be enough to take it back.

“What did I do?” he murmured, voice cracking under the weight of guilt and confusion.

Regulus pushed himself up on one elbow, his other hand pressed hard against his wounded thigh. Pain twisted through him, but he ignored it. Slowly, he reached out, fingers shaking, voice softer than breath, but steady:

“I’m here,” he whispered, the words carrying more weight than a hundred apologies.

Sirius fell to his knees like a man who no longer had the strength to stand. His shoulders shook.

His eyes were locked on his hands, shaking, bloodstained, curled slightly as if the memory of holding the blade still lingered in his fingers. He stared like he couldn’t quite believe what he had done.

“No,” Sirius whispered, his voice breaking on the syllable. “No, no, no—”

Regulus moved again, slower this time. He reached out again, gently this time, brushing his hand against his brother’s shoulder. The contact made Sirius flinch violently, as if burned, and he scrambled half a step back.

“I didn’t know,” Sirius gasped. “I didn’t know it was you—I couldn’t see—I couldn’t think—”

“I know,” Regulus said softly. “It wasn’t you. It was the Naiads. They took hold of you—fogged your mind.”

Sirius shook his head in frantic denial, curling forward like he could fold in on himself and disappear. “I felt it. I heard myself saying those things. I meant them. I—I wanted to hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Regulus’ voice was calm. Grounded. Tired. But there was no anger in it. No accusation. Just a quiet truth.

But Sirius wasn’t listening. He rocked forward, curling in on himself, fingers clawing at his knees, as if trying to crawl out of his own skin. His voice was thin, frayed at the edges.

“I said I was glad you were dead.”

“Sirius—”

Sirius looked up, his face contorted in anguish. “I tried to kill you.”

His voice cracked wide open around the word kill and then something in him gave way completely.

He reached out with both hands, hesitating only a moment before gently cupping Regulus’ face. His touch was feather-light at first, almost afraid—like he expected Regulus to vanish if he pressed too hard. His fingers brushed over the split in Regulus’ lip, the cut along his cheekbone, the fresh gash on his brow.

Sirius’ mouth quivered. He blinked like he could hold the tears back, but they broke loose anyway. A sob tore through him, raw and unguarded, and he collapsed forward into Regulus’ arms. His shoulders shook with each breath he tried to take, his hands clinging to his brother’s clothes like an anchor in a rising tide.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, again and again, the words barely comprehensible through the tears. “I’m so fucking sorry, Reggie—I didn’t mean—I didn’t—please—”

Regulus caught him, held him, even though his own body screamed in protest. Blood was still pouring from him, and pain bloomed behind his eyes, but none of it mattered. Not with Sirius breaking in his arms.

“I know,” he whispered, pressing his forehead gently to his brother’s temple. “I know. It’s over.”

Sirius shook his head wildly. “It’s not. I don’t know how to—how to undo any of it—what I said, what I did—”

“You were cursed,” Regulus said. “They twisted everything inside you.”

“But it was in me,” Sirius whispered, brokenly. “All of it. The hatred. The things I remembered—what if it’s true? What if some part of me—”

“Sirius,” Regulus said. “I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?”

He pulled Sirius closer, his breathing beginning to slow, the ragged sobs tapering into quiet tremors.

“Good. That’s it. Keep breathing,” he whispered, gently running his hand over Sirius’ back.

 His brother shifted, and his eyes landed on something—dark, wet, spreading across Regulus’ side.

His heart stuttered.

He pulled back, just enough to see clearly, and his gaze dropped to the jagged tear in Regulus’ shirt. Blood, fresh, sluggish, and sticky, had soaked through the fabric around his ribs, and more glistened along his shoulder, where the skin had been slashed open.

Sirius went still, like something in him had been yanked to a full stop.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Reg—Reggie, you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Regulus cut in quickly, too quickly. “It’s nothing. I’ve got murtlap. I’ll—”

“Nothing?” Sirius’ voice cracked. “You’re bleeding, Regulus! You’re soaked in it—how long have you—” He reached out, touching Regulus’ side with shaking fingers, then snatched his hand back when it came away red. “Fuck—fuck, I did that, didn’t I?”

“It looks worse than it is.”

Sirius sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair, pulling hard enough to sting. He looked unsteady, shaken in a way Regulus had never seen before.

“I said things,” Sirius muttered. “And now you’re bleeding! You should’ve knocked me out cold. Fucking kill me. Instead, you—” He gestured helplessly at the blood, at Regulus’ torn shirt, at the dirt and moss soaked with crimson. “Why the hell would you just let me hurt you?!”

Regulus met his eyes, tired but unwavering. “Because you’re my brother, and I’ve already lost you once.”

He swallowed hard, voice thick. “Give me the murtlap. Let me help.”

Regulus grimaced, trying to sit upright. “Sirius, we can’t stay here. We’re too exposed. We need to move. We need to find shelter.”

But Sirius shook his head violently, eyes wild, jaw tight with something like panic.

“You’re bleeding!” he snapped. “You’re bleeding all over the forest floor, Regulus! You need help now. We can’t just walk around like you’re not—”

“I know I’m bleeding,” Regulus said sharply, then softened his tone. “I know. But if we stay, they’ll find us. The Naiads don’t lose interest, and we’re too close to the water.”

His words were calm, level—but the pallor in his face and the tremble in his limbs betrayed the effort it took just to speak.

“Please,” he said, and the word came out hoarse, almost childlike. “Let me stop the bleeding. Just let me—just for a second—please, I need—”

“I know,” Regulus said softly. “I know you want to help.” He reached out and caught Sirius’ wrist with more strength than either of them expected. His grip was sure, grounding. “But the only way you really can right now is by moving. Getting us somewhere safe.”

Sirius looked down at their joined hands. His fingers twitched. He could still feel the phantom heat of the knife in his hand. Could still see the look in Regulus’ eyes before it had dropped. Guilt crawled over his skin like fire ants, relentless and biting.

Sirius exhaled harshly, then nodded. “Okay. Okay. We’ll find a place. We’ll get you off your feet. Then I’m fixing this.”

Regulus managed the ghost of a smile. It barely lifted one corner of his mouth. “You can do whatever you want when we’re safe,” he said, wincing as he shifted, using Sirius’ arm to help brace himself upright. “I promise.”

Sirius wrapped an arm around his brother’s back and hauled him up as gently as he could. Regulus bit back a cry, his teeth digging into the corner of his lip, but he didn’t complain. They staggered forward together, both of them leaning too heavily on the other, holding on like letting go might break them apart all over again.

The path grew stranger the deeper they went, the trees older, their bark silver-veined and slick. The air turned damper, heavier, thick with a quiet that didn’t feel entirely natural. The ground softened under their boots, sometimes too much—mud sucking at their soles, patches of moss slick enough to trip over. The only sound that followed them was the hush of their footsteps, the shuffle of tired limbs, and the sharp, involuntary intakes of breath whenever Regulus shifted wrong and pain flared up in his side.

Every time that happened, Sirius’ grip tightened instinctively, like he could hold the pain in place. Like he could stop it from spreading just by holding his brother tighter.

Eventually, Regulus lifted a shaking hand, pointing ahead. “There,” he rasped. “Behind that wall of vines.”

Sirius stepped forward first, one hand extended. He brushed the vines aside—and behind them was a hollow in the rock, wide enough for them. Not really the cave they’ve been searching for, but it would do for the night.

Without another word, they ducked inside, and Regulus sagged against the wall, sliding down to sit on a patch of dry earth, his head falling back against the stone, eyes fluttering closed for half a heartbeat.

Sirius knelt beside him, still shaken, still silent.

Then he swallowed hard, voice thick. “Give me the murtlap. Let me help.”

Regulus didn’t argue. He fumbled at his belt, pulling out the vial with fingers that barely worked, and handed it over.

Sirius’ hands were trembling too, but he took the vial with care, biting the cork free and leaning in. He peeled the fabric back from Regulus’ side, revealing the deep gash beneath—angry, red, the skin torn open in a long, jagged line. His jaw clenched at the sight.

“I did this,” he murmured under his breath.

“You were not yourself,” Regulus said, voice soft but steady.

Sirius didn’t answer. He soaked a corner of the cloth with the essence and dabbed it carefully against the wound. Regulus hissed through his teeth and jerked away slightly, but Sirius held steady, whispering an apology he didn’t even know if Regulus heard.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered under his breath. “This is worse than the time you fell out of that bloody tree in Aunt Druella’s garden.”

Regulus blinked, startled by the memory and by Sirius’ sudden attempt to fill the silence.

“You remember?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh, please,” Sirius scoffed, his voice still rough but tinged now with something lighter. “You were six. Thought you could tightrope-walk across the top branch like a circus acrobat. You made it two steps, screamed like a banshee, and fell into the peonies.”

Regulus gave a tired huff of a laugh. “You’re the one who dared me.”

“I dare a lot of people to do a lot of stupid things,” Sirius said with mock gravity. “But you—Merlin, you landed hard. Scraped your elbow to hell and then immediately put on that voice.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “What voice?”

Sirius looked up at him with exaggerated offense. “That voice. The one you used whenever I stubbed a toe or burned my hand on a candle. All sweet and smug and superior.”

Regulus let out a real laugh this time—soft and breathless, but genuine. He groaned immediately after, hand pressing to his side. “Merlin, don’t make me laugh. Everything hurts.”

Sirius’ grin cracked through the weight of guilt on his face like sunlight. “See? That’s the one. You even used that tone when I got my first black eye in third year. I was bleeding all over the carpet, and you waltzed in and went, ‘Honestly, Sirius, how do you always manage to get punched in the face by someone smaller than you?’”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Regulus muttered, wiping his eye, half-laughing, half-crying.

“No. No, you weren’t.” Sirius smiled faintly, applying more of the murtlap and focusing again on the wound. “You were a little bastard. A clever one. Too clever, honestly. And you were always… watching. Like you were trying to figure me out.”

“I was,” Regulus said quietly, leaning his head back against the rock. “I still am.”

Sirius stilled for a moment. Then he laughed under his breath, the sound bittersweet. “Well. Good luck with that. I’ve been trying for twenty-three years, and I’ve got no bloody clue.”

Regulus gave a faint smile. “That’s because you never stop moving long enough to let anyone catch up.”

Sirius didn’t reply. He just kept working, slower now, more gently. The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It settled around them like a blanket, thin, patched, but warm in places.

“About what I said earlier—” Sirius began, voice rough with the weight of too many years unsaid.

Regulus opened his eyes slowly, breath shallow, and looked up at his brother through a haze of exhaustion.

“Sirius, don’t,” he said hoarsely. “I told you—you’ve been cursed. Whatever you said wasn’t—”

But Sirius shook his head. “No. No, I need to say this. Naiad magic or not, some of it—some of it was already there.”

Regulus tensed, wary now, not because he was afraid of what Sirius might say—but because he already knew. He always had.

“I hated you,” Sirius said, his voice low, almost like a confession. “I hated you so much after I left.”

Regulus didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just waited, pale and still, like a man sitting through a storm he’s already weathered once before.

“But it wasn’t because of anything you did,” Sirius continued. “I hated you because hating you was easier than missing you. I hated you because I was furious that you stayed when I ran. Because I couldn’t understand how you could still live with them—how you could survive that place and still wear your name like it didn’t burn you.”

“I didn’t wear it,” Regulus said quietly. “I bled under it.”

Sirius looked down, his throat tightening. “Yeah. I know that now.”

He dragged a hand through his tangled hair, shoulders hunched, like he was bracing against his own memories.

“When I left… I told myself you were already gone. That you were too far gone into that pureblood madness, that you'd made your choice. It was the only way I could sleep at night. But then I heard… when I heard you’d died—”

His voice cracked, and he stopped. Regulus’ breath caught, not because of the pain in his side, but because of the look on Sirius’ face. Raw. Young. Haunted.

“I cried,” Sirius whispered, almost ashamed. “I locked the door, turned off every light, and I fucking sobbed. Like a child. Like I hadn’t already buried you years before. Because suddenly, there was no time left. No chance to drag you out, to scream at you, to ask you why. Why you stayed. Why you let it kill you.”

Regulus blinked slowly, eyes wet and burning.

“I didn’t let it,” Regulus said, voice trembling. “It just… caught up to me.”

“I know,” Sirius snapped, more at himself than at Regulus. “But back then—I lost it. I trashed the flat. James tried to stop me. I screamed at him, told him he didn’t understand. He didn’t. He couldn’t.”

He exhaled hard, then looked over at Regulus, jaw tight.

“When I moved in with James… I told them I wanted to get you out. James’ mum—she said they’d take you. Like they took me. You’d have your own room. You’d be safe.”

Regulus froze, stunned.

“I had it all planned,” Sirius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was going to sneak you out after your exams. I was going to show up one night and just—take you.”

Regulus’ eyes were wide now, shimmering in the dark.

“But when I went back to Grimmauld Place…” Sirius’ voice dropped to a whisper. “She was waiting. And she knew. I don’t know how, but she knew everything. Said if I came near you again, if I even stepped onto the street, she would obliviate you.”

Regulus stiffened.

“She said she’d take every memory you had of me and burn it out of your skull,” Sirius continued, each word sharp and bitter. “Said she’d make sure I meant nothing to you. Just a blank space. You’d wake up one day and not know that you even had a brother.”

Regulus let his head rest back against the stone wall, his throat too tight to speak.

“I didn’t come back after that,” Sirius said. “Not because I didn’t love you. But because I thought I’d make things worse. I thought she’d follow through. And then you died. And I—” He laughed, humourless. “I never even got to find out if you’d have come with me.”

“I would’ve,” Regulus said, almost too softly to hear. “I tried. I made it to the front steps. She found me before I could reach the front door.”

Sirius looked up sharply.

“She dragged me back inside,” Regulus whispered. “I wasn’t strong enough. Not like you. And she made sure I knew it.”

“I tried,” Sirius said, his voice breaking again. “Gods, Regulus, I tried. I was just so fucking young. And angry. And scared. I thought—if I saved you, it would mean I wasn’t a coward for leaving.”

“You weren’t a coward,” Regulus said, and now he looked directly at him. “You were the only one brave enough to run.”

Sirius let out a noise that wasn’t a sob, but close. “But I didn’t save you,” he said. “You slipped through my fingers. And I never got to say—” His voice broke completely. “I never got to say I missed you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of wounds too deep for words. Of a hundred unsent letters. Of childhoods divided and hopes abandoned. Of dreams that were once made in whispers between the bedsheets in the dead of night. Of the sound of footsteps walking away and the echo that never left.

Then, after a long, aching pause, Sirius leaned back against the opposite wall of the cave.

“You were always so quiet,” he said. “So careful. Merlin, I used to get so angry at you for it.” He exhaled. “I didn’t realise how lonely you were… not until you were already gone.”

“I never wanted to be your shadow,” Regulus murmured. “I just wanted to be beside you.”

Sirius laughed again, hollow and full of pain. “Well, congratulations, Reggie. We’re finally beside each other. After everything. Just took you dying, and me nearly murdering you in the woods.”

Regulus gave a weak smile. “A bit dramatic, even for us.”

Sirius shook his head. “You know what’s worse than hating someone?” he asked, almost to the air itself. “Missing them. Every day. Every year. Waking up and remembering you wasted your chance—that’s what really killed me. Not the hatred. The grief. The guilt.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment, eyes downcast, then he said, almost abruptly:

“James and Remus… they never hated you.”

Regulus blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.

“Quite the opposite, really,” Sirius went on, his voice tight. “Remus especially. I never understood it. The way you two talked. Like, there was something old between you. Familiar.” He paused, jaw clenched. “You were comfortable around him in a way that used to drive me mad.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Jealous?”

“Yes,” Sirius snapped without hesitation. “Jealous. Furious. I didn’t even know why, not really. But seeing you with him, joking, calm, close—it reminded me of when you were little. Before everything fell apart. Before I left. When you used to look at me like I was your whole bloody world. And then suddenly you were dead, and years later, Remus was looking at you like he knew something I didn’t.”

Regulus lowered his gaze and stared at the dirt floor of the cave, his breath shallow. Then finally, he spoke.

“Because he did.”

“What?” Sirius looked at him, frowning slightly.

“It was a few months after I faked my death,” he said. “I was hiding in the forest just beyond Dunharrow Glen.”

Sirius stilled. Every part of him seemed to focus, waiting.

“I was gathering firewood when I found him,” Regulus said. “Remus. Half-conscious, bleeding out under the roots of an ash tree. His ribs were broken, his leg was torn— ” he swallowed, “looked like he’d been mauled. It was later that I found out that Greyback did that to him.”

Sirius inhaled sharply.

“I brought him to the cottage I was using. Hid him. He was burning up with fever. Kept muttering nonsense in his sleep… your name, mostly. James’. A few others I didn’t recognise.”

Regulus’ voice dropped, his words gentler now, like handling something fragile. “I kept him alive. For three nights. I didn’t sleep. I barely breathed. I thought he was going to die.”

Sirius blinked slowly, stunned. “You… saved him?”

Regulus gave a small nod. “When he finally woke up, I put him to swear that he never saw me. That I was dead and he just too exhausted to Apparate back home.”

Sirius’ eyes burned. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then, with effort:

“He never told me. Not even when I lashed out at you and he was there. When I called you—”

“I know,” Regulus said, with a soft exhale. “I know, Sirius.”

Sirius pulled his knees to his chest and dropped his chin to them, like a boy again, small and curled in the corner of their shared childhood room. “James left,” he said suddenly.

Regulus, half-drowsing from pain and exhaustion, blinked. “What?”

“After the Prophet announced your death. He left. Just—vanished.”

Regulus’ eyes snapped to him, sharp and clear. “What do you mean he left?”

Sirius exhaled, voice low, tight, like the memory itself tasted bitter. “He saw me breaking. I think it scared him, the way I was just… collapsing inward. He thought he could fix it. Thought he could find something, anything, to prove you were still alive. Some scrap of evidence.”

Regulus’ mouth had gone dry. “He went looking for me?”

“Yeah,” Sirius said, tone clipped. “Went straight into the belly of the beast. He stepped into an ambush without realizing it, probably followed some lead that was planted deliberately. He nearly got himself killed.”

Regulus felt like the cave had shrunk around him.

“Moony panicked,” Sirius continued, his voice harder now. “Ran to Moody, told him James was missing. They tracked him just in time. Dragged him out bleeding. Three broken ribs, a cracked jaw. He didn’t speak for days afterward.”

Regulus’ mouth went dry.

It wasn’t just James’ loyalty to Sirius that had pushed him to that reckless edge. It wasn’t some selfless Gryffindor quest to ease a friend’s grief. That kind of desperation, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, that came from something else. It was the same pulse of fury and love that made him kill the Death Eater who dared raise his wand at James that night.

Regulus’ pulse stuttered.

Sirius had turned toward him now, watching him with cautious eyes. “Reggie?”

Regulus blinked, swallowing hard, trying to steady his breath.

“I’m fine,” he whispered. “Just—tired. That’s all.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

Not angry. Not bitter.

Just… still.

Regulus shifted slightly, wincing. “Sirius?”

“Yeah?”

“I forgive you.”

Sirius looked away quickly, as if that was somehow harder to hear than anything else. “I don’t deserve it.”

Regulus closed his eyes, leaning back against the stone. His voice was quiet, sure.

“You never had to. You’re my brother.”

Chapter Text

His breath tore out of him in shallow, broken bursts—each inhale a jagged scrape against his throat, each exhale shuddering like his body had forgotten the rhythm of breathing altogether. His chest rose and fell as though he was still drowning, still clawing toward a surface he couldn’t see, fighting for air that tasted sharp and wrong, heavy with something invisible yet suffocating.

His hand trembled violently, fingers slick with cold sweat, the hilt of the blade almost slipping from his grasp. The dagger’s edge caught a flicker of the dim cave light, a pale glint that seemed to breathe with him, unsteady and fever-bright. For one terrible heartbeat, the light, the walls, the very air around him vanished.

The cave was gone.

He wasn’t here.

He was back there.

Back in the other cave, the one that lived inside his skull, a place of pitch-black, where sound bent and shadows had weight, where the darkness felt not like an absence of light but a presence in itself. Something was in there with him. Something that moved without footsteps.

Something that slid.

It wore the outline of a man, but the shape was only a mockery. Skin stretched too tight over something that didn’t belong inside it, like a mask wet and peeling at the edges. Its eyes were wrong. Far too pale, almost luminous, as if all colour had been boiled away until only a dead white light remained. And the voice—

Gods, the voice was worse.

It was scraped raw, like every word had been dragged over broken glass before it reached him. Hollow, as though it spoke from the depths of a skull that had been empty for centuries, the sound echoing in places no living breath should reach.

“Little traitor,” it whispered. “Come home.”

The walls seemed to lean inward, pressing closer, the very rock shifting to crush him. An icy weight settled across his chest, making each breath an effort, a debt he could barely pay.

And always, always, that voice—taunting, hungry, and impossibly familiar, winding around his spine like a chain.

He thought he had screamed; he was certain he had, but in the way dreams swallow sound, he could not hear himself. He swung the dagger anyway, slicing at empty air, desperate to tear through the black, desperate to carve his way out of a memory that had stopped being just a memory. Somewhere in the blind panic, he understood the thing he feared most: that perhaps he had never left that place at all. That maybe part of him had been left behind, stitched into the walls like the other ghosts that haunted that place.

His eyes snapped open.

The cave.

The fire.

The present.

He jolted upright with a strangled gasp, dagger raised, his arm moving before his mind had caught up. His whole body shook, his chest heaving as if every nerve in him still believed he was fighting for his life. Sweat slicked his forehead, making the curls at his temples cling damp and heavy to his skin. His heart slammed against his ribs with an almost frantic rhythm, like it still hadn’t realised the danger was over.

“Reggie? Hey, hey—it’s me.”

The voice reached him first—urgent, human, warm even.

Not hollow.

Not scraped raw.

Not the thing from the dream.

Sirius.

Regulus blinked hard, once, twice, his lashes sticking faintly together from sweat. The world swam in and out of focus, vision blurring not only from the grit of exhaustion but from the slow, ebbing tremor that still rippled through his body. His arm, rigid from the tension of the dream, finally began to give. The dagger lowered in a reluctant arc, his grip loosening finger by finger until the blade slipped free and landed on the cave floor with a muted clatter that echoed in the enclosed stone.

His hand didn’t immediately follow. It hung there in the air for a moment before dropping heavily into his lap like a branch too brittle to bear its own weight.

The cave light was sparse, the fire only a few feet away. Its glow was low and steady, shadows twitching across the walls in a measured rhythm. On the other side of the flames, Sirius knelt with one knee bent, shoulders hunched forward. He had a stick in hand, the firelight sketching warm gold along the edge of his jaw. His gaze was steady, meeting Regulus’ over the dancing flames.

“Fuck,” Regulus breathed, the word unsteady. The tension poured from his shoulders all at once, leaving them slack and heavy. He slumped back against the stone with a soft, hollow thud, the cool surface pressing between his shoulder blades. A rough hand dragged down his face, fingers catching at the damp along his brow. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Sirius’s expression shifted as he lifted the stick, revealing something small and vaguely rodent-shaped skewered on the end.

“Squirrel?” he asked, voice perfectly even.

Regulus blinked again, this time more in disbelief than fatigue. “What?”

“Quite skinny,” Sirius remarked, tone slipping into the same absent precision he might use to comment on wine at some pure-blood dinner. “But I figured we need the protein.” He rotated the stick slowly between his fingers, the meat giving a faint hiss where it brushed the fire’s heat.

Regulus let out a hoarse laugh—short, abrupt, and fraying at the edges, the kind of laugh that didn’t know whether it belonged to humour or madness.

“Where the hell did you find a squirrel?”

“Outside the cave,” Sirius replied without pause, eyes flicking toward the jagged mouth of the entrance. “Heard it rustling in the bush. Didn’t want to wake you.” A faint grin tugged at his mouth. “Sorry for the snap, though. For a scrawny little shit, it was fast.” Then, softer, the sharpness gone, “How are your wounds?”

Regulus groaned as Sirius leaned forward, fingers already reaching. “Stop coddling me.”

“Tough luck,” Sirius said with an almost smug finality, already tugging lightly at the edge of the bandages. “I’m your big brother. Comes with the job description. Now stop squirming.”

“I’m not—squirming,” Regulus muttered through clenched teeth, though he stilled all the same. Sirius’ hands were steady now. No tremor of guilt, no jagged pulse of old rage. Just hands—calloused, familiar, undeniably present.

“It’s closing,” Sirius murmured, the words half to himself. “Still red, though. Doesn’t look infected.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but the movement lacked conviction. He didn’t lean away. In truth, there was something oddly grounding about the fussing, even if he’d never admit it.

“How long was I out?”

“One hour, maybe two,” Sirius added, glancing briefly toward the fire. “You were talking.”

Regulus’ gaze sharpened. The faint curl of humour left his face entirely. “Talking?”

“Nothing clear,” Sirius said quickly, but his voice faltered on the next words. “But…” He hesitated, like stepping too close to a fault line. “It wasn’t just noise.”

Regulus grimaced, the answer simple, heavy. “Nightmares.”

Sirius gave the bandage one final pat, then sat back on his heels, resuming the slow turn of the stick. The squirrel’s skin crackled faintly, releasing the faintest scent of char. For a moment, Sirius said nothing, the only sound the fire’s low hiss.

“You weren’t just talking nonsense,” Sirius said at last, his voice quieter now, almost tentative. Like he was approaching a sleeping beast.

Regulus’s eyes flicked up, wary. “No?”

Sirius shook his head. “You kept saying something about hands.” His voice thinned, lowering to something barely audible. “Grabbing you. Pulling you down. Drowning.” A pause. “At some point, you called Barty’s name.”

Regulus froze. It was brief, just a hitch in his breath, but enough. The colour drained from his face in an instant, leaving his skin pale as though the warmth had been pulled straight out of him. For a heartbeat, he looked not like someone startled, but like someone who had just been found out.

Sirius straightened slowly, the casual hunch gone from his shoulders.

“Reggie…” His voice was steady, but the pause after the name made it feel heavier. “What happened after you were gone?”

Regulus’s jaw tightened instantly, the muscle flickering like it was trying to grind the question down before it reached his throat. “Nothing,” he said—too fast, the word pitched higher than it should have been. It landed brittle in the air.

Sirius’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of suspicion unmistakable. “Reggie—”

“I said nothing.” His voice cracked against the stone walls, bouncing back at him in ragged echoes that seemed to hang between them like a warning.

Sirius didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift back. The fire threw moving shadows across his face, but his gaze stayed fixed on Regulus, unwavering. The squirrel on its stick had been forgotten entirely.

“When they brought you into Hogsmeade,” Sirius said quietly, voice gone brittle in a way that had nothing to do with anger, “you looked bad. Worse than all of us. You looked like you’d crawled out of your own grave.” His eyes stayed locked on his brother. “And I remember thinking, for half a second… that maybe you had.”

Regulus looked away. Jaw clenched. The fire crackled between them.

“What did you do?” Sirius’s voice was barely above a whisper now.

Regulus said nothing for a long time. Long enough that Sirius began to think the wall was going back up, that his brother had sealed himself off again entirely. But then—

“I found a way to kill Voldemort,” Regulus said, so quietly that Sirius almost missed it beneath the sound of the flames.

Sirius inhaled sharply—and choked. Literally choked. Ash and spit caught in his throat at the same time, and he doubled forward, coughing, the stick in his hand tipping dangerously toward the fire. “WHAT?”

“Lower your voice, idiot,” Regulus hissed, his own gaze snapping toward the cave mouth. “You’ll wake the whole fucking forest.”

Sirius leaned forward until the firelight cut a sharp line across his eyes. The humour was gone. “What do you mean, ‘kill’?”

Regulus’ breath left him in a long, slow exhale, like he was bracing for something that might hit harder than a curse. “I mean, I found a way. Or… a lead.”

Sirius’ stare didn’t waver. “Is that why you faked your death?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Regulus said, softer now, but no less certain. “If I had stayed—if anyone had known what I was doing—it wouldn’t have worked. I needed Voldemort to believe I was dead.”

Sirius watched him as though trying to recognise a face he hadn’t seen in years, one he wasn’t sure he trusted to be real.

“And the dreams?” Sirius asked, softer now. “The hands? The drowning?”

Regulus closed his eyes, letting his head tip back against the wall. The stone was cold, grounding, but it didn’t make the question lighter.

“There are things worse than dying, Sirius,” he murmured. “Places… you don’t walk out of unchanged.”

Sirius dragged a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, cursing under his breath. “You always were a stubborn bastard.”

“Pot, kettle,” Regulus’ mouth twitched.

“Touché,” Sirius muttered, but the joke landed flat. His voice shook, just enough for his brother to notice.

“I did it because no one else could,” Regulus said after a beat. “Or would.”

Sirius studied him for a long moment, eyes dark in the firelight. “You didn’t do it alone. Not completely. Don’t lie to me about that.”

Regulus’ jaw flexed, and for the briefest second, something flickered across his face. Shame. Grief. Guilt. Then it vanished again, tucked neatly behind the practiced calm.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Who else helped you?”

He looked away. “Kreacher.”

Sirius blinked, as if the name had been pulled from somewhere far outside the expected. “Our house-elf?”

Regulus nodded slowly, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the cave walls.

“He was loyal to me. Truly loyal. Even when I wasn’t sure I deserved it. He went with me into the cave… and he came back when I couldn’t.”

Sirius’ lips parted slightly, but he said nothing. Just looked down at the fire, the glow carving out tired lines beneath his eyes. The silence stretched again, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

“What about Crouch and Rosier?”

Regulus went still.

“Barty found me,” he said eventually. “Took me out in time. We’ve been together since.”

The silence that followed was tight and uneasy. Regulus exhaled through his nose, a sound closer to resignation than relief, and pushed himself to his feet. The motion drew a faint wince across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. His movements were stiff, deliberate, as if each joint had been oiled just enough to function but not enough to stop the grind. He allowed himself nothing more than a brief grimace.

“We should keep moving,” he said, dusting the grit from his palms. “We need to reach the caves before sundown.”

Sirius’ gaze slid toward the cave mouth. The light beyond was pale and strained, already thinning under the canopy’s chokehold. Noon or not, the Forest swallowed daylight like a slow, patient predator. Shadows stretched long across the clearing, curling inward in shapes that could almost have been claws.

“How do you even know where they are?” he muttered, bending to grind the heel of his boot over the fire until the embers hissed and spat, surrendering into darkness.

Regulus adjusted the straps on his belt, checking the two daggers sheathed at his hips. “Centaurs,” he said simply.

Sirius froze mid-step. “WHAT?”

Regulus’s head tilted just enough to cast him a look over his shoulder—a sharp, withering thing that needed no words to finish the conversation.

“…What?” Sirius tried again, quieter this time.

“They found me in a clearing yesterday,” Regulus said, turning back to his gear. “After Avery jumped me.”

Sirius’ head snapped toward him. “Avery, what?”

“Well,” Regulus muttered, tugging one strap tighter, “what can I say? I was on a lot of people’s lists yesterday.”

“No wonder you looked like hell,” Sirius muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because I was bleeding out, and you were busy threatening to gut me for existing,” Regulus said dryly without looking up. “Forgive me if I didn’t think it was the right time for tea and gossip.”

Sirius winced. He deserved that.

Regulus cast one last look around the hollow and stepped past the vines and pushed into the open forest, Sirius trailing behind him. Sirius fell into step behind him, boots snapping twigs and pressing down brittle leaves until the sounds were swallowed by the damp.

 The air outside was colder than it had been inside the cave, but sharper too, clean in a way that almost stung the lungs. The scent of wet earth rose from every patch of ground, heavy and grounding. Above, pale light filtered down through the canopy in fractured columns, catching on the lichen that trailed lazily from the branches like curtains.

“Did the centaurs just… show up?” Sirius asked after a while, his voice lower now, as if the forest itself had ears.

“Not exactly,” Regulus said without breaking stride. “They knew I was there. They always do.”

Sirius glanced sidelong at him, a note of unease behind the curiosity. “And they just… helped?”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked often to the spaces between the trees, as if following invisible markers Sirius couldn’t see.

“They don’t help. Not really. They don’t interfere. But they watch. And when they see something worth noticing…” His voice dropped slightly. “They speak.”

“And you were worth noticing?”

Regulus gave a faint, humourless smile. “Apparently.”

They moved deeper into the forest, their footsteps falling into an unspoken rhythm. The silence between them wasn’t the same as before. The edges had dulled, the weight shifted. Ahead lay the meeting point, buried somewhere beneath the forest floor, hidden behind traps, spells, and the kind of secrets that didn’t survive in daylight.

The shadows thickened the further they went, and neither of them looked back.

They moved through the underbrush like two feral cats condemned to share the same patch of territory—each step a truce about to break, each glance a silent dare. Branches hissed against leather, damp leaves clung to boots, and the air between them prickled with the kind of mutual irritation only siblings could sharpen to a weapon.

Whatever flicker of warmth had sparked back in the cave had guttered out the instant they stepped into the open.

“You’re walking too loud,” Regulus hissed over his shoulder without breaking stride. His voice carried the tight patience of someone who had been counting his brother’s sins since birth. He ducked under a low branch with smooth, unthinking precision, his shoulders never touching the leaves.

“And you’re walking too slow,” Sirius shot back, his tone pitching high enough to make it deliberately, pointlessly noticeable. He shoved the same branch aside without care and let it snap back in his wake with the calculated indifference of a man absolutely hoping it hit someone.

Regulus caught it with one hand and held it until it stopped swaying. His exhale came through his nose—long, pointed, the sound of someone imagining a thousand better travelling companions.

“I swear, you are incapable of being useful without a theatrical flourish.”

“And you walk,” Sirius muttered, boots crunching over a patch of brittle twigs, “like you’re escorting a coffin. Honestly, do you glide everywhere?”

Regulus stopped dead. Turned. Very slowly. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, as though asking for divine intervention, or perhaps just the emotional restraint required to not commit fratricide in the middle of the forest.

“Do you ever shut up?” he asked, the question flat.

Sirius grinned like a boy caught with his hand in the sweets jar. “Not when I’m enjoying myself.”

“Unbearable,” Regulus muttered, pressing the bridge of his nose between two fingers as if he could physically pinch the headache away. “Utterly, cosmically unbearable.”

“You missed me.” Sirius’ teeth caught the light as he grinned wider, and for the smallest moment, there was something almost genuine in it.

“Missed you the way one misses food poisoning,” Regulus said, resuming his pace.

Sirius trailed after him, muttering something about how at least food poisoning left faster.

Regulus was mid-eye-roll, preparing a fresh insult, when he heard it—a sharp, deliberate crack to their left. Instinct took the reins.

In one fluid, unhesitating movement, Regulus stepped in front of Sirius, arm snapping back to clamp a hand over his brother’s mouth. Sirius stiffened, surprise flashing in his eyes, but to his credit, for once, he didn’t make a sound.

Regulus didn’t look at him. His gaze swept the shadows, carving through them like a blade through smoke. He lifted one hand, just one finger: Silence.

Sirius blinked, slow, his weight shifting as he studied his brother in profile. Regulus’ movements were deliberate, exact, the kind of precision born not from training alone, but from growing up in a world where hesitation was fatal.

Without glancing away from the treeline, Regulus dropped his hand from Sirius’ face and reached for the hunting knife at his hip. The sheath gave a soft whisper as steel cleared it.

His stance changed. Feet apart. Shoulders squared. Every muscle was pulling into a readiness that was all coiled steel.

Another rustle. Closer now.

Sirius leaned forward slightly, breath hitching, and Regulus shot him a look sharp enough to flay skin.

The ferns to their left shifted. Something heavy pressed through them, bending the fronds outward.

And then, from the bramble emerged two figures, stepping into the uncertain half-light that filtered through the canopy: disheveled, wild-eyed, but unmistakably familiar.

James and Remus.

Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. The knife stayed lowered but firm.

But Sirius inhaled like he’d been punched. Sharp, ragged, his whole body jolting with recognition and the sudden, almost violent urge to move, to run forward, to throw himself into the space and do something, anything.

Regulus’s hand shot out before thought could catch up. His fingers locked hard around Sirius’ arm, muscle and bone under his palm, holding him in place like a tether.

“Wait,” he hissed under his breath.

His eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the intruders, every inch of them. Clothes: torn, dirt-streaked, hanging off them in a way glamour couldn’t fake. Movements: weary, measured, coiled with the wary energy of men who had been hunted. Faces: open, too open, emotions etched raw enough to bleed through the distance.

Still, he didn’t blink.

Remus raised both hands, slow and careful, palms outward like he was sidling up to a cornered wolf.

“It’s us, Reggie,” he said, voice hoarse with travel and time, tentative but steady enough to carry across the short space. His mouth quirked, not quite a smile, more a faint memory of one. “I—uh—still prefer Homer.”

There was a pause, and then Regulus made a sound. It slipped out before he could stop it, half a laugh, half a strangled breath, sharp-edged and cracked down the middle. Disbelief tangled with relief, but there was something older underneath it, something bruised and tender that had been sitting too long in the dark. The sound thinned, frayed, and ended on a sharp exhale that could have been a sob if anyone had been cruel enough to name it.

“You idiot,” he whispered, and he let go of Sirius’ arm.

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He launched into Remus like a wave crashing into the shore, arms flinging around him in a crushing, desperate embrace that bordered on violent. Remus gasped—half-laugh, half-wince—stumbling back under the impact, but his hands were already clutching at Sirius’ jacket like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Then he kissed him, urgent, trembling, the kiss of a man clawing his way back from drowning, shaking with the relief of air.

Regulus turned his face away, instinctively, like he’d glimpsed something too private, too raw to witness.

A choked breath dragged his attention back.

James.

He was standing just a few feet away, his expression thunderstruck. His eyes were on Regulus. Drinking him in. Tracking the bruises, the cuts, the blood crusted into the corner of his lip. The slight hitch in his stance. The stiffness in his shoulder.

Regulus didn’t move.

James took a step forward, hesitant but hopeful, and Regulus stepped back, just barely, but enough. His eyes dropped, and he shook his head once. It was a small, fragile gesture. But it hit James like a slap. He knew Sirius didn’t know about them, but fuck, James wanted to touch him so fucking bad it hurt.

He stopped mid-step, as though he’d walked straight into a wall. His shoulders stiffened. His hands curled at his sides, fists clenched, white-knuckled.

Regulus gave him a tight smile and looked at him fully then.

James Potter was the same—and not. The hair still a mess that defied gravity, the glasses still skewed on his nose, the face still too open, too foolishly noble for this world. But his eyes, Merlin, his eyes, were different. Darker. Not cruel, but carved by something sharp. They held a weight now, a hardness at the edges that hadn’t been there before, like some part of him had been broken and soldered back with jagged seams.

Regulus hated how everything made his chest ache because he was still out of fucking reach.

God, he wanted—just once—to close the space. To cross those few feet and lay his palm against the line of James’ jaw, feel the warmth of skin under his fingers. To press his forehead to James’, to breathe him in like a man might breathe after surfacing from cold, black water. To find the corner of his stupid mouth and kiss it, quietly, without the world in the way.

But the world was still in the way.

So he breathed. Once. Twice. And shoved the ache down into the marrow of his bones where it couldn’t leak out. When he straightened, his expression was unreadable again.

“We need to move,” Regulus said quietly, forcing his voice into something even when it wanted to splinter into pieces. His eyes flicked away from James like the sight had burned him, like any longer and he’d be left nothing but ash. “We shouldn’t stay in the open.”

James’ throat bobbed. It looked almost painful, as if he were trying to swallow something thick and jagged. He gave one short nod, but his eyes never left Regulus, like looking away might make him vanish.

Remus eased away from Sirius with a gentle hand on his chest, like parting waves. Sirius scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, blinking fast, pretending not to be crying and failing miserably. He had a hand on Sirius’ back, grounding him, eyes gentle but watchful. And then, slowly, his gaze shifted, past Sirius, to the space between Regulus and James.

He saw it instantly. That invisible thread drawn taut between them. The silence that wasn’t empty but alive—thick with unspoken things, sharp with longing so dense it seemed to hum in the air.

He touched Sirius’ arm again, more deliberately this time.

“Come on,” he murmured, nodding toward the trail ahead. “We should get moving.”

Sirius glanced between his brother and James, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but he only sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Fine.”

The two of them started down the trail, the forest swallowing them slowly, the sound of Sirius grumbling about thorns fading into the distance.

Regulus turned to follow, and that was when James grabbed him.

Fingers—warm, rough, trembling just slightly—closed around his wrist, not harsh but certain. Regulus barely had time to breathe before James spun him back, the movement all instinct, all need. And then James’ mouth was on his.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, clashing, like both of them had been walking around with open wounds that only this could close. Regulus made a small, strangled sound against James’ lips, shock and longing colliding at once. His free hand came up, threading into James’ hair, pulling him closer, like letting go even for a second might break him apart entirely.

The kiss was all heat and something achingly familiar beneath the urgency—the taste of home he’d thought he’d lost.

When James finally tore himself back, his breathing was ragged, his forehead falling against Regulus’s like gravity had pulled it there.

“Merlin, Reggie,” James breathed, his voice trembling. “You’re actually here. I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

Regulus didn’t answer. Not with words. He surged forward again, catching James’ mouth with his own, fingers curling hard in his hair, the other hand clutching at the back of his neck.

Mineminemine, every nerve screamed, his entire body pressed flush like he could brand the shape of himself into James’ bones.

When they parted again, James kept his forehead pressed to Regulus’, eyes glassy.

“I missed you so fucking much, love. Every damn minute.”

Regulus exhaled shakily, his lashes lowering as his eyes fluttered shut. “Missed you too, James,” he whispered, letting himself lean, just for this moment, into the warmth of him.

James’ hand rose, tracing the edge of a bruise along Regulus’ cheek. His expression shifted in an instant—from soft awe to something darker. His jaw tightened, eyes sharpening.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Regulus opened his eyes, weary but calm. “Just Avery,” he murmured. “Tackled me yesterday. It wasn’t—he didn’t get far.”

James’ jaw tensed. “Fucking bastard,” he growled, venom low in his throat. “I’m going to kill him.”

A quiet, breath-soft laugh slipped from Regulus—warm, almost tender—before he leaned in to press a kiss to James’ cheek.

“When did your Gryffindor heart turn so cold, hmm?” he teased, voice frayed but lighter.

James’ lips twitched into that crooked, lopsided grin Regulus hated for how much it still wrecked him.

“Probably when some sly little Slytherin stole it.”

“The scoundrel!” Regulus gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand over his chest. “He ought to give it back to you.”

James shook his head, nose brushing Regulus’ as he leaned in closer. “Let him keep it.”

They lingered there—breathing the same air, foreheads touching, suspended in that fragile, golden pause that could have gone on forever.

“We should go before Pads realizes we’re gone,” James said softly, though he made no move to pull away.

Regulus pouted like a petulant child. “Rude.”

James chuckled, low in his throat, and bent to murmur in his ear, voice warm enough to burn. “No worries, love. I’m certain the second we reach the cave, Moony and Padfoot will vanish. And then… we can continue.”

Regulus’s lips curved into something slow and wicked. “Is that a promise, Potter?”

James smirked, brushing a thumb along his jaw. “Always.”

And with fingers still barely grazing each other, they finally turned toward the path, the forest swallowing the space around them—but not the pull between them.

The path had narrowed as they climbed, the worn stone trail twisting higher through the trees until it was barely a suggestion beneath their feet. Moss spilled over the edges, greedy and thick, and brambles clawed at their ankles like the forest was reluctant to let them pass. Vines dangled from the canopy above, fat with dew, catching on their hair and shoulders. In the pale light that filtered down, spiderwebs shimmered, trembling slightly in the faint breeze, like the forest was breathing around them.

The air cooled as they climbed, thinning in a way that made every breath feel sharper. Even Sirius fell quieter, though only because he was too busy batting away the green, reaching things to make proper conversation.

They skirted an ancient elm, its bark thick and grooved like wrinkled skin, and spotted a nest of bowtruckles clinging to its side. The tiny, twig-limbed creatures lay perfectly still, eyes like splinters of amber, until Sirius’ boots scuffed a little too close. One hissed like a kettle, snatching up a shard of bark and flinging it with deadly precision. It whistled past his ear close enough to stir his hair.

Sirius yelped, jerking sideways. “Oi! I wasn’t going to touch your bloody tree!”

Further up, they heard the cry of something else, something low and ululating, the sound bouncing between trees with no visible source. Regulus didn’t even flinch.

“A mooncalf,” he said absently, brushing a vine from his shoulder.

But it wasn’t the mooncalves or the bowtruckles that forced them off the trail.

It was the giants.

The group had just passed an old stone outcropping, half-swallowed by earth, when the first rumble rolled through the ground. A long, slow vibration, deep enough to rattle their bones.

James grabbed Remus’ arm. “Tell me that was thunder.”

But then came the second.

And the third.

The ground seemed to groan with each step of something massive. Branches cracked in the distance with the sharp report of breaking bone. The air carried a noise that was almost breath but far too large.

“Off the trail. Now,” Regulus hissed, already veering left into the thick of the woods.

They moved quickly, ducking behind tangled undergrowth, crawling through a fallen hollow log slick with moss. Through the leaves, Sirius caught a glimpse of one: thirty feet tall, hunched and leathery, dragging a club as big as a tree trunk. Another followed behind it, mumbling in guttural grunts, occasionally stomping at the ground as though crushing insects beneath its heel.

They waited, breath held, until the sound faded uphill and east.

“They don’t usually come this far down. Voldemort must’ve rallied them,” Regulus whispered.

When the forest finally fell still, they returned to the trail in silence. The climb felt steeper now, every shadow heavier.

By the time they reached the caves, the sky was sinking into darkness. The mouth of the nearest one gaped open, an arch of jagged stone ringed with creeping ivy. Cold air spilled out, smelling of damp earth and something deeper, older. It was the sort of dark that could swallow a dozen men whole and still be hungry.

They stepped inside cautiously. Their footsteps echoed, the sound swallowed and returned in strange, muffled whispers. The walls glistened with condensation, and deeper within, a slow, steady drip punctuated the quiet like the ticking of a distant, unseen clock.

They walked just far enough to escape the light outside and started a small fire. Bags dropped to the floor with muted thuds, the weight of exhaustion settling in with them.

Regulus immediately set to work, pulling a stick of chalk from his pocket and drawing sharp, purposeful lines along the cave wall and around the entrance. Wards, most likely. Or ancient runes only he could read. His movements were exact, practiced, the air humming faintly with the soft sting of static magic.

James crouched near the mouth, eyes scanning the trees beyond the ivy veil. He hadn’t taken his hand off his knife since the giants. Remus sat cross-legged near the fire, unpacking their meager supplies: a bit of dried meat, a dented flask of water, and the broken remains of a biscuit someone had stepped on hours ago.

“Wood,” Sirius muttered, scanning the dim cave mouth through the flickering firelight. “We’ll need some before it gets too dark.”

“I’ll go,” James offered without hesitation, already pushing himself up, rubbing the dust from his trousers.

“No.” Regulus didn’t look up from his work, but the word cut clean. “We go in pairs. We don’t split up.” His gaze flicked between them, sharp and unyielding. “Too risky.”

James arched an eyebrow, not moving, but he didn’t press it.

“Then I’ll go with James,” Remus offered, his voice calm but carrying a note that made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “Sirius, Reg, you two start making another fire pit. We’ll need something solid if we’re staying here.”

Sirius blinked in surprise. “What are you now, Head Boy?”

“Just smarter than you,” Remus said flatly.

Regulus rolled his eyes but stepped toward the fire, stooping to rearrange the embers. “Focus. We need something that burns long and slow. No flashy sparks.”

Sirius made a face, but he was about to speak when—

POP.

A sound like a bone snapping cut the silence.

Sirius spun around, knife halfway drawn, but the Death Eater was already behind James —hooded, masked, one gloved hand twisted in the collar of his jacket, the other pressing a wand into the soft hollow beneath his jaw.

James froze instantly, spine straightening, hands splayed out in peace.

“Now, now,” the Death Eater cooed, voice rich with mockery, “isn’t this precious? What a touching little campfire scene. Four war-weary rebels. You’ve done so well not to die.”

The fire popped in the silence that followed. Its light flickered against Regulus’ face—white and sharp as carved marble.

The Death Eater’s wand pressed deeper, forcing James’ chin up just enough to expose the vulnerable line of his throat.

“Drop the weapons,” he ordered.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, Remus crouched and set his knife down on the stone. The metallic clink was louder than it should have been.

Sirius followed a beat later, his jaw clenched tight, eyes never leaving James. He let the blade fall, hands spread where they could be seen.

“Good,” the Death Eater drawled. “Now you, too, Black.”

Regulus didn’t move. His dagger still hung loose in his hand, tip pointed toward the ground, fingers relaxed—not tense, but ready.

“Reggie,” Sirius hissed. “Reggie, drop it.”

But when Sirius met his brother’s eyes, the words died in his throat.

He’d seen Regulus angry before. He’d seen him cornered, wounded, and dangerous. But this wasn’t any of those.

This wasn’t his little brother.

This was something else.

Something that had survived more than any of them had guessed. There was no rage behind that gaze. No snarl, no shout, no flare of temper. Just a deadly, precise stillness. The kind born not from panic, but decision. It was the stillness of a snake before it strikes.

Sirius had only seen that look once before—on Moony, when the wolf caught scent of prey. But even that wild, guttural instinct had something human behind it. Regulus didn’t.

Regulus was ice.

His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of fear.

“Draw a single line of blood,” he said softly, “and I will make sure you die choking on your own.”

The Death Eater laughed, the sound coarse and ugly inside the mask.

“You children still think this is a game?” He wrenched James back by the hair, baring his throat, and pressed his wand harder. James’ breath hitched.

“Do you think I haven’t seen your kind before? Rebels. Martyrs. I’ve buried a dozen of you.”

Regulus’ jaw flexed once.

“Drop the wand,” Remus said suddenly, calm but steely. “You won’t make it out of here alive otherwise.”

“You think you scare me, little Black? Look at you. The four of you, pathetic. The golden boy,” he hissed, shaking James slightly, “the blood traitor, the werewolf, and the ghost.” He turned his sneer to Regulus. “You shouldn’t even be alive.”

James shifted, trying to twist free, but the wand dug deeper into his neck. A bead of blood welled there—slow and bright, sliding over his collarbone. The tip of the wand began to glow faintly, that deadly green building at its heart.

Sirius’ breath caught.

“Your father sends his regards,” the Death Eater whispered, his eyes locked onto Regulus. His voice curled with venom and pride, like it meant something. “Av—”

The rest of the curse dissolved into a wet, tearing gurgle.

Something silver flashed—Regulus’ knife, thrown with terrifying speed, buried itself deep in the Death Eater’s throat. Flesh split. Cartilage crunched. Blood exploded out in a hot, arterial spray.

James staggered, his hands flying up too late to shield himself. He gasped, the metallic warmth splashing across his face, slick and hot. It soaked into his collar, clung to his lashes. The Death Eater stumbled back, eyes wide, gagging. He clutched at his throat, hands scrabbling uselessly against the torrent of blood that pulsed between his fingers.

Regulus was already moving. It was as if he’d known. As if the entire sequence had played out in his mind before it ever happened. He crossed the cave in three strides, swift and purposeful. He caught the man’s collar just as he collapsed to his knees and yanked him upright with terrifying strength. Then, without hesitation, Regulus ripped the blade free in a vicious motion that opened the wound wider.

The Death Eater gurgled. His lips moved, mouthing something that never made it into words. Blood bubbled over his tongue.

“I told you,” Regulus whispered, voice low and cold, “one—”

The knife came down again with a sickening thud.

 “—line—”

Again, deeper this time, splattering blood across the stone floor.

“—of fucking blood.”

He let go, shoving the man backwards. The body hit the cave wall hard, then crumpled to the ground in a heap of limbs and robes, twitching once, twice, and then still. Blood spread beneath him in a growing pool, seeping into the cracked stone like ink into old parchment.

No one moved.

James didn’t move. He stood rigid, breath shallow, blood dripping from his chin to his collarbone. His eyes were wide, stunned. His mouth parted slightly as if he were still catching up with what had just happened.

Sirius had frozen mid-step, expression twisted with disbelief, as though he no longer recognized the person standing across from him. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides.

Remus remained perfectly still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had turned bone-white. He looked between Regulus and the corpse, his jaw tense, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

The cave crackled with the sound of the fire. Outside, wind howled softly through the trees, but inside, everything had turned to stone.

It was Remus who broke the silence at last, though even he sounded reluctant to do it. His voice was steady, but there was a thin, unmistakable thread of unease running through it.

“You killed him.”

Regulus didn’t turn around. He crouched beside the body, wiping the blade clean on the Death Eater’s bloodied robes. His movements were precise. Almost ritualistic. When he stood again, it was with the steadiness of someone who had done this before. Many times.

“You threw a knife into his throat,” Sirius whispered, almost disbelieving. “Reg—what the fuck?!”

“Yes.” Regulus didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just… acknowledged it, as if they’d commented on the weather.

James dragged his sleeve across his face. The blood smeared instead of disappearing, streaking his cheek and jaw, but he didn’t seem to notice. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and rasped,

“Well. That was—” His voice caught. He tried again. “That was fast.”

Sirius stepped forward. “What the hell was that, Reggie?”

“Collateral damage.”

“Fuck, Reggie. That’s not funny.”

“Who said I wanted to be funny?” Regulus asked simply.

“You didn’t even hesitate, Reggie! You didn’t blink! You gutted him like it was nothing.” Sirius snapped.

Regulus finally met his brother’s gaze. The look there made Sirius falter.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sirius asked, softer now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

“War,” Regulus answered flatly.

Sirius opened his mouth, but Remus stepped in before the conversation could burn hotter. “We should burn the body,” he said, calm and practical.

“No,” Regulus said, brushing past them as if the topic was already closed. “We don’t waste wood.”

He jerked his chin toward the cave mouth. “Drag him outside. The forest will take care of him.”

There was something in the way he said it that made no one argue.

Without another word, he turned sharply toward James. He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak. Just reached out and caught James by the chin, angling his face toward the firelight. His grip was firm, fingers cold and unyielding.

James swallowed hard. “Reggie,” he murmured.

“Stop fussing,” Regulus hissed, voice tight, as he tilted James’ head further.

“I’m fine,” James said, trying to pull back, his tone more cautious now. “Really. He didn’t even cast—”

“Let me fucking see it,” Regulus snapped, voice suddenly sharp. But underneath it, there was something else. A tremor. A faint, breaking thread that made James go still. Real, visceral, bone-deep fear.

James stopped moving. He went utterly still, eyes wide, breath held—and slowly, gently, he reached up and covered Regulus’ hand with his own.

“Okay,” he said, quiet as a breath. “Okay. I’m here.”

And still, Regulus didn’t move for a moment. His fingers stayed where they were, resting along James’ throat, as if checking for a pulse. As if needing proof that he was still warm. That a pulse still beat under his touch.

His eyes were fixed on the thin line of red where the wand had pressed too hard, where it had almost—almost—

His hands began to shake, and James suddenly understood.

Regulus wasn’t angry. He was breaking. He had nearly watched James die in front of him. Again.

Regulus pulled away like he’d been scalded. He didn’t look at James, didn’t say a word. He took three steps back, each one faster than the last, then crouched abruptly in the farthest corner of the cave, spine pressed to the wall as if needing it to hold him up. He pulled something from his belt, a strip of cloth, stained and fraying, and wrapped it around the hilt of his dagger with hands that moved too quickly, too purposefully. He gripped it like a lifeline, scrubbing it in short, violent bursts even though the blade was already clean.

He just needed something to do. Anything to keep his hands moving. Anything to keep the thoughts out.

Because if he stopped, if he let himself breathe, he’d feel it. All of it.

The crushing pressure of what almost happened.

Of what could still happen.

James, stiff with shock, the glow of green magic building beneath his chin, the wand pressed to the soft skin of his throat.

James, mouth open in shock, light going out of his eyes, his body crumpling like the others Regulus couldn’t save.

James dying.

He couldn’t—he wouldn’t survive that.

Regulus pressed the cloth harder against the blade until it creaked in his grip. His fingers were going raw from it. His knuckles had gone white, but he didn’t let up.

“Reggie,” James called his name, voice low and steady, like one might use with a frightened animal or a boy standing too close to a cliff’s edge. He slowly knelt in front of him, careful not to make a sudden move. “Look at me.”

But Regulus didn’t. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on his own hands, fingers twitching violently, twitching like they weren’t his at all. They were smeared with red, drying at the edges, crusted into the fine lines of his knuckles. The dagger lay abandoned at his side now. What held his attention were the drops. Wet, silent. Falling.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

They landed on the backs of his hands.

At first, he thought it was blood.

But it wasn’t.

It took too long for him to realize they were tears.

The breath that shuddered out of his chest was sharp and wet and ragged. He blinked. Once. Then again, harder. As if trying to force the tears away by will alone.

But they kept coming.

He had forgotten what this felt like. The burn in his eyes, the raw ache in his throat, the betrayal of his own body as it forced him to feel.

Regulus Black didn’t cry anymore. That part of him had been buried somewhere between the night he drank poison and the day he watched a boy scream for his mother as he burned.

“Love,” James whispered.

The word slipped in like light under a locked door. A different voice now. A softer one, threading itself through the panic, tugging gently at the edge of Regulus’ crumbling mask.

“Hey,” James breathed. “Hi there.”

He reached out and cupped Regulus’ face in both hands. His palms were warm—God, so warm—thumbs brushing away the wet tracks running down Regulus’ cheekbones. The tears came faster for it, not slower.

Regulus flinched at the touch, but only for a second.

Then, slowly, brokenly, he leaned into it like a man starved for warmth. For kindness. For anything good.

He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek against James’ palm, and took a breath that nearly buckled his whole chest. It was like something inside him cracked open, something old and cold and buried, and the flood came pouring through the break.

“There you are,” James murmured, voice trembling as he kissed Regulus softly on the brow, then again on his temple, lips gentle and grounding. “There you are. I thought I lost you for a moment.”

Regulus let out a sound, half sob, half laugh, and his hands came up and clutched at James’ wrists, desperate to hold on to something that mattered, something real amidst all the blood and horror. His grip was too tight, shaking, but James didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t,” Regulus whispered hoarsely, barely audible. “But I—I think I lost myself a little.”

James leaned in closer, until their foreheads touched, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. He held Regulus’ face like it was something precious, something worth saving.

“Then I’ll find you again,” he murmured. “I’ll be here. Every time.”

Regulus blinked hard, but the tears kept coming. His lips parted like he wanted to say something else, but nothing came out.

A long silence passed between them. No one interrupted it.

Somewhere behind them, at the mouth of the cave, Sirius turned to look and stopped when he saw them like that, curled into each other like two war-worn halves of the same broken heart. His throat worked, but he said nothing. He just reached for Remus’ hand, gave the gentlest of tugs, and they both quietly stepped away, giving the moment the reverence it deserved.

Inside the cave, Regulus exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for what felt like hours—years.

“I was so scared,” he whispered. “I couldn’t move. I saw that wand at your throat and—and if he’d said the words—if you’d fallen—I…”

“But I didn’t,” James said, firm and soft all at once. He leaned in and kissed him again, this time on the lips, slow and sure.

“I’m here,” James murmured against his lips. “Always will be, love.”

Chapter Text

Remus stood a little off to the side of the cave entrance, arms folded tight across his chest. The posture looked casual, but the set of his jaw betrayed the tension under his skin. His eyes followed Sirius as he paced the small clearing, boots grinding over damp earth.

There was a strain in Sirius’ movements—not quite fury, not quite fear. Just… something that had nowhere to go. An agitation that lived under the skin and refused to be shaken off. The body they’d dragged out of the cave lay crumpled in a thicket of brambles a few meters away.

“You seem…” Remus said softly, choosing his words with care, “Okay.”

Sirius let out a short, sharp scoff that cracked in the middle like brittle glass. He didn’t stop moving.

“Okay? About what, exactly?” His tone was tight, every word bitten off. “The fact that my little brother just slit a Death Eater’s throat without a flicker of hesitation? Or the fact that my little brother and my best mate are apparently together and somehow thought that didn’t warrant—oh, I don’t know—a fucking mention?”

Remus exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t do this, Sirius.”

“Do what?” Sirius’ head snapped toward him.

“Make a scene. Twist the knife. Make them feel guilty for… choosing each other.”

Sirius stopped pacing, though the tension still thrummed in him like a pulled bowstring. His brows knit together—not in anger, not exactly. The look was heavier than that. It was confused. Wounded.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Remus blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “What?”

Sirius’ laugh was thin and ugly. He raked a hand through his hair, the motion jerky enough to pull at the roots.

“You think I’m mad at them?” He gave another sharp laugh, though it rang hollow. “No, Moony. I’m mad at me.”

Remus tilted his head. “Why?”

“I’m not blind.” Sirius leaned back against a tree, arms hanging loose at his sides like he’d run out of the strength to keep them braced. “I’ve known Prongs since we were eleven, for fucks sake. I’ve seen him at his most idiotic, his most reckless, his most… heroic. And I saw the way he looked at Reggie before he even realized it. It was like watching the slowest disaster in the history of magic.”

Remus stayed quiet. Sirius’ gaze had gone distant, like he was watching some scene only he could see.

“I saw it,” Sirius continued, softer now, fraying at the edges. “And I ignored it. Told myself James just… pitied Regulus. Or maybe it was that noble streak of his, the one that makes him want to save everyone. I even joked about it once.” His lips twisted. “In the library. I said something like, ‘If Prongs stares at him any longer, he’s going to set his bloody robes on fire.’ And I laughed.”

He looked up at Remus then, and for the first time in years, he looked startlingly young. Like a boy who’d believed that if you loved someone enough, you could keep them safe.

“I laughed, and I knew,” he whispered. “And I still said nothing.”

Remus stepped toward him, slow and careful. “You couldn’t have known how serious it would get. James was still with Lily then, and Regulus wasn’t speaking to any of us. You can’t punish yourself for not predicting this.”

“It’s not about predicting it,” Sirius muttered, shaking his head. His hands curled into loose fists. “It’s about how far away he feels now. Like he’s… built this whole other life somewhere I’m not allowed. And I’m his brother, Moony. I’m supposed to know him. I’m supposed to protect him. But I don’t even recognize the man in there.”

His voice cracked—just slightly—before he caught it and forced it flat again.

“For fuck’s sake, I tried to kill him earlier,” he added, barely above a whisper.

Remus froze. “…What?”

“Naiads got me,” Sirius muttered quickly, eyes darting away. “But still—I should’ve been a better brother. I should’ve…” He trailed off, shaking his head like the rest of the sentence was too dangerous to finish.

They stood in silence for a beat, the wind pushing through the trees like a soft warning.

Finally, Sirius’ voice came again, quieter this time. “Do you think they’ll make it? In all this?”

Remus’ answer was measured, but there was something firm in it too. “They’ll fight like hell. And I think… maybe that’s enough.”

Sirius didn’t respond. He tipped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes, letting the bark dig into his skull. His breathing slowed, and the restless pacing finally stilled.

Then, almost absently, he murmured, “He really fucking stabbed that bloke for him.”

Remus snorted. “Right in the throat.”

Sirius let out a long, mournful sigh, dragging a hand down his face until his palm practically tried to pull his jaw off.

“It’s just… weird, Moony. James is all heart and stupid Gryffindor idealism and—” He waved vaguely, like the word was hovering somewhere in the air. “—loyalty. The man bleeds loyalty. It’s admirable and disgusting at the same time.”

Remus’ mouth twitched.

Sirius threw both hands up. “Regulus is a feral cat with a knife in his boot and a death wish. He hisses when he’s cornered. You’ve seen him. He’s one bad day away from living under a rock.”

Remus allowed himself the faintest smile. “And somehow, that works.”

“It shouldn’t!” Sirius cried, now pacing a little as the injustice of it all was physically painful. “You put those two in a room and you expect a duel or at least some witty back-and-forth. Not—whatever the hell is happening in there.”

Remus snorted. “You mean, intense eye contact and unhealthy amounts of emotional repression?”

“Yes, exactly!” Sirius said, pointing. “That, followed immediately by some big dramatic monologue about trauma, and then—ugh—touching.” He shuddered so hard his hair actually swished.

Remus’ lips twitched. “You sound jealous.”

Sirius stopped dead and gave him a look of pure, aristocratic offence.

“I’m not jealous. I’m traumatised. There’s a difference. I walked in on James and Lily snogging once and nearly threw up. And that was tame. With these two?” He shook his head violently. “I don’t want to imagine what they do during.”

Remus, of course, immediately started imagining it.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “they’ve probably stopped crying, talking, and brooding by now, which means…”

“…they’re probably doing it,” Sirius finished, with the tone of a man pronouncing his own death sentence.

“Right now,” Remus added cheerfully.

Sirius made a sound like a dying animal. “Do you think if I announce myself very loudly before entering, they’ll have the decency to put clothes on?”

Remus considered. “I think they’ll pretend they didn’t hear you and double down.”

Sirius groaned and threw himself face-first onto the forest floor, arms flopping out like he was trying to leave a perfect chalk outline for his inevitable murder.

“Can I Obliviate myself in advance? Just… proactively scrub it from my memory?”

“That’s not how that works.”

He groaned again, louder, kicking one boot uselessly at a patch of moss. “I miss when the most scandalous thing James ever did was charm his underwear to stay warm during Quidditch.”

Remus patted his leg, utterly unsympathetic. “You’ll live.”

“No, I won’t. One day, I’m going to walk on them and see something I can never unsee, and I will die instantly. Just keel over from second-hand emotional intimacy. The Healers will have to write that on my cause of death.”

Remus laughed again, louder this time, and shook his head. “You’re such a baby.”

“And you,” Sirius shot back, “are far too comfortable picturing my brother and my best friend having sex on a pile of firewood.”

“I’m just saying,” Remus said with an unholy glint, “at least knock before going in.”

“It’s a cave, Moony! THERE ARE NO DOORS.”

“Well,” Remus said brightly, pushing himself to his feet, “then I guess we’ll have to wait here a little longer.”

Sirius rolled onto his back and stared up at the canopy like he was praying for divine intervention.

“I’m going to throw myself into the bush with the body.”

Remus offered him a hand up. “You say that now, but you’re going to be telling this story at their wedding someday.”

“Don’t,” Sirius muttered, grabbing his hand and letting himself be hauled upright. “Don’t speak that evil into the world.”

By the time Sirius and Remus made their way back to the cave, the forest was almost drowned in darkness. The air was cooler now, the heat of the day bleeding off the stones, and a hush had settled over the clearing like a held breath.

They ducked into the mouth of the cave without speaking, Sirius trailing a few steps behind. The damp scent hit him first, followed by the familiar flicker of firelight on stone. His shoulders tightened automatically. He’d been bracing himself for… well, anything, really—some combination of awkwardness, the sort of clumsy intimacy that made him itch to look away, or worse, something graphic enough to etch itself into his brain forever.

He thought he was ready, but what he saw stopped him cold.

Against the far wall, half-lost in the shifting shadows, sat James. He was leaning back against the stone, legs stretched out in front of him, his posture exhausted but strangely… at peace. His knife lay forgotten on the floor, glinting faintly in the firelight. One arm was wrapped around Regulus, holding him with a kind of loose protectiveness that didn’t look forced or deliberate—it just was.

Regulus was curled into him, head resting in James’ lap, his breathing deep and steady. The sharp, guarded angles of his face had smoothed in sleep, every line of tension eased away. Sirius almost didn’t recognize him like this. There was no mask here, no hidden blade behind the eyes—just quiet, human exhaustion.

James’ other hand was tangled in Regulus’ hair, combing through the strands with slow, unconscious care, again and again. He wasn’t looking at his hand, though; his gaze was fixed on Regulus’ face with the kind of unflinching attention Sirius had only ever seen James reserve for the Snitch in a match. But this wasn’t a competition. This was steady, unguarded, and so absurdly gentle that Sirius’ chest gave an involuntary lurch.

This wasn’t what he’d expected. Not the quiet. Not the ease. Not the sight of his best friend holding his little brother like something breakable and worth protecting. The image hit him with the uncomfortable weight of inevitability—like the two of them had been moving toward this for far longer than Sirius had realized, and he was only just catching up.

There was no performance in it. No self-consciousness. Just something honest.

James looked up, catching Sirius’ stare.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush to explain, didn’t offer a sheepish grin or a plea for understanding. He just held Sirius’ gaze and gave the smallest of nods. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t asking for permission. It was a statement, wordless and solid.

This is what it is. This is who I love. You can hate me for it, but I won’t stop.

For a moment, Sirius stood suspended in the space between one breath and the next. Then something, he wasn’t sure what, gave way. Not in defeat, but in release. The tight knot in his chest loosened. The tangled mess of resentment and fear began to unspool.

And to his own surprise, he smiled.

Not the sharp smirk he used when he was covering for discomfort. A real smile. Tentative, a little crooked, but genuine. It felt strange on his face, as though he was using a muscle that had nearly atrophied. But it felt… good.

He stepped inside, quiet as the fire’s crackle, and sank down beside Remus against the opposite wall. The stone was cool against his back, grounding. He exhaled slowly, like setting down a weight he’d carried far too long.

The quiet settled around them again, deeper now. Regulus stirred once, brow twitching in some half-formed dream, but James murmured something low and steady, his fingers shifting to stroke the nape of his neck. The tension eased from Regulus’ face; his breathing evened again.

Sirius watched, arms draped loosely over his knees. After a long while, he spoke, barely above a whisper.

“He’s good for him.”

Remus turned, brow raised. “James or Regulus?”

A small huff of laughter escaped Sirius. “Both. Somehow.”

The three of them sat there for a long time, the fire painting their faces in restless orange light. Outside, the forest pressed close, a war waiting just beyond the tree line, but here, in this pocket of warmth and shadow, something fragile was managing to survive.

Eventually, James shifted with a quiet groan, stretching his neck until it popped. His back protested the movement, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he carefully slipped off his jacket, folding it into a makeshift pillow, and eased Regulus down onto it.

Regulus mumbled something in his sleep, not quite waking. One hand reached out blindly, brushing James’ knee. James lingered there for a breath, his eyes soft, before finally pushing himself upright.

He looked toward Sirius, tilting his head toward the entrance. No words passed between them.

Sirius simply rose, brushing the dust from his trousers, and followed. Together they slipped past the heavy ferns, stepping into the night.

They walked for a moment in silence, the kind that crackles with words just beneath the surface.

Eventually, James slowed, coming to a stop beside a boulder covered with moss. He let out a long breath, shoulders dipping as though he’d been holding them too high for too long. One hand dragged through his hair, a nervous habit Sirius had seen a thousand times, but it didn’t seem to help tonight.

When James finally spoke, his voice was low, almost testing the air. “You mad at me?”

Sirius leaned against the nearest tree, arms crossed. His face gave nothing away, but when he answered, the words were steady.

“No. Merlin, no.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, studying James. “I just… when?”

James’ gaze dropped to the ground, then lifted slowly toward the canopy above, where the stars burned faintly through the branches.

“Before the night of the trial.”

Sirius blinked. “Before? You mean this wasn’t just—” he waved a hand vaguely between them “—trauma-bonding? Heat-of-the-moment? ‘We might die, so let’s kiss’?”

James gave him a look. “Do I look like I would risk my neck, literally and metaphorically, for anything less?”

“Honestly?” Sirius snorted. “You’re a Gryffindor. You’ve done stupider things.”

That got a quiet laugh from James.

“But seriously,” Sirius added, voice dipping low again. “You and Reggie… when did that even happen?”

James hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Remember that mission Dumbledore sent me on? Right before the obituary came out?”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed. “The one in Perth?”

“Yeah. Supposed to be routine. In and out. Only it wasn’t. Someone tipped them off.” James’ voice grew quieter. “I got jumped in an alley by a Death Eater. Didn’t even have time to pull my wand before he had one on me—spell ready, killing curse on his lips. And I thought—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I thought, ‘So this is it.’ And then—”

James’ eyes went distant. “Then Regulus stepped out of the shadows. One curse. Avada. Didn’t even flinch.”

Sirius didn’t speak. He only watched, something unreadable in his gaze.

James laughed under his breath. It was a hollow sound.

“I looked at him, and he was so calm. Cold, even. Like it was just another Tuesday night for him. I asked him to come with me. Almost begged, actually. Told him we could protect him.”

He paused, a bitter smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“But he just shook his head. Said it was too late. And then he vanished. Just like that.”

The silence stretched, brittle and fragile.

James’ voice was softer now, more distant. “Next day, the Prophet ran his obituary.”

Sirius inhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t a full breath—more like something that caught halfway. “That’s why you left.”

James nodded, slowly.

“I think that’s when I knew that there was… something more. Something I’d been feeling for years without admitting it.” He gave a small, rueful smile. “I kept replaying everything I’d ever seen of him, even the stupid, throwaway moments. How he sat at the Slytherin table, the way he always seemed to be listening without looking at anyone. How he’d stand in the library with a book open but his eyes miles away.”

James shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “I told myself it was just because he was your brother. Because he was quiet. Mysterious. Complicated. That I was just… protective. Curious. Trying to figure him out for your sake. But that was bullshit. I think I always felt it. I just didn’t let myself name it.”

James’ eyes flicked up to Sirius briefly before dropping again.

“Do you remember that night after Slughorn’s party? Sixth year? He was standing alone outside the greenhouse. Snow falling. And I just… stood there inside, watching him through the glass. I don’t know how long. I remember thinking he looked lonely, but also, untouchable. Like no one could reach him."

James’ voice dropped again, something catching in it.

“I think I wanted to be the person who could reach him. Even back then.”

Sirius folded his arms but said nothing. James let the silence linger for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, before continuing.

“I think part of me is ashamed it took me so long to say it—to myself, to him. Because now every moment I could have had feels like it’s already been stolen. And there’s a war on, Sirius. Nothing’s promised, and I’m standing here hoping for a future I might never see.”

His voice caught on that last word, and he quickly looked away, dragging a hand down his face as though to wipe the admission from his own skin.

“After we were dropped in Hogsmeade,” he said softly, “and Regulus showed up alive, like some bloody ghost I hadn’t finished grieving, I thought I was hallucinating. Or… finally losing my mind. I couldn’t stop watching him. Every time he moved, I felt like if I blinked, he’d vanish again.”

He shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in even wilder angles than usual.

“And it wasn’t some heroic saviour complex thing. It wasn’t pity, or guilt, or obligation. It was—” he stopped, frowning faintly, as if searching for the right word “—recognition. Like finding a song you’ve never heard before but somehow knowing every word.”

Sirius made a face. “That’s… nauseatingly poetic.”

James shot him a flat look. “Shut up. I’m having a moment.”

“Right, right,” Sirius said, gesturing for him to continue with all the false solemnity of a man at a funeral.

“He was different,” James went on, ignoring him. “Hard, sharp edges, but careful too. Like he’d learned to hide the best parts of himself for so long that now, when they slipped out, it was almost an accident. He was angry, sometimes downright ice-cold, but then he’d have these moments… soft ones. Honest ones. And every time he trusted me with something, some tiny piece of himself, it felt like being handed something fragile. Something no one else had ever been allowed to hold.”

A wistful smile tugged at his mouth, tinged with something that might have been sadness.

“I didn’t fall for him all at once. It was… slow. Creeping. The sort of thing you don’t even notice until it’s everywhere.”

He hesitated, then looked up at Sirius again.

“When the trial was announced, and the whole thing with your father happened, I remember sitting in the common room with this weight in my chest like someone had filled it with stones. I kept thinking—if I don’t say it now, I might never get the chance. So that night, I just… said it.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “You said it.”

James nodded. “Told him how I felt. That I didn’t want a moment—I wanted more. That I wanted him. And then things… escalated.”

A faint smirk tugged at Sirius’ mouth, but he didn’t comment. James’ expression grew serious again.`

“Padfoot, I’ve never felt so alive. Not on a broom, not when we won the Cup, not even when I kissed Lily for the first time. Regulus makes me feel… seen. Not for the Golden Boy crap, not for being Head Boy, or the perfect Gryffindor. Just—me.”

His voice grew quieter. “He challenges me. Makes me answer for things. Makes me question myself. And yeah, it’s uncomfortable. But it makes me better. I’m not performing with him. I’m not faking anything. It’s messy, but I’d choose him again. Every fucking time.”

He paused then. Let the words settle.

“I know he’s your brother,” James said finally. “And I know there’s history there I’ll never fully understand. But I love him, Sirius. And I think—” he gave a small, helpless shrug “—I think he loves me too. I’m not asking for permission. I just… needed you to know because you matter to me.”

Sirius studied him for a long moment, face unreadable. Then he exhaled, a rough sound like something old and knotted being let go.

“Prongs… he nearly decapitated a man for hurting you. I think ‘loves you’ is an understatement.”

James blinked, then laughed in surprise. “To be fair, he’s also threatened to stab me a few times. Keeps things interesting.”

“Oh my God,” Sirius groaned, wrinkling his nose like James had just offered him a vomit-flavoured Bertie Bott’s bean. “I am going to gag.”

James grinned, some of the tension loosening from his shoulders.

“You know…” Sirius’ voice softened slightly. “I spent years pretending I didn’t care what happened to him. But I still wondered—what if I’d been someone he could’ve followed instead? What if I’d said something, done something different?”

It was James' turn to stay quiet.

“I think he’s trying to be better,” Sirius said finally. “And if there’s anyone who can bring that out in him, it’s you. But—” his eyes narrowed “—if you hurt him, in any way, I will punch you. Best friend or not.”

James laughed. “Deal.”

Sirius gave him a crooked, reluctant smile. “You’re both idiots.”

“Certified,” James said solemnly.

They stood in silence for a moment before Sirius muttered, “Stabbing, though?”

James shrugged. “Not in a murderous way. More of a… gentle, persuasive threat. You know—romantic.”

“Unbelievable,” Sirius groaned.

“Like I said, it adds to the charm,” James grinned widely, eyes crinkling.

Sirius rolled his eyes. “God, I hate when you’re in love. You get all glowy and giddy. It’s disgusting.”

James only grinned harder, his voice smug and fond. “You’ll survive.”

Sirius muttered something about “highly debatable” but didn’t push further.

When they returned to the cave, two silhouettes were already visible in the murky half-light beyond the clearing.

Evan Rosier was standing perfectly straight, as if even exhaustion couldn’t bend him, his spine a steel rod. The angle of his shoulders was almost regal, but the rest of him was a picture of war’s aftermath. Blood streaked his face in a dried, rust-brown smear, starting from the deep gash that cut across his brow and breaking the otherwise symmetrical lines of his features. His robes were torn along the sides, one sleeve hanging loose and flapping with the wind like a banner of surrender he would never raise. The hem was soaked, stiff with old mud and something darker that no rain would wash out. Even battered, there was a strange ceremonial precision to the way he leaned against the wall, like a soldier awaiting judgment.

Barty crouched at his side, one knee pressed to the ground, a knife dancing through his fingers in an unbroken rhythm—up, turn, catch, repeat. The blade caught the low light with every spin. His nails were caked with dirt, his boots damp enough to squelch, and his left sleeve had been ripped entirely at the elbow, exposing skin patterned with bruises that bloomed across his forearm like ink dropped in water. His face was grimy, his hair windblown, but the corner of his mouth held the faintest shadow of a grin.

The sound of approaching footsteps cracked the stillness. Both men looked up, and their posture shifted, subtle but telling. The stillness of predators scenting the air. 

“You look like shit,” Sirius said, stopping just shy of them. His tone was dry, but not entirely venomous. His arms folded tight across his chest. His gaze swept over Barty briefly, but lingered longer on Evan, as though cataloguing every injury. His mouth twitched before flattening again. “Both of you.”

Barty caught the knife mid-air without looking at it. Twirled it once between his fingers, the steel whispering against his knuckles

“Killed our way here,” he said simply. “Got the scars, bloodstains, and possible brain damage to prove it. Ten out of ten adventure. Highly recommend as couple therapy.”

James let out a short, tired huff. “Sounds about right.”

But Sirius wasn’t the only one noticing the shift in him, as Evan was already watching him curiously. James was standing differently now—shoulders drawn back, chest open, jaw set in a way that sharpened every angle of his face. Not defensive. Not hostile. Just… claiming space.

Possession.

Barty caught it too. His gaze flicked between James, Sirius, and then past them, narrowing like a wolf catching the scent of something hidden.

“Where’s Reg?” His voice had dropped. The mockery was gone.

James didn’t answer immediately. His stillness was deliberate. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and his fingers twitched once at his side. Then—

“What nickname did Slughorn give Regulus in fifth year that made him threaten to hex a teacup into the man’s mouth?”

Barty blinked once, then gave a short, unimpressed snort.

“Starlight. Because of the whole ‘Regulus is a star’ thing. Nearly put old Slughorn through a wall.”

James’ expression didn’t shift. His attention turned to Evan, voice quieter but edged with steel.

“And what did you say the day Sirius got detention for sneaking Dungbombs into our joint History of Magic exam?”

Evan arched a brow. “I said, ‘Detention’s the least of your worries, Black. One more explosion and Dumbledore might actually expel you.’”

A long pause followed. Then, finally, James nodded, once, slowly.

“He’s inside,” he said. “Sleeping, so keep your voice down, Crouch. If you wake him up, I’ll cut your tongue out myself.”

The words landed with a weight that pulled the air tighter. Sirius’ head turned sharply toward him, eyes widening slightly. James Potter, sunny, grinning James, had just issued a threat with perfect calm. 

Barty blinked once. Then, slowly, a grin began to spread—not the smug kind he often wore, but something more intrigued.

“Well,” he drawled, sliding the knife into a sheath at his belt with a theatrical flourish, “look who’s finally grown some balls. The Gryffindor prince bares his claws.”

The lilt in his voice was playful, but the note under it was genuine surprise. He tilted his head toward James, then flicked his gaze to Sirius, eyes gleaming with sharp amusement.

“Cat’s out of the bag, then. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed. “You knew.”

Barty gave an elaborate shrug, all faux innocence.

James rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. He stepped past them toward the cave entrance, brushing Barty’s shoulder in a deliberate, unbothered way.

But Barty wasn’t done. He called after him, “Potter, if you’re going to threaten my tongue again, you’ll need to negotiate the terms with Evan. He’s awfully fond of it.”

Evan’s reply was immediate, and, without turning, he smacked the back of Barty’s head with the flat of his hand—precise, like dusting off a coat sleeve.

“Keep testing me and I’ll reconsider.”

“Oi—” Barty scowled, rubbing the spot, “Abuse. Betrayal. The only constants in this forest.”

James, already halfway into the cave, muttered under his breath some unintelligible prayers.

Sirius lingered a beat longer, watching the exchange. His eyes darted between Evan, stone-faced and collected, and Barty—utter chaos in a human shell. Something unreadable passed over his face, not quite disdain. Not quite approval either.

“How did you two survive this long without blowing each other up?” he asked, voice laced with skepticism.

“Oh, that we did. Repeatedly.” Barty beamed and ducked just as Evam was ready to hit him again.

“Mutual spite,” Evan replied, deadpan.

“Unresolved sexual tension,” Barty added, too cheerfully.

Sirius looked him over again, and for the briefest moment, something in his face flickered. A twitch at the edge of his mouth. A crack in the shield. Not a smile, but not a scowl either. Then he shook his head and muttered, “Fucking lunatics,” before turning and stepping into the cave.

Behind him, Barty turned to Evan and whispered, “He totally likes me now.”

Evan didn’t even flinch.

“Keep talking and he’ll leave your body in the next Acromantula nest we find.”

“I would call it flirting.”

Regulus stirred slowly, awareness dragging him back like mud clinging to his limbs. His head was pillowed on something soft—leather? James’ jacket. The scent gave it away before the texture did—sun-warmed wool underneath, faint traces of smoke and pine needles, and that indescribable note that was just James. He could still feel the heat lingering in the fabric, like the jacket had been wrapped around him for longer than necessary.

Then he heard it—laughter.

Wrong kind. Too sharp. Too familiar.

Barty.

His eyes snapped open, and voices filtered in from the mouth of the cave, followed by a distinct twang as someone flicked a blade into their palm.

Regulus didn’t bother with pleasantries. His boots crunched against the gravel as he surged upright, the echo ricocheting off the damp stone. His hair fell forward into his eyes as he stalked toward the mouth of the cave, his breath a controlled but uneven rhythm.

“Morning, princess—” Barty started, not even looking up. His grin was already there, carved into his face like a challenge.

The rest of the sentence never had a chance.

Regulus slammed him back against the wall hard enough for the stone to thud. His forearm pressed across Barty’s throat, pinning him with practiced efficiency. The dagger was already drawn, its cold edge pressing just beneath Barty’s jaw, close enough for the skin to give the smallest protest.

The cave went still.

Evan didn’t flinch. His exhale was long, patient, like this was a page from a book he’d read a hundred times. Without comment, he set his bag down beside a rock in a neat, deliberate motion.

“Told you to stop calling him that,” he muttered, his voice dry as dust and twice as cutting.

“Good to see you too, Reg.” Barty managed, his words tight against the pressure on his throat. The grin didn’t falter; if anything, it sharpened. “You look like hell.”

Regulus’ eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Crawled back so that I could stab you.”

“Awh,” Barty’s smile widened, even as the blade dipped infinitesimally closer. “Cute, but I think I’ll leave the stabbing to Potter this time. Salazar knows it’s your favourite foreplay.”

From somewhere behind them came a sharp, horrified groan.

“For the love of Circe,” Sirius muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically scrub the words from his ears. “That is my little brother. I’m begging you to stop talking.”

Barty turned his head slightly, the movement constrained by the iron bar of Regulus’ arm.

“You’re late to the party, Black. They’re disgusting. You should be grateful you’re not bunking near their side of the tower.”

The knife didn’t move. Regulus’ voice dropped, low and dangerous. “If you’re actually Barty—”

Barty’s grin twisted, more genuine this time. “Relax, darling. Your boyfriend already pop-quizzed us outside. We passed with flying colours, thank you very much.”

There was a tense beat of silence before Regulus finally stepped back. The blade left a faint line of red at Barty’s neck, not deep, but precise.

Barty exhaled, rubbing his throat as though the gesture was indulgent. “That’s the Regulus we all know and fear. Welcome back, sunshine.”

“I was sleeping, Barty,” Regulus snapped, voice still low but tightly wound. “Try staying alive without making noise for once.”

“Can’t help that I’m dazzling,” Barty said cheerfully, examining his fingers like he’d just been complimented. 

Regulus rolled his eyes and turned away, clearly done with him.

Sirius had been watching the entire exchange with the expression of a man witnessing a particularly deranged stage play. His voice was pitched low as he leaned toward Remus. “I think I preferred it when we weren’t speaking. At least then I didn’t have to hear whatever this is.”

Evan huffed something that might have been a laugh as he handed Sirius a flask of water. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t want to,” Sirius muttered before taking a swig. “I really, really don’t want to.”

Barty, from the other side of the cave, called brightly, “Don’t worry, Black. I bet you’ll miss me when I’m dead.”

Evan didn’t even look up from sorting through his pack. “Highly doubtful.”

Regulus crouched beside the low fire pit, its embers snapping softly in the damp air. His fingers drifted over the jacket James had tucked beneath his head earlier—still faintly warm, still smelling of that maddeningly familiar note that clung to James no matter how many nights they spent in this gods-forsaken forest.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Evan sat nearby, one long leg stretched out, the other bent just enough for him to rest an elbow on his knee. He tilted his head back, yawning with slow indifference. “Swamps.”

“We took the long way,” Barty added, already spinning his knife lazily between his fingers. He leaned back on one hand, a grin spreading like ink in water. “Guess who crossed our path?”

Regulus’ brow arched. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Snape,” Barty said, drawing the name out, tasting it like it was some rare delicacy. “And Avery. No Mulciber, sadly. But Avery looked like he’d been dragged backwards through hell, gift-wrapped, and then left in the rain.”

Regulus huffed through his nose. “Had a date with the Dryads. The fucker was stupid enough to piss them off.”

Barty laughed, short and humorless. “Surprised he’s still breathing, then.”

“Barely,” Evan muttered, flicking a charred twig into the fire. “I think Severus took him out. Avery was walking strangely. Like something inside him got torn out and the rest was just… catching up.”

Regulus’ gaze stayed locked on the flames, their orange light painting his face in uneven shadows. “The forest doesn’t play well with the self-righteous.”

“We lost their trail in a patch of mist,” Barty continued, stretching his arms overhead with a sharp crack of his spine. “The kind that messes with your hearing. Thought I heard you calling me at one point—turned out to be a tree.”

“Your brain isn’t exactly hard to trick,” Sirius said from where he was perched on a flat stone, inspecting the edge of his own blade with the focus of a man picturing exactly whose throat it might meet next.

“Jealousy is so unflattering on you,” Barty sniffed, twirling the knife again with an almost theatrical flourish. “Anyway, before we reached the cave, we spotted signs of a camp just off Blackroot Hollow. Sloppy work.”

James, crouched on the other side of the fire, stopped stirring it. “The girls?”

Evan shook his head, deliberate and certain. “No. They’re smarter than that. Whoever it was didn’t know the forest. Set up too close to a bog edge, left burnt food behind. Amateurs.”

“Definitely one of them,” Barty said, leaning forward as if he were delivering gossip over drinks instead of a death tally. “Mulciber, maybe. There was a dead frog impaled on a twig. A charming touch. Truly says ‘I’m unhinged’ without the need for further conversation.”

Regulus’ fingers tapped against his knee, rhythm steady, calculating. “They’re not far. Sloppy camping means desperation. Desperation means mistakes.”

“Any sign of the girls?” Remus asked, voice low but intent from where he hovered just behind Sirius.

Evan shook his head again. “Nothing. No cloth scraps. No boot prints we didn’t recognize. No burn marks on the trees. They know how to move when they don’t want to be found.”

Remus’ shoulders slumped slightly.

“They’ll surface,” Evan said, softer now. “They’re sharper than most of us. Sharper than we are on a good day.”

“They’d better be,” Sirius muttered, sheathing his knife with a quiet click. “Are we going after them? Mulciber and his lot, I mean?”

Regulus finally looked up, meeting Sirius’ gaze with something cold, clear, and utterly unflinching. “Not yet. We need food and sleep. Hunting while exhausted is just another way to die stupid.”

James nodded. “We hold until dawn, then.”

Barty drove his knife into the dirt beside him, point first. “Fine by me. I’d like to say hello to Avery properly. Been a while since I carved anyone who screams so beautifully.”

Sirius groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I swear to Merlin—”

“Don’t worry, Black,” Evan cut in, tone dry as bone, “we’ll spare your delicate Gryffindor ears.”

Regulus rose, brushing the dirt from his trousers with a precise, deliberate motion. “If you see Mulciber, don’t play with him. Kill him directly.”

No one argued.

The fire crackled between them, and James pushed a few more sticks in it, watching the sparks dance up into the dark ceiling of the cave like dying fireflies. The flames flickered against the rough stone, casting long, twitching shadows along the walls.

With a long, slow breath, he shifted, rolling onto his back. The packed dirt was cold against his shoulder blades, but the bite of it grounded him—reminded him there was still something solid beneath all the chaos. He stared up at the uneven rock above, tracking how the light licked across it, flicker by flicker.

When he finally turned his head, Regulus was where he always seemed to be—at the far wall, knees drawn up, arms folded, that single line carved between his brows. The kind of crease that came from thinking too much and sleeping too little.

James offered the gentlest, most innocent smile in his arsenal. Then he patted the patch of earth beside him with a look that was part invitation, part surrender, part please stop looking like that before I lose my mind.

Regulus didn’t move. He just raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

James squinted back in mock offense. Then, slowly, theatrically, he mimed zipping his mouth shut and tossing the imaginary key into the fire.

No reaction.

Undeterred, James clasped his hands over his chest, saint-like, eyes wide with exaggerated piety. See? the expression said. I can behave. I’m a temple of restraint.

Regulus exhaled loudly, the sound managing to be both annoyed and, just barely, betrayed by something warmer. He muttered something that James was almost certain included the words idiot and pathetic, then rose with the put-upon grace of a man well aware he was losing a battle he had never actually intended to win.

His joints cracked as he crossed the space. Cuts pulled, bruises stretched, the slow ache of field-worn muscles catching up to him, but still he sat down. The second his weight touched the ground, James’ arm looped around him like it had been waiting there all night.

Regulus didn’t resist. He let himself lean in, his head settling against James’ chest. Beneath his ear, the steady, stubborn beat of James’ heart anchored him in a way he hated needing. A warm hand moved in slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, a rhythm that said stay here, you’re fine, I’ve got you without a single word. And James still smelled like pine bark and wind-whipped Quidditch pitches, like sun-warmed leather and a hope too ridiculous to kill.

The fire crackled.

From the far side of the cave, Barty cleared his throat with all the subtlety of a howler, the sound making Regulus roll his eyes so hard, he nearly saw the back of his head.

“You know,” he said, voice syrupy with false indignation, “I nearly got skewered about a dozen times just to keep you two alive long enough to finally snog. Not that I expect thanks, mind you, since Potter got his tongue halfway down your ear—”

“Crouch.” Regulus’ voice was glacial. He didn’t lift his head. “If I hear one more sound from your corner, I will throw you out of this cave.”

Barty stared like someone who had just been personally betrayed by the laws of hospitality.

“Me?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Me? I haven’t said a bloody thing other than the truth! You’re the one moaning like a—OW! Evan, will you—?!”

“Stop being an obnoxious ass,” Evan said mildly, his tone more suited to commenting on the weather than assaulting his boyfriend. “And maybe I’ll stop hitting you.”

“You say that like it’s not our love language,” Barty muttered, rubbing the spot and glaring at him.

Evan didn’t even blink. “You’re confusing violence with tolerance. Again.”

At that, Sirius groaned loudly, rolling onto his side and throwing a hand over his face. “GOOD NIGHT!” he shouted to the stone ceiling; his voice tinged with the exhaustion of a man two seconds from snapping. “Merlin’s hairy bollocks, some of us are trying to sleep in this godforsaken hellhole! Moony, for the love of god, please say something!”

“I bet Lupin never makes you shout like that,” Barty whispered too loudly.

“Barty,” Evan warned, already lifting his hand again.

“OKAY—OKAY—I’M QUIET, I’M QUIET!” Barty yelped, ducking away from the inevitable smack.

A low laugh rumbled through James’ chest, the sound curling against Regulus’ ear. He felt it, warm and unsteady, and despite himself, he shivered. James bent his head, pressing a kiss into his hair—soft, grounding, like a promise written in a language only they understood.

Regulus closed his eyes.

Outside, the world was still bloodied. Still broken. There were monsters waiting in the woods and friends they hadn’t found yet. The war hadn’t ended. Nothing had been solved.

But here—in this cave, under the weight of stone and firelight, in the stubborn kind of love you only forged through surviving the same horrors—there was a fragile peace. A moment they’d probably never believe they deserved.

But one they held onto anyway.

Chapter Text

Regulus could tell he was the only one awake.

The fire had burned down to a dim, pulsing glow, embers breathing in the dark, soft and fading. The cave had settled into that late-hour stillness that felt almost sacred, broken only by the quiet shifts of sleeping bodies and the occasional distant sounds of the forest beyond. Everyone else had surrendered to exhaustion. Even Barty’s restless twitching had stilled into something almost peaceful. Even Sirius, always muttering in his sleep or grinding his teeth, had gone silent.

But Regulus lay curled against James’ chest, very much awake.

He could feel the slow rise and fall of him, steady beneath the layers of filth and exhaustion they carried from the day. James’ cheek was resting against the crown of his head, his breath drifting warm and unhurried across Regulus’ temple. One arm was looped across Regulus’ waist—loose, unthinking, but constant, as though some unconscious part of him refused to let go.

It should have been uncomfortable, lying on hard stone, bodies pressed together under the stink of dried sweat and blood and mud. But it wasn’t.

James was warm. Steady.

And that, more than the monsters in the trees, more than the Dark Lord’s trials, was what terrified him.

He tried not to overthink it, but that was never something Regulus was good at. His mind moved like something alive in the dark, uncoiling thought after thought, no matter how tightly he tried to wind them up.

He told himself to focus on the practical. Supplies were low. The forest had grown hungrier. If they wanted to survive the next days, they’d have to kill. Voldemort hadn’t built this trial for mercy; it was designed to strip you bare until you broke, or until you became something sharp enough to cut for him.

If they didn’t make that choice soon, the forest would make it for them. It had already almost taken him. And Sirius.

That should have been what held his attention. That should have been the only thing.

But James’ breath was on his neck. And his traitor mind drifted, slow and stubborn, back to him.

James bloody Potter.

Regulus had known admiration before. He’d known fear, fascination, and obsession. All the ways you could orbit someone without ever crossing the distance to touch them. He’d grown up surrounded by people who weren’t people at all; they were reputations, alliances, weapons to be wielded or avoided. He learned early how to read someone’s worth the way you read a blade—by balance, by edge.

But this… this was different. It had crept in slowly, like water through cracks in stone. Quiet. Patient.

He didn’t know when it had started. Didn’t know the moment James went from being a name he was meant to resent to being the pulse he kept finding in the quiet.

What he did know was this: Regulus Black didn’t do love.

He was not built for it. He was not taught it.

In the House of Black, love came sharpened and poisoned. His mother had loved his father the way a sickness loves its host—clinging, suffocating, consuming until there’s nothing left to feed on. Affection, if it appeared at all, was a calculated thing. A cold glance meant to keep you in line. A cruel word meant to make you try harder. Devotion was a knife you learned to press to your own throat before anyone else could.

They had never taught him how to be held without bracing for the pain that followed.

They had never loved him. Not really. Not in the way love was supposed to be something that healed. He’d grown up learning how to protect a name, not a heart. How to uphold a legacy, not a soul.

Sirius had escaped it. He’d fled toward warmth, found something better, something real. Regulus had stayed. Stayed because someone had to keep the walls from crumbling. Stayed because he thought, stupidly, he could fix it from the inside. Stayed because—if he was perfect enough, obedient enough, indispensable enough—maybe one day someone would look at him and say the words he’d spent his life starving for: you’re worth loving.

No one ever did.

Not until now.

Not until James—James with his easy steadiness and infuriating hope. James, who didn’t flinch from him. James, who held him like it was the most natural thing in the world, not a calculated choice but a simple truth. James, who made the ache behind Regulus’ ribs feel like both a wound and a cure.

Regulus blinked hard, as if the ache could be forced away by sheer will, but the harder he pushed, the deeper it burrowed, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. His eyes burned, and before the thought could catch hold, he pressed his forehead into the hollow of James’ collarbone. It was instinct, almost shameful in its need. The warmth there was real. Solid. The kind that didn’t ask for permission.

James’ thumb had started moving again—just faint, absent-minded circles against his side. Even in sleep.

It was infuriating. It was devastating. It was like James could feel the spiral starting in his chest and was pulling him back from the edge without even knowing why.

Regulus didn’t deserve this. He didn’t know how to hold it, how to keep it from slipping between his fingers.

Because how could someone who had never been loved possibly know how to love in return?

Was it in the way his gaze found James’ without thought, like a needle drawn to a magnetic pull he couldn’t fight? Was it in the sharp, tight coil in his chest every time he saw blood on James’ skin—no matter how small the cut, no matter that it wasn’t his? Was it in the way his voice dropped, softening without permission, only when speaking to him?

Maybe it was in the constant, gnawing fear that this could be taken away. That one morning, he’d wake and find the fire gone, the space beside him cold, and realize none of it had been real.

Or maybe it was simpler than all of that. Maybe love was just letting someone look directly at the ruin inside you, every cracked stone, every place the light didn’t reach, and not trying to sweep the rubble away. Just saying: Here it is. Here I am. And if you still want me, God help you.

And James… James hadn’t flinched.

He’d looked straight at the broken pieces of Regulus Black and stayed.

Regulus curled closer without thinking, pulled forward by something that felt both involuntary and inevitable. James stirred, a quiet hum in his throat that vibrated through his ribs, but he didn’t wake. His arm only tightened fractionally, as if some part of him, maybe the truest part, was built to hold on when others would let go.

The sound rising in Regulus’ chest was dangerous, hovering in that fragile space between a sigh and a sob. He bit it down, forcing it back, because once it left his body, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to take it back.

He made himself a vow then, the kind that felt like blood binding: he would protect this. He would protect him. Whatever it costs. Even if he had to carve himself hollow, strip away every last recognizable piece, and leave only something monstrous in his place.

Because James Potter was not just someone he’d grown to care for.

James Potter was the first thing in his life that he had ever truly wanted.

And in this hellscape of blood and darkness—this place where children carried knives and men wore masks that turned them into nightmares—wanting something was the most dangerous sin of all.

He knew how fast it could vanish. He’d lived too long in the Dark Lord’s shadow not to. Survival was a loan you could never repay, one that could be revoked mid-breath. And tonight, when James had stood with a wand pressed to his throat, his life poised on the sharp edge of someone else’s choice, Regulus had felt the ground dropping out from beneath him, the air torn from his lungs.

The magic had come unbidden, a storm that cracked through his bones—raw, vicious, unstoppable. Before the thought had even formed, before the fear had settled, someone was dead at his feet. Not a threat. Not a moving target. Just gone.

The kill had been quick. Silent. Precise. He didn’t regret it—not for a heartbeat.

Because if James died, Regulus would scorch the forest down to bare ash. He would salt the earth until nothing dared grow there again. He would carve the world hollow if it meant keeping what was his.

Because James was his.

He was just beginning to drift toward that fragile edge of sleep again, curled into the steady anchor of James’ chest, his fingers hooked into the edge of his jacket like a child clutching at the last safe thing in the world—when the sound cut through the quiet like steel through bone.

“PETER!”

The name cracked through the cave like lightning.

Regulus snapped upright, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard it hurt. Instinct moved before thought could catch up.

Somewhere nearby, a flask clattered to the stone. Someone swore under their breath.

“Is that…” Sirius’ voice broke the silence, rough with disbelief, “Emmeline?”

Remus was already moving, his steps light but sharp, his head tilted like a hound catching a scent. He breathed in slow, deep, and whispered, “Yes.”

The voice came again, louder this time—ragged, desperate. “PETER?”

Regulus’ blood went cold. “Fuck,” he hissed, already reaching for his dagger. “She needs to shut up before she draws every fucking thing in this forest.”

Sirius didn’t hesitate. He bolted toward the entrance.

“Sirius, no!” Regulus was after him in an instant, the panic a live wire in his voice. “Sirius, wait—”

But Sirius was already out.

The cold night hit them like a slap. The forest stretched out in front of them, still and suffocating, the air unnervingly silent. No wind. No rustle of leaves. The shadows between the trees ran too deep, like the whole wood was holding its breath, waiting.

And then, through the darkness, Emmeline Vance came stumbling out of the brush.

She didn’t look like a person who’d simply run too far, but rather like something the forest had already begun to eat alive. Her hair was a matted snarl, plastered to her head with mud and dark, drying blood. Her robes hung in jagged ribbons, one sleeve dangling from the seam by a single stubborn thread. Her right arm was clutched tight against her body, the elbow bent at an impossible angle, bone pressing against skin in a way that made Regulus’ stomach lurch.

Her face—Merlin, her face—was raw with terror. Not the crisp, calculated fear of battle, but the kind that scalded through every nerve, the kind that didn’t leave room for thought. Dirt streaked her cheeks. Blood dried at the corner of her mouth. There was something else smeared across her jawline—thick, black, and glistening.

She didn’t see them. Not at first. She was looking over her shoulder, eyes stretched wide in the dark, still calling, voice hoarse and breaking apart:

“Peter—!” she sobbed, choking on the word. “Peter, PLEASE! I—I don’t know where you are!”

Sirius raised his hand instinctively, a silent wave. Regulus’ reaction was sharper, more urgent. He grabbed Sirius by the shoulder, fingers digging in.

“Don’t shout. Don’t make a sound.”

Finally, Emmeline’s gaze snapped forward, locking on them. Recognition broke over her face like sunrise after a month of storms—relief so pure it hurt to see.

“SIRIUS!” she cried, joy detonating through the terror in her voice. “OH MY GOD, I THOUGHT—”

The rest never came.

The canopy above shuddered. Something massive dropped from the dark with impossible speed—a shadow slick with oil, all legs and angles, the air breaking with a wet, cracking thud as it landed.

The Acromantula hit her before either of them had time to think.

There was no scream. Just the sound of the impact. A barbed, gleaming limb punched clean through her back, bursting from her chest with a sharp, splintering crack that sounded like a tree being split. Another leg swept sideways with slicing precision, cleaving through her hip as though her body was no more than parchment.

She just jerked, a violent, sudden convulsion—

And then she was torn in half.

Her torso folded forward, eyes wide, mouth frozen mid-word. Her hands twitched once before going slack. She hit the ground with a heavy, obscene thud, the sound wet enough to make bile rise in Regulus’ throat.

Sirius staggered backward. His lips moved, but nothing came out. His eyes were huge, glassy, unblinking.

The Acromantula loomed over what was left—its carapace glistening in the meager light, fangs dripping with venom, limbs twitching with obscene anticipation. It let out a clicking shriek that echoed off the trees, seized her lower half like a doll, and vanished in a blur of black into the canopy.

It was over in less than three breaths.

Only scraps of her robes drifted down to the forest floor, settling soundlessly among the leaves.

Regulus’ mouth was dry. His fingers moved before his brain caught up, snatching Sirius’ hand, tugging hard, pulling him back, back toward the cave.

“NO—NO—NO—” Sirius’ voice tore loose suddenly, raw and high, breaking like glass. He staggered forward instead, nearly tripping over the tangle of vines underfoot, catching himself on the jagged rock wall.

“Reggie—we have to—we have to go after her!” His voice cracked on have, wild and desperate. “We can’t just leave her out there—”

Regulus caught his arm, grip iron-hard. His own breath came in fast, shallow bursts, each one scraping his throat raw. His knuckles were white against Sirius’ sleeve.

“Sirius. Look at me.” His voice was steady only because he forced it to be. “We need to move. Now. Before it comes back. Before more of them come.”

“No—” Sirius shook his head hard enough to fling droplets of sweat from his hair. “No, we can’t—we can’t leave her!” His voice spiked high, trembling. “She was right there, Reggie—she looked at me—she said my name!”

He tried to wrench free, but Regulus only gripped tighter.

“Sirius,” Regulus bit out, sharp and low, “she is dead.”

The words landed like a blow. Sirius’ whole body flinched, breath punching from his lungs.

“You don’t know that!” he snapped, voice shattering into something brittle and too loud. “You don’t know! You saw her—she was running, she was talking, she looked at me—she—” His voice crumpled. “She said my name.”

He twisted again, dragging Regulus half a step before his boot caught on a root. He slammed into the wall with a hollow thud, stumbled, and still tried to lunge forward—half crawling now, palms scraping rock.

“She’s alive,” he whispered, not to Regulus, not to anyone—just into the space in front of him. “She has to be. We didn’t see right—we didn’t see right—”

The words spilled faster, tumbling over themselves, losing shape. His breathing grew ragged, too quick, like his body was trying to outrun the truth. “She was just here. She said my name. She—she was just here—”

Regulus stood frozen, his own throat burning, unsure if speaking would make it better or worse. He’d seen death. Too much of it. He’d seen bodies split open by curses, blood pooling warm on marble floors, the light draining from eyes he’d once known. But this—this wasn’t the same.

This was older. Cruder. A kind of death that belonged to the earth, not to men.

One breath, Emmeline had been alive.

The next—there was nothing.

And no part of the human mind was built to understand how quickly the world could take someone away.

A shape moved in his periphery, and then Remus was there—silent, expression unreadable. One look at Regulus and he understood what happened. He crouched behind Sirius and, without asking, wrapped both arms around him. Not gentle. Firm. Like hauling someone back from the edge of a cliff.

Sirius didn’t fight. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t even seem to notice.

He didn’t cry either. No sound came from him at all, just a blank stillness that was somehow worse.

He just let Remus pull him up, piece by piece, until he was standing. Until they were both moving, slow and uneven, back toward the cave.

“Moony…” Sirius murmured finally, the name tumbling out in pieces. His voice was soft, broken, like he’d forgotten how to form words. “She… she was there…”

“I know,” Remus answered. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried like torn paper in the silence. “I know.”

“I’ll take him,” Remus said quietly to Regulus, voice raw.

Regulus nodded once. His stomach twisted.

He stayed where he was, just inside the cave mouth, his shoulder pressed to the stone as if it could hold him up. His knuckles dug into the rock, white and rigid. He tried to breathe, but every inhale felt like the air had weight.

The forest outside was silent. Not empty—silent.

And then he saw it.

Through a break in the underbrush, half-hidden beneath fallen leaves, lay a face. Pale. Still. One side obscured by shadow. The other revealed in cruel clarity.

Emmeline’s eyes, glassy, wide, pinned directly toward him, stared without seeing. Her pupils reflected the smallest glint of moonlight. The kind of stillness that only came after breath had left forever.

Regulus didn’t look away. He forced himself to hold her gaze. To see her. To memorize her as she was in that instant.

Someone had to remember.

Someone had to know exactly how fast it could all vanish. How close death had come. How little it cared for the living.

How breakable they all were.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words catching in the cold air and falling unheard.

Then he turned and walked back into the dark. His eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom, and he could see Sirius hunched by the far wall, knees drawn tight to his chest, shoulders trembling with a rhythm too chaotic to be crying. He was rocking, back and forth, back and forth, murmuring Emmeline’s name as if he stopped saying it, she would vanish from memory as violently as she had from the clearing.

James sat beside him, motionless. One arm lay across Sirius’ back, not gripping, just there—anchoring him in the smallest way possible. His gaze, though, was fixed on Regulus.

He met his eyes and gave him a small shake of the head.

Gone.

James looked away again, his mouth pressed into a thin, colourless line. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Across the firepit, Evan stood with his arms folded, face locked into the detached focus of someone taking inventory of damage. His eyes flicked toward Regulus when he stepped closer.

“I’ll grab everything,” Evan said, his voice rough but level. “Are we moving further into the caves?”

Regulus dragged his hand down his face, feeling the tremor in his own muscles. He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

“There’s no tunnel,” he said finally. “I checked the day we got here. Just solid rock. If we want to move, we’ll have to find another entrance. Maybe a connected chamber further north.”

He didn’t mention that going further north meant deeper into the forest’s gut. No one needed that right now.

Evan gave a single nod and turned away without another word.

Movement caught Regulus’ attention again. This time it was Barty.

He slipped past with an easy grace that didn’t match the tension in his shoulders, a deliberate kind of stillness, like a predator hiding in plain sight. He didn’t take a weapon. Didn’t say anything. Just headed for the cave entrance.

“Where are you going?” Regulus demanded, spinning toward him. His heartbeat kicked up hard. “Barty—what the hell are you—”

Barty didn’t stop walking. His eyes flicked to Sirius, hunched and rocking, then back to Regulus.

“I’m going to clean.”

The words landed heavy, without inflection.

Regulus’ body moved before his mind caught up. He stepped into Barty’s path, blocking the way. His hands shook, just slightly, but his stance didn’t waver.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said sharply. “Not now.”

Barty didn’t shove him aside. He just reached out, fingers curling into Regulus’ shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to pin him there.

For a long second, they stared at each other.

Barty’s expression was stripped bare. No smirk. No theatrical gleam. None of the armor he usually wore like second skin. Just eyes worn thin with something heavier than anger.

“I know, Reggie,” he said at last, voice quiet enough to almost be lost under the faint crackle of the fire. “I know what I’m doing.”

It didn’t sound like defiance. It didn’t even sound like reassurance. It sounded like the truth, flat and exhausted. And threaded beneath it, something else. Something like grief wound too tightly to breathe.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” Barty said, softer now, and the gentleness almost undid him. “Okay?”

Regulus opened his mouth to argue, but before the words could form, Barty was gone.

Emmeline’s remains weren’t hard to find.

What was left of her lay where the Acromantula had decided she wasn’t worth the effort to finish—half-buried in vines, discarded with the thoughtless violence of something that didn’t understand the concept of cruelty, only hunger.

Her face was turned toward him, caught in a perfect, hideous clarity that made something in his chest twist and catch. Her eyes were glassy, lips slack, as if the last thing she’d seen had burned itself into her even after death.

Barty crouched beside her, not in reverence, not in disregard either. Just a soldier’s stillness. Detached. Efficient. The kind of posture that came from doing this too many times before, from cleaning up what monsters left behind when no one else could bear to.

He reached forward and, with two fingers, closed her eyes. The gesture was gentle, almost startling against the rest of the moment.

Then he began the work.

He didn’t let himself think about the girl who had rolled her eyes at his theatrics, who always carried that ridiculous flask of peppermint tonic. He just worked.

Death leaves first—thick, waxy, pungent enough to smother the worst of the scent. Small branches next. Enough to break the shape of her, to keep the shadows from noticing there was meat here.

A small fire followed. Controlled. Quick. Leaving a body in these woods meant leaving bait. They didn’t need bait.

It didn’t take long for the first click to echo through the trees.

His head snapped up. The sound didn’t belong to the fire. It belonged to the trees.

A second click. Louder. Closer.

The hair on his arms rose, each follicle prickling like static.

Barty straightened, every muscle in his body going taut like a drawn wire. The familiar hum of adrenaline began pulsing behind his ears. It was coming. It had caught the scent. The first time had been a kill. This time, it was hunting.

The sound was unmistakable. Clicks like bones being chewed and broken in the dark. Wet. Rhythmic. Getting faster.

He stepped back. Then another.

The rustling followed—not above this time, but from all directions. Leaves trembled where there was no wind. The shadows seemed to breathe.

He turned and moved fast, faster than stealth could allow, bursting into the cave without grace, breath ragged and hot in his throat.

“Pack your shit,” he snapped, the words cracking through the air like a whip. His voice was too loud, too sharp, shaking with a tension that felt like it could shatter bones. “Now. We’re leaving.”

“What happened?” James asked, stepping forward.

“It’s back.” Barty didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on the entrance. “Whatever killed Emmeline? It’s hunting again.”

For a moment, no one moved. The silence swelled. Then—chaos.

Hands snatched up bags. Weapons were checked. The scrape of boots and clatter of metal filled the space.

They spilled out of the cave in a rush. Regulus was at the front—and then he froze. His arm shot out like iron and caught James hard, nails biting through cloth and into skin.

Click.

It echoed through the dark, soft at first, almost… curious. Like something tasting the air.

Another click. Sharper.

But then it began to swell. Sharper. Faster. A staccato rhythm building into something alive. It wasn’t just sound anymore. It was crawling. It wrapped around their spines and pressed under their skin, each click a needle dragging down the length of their nerves.

Regulus went still.

His lungs forgot how to work. His heart stuttered, then roared back to life, thundering against his ribs.

“Don’t run,” he said, but it wasn’t really his voice—it had been stripped down to bare metal, honed to a single edge. “It tracks by vibration.”

He dragged in a slow, steady inhale through his nose, forcing the air to smooth the panic out of his chest.

“Stay. Still.”

“Reggie…” Remus’ whisper cracked like dry wood. His eyes were locked on the treeline ahead, pupils blown wide, chest rising in shallow bursts.

“Slowly,” Regulus murmured. “One step at a time.”

Someone’s boot snapped a thick branch beneath, and the effect was immediate as the forest erupted.

From the black canopy above, something dropped. Massive. Fast. A thunderclap of chitin and legs and hunger.

The Acromantula hit the ground with the weight of a meteor, its impact sending up a blast of damp leaves and soil. The earth shuddered. The thing was enormous—its black carapace shone wetly in the moonlight, slick and twitching. Its legs, long as spears, stabbed into the dirt with surgical precision.

Its mandibles clicked open and shut, wet and deliberate, like flesh being pulled apart one fiber at a time.

Barty made a strangled noise in his throat, the beginning of a curse he never finished.

Regulus didn’t think—he moved. One second, James was beside him. Next, he was shoving him hard, just as one monstrous leg slammed into the space where James had been. The ground cracked beneath the force.

James hit the underbrush with a muffled grunt.

Regulus was already pivoting, his hand flying to his thigh, drawing the curved dagger in a motion so fluid it didn’t feel like his own.

“Eyes!” he hissed to Barty, every scrap of remembered lore firing through his mind. “Go for the eyes!”

The Acromantula shrieked, a high, piercing wail that split the night, then lunged again.

Regulus barely dodged, feeling the gust of air from its strike as it tore through the space where his head had been. His muscles burned as he twisted, slashing upward, and the blade connected with a wet crunch. Black ichor sprayed, hot and foul, and the beast shrieked, a high, keening wail that made my ears ring.

Barty moved like lightning, darting in low and slashing at a joint. The leg buckled. The spider staggered, hissing, its weight shifting erratically as more ichor bled from the wound.

“RUN!” Regulus roared.

Evan had to physically grab James, who was frozen in place, while Remus all but hauled Sirius toward the edge of the forest.

Their heavy footfalls pounded through the underbrush, a thunderous rhythm against the night—louder than it should’ve been, louder than felt safe. Every step sounded like a signal flare, and sure enough, the Acromantula’s grotesque head snapped in their direction, all eight of its gleaming black eyes locking onto them with a hunger so primal it made Regulus’ blood run cold.

It gave chase.

The trees groaned as it surged forward, tearing through the forest like a juggernaut. Its massive legs splintered branches like kindling, its claws gouging deep furrows into the earth. The underbrush screamed beneath its weight. Leaves exploded into the air as its bulk moved with horrifying speed.

Regulus cursed under his breath and ran after it, Barty closely behind, weaving through the roots and brambles like a shadow. The Acromantula was faster than it had any right to be, gaining ground with each monstrous stride.

And then Sirius stumbled.

It happened too fast. A root caught his boot, and he fell hard, sprawling in a heap just as the spider reared over him, fangs dripping, clicking in eager anticipation.

“NO!” Regulus roared.

He launched himself forward with no hesitation, his dagger already out, glinting in the dim light. He threw his weight behind the blade and plunged it into the closest leg joint. The dagger punched through the hard shell with a wet crack, and the Acromantula shrieked—an ungodly, high-pitched screech, its massive body convulsing, and this time when it struck, it missed his brother by inches.

The ground trembled under the force of its rage.

He yanked the blade free and slashed again, faster, more vicious this time, hacking at the leg until it buckled. chor splattered his chest, thick as tar and burning hot. The creature reeled back, one leg buckling beneath it, twitching violently.

"Get up!" Regulus barked at Sirius, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Get up and run toward the riverbank!"

Somewhere in his panic-fogged brain, the command registered, and he scrambled to his feet, limping as he fled in the direction he’d pointed. Regulus didn’t wait to see if he made it. He turned and bolted in the opposite direction, knowing the creature would give chase, drawn by the loudest sound.

“Barty!” Regulus cried, “I need you to go to the river.”

“I’m not leaving you alone!” Barty snarled, ducking as a fang whipped past his head.

“There might be more coming! Evan can’t hold them off!” Regulus’ voice cracked sharp as glass. “GO! I’ve got this!”

And that was the thing about Regulus Black—he never said he had things under control unless he meant it. Never sugarcoated, never lied to reassure. If he said he had it, he bloody had it.

Barty’s jaw clenched. He hesitated for only a second. Then he spun and ran, cutting a sharp angle through the trees, vanishing into the gloom.

The Acromantula turned back to Regulus.

Regulus’ lungs burned, every muscle in his body screaming as he pushed himself harder, faster, threading through the labyrinth of trunks and roots with the Acromantula’s screech echoing behind him.

He burst through the trees into a shallow clearing and skidded to a halt. Spinning on his heel, he faced the Acromantula as it barrelled through the treeline. It emerged, wounded but relentless, ichor dripping from its mangled leg, rage oozing from every movement.

His chest heaved, sweat and blood mingling on his skin, but his grip on the dagger was steady as steel. He bared her teeth in something that was not quite a smile.

"Come on then," he rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. "Let’s end this."

The Acromantula lunged.

It came at him like a landslide, fangs gleaming like scimitars, claws tearing trenches in the dirt. Regulus pivoted hard, his boots sliding across moss-slick stone. One fang nearly grazed his shoulder as he twisted and ducked, forcing himself in close, right beneath its belly.

The spider shrieked again—deafening, furious—and he drove his blade upward, straight into the soft under-joint beneath its armored thorax. The blade punched deep. Hot ichor gushed over his hand, burning his skin, and the beast convulsed violently above him.

He rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding a crushing leg as it slammed down. Dirt and blood rained down. His body ached, but he forced himself up, adrenaline numbing everything but the rhythm of survival.

Its eyes locked on him—all eight, glittering and full of malice.

“Come on, you ugly bastard," he spat, raising his blade again. "I’m not done with you yet."

It struck lower this time, learning, aiming to crush instead of impale. A leg swept toward him like a pendulum. Regulus dove aside, landed hard on his bad shoulder with a white-hot burst of pain, but gritted his teeth and rolled through it.

He came up on one knee, chest heaving, and threw his dagger with all the strength he had left.

It flew true.

The blade buried itself in the creature’s left eye with a wet crunch. The Acromantula screamed, a screeching, awful sound of agony. Its limbs flailed wildly, tearing up chunks of earth and root.

Regulus didn’t waste the moment.

He sprinted forward and slid under its belly again, grabbed a thick, jagged branch he’d spotted earlier, and with a raw, primal cry, drove it up into the open wound he’d made.

The wood punched into the open wound he’d carved earlier, sinking in deep. The beast shrieked, its entire body convulsing violently, legs spasming as it stumbled back.

And then it collapsed.

The forest floor trembled as the Acromantula crashed to the earth, its monstrous legs twitching, its breath coming in broken, rattling gasps. Ichor pooled around its mangled body, black and steaming.

Regulus staggered to his feet.

Slowly, Regulus rose from the ground and yanked his dagger free from its eye socket, the blade slick and black. He wiped it on the grass, his movements automatic, methodical, then turned to the dark trees and ran.

Branches clawed at his shoulders, tearing at his jacket with grasping fingers. Brambles snapped underfoot like brittle bones, thorns dragging across his skin as he pushed forward, faster, harder. He didn’t stop to breathe. He didn’t stop to think. His legs moved on instinct alone, driven by a single thought that pulsed through his skull in time with his pounding heart:

JamesJamesJamesJames.

The sound of the river came before the sight of it—a low, urgent rush of water carving through stone, louder with each frantic step. Then the glint of moonlight began to shimmer through the trees, silver flashing on dark water. The ground sloped downward, uneven and treacherous, slick with wet leaves and moss. He half-fell, half-sprinted the last stretch.

He broke through the final line of trees, lungs seizing, mud splashing underfoot as he skidded to a halt near the bank. His boots nearly slid out from under him. His breath came in ragged bursts, his body slick with sweat and ichor. For a second, he couldn’t see—only the blinding afterimages of movement and fear.

And there they were.

Sirius spotted him first.

“Reggie!”

The word was broken and too loud. Sirius stumbled forward, tripping over roots and stones in his rush. His eyes were wide and shining, not just with relief but with something jagged and breaking underneath.

And then he was there, colliding into Regulus with the force of a Blasting Curse. Arms wrapped so tight it drove the air from Regulus’ lungs. The impact jolted his spine, but he didn’t care—Sirius was solid and warm and alive.

He held on like he’d fall apart if he didn’t.

“You’re okay,” Sirius choked out, words half-breathed, half-sobbed against the side of Regulus’ throat. “You’re okay—you’re okay—fuck, you’re okay.” His voice broke on the last one. His whole body trembled, the kind of tremor that doesn’t fade quickly.

Regulus couldn’t answer. His throat felt locked, as if speech would splinter him from the inside out. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Sirius with bone-deep certainty, one hand fisting into the back of his shirt like he could anchor him there, the other cupping the nape of his neck in a grip equal parts protective and desperate. Sirius was warm, and Regulus hadn’t realized until this moment how cold he’d been. How close he’d come.

The scent of wet earth and smoke filled his lungs. The ache in his chest loosened, fraction by fraction. He might have stayed there forever if not for the shadow that stepped into his periphery.

James.

Sirius eased back reluctantly, though one hand lingered on Regulus’ shoulder like he wasn’t ready to lose the contact entirely. James didn’t speak—he just reached out, his palm curling under Regulus’ jaw. His touch was steady, grounding, a quiet insistence that pulled Regulus’ gaze upward. No hesitation. No permission asked.

And when Regulus kissed him, hard, urgent, without apology, he didn’t hesitate. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about romance so much as survival—about proving, in skin and breath, that they were both still here. His hands shook, and he could feel the smear of ichor on his own clothes, the grit of dirt on his palms, the faint copper tang of blood still in his mouth. James didn’t care. He kissed him like none of it mattered, like the world could burn to ash around them and this would still be the only thing worth doing.

Regulus, who had been raised to be silent, who had learned to live behind iron walls, let himself melt into it. Let himself be seen.

When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t far—they stayed close enough that their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cool night air. The sound of the river softened in his ears, like the world had pulled back to give them space.

“Never do that again, love,” James murmured, voice rough, scraped thin by everything he wasn’t saying.

Regulus let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh—more a shudder disguised as one.

“Not that I intend to.” His voice was low, but the weight behind it was iron.

Chapter Text

The adrenaline had faded from Regulus’ limbs hours ago, leeched from his muscles and replaced by a deep fatigue that made everything feel distant and slightly dulled at the edges. His hands ached in that splintered way that came from gripping steel too hard for too long. Every cut stung sharper now that his body remembered it could hurt. Every bruise seemed to throb in slow, deliberate pulses.

They’d stayed by the river longer than any of them had planned, tucked into a shallow hollow beneath a canopy of black pine, the fire low and watchful. Time didn’t move cleanly here; it pooled and dragged. They had passed around the last scraps of food, some dry bread and sinewy strips of smoked meat that tasted of nothing, the pieces shared between hands that shook too much to pretend otherwise. Wounds were patched in quiet pairs, fingers brushing over torn skin, smearing salves where they could. No one spoke unless they had to. No one cared about the dirt in their hair or the blood on their clothes.

Regulus had been the first to pull away. He’d stood stiffly, shedding his blood-caked coat like it was a snake’s skin, and walked toward the river without looking at anyone. The water was black under the moon, glinting with silver edges where the current caught the light. He stepped in, boots and all, the freezing shock biting immediately into his bones. He went deeper until it reached his knees, then crouched and began to scrub at his arms and chest, nails scraping over grime, blood, and ichor. T

James followed him a minute later. He didn’t announce himself, just waded in behind him, the water curling around his shins. When Regulus finally turned, James was already there, reaching out without a word. His hands moved to the straps of Regulus’ ruined leathers, working them loose. The leather was stiff with blood, and James’ fingers brushed over fresh bruises and half-healed cuts, pausing sometimes like he was mapping each injury. 

They worked in quiet tandem, each movement deliberate. The cold stole their breath but steadied their minds. By the time they stepped back onto the bank, dripping and shivering, Regulus found James’ hand without looking for it. They didn’t go back right away. Instead, they sat side by side at the water’s edge, steam curling faintly from their damp clothes in the moonlight. James leaned into him, resting his temple against Regulus’ shoulder. Regulus tilted his head slightly until his cheek brushed James’ hair, the strands still wet and smelling faintly of river water.

Back at the camp, the quiet had frayed into something taut.

Barty paced at the edge of the clearing, restless energy spilling out of him in sharp, repetitive gestures—tugging at his sleeves, running his fingers through his hair, tapping the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh. Evan tried to pull him into a low-voiced conversation, but Barty only shook his head and muttered something short, bitten off. Then, without another word, they both slipped into the treeline. No one stopped them.

By the fire, Remus knelt beside Sirius, carefully winding clean bandages over the ugly gash slicing across his bicep. Sirius didn’t flinch, didn’t even complain, which was rare for him. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the trees. Every so often, his gaze flickered toward the riverbank. He never called out, but the tightness in his jaw gave him away.

The forest had gone still again. No wind. No birds. The only sounds were the fire’s muted crackle, the slow push of the current, and the occasional distant calls of things that remained hidden in the dark.

When James and Regulus finally stepped back into the clearing, their hair was still damp, and their skin was pink from the cold. They grabbed their things in total silence and moved on.

They’d only been walking again for maybe half an hour when the forest thickened into shadow, and mist curled low along the roots.

The silence deepened.

That should have been the first warning.

The second came seconds later.

Laughter.

“Well, well…”

They stepped out of the treeline like shadows cut loose—Avery’s smile sharp as glass, Mulciber’s shoulders hulking in the moonlight, and Severus, thin and unreadable, a dagger already loose in his hand.

Regulus stopped dead, his hand frozen mid-motion where he’d been brushing aside a branch. His body went very still. Not startled, but alert, the way a predator stills when it scents something it doesn’t like.

James came up beside him in a heartbeat, already shifting his stance, dangerous in a way that was quiet rather than showy. His knife angled low, blade catching a dull glint from the pale moonlight.

Behind them, Barty made a noise. A short, sharp breath that could’ve been a laugh, or could’ve been a growl. You never knew with him.

Evan’s fingers twitched toward his dagger without hesitation, the motion so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

Avery stepped forward first, a grin cutting across his face like a knife.

“Thought you’d be spider food by now, Black,” he drawled. “Or did your boyfriend drag you back from the brink again?”

“Guess you’ll have to try harder next time,” Regulus replied, stepping forward without a flicker of hesitation.

Mulciber’s eyes swept over him in slow, calculated vulgarity.

“Still got that stiff spine, huh? Surprised you’re still walking with how much cock you’ve been riding lately.”

James didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked. His voice came low and tightly reined, the kind of voice that carried more danger than a shout.

“What did you say?”

Mulciber’s smirk widened.

“Want me to say it slower, Potter? You like it when he whimpers? Is that what gets you off? Watching him crawl for you?”

James moved, knife flashing in the half-light, but Regulus’ hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

“Don’t bother,” Regulus murmured, low enough only James could hear. “They're fishing for a reaction.”

“Oh, come on, Black,” Avery crooned, spreading his arms like he was welcoming them into his home. “We missed the Dark Lord’s little pet. You were so promising.” His eyes slid toward Sirius and Remus, a smile curdling into something darker. “And now look at you. Slumming it with your filthy mutts.”

Remus stiffened, every line of his body sharpening. His lips parted, but Sirius stepped forward first, voice low enough to hum through the air.

“Say that again,” Sirius said softly, voice low and full of lethal heat. His blade glinted in the dark. “I dare you.”

Avery’s grin widened.

“Touchy, are we? Must be hard, living with the knowledge your brother prefers someone else’s leash these days. Though I suppose it’s not a surprise, is it? You always were the pretty one. Reggie just turned out to be the little whore.”

Barty’s laugh cut through the clearing, cold and precise.

“You’re awfully obsessed with his sex life for someone who couldn’t get laid in a brothel with a sack of galleons.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Crouch,” Mulciber sneered. “Spent half your school years panting after Black’s robes like a dog in heat.”

Severus’ gaze slid to James, dark and sharp beneath his fringe.

“Potter,” he said with soft contempt. “Still playing knight for lost causes?”

“Only when they’re worth it,” James shot back, and his subtle shift brought him closer to Regulus, their shoulders brushing.

And then—CRACK. The air split open, and other figures spilled from the shadows—Crabbe, Goyle, and Macnair. They wore no masks, but they didn’t need them. Their twisted grins were masks enough.

Barty swore under his breath. Evan’s stance widened instantly.

It had been a long time since Regulus had seen them, but nothing about their presence surprised him.

Regulus didn’t move. He simply scanned the group, eyes already calculating.

Tight quarters. Limited cover. 

“Reg,” Barty said, his voice feral and already pitched toward violence. “Your call.”

Regulus’ tone didn’t rise.

“Pair off. Hit hard and fast. And try not to die.”

They fell into place instantly.

Avery struck first.

His wand cut a sharp diagonal through the air, sparking with a sickly, pulsing red. The curse hissed past Regulus’ ear so close he felt the heat on his skin, then hit a nearby tree, bark exploding outward in a spray of splinters.

Regulus was already moving. He didn’t sidestep. He ran through the debris, rolled under a mossy branch, and came up on one knee, his first knife already flying. Avery deflected it with a neat flick of his wand, but Regulus was closing the distance like a hound sensing blood. The second knife gleamed in his grip—a curved silver thing made for opening flesh.

Avery pivoted just in time to meet him, a long, wickedly curved dagger in his own hand. The first clash rang like a bell through the forest, steel screaming against steel. The shock punched up Regulus’ arm, but he didn’t back off. He twisted with the impact, brought his boot into Avery’s thigh, then came back high, then low, driving the momentum forward.

Avery was quick for someone who spent most of his life trailing after someone else's robes. Smarter than he looked, Regulus must give him that.

“So that’s how it is, then,” he said, breathless. “No magic. Just blades. How very muggle of you, Black.”

This time, it was faster. Dirt kicked up as their blades clashed in the narrow gap between them, slashes and stabs coming too quickly to count. Regulus ducked a horizontal swipe, countered with a quick feint, then slashed at Avery’s forearm, drawing blood. Avery hissed, spun on the ball of his foot, and nearly caught Regulus across the throat.

He dropped.

Rolled.

Came up behind him.

Avery pivoted just in time, barely avoiding the stab meant for his kidney. He slammed a shoulder into Regulus’ chest, knocking them both to the ground.

They grappled in the dirt, elbows and knees striking bone. Regulus caught a fist across the jaw that made his ears ring, but he drove his knuckles into Avery’s temple in return, once, twice, again, until Avery’s grip loosened. He went for the kill, blade angled down, but Avery’s hand shot up and caught his wrist, their faces inches apart, both breathing ragged.

“Thought you could run?” Avery snarled, breath hot and reeking of blood. “Thought you could hide? Should’ve known you’d betray your own kind, just like all your mudblood-loving friends.”

Regulus grabbed Avery and brought his knee up hard into his groin.

Avery made a choked, animal sound as Regulus clawed his way across the mud, fingers closing tight around the hilt of the dropped blade.

He spun, fast and low, steel flashing in his grip just in time to parry another wild strike.

Avery was furious now, sloppy even. His mouth dripped red; his eyes were black pits of spite. They tore into each other again—steel-on-steel, blade-on-bone. The air was filled with the sound of ripping cloth, grunts, snarls, and splattered mud. Their feet slipped in the grass soaked with someone’s blood, maybe both.

Then Avery grinned—lips split, teeth red, the kind of grin that only a man who thinks he’s already won can wear. He licked at the blood trickling down his chin.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “They said you were clever. Dangerous. You’re nothing but filth, and I’m going to be the one to end you.” His eyes gleamed with something sick. “Your father’s gonna be so pleased when I hand him your fucking head. He might even take me out of these trials for it. Might even—”

Regulus didn’t wait for him to finish.

Avery swung high in a clumsy overhead arc, and Regulus stepped into it. The blade bit deep into his shoulder, slicing muscle. Blood spilled hot down his arm, but his expression didn’t flicker.

Instead, he drove his own dagger straight into Avery’s thigh, all the way to the hilt.

The scream Avery gave shook the trees.

Regulus ripped the blade free in a spray of arterial red, and Avery crumpled to one knee, knife still in hand but his grip trembling.

“This,” Regulus hissed, voice splitting at the edges as his own blood ran down his arm, “is for what you did to Evan in sixth year.”

He didn’t stop.

The knife came down again, angled low and merciless. It plunged up into Avery’s side, beneath the ribs. It hit cartilage and slipped through, finding the soft parts easily. Avery shuddered violently, mouth falling open, a sticky gurgle bubbling from his lips. His hand reached out not to strike but to cling, fingers blindly grasping at Regulus’ torn sleeve.

Still—still—Regulus didn’t stop.

His face had gone blank, utterly hollowed out as he stepped behind him like it was part of a rehearsed dance. He fisted a bunch of Avery’s hair, wrenching his head back until something in his neck gave a sharp crack.

He bent close, his voice low and cutting.

“And this one,” he whispered, “is for every girl you hurt and every person you sold to Him.”

Then, with a movement so precise it looked surgical, he dragged the blade across Avery’s throat. Deep. Angry.

It caught on the spine, but he didn’t pause.

Regulus sawed.

Once.

Twice.

Snap.

The head came free, heavier than it looked, and Regulus held it by the hair. Blood ran warm over his wrist, over his knuckles, dripping onto the churned mud.

For a long moment, he just stood there, breathing slow, staring at nothing, the head dangling like an offering to some god neither of them believed in.

Inside him, something screamed, but the sound never made it past his lips.

He had what Voldemort wanted.

He had a head.

And if this was the cost of leaving this godforsaken fucking forest, he’d pay it.

He didn’t remember walking.

One moment, he was standing in a pool of blood with Avery's head cooling in his grip.

Next, he was crossing the Quidditch Pitch, or the battlefield, or the arena, or whatever the fuck it was now.

The world around him didn’t look real. It felt too wide. The sky too big. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of putrefaction and dark magic.

Is this even real?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a tiny voice whispered: 

You’ve gone too far this time, Reggie. 

He didn’t feel the mud clinging to his boots, though he could see it. Didn’t feel the throb in his shoulder where Avery’s dagger had touched bone. Didn’t feel the blood drying stiff on his skin, or under his nails, or tangled in his hair.

He could see himself walking. See the way his arm hung at his side, swinging slightly with each step, the head still clutched by its matted hair.

The head bumped his thigh in rhythm.

thump.

thump.

thump.

A metronome counting down the seconds until his soul finally snapped in half.

That’s not me, he thought, watching the scene from somewhere outside himself.

That’s not me. That’s not Regulus Black. That’s someone else.

But it was him.

He caught his reflection in the black curve of a Death Eater’s mask as he passed. Pale face, blood-streaked. Blank eyes. Lips parted just slightly, like a doll’s. Hair soaked dark and flat against his skull, tangled with bits of bark, gore, and something unidentifiable.

The person he saw there wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t even human. He was… a message.

He dared to look around and saw that everyone was already there.

They all survived. Even Peter, half-conscious, was held upright by Dorcas. Marlene’s face was split and bruised. Mary was leaning on Sirius, eyes wet and wide with something between horror and disbelief. Barty and Evan stood apart from the others, backs stiff, eyes unreadable. Remus stared at the ground while Sirius stared at him.

But the one face he couldn’t bring himself to look at was James.

Because if he did, if he saw what was in James’ eyes, he would fall apart. He would scream.

He would drop to the ground and never get up again.

It had to be done. I was the only one who could do it. This was survival. This was strategy. This was war. It had to be done.

And yet—

The head. Merlin, the weight of it. It was heavier than it should’ve been. Every step pulled him closer to the dais, and it felt like he was dragging his own body behind him.

Avery’s face stared up at him, eyes frozen wide, lips parted in a twisted echo of mockery.

He kept walking.

Step after step, each one louder in his mind than the cheers that erupted around him.

Because they were fucking cheering. The Death Eaters lining the arena were roaring with approval. Laughing. Some of them were even shouting his name, for fucks sake. Applauding the violence. Feasting on it likesavages.

The sound clawed at his brain. It echoed in the hollows behind his ears like a scream with no mouth.

He blinked, and the pitch tilted slightly beneath his feet, like the world had slipped from its axis.

Is this really happening?  the voice asked again.

He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Couldn’t feel the handle of the dagger or the wet rope of Avery’s hair. Couldn’t feel the throb of his wounds or the blood that had soaked through three layers of clothing. All of it was background noise now. White static. Like his body had stopped registering itself.

Derealization.

That’s what it’s called. He’d read about it once in a book stolen from a Muggle library.

But this wasn’t academic, but a waking nightmare.

He could still feel the moment the spine gave way. The wet, meaty resistance. The warmth spilling across his boots.

He tasted bile, but that didn’t stop him from walking forward.

Because this, this fucking horror show, has been the only way out. The only path forward. He couldn’t run or turn back. There was no room for softness anymore. No room for guilt.

He wasn’t the youngest Black son.

He wasn’t a Prefect.

He wasn’t anyone’s brother.

He wasn’t James’ lover.

He was the blade that cut the Gordian knot. He was the price.

And they all knew it. He saw it on their faces.

Even among the Death Eaters, there was a new look. A cold shift. A kind of sideways glance that wasn’t derision anymore, but caution. Calculation.

Fear.

He saw it in the stiff backs of the younger Death Eaters. He saw it in Lucius Malfoy’s expression, cold and calculating, as if trying to fit this new version of Regulus Black into an equation that no longer made sense. He saw it in Narcissa’s stillness—the perfect, unshakable porcelain mask cracking just slightly at the edges where her hands clenched into fists, white-knuckled in the folds of her silk sleeves.

They hadn’t seen this coming.

No one had expected this version of Regulus.

He was no longer the boy who’d spent years mastering silence and subtlety, who had studied spells with elegant precision and used knowledge as a blade. No longer the boy who had survived by obeying just enough and defying just barely.

This? This was different.

This was the version of himself he hadn’t known existed until it was too late to stop it.

He reached the dais where Voldemort stood beneath the black stone arch, a still and inhuman thing dressed in shadows. The air thickened around him, vibrating with a kind of energy that felt alive and wrong. It pressed too close. Too intimate. Like something cold whispering just behind your neck.

Regulus didn’t flinch.

He stopped before the Dark Lord and, with a flick of his wrist, he threw Avery’s head at his feet. It hit the polished black stone with a wet, meaty sound, the kind that stuck in the ears and echoed far longer than it should’ve. It bounced once, rolled slowly, and came to rest at the foot of Voldemort’s robes, mouth open in a final frozen sneer, eyes glazed over and staring at nothing.

The silence that followed was absolute.

The cheers died instantly, as if someone had sucked all the air from the arena. Even the torches seemed to flicker low. 

And then Voldemort’s mouth moved—not in joy, not in mirth, but into the shape of something that had once been a smile before someone had stripped out all the warmth and left only the cruelty.

“Well done,” he said, voice soft, lilting, almost gentle. It slithered through the air like smoke. Poison disguised as praise. “Blood answers blood… as it always has.”

The crowd erupted again—but this time it wasn’t a celebration. It was hunger. A frenzied, vicious hunger. Applause snapped like thunder. Cheers exploded across the field. Boots stamped. Fists slammed into open palms. And above it all, the sound of his name, his family’s name, chanted again and twisted into something awful.

“Black! Black! Black!”

Regulus didn’t move. His fingers were still curled, tight and blood-sticky, like they didn’t realize the head was gone.

Regulus stood there, breathing hard through his nose, chest rising and falling, heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. He turned his head slowly to where his friends huddled together like mismatched pieces of a broken puzzle.

James was staring at him. Pale-faced beneath the grime, a slash across his brow still sluggishly bleeding, but Merlin, those eyes. They burned like fire. Fierce. Disbelieving. Worried.

No pride. No judgment. Just raw, burning concern.

Regulus had to look away before it broke him open.

He looked at Barty then, standing stiff and pale. Regulus’ throat bobbed in a hard swallow when their eyes met, but Barty gave a small nod. He knew. Somehow, Barty always knew.

You did what you had to do.

That made it worse, somehow.

He choked down the sick rising in his throat.

Behind him, Voldemort spoke again.

“Let this be a lesson to the rest.”

The Death Eaters stilled.

Voldemort took a step forward, the hem of his robes brushing Avery’s severed head.

“The weak fall,” he said, tilting his head like a curious predator. “The strong… the ruthless…” He smiled again, wider now, teeth too white against his grey skin. “They rise.”

The words didn’t just settle on Regulus.

They hooked into him. He felt them tighten around his ribs, loop after loop. Wrapping around his throat, his lungs, his spine. Each syllable becoming an invisible collar.

The ruthless rise. 

He lifted his chin.

He didn’t kneel. Didn’t bow. But something deep inside him bent—quietly, permanently—like an old branch breaking under the weight of snow.

Voldemort turned to the crowd, arms lifting.

“As reward for their service,” he announced, “Regulus Black and his… group”—a subtle curl of disdain, barely veiled—“are now free to move through the castle. They have earned that right.”

Murmurs swept through the ranks. Shock. Unease. Rage. Obedience. It all flickered behind masks and tight mouths.

Regulus stood still.

The world was tilting again, just slightly. Just enough to make the stars look wrong. Just enough that he had to focus on not vomiting where he stood.

He wasn’t in his body anymore.

He was watching from above, or behind, or somewhere else. Watching this pale, blood-streaked creature wear his face, stand where he stood, while Death Eaters roared and Voldemort praised him like a hunting dog that had finally drawn blood.

That isn’t me, he thought again. It can’t be.

But the thought didn’t comfort him because somewhere in the quiet center of himself, in the space where the horror had burned everything soft away, something answered back.

It is now.

The only thing Regulus could focus on while they were herded back to the tower were his own feet.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Left.

The rhythm was jagged, like something trying to remember how to be steady. His body moved because stopping would mean collapsing, and collapsing would mean being seen. And Regulus couldn’t—mustn’t—be seen right now. Not like this. Not hollowed out, scraped clean on the inside until there was nothing left but the echo.

His body buzzed with the ghost of adrenaline, but his brain refused to interpret any of it. The corridor spun like a memory he couldn’t quite anchor. Time folded in on itself. The cold stone under his shoes might as well have been the floor of that cave. The flickering torchlight smeared across the walls like fire. The smell of blood clung to the air.

At one point, a hand grabbed his. The pressure startled him, familiar and foreign all at once.

It wasn’t James’. His body knew that before his mind caught up.

Regulus knew James’ hands like scripture. Like spellwork he’d memorized down to the breath between syllables. Even with his eyes shut and his heart screaming, he could tell the difference.

James’ hands were steady. Firm in a way that asked permission even when he didn’t say a word. They were always warm, always calloused in the same places. Along the pads of his fingers from years of Quidditch, the base of his palm from gripping his wand too tightly during duels. There was a freckle on the inside of his left wrist, a faint scar just below his thumb from the time he’d been stupid enough to open a crate with a dull knife.

Even blind, Regulus would recognise James by touch alone.

It wasn’t Barty either. Barty’s hands always trembled, twitching with the aftershocks of the things he’d done and the things that had been done to him. His skin was calloused and scarred, marred by old burns and blade marks and the jagged teeth of reckless magic.

Not Evan’s. Evan’s fingers were longer, slightly crooked, the knuckles bent just enough to betray a childhood break that never healed quite right. He carried a quiet self-consciousness in them, always hiding them under sleeves or gloves, like they were some proof of imperfection he couldn’t forgive himself for.

No.

This hand was something else.

The fingers were long, elegant, and uncalloused, as if preserved in time. The skin was pale, smooth, the sort of untouched softness Regulus hadn’t felt in years. And the bones, fragile beneath the surface, almost birdlike in their delicacy. The wrist was so slender it could have been snapped with a single twist, like porcelain pretending to be flesh.

This hand had held his once before, not in this ruined corridor, not under the weight of silence and trauma, but in the dim hush of their childhood. This hand had gripped his during stormy nights in Grimmauld Place, under the heavy creak of the house’s breathing walls and the howls of their mother echoing like curses down the corridor. When Regulus was small and scared, and Sirius had still been his.

He remembered it vividly now. The way Sirius had once pulled him into the hollow under the stairwell, shielding his body with his own, clutching Regulus’ hand so tightly their fingers turned white.

“Close your eyes,” Sirius had whispered back then, fierce and shaking, “don’t listen to her. You’re safe here. You’re with me.”

After Sirius left, Regulus had stared at his own hands for months, trying to remember the feeling of being held like that. His fingers would curl in his sleep, reaching for something that was no longer there. The ghost of Sirius' touch haunted him more than the screams ever had.

He’d craved it. That contact. That anchor. That unspoken promise that they were in this together.

And now, here it was again.

That same hand. That same shape. Older now, stronger, but still unmistakably his brother’s.

And so Regulus held it. He didn’t think. Didn’t question. He just held it and trusted that whenever Sirius took him, he would be fine.

Regulus didn’t know what held him together anymore. Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was routine. Maybe it was the blood still drying beneath his fingernails.

All he knew was that he wanted to scream.

To tear his throat open until it echoed down the stone halls and shattered windows.

He wanted to throw himself against the nearest wall until something cracked—bone or stone, it didn’t matter anymore. Anything to match the fracture running down his middle.

He wanted to tear off his own skin, flay it away like wet parchment, and scrape the forest out with shaking hands. To purge whatever was still festering inside him, before it hollowed him out completely.

He needed pain.

Deserved it, even.

Maybe then he’d feel real again, no longer this floating, weightless thing wearing his body like a borrowed cloak.

But instead, he walked.

Step by step, he moved through the corridor with the weight of the world dragging at his heels, each footfall slower and heavier than the last.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look.

He simply existed in that suspended, unbearable liminality, where time bled in strange directions and space folded in on itself, and let the numb rhythm of his movements carry him forward through a reality he no longer fully inhabited.

Everything around him became a blur of fractured light and muffled sound, a kaleidoscope of motion just beyond comprehension. Faces flickered in the corners of his vision, too fast or too slow to recognize, mouths moving without sound, like they were trying to speak through thick glass or from the depths of waterlogged dreams. He saw them, yes, but not in a way that mattered. Not in a way that touched him.

His body kept moving, though it was no longer his own. A marionette dragged along by unseen strings, its limbs performing the motions of walking while the last spark of him, whatever still clung to life, had retreated somewhere far below the surface. That version of him watched through a fogged window, seeing everything, feeling nothing, the distance growing with every step.

But the images wouldn’t stop.

The wand pressed hard against James’ throat.

The gurgling noise that followed when his blade struck home.

Avery’s eyes. Empty. Staring at him.

And the head, Salazar, the head, its weight had been so obscene in his palm, the lifeless heft of it pulling at his wrist, swaying with each reluctant step like the pendulum of some grotesque clock, counting down in relentless beats the moments between who he had been before and what he had become.

The memories looped endlessly, a cursed recording etched into the marrow of his bones, refusing to fade.

Over and over and over again.

His breath began to hitch, short, shallow, too fast for his lungs to manage, and the pressure in his skull threatened to crack him open from the inside, blackness creeping inward along the edges of his vision, folding around him like smoke from a fire that would never go out.

He couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop remembering. Couldn’t tell if the slickness on his hands was sweat or blood or just the phantom sensation of something long since washed away.

He needed it gone.

He needed himself gone—scraped out, hollowed, burned clean of whatever was festering inside.

“Love?”

The voice was soft. Too soft. It cut through the smoke like the first breath after drowning, and it didn’t belong here—not in this blood-slicked purgatory of memory.

Regulus blinked and, for one breathless, disoriented moment, he didn’t know where he was, or who he was supposed to be anymore.

His vision cleared enough to reveal firelight casting long shadows across ancient stone; an old, faded tapestry hung slightly crooked on the wall; the wind tapped softly at the broken windowpanes like fingertips asking for permission to enter.

He was in the common room.

Somehow, impossibly, illogically, he was here, alive and breathing and sitting beneath a roof that hadn’t collapsed on top of him. He didn’t remember the stairs. Didn’t remember the portrait hole swinging open.

He looked down at his own hands, flexed them slowly as though testing the shape of them, and felt no recognition in the movement. They were foreign now. Not hands at all, but instruments. Relics. Cursed things. The hands of a boy who no longer existed.

And still, James was watching him—not with fear or judgment, not even with pity, but with the same unnerving stillness he always had when he was about to say something that would shatter whatever fragile wall Regulus had managed to throw up between them.

It was at that very moment that Peter looked up from where he sat and scanned the room.

“Where’s Em?”

The question hit Regulus like a curse.

The words weren’t loud, but they rang in his ears as though they'd been struck with the force of an unforgiving bell. A new wave of panic swept through him, thick and suffocating, swallowing the room whole, drowning out the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of robes shifting.

Something inside him, a deep, raw part of him that he had spent years burying under layers of detachment, lurched violently, like an animal woken from a long slumber. It clutched at his chest, pulling him toward the past that he so desperately wanted to forget. The memory rushed at him without warning, without mercy.

He froze. 

The question sat in the air like a heavy weight, each word tying him to something he couldn’t escape.

His breath faltered, caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, unwilling to make the next breath.

Peter was still looking at him, eyes wide and full of that fragile hope that shattered something sharp inside Regulus. Peter, who had not seen what he had seen. Peter, who still thought that somehow, Emmeline might come walking through the door at any moment. Peter, who probably hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.

Her voice calling for Sirius still echoed in the hollows of his skull, a jagged sound that rattled the bones of his memory, each syllable a knife to his chest.

Her bones snapping like brittle twigs.

Peter tried again, voice trembling.

“Padfoot?” He rose halfway from the battered couch, face pale. “Did she… is she…?”

The words sent Regulus stumbling backward, the world tilting beneath him as his vision blurred and spun. The firelight seemed to melt into everything around him, bleeding the room into an indistinct smear of red, and the hands—his hands—trembled violently.

He was back there.

He was back in that moment, frozen in time and drowning in it all over again.

His chest tightened. His breath came in shallow, erratic gasps as if his lungs had forgotten how to function properly. The world around him closed in like a vice, the walls of the Tower pressing against his ribs. His mind was a cacophony of noise, of images, of sounds—the cracks of bone, the gurgle of blood, the silence after Emmeline fell.

“Get him out of here,” Barty’s voice rang out, low and clipped, carrying a kind of brutal efficiency that brought a chill to the room. “Now, Potter! Before he goes under.”

Regulus barely registered the movement around him, too lost in the whirlwind of panic and dark memories that spun through his mind like a storm. But then, just as everything seemed to be slipping away completely, a presence was there—tangible, real, a hand gently but firmly taking hold of his own.

Regulus didn't trust himself to speak, but he followed.

Because, despite everything, despite the weight of the memories and the jagged edges of everything he had become, he would always follow James.

Chapter Text

The walk back to Regulus’ room felt like moving through someone else’s dream. His legs carried him forward, but there was no sense of intent behind the movement—just the dull, automatic churn of muscle and bone obeying orders from a mind too fractured to issue them. The corridors stretched unnaturally long, bending into shapes that didn’t feel real.

Every few steps, a flicker of torchlight caught the corner of his vision and snagged him like a hook. A brief flare of harmless, ordinary fire, yet in the wrong fraction of a second, it warped into something else entirely. Not light. Not warmth. Blood. Her blood. The red was so thick it seemed to swallow the air, staining the insides of his eyes so that even when he blinked, he still saw it.

James said nothing as they walked. He didn’t try to fill the silence or ask questions or press with pity. He just stayed beside him, steady and warm, his hand never letting go of Regulus’. He held it as though he knew exactly what it meant to do so. As though he understood how fragile it felt—how Regulus was clinging to that single point of contact like it was the only thing keeping him there.

By the time they reached Regulus’ door, the panic had ebbed into something slower but no less dangerous. His fingers were still trembling when James opened the door for him, guiding him in like something precious.

Regulus didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance at James. He simply stood there, in the middle of his own room, looking at nothing. The air felt too thick to breathe. His body didn’t know what shape it was supposed to take now.

James stepped in and closed the door softly behind them. No click. Just the hush of it sealing shut. No eyes. No watchers. Only the two of them in the small, dim space. Then, gently, he carried Regulus to the bed and motioned him to sit down.

Regulus moved like a marionette with tangled strings. When he sat, his spine locked straight, his fists clenched in his lap. He braced for something—anger, disgust, a verdict he couldn’t bear to hear.   

He flinched before it could come, and James saw it.

He didn’t answer the flinch with words. He just lowered himself to his knees in front of Regulus, slow enough that every motion could be read as permission. His hands found Regulus’ fists, resting over them like a question. No force, no prying, only the light brush of fingertips over taut knuckles. He slid his palms underneath until he was holding both of Regulus’ hands in his own, grounding him in touch alone.

“You’re safe now,” James murmured, so softly it felt like the words might disintegrate if spoken any louder. “Love, look at me.”

It took effort for Regulus’ gaze to lift from the floor. The present felt too far away, and James’ eyes were too much like light.

“I don’t know how to come back from this,” he said, voice frayed to almost nothing.

“You don’t have to come back all at once,” James said, his thumb brushing over the thin skin at the inside of Regulus’ wrist, feeling the wild, panicked flutter of his pulse. “Just breathe with me. One breath at a time.”

“I killed him,” Regulus whispered. “I killed Avery and I—” His breath hitched. “I held his head like it was a trophy. Like it meant something. They cheered for me. Called my name like I’d done something noble. Like I wasn’t—”

His voice broke before the word could land, and then his body broke too, folding in on itself with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob but something deeper, rawer, like a seam ripping straight through him. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders convulsing, the sound of his breathing sharp and desperate.

“I can’t—” It came out like glass splintering. “I can’t—”

James was already moving, catching him before the collapse could become a fall. His arms wrapped around Regulus, not crushing but firm, the kind of embrace that could withstand a storm. He guided him down until Regulus’ head rested against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded slow and steady against Regulus’ ear.

“Let it out, love,” James whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you. I swear it.”

Regulus couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. But he clung to James with desperate hands, curling into him like something starved for warmth. James’ fingers threaded into his hair, stroking gently, and his other hand moved in slow, steady circles against his back—nothing urgent, nothing demanding. Just presence. Just touch. Just here.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus rasped into the fabric of James’ shirt. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for surviving,” James said, low and steady.

“I don’t know how you can look at me and not see what I’ve become.”

James pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his hand coming up to cup Regulus’ cheek. His thumb swept away a tear that Regulus hadn’t even realised had fallen.

“Because I do see you,” James said. “All of you. The boy who thought he had no choice. The man who came back from the dead. The soul who still walks through hell just to keep someone else safe. And none of that, not the blood, not the guilt, not the war, makes you unworthy of being loved.”

Regulus’ breath caught. The words felt dangerous, like something he wasn’t allowed to touch. They sounded like a language he’d never learned but always longed to understand.

“You don’t—” His voice cracked. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do.”

James leaned forward, slow enough for Regulus to turn away if he needed, until their foreheads touched. His breath was warm, close, carrying no urgency. Just the weight of the moment.

“I love you,” James said. No ceremony, no dramatic flourish. Just truth, naked and unflinching.

Regulus froze. His body stopped, as if something inside had short-circuited. His eyes burned. The words were too big. Too impossible.

“I—” The word fell apart in his mouth.

James didn’t press for more. He only leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Regulus’ temple, then to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth. No demands. No taking. Only giving.

Regulus trembled. His voice was barely there, hoarse and uneven.

“How can you love someone like me?”

“Because I see you,” he said again, slow and certain, as if the repetition might be the only way to make it sink into the marrow of Regulus’ bones. “And I know what’s real. You’re real. You’re good. You’ve fought so hard for everyone else—for so long, you’ve bled yourself dry just to keep them standing. Let someone protect you for once. Let me protect you.”

Regulus shook his head, voice breaking.

“You don’t know all of it. You can’t. If you did—”

“I do know,” James said, cutting in, his voice gentler but no less firm. “I know what they made you do. I know what you carry. I know the things that keep you awake at night. And I’m still here. I’m still choosing you.”

Something inside Regulus fractured at that—quietly, almost imperceptibly—and before he could think better of it, before the old instinct to retreat could drag him away, he leaned forward and closed the final space between them.

The kiss was nothing like war. It was soft, unhurried, a question asked and answered in a single shared breath. At first, it was barely there, a tentative press, as if afraid the whole thing might shatter if they pushed too hard. But then Regulus’ hands fisted in James’ shirt, pulling him closer, and his mouth parted just enough to let James in.

The kiss deepened, unspooled, turned molten.

James sighed into him, kissing him like he would cradle every shattered fragment Regulus thought he had to hide. His thumbs stroked over the sharp edges of Regulus’ jaw, his lips moving slowly but certain, mapping the shape of him. Regulus’ hands were still trembling, but James didn’t try to still them; he just laced their fingers together, pressing their joined hands flat against his chest like he wanted Regulus to feel the steady heartbeat there.

“You’re here,” James murmured against his lips. “With me. I’m not letting you go.”

A sound tore out of Regulus, too raw to name. He kissed James again, harder now, desperate, like he wanted to drown in him, to be erased and rewritten all at once. James welcomed him without hesitation, his mouth warm and sure, his fingers skimming over the ridges of his spine, the narrow planes of his sides, grounding him with every touch.

When they slowed, when the fire in it softened into something aching and deep instead of urgent and consuming, James pressed a kiss to the bridge of Regulus’ nose, then to his temple, then into his hair. His voice was a low murmur against Regulus’ ear.

“From now on, I’m staying here. With you. This is my room too.”

Regulus pulled back just enough to search his face, his eyes wide, glassy, unreadable in the low light. “You—what?”

“I’m not leaving you alone again,” James said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “No more waking up in an empty bed. No more nights thinking you have to hold yourself together by yourself. I’m not going anywhere.”

Regulus stared at him like he was trying to see the trap, the catch, the inevitable withdrawal. “You say that now. But you don’t—”

“I mean it.” James’ hand cupped his face, thumb brushing along the high, tense line of his cheekbone. “You don’t scare me. The darkness doesn’t scare me. Losing you—that’s the only thing I’m afraid of.”

Regulus’ breath hitched, and something behind his ribs ached so sharply it felt like it might split him open.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why me? You could have—”

“I don’t want anyone else,” James interrupted, his voice catching for the first time. “It’s you. It’s always been you, Regulus Black, whether you believe you deserve it or not. And I’m going to keep saying it until you do.”

Regulus stared at him, breath caught, expression unreadable in the low firelight. James could practically see the thoughts scrambling behind his eyes, like his brain couldn’t fully catch up with the idea that someone would choose to stay. Stay for real. Stay for him.

“I love you,” James whispered again, quiet but fierce, the kind of truth that burned the moment it touched air.

Regulus froze—utterly still, as though one wrong move might break the moment. His throat worked, but the words he wanted wouldn’t come. All he could manage was the trembling press of his lips against James’, hoping it said what his voice couldn’t.

James kissed him back like he understood anyway.

It didn’t take long for Regulus to finally fall asleep.

His breathing had slowed gradually, the jagged edge of panic dulled into exhausted surrender. James stayed exactly where he was, one hand moving slowly up and down the line of Regulus’ spine. He traced the same path over and over, like a charm he didn’t dare break, feeling every shallow rise and fall beneath his palm. Regulus was curled into his chest, knees drawn slightly up, one hand still clutching the front of James’ shirt in a grip that had softened but not let go. His face was buried in the crook of James’ neck, warm breath ghosting over his skin.

The knock came soft, but even so, James felt his shoulders tense. Regulus stirred faintly at the sound—just a twitch of his hand, a small, uneven breath. James bent his head, pressing a kiss into the dark hair beneath his chin.

“Shh… you’re alright, love. I’ve got you,” he murmured, barely louder than the beat of his own heart.

The door creaked open. Evan’s head appeared in the gap, hair mussed, eyes sharp but shadowed. James raised a finger to his lips and, after one more moment of stillness, began easing himself free. He slid out from beneath Regulus with infinite care, tucking the blanket up over his shoulders, wrapping it around his arms so the warmth wouldn’t escape.

He brushed a few stray strands of hair away from Regulus’ face and let his fingertips linger against his cheek for a breath longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back, love,” he whispered, even though Regulus was too far under to answer. Then he slipped into the hallway, pulling the door almost, but not completely, shut.

Evan was leaning against the wall, one foot braced against the skirting board, his arms loosely crossed. His expression was tight, somewhere between worry and something heavier.

“Sorry,” Evan murmured, his voice quiet but rough-edged. “How is he?”

James scrubbed a hand over his face. His throat felt thick, and there were too many words lodged there to know where to start.

“Managing,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. “Barty said to get him out before he went under. Did this—has this happened before?”

Evan shifted his weight, eyes darting briefly to the floor before coming back. His hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing absently.

“He’s… been through a lot. You know that. But not like this. Not this raw. Not this… loud.”

James frowned. “What do you mean?”

Evan nodded once, slowly. “Regulus doesn’t fall apart where people can see. He never did. He… implodes. Quietly. Always has. He’ll vanish for a day or two, shut down completely. Then come back like nothing happened. Calm, clean, composed. Like grief was something he could scrub out of your bones if he just stayed still long enough.”

James leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded tight. “And that worked?”

“No,” Evan said flatly. “But it kept him alive. It was the only way he knew how to keep going.”

James was quiet for a moment, staring at the ground between them.

“How did you help him, back then?”

“We didn’t,” Evan said, no hesitation, no attempt to soften it. “We waited. We tried to be there for him, but he wouldn’t let us in. He wore silence like armour. Distance like a shield. You’d try to talk to him and he’d smile—that smile—and tell you he was fine. That he just needed time. Then he’d disappear into himself, like there was a door that locked from the inside. We couldn’t break it down, no matter how hard we knocked.”

James looked toward the room, where Regulus lay asleep in a bed that suddenly felt like the centre of James’ world.

“But you,” Evan went on, his eyes fixed on James now, “you did what the rest of us never could. You got past the lock. He let you see him break.”

James shook his head slowly. “I didn’t do anything. I just—stayed.”

“That’s more than anyone else ever managed,” Evan said. “Regulus never trusted softness. Never thought he deserved it. He pushed it away like it was a threat. But with you…” Evan tilted his head, studying him. “He broke in front of you. That’s not weakness, James. That’s trust. The kind that costs him everything.”

James let the words settle into his chest, heavy and warm and terrifying.

“He said he didn’t know how to come back from it.”

Evan didn’t speak at first. He just watched James with a strange sort of quiet that made the corridor feel warmer.

Then finally, in a voice that had lost all its edge, he said, “I know you want to help him. I know what you’re doing comes from love, and Merlin knows he needs that. But, James, he’s not used to being seen like this. Not even by us. What you’re giving him is powerful. But it’s also overwhelming. He needs time. And space. Maybe more than you’ll want to give.”

James frowned, shifting his weight, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest. “You think I’m pushing too hard?”

“I think you’re the only thing holding him together right now,” Evan said, his tone steady but not unkind. “But if you pull too tight, he’ll snap. And if you’re not there when that happens, he’ll think it was his fault.”

James looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “I just… I don’t want him to feel alone.”

Evan’s expression softened in a way James hadn’t expected. “He’s spent most of his life alone, Potter. The fact that he’s letting you within arm’s reach after all this… that’s already more than anyone could have asked for. So give him space when he needs it. Let him breathe. You’ll keep him longer that way.”

James nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of that. Then his brow furrowed. “How’s Peter?”

Evan hesitated, then sighed. “Remus told him what happened. Not all of it. Left the worst parts out. But… even the pieces were enough.”

James’ voice lowered. “Is he—?”

“Not well,” Evan admitted. His arms unfolded, hanging loose at his sides. “He’s in his room. Sirius and Remus are with him. Keeps asking if she’s coming back. That maybe it’s a mistake. Like she got lost on the way home.”

James closed his eyes briefly, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

“You should go,” Evan said, softer now. “Merlin knows he needs his friends tonight.”

James opened his eyes again, looking back at the door like it might anchor him there.

“I will stay with him,” Evan said without waiting for the question. “I won’t leave him.”

James gave a short nod, gratitude and reluctance tangled together, before turning down the corridor. As he rounded the corner toward the common room, something caught in the edge of his vision, pulling him up short.

A door—just slightly ajar.

The girls' dormitory.

He wouldn’t have looked. Wouldn’t have even noticed, if not for the sound. Soft, muffled, almost swallowed by the old stone walls—but crying was something James couldn’t pass by anymore. Not after everything. It had too much recognition in it now, too much echo from the nights when his own chest had ached like it might cave in.

He glanced over, meaning to keep walking, meaning to give them privacy. But the angle of the door offered just enough of a view to root him to the spot.

There was Lily. Her arms were wrapped around Mary, tight in a way that had nothing to do with politeness or comfort for comfort’s sake. They weren’t just leaning into each other the way friends did—they were holding on. Mary’s fingers were fisted in the thick knit of Lily’s jumper, her face buried in Lily’s shoulder as though she could hide from the world there. And Lily… Lily had that look James had once thought was reserved for him: soft, unguarded, brimming with something wordless and vulnerable.

Her eyes were closed. Her brow rested gently against Mary’s hair. And all the sharp, careful edges Lily wore these days were gone. What was left was tenderness. Devotion.

It struck him all at once: this was the look of a woman who had learned love in the wreckage.

Not the kind of love they’d once played at when they were seventeen, all quick jokes and grand gestures. This was quieter. Steadier. Built in the small, relentless acts that kept people alive.

And in that moment, James finally understood why they did not work out.

Their hearts had never belonged to each other in the way that built a forever. His had always leaned toward shadow and steel, toward the quiet, unyielding loyalty of a boy with fury in his silences and grief in his gaze.

And hers—hers had been waiting for someone with gentle hands and firelight in their laugh.

They had been two stars in the same broken sky, but their gravity had always been meant for someone else.

Mary shifted then, just enough for her eyes to catch on him. She froze. Her mouth parted, startled, and she straightened too quickly, pulling away from Lily with a kind of panic. Her face went tight—guilt, defensiveness, apology all tangled together.

“James,” she stammered, reaching for the door as if to block the moment from view. “I—I didn’t mean for— It’s not what— I mean—”

James raised a hand gently, offering a small, tired smile.

“Mary, it’s okay,” he said, his voice low and steady, like the calm after a storm. “Truly. You don’t have to explain anything.”

Her lips parted again, like she wanted to argue, like she still thought maybe this was going to end in slammed doors or bitter words. But James stepped closer, and his eyes were soft. Honest.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, and meant it. “For both of you.”

Mary’s eyes shimmered a little, her shoulders dropping as if someone had just relieved her of a heavy weight. She blinked rapidly and looked back toward Lily, who was standing now, silent but unmoving, watching James with unreadable eyes.

“You really mean that?” Lily asked, her voice calm but edged with something fragile.

James gave a soft huff of breath—half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah. I do. Took me a long time to understand love isn’t about who gets there first. Or who was promised what when they were seventeen.”

His gaze flicked to Lily then, holding for a beat, and he smiled again, gentler this time, the fondness still there, but mellowed, weathered by time and war and everything in between.

“I’m glad you’ve found this,” he said, his tone steady now. “War’s taken enough from us. If you’ve got something real—something soft—you keep it. Hold on with both hands.”

Neither of them knew what to say for a moment.

Then Lily stepped forward and placed a hand on the doorframe. “You’re a good man, James.”

He gave a faint shrug. “Trying to be.”

Just as James turned to leave, Lily’s voice stopped him, soft, tentative, but edged with that familiar concern she always wore when someone she loved was hurting.

“James?”

He paused, half in the shadow of the corridor, and looked back. Lily had stepped out of the dorm now, her hand still curled loosely on the doorframe, eyes searching his face with gentle intent.

“How’s Reggie?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “After what happened... is he alright? Are you alright?”

James exhaled slowly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t know how to phrase the weight of it—the collapse, the trembling, the soft way Regulus had finally let himself be held. But then a small smile curled at the corner of his mouth, unbidden and quiet, like something long-hoped for had finally rooted itself into the soil of his chest.

“He’s… resting,” James said, after a pause. His voice turned a shade lighter. “And we—we’re finally okay. Better than okay, actually.”

Lily’s brows lifted, and the smile that bloomed on her face was warm enough to banish the cold from the hall. “Oh, James.”

She stepped forward fully now, grinning widely as she reached out and gave his arm a small nudge. “It took you long enough.”

James laughed, the sound low and real, his hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to ease off the weight of years’ worth of tension. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Her eyes shone with something layered—pride, maybe, and a thread of wistfulness—but mostly joy.

“Go take care of him,” she said, the words carrying a promise all their own. “And don’t screw it up, Potter.”

He grinned, a flash of the boy he’d been once. “I’ll let you hex me into next week if that ever happens, Lils.”

The door to Peter’s room creaked quietly as James pushed it open.

The air inside was stale, carrying the faint, bitter smell of burnt candlewick. One of the far lamps sputtered weakly, casting jittering shadows along the uneven walls. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced hard against his knees, hands knotted together so tightly his knuckles blanched. Behind him, Remus leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his chest as though he could physically keep himself from unraveling.

And Peter—

Peter was in the centre of the bed, spine bowed, shoulders hunched forward as though the weight of his own frame was too much. His eyes were wide and dry, unblinking, fixed somewhere far past the wall in front of him. His hands rested limply in his lap, fingers twitching in small, erratic bursts, as though they’d forgotten the sequence of movements that made a human gesture.

James had never seen him look so small. Not just physically, but reduced, compressed into something fragile and breakable, like a shadow of himself.

He shut the door quietly and stepped inside, his gaze flicking to Remus. Pale. Drawn. His jaw worked like he was swallowing words that would only make things worse. Sirius gave the barest nod in greeting, his eyes rimmed red but dry now.

“He hasn’t spoken since we got him here,” Sirius murmured, voice cracked and raw from overuse. “Cried for hours. Then… nothing.”

James crossed the room slowly, lowering himself into a crouch in front of the bed.

“Pete,” James said, voice steady but quiet. “Hey. It’s me.”

No response. Not even a shift in focus. Peter’s gaze didn’t so much look at James as pass through him, fixed on something only he could see.

“I should’ve gotten to her faster,” Peter said suddenly. His voice was shredded, hoarse from hours of grief, as if each word scraped against his throat.

James froze. “Pete—”

“I ran,” Peter whispered, as if confessing to a crime. “I was supposed to find her.”

His hands—trembling now—lifted slowly to his face, fingers curling as if to scrub something away. His palms dragged across his cheeks like he was trying to erase himself.

James reached out instinctively, placing a hand on Peter’s knee, trying to ground him.

 “You didn’t know,” James said quietly. “You couldn’t have known where she was dropped. None of us did.”

But the words seemed to miss him entirely.

“You found each other,” Peter said suddenly, the bitterness sliding in like a knife between ribs. Sirius’ shoulders jerked. “You found each other, and you fought through hell to get back. And I—” his breath hitched, eyes flashing—not with tears, but with shame—“I hid. I didn’t search hard enough. I didn’t do anything.”

“Peter—” Remus tried.

“I did nothing!” Peter snapped, the words louder now, harsh and full of sharp, self-inflicted edges. “That’s all I’ve ever done! I’ve hidden behind you lot since the first day we picked sides in this war. I stood in your shadow—James’, Sirius’, yours, Remus—and I let people believe I belonged there. But I didn’t. I don’t.”

The tremor had taken hold of his whole body now, violent and uncontained, as if holding the truth inside him had been a dam and it had finally burst.

“I was scared,” he whispered, smaller now, more dangerous in its honesty. “I’m always scared. When the fighting starts, I freeze. And when they grabbed us, I didn’t move.”

There was a long, heavy silence.

Peter looked down at his trembling hands like they were foreign things. Like they’d betrayed him.

“I don’t deserve to be here,” he breathed, barely audible. “She’s gone. I’m still breathing, and she’s not. And I can’t stop thinking—why not me?”

James shut his eyes. There was nothing, no combination of syllables, that could meet grief at that depth.

“I’m so tired,” Peter said after a long moment, voice hollowed out. “So fucking tired of pretending I’m anything but dead weight.”

Sirius flinched visibly, his breath a sharp pull through his teeth. Remus’ face folded like something inside him had caved.

James reached for Peter’s shaking hands, holding them firmly.

“You’re not dead weight,” he said, his tone iron even as his chest ached. “You matter. You’re our friend. And yes, you’re scared. So are we. This war doesn’t make room for anything else. It’s breaking us all.”

Peter’s head tipped forward, but he didn’t speak. Not even when James—quiet, insistent—tried to offer him a thread to cling to. That Emmeline wouldn’t have blamed him. That she knew how war poisoned courage until it was unrecognisable.

Peter only shook his head, each movement sharper than the last.

“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “Don’t—don’t try to make this better. There’s no bright side, James. She’s dead. And I’m not. That’s it.”

His voice was flat now. The grief had dried into something colder. Harder.

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he added after a moment, still not looking up. “Please. Just go.”

Sirius’ mouth opened, but Remus’ hand landed on his forearm, a silent shake of his head.

James hesitated, heart aching, fingers twitching at his sides. He didn’t want to leave him like this, shut down, hollowed out, but he could see it in Peter’s face. He wouldn’t let anyone in tonight. Not anymore.

“Alright,” Remus said quietly. “We’ll give you space. But… we’ll be around, yeah? When you’re ready.”

Peter didn’t move.

Sirius lingered by the door longer than the others, his gaze fixed on the back of Peter’s bowed head, jaw clenched so tight the muscles ticked. But finally, he turned and followed James and Remus out into the corridor.

The door closed softly behind them.

“I don’t like leaving him like that,” Remus said after a moment, voice low, almost guilty.

“Neither do I,” James murmured.

“He’s… he’s not okay.”

“I know.”

“I’ll check on him in the morning,” Remus went on. “Bring him tea. Just so he knows we haven’t gone anywhere.”

Sirius let out a sigh that was more of a rasp. “He won’t want to talk.”

“I know,” Remus said. “But I’ll be there anyway.”

There was a pause. Then James ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.

“I’m moving in with Regulus,” he said, so quietly that at first neither of them responded. “He needs someone. And I—well, I want to be that someone. I am that someone. It’s time.”

Sirius blinked, then shook his head with that familiar, faintly dazed smile that meant his heart was too full to form proper words.

“Took you bloody long enough.”

James snorted. “Yeah. I know.”

Remus didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he nodded, a small, approving sound humming in his throat.

“He’ll sleep better with you there,” he said. “He’ll feel safer.”

James’ eyes softened. “So will I.”

Sirius leaned against the wall, looking at the ceiling like it might have answers. “All of us are breaking in different ways,” he said quietly. “At least some of us are figuring out how to hold each other through it.”

No one replied. There wasn’t anything more to say.

So they stood there, three men who had been boys not so long ago, letting the quiet settle, letting the war press in from all sides.

The door creaked softly as James slipped inside, the low groan of the hinges too loud in the hush of the room. Evan was still there, curled in the armchair by the far wall, his long legs folded awkwardly under the blanket draped across him. The lamplight painted shadows under his eyes, sharpening the worry etched into his face. He looked like someone who’d been keeping vigil too long—caught somewhere between exhaustion and the stubborn refusal to leave.

“He didn’t wake up,” Evan murmured as James stepped inside. His voice was low and careful, the kind of softness people used when they were afraid to disturb something fragile enough to break from the weight of a word. He unfolded himself from the chair, stretching his stiff limbs, and glanced toward the bed before meeting James’ eyes. “How’s Peter?”

James opened his mouth to answer, but the words never came. His throat closed around them like grief too large to name. He only shook his head, a slow and helpless gesture, and the look Evan gave him in return was heavy with understanding.

No words passed between them after that—there was nothing left to say. Only a brief nod, and a quiet, “See you tomorrow,” before Evan slipped past him and out the door, like a shadow folding into the dark.

Regulus lay tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown over where he should have been, as if he searched for him at some point. For all his sharp edges and clipped words when awake, Regulus Black chased closure the way a Niffler chased gold—drawn to it, needing it, no matter the cost. Now, with sleep softening his features, the walls around him had dropped. His hair, a dark riot against the pillow, caught the dim light in silvered strands. He looked young and heartbreakingly human.

James took off his jacket slowly, careful not to make a sound, and then slipped under the covers, inch by inch, until the warmth of Regulus’ body found him. The bed dipped under his weight, and Regulus stirred with a soft sound.

“Mm?” His voice was thick with sleep, muffled into the pillow. But instinct moved him where thought hadn’t—an arm sliding around James’ waist, drawing him in until their chests touched, heartbeats finding each other through skin and bone.

James exhaled slowly and reached up, fingers threading through the unruly mess of his hair. He scratched gently at his scalp, a motion more comforting than sensual, though it made Regulus hum low in his throat—a sound of contentment, of recognition. As if James’ touch reached some place inside him that words could never reach.

Regulus shifted closer still, his mouth brushing the place where James’ shoulder met his neck. James felt the faint scrape of teeth, followed by the slow drag of lips against skin, an unhurried touch that stole the breath right out of him.

“You’re freezing,” Regulus murmured against his throat, voice low and rasped. His hands slipped under James’ shirt, fingers splaying wide against the muscles of his back, pressing heat into him like he could anchor it there. “Come here.”

James gave a soft chuckle as Regulus climbed over him, straddling his hips with a slow, claiming weight that felt like both safety and danger. James’ hands slowly skimmed his sides like he was mapping the places that made him real.

The first kiss was clumsy, heavy with the drag of sleep, but beneath it burned something sharper. Need. Longing. That restless hunger born after fear had cracked them open and left them raw. It deepened quickly, turned fierce, almost desperate, like they were trying to breathe life into each other one kiss at a time.

It was deep and consuming. Exactly the way Regulus Black loved. His love was not the kind you survived. It was the kind of love that stayed in your blood, even after he was gone. The kind that ruined you for anything else.

His hips rolled, slow and deliberate, and James’ gasp shivered against his mouth. Regulus’ lips traced his jaw, his neck, finding the place beneath his ear that made him shudder all the way down to his toes.

“Missed you,” Regulus breathed, voice stripped bare. His hips pressed again, coaxing another stutter from James’ pulse. “Hate when you’re not here.”

James’ fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. “I’m here now,” he murmured, his voice roughening as Regulus’ teeth grazed his collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The breath Regulus let out was half-sigh, half-shiver. His mouth found James’ again, but the urgency had softened, replaced with something slower. Deeper. Each movement was careful, almost reverent—as if touching James like this was an act of devotion, a way to remind himself they were still here, still alive, still theirs.

James rolled them, pressing Regulus into the mattress. The boy beneath him gasped softly, head tipping back into the pillows. When their eyes met, the heat in Regulus’ gaze was threaded through with something that caught at James’ ribs—trust, unyielding and relentless.

He kissed him again, slower this time, sinking into the taste of him, into the feel of him. Regulus kissed back like it meant everything.

“I love you,” Regulus whispered, his voice trembling. He was testing the words, rolling them in his mouth like someone tastes a deep, rich wine. The words landed heavily in James’ chest. Like a blade and a balm all at once.

James stilled for a moment, staring down at him, barely breathing. I love you. The words clung to the air between them, thick with meaning, trembling with fear and wonder. His thumb brushed gently over Regulus’ cheekbone, a reverent motion, like he couldn’t believe he was real.

Regulus looked like he’d just laid down a sword. Like saying it had been the hardest thing he’d ever done and the most necessary. His chest rose and fell beneath James, not fast, not slow, just steady. Like the calm that followed a storm.

“I didn’t think I could say it,” he admitted, his voice breaking open on the edges. “Not after everything.” His eyes shone in the low light, unguarded in a way James had rarely seen.

James shook his head slowly, pressing his forehead to Regulus’.

“You don’t have to earn love, Regulus,” he said, voice barely a breath. “You don’t have to be perfect to deserve it.”

Regulus blinked up at him, wide-eyed and unspeakably young in that moment. His mouth parted like he wanted to argue, but James kissed him instead—softly, sweetly, like he was promising him everything without needing to say another word.

The kiss deepened with the kind of inevitability that felt older than either of them—no rush, no sharp edges, just the steady, building pull of two people relearning the shape of each other’s mouths.

James’ hands roamed over him slowly, as if mapping something precious and uncharted, even though he knew this terrain by heart. His palms slid over the narrow slope of Regulus’ ribs, down the dip of his waist, then up again to feel the delicate arch of his spine. Beneath his touch, Regulus’ pulse fluttered wildly, betraying every thought he tried to bury.

When James’ fingers skimmed the small of his back, Regulus arched toward him, an unguarded, almost startled sound catching in his throat, as if it scared him how much he needed this. Needed him.

They moved together in a slow tangle of limbs, each shift of their bodies a wordless confession. Heat pooled between them, tempered by softness, by the reverent pace they kept. James kissed his jaw, then the hollow beneath his ear, then lower still, tracing a slow, lingering path down his throat with his lips.

He felt the pulse there, a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm beneath skin, and closed his mouth over it in a kiss that was almost possessive. Regulus’ fingers curled hard into his back, blunt nails catching slightly when James kissed his collarbone again.

“You make it feel like…” Regulus’ voice broke, the words catching before he forced them out. “Like I can be something other than this. Like there’s still something left in me that isn’t ruined.”

James’ mouth stilled against his skin, just for a moment, before pressing a kiss there—gentle, steady.

“There is,” he said, the words quiet but certain, breathed straight into him. “There always has been.”

Regulus turned his head then, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were glassy in the low light, reflecting something fragile and trembling—hope, though it looked like it hurt him to hold it. “Then stay,” he whispered. “Please.”

James kissed him like a vow. “I’m not going anywhere.”

They took their time. There was no urgency in the way they touched, no desperate clawing or frantic need to lose themselves in each other. Every brush of skin, every breath, every kiss was deliberate. Intentional. This wasn’t about sex—it never really had been. It was about being found, about letting someone peel back every mask and still choosing to stay. About the miracle of letting yourself be held without flinching.

Regulus kissed him like James was a spell he didn’t know how to cast properly. Like he was afraid the magic might break if he let go for even a second. And James touched him like Regulus was a map, and somewhere on him was the way home.

There was no hurry. They let the silence stretch between them, humming and alive. Fingers drifted lazily over bare skin, finding familiar places and lingering there, not to conquer, but to remember. James’ lips brushed the inside of Regulus’ wrist, the hollow of his hip, the slope of his shoulder—like blessings laid in quiet succession.

James’ love was sunlight—brash and unapologetic, golden and untamed, the kind that spilled through cracks where it wasn’t invited and flooded every shadow it touched. It carried with it the warmth of summer afternoons, laughter echoing through open fields, and the promise of life returning after long winters.

It grew things. It healed things. It made the world brighter.

Regulus’ love, by contrast, was moonlight—cool, austere, distant as it seemed. It did not rush to meet you; it lingered far away, quiet and watchful, casting its glow only where it. Where sunlight demanded attention, moonlight waited to be sought out. His was not a warmth that filled the air but a cool, steady radiance that softened sharp edges and illuminated what would otherwise be swallowed whole by darkness.

His love did not reach many. But when it found you, it was blinding in its intensity. All-consuming and eternal.

When the heat between them finally softened, they stayed tangled together beneath the worn blanket, skin still warm, breaths still catching now and then in the aftershocks. Regulus pressed his face into the crook of James’ neck, and the sigh that escaped him trembled, as though even in peace, he couldn’t quite stop bracing for loss.

James didn't speak. He just ran his fingers slowly up and down Regulus’ bare back, humming something quiet and low under his breath. It wasn’t a tune with words. Just a sound. A comfort. A lullaby born from instinct rather than memory.

Regulus’ voice came muffled against his collarbone, brittle in the way fragile things are just before they shatter.

“I never thought I’d get to have this,” Regulus admitted at last, his voice muffled against James’ skin and brittle in a way that made James’ chest ache. “I thought love was… something I’d only ever watch from a distance. Something meant for brighter people. Not for someone like me.”

James shifted just enough to cup his face, tilting it up until he could see him. His thumb swept over the fine edge of his cheekbone, then down along his jaw.

The touch made Regulus’ breath stutter, his lashes lowering briefly before lifting again, eyes searching his like he was still waiting for the lie. Slowly, the tension drained from his frame, and he let himself sink into James’ hold, fingers curling around his bicep.

“I don’t want to wake up and find this gone,” he whispered, the words almost lost in the small space between them.

“You won’t, love,” James promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. Then another to the smooth arch of his brow. Then, slow and reverent, to his closed eyes. “Sleep. I’ve got you. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

Regulus didn’t answer, but James felt the way his breathing gradually evened out, the way his body softened completely against him. And James stayed awake a while longer, holding him like something sacred, memorising the exact weight of him in his arms, because he knew, deep down, he would never be able to let go.

Chapter Text

The following days unfolded in a strange, kind of emotional limbo thick with the lingering ache of having survived something unspeakable. It was as though time itself had paused, holding its breath between the catastrophe that had just passed and the inevitable storm still to come. It seemed like the war took a momentary step back, allowing its survivors the cruel luxury of remembering what peace might have once felt like.

No one ventured beyond the Tower unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, it was only to eat what remained of the Death Eaters’ food in the Great Hall. The act felt less like nourishment and more like ritual, something done because it had to be, because the body still demanded care even as the soul faltered.

Everyone else seemed to be living in a similar haze. A quiet sort of grieving, not just for the dead, but for themselves—who they had been before the war had carved them into something else. It was as though each of them had retreated into their own corner of the world, silently holding on to whatever pieces of themselves they had left.

Evan and Barty remained cloistered in their room, emerging rarely and speaking even less. 

Sirius and Remus appeared from time to time in the common room, lingering near the fireplace like boys trying to remember the version of themselves who once laughed in that exact spot, who once kissed behind curtains and danced when they thought no one was watching. There was something hollow in their eyes now, something trying to remember joy.

Lily and Mary seemed to be an almost inseparable pair now, as if their bond had deepened in the midst of everything unravelling. They weren’t seeking isolation, but they were creating a space just for themselves, somewhere safe, away from the broken pieces of the world.

Dorcas and Marlene had begun to gravitate around each other more often than before. At first, it was barely noticeable: a hand brushing a shoulder, a whisper that lingered a moment longer than it needed to. But gradually, imperceptibly, those moments accumulated, thread by thread, into something delicate but enduring. There was a softness to the way they regarded one another now, as though they alone could see the frayed edges the world had left behind and had chosen to hold them gently, without question.

James and Regulus moved through the days like shadows trailing one another—always near, always present, yet never demanding more than the other could give. They existed in a rhythm of subtle gravity, orbiting each other with the kind of intimacy that did not require noise to be known. Always within reach. Never far. Never overwhelming.

They did not cling—not in the panicked, breathless way of those afraid to be left behind. Their love had found a quieter language, one made of sidelong glances and fingertips brushing like a secret. It lived in the stillness between them, in the soft, unspoken promise that neither of them had to face the world alone anymore.

Each night, James would slip beneath the worn blanket without a word, and Regulus would curl toward him like a tide returning to shore—his face tucked into the curve of James’ neck, as if trying to disappear into something safe, something that smelled like warmth and memory and home. And James, ever steady, would gather him in without hesitation, anchoring him in that fragile space where silence meant comfort and touch meant everything.

When they ventured out, they did it in secret. James would dig out the Invisibility Cloak, and Regulus would already have his boots on before he even asked. They moved like old thieves, practiced in the art of silent footsteps and half-held breath. The kitchens were still guarded, but nothing too difficult for two boys who’d grown up on secrets. They always brought back scraps—some bread, a small bit of stew, a half-loaf of cinnamon cake that was already crumbling at the edges. Nothing extravagant, but more than what they’d get from the Great Hall. What the Tower received there were leftovers. Always cold, often burnt. Food scraped off platters sent from the other tables.

Mulciber and Snape were gone now. Not dead, just relocated. The old professors’ quarters had been gutted and repurposed into something colder. They called them the Headquarters now. No one said the words Death Eaters’ wing, but that’s what it was. That’s what everyone knew. Their absence in the Tower was a relief, and yet it made the silence heavier.

But nothing in the Tower was heavier than Peter.

He hadn’t left his room once. Not for food. Not to speak. Not even when James knocked quietly and offered a soft, hopeful, “It’s me, mate.”

The first time, James had thought he heard movement—the faint shift of blankets, the creak of a bedframe under shifting weight. He’d held his breath, waiting. But nothing came. No footsteps, no voice, not even the soft exhale of someone trying to speak but failing. The second day, even those signs were gone. No creaking floorboards. No rustling of fabric. Just silence. 

He didn’t eat. Not even when Remus left food outside his door. It would sit there, untouched, the bread drying into stone, the apples growing bruised.

James stood there more than once, staring at the closed door, feeling something tighten in his chest that he didn’t have words for.

He wanted to knock it down. To drag Peter into the common room and say, “We’re still here, aren’t we? We’re still breathing. That must count for something!”

But even James couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because some storms aren’t meant to be weathered by force. And dragging a drowning man from deep water doesn’t mean he’ll breathe once he’s on the shore.

Remus was the only one who insisted they should keep trying.

“We should do something,” he said quietly, as they sat cross-legged on the floor one evening, passing around a bruised pear like it was contraband. “It’s not just guilt. It’s… deeper. And if we let it settle too long, it’ll root.”

Sirius only nodded. His face was drawn, darker somehow. More haunted.

Peter wasn’t loud about his pain. But maybe that was the most terrifying part of all. That someone could vanish not with a scream, but with a silence so complete, it swallowed every echo of who they used to be.

It was on the third day that things began to stir again. Or was it the fourth? Regulus stopped counting the hours at some point.

He sat at the long table, spine straight as a blade, the perfect posture of a Black—born from bloodline and bone-deep discipline. His eyes were fixed on the far end of the Great Hall with a gaze like polished glass: cold, precise, and honed to a cutting edge. It was the look that had once made even the boldest Slytherins think twice before speaking his name. The kind of look that promised, if you touch me, I will bleed you slowly.

He was watching. Not in fear, but in calculation. 

Beside him, James lounged in deliberate disarray, slouched shoulders and idle hands, the picture of disinterest to anyone who didn’t know him. But Regulus did. He saw the tight coil beneath the act—the sharp, hawk-like vigilance in his eyes. The way every muscle was ready to spring.

There was a lingering tension in the air, mainly because Voldemort had been gone since yesterday morning. No explanation. No warning. The absence was louder than any command he had ever given. Power had slipped from its throne at the centre of the room, leaving a vacuum, and nature, as always, had abhorred it.

So, it was no surprise that Bellatrix Lestrange had filled the void like it had been made for her.

She swept through the Hall like a fever dream made flesh, her laughter high and poisoned, black robes snapping behind her like banners in a wind no one else could feel. She carried no authority but her own madness, and that was enough. Every glance from her was a threat dressed as curiosity. Every smile was an open wound.

And then her gaze found him.

“Cousin.” Her voice rang out, pure and cold as church bells tolling for the dead.

She snapped her fingers once, sharp, entitled, and Regulus felt the air around him stiffen.

“Come,” she said. Not an invitation. The word rolled from her tongue like silk and venom.

Her smile spread slowly, splitting into something wide and hungry as she gestured lazily toward her table. As though she expected him to crawl on his knees, forehead pressed to the stone floor in thanks for her attention.

Beside him, James’ slouch evaporated. His body went taut, a bow drawn to the breaking point. The air between them hummed with the promise of violence. Regulus didn’t need to look; he could feel the righteous fire building in him, protective and reckless, ready to burn the Hall to cinders if anyone tried to take what was his.

Without turning his head, Regulus let his hand drift under the table until his palm found James’ knee. Not trembling. Not pleading. Just steady.

A warning. A reassurance. A touch that said, not now, love. Not yet.

He rose with a slowness that was deliberate, the kind of pace that drew eyes and forced patience.

As he stepped past James, his fingers brushed the curve of his shoulder, barely there, but grounding. And then he walked across the hall like a man approaching the gallows with his chin lifted.

Bellatrix’ table was a nest of predators, each one wearing civility like a borrowed coat. Power didn’t just gather there; it hissed and slithered, coiled beneath every glance and gesture like something venomous waiting to strike.

His father sat there, silent and immovable, his expression carved from the same unfeeling marble Regulus had grown up under. Beside him, Narcissa’s beauty was a mask of resignation, her gaze cool and distant. Lucius lounged at her side, every inch silver and calculation, watching the room with the detached precision of a chess player moving pieces toward an inevitable checkmate.

Further down, Rodolphus sprawled like a serpent basking in the sun, his half-lidded gaze hiding something patient and hungry. Rabastan sat rigid beside him, fists clenched on the stone table, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.

Bellatrix rose as he approached, arms outstretched like a saint gone rabid, a holy prophet receiving a martyr. Her voice rang out like a bell cracked down the centre, high and sweet and shivering with mania.

“How lovely,” she sang, voice rising like something from a stage play gone violently off-script. “Come, darling Regulus. Don’t be rude. Don’t keep your family waiting.”

Her lips twisted around the word family like it was a private joke—a sharp, ugly one only she found funny.

Regulus didn’t answer. Didn’t give her the dignity of looking at her. He let his gaze flick instead to the empty space on the bench where he was meant to sit, where obedience was expected. He then looked at his father. Walburga’s favorite heir, the good son, staring at the man who had taught him the shape of silence. Orion Black’s eyes were flat and soulless, a mirror that reflected nothing back. Regulus stared into that emptiness for one long, deliberate moment and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d been born from something so hollow.

Then the touch came.

Bellatrix’ hand, sharp and possessive, landed on the back of his neck. Her fingers curled like claws, nails scraping in mock affection, loving in the way a cat is before it rips the wings off a bird. She pressed down, slow and deliberate, forcing obedience into his spine as if she could mould him into the right shape by force.

“There we are,” she breathed, syrupy and thick against the shell of his ear. “Good boy.”

Regulus’ jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheek twitched. He stayed still only through sheer discipline, every nerve in his body pulling taut with the urge to break her fingers. He imagined it in perfect detail: reaching for the dinner knife just inches away, sliding it into the soft place where her neck met her shoulder, feeling the hitch of breath as shock turned her feral smile into something slack and silent. He imagined the sound she’d make, more insulted than afraid, too proud to die quietly.

But he did nothing.

Because to move was to lose and Bellatrix was watching him far too closely for that.

“I said sit, you useless piece of shit,” she hissed suddenly, the honey gone, replaced with electric, crackling fury. This time she shoved, sharp and unrelenting. He staggered, but he sat on the cold bench.

Finally, he lifted his eyes.

Rodolphus didn’t blink, his stillness almost animal. But Rabastan looked at him, not past him, not through him. At him. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, eyes burning with something fierce and quiet. Not the wild fire of Bellatrix’ madness, but a simmering heat. Rage that had been trapped too long, love that had nowhere safe to go.

Regulus straightened his spine with slow, deliberate grace, folding his hands neatly in his lap like a boy raised for a legacy he never wanted. His expression was calm, carefully blank, but his mouth curved into a polite, mirthless smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Bellatrix wanted a show, and Regulus Black had mastered the art of performance long before any of them realized he’d been acting all along. There was no version of himself left that wasn’t curated. And Bellatrix, drunk on her own theatrics, was always too enamoured with the spotlight to notice when she wasn’t the one holding the script.

She leaned toward him now with an expression that might have passed for affection if you stripped it of context and reality and madness. Her smile gleamed, too wide, too bright, nothing but teeth. Her eyes, feverish and glittering like shattered obsidian, shone with the kind of hunger that had no bottom. It wasn’t curiosity. It was need. The need to unmake something beautiful. To snap the wings off a quiet, dangerous little thing and see what sound it made when it broke.

“Well then,” she purred, plucking a grape from the silver bowl in front of her and rolling it between her fingers like a marble. “Tell me, little star, how was your little jaunt into the woods? Did you frolic among the trees? Pick wildflowers?” She popped the grape into her mouth, chewing slowly enough for the juice to bead at the corner of her lip. “I heard you left quite a trail behind.”

Regulus didn’t answer right away. He could feel his father's gaze skimming over him, disapproval sitting heavy in the silence. Narcissa dabbed politely at her lips with a napkin, entirely detached. Lucius’ eyes flickered between them with cool interest, as though waiting to see who would bleed first.

Bellatrix leaned closer still, her perfume thick and cloying, the wine on her breath catching in the heat between them. Her voice softened into something mocking and intimate, a lullaby with a knife beneath it.

“You were quite busy, weren’t you?” she cooed. “One of ours. A full-fledged brother. Dead by your hand.”

Her tone pitched up into a delighted laugh that wasn’t quite sane. She tapped one jagged nail to her temple as if she were struggling to solve a delicious riddle.

“Imagine my surprise,” she whispered, voice lilting upward in giddy disbelief, “when I heard that precious little Regulus—fragile, fussy, oh-so-polite Regulus—slit someone’s throat. Just like that." She snapped her fingers, "Like a real killer.”

Her grin sharpened. Her tone dropped, feral and vibrating with the thrill of cruelty.

“Did it make you sick, little star?” she murmured, the words curling between them. “Or did it make you hard?”

A few people gasped. A few smiled—sharp, ugly things.

Regulus didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe differently. He just stared at her, unblinking, eyes like a still, deep well. A void. And somehow, that infuriated her more than if he’d spit in her face.

Bellatrix’ smile fractured, the cracks spreading fast.

“No clever little speech for your dearest cousin?” she sneered, louder now, her voice cutting through the Great Hall like broken glass dragged over stone. “No defence? No weepy little confession? No trembling hands or poetic regrets?” She leaned in, her breath hot against his cheek. “Come on, Regulus, give us a performance! Just once in your fucking life, show us something real!”

Conversations faltered around them. Heads turned. Knives and forks froze mid-air. Even the ones who normally pretended disinterest were watching now, hungry-eyed. Black family drama always promised blood, and Bellatrix had never been afraid to spill it.

Regulus let his gaze drop to her hand.

Her long nails dug into the wood of the table, knuckles ghost-pale with pressure, shaking with the need for violence. He could feel her next move coming, the rising heat of her magic thrumming like static in the air between them. She wanted him to lash out. To scream. To break in public.

But he didn’t give her the satisfaction.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so flat, so void of inflection, it carried louder than a shout.

“Wasn’t that the whole point behind the trial?” He let the silence stretch for one slow, deliberate breath. Then, with the barest tilt of his head: “Maybe next time… send someone better.”

The slap cracked through the air like lightning.

His head snapped to the side, hair falling across his eyes in soft, black waves. The pain bloomed slowly, hot, and humiliating across his cheek, but he didn’t react. He merely straightened again, breath even, hands still folded, eyes focused not on her, but through her, as though she was nothing more than an obstacle between him and the rest of the room. It wasn't the first time she hit him, anyway. But it might be the last.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The kind that meant everyone in the room had just felt something shift.

Bellatrix rose from her bench in a single, violent motion, the scrape of wood on stone like a scream. She moved with the grandeur of a goddess spiralling into madness, her smile warped into something ugly and wild.

“Maybe you forgot your place,” she snarled, voice twisting with venom and glee. She reached for her wand, fingers trembling with anticipation. “Maybe it’s time we reminded you just how far you’ve fallen.”

Her magic was already bleeding into the air, thick, metallic, humming at a pitch that made the hairs on his arms rise. Sparks spat from the tip of her wand, eager for flesh. She lowered her voice so quietly that only those closest could hear, and that made it worse.

“I can still fix you, Regulus. Break you into something worth keeping.”

Regulus felt it coming before she even moved—the shift in the air, the pressure in his bones, that violent promise that always preceded agony.

He braced himself, but the pain never came.

Instead, a new voice glided through the hall. It cut through the tension without needing to rise above it.

“My, my, Bella.” The words were lazy, almost bored. “I leave the castle for one day, and you’re already trying to break the Dark Lord’s favourite toy?”

Heads turned as one, the room shifting like a flock of startled birds.

There, in the arched doorway, stood Cassiopeia Selwyn.

She didn’t enter so much as arrive. Her robes, velvet trimmed in deepest green, whispered around her ankles like liquid shadow, brushing the floor without making a sound. Her hair was pinned with such ruthless precision that it felt ceremonial. Her mouth, poised in an elegant, almost affectionate curve, was the shape of control itself. And her eyes, cold and unblinking, sliced through Bellatrix like they’d been honed for that exact purpose.

The tip of Bellatrix’ wand wavered in the air.

Regulus turned, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, blood roaring too loud in his ears. Cassiopeia’s presence didn’t soothe, but it stilled. Like the hush before a guillotine falls.

She moved forward at an unhurried pace, the silence folding around her as if it had been waiting. Her heels clicked against the stone—click, click, click—each step deliberate, each one a quiet reminder that she would arrive exactly when she meant to, and not a heartbeat before.

“Is this what this family has become?” she said as she approached, voice amused but deadly, “Throwing tantrums at dinner? Hitting boys across the table like a fishwife in Knockturn Alley?”

A ripple of low, nervous laughter came from one corner of the hall, the brittle sound dying quickly.

Bellatrix didn’t lower her wand. But she hesitated, and for someone like her, even that flicker of pause was a shout.

“He insulted me,” Bellatrix spat, the pitch of her voice sharp with wounded pride. “He’s growing arrogant. Dangerous. We should have cut his tongue out when he still mewled at our knees.”

Cassiopeia tilted her head the barest degree, like she was examining a particularly dull piece of cutlery.

“Did he? Or did he simply speak in full sentences, which you mistook for an insult because your ego is allergic to coherence?”

A dangerous ripple passed over Bellatrix’ face.

“You always did think yourself above us,” she growled, venom curling in every syllable.

“No,” Cassiopeia said smoothly. “I simply am.”

That landed with the weight of a guillotine. Lucius shifted in his seat, the faintest adjustment, but telling. Narcissa froze, lips parted around a breath she never took. Even Orion Black’s eyes flicked, just once, between the two women, not with shock, but with the acknowledgment that the balance in the room had tilted.

Cassiopeia’s gaze found Regulus. It softened—only barely. Just enough to be noticed by someone who had learned to live by subtleties. A fraction less cutting, a fraction more… aware.

But Bellatrix surged forward like a striking snake, wand snapping up again, not toward Regulus now, but toward Cassiopeia. Her fury, uncoiled and feral, shifted targets without hesitation.

“You traitorous, high-handed, condescending bitch—”

Cassiopeia’s wand was in her hand before the final syllable finished leaving Bellatrix’ mouth. She parried the strike in a blink, her own magic sparking against Bellatrix’ like flint against steel. A brilliant flash of violet cracked between them, sending a few at the nearby tables flinching backward with wide eyes.

“Bella!” Narcissa’s voice rang out, sharp with alarm. She rose, one hand on her sister’s arm. “This is not the time.”

Bellatrix snarled and wrenched away, chest heaving, eyes wild. Her hair had begun to slip free of its pins, tendrils curling around her face like vines choking the remnants of a once-gilded portrait.

“She thinks she can humiliate me in front of everyone?” Bellatrix hissed, shaking with fury. “She thinks she can undermine the Dark Lord’s will, walk in here like a crowned ghost and treat me like a child?”

Cassiopeia didn’t flinch.

“I think,” she said, stepping closer now, voice a thread of velvet over razors, “the Dark Lord will be very interested in how you handle his carefully groomed investments.” She stepped closer, the shadows bending with her movement. “ I think he’ll find it... inconvenient, perhaps even infuriating... that you tried to maim something he’s worked so hard to polish.”

A pause. Then, lower, sharper: “And unless I’m mistaken, Bella… no one left you in charge.”

That landed.

Bellatrix stilled, not in submission, but in restraint. Her wand hand trembled. Her lip curled. Her body shook with fury, barely held back by the thin thread of her sister’s hand still resting on her arm.

Narcissa gently pulled at her arm. “Bella, please. You're making a scene.”

And indeed, she was. The entire hall had gone silent. Every eye was fixed on the two women like the final act of a tragedy was being performed before them. The sacred twenty-eight, so often veiled in ritual and pedigree, now bared like beasts tearing each other apart.

Regulus remained utterly still.

Then—tap. tap. tap.

Something small shifted.

His gaze dropped, eyes locking onto the rhythmic sound: Cassiopeia’s index finger tapping once against the length of her wand. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not idle. Not uncertain. It was a sound that demanded attention, like a metronome counting down to something inevitable.

He turned slightly and caught movement across the table.

Rabastan Lestrange was watching. Not Cassiopeia, not even Bellatrix, but the signal. His expression was unreadable, hanging somewhere between clinical interest and cold-blooded amusement. He leaned back lazily in his chair, long fingers drumming against the tabletop in a rhythm just out of sync with Cassiopeia’s.

Then, Rabastan stood.

The sound of his chair scraping back wasn’t loud, but it carved through the thickening tension with surgical precision. 

“Enough.”

The word fell calm and dry from his mouth, like the last grain of sand in an hourglass. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pleading. He simply was. And the finality in his tone made everyone freeze for half a second longer than they meant to.

“You’re both far too valuable to be reduced to common theatrics.”

Bellatrix turned her glare toward him, nostrils flared and chest heaving, but Rabastan only offered a small, tight-lipped smile. The kind that didn't reach the eyes.

Cassiopeia turned her head toward him with a sliver of grace, her gaze unbroken.

“Always the level-headed one among the barking dogs,” she said, voice even, faintly amused

He inclined his head in response, then stepped aside, silently commanding the attention of the others at the table.

Cassiopeia turned toward Regulus.

“Regulus,” she said, her tone firm and unbothered. “Follow me.”

He knew better than to hesitate.

But before he could rise, another voice broke through — slow, suspicious, and heavy with command.

At the head of the table, where he had sat silent and impassive for most of the meal, Orion Black finally spoke. His voice was deep, sharp with suspicion.

“Where are you taking him?”

Cassiopeia didn’t stop walking.

“Dark Lord’s orders,” she said over her shoulder, as if that explained everything, and, in their world, it did.

No one moved. Not even Bellatrix, whose mouth opened like she might object again, but the weight of the name — the Dark Lord — was enough to slam it shut.

Regulus didn’t wait for permission. He rose without a word, his chair scraping softly against the stone. As he moved from the table, he didn’t look at his family — not Bellatrix, not Orion, not Narcissa. He passed James, and Regulus gave him a nod. Small. Sharp. Almost imperceptible.

But James caught it.

He didn’t say anything. He just watched Regulus walk away with something molten and heavy in his chest.

Cassiopeia didn’t speak until they were well beyond the Great Hall, her heels clicking softly against the stone as the torches along the corridor cast tall, flickering shadows on the walls. The silence wasn’t tense — it was deliberate. Like she knew that the walls were most likely listening to them.

Finally, just before the arched entrance to the outer courtyard, Cassiopeia stopped. She turned slightly; her face bathed in orange firelight. Her expression was unreadable — neither soft nor hard, just measured. Without a word, she extended her hand.

Regulus didn’t hesitate. His fingers closed around hers with quiet trust, the gesture simple, intimate in its own, strange way. There was no warning before the world yanked sideways, and the ground vanished from beneath his feet.

Cold air rushed around them and the scent of damp earth and rain-kissed stone filled his lungs. Regulus straightened instinctively, his boots clicking against marble now. They were inside a large, high-ceilinged foyer — some kind of manor, elegant in a way that whispered old wealth and older secrets. The walls were hung with tall, somber portraits. None of them moved. None of them watched.

Only the low, comforting crackle of a nearby fire broke the silence.

Cassiopeia released his hand and walked forward without glancing back.

“Come,” she said, her voice the same measured tone she might have used to invite a guest to tea. “You look like you haven’t eaten since Beltane.”

She led him into a dining room where a long table stood prepared, though only one end was set. As she took her seat at the head, she flicked her wand, and food appeared — warm, rich, savoury things that made his stomach twist with hunger. Regulus sat across from her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

He picked up his fork.

“You didn’t bring me here just to feed me.”

Cassiopeia arched one elegant brow as she lifted her goblet.

“No. But it’s easier to discuss strategy when your mind isn’t dulled by starvation.” She sipped once. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugged, focusing on the plate. “Had worse.”

“Don’t be evasive. That’s my job.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Would it make a difference if I told you I was fine?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “Because you’re not.”

He glanced up.

She was watching him, not like Bellatrix watched, looking for cracks to pry open, but like someone cataloguing damage. Measuring what could be mended and what needed to be replaced.

“Your hand,” she said. “You’re still clenching your fork like it’s a blade. Let go of the battlefield, just for this room.”

Regulus blinked down at his hand and saw the tension she spoke of. His grip relaxed slightly.

“You handled Bellatrix better than most grown men ever could,” she continued, her tone even. “You kept your composure. But she wasn’t wrong about one thing.”

His brows lifted.

Cassiopeia’s eyes were still on him.

“You’re changing.”

There was no accusation in her voice. Only observation.

“Is that… a problem?” he asked quietly.

“Not for me,” she said. “But it will be for them. They built their control over you on the belief you wouldn’t act without orders. Now you’re becoming unpredictable. And unpredictability… frightens them.”

Regulus looked away, toward the firelight flickering beyond the dining room.

“He would’ve killed James. Or me. Or both. I didn’t think. I just—”

“Good,” Cassiopeia interrupted, her tone unexpectedly fierce.

He looked at her, startled.

“Good,” she repeated, leaning forward slightly. “You acted. You survived. If the cost of that survival is the life of someone who would have gutted you without hesitation—” she lifted her goblet, “—then I call it a bargain.”

Regulus sat very still.

He didn’t thank her. She didn’t expect him to.

Instead, he finally took a small bite.

It was only after a long moment that he asked, “So what now?”

Cassiopeia leaned back in her chair, gaze sharpening like a blade being drawn.

“Now,” she said softly, “we begin the real work.”

A sharp crack echoed through the manor a moment later — the soft distortion of apparition. Regulus straightened slightly in his chair, but didn’t rise. A moment later, Rabastan Lestrange stepped into the room, brushing dust from the collar of his dark cloak. His expression was relaxed, even amused, but his eyes flicked first to Cassiopeia before settling on Regulus.

“Quite the fuss you caused,” he said, drawing out the words.

Cassiopeia leaned back in her seat, her smile sharp and effortless.

“Someone had to tame that feral bitch.”

Rabastan gave a low, appreciative laugh and reached for the decanter.

“You should’ve seen Rodolphus. Nearly choked trying to keep it in his pants. Not from lust, mind you. Just excitement. The pureblood equivalent of a standing ovation.”

Cassiopeia rolled her eyes with elegant disdain.

“He’s always been disturbingly aroused by chaos.”

Rabastan smirked. “Ah, but without this chaos, our little world would be so much duller. Admit it, Cassiopeia, you thrive on the spectacle as much as the rest of us.”

“I thrive on intelligence, not clumsy theatrics,” she countered smoothly, leaning her chin on her hand. “Which is why I find your company more… tolerable than your brother’s.”

His laugh came low and rich, the kind that carried heat. “Careful, Selwyn. A compliment like that, and I’ll start to think you’ve been admiring me from afar all these years.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes glittered with mischief as she sipped her wine.

“Don’t flatter yourself. If I had been admiring anyone, you’d know. I’m not known to be subtle.”

Rabastan leaned a little closer, elbows on the table, his grin sharpened into something more suggestive.

“Then perhaps you should prove it. A whispered word, a glance across the room—I’d recognize your attention anywhere.”

“You presume a great deal,” Cassiopeia replied, swirling the goblet. Her lips curved faintly, like she was enjoying the push and pull far too much. “But I will admit, your arrogance is entertaining.”

“I prefer to think of it as confidence,” Rabastan murmured, his gaze lingering on her a second too long.

Cassiopeia tilted her head, lashes lowering just so.

“Mm. A fine line, isn’t it? One you cross daily.”

Rabastan chuckled, unbothered, and reached for the decanter again. “Then I’ll consider myself lucky if you’re the one keeping score.”

It was precisely at that moment that Regulus set his fork down with deliberate care, leaning forward into the space between them. His voice, in contrast to their lazy flirtation, was sharp and grounded.

“The other trial,” he said, cutting clean through their little game. His eyes flicked between them, unreadable. “Do either of you know when it’s happening?”

Rabastan paused mid-pour, then resumed with lazy precision.

“Two, maybe three days,” he said, swirling the wine. “I overheard Rodolphus whispering. They think it’ll be sooner. But the Dark Lord —” he huffed “— he’s a man of theatre. He likes the wait. Likes the build.”

Regulus’ brow furrowed. “The forest again?”

“No,” Rabastan said, placing his glass down with a gentle click. “The forest was a spectacle. He’ll want something colder now. Cleaner. More deliberate.”

Cassiopeia nodded in quiet agreement, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. “And more final. This isn’t about proving a point anymore. It’s about setting precedent.”

Regulus looked between them, the way they spoke about death and cruelty like tacticians reviewing battlefield maps, and then back down at his plate. The food had gone lukewarm, but he picked up his fork again. Ate anyway.

Cassiopeia watched him closely.

She tilted her head the way a hawk might, eyes glinting with a strange, cold calculation.

“Whatever’s next…” she said, voice low, “it’ll be worse. There’s no more ceremony. No more proving yourself. This is when the real culling starts.”

Regulus didn’t blink. “Then I need to prepare. The others, too.”

Cassiopeia nodded once, then leaned back in her chair.

“Then let’s begin with something simple,” she said softly, though her voice had an edge. “You need to keep your interactions with James Potter to a minimum.”

Regulus froze.

It was subtle, a momentary catch in his spine, a stiffness in the way his fork halted mid-air. But it was enough. Cassiopeia saw it. Rabastan did too.

His eyes flicked from Cassiopeia to Rabastan, then back again.

“Relax,” Rabastan said, sipping his wine as if they were discussing the weather. “No one’s sniffed it out. Yet.”

“But they will,” Cassiopeia added, her voice a soft warning.

Regulus placed his fork down again, this time more deliberately. The metal tapped the plate with a quiet, precise clink.

Rabastan leaned forward slightly, resting one elbow on the table.

“The problem isn’t you, Regulus. You’re careful. Controlled. Practiced. But him—” he lifted a single finger and pointed vaguely into the air “—he wears everything on his face. Every glance. Every pause. Every heartbeat.”

He looked Regulus dead in the eye. “He’s forgetting that the hallways are full of men who’d rip you both apart for fun.”

“I’d kill whoever dares to lay a finger on him,” Regulus spoke lowly.

“I know,” Rabastan said, tilting his chin. “That’s the problem.”

“And then there’s Sirius,” Cassiopeia added. “I need you to act like strangers again,” she said. “Like it meant nothing. You can’t afford softness now. Not when he’s already drawing too much attention. He’s still the blood traitor in their minds, no matter how tarnished. And your proximity to him is a light in the dark for the wrong kind of eyes.”

Rabastan leaned forward slightly, tapping a slow rhythm against his glass with one finger.

“You’re clever, Regulus. Cunning, even. But this—” he gestured vaguely toward Regulus, “—this thing between you and Potter? It’s a weakness. And I’m not sure you can afford more of those.”

Regulus didn’t speak right away. The firelight caught on the line of his jaw as he turned his face slightly away, hiding the expression that briefly broke through.

Then he blinked once, slowly. Composed himself.

“Understood.”

Cassiopeia didn’t smile. But her eyes softened by a fraction.

“It’s not forever,” she said. “Just long enough to make it through the next phase alive. You can do whatever you want in the Tower. But outside? The stakes are too high.”

Regulus gave a curt nod, his throat tight.

And somewhere behind his ribs, something quietly ached.

Cassiopeia’s gaze lingered on him for another beat. Studying. Measuring. Her fingers drummed once against the arm of her chair, then stilled.

“Regarding the other issue at hand,” she began, her voice quieter now, more deliberate.

“I’m going to do it,” Regulus said flatly, cutting her off.

The air between them shifted, subtly, but undeniably. Like the temperature in the room had dropped by a degree.

Rabastan straightened slightly. “Regulus,” he said, voice even but edged with something that wasn’t quite concern, but hovered dangerously close. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t fucking care.” Regulus' voice cracked, not with volume but with conviction — too sharp, too honed to be dismissed as a flare of emotion. “I’m doing it. I have everything prepared.”

Cassiopeia’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak immediately. She simply looked at him properly, this time. Not as a boy under pressure. But as something else.

There was a hardness in him now, coiled tight beneath his skin. Not the terrified brittleness they’d seen before, or the frantic fear of someone trying to stay afloat. No, this was different. This was the steadiness of someone who had stopped being afraid.

This was a boy who had chosen to drown on his own terms.

“Everything?” Cassiopeia asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “What exactly have you prepared?”

Regulus looked at her. Unflinching.

“A clean exit plan. Timed contingencies. A backup for the backup.”

Rabastan let out a quiet breath, long and low.

“That’s not preparation,” he said. “That’s a suicide note with good penmanship.”

Regulus leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the edge of the table.

“It’s a calculated risk,” he said. “And you both know better than anyone that those are the only kinds that matter.”

Cassiopeia’s eyes narrowed. “When did you start thinking like this?”

Regulus tilted his head, almost thoughtfully.

“Around the time I stopped expecting someone else to fix it for me.”

Something flickered across her face then, the briefest tremor of worry, of something maternal buried deep beneath all the cold training. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

Cassiopeia glanced at Rabastan, then back at Regulus. “There’s no convincing you otherwise, is there?”

Regulus shook his head once.

“No,” he said. “You trained me too well. Nobody will ever find out it was me.”

That earned the faintest smirk from Cassiopeia. A bitter, reluctant one.

“Then Merlin help us,” she said. “Because if you fail, there won’t be anything left of this world worth saving.”

And as the fire cracked behind them and the old portraits on the walls remained still and silent, the three of them stood in a fragile moment.

The calm before the descent.

The calm before Regulus Black truly began his war.

The cold, damp scent of stone and magic rushed back the moment they landed just beyond the wards of the castle in one of the lesser-used corridors near the dungeons. Torches burned low in their sconces, their flames guttering in the draught, casting pale, writhing shadows that crawled across the walls like restless spirits.

Rabastan followed a heartbeat later, appearing with his wand already drawn. His eyes flicked down both ends of the corridor before resting on Regulus.

“This is where I leave you,” Cassiopeia said softly. Her voice was unreadable, but her gaze lingered on Regulus for a moment too long, as though she were measuring him one last time. “Keep your head low. Let him do the talking.”

Regulus inclined his head. “I usually do.”

That earned him the ghost of a smirk before she stepped back, her cloak whispering over the flagstones as she melted into the darkness.

The moment she was gone, Rabastan rolled his shoulders once and said, matter-of-factly,

“Alright. I’ll need to hit you to make it look real.”

Regulus raised his chin, unruffled. “Just make sure you don’t break my nose.”

Rabastan’s mouth twitched. “Your boyfriend will not like it.”

“Which side?”

Rabastan’s lip curled faintly. “I’m right-handed.”

“Left, then,” Regulus said, turning his head away and baring the cheek with an almost bored tilt.

There was a pause, a split-second hesitation that Rabastan would deny if asked, then the blow landed.

It was clean, practiced. Just below the cheekbone, angled slightly to avoid leaving bone-deep bruising, but sharp enough to split skin and bloom a quick rush of red. Regulus staggered back a step, instinct forcing a blink as tears stung his eyes, but he didn’t cry out. Didn’t even flinch again.

“Fuck” he hissed, and Rabastan caught him roughly by the collar, jerking him forward like a captured mutt.